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When the King Under the Mountain had set out to restore the royal wing to its previous grandeur, he had not anticipated the extensiveness of the changes it would go through. At least, that was what Thorin kept telling himself.
It was safe to say now, however, that his plans had changed.
He stood in the doorway, arms folded tightly as he watched the final dwarfsmiths and painters lumber from the room. They bowed as they passed, each one of their expressions crafted carefully into neutrality.
Sometimes it was tiring being king. And dreadfully boring. Even for him.
As the last of the boot echoes faded from the high ceilings, Thorin stepped inside the newly finished room, ducking his head to fit beneath the round, green door.
He could not help the grin that played up his face as he straightened up.
The room was warm. Not in the metaphorical, nothing-like sense that elves spoke in. Truly warm. The fireplace crackled merrily, lighting up the honey-coloured wood that made up the walls and curved ceiling that should not have looked like a fit inside Erebor’s bones, but somehow did.
The table was set almost perfectly. Though there were far too many doilies arrayed strangely around the place that he did not recall seeing in his brief visit to Bag End. It did feel like a lifetime ago, though, so Thorin put it from his mind.
“It is not finished.” He announced to no one in particular. Someone would be there.
It was Balin who cleared his throat behind him. “It is finished as instructed, my king.”
“The light is wrong.”
“Well, is it late afternoon.”
“That is not what I mean.”
Balin, wisely, did not push the matter.
Thorin walked further into the room, his iron-clad boots coming to rest upon the hearth rug. It looked worn, though it was brand new and bore a pattern that made no sense.
“I must have someone replace this.” Thorin said without raising his head. “This one is incorrect.”
“I do believe it was made after the reference sketches were approved.” Balin said carefully.
Thorin paused.
“Sack them anyway.”
Balin exhaled through his nose. “Very well.”
He shuffled behind him as Thorin stalked past the single armchair. It was too low to the ground, but he supposed that was fine for Bilbo. He had gone on about his armchair for what felt like their entire quest to reclaim Erebor. He would resist the urge to improve it.
“I will allow the chair.” He said tightly.
Balin hummed, clapping his hands in front of him
“What of these books?” Thorin gestured to the now laden shelf. Thick, leather-bound volumes with faded gold font. He could encrust them in gems and metals and precious things. He could have written them in pure gold—
“They are copies.” Balin supplied. “The originals were deemed too fragile to transport from the Shire. Master Bofur insisted we reproduce them exactly.”
Thorin frowned. “They are in the wrong order.”
Balin leaned in closer, squinting slightly. “They appear to be alphabetised, sire.”
“That is not the order they belong in.”
Thorin took a step back.
“That window is facing too far west.” He said suddenly.
Balin blinked. “My king, that is the structural limitations of Erebor.”
“Find a way.”
Balin pinched the bridge of his nose. “We cannot rotate a mountain.”
Thorin stalked back towards the doorway he had entered from. He paused on the mantle.
“The smell is wrong.”
“We used Shire herbs as requested.”
“It does not smell…enough.”
There was a long pause before Balin responded. “Would you like us to burn more herbs?”
“Yes.”
He turned, looking at the room from the front perspective again. It had looked so very promising going in, but alas, it had fallen flat. It was off. How could it still be off? He had constructed countless rearrangements over the months he had been working on this project, and still they could not get it right. It was pathetic really. He should strip every title off of every dwarf who had touched the project.
Thorin crossed his arms again.
“It will need more adjustments.” He said finally.
Balin did not even sigh this time. “Of course.”
“The rug is unacceptable.”
“Duly noted.”
“And the shelves must be rearranged.”
“Yes.”
“The chair–” Thorin looked at it again from the corner of his eye– “can stay.”
Balin made a small mark on his already over-corrected parchment.
“Shall I send for Master Bofur and Master Bifur again?”
“No.” Thorin said immediately. Then, after a beat, “Fine. But tell him more warmth.”
“More warmth.” Balin repeated flatly.
“Visually.” Thorin clarified. “And…elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere, my king?”
Thorin waved a hand vaguely. “It does not feel…lived in! It does not feel lived in.”
Balin’s expression softened a fraction, and Thorin wished he would go back to longsuffering.
“That may take time.” Balin said gently. “Rooms feel lived in because people actually live in them. I fear you may be setting our friends up to an impossible task.”
Thorin’s jaw tightened. “I do not have time.”
After a moment of watching him, Balin bowed his head. “I will see to these arrangements.”
—
Thorin barely left the royal wing over the following days.
Not because there was anything left to supervise—Balin had assured him of that several times—but because leaving the space meant acknowledging it was finished inadvertently. And while there was nothing left that Thorin could see needed doing, he was still not ready to be done with the project quite yet.
The carpets had been replaced twice. Then a third time because Thorin felt like they should be. The window was adjusted a little thanks to a group of dwarves taking pic axes to the outside of the mountain. Despite his earlier complaints, Bofur had pulled through and done a wonderful job with the interior changes.
