Chapter Text
The signs of Bilbo’s encroaching illness were entirely obvious to Thorin. The fatigue dragging down his every action, the slight tremor in his hands as he reached for his third mug of tea for the day, the hoarse rumble of his voice whenever he spoke…
Not to mention the reddened nose and nearly constant sniffling and sneezing.
Being a good bit smaller and less hardy than dwarves, hobbits sneezed quite differently from them. In contrast to the rough, explosive “hah’tchoo!” that most dwarves considered to be a sign of good health and expulsion of illness, the halfling kept ducking into the crook of his elbow or the collar of his cloak with sets of soft, congested “hih’txch!”
As Thorin sat upon a stool at the bar in the Prancing Pony, drinking and jesting with the other members of the former Company, he couldn’t help the way his gaze kept drifting to the small figure huddled on a chair in a corner of the room. With a sigh of concern, he rose, walking over to Bilbo. The halfling hardly registered his presence—at least, until Thorin draped his fur cloak around his shoulders. It hung loosely around his much smaller frame, but enveloped him comfortably.
“You are ill, Master Burglar,” Thorin said smoothly. He had always intended to keep from calling him that once their love had been confessed, but the name had already stuck. He gently pressed the back of his hand to Bilbo’s brow. “Are hobbitish foreheads always this warm?” He asked.
Bilbo leaned into the touch, nuzzling into the comforting weight of Thorin’s callused and war-worn hands. His tired eyes fluttered shut in relief for a moment. The dwarf’s fingers felt like ice against his overheated skin. “Are dwarvish hands always this cold…?” He countered somewhat playfully, his voice scratchy and words shaky and distorted by congestion.
Thorin’s brow furrowed in concern, his eyes searching over Bilbo’s face as he tried to assess the severity of sickness. The halfling’s eyes were glassy and half-lidded, a cold sweat beaded across his forehead, his lips were dry and cracked, and a rosy flush spread across his cheeks and the raw underside of his nose. A sharp tremble ran through him, and he curled into Thorin’s chest with a low, weary whimper as if by instinct.
“Oh, amrâlimê…” Thorin whispered, pulling Bilbo against his chest gently. He gingerly lifted him, holding him tight against his armored hip. “Let’s get you off to bed, my dear… I’ll get you nice and tucked in and warm, and we’ll see if we can get that pesky fever to break, hmm? Would you like to sleep with my cloak over you for the night?” He crooned softly, carrying him up the stairs to the attached rooms. Bilbo nodded into Thorin’s chest weakly, a small smile tugging at his lips at the thought of another thing smelling of his husband wrapped around him.