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Winter came softly upon the Lonely Mountain at first.
It began with the silvering of mountain peaks, and frost slowly creeping along stone pathways and through windowsills. The trees stood tall and dusted white beyond the great gates, their branches bowing low with fresh snowfall as if kneeling in reverence for the season itself. Above, thick and heavy clouds floated wistfully across the grey sky, promising more snow before dusk.
Now, it settled heavily over Erebor. The kind of deep winter that silenced the birds and smothered valleys, driving every living thing toward warmth and shelter.
Thorin woke sometime before dawn to an incessant weight on his chest and stomach. At some point during the night, his husband had deemed their proximity insufficient, so it seemed. Bilbo now slept almost entirely atop him, wrapped in blankets and entirely tangled with Thorin’s limbs. One cold foot had been shoved between Thorin’s ankles while his face remained buried firmly in the crook of his neck. His tail had wound possessively around Thorin’s waist sometime before morning.
Bilbo had always slept close; feet tucked beneath Thorin’s calves, one hand fisted stubbornly in his nightshirt, curls spread across his shoulder like spilled ink.
Recently however, matters had escalated.
Bilbo made a faint sound of protest the moment Thorin shifted, immediately pressing closer in response.
“Mahal,” Thorin muttered quietly.
The hobbit had become impossible with the onset of winter.
Over the past several weeks Bilbo had grown steadily drowsier. He drifted through the halls of Erebor wrapped in layers upon layers of coats, blankets, and furs— warm-seeking and perpetually exhausted.
He also seemed determined to absorb Thorin into his personal space at every opportunity. Not that Thorin truly minded. There were certainly worse ways to wake.
During the night the room had grown stiflingly warm. The orange embers of the hearth still crackled quietly, though far more faint than the night before. Carefully, Thorin untangled himself enough to sit upright, gently moving Bilbo to his side of the bed. Bilbo made a distressed noise in his sleep and reached blindly across the bed until his hand caught in the edge of Thorin’s sleeve.
“…come back,” he mumbled thickly, not even remotely awake.
Something warm tugged at Thorin’s chest.
“I am merely stepping onto the balcony, Amrâlimê” he murmured.
Bilbo frowned at him as though personally affronted by the very notion, before huffing and turning over to burrow further into the bedding. Thorin pushed himself from the bed and reached automatically for the heavy fur cloak that always hung beside the balcony doors.
Only to pause, as the peg sat empty. Thorin stared at it for a moment. He could have sworn he saw it in that very spot just yesterday, and yet it was nowhere to be found. He debated waking his still sleeping husband to ask of its whereabouts, but soon after thought better of it. The last thing he wanted was being told off by a cranky hobbit at this hour, and so he settled for wrapping one of the fur throws around his shoulders.
As he pushed through the doors, he could see the pale blue glow of morning frost beyond their chambers. Snow and wind hissed against the surface of the mountain in great waves. Thorin could faintly see the lights of dale through the white haze, and the wind cut straight through fur and wool alike, nipping at his skin.
Days like these reminded him of simpler times. He remembered racing through snowdrifts with Frerin shrieking somewhere behind him and Dís yelling threats of violence after the two of them packed snow down the back of her coat.
He remembered the sharp sting of frozen fingers and the ache in his chest from both the cold air and laughing too hard. Their mother standing near the gates wrapped in furs, pretending disapproval while trying not to smile. Their father lifting Frerin from a snowbank after he vanished into it entirely. The mountain had been warm then too.
Always warm.
They would stumble back indoors soaked through with melted snow and numb to the bone, greeted by furnace heat and the smell of bread and mulled ale. Dís would steal blankets from every chair in sight while Frerin loudly insisted he was not cold despite visibly shivering.
Yes, simpler times indeed.
The mountain breathed behind him; furnace heat winding through carved vents, golden light spilling beneath heavy doors, and the steady pulse of forges deep below.
Inside waited mediations, disputes over trade routes, paperwork, arguments between guilds, correspondence from the Iron Hills. Since reclaiming Erebor, peace had proven far more exhausting than battle ever was.
He closed his eyes briefly.
Behind him, the balcony doors creaked open. Warmth spilled across his back alongside the scent of firewood and honey.
“You will freeze solid out here one day,” came Bilbo’s voice, thick with sleep.
Bilbo stood there wrapped in what appeared to be three separate blankets, with his eyes half-lidded, and curls thoroughly ruined by sleep. His tail, which had become absurdly fluffy this winter, flicked lazily behind him across the stone.