By the fifth day, Thorin could no longer deny that it was done.
Even the rug had a corner that would not lie flat.
“This is…good.” He said finally.
Balin glanced at him. “Good, my king?”
He only hesitated a moment before nodding. “Aye.”
A long breath escaped Balin’s throat, whether voluntary or not, Thorin did not know.
“Thank goodness for that. Dwalin will be pleased.”
“Where is Master Baggins?” Thorin rose to his feet before Balin.
“The kitchens, I believe.”
Of course he was.
—
The kitchen was warmer than the rest of the mountain.
Thorin paused outside the archway. He could hear voices inside. Laughter permeating the high ceilings and–
Bilbo.
“You cannot do that to a potato unless you want it to lose any semblance of being a potato—Dori! What on Middle Earth are you doing? Stop encouraging him, Nori! You too, Ori. You are all making this worse!”
There was a loud crash.
“See?” Bilbo’s voice rose in exasperation. “That is exactly what I meant! Mahal you thick headed dwarves!”
It was not in Thorin’s nature to eavesdrop. Not for long, anyway. Certainly not without making an entrance after the fact.
He threw the heavy kitchen doors open with two hands.
Silence immediately fell over the kitchen.
Dori straightened from where he had been leaning against the bench. The food Bombur had been carrying to his mouth stopped halfway. Bofur’s smile froze on his face. Every dwarf had their eyes undividedly on Thorin. And then–
“Thorin.” Bilbo said pleasantly, barely glancing up at him.
Just like that. No title or formality.
No hesitation.
Just his name. Like it was entirely normal to address the King Under the Mountain while surrounded by culinarily failing dwarves.
“Master Burglar.”
His voice echoed around the stone.
“What brings you down this way?” Bilbo asked as he wiped his hands on his makeshift apron. “I have not seen Fili or Kili since breakfast if it is them you are after.”
“I do not wish to speak to my nephews.”
“Oh.” Bilbo cocked his head.
“Come with me.”
He blinked. “Now?”
“Yes.”
Bilbo tutted. “Thorin, can you not see I am busy here? Not to mention covered in flour! Can it not wait?”
“No.”
“Oh for–” Bilbo muttered something Thorin did not catch. “You are making a terrible mistake.” He said with a pointed finger as he followed Thorin from the kitchen. “I shudder to think of the state it will be in when I return.”
“That is not your concern, Master Baggins.”
“You are right! It is yours. But I do not see you batting an eye.” He grumbled. “Nori will burn down your kitchen.”
“I am the king. I can commission another kitchen.”
Thorin glanced sideways at Bilbo. Flour dusted his curls and apron alike, one sleeve rolled higher than the other.
“What?” Bilbo snapped him out of his trance.
“Have food on your face.” Thorin lied.
Immediately, Bilbo scrubbed his cheek. “Where? Did I get it?”
“Other side.”
“Oh drat.” He brushed the other side irritably. “Are you sure? I did not feel anything.”
Thorin grinned in spite of himself. “It was only a small amount.”
Bilbo smiled up at him. “There you are. You were looking far too stoic.”
He did not even have it in himself to scowl at the hobbit’s words.
They were rounding the corner anyway, any moment now he would see the—
Bilbo stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the round green door carved into the mountain stone, brass knob gleaming.
It was entirely and unmistakably hobbit-shaped.
“...Thorin.” Bilbo said slowly, not tearing his eyes from the door.
Thorin folded his arms behind his back. “Before you say anything, the original proportions were structurally impossible.”
Bilbo turned to look at him, expression bordering on disbelief. “You built a hobbit door. In Erebor.” He blinked. “In the royal wing of Erebor.”
“Aye.” He said. Then he felt a smile wind up his face almost involuntarily. “Mountains are merely bigger hills, are they not?”
“I–” Bilbo floundered. “I suppose they are.” He let out a startled laugh.
Triumph. Hot, fresh and sweet. He sidled up to the door, blowing low.
“Would you perhaps like to go inside?”
“Go in–you mean it actually opens?” Bilbo stared at him.
Thorin stared back. “Generally, Master Burglar, doors exist to be opened.”
Bilbo’s ears and cheeks flushed pink, shuffling forward and turning the brass handle gingerly.
The door swung inwards, warm light spilling into the corridor alongside the smell of herbs and fresh bread. Thorin would never forget the little gasp Bilbo let out, hand flying to his mouth. He went completely still.
“Oh Thorin…” he stepped into the room, eyes slight with wonder. Thorin would have paid attention to exactly what Bilbo was looking at except for the fact that he could not stop watching Bilbo’s face. It was better watching his reaction than seeing it for himself. He thought that would be the way for most everything.
“Do you like it?” Thorin asked without really meaning to. The most important things came out eventually, he supposed.
Bilbo did not answer. His mouth was still open, like the lever of his jaw had grown completely slack.
“The rug does not lie flat but that was intentional.” Thorin coughed. “And the window is too westerly, but there was only so much they could do the structure of the mountain while having you in this wing–”
“You made Bag End.” Bilbo’s voice came out barely in a whisper.
