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Three months is the amount of time it took Bilbo to infiltrate Gundabad’s inner circle. In that time he’s gone from grunt, to errand boy, to invisible support, to mildly trustworthy field agent, to Bolg’s personal assistant.
All it took was every single one of Bilbo’s waking hours and about nine-tenths of whatever sanity he had left after M.A.I.A.R tapped him for this op.
Seriously, after this, Bilbo swears that he will slam the door in Gandalf’s face next time he come calling …assuming, of course, that Gandalf ever trusts him with field work ever again because this mission is about to go south.
The man –sorry, dwarf- in the interrogation cell has a face Bilbo recognizes almost at once. Anyone would actually, considering how often it’s splashed across the cover of ever gossip rag in the country. Prince-in-Exile Thorin Durinson doesn’t have much of a reputation, unless it’s that of a surly alcoholic who dances in and out of anger management retreats like it’s going out of style.
However, the Thorin Bilbo knows from the papers and one very brief encounter at a society party bears no resemblance whatsoever to the stone-faced man shackled to a chair. In retrospect, Bilbo feels like he should have recognized Oakenshield’s characteristic mail shirt and fur-lined dusters as dwarrow work and made the connection.
Gone is the overly groomed and pompous ass who once dumped champagne down the front of Bilbo’s best suit then had the nerve to snarl at Bilbo for being in the way.
In his place is a grizzled veteran with flinty eyes and a determined jaw. Here is the man who is responsible for bringing Gundabad’s smuggling operations on the East Coast to a shrieking halt. Here is the man that Azog himself swore to kill with his bare hands, only to literally pull back a bleeding stump.
Here is Oakenshield and he is perhaps even more terrifying with his iron mask pulled away because now there is nothing to stand in the way of the unadulterated fury in his steel-blue eyes.
Bilbo shuddered even though he is probably the safest person in the immediate area, considering the fact that he is safely hidden behind a one-way mirror. He may be captured and bound for now, but Oakenshield is memorizing faces and if he gets free then he is going to go on the hunt …and Bilbo is fairly certain that nothing will stop him once he gets started.
Perhaps the goblin who was interrogating him feels the same way. He’s been standing there with Oakenshield’s mask dangling from his claws as he gawps, but his free hand goes for the knife at his belt.
Shit.
Bilbo leans forward and speaks into the mike. His voice is transmitted into the room using a filter. “I wouldn’t.” He drawls, putting every bits of lazy arrogance he can manage into it. “Azog will want to see to him personally. Tenderize him if you must, but he needs a pulse for later.”
The goblin snarls, but takes his hand off the knife. Bilbo nods at the Orc minding the table. “Keep an eye on him. Get in there if he forgets again. It’ll be all our hides if Azog doesn’t get to decapitate the prisoner himself.”
“Yessir.” He grunts and Bilbo is free to go. Orcs are a slightly higher order of monster than your average goblin even though they technically belong to the same genus. They generally have higher IQs –albeit not as high as that of an elf or even a human- and a better understanding of cause and effect …especially when their own welfare is on the line.
Oakenshield will be safe for the thirty minutes Bilbo needs to prep an exit route and wipe away any evidence that Azog might use to chase them.
He moves fast. Gandalf arranged a gear cache for him and Bilbo finds it in the second place he looks, which is a boiler room on the mezzanine level where Azog’s people rarely go. They don’t put much effort into maintaining their own facilities, mostly because they lack the skilled labor and neither goblins nor orcs have the problem-solving skills to devise their own fixes.
Bilbo strips out of his sleek Armani suit and incinerates it without a second thought. It’s his favorite one and a Warg could use it to track him across the entire country if it felt so inclined. He changes into his own costume, which is nothing as fancy as Oakenshield’s but it gets the job done.
He then slips into the server room and activates the worms that will erase any record of him from Gundabad’s archives, torch the security footage revealing his identity, and transmit whatever useful tidbits it can find to M.A.I.A.R. The interrogation room has it’s own analog video feed to prevent exactly this sort of thing, but fortunately that will be Bilbo’s last stop after he torches his quarters with a nose-bomb.
The Orc at the desk doesn’t even look up when Bilbo returns nor does he make a sound when Bilbo shoots him in the ear with his silenced pistol. Cleaning up the evidence of Oakenshield’s interrogation isn’t quite so clean. There’s two different camera feeds as well as an audio recording and even then Bilbo can’t be certain that he’s gotten it all.
