I Was Only Trying to Spell a Loss

He hadn’t intended for them to find out this way.

Heck, Bilbo hadn’t intended for them to find out at all really.

He shrinks visibly under the gaze of thirteen pairs of eyes, wings curling slightly around his front. It was a reflexive action, a betrayal of anxiety and Bilbo curses his temperamental feathers as thirteen pairs of eyes follow their every move.

“I think you’ve been keeping secrets Burglar.”

Damn those bloody wargs.

…

It wasn’t that he was ashamed of them to say, but wings were a very private business, reserved strictly for partners and family. So Bilbo hadn’t thought twice about keeping his wings in their bindings when setting out on his adventure. The feeling of his feathers flat against his back was not an alien one. Bilbo had very rarely let his wings from their prison- maybe to sleep, but even then very rarely.

They just weren’t normal.

He’d found out when he’d been barely a tween, stealing kisses with one of the boys down by the river, for Hobbit’s didn’t set much store on gender. There had been a brief moment of hesitation on Bilbo’s part when the boy shrugged his jacket off to reveal two petite little dusky brown sparrow wings. But he’d quickly stored such doubt in the back of his mind. Suddenly shy, he’d slowly let his shirt fall down his shoulders.

Bilbo would have preferred laughter over the gasp of horror he’d gotten.

He’d quickly pulled his shirt over silky black feathers, he’d tried to console, tried to apologise. But it was too late. The boy had run, throwing back cries of ‘cursed’ and ‘bad luck’. He’d never seen the boy again, and had never shown his wings to anyone since. People where quiet about it but there were still the whispers. The sideways looks and mutterings of ‘poor thing’, some of the least considerate Hobbits even made the signs to ward off evil whenever he passed.

Bilbo fell back upon the old saying of ‘out of sight out of mind’. Those black feathers were kept under wraps; he retreated into himself and his home. His books didn’t care what type his wings were.

And through it all he couldn’t help but think that his parents might have mentioned somewhere along the line that Raven wings were a terrible sign of bad luck.

…

Then Gandalf came to Bag End and next minute Bilbo found himself on the road with thirteen dwarves and a pair of wings that had started to itch uncontrollably where they pressed against his back.

…

Caring for his wings on the road was a risky business. Bilbo made it a habit of not washing until everyone else had done so- or strolling down stream a bit to a sheltered alcove. There he would run water through is feathers, grooming the larger pinions. There he would wonder why dwarfs didn’t have wings.

There he would wonder how much easier it would be if he had someone to help.

…

He also makes it a habit not to let anyone touch his back. This was harder than expected, as he found that dwarves are an extremely friendly lot. Touches seemed part of their daily routine. Thorin pats Balin on the shoulder- companionship. Dwalin puts a hand in the small of Ori’s back to help steady the youngster- protection. Fili and Kili are practically attached at the hip- a fierce love. Oin and Glion make a habit of ridding each other’s beards of stray burrs and twigs after a hard day’s march- routine.

One afternoon Bofur tries to clasp Bilbo’s shoulder and freezes at the positively violent way Bilbo dances back from his reach. Bilbo coughs, tips of his ears going red at the positively hurt look on the dwarf’s face. Quickly, he reaches out and tugs lightly at Bofur’s sleeve- an apology.

Bofur inclines his head slightly and gives that grin that sends Bilbo scurrying across camp to hide behind Gandalf, his wings positively burning.

…

The fight between Azog and the dwarves comes and goes. Bilbo perhaps surprising himself the most when he leaps out in Thorin’s defence.

Then the company find themselves on the eagles and Bilbo is reminded of what real wings are like.

...

When Thorin hugs him atop the Carrock, Bilbo freezes up because surely Thorin must have felt something that wasn’t skin. But the dwarf lets go with no exclamations of surprise and Bilbo lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding.

While the others tend to Thorin and gaze at the distant peak of Erebor, the Hobbit slips to the back of the group. He sits down, trying to ignore his wings, any day now it seemed like they’d develop a voice and start screaming at him to let them out. He must have shifted too many times because there’s a step behind him and a concerned voice.