“Not precisely.” Thorin said quickly. “Balin would not rotate the mountain so we had structural limitations with the windows.”
That actually made Bilbo laugh. Oh, what a sound it was. Thorin stepped forward, suddenly intent on explaining everything just for the chance that the hobbit found something he said amusing and he would hear that sound again.
“The shelves are not entirely correct but I did my best with what I could remember of your bookshelf. I told them repeatedly that you–”
“Thorin.”
Bilbo was watching him now, eyes shining with more than happiness.
“Oh my goodness, you even remembered my mantle clock.” He laughed wetly, running his fingers over it. “And my embroidered cushions. Oh Mahal!” Bilbo sniffled, blinked at the ceiling. “How did you manage this?”
Thorin crossed the room to where the box of newly sewn handkerchiefs was sitting, offering Bilbo the entire selection. He plucked out a blue one, though Thorin thought it was a bit counterproductive as it seemed to make the hobbit cry more.
“I am the king. I can manage many things.”
“Oh goodness gracious, my armchair!” Bilbo shuffled over to it, running his hands over the red velvet.
“The original was falling apart.” Thorin informed him. “So I repaired the frame and had a new cushion attached.”
“Oh those pesky moths! They must have—hang on, you repaired my armchair?”
Thorin regretted speaking. He scratched the back of his head.
“Aye.”
Bilbo blinked. “You, King Under the Mountain, repaired my armchair. In your free time?”
“I suppose.”
Bilbo’s eyes looked suspiciously shiny again. He sniffed, wiping his nose with his new handkerchief.
“I swear to Mahal if Dwarves ruin my plumbing and doilies for a second time around, I will wage war on Erebor.”
Thorin chuckles, the sound reverberating deep in his chest as his laughs rarely did, though it seemed to be becoming more and more common the more time he spent with the halfling.
“Duly noted, Master Burglar.”
Bilbo watched him for a long moment. Probably longer than decent. Then his eyes dipped down and he shuffled his feet, coughing into his fist.
“Thorin…”
He looked sharply at Bilbo.
Bilbo continued, wringing his hands. “This feels like an awfully big thing to do for one hobbit.”
Thorin frowned. “You make it sound as though you did not help us all reclaim our home. Our kingdom.” He shook his head. “It is the least I could do, especially seeing as you will not take the treasure I have offered you.”
For some reason, that seemed to make Bilbo’s shoulders deflate a little.
“I have told you, I have no need of treasure.” He said it so earnestly it was sickening. “You really did not have to do this because you feel as though you owe me something, Thorin. I have told you, all is forgiven. And I did not come on this quest to be rewarded.”
“You misunderstand me, Master Burglar.” Thorin shook his head with a deep frown. “I am not trying to repay a debt to you.”
Bilbo looked confused. “Then what is all this for?” He gestured around wildly with his arms.
Thorin did not answer right away. He could not quite find the right words. Or, if he could, they were lodged in the middle of his throat.
“I–” He coughed, trying again. “I thought that with this…I thought perhaps you might consider…staying. I thought you might consider staying in Erebor. With me—with us, that is.”
His mouth had gone very dry.
Bilbo’s eyes were wider than saucers.
“You mean for me to stay? Permanently?”
“I do.” Thorin said slowly. “But if it is the Shire you wish to return to, I will not stand in your way–”
“No.” Bilbo cut him off with an aggressive shake of the head. “That is not what I am saying at all! I just–you really mean for me to stay? It is not some–some stupid noble thing you are doing because you feel as though you must?”
“Of course not.” Thorin’s eyebrows scrunched together. “I want you to stay.”
Bilbo searched his face for a long moment.
“Alright.” He said after a while.
“You will stay?” Thorin knew he had said it too quickly, too eagerly, but his happiness was too great for him to care. He felt a grin wind up his face.
“I will stay.” Bilbo smiled. It was slow. Soft. It made his eyes shimmer like gems and did not hide the way his breath had gone uneven in his chest. “You are quite bad at this.” He murmured, just audible over the crackle of the hearth.
“At what?”
He gestured between them. “This.”
Thorin hoped the Mahal there was no pink in his cheeks.
He was—by damn, he was the King Under the Mountain. Thorin, son of Thror, son of Thrain. He was brave.
He stepped slowly closer to Bilbo with a swell of courage, towering over him. With one hand, he lifted the hobbit’s chin so that he was looking upwards at Thorin.
He could feel his rapid pulse grow even faster beneath his fingers. The bob of his throat as he swallowed.
Bilbo did not pull away.
“I can be taught.”
He grinned again as Bilbo gulped.
The hobbit stepped back and scowled up at him, the suppressed smile cracking through his attempted stony demeanour like sunlight.
“I suppose I shall have to stick around long enough to teach you then.”
Thorin clasped Bilbo’s warm hands between his own, squeezing them to his chest.
“I can live with that.”
And so they did.