He plants a sticky bomb on the dead Orc’s body and then goes to retrieve his erstwhile Royal Body.
The goblin has gone well past ‘tenderizing’ when Bilbo arrives, but Oakenshield is still breathing; breathing and furious even if he hasn’t spoken a word.
Bilbo smiles as he plants a hand in the small of the goblin’s back. The creature doesn’t even have time to look surprised before a lethal jolt of electricity rips through him emanating from a central contact point in the palm of Bilbo’s insulated glove.
Oakenshield is glaring –no, just staring at him through his one good eye as a trickle of blood seeps down out of his moustache and around the corner of his mouth. “…Sting?” It’s the first thing he’s said since Bilbo’s perimeter security captured him.
“In the flesh.” Bilbo quips as he kneels behind Oakenshield to slit open the zip-ties holding him hostage. There is some ridiculous number of them, but Bilbo learned his lesson from the last time he’d seen someone try to restrain Oakenshield with handcuffs. The bastard is double-jointed with broad wrists and can dislocate his thumbs. The cuffs that can hold him haven’t been designed yet, which is a shame considering how fetching Erebor’s masked crusader and freedom fighter looks in a set of them.
“What are you…” He coughs and spits out a tooth. It’s a gold molar and he betrays his roots by pausing to pick it up and pocket it. “What the hell is a cat burglar doing in Mount Gundabad? Last I checked Azog doesn’t have any paintings for you to steal.”
“How do you know?” Bilbo asks as he frees Oakenshield’s booted feet. Eru’s breath, even his steel-toed boots are covered in royal knot work. How has Thorin not been found out before now? How!? “He might have unexpected depths. Even Sauron liked dogs.” He hands the dwarf his mask and signature reinforced oak branch shield. Oakenshield accepts both with a grimace, but cradles the shield close confirming Bilbo’s suspicion that he only has the one. Most of his fellows in the underworld assume that Oakenshield has upwards of twenty, but Bilbo made the mistake of nabbing it once as a souvenir. Oakenshield rained down hell on his operations for a solid week before Bilbo mailed it back in a box full of roses… well, roses and a spy transmitter.
Details.
“We have fifteen minutes before the bomb I planted in the monitoring station over there goes.” Bilbo tugs him into the corridor. Oakenshield obeys, favoring his right side. Crap. Hopefully the goblin didn’t break any ribs. If he didn’t and they’re only cracked then one is sure to go in a fight. “Hang back if we’re seen. Let me field the goblins.”
“Don’t be stupid.” Oakenshield growls. “You aren’t a violent offender.”
Bilbo lets his glove crackle and Oakenshield jerks back. “You should know that just because I choose not to doesn’t mean I can’t. Now are we don’t here or would you like to debate about it some more?” He asks. Fortunately he compensated for Oakenshield’s inevitable macho man posturing when he set that damn timer.
“Go without me. I came here for Azog.” Oakenshield growls.
Of course he did.
“Well, you picked a bad time.” Bilbo sighs. “Azog’s been called out to the western raiding operations and Bolg is on a daytrip so you’ve managed to miss them both. Now if you don’t mind, I just razed a long con to the ground to get your ungrateful ass out of that chair so the least you could do is move it.” A distant explosion (probably the nose-bomb he set in his room) goes off just as the last word leaves his mouth.
“What in Aüle’s name is that stench?” Oakenshield groans fifteen minutes later and Bilbo activates the filters in his mask.
“Nose bomb.” He explains with a tight little grin. “They keep Wargs here. That smell is going to render them nose deaf for days.”
“Clever.” Oakenshield sounds reluctantly impressed, which is high praise coming from him.
They make it to the tunnels before the interrogation room goes. Bilbo whips out his cell and keys in the code to set off the other charges he’s spent his spare time hiding all over Gundabad. “No dawdling now.” He advises Oakenshield. “Things are about to get very loud around here.”
“How have I never seen the side of you before?” The dwarf ducks and swears as the explosions start. There’s no more time for explosions after that.
Bilbo has a motorbike hidden near the pocket marsh where Gundabad’s service tunnels let out. It’s nothing as fancy as Oakenshield’s stealth jet, but not everyone can be secret royalty and Bilbo’s transport needs are modest. The jet isn’t far. It’s hidden underneath a copse of dying trees and Bilbo lets Oakenshield off near the cockpit.