“Are ye’ alright Bilbo?”

Instantly Bilbo’s shoulders hunch because Bofur is by far the most perceptive of the dwarves and he’s certain that he’s seen him looking contemplatively at his back more than once.

“It’s nothing,” Bilbo says perhaps a bit too quickly by the sceptical look in Bofur’s eyes, “here, sit with me.”

He pats the stone next to him and Bofur complies, dangling his boots over the edge.

“That was a very brave thing ye’ did back there,” Bilbo’s wings positively hum in contentment, “Hope I’m not remiss in thanking ye’. Thorin certainly wasn’t.”

Bilbo looks up to see Bofur frowning down into the distant foliage, a surprisingly glum look on his face. Before he can stop himself the hobbit reaches up and tugs on the dwarf’s scarf.

“Cheer up, neither I nor Thorin are dead.” and Bofur has turned to look at Bilbo, who becomes very aware of the fact that he can’t seem to get his hand to let go of the scarf.

“Aye, and I’m very glad of the fact.”

…

That night Bilbo has trouble sleeping, and he’s turned to his other side perhaps one too many times because an arm loops around his waist seemingly out of nowhere and drags him back into a solid chest. Bilbo seizes up again, because it’s a chest now pressed against his wings but then a moustache tickles the back of his neck and he almost giggles.

“Sleep, Bilbo.” Comes the tired reprimand but then Bofur has buried his nose into the space behind Bilbo’s ear and there’s no way the hobbit is going to sleep now.

His wings positively purr.

…

Then there comes the day.

The day not only Bofur, but the entire bloody company find out.

The snarl comes out of nowhere and Bilbo, who’s lagging slightly behind the group honestly just wishing that he could throw his shirt off now and be done with it, feels like an entire house has fallen on him all at once. He’s sent crashing into the undergrowth with barely enough air in his lungs for a yelp. His sight blurs, filled with brown fur and there’s an unpleasant feeling at his shoulder regions but then there comes a sickening thud and a whine.

“Get off him!”

And before Bilbo can protest because something doesn’t feel quite right on his back, there are arms pulling him from the ground. He’s stuffed into a protective embrace and greeted with the sight of a large warg tearing up the ground in its death throes.

“Must’ve been a straggler from that pack.” mutters Thorin, who’s wresting his sword from the things neck. Fili and Kili scout out the forest and give the all clear.

“Ye’ alright Bilbo?” comes the soft call in his ear and of course it’s Bofur with his arms crushed around him.

“Well, maybe if I could move- ” he is gently released and sets about dusting himself off, just a few minor scrapes, nothing overly worrying. He’d gotten off lucky that time.

It takes a while for Bilbo to realise that no one’s saying anything and his heart sinks somewhere around his toes because he can feel the breeze on his bare back from where his shirt’s been ripped and oh gods, it’s all going to happen again isn’t it-

“Bilbo, are those…”

“They have to be!”

“Y’know what I’ve heard the tales but I never really believed them until now.”

“Master Baggins could you maybe take the time to let me study them?”

And it seems like Bofur has finally decided enough is enough because of the ferocious blush spreading across Bilbo’s face at that last comment from Ori. He steers Bilbo over to a tree trunk, gently pushes the hobbit down, his back to the forest- away from prying eyes.

Of course, the others follow but at least now he doesn’t feel like he’s being bombarded from all sides.

“Can you fly Bilbo?” Kili can barely keep the excitement from his voice.

Fili joins in with some other questions and Bilbo is feeling quite overwhelmed until Thorin tells his nephews on no uncertain terms to shut up. Bilbo’s right wing is completely free from its wrapping, and the hobbit shrugs the other out too because what the hell at least they weren’t cursing his bad luck yet. As both his wings extend, barely the length of a man’s arm span, there is a definitive hush among the company. Bilbo can’t bring himself to glance at Bofur, who’s still at his side.