Thorin frowned.
“You should be in bed.”
“I was,” Bilbo said blearily as he yawned, “And then you were not.”
Bilbo had been strange as of late… altered somehow.
For one he had grown steadily more fatigued, regardless of how much he slept, which was quite often. At first Thorin assumed it was simply exhaustion. Rebuilding Erebor had taken every ounce of energy from everyone, after all, and it would be no different for his consort. But while the dwarves sharpened beneath the weight of winter, growing more energetic, louder, thriving in the cold— Bilbo seemed to soften around the edges.
He yawned constantly, and seemed to struggle to stay awake for more than a few hours at a time. He fell asleep almost anywhere now. In the library with a book still open on his lap, at the dinner table mid-bite, and once face down in the parchments that littered his desk.
He also ate.
Mahal, how the hobbit ate.
Two breakfasts had turned into three, and every other meal he took seconds or thirds, sometimes even more than that. Entire loaves of bread disappeared from the kitchens, and Bofur swore he once witnessed Bilbo eating jam directly from the jar while half asleep. Thorin knew hobbits ate plenty, but now he truly did not know how such a small creature could eat so much.
Bilbo claimed the mountain air “improved the appetite” but Thorin remained unconvinced.
“You are staring.” Bilbo informed him.
Thorin huffed a laugh.
“How could I not when such a beauty stands before me?”
Bilbo cocked an eyebrow at that before huffing out a laugh himself.
“I am sure my hair is simply dreadful at the moment, there is no need to flatter me.”
He stepped closer then, resting his forehead against Thorin’s chest.
“I only speak from my heart, ‘Ibinê.” Thorin retorted.
“Mm. You are always such a sap in the mornings.”
“Only for you.”
Bilbo brightened faintly at that before another enormous, jaw-cracking yawn overtook him, his tail puffing further with the effort.
“There,” Thorin said immediately. “Again.”
Bilbo blinked at him.
“You nearly dislocated your jaw.”
“I am tired.”
“You are always tired.”
Another gust tore across the balcony. Bilbo shivered violently beneath the blankets. Thorin stepped closer, pulling the fur throw tight around them. Bilbo immediately leaned in, sighing in contentment.
That had become another strange thing.
Bilbo sought warmth now with startling persistence. He tucked icy feet beneath Thorin’s legs at meals, pressed against his side during meetings, and drifted close whenever they occupied the same room, as though drawn there.
As though Thorin himself were merely another hearth.
Bilbo swayed slightly, his eyes slipping shut.
“You are falling asleep standing upright,” Thorin said.
“Mhm.”
“You should return to our chambers.”
“Mhm.”
“You are not listening.”
“No,” Bilbo admitted.
His tail had curled loosely around Thorin’s wrist.
Thorin exhaled through his nose.
“Come, I am sure breakfast is nearly done by now,” he said quietly.
Bilbo allowed himself to be guided without protest, moving with sluggish little steps beneath the mountain’s warm lanterns.
—-
The dining hall glowed gold against the winter raging outside.
Wind howled faintly somewhere beyond the stone walls, but inside the long tables overflowed with food, tankards, and noise. The Company occupied nearly an entire stretch of the hall by themselves, sprawled in various states of comfort while kitchen staff continuously brought fresh platters from the kitchens.
Bilbo was currently halfway through his fourth bowl of porridge, his third piece of bread, and what Thorin strongly suspected was an entire apple tart intended for communal sharing.
More alarming still, the hobbit looked prepared to continue.
“You know,” Kíli said conversationally, “I think your tail gets bigger every day.”
Bilbo froze mid-bite, slowly looking over.
“Excuse me?”
“Your tail,” Fíli supplied helpfully. “It’s enormous.”
“It is not enormous.”
“It’s fluffed up,” Kíli insisted.
Bofur leaned sideways to peer around Thorin. “He’s right, laddie. It’s nearly twice the size it was in autumn.”
Bilbo looked deeply offended by this observation.
“My tail,” he informed them with dignity, “is perfectly proportioned.”
Kíli grinned. “Can I touch it?”
Bilbo stared at him in horror.
“No!”
“Just once.”
“No.”
“What if I ask politely?”
“No.”
“What if I—”
Bilbo snatched his bowl protectively closer with one hand while simultaneously yanking his tail into his lap with the other.
“You are all barbarians.”
