Work Text:
Usually, you don’t drink. Usually there wouldn’t be any drink around. Thorin had deemed it acceptable to stop at an inn while the company passed through a town, and besides having a real bed to sleep in, everyone was more than excited for the tavern. There’s not much to be excited about, in your opinion, because things aren’t exactly great.
The town is worse than what you expected. Your home village of Bree is fine enough, great compared to this, but this is. . . rough.
The women are rough, the men are rougher, the inn looks structurally sound but dirty, and water is nowhere in sight at the inn’s first floor tavern.
Everyone is given ale, so you drink along. It’s bitter and as rough as the rest of the damn place, but you still drink it. Your empty mug is swept away and before you can raise your voice to the busty maid and declare yourself finished; another is placed in your hands.
“And look at that!” Kili exclaims and points at your new drink, “She’s keeping up with the rest of us!”
“We’ll make a dwarf out of you yet!” Fili exclaims with another raise of his pint. Your dwarves cheer in unison and take large pulls of their tankards, some even finishing their second and moving on.
With that enthusiasm, you try and join them by taking a large swell of your second ale. You sip and listen to their jokes, stopping halfway through your drink when it hits you.
Now, you’re not small. Well, you’re taller than your dwarves, but you aren’t built like they are. You’re certainly not as heavy as they are. Combine that with not drinking often and your tolerance is as low as a babe, and as you stare deeply into the frothy amber ale, you feel it.
It’s in your fingers first and you set the tankard down before you drop it. It comes through your shoulders next, releasing the tension from them and leaving you boneless. Your face flushes in the heat of the cramped tavern and you would bet every coin that your face is red to the tips of your ears. The real intoxication pulls up on you so fast, it makes your head spin.
‘Oh shit’. You glace at the stairs in the far corner of the tavern, and what once seemed close now feels like the whole last leg to Erebor. You wiggle your toes in your boots and they feel like jelly, which means that your legs are definitely going to feel like jelly. Someone’s going to have to help you, and the company will never let you live this down.
The stairs are passed the bar and you must have been staring too long because you feel lips, ‘Thorin’s lips’, at your ear whispering, “I don’t think there are any comely bar tenders to seduce here.”
He’s teasing, and that in itself is a rarity, but you can’t help ruining it by turning your wide, worried eyes to him. His teasing expression is gone and replaced with the worry of a leader bracing for a problem.
“Are you well? What is it?”
You open and close your mouth, fumbling for words, when at the last second, a loud burst of laughter envelops the whole floor. Thorin pulls you close. Close enough that your mouths are at each other’s ears so there’s no chance of miscommunication.
“I don’t think I can stand,” you whisper. Thorin pulls back and stares at you with wide eyes. “I don’ think I can mak’ it up the stairs,” you add, and catch your tongue slurring.
“You’re drunk,” he deadpans. “You’ve had less than two tanks and you’re drunk?”
You can’t trust your tongue anymore, so you nod. You don’t know if it’s the drink or if he means to be that damn unreadable, but he stares at you for a second before leaning in once more.
“Do you wish to retire for the night?” You nod. “Make your way to the stairs,” he instructs and whispers something to Balin before taking another large pull of his ale.
You do as he says and wobble as you stand. You try to not look as drunk as you feel as you walk through the tables and townsfolk lining the walls, keeping your eyes firmly on the stairs. You’re almost there, and pride and panic set in your chest as you look up the steep steps—the floor disappears from under you!
Arms! Arms hold you tightly to a chest, and as you whip your head around to squawk at the person who dared to scoop you up, every threat of pain and violence on your tongue, but you find two dark blue eyes staring back.
“Thorin!” you exclaim happily, the drink fully settling in and addling your brain. “Oh, you’re really strong!”
He shakes his head and smirks as he carries you up the stairs. Despite the flush on your face, what really gets you are the hoots and hollers from the tavern with lewd suggestions flying left and right.
At the top of the steps, he sets you down and takes your arm through his. “You have your key?” You nod but he’s still staring at you. “Show me.” You pull it out with a smirk. He watches in amusement as you stumble to your door and try to unlock it, falling against the door in the process. With a heavy sigh he plucks the key from your hand, unlocks the door, and picks you back up.
He unceremoniously dumps you on the bed and rumbles, “Stay here.” You don’t think you can move anyway. You must have closed your eyes for a second because you open them when the door creaks again.
You catch him holding another tankard. ‘Another one!’ “They must believe even fish drink ale,” he mutters and sets it in front of you. “I’ve brought you water.”
“T’anks Thorin,” you mumble through your pillow. “G’night king!” you bid to his back as he leaves.
This time you can hear him laugh as he turns one last time and responds, “Sleep well, lightweight.”