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Bilbo had been talking for at least ten minutes now, and Thorin wasn’t sure he’d heard a word of it really. It had become something of a ritual with them since Thorin had recovered enough to receive visitors: every evening, Bilbo would appear with whatever rations were making up tonight’s meal and sit and chat with him about the comings and goings of the camp. Slowly, as the days wore on and his strength increased enough to not require healers around the clock, they would find themselves alone and free to talk as openly as they liked.
Thorin looked forward to these times more than anything else, he truly did. Receiving reports, dealing out diplomacy, all of it was utterly infuriating when combined with the fact that he was still bedridden. But in these few quiet hours, listening to Bilbo’s wry observations about it all, it suddenly didn’t seem quite so bad.
And yet.
And yet things weren’t quite the same as before. Sometimes Bilbo wouldn’t meet his eye, only for Thorin to catch him just a moment later, staring intently when he thought Thorin couldn’t see him— wondering, no doubt, whether it was possible for a king to fall any lower than he already had. Or perhaps just revolted by the swathes of bandages wrapped around his torso; the dressings were regularly changed, but the stitches were many and often too delicate for the minimal amount of exertion Thorin was allowed to undertake. No matter how much Bilbo had seen during their journey, he had surely never witnessed injuries so severe in his Shire.
Sometimes Thorin found himself wondering if it wouldn’t have been better for the end to come when it so nearly had: staring up at a freezing sky, numbness spreading through every limb, and a relieving surety that, if nothing else, at least he and Bilbo would part as friends. A selfish thought, perhaps, but wouldn’t it have also been preferable for Bilbo? Wouldn’t it have been better for him in the long run to remember Thorin alive as he once had been: whole, healthy, and vital? Wouldn’t it have been easier for him to witness a quick end rather than this slow, stumbling recovery of his?
It gnawed at Thorin deep down, whispering to him as he forced his way through clause after clause of various agreements and treaties, lecturing him as he struggled against his aches and pains to sleep in the dead of night. But never was it clearer than when Bilbo was in front of him as he was now, chatting away as though Thorin had never insulted him, had never forsaken him, had never threatened his life. It grew louder and louder with each passing day as winter drew ever nearer and Thorin knew that he would really need to depart soon.
Perhaps he could spend the winter in Beorn’s homestead, warm and well-fed, before heading on and arriving back in the Shire in time to see the first spring flowers blooming. His cosy home would be waiting for him, with the grate ready to be loaded and the kettle waiting to be filled. All those books would be just as he’d left them on the shelves, each painting and map still hung just so on the walls, every last doily just as they had been on the day he’d run out of his front door after a band of dwarves he really didn’t even know. Home was ready and waiting for Bilbo Baggins many miles to the west; all it needed was for Bilbo to head back to it.
And really, what alternative was there? To remain hunched on that little wooden stool of his, feet struggling to reach the floor, looking ever wearier as the weather grew colder and fiercer? Everywhere he would turn in the camp, he would be met by sickness and death, no doubt, and hunger and suffering. It was one thing for the Company to face it— this was their home, after all, and if the years had taught Thorin anything it was that nothing came without a price. But it was poor reward for Bilbo Baggins, who had come with them all this way, saved them time and again, and faced down a dragon, all through little more than his own desire to see them with a home again.
Thorin’s fists clenched in the furs. Sometimes when it happened, Bilbo would notice and break off from whatever he was talking about to worriedly ask if Thorin was alright, or whether there was anything he could do to ease his pain. Thorin would always shake his head and deny anything was wrong, bidding Bilbo to continue with his story despite the guilt that would claw inside him. Tonight, however, Bilbo hadn’t noticed, absorbed as he was with recounting Fíli and Kíli’s latest escapades to get out of their own prescribed bed rest.
“... of course, by the time we found them they were halfway up the tree— how Kíli managed that on his crutches I have no idea, but I suspect Fíli had more than a little to do with it, injuries or not…”
If pressed for a reason why it happened then of all times, Thorin wouldn’t have been able to explain. By all rights, he knew he ought to have prepared Bilbo for this, perhaps worked up to it in some way. But it had been building up for the past few weeks, and to hear Bilbo talking so openly and easily about his own family as though nothing had happened seemed to be the final pebble that broke the cart. Before he really knew what he was doing, he was interrupting him.
“You don’t have to stay.”
The words were clear, blunt, and terribly heavy. But Bilbo didn’t seem to notice, and didn’t miss a beat.
“There’s still a little while yet,” he said with a quick smile. “I’m not needed anywhere else.” Suddenly he blinked as realisation hit him. “Unless you’re tired, of course? In which case I can make myself scarce, it’s—”
“No!” Thorin cut in quickly. For a moment he was desperate to go along with Bilbo and claim he’d just been checking, to tell him honestly just how much he appreciated everything he did for him and how he’d just wanted to make sure that Bilbo wasn’t too pressed for time. But he knew he couldn’t keep dragging this out— it would just get harder with every night that passed. So he forced himself to take a deep, steadying breath before continuing as calmly as he could manage, “No, I mean... you don’t have to stay here. In Erebor.”
With me, his heart added, but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Maybe it wasn’t necessary. Maybe it was clear enough as it was.
The silence that followed couldn’t have been more than seconds, for all that it felt like years. Thorin watched each and every reaction on Bilbo’s face, knowing it would all be etched into his memory for the rest of his life: the way Bilbo started back from him a little bit, how his eyes widened briefly, the confused crease that appeared between his brows as he looked at him.
Thorin said nothing: wouldn’t, couldn’t. He watched and wished he could take back what he’d said, but the weight of those words had— thankfully— seemed to rob his dry throat of any strength.