“Go home and get some x-rays.” He says. “And next time double-check your intel.”
Oakenshield turns towards him, looking austere and unapproachable in his fur and iron armor …but there’s a sardonic smirk tugging at him mouth. “Oh, my intel was just fine this time.” He says. “I wasn’t expecting Bolg’s capable new lieutenant to be you.”
It’s the only warning Bilbo gets and it isn’t enough to clear his bike before the shock tag the bastard planted on it discharges. Bilbo’s suit is partially insulted from electric shock by necessity, but the protection tends to be in his boots, arms, and chest regions.
The last thing he’s aware of is being caught in strong gloved hands and a husky voice in his ear saying, “Sorry, Sting.”
He wakes up (and he wasn’t really expecting to) in a bed in Rivendell’s high security psychiatric ward. He’s chains to the bed frame, but Gandalf is sitting nearby in a plastic chair. The wizard closes his book and sets it to the side as Bilbo sits up. He makes a vague gesture towards the ceiling and Bilbo takes notice of the security camera there.
“They’ve finger printed you.” Gandalf tells him. “Inspector Thranduil will be insufferable for a while, I think.”
“Really?” Bilbo sighs. “I could have sworn it was Oakenshield who apprehended me.”
“True, but official credit will go to the arresting officer.” Gandalf allows. He reaches out and squeezes Bilbo’s shoulder. “I wish you had come to me, old friend. I’ve found you a lawyer, but I don’t know what else can be done.”
“We’ll see.” Bilbo turns his head and feels the lockpicks Gandalf just slipped him roll into the curve of his collarbone.
“I must go now, but I’ll be back later.” Gandalf stands and leaves. The security camera explodes with a noisy ‘pop!’ five minutes after he leaves and Bilbo goes to work on his cuffs.
It’s not the hardest escape he’s ever made, but he has M.A.I.A.R covering his tracks this time. Three weeks pass before it’s safe to return home, but Bilbo Baggins is a gentlehobbit of means who is given to unannounced vacations. No one in the neighborhood is particularly surprised when he leaves for months at a time.
Thorin Durinson is waiting in his livingroom when he sets his bag down in the front hall. Bilbo considers the dwarf for a moment before making up his mind how he feels about it. On one hand, Oakenshield turned him in to the police. On the other hand, at least he’s not Lobelia.
“I remember you.” Thorin says as Bilbo walks past him to open the curtains. “You were than fussy little society reporter who crashed my winter solstice fete last year.”
“Yes.” Bilbo agrees. “That suit cost me four hundred quid and I am going to bill you for it.”
“You were casing my apartment for a robbery.” Thorin counters and goes to pour himself a fresh brandy from the side board. Entitled bastard. “I don’t owe you a cent.”
“I was not.” He was there to steal Senator Grima’s cell phone, which isn’t the same thing at all. Besides, Thorin’s collection of horrifically overpriced modern art is fundamentally worthless and would be impossible to move. Bilbo runs his finger over the top of his window sill and sighs when it comes back with a faint film of dust. He’ll have to speak with his cleaning lady. “And you didn’t know that at the time.”
“No, I didn’t.” Thorin agrees. “I had a vague plan to invite you to stay the evening and send your suit out to be cleaned, but then one of the Nazghul walked as Saruman the White’s plus one.”
Bilbo remembers that. The suit had made a convenient excuse to clear out before Grima noticed his blackberry was gone. He hadn’t, however, realized that Saruman’s bodyguard was a wraith. Saruman is the head of M.A.I.A.R, even though most of Bilbo’s work is done directly for Gandalf.
That is something to check up on before he accepts more work from M.A.I.A.R.
“I wasn’t actually planning on causing trouble for you.” Bilbo comments when Thorin returns with two tumblrs of brandy. He accepts one and holds it for a little while. He’d received the set a gift from Gandalf and goes warm in the hand when the nanoparticle film on the interior reacts with any known poison or drug. The crystal stays cool in his hand.
“I know you weren’t and turning you in to Thranduil wasn’t my plan either, especially not after you had just learned my identity.” Thorin takes a sip and nods his approval. “I came to the hospital for emergency treatment, but my usual contact was replaced by one of his people. I sent a friend in to clear your way out and erased the evidence of your arrest. I do have some friends on the force.”