The table erupted into laughter, even Dís pressed a hand against her mouth, shoulders shaking.
“Oh, leave the poor thing alone,” she said fondly. “You have bullied him into guarding it.”
“It looks soft!” Kíli defended.
“It is soft,” Bilbo snapped before clearly realizing what he’d admitted.
Kíli gasped dramatically. “So I could pet it—”
“You could lose your hand!”
“It does seem thicker,” Dís mused. “You have become terribly fluffy lately.”
“That is what fur does in winter! It keeps me warm.” Bilbo huffed.
“Mahal! Bilbo, how could you not be warm? You are under three blankets as we speak!” Bofur teased.
“Oh!” Bifur said suddenly, as if he had just remembered something. “Speaking of, someone has stolen my blanket again.”
“Yes!” Ori agreed, pointing down the table. “Mine too.”
“Aye,” grumbled Glóin. “And one of my pillows vanished.”
At this, Óin straightened indignantly.
“That was my pillow.”
“You took mine first!”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did—”
“I woke two nights ago,” Dwalin interrupted flatly, “and watched a cushion disappear directly out from beneath Bombur’s head.”
The table went silent.
Bombur blinked. “What?”
“You were snoring too loudly to notice.”
Thorin thought for a moment, recalling the empty peg beside the balcony doors.
“I am missing a cloak myself.”
Bilbo, notably, was sitting very still beside him.
Thorin narrowed his eyes slightly.
“I suppose we have a ghost with excellent taste,” Dís joked.
Kíli’s eyes widened. “There is a ghost?”
“There is not a ghost,” Balin sighed.
“A blanket-stealing ghost,” Fíli whispered ominously, “A pillow thief.”
“A menace.” His brother added.
Dís had abandoned all pretense of dignity by this point and was openly laughing into her ale.
“Perhaps,” she said sweetly, “the spirit merely wishes to be comfortable.”
Kíli leaned toward Bilbo dramatically. “Have you seen any suspicious apparitions sulking about the halls?”
No answer came, and Thorin glanced sideways. Bilbo had gone utterly still against his shoulder, his food resting forgotten in his lap, fluffy tail curled loosely across Thorin’s leg.
As the entire table watched, Bilbo’s head slowly tipped sideways until he settled fully against Thorin’s shoulder with a sigh, seemingly dead asleep.
The silence lasted exactly one heartbeat, then chaos erupted again.
“That is precious.” Dis said, shooting her brother a devious look.
“Did he even hear the ghost question?” Kíli reached across the table as though to poke him.
Thorin slapped the offending hand away without looking.
“Do not disturb him.”
Bilbo made a faint disgruntled sound at the noise and instinctively burrowed closer, face pressing against Thorin’s shoulder. His tail twitched once before curling more securely around Thorin’s thigh.
Something warm and strange settled heavily in Thorin’s chest. Carefully, he slid one arm beneath Bilbo’s knees and another around his back. Bilbo barely stirred as Thorin lifted him, only nuzzling closer beneath the king’s beard while the hall erupted into scandalized noises.
“Careful,” Dwalin muttered dryly. “Thorin may never recover from this.”
“He is tired.” Thorin said stiffly, ignoring the comment entirely.
He carried the hobbit through warm torchlit halls while snow battered the mountainside. Bilbo slept bonelessly against him the entire way, his face tucked beneath Thorin’s chin.
When Thorin finally settled him into the lump of blankets occupying their bed, Bilbo burrowed deeper into the mound with a pleased hum.
By the time Thorin returned to the dining hall, the Company had clearly reached their own conclusions in his absence.
“Bilbo is ill!” Óin announced immediately.
“He is not ill.” Thorin retorted, face scrunching in confusion.
“He falls asleep during meals.” Bifur declared.
“He has been sleeping everywhere as a matter of fact!” Ori added worriedly.
“And eating far more than usual,” said Bofur.
“That does not indicate illness,” Thorin argued, though with less certainty than before.
“Thorin,” Balin said gently, “he nearly fell asleep in his soup yesterday.”
The table quieted as concern slowly replaced amusement.
Balin frowned thoughtfully into his cup. “Has he spoken of headaches?”
“No,” They all said in unison.
“Chills?”
“…Frequently.”
“Fatigue?”
The entire table looked pointedly toward the corridor Bilbo had disappeared down.
Thorin felt unease coil low in his stomach.
