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The chairs in Thorin’s study are most certainly made for dwarves. They are dwarf-made and sturdy, of course, and they have been crafted with the exact height and build of dwarrows in mind. Thorin looks perfectly regal sitting in his, at his desk. He always looks perfectly regal, though, now he has assumed the title and responsibilities of King under the Mountain, which have fit him like a glove.
For Bilbo, of course, this means the chairs are just a little too big.
Not that Bilbo particularly minds. A dwarf-sized chair used for meetings and work and diplomacy is the perfect size for a certain hobbit to curl up in it comfortably enough that the edges do not dig into his skin as they might if he had tried to curl up in a hobbit-sized chair, and so it is perfect for him to curl up in on a day like this, when Thorin insists on finishing up work even after they should’ve gone to bed by now.
He stays up with Thorin on nights like these, content to curl up in the too-big chair with a book while Thorin sits at his desk, usually writing letters to or receiving them from leaders of far-off lands. Being king required no small amount of diplomacy, which Thorin had undoubtedly found the most difficult part of assuming the job, especially after ascending to power in such a way as he did.
Tonight, though, is different.
Tonight, Bilbo does not have a book with him when he curls up in a chair at Thorin’s desk, content just to watch his king as he works.
It’s been a long day, full of meetings and work for both of them, with little time for idle conversations or lunchtime distractions, and Bilbo is too tired to try and force his brain to focus on words on a page, not when he could be looking at Thorin, and so he sits and watches Thorin pen a letter to someone or another. Thorin is focused on the words he’s writing, his eyebrows drawn together in concentration, rather pointedly not looking up at Bilbo.
Bilbo is more than content to stare at Thorin’s hands as they write. His hands are large, certainly larger than any hobbit’s, and Bilbo knows them to be warm, gentle for all that they are calloused. He has quite many uses for them, and can use them quite well, something Bilbo is very familiar with. Bilbo only hopes he can use them for diplomacy as well as he can use them for… certain other matters.
“Do I have an audience?” Thorin asks, his voice low and tired, but fond.
Bilbo laughs softly. “Am I not allowed to look at my husband?” he asks, the word still new and exciting on his tongue.
“Hm,” Thorin says, but he’s smiling. “I’ll allow it.”
And so Bilbo settles into his chair, rests his head on his arm as a pillow, and watches Thorin write. Staring at Thorin’s hands does, of course, bring to mind those many uses of them, but Bilbo is so tired that he longs for their bed more than anything else, so he focuses on the way those hands hold him, the way they are so soft and warm against his bare skin, worn as they are from years of hard work.
Bilbo can feel Thorin’s eyes on him as well, every so often, when he stops writing just to look at him, and Bilbo catches his gaze. They smile at each other sleepily, and though they have been doing this for months, since Thorin retook the mountain, Bilbo cannot stop himself from getting excited at the prospect of falling asleep in Thorin’s arms.
Be that as it may, Bilbo cannot help the way his eyes are beginning to droop shut, his blinks becoming longer, his eyelids heavy. His focus on Thorin’s hands blurs, and he feels himself drifting off to sleep, powerless in his fight against it.
“Ghivashel,” Thorin says, his deep voice startling Bilbo out of his almost-sleep. “Go to sleep.”
Bilbo wants to say that he doesn’t ever want to fall asleep again unless he’s wrapped in Thorin, as close as could be, inhaling Thorin’s musk, but he doesn’t know how to say it without sounding too earnest and emotional, so instead he says, “I would just wake up when you get in bed anyway, I don’t mind staying up.”
“Alright,” says Thorin, seeing right through him, “When I finish this letter, we’ll go to sleep.”
Bilbo nods and resettles in the chair, curled in on himself but still angling his head so he can watch Thorin work. The talking roused him somewhat, so he has time before he is, once again, drifting, time enough to refocus on Thorin’s hand.
Thorin pays more attention to him, now, his gaze flickering over to Bilbo every few words. Bilbo’s eyes begin to slip closed again, and shortly after, Thorin starts speaking, dictating first the contents of the letter thus far and then the words he’s writing like he’s telling Bilbo a bedtime story instead of trying his hand at interstate diplomacy, but it certainly does work in terms of lulling Bilbo to sleep.
Bilbo wonders, briefly, while he is still awake enough to do so, if he is entitled to this kind of information or if it is supposed to be kept secret, some kind of information for only Thorin to be privy to - that said, Thorin has, rather purposefully, not been keeping things secret from Bilbo. Thorin tells Bilbo most things - in his role as consort under the mountain, Bilbo does act as one of Thorin’s advisors as part of his official duties, though he suspects he’s been made an advisor because of Thorin’s penchant for complaining about his day while they get ready for bed - if Bilbo is going to know everything going on under the mountain, he might as well be formally recognized for his opinions on it.
So Bilbo tries to pay attention to the words Thorin speaks as he writes them.
But Thorin is speaking slowly, braking between words so he can finish writing them, and he’s talking in his bedtime story voice, the one he uses when Bilbo wakes from a nightmare and Thorin talks him back to sleep, so really it’s like Bilbo is trying to fight Thorin’s psychological sleep warfare.
He’s losing terribly.
It really isn’t very long at all before Bilbo is drifting off to sleep, mostly against his will, his blinks getting longer and longer until his eyelids are too heavy to open again and he lets the soft current of sleep pull him under.
The next thing he’s aware of is the feeling of arms around him, closing in on him, picking him up. He almost startles in the few seconds it takes him to realize they’re Thorin’s arms, that Thorin is the one picking him up, looping one arm under where Bilbo’s legs are bent at his knees mand the other around Bilbo’s back, Thorin’s hand curling around his upper arm to cement the hold.
“It’s just me, Bilbo, I’ve got you,” Thorin says gently, his voice even more tired sounding than it had before Bilbo had fallen asleep, however long ago.
“Thorin,” Bilbo says, but it’s little more than a jumble of consonants, and Thorin laughs. Bilbo can feel the rumble in his chest and the slight shake of his shoulders.
“Right here,” Thorin says, his hands sure and strong as he carries Bilbo, and Bilbo knows he is safe, knows Thorin will keep him safe. His eyes are still pinching when he opens them, so he keeps them shut, content to curl into Thorin’s chest as Thorin makes his way down the now-familiar maze of corridors from his office to their bedchamber.
Thorin places him on their bed very gently, like he thinks Bilbo might have fallen asleep again, and Bilbo drags himself into a sitting position, watching through squinting eyes as Thorin changes for bed. He changes quickly, then goes to Bilbo’s chest of drawers to get Bilbo his own bedclothes, and Bilbo’s love of comfort wins out over his exhaustion so he changes as well.
“Are you quite happy now?” Thorin asks as they finally, finally lie down.
He pulls Bilbo close like he always does, and Bilbo goes more than willingly. Bilbo rests his head on Thorin’s chest to feel his heartbeat, strong and steady and rhythmic. It’s his favorite sound, now — perhaps it had been the five days of abject agony waiting for Thorin to wake up, trying to face a world without Thorin and realizing he can’t, that had made the steady sound of Thorin being alive worth more than the world to him, or perhaps it’s just that he loves him more than he has ever loved another. Perhaps it’s both.
“Yes, thank you,” Bilbo says into Thorin’s chest, slightly muffled, and Thorin laughs again, his chest rising and falling with it, and Bilbo cannot think of a better possible way to fall asleep, even if he had to wait for it.
“Well, since I had a captive audience, what did you think of the letter?” Thorin asks him. “That was my third rewrite, I can’t seem to find something I’m happy with.”
Bilbo shrugs. “Wasn’t listening,” he says, grinning.