Archive of Our Own

It was a funny thing, really. 

It was little over a year that Thorin had spent in the Shire and thus, a little over a year that he had spent with Bilbo.  Of course, getting his heart stolen by a clever, quick-witted and pert hobbit was not in his plans at all, not that he’d been in any rational state of mind to make any sort of sensible action to begin with.  At the most, he had meant to quietly earn enough of a living for himself and to take back home to his sister and sister-sons, his shame and deep grief hidden from the eyes of his kith and kin and at the end of it, square his shoulders, buck up and take up the reins of responsibility again. 

But of course Bilbo happened and Thorin had spent that precious time finding healing and hope and love, most of all.  And he’d also, most importantly, spent that time becoming intimately and intensely acquainted with the habits, moods and quirks of his hobbit.   And he’d sternly told himself to leave Bilbo in peace, that his (and really, he ought to stop thinking of Bilbo as his own now or he’d never stop at all) precious hobbit should not be burdened with a crownless, penniless king-in-exile who knew that his future would be filled with naught but more danger and grief.  

Thoin had claimed to Gandalf that he’d twice lost his way in Hobbiton.  And while Thorin ruefully could admit to himself that he was somewhat directionally challenged out of a mountain, he was never lost at all.  When he’d realized Gandalf’s directions would be leading him to Bag End, he’d spent the better part of a few hours in a state of not-panic.

Kings did not panic. 

Of course his treacherous feet led him back to the place that was not-home and he, of course, managed to hide equal parts disappointment and relief that his hobbit (oh Mahal have mercy on him, he really needed to stop thinking of Bilbo in those terms) had not recognized him, changed as he was in appearance.   And he’d fervently hoped that the ruse would hold, that Bilbo would think his memories would play him false, that he would not seem so very familiar to Bilbo.

He prided himself on the fact that he could dissemble quite well when he put his mind to it.  It was a skill required of kings and princes after all. And it had worked, at least until after he’d taken Bilbo into his arms, unable to help himself any longer, pride and love winning out when his hobbit had taken up his sword to fight for Thorin, to save his life. Loyalty, honor, a willing heart - how could he ever have forgotten what Bilbo Baggins was like and that he had not really changed from the hobbit he’d known all those years ago?

It happened after they’d left the Carrock, when they’d set up camp, taken the time to bathe in a nearby stream, check on wounds and reassess what supplies they managed to save from Goblin Town.  They had a fire going and Bofur had his pipe and a song was taken up and Fili, Kili and Ori had taken to dancing while the others sang along.  And Thorin had discreetly watched his hobbit apparently lost in thought.  Of course that was when their eyes met and Thorin saw recognition dawn in those dark blue eyes. 

And at that point, Bilbo stood up and quietly left.

Oh Mahal, but he was an utter fool. 

Thorin had expected a blow - the others did not know this but Bilbo, in fact, had a rather wicked left hook.  He’d expected anger and harsh words, even hatred, because he knew quite well he deserved it.

He did not expect to find a quietly weeping hobbit. 

A quietly weeping hobbit who, despite his silent approach, nonetheless sensed his presence and sought to hide the evidence of his tears. 

Aghast, he was moving towards Bilbo before he realized it.  “Bilbo - “

“Don’t,” Bilbo’s voice was steady and while those dark blue eyes were still suspiciously red-rimmed and bright, he regarded Thorin with a considerable amount of composure.  “It’s actually quite all right, you know.  I understand why you kept your silence.  I understand why - ” and at this Bilbo’s voice wobbled and then broke, “you wish to forget - ”

Thorin would’ve rather been on the receiving end of that left hook instead.  But he enfolded his hobbit (oh Mahal help him, it was far too late, wasn’t it?) into his arms and buried his nose in those curls, whispering apologies and broken endearments and pleas for a forgiveness he didn’t deserve. 

“I had hoped, I had prayed you’d simply set me aside, forgot me… I never wanted you to grieve, not all this time… “

“Fool of a dwarf,” Bilbo said, his voice muffled because he had buried his face in Thorin’s neck and his mouth moved softly against the bare skin there, making him shiver.  “I told you I’d never forget.  I wanted you to stay, didn’t you know that?  I just didn’t understand why I wasn’t enough for you not until now - “

Thorin gently coaxed Bilbo out of his hiding place, tenderly cupping his face and pressing his forehead against his hobbit’s.  “Beloved.  I deserve every harsh word and more from you but I will not hear you speaking ill of yourself.”

“You arrogant sod.”

Thorin smiled.  The words were achingly familiar and he’d missed them so.   “Still your arrogant sod, I should think.  If you’ll have me again.”  

“Oh.”  And the slow, sweet smile on Bilbo’s face and the blush spreading across his cheeks was the most beautiful thing Thorin had ever seen in a good long while. 

There was nothing for it, of course, but to kiss his hobbit senseless.  They would talk a little more and perhaps steal more kisses into the bargain and laugh a little and grieve again and bicker and love.  It was a start.  

Thorin Oakenshield still had a good long ways to go before he would reach his homeland of Erebor but for now, with his hobbit in his arms, he could finally admit to himself that he had come home.  

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