Bilbo stumbled and stuttered over the beginnings of at least five different sentences before settling on, “You... you’re telling me to go?” His voice was oddly flat, as though he had heard perfectly what was said but was too stunned to register what it really meant.
“I already did once before, do you not recall?” Thorin said, almost wincing as the words came out harsher than he’d intended. “On the battlefield, I—”
“Well, yes, of course, but Thorin, you were...” He trailed off, looking away and clearing his throat. When he continued, his eyes were still lowered, and his voice had dropped. “I couldn’t have stayed here without you, to be honest. I would have done as you said.”
Thorin’s heart pounded painfully against his broken ribs, hardly daring to imagine what Bilbo could have meant by that. Instead he said, more gently this time, “Bilbo, you don’t owe me anything. Your home awaits; your service is ended.”
That had been entirely the wrong thing to stay. Bilbo was on his feet in an instant, his stool clattering to the ground and his fists clenching at his sides. Thorin realised distantly that he hadn’t thought it possible for a hobbit to loom over anyone before, but that was in fact exactly what Bilbo was doing now, and he looked furious.
“Wait... my... my service? Do you seriously think that I stayed so long out of service?”
“Of course not! But I would have you know that the words I spoke as I lay on the battlefield... I meant them.” He licked his suddenly dry lips, wondering if he sounded as desperate to Bilbo as he did to his own ears. “I would have us part as friends, Bilbo, please.”
“And what if I don’t want that?”
Thorin’s heart plummeted like a stone in a well.
“Then I would have us part in civility, at the very least.” The words were stiff and formal and tasted like ash on his tongue. Even with his years of training in royal bearing, he struggled to get them out. “I would have you know that I am forever at your service, as are my kin, and all of our people—”
“No, no, no— Thorin, no.” Bilbo’s face was screwed up into a frown; he brought one hand up to rub at his forehead as though trying to rid himself of the first signs of a migraine, whilst the other was planted firmly on his hip. “Thorin, that isn’t what I— you don’t understand, I—”
“No, Bilbo, it’s alright. You don’t have to explain, I—”
“Oh for crying out— it’s you, you ridiculous dwarf! I stayed for you!” Bilbo burst out suddenly, hands flying wide. “I didn’t stay out of service, or for the gold, or any of that! I couldn’t care less! I’m here for you!”
Silence— even the clamour of the camp seemed little more than a dull and distant roar now. They stared at one another, unmoving: Bilbo with his arms still frozen in mid-air, looking angrier than Thorin had ever seen him, and Thorin himself hunched and tensed but fixing Bilbo with an unwavering, miserable gaze.
Then, Bilbo’s words finally settled into sense.
Slowly, as though some part of him was aware enough to be scared of shattering the moment, Thorin’s eyes widened. His lips parted ever so slightly. He breathed in, a soft rush of air that Bilbo couldn’t have missed.
“Then...” he began, before pausing to lick his lips; his throat was so dry all of a sudden, and his voice hoarser than it had been in days. “Do you mean...”
“Oh, honestly!”
And in the next instant Bilbo’s fingers were closing over Thorin’s shoulders as tight as he dared; before Thorin could so much as blink, Bilbo had was leaning over him, and in the very instant he realised that, Bilbo was kissing him.
It wasn’t really like any of the few daydreams Thorin had allowed himself to have during their infrequent pauses during the quest, or in the dead of night whilst trying to lull himself back to sleep after dreams of blood and pale, leering faces. In his imagination, he had always been the one to firmly take charge of the situation, enclosing Bilbo in protective arms, tilting his chin so his whole face was turned to Thorin’s, leading him as he coaxed open his mouth and taking charge of the whole situation.
Of course, in all of his imaginings, Thorin had also been whole and healthy, honour restored and able to offer Bilbo something tangible, not just vague hopes and promises. Yet here he was, lying still in his sick bed, battered and broken and having only just clawed his way back from the brink of death, and still... and still Bilbo was there, kissing him like he was the only thing that mattered in the world. It was completely different to anything he’d ever imagined, and yet even more wonderful.
By the time they broke apart, Thorin’s mind was reeling, and not just from a need to breathe. Bilbo’s hands came up to frame his face as he pressed their foreheads together in a gesture so dwarvish that it brought a lump to the back of Thorin’s throat.
“I don’t have to stay at all,” Bilbo said softly. “I know that, you idiot. I’m staying because I want to.”
Thorin took a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, Bilbo was drawing back slightly, but he was watching Thorin with a fond smile that made his heart clench.
There were perhaps a hundred and one things he could have— should have— said at this point. Open confessions of love. Promises of devotion. Certainly something more eloquent than the hopeful question that came out instead. “So... you will stay then?”
Exasperation flitted across Bilbo’s face again, but this time mingled with affection so open that Thorin wondered if he could possibly have been overlooking it this whole time. “Yes. I’ll stay.”
Happiness welled up so quickly— and, after so long, unexpectedly— in Thorin that all he could manage was a nod and a simple “Good. That’s... I am glad.”
“Me too,” Bilbo said, smiling again. Thorin found his expression was mirroring Bilbo’s to such an extent that his cheeks were starting to ache, but at this point he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to stop. All he could do was smile back as Bilbo righted his stool and perched on it again as calmly as if nothing had just happened, for all that he was now leaning his elbow on Thorin’s bed, tangling his fingers with the dwarf’s and squeezing tightly. “Now, if I can continue with what I was trying to tell you before...”
Of course, if Bilbo had to start the story from the beginning, and if he ended up staying in Thorin’s tent far later than expected... well, neither of them particularly minded.