“I think you’ve been keeping secrets Burglar.” There is Thorin, and though he has a faint frown on his face, his eyes follow every errant twitch of Bilbo’s inky black feathers.

“Yes, well, I understand completely,” Bilbo clears his throat weakly, “If you give me the time I should be well out of your hair by tomorrow morning. If you don’t mind me taking some supplies that is.”

This time the silence is definitely a negative one and Bilbo has to fight back the urge to let his wings cover his face.

“What rubbish are ye’ spewin’ now hobbit?” this from Dwalin, who looks almost offended.

“Maybe he hit his head.” Grumbles Gloin, and there is a sharp burst of Khuzdul from Bifur.

“Bilbo…” this time Bilbo has no choice but to look at Bofur, and is forced to look away from what he finds there.

“I, er… In the hobbit community to be born with the wings of a raven is horrible bad luck. A curse, even.” Bilbo’s ears itch and his wings visibly shake, his explanation trails off at the incredulous looks he’s being given.

“But they’re beautiful Bilbo.” Whispers Ori, in apparent wonderment, Bilbo hides a smile as Dwalin looks between the young dwarf and Bilbo in confusion.

Any and all doubts are banished as Bofur helps Bilbo from his seat, before ushering the hobbit from the circle of dwarves, staying very purposefully at the hobbit’s back.

“Aye, well I think we’ve had enough excitement for one day, I suggest we make camp.”

And Thorin doesn’t object at Bofur giving orders because there is a glint in the companionable dwarf’s eye that isn’t usually there.

…

Bilbo has a hard time restraining himself from bundling his wings back up the minute he sits down on the edge of the camp. Dori has passed him one of Ori’s shirts and when Bilbo shrugs it on he notices the slits cut in the back. So his black feathers sit out and revel in the breeze which stirs them.

The hobbit is trying to ignore the every now and then curious glance by attempting to straighten out his feather where he’d landed on them awkwardly. But try as he might, he can’t quite get his right wing to swing around enough for his short arms to reach. Bilbo’s heart nearly jumps into his mouth as foreign fingers weave through his larger pinion feathers.

“Do ye’ mind?” comes the question, and for once, Bilbo thinks to hell with tradition, and nods.

Bofur shuffles slightly closer, and begins to arrange Bilbo’s feathers methodically. And it’s strange because Bilbo hasn’t let another touch his wings since his mother had when he was a small child but it’s everything it’s cracked up to be. With every touch of Bofur’s hands, Bilbo grows more and more relaxed, the blush receding from his cheeks, the barest of pink on his ear tips.

It all comes back with a jittery yelp when Bofur slips his hand under Bilbo’s wing and into the downy fluff underneath. He twists until he’s facing the dwarf with a reproachful glare. Bofur’s eyes twinkle from under his hat.

“Just wanted to see what it felt like.” And Bilbo’s wings twitch, it hadn’t felt entirely uncomfortable.

“Sorry, I’m a bit jumpy.” He reaches up and tugs on the edge of Bofur’s floppy hat which he so loved.

“Ye’ shouldn’t be.” And when Bilbo begins to let go of the furry hat, Bofur catches his arm and pulls the hobbit forwards, until he’s practically encompassed by the dwarfs arms and legs.

Bilbo stays silent as Bofur’s hands smooth out his wings, smiling as the dwarf’s fingers scratch where feather melds into skin. His wings flex reflexively at that, extending proudly out behind him and Bofur laughs, before catching Bilbo’s gaze.

“Yer one of a kind little hobbit.”

And it’s Bilbo’s turn to laugh because Bofur is nuzzling their noses together and his moustache is tickling the sides of his face but then the dwarf’s lips graze his own and he quite forgets about laughing.

His wings, as ever on their own agenda, circle around the pair as best they could, their tips grazing Bofur’s cheeks and when the dwarf chuckles reflexively it’s a breathless gasp into Bilbo’s mouth.

Bilbo hasn’t strapped his wings since.