“So we’re even then.” Bilbo returns the look Thorin gives him with interest. “Why are you here?”
“We have things to discuss.” Thorin sets his drink down. “You have my identity and I have yours. We can either destroy each other or we can agree to leave one another alone.”
“So your idea is to keep one another’s secrets under the threat of mutually assured destruction?” Bilbo snorts. “You don’t even trust the other members of Strider’s Silvan League. Why should I expect you to trust me?”
“Well for starters you aren’t an elf nor were you raised by one.” Thorin says, stepping closer. “For another thing, you’re going to suspend your operations in Erebor. In return I ignore whatever you choose to do elsewhere in Arda. This is a good deal for you.”
“I can’t pick and choose my work.” Bilbo scowls. “Erebor’s a major political center.”
“If you absolutely have to work in Erebor then you go through me.” The thin veil of civility drops away from Thorin’s shoulders as he steps in close to loom over Bilbo. “Take it or leave it.”
“What’s to stop us from causing trouble for each other anyway?” Bilbo doesn’t back down. He’s got three cherry-sized bombs in his pocket and a small shock button hidden in his watch, but Thorin outweighs him by a third and is made of 80% pure muscle. It would be a close fight and Bilbo would never be able to go home ever again.
“Presumably I’ll be keeping you so happy in bed that you’ll want to keep me around.” There’s that smirk again tugging at Thorin’s mouth and… wait… what?
“What?” Bilbo feels himself go hot all over. He’s gotten used to a certain amount of hormone charged flirtation between himself and Oakenshield, but…
“Did you miss the part when I dumped a flute of champagne that was literally worth its weight in gold on you just to get you out of that stuffy little suit of yours?” Thorin reaches up to rest his splayed fingertips against the curve of Bilbo’s cheek. “…or the part where I keep getting distracted by your ass in that cat suit whenever we fight?” He tilts his head and his eyes turn dark with a complex emotion. “You’re a blusher. I hadn’t expected that. It explains the full face mask.”
“I have a re-breather built into it.” Bilbo snaps, but can’t quite pull away. His heart is beating like a jackhammer and –Eru help him- he is seriously considering hauling Thorin Durinson into his bedroom, which hasn’t been aired out in two months, and go down on the man until neither of them can remember their own names.
“Clever, clever…” Thorin’s fingers curve under his ear and cup his jaw. “Come on, Halfling. Take a chance on me.”
“I am going to regret this.” Bilbo lets his eyes flicker shut even as he leans into Thorin’s touch.
“Oh, undoubtedly.” Thorin agrees, but takes his mouth anyway in a kiss that sears Bilbo all the way down to the tips of his toes. They’re both breathing hard when they reluctantly surface for air.
“… or maybe not.” Bilbo pants and closes his hands around Thorin’s wrist. “Rule one: I do not want to end up seeing my face splashed across the magazines in the grocery store as you latest mystery conquest.”
“I can’t make any promises.” Thorin follows him down the hallway. “…but for you, I will try. Mahal’s beard, Sting, how many layers are you wearing? Coat, waistcoast, shirt, collar insert, cravat, and is that an undershirt?”
“And just think; you haven’t even gotten down to my body armor yet.” Bilbo grins at the way Thorin’s eyes go hot at that prospect. “No weapons in the bedroom.”
“Blast. Hold a moment.” Thorin mutters and produces a long knife from his pants leg. It’s followed by a small pistol, another knife, and a brace of throwing daggers. He leaves then on one of the ornamental tables in the hall under the peaceful gaze of a portrait of Bilbo’s mother. “Now you.” He tells Bilbo in a husky tone.
Bilbo carefully strips the cherry bombs out of his pockets and sets them down carefully by Thorin’s oversized knife. Thorin groans as the shock button follows it along with his needler gun, an asp baton, two cans of mace, a palm-sized taser.
“No knives?” Thorin asks and smiles when Bilbo produces his namesake from the spine-sheath it lives in. “That’s more like it.”
“I should have known the knife is what would do it for you.” Bilbo laughs and it turns to a wheeze when Thorin scoops him up into a bridal carry.
“Point me towards your bed, Sting.” He growls. “We have our negotiations to continue.”
-Fin