Chapter Text
Fíli wasn’t sure when it started—this quiet fondness, this hum in his chest whenever Bilbo looked at him like he wasn’t a prince.
Maybe it began the night they shared a fire on the outskirts of the camp, after a particularly rough skirmish with wargs. Fíli’s cloak had been torn, his arm bloodied, and he’d smiled through it all—because he had to. Because he was the eldest. The heir. Thorin’s right hand.
But Bilbo had looked at him differently.
Not with awe or concern or disappointment.
Just… gently.
“You’re hurt,” the hobbit had said, and it hadn’t been a question.
Fíli had shrugged, deflecting. “Only a scratch.”
“You’re bleeding through your shirt.”
He looked down. Oh. So he was.
Bilbo didn’t call for Óin or fetch someone else to help. He didn’t shout for Thorin or demand the prince rest. He simply sat beside him, pulled out his handkerchief, and tore a strip from it like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Then he cleaned the wound, quietly, kindly, like tending to an injured animal.
“Bilbo—” Fíli had started, but the hobbit hushed him with a look.
“You don’t have to pretend around me.”
Fíli had blinked.
Pretend?
That night, something had changed.
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Days passed. Then weeks.
Their journey was long and winding, and Fíli bore it all with the quiet dignity of someone who had no choice but to lead.
Kíli could afford recklessness. Thorin could afford stubbornness. The others could argue, complain, even despair.
But Fíli had to be solid. The one everyone leaned on.
Even when his heart was heavy. Even when his hands ached from sword practice and his thoughts weighed with doubt.
He never said anything, of course. He never could.
Until Bilbo sat beside him again one night, well after the others had fallen asleep, and wordlessly handed him a cup of tea.
Fíli blinked. “What’s this?”
“For your headache.”
“I don’t have—” He stopped. “How did you know?”
Bilbo just gave him that small, knowing smile.
“I see you, you know,” the hobbit said, soft. “You’re always watching the others. Carrying the weight. No one ever carries you.”
The words hit him like a stone to the chest.
Because it was true.
And no one had ever said it before.
Fíli looked away, throat tight. “That’s my role.”
“It doesn’t mean you don’t deserve kindness.”
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Bilbo fussed, of course.
When Fíli came back from battle with his braids loose, Bilbo rebraided them—gently, fingers surprisingly deft for someone so small.
When Fíli was quiet at camp, Bilbo would sit beside him with dried fruit or honeyed bread, and just exist beside him. No pressure. No questions.
When Fíli snapped one night, too tired and sore and full of anxiety to control his voice, Bilbo didn’t flinch.
He just looked at him and said, “You don’t have to apologize.”
Fíli had stared.
“I’m not angry,” Bilbo added. “I just want to help.”
Fíli swallowed hard and turned away before anyone could see his eyes.
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“I don’t understand it,” Fíli muttered one morning, after a particularly long stretch of silence between them. “You treat me like I’m not the heir.”
Bilbo, who was slicing apples for breakfast, glanced up. “Because you’re not. Not to me.”
Fíli stared. “What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t see a crown when I look at you,” Bilbo said simply. “I see you. Fíli. Stubborn and thoughtful and brave. And tired.”
Fíli couldn’t breathe for a moment.
“Everyone sees me as Thorin’s heir.”
“Of course they do. But that’s not all you are.”
Bilbo handed him a slice of apple.
Fíli took it numbly, fingers brushing Bilbo’s.
The warmth lingered.
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One night, everything boiled over.
They were making camp near the foothills, and Thorin had been particularly harsh—blaming Fíli for a wrong turn, a missed signal. It wasn’t fair, and everyone knew it, but no one said anything.
Fíli didn’t argue. Didn’t shout. He stood still, nodded, and bore it like he always did.
But later, he walked away from the firelight, away from Kíli and the rest.
Bilbo followed.
He found Fíli crouched near a tree, his hands buried in his hair, breathing hard.
“Go away,” the prince muttered.
Bilbo didn’t.
“You’re not okay.”
“I said go.”
“You don’t have to break yourself to prove you’re worthy, you know.”
Fíli looked up, eyes wild. “You think I’m trying to do this? You think I like it? Being held to impossible standards? Always second-guessing if I’m enough?”
Bilbo knelt beside him. “No. I don’t think you like it at all.”
Fíli’s shoulders trembled. “I can’t fail him. I can’t. I’m all he has left.”
“You’re not a tool, Fíli.”
The prince flinched.
“You’re not just a name, or a crown, or someone to bear his burdens.”
“Then what am I?”
Bilbo reached out, gently cupped his cheek.
“You’re you. And that’s enough.”
Fíli broke.
Tears came, hard and fast, and Bilbo didn’t pull away. He tugged him close, pressed his face to Fíli’s golden hair, and just held him as he cried.
No words. No judgment.
Just quiet, steady presence.
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They sat like that for a long time.
When the storm passed, Fíli didn’t move. His head rested on Bilbo’s shoulder, heavy and warm. His breathing was slow again.
“You’re the only one who doesn’t expect something from me,” he said eventually.
“I just want you safe,” Bilbo murmured. “And maybe a little less gloomy.”
A watery laugh escaped the prince. “I think I can try.”
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From that day forward, things changed.
Fíli began to seek Bilbo out. Small things, like sitting beside him at meals, or brushing their arms together while walking. He smiled more. Laughed again.
Bilbo noticed every time.
When the others grumbled or teased, Bilbo was the one to defend him. To speak softly when Thorin was harsh. To press warmth into his hand in the form of food, kind words, or a touch.
And slowly—beautifully—Fíli began to believe it.
That he could be more than a prince.
That someone could want him—not for duty or name, but for him.
That maybe, just maybe, he was allowed to be soft.
To be seen.
To be loved.