He would know if his husband was ill, he thought to himself. Still, a seed of doubt remained firmly planted in his head. He did not know the biology of hobbits, therefore he could have missed all of the signs entirely. Perhaps Bilbo was ill, gravely ill even. The thought of it diminished any hunger he had left.
—
The healers of Erebor had never faced a medical mystery quite like the hobbit.
By the second week of deep winter, Óin had become convinced Bilbo Baggins was quietly dying.
“It is clearly some manner of wasting illness,” he declared grimly.
Bilbo blinked sleepily at him from his place in front of the hearth, a breadroll from last night’s dinner half-eaten in his hands.
“I’m literally eating right now.”
“I’m afraid that proves nothing laddie.” Balin said sadly, shaking his head.
“It proves quite a lot actually.”
“No healthy creature sleeps twenty hours a day.” Óin retorted.
Bilbo frowned at this as though genuinely puzzled by the statement.
“Well,” he said slowly, “not with that attitude.”
No one laughed.
The atmosphere in Erebor had become deeply dire.
Thorin found healers in the halls at all hours carrying stacks of records and muttering darkly among themselves. Ancient medical texts appeared from archives untouched in centuries. Messengers had even been sent toward Dale in search of information regarding obscure hobbit ailments.
He was nearly sick with worry over his hobbit. Bilbo had been sleeping even more, sometimes through the entire day, into the night, through the next morning. Oddly, his eating had slowed considerably. Bilbo still ate some of course, he was a hobbit after all, but it was still less than his usual seven meals per day.
And yet, the mountain continued despite everything. There were still meetings to attend and paperwork to do.
Thorin emerged from the council chamber with a pounding headache and the distinct certainty that if one more guildmaster said the phrase ore distribution he might throw himself directly into the forge.
The doors had barely shut behind him before chaos descended.
“Uncle!”
Kíli came skidding around the corridor corner at alarming speed with Fíli directly behind him, both looking genuinely distressed.
Thorin immediately straightened. “What has happened?”
“The ghost,” Kíli said gravely.
Thorin closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“The blanket ghost,” Fíli clarified.
“Boys, please—.”
“It returned last night.”
Thorin resumed walking down the corridor. “There is no ghost in Erebor.”
“There is absolutely a ghost in Erebor,” Kíli insisted, hurrying after him. “It stole our blankets.”
“Again,” Fíli added darkly.
“You are grown dwarves.”
“We woke freezing!”
“And traumatized,” Kíli said.
“You are not traumatized.”
“You didn’t see it.”
Thorin stopped mid-step.
“…You saw it?”
The brothers exchanged a deeply serious look.
“Well,” Fíli admitted carefully, “not exactly.”
“But we felt it.”
Thorin stared.
Kíli leaned closer dramatically. “I woke because something tugged the blankets.”
“And then,” Fíli continued ominously, “they vanished.”
“Vanished,” Kíli echoed.
“You probably kicked them off the bed.”
“We checked!” Kíli cried. “They were gone!”
“Entirely gone,” said Fíli. “Not even on the floor.”
Thorin pinched the bridge of his nose again.
“Mahal preserve me.”
“Personally,” came Dís’s smooth voice from nearby, “I think it sounds deeply sinister.”
Thorin looked up sharply.
Dís sat comfortably upon a nearby bench with embroidery spread neatly across her lap, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“You are encouraging them.”
“I am supporting my sons through a difficult experience.”
“Amad,” Fíli said in a wounded voice, “the entity stole the new blankets.”
Dís gasped softly. “Not the blue ones?”
“The blue ones,” Kíli confirmed solemnly.
“The thick winter ones from Dale,” Fíli added.
Dís pressed a hand dramatically to her chest. “How horrifying.”
Thorin glared at all three of them.
“There is no blanket-stealing spirit haunting Erebor.”
“Then where are the blankets going?” Kíli demanded.
Thorin opened his mouth.
Then paused.
Because admittedly… that was becoming difficult to explain.
The missing items had escalated considerably over the past week; Blankets, pillows, furs, and several more of Thorin’s favorite cloaks.
“Uncle,” Kíli whispered, glancing nervously down the corridor, “what if the ghost becomes violent?”
“It has already escalated enough.” Fíli agreed.
Dís nodded seriously. “Today its blankets, tomorrow could be murder, dear brother.”
Thorin simply closed his eyes and prayed to Mahal for patience.
—-
By the next morning the Company had become unbearable.
“He grows weaker,” Bofur whispered mournfully while Bilbo slept down the hall.
“He looked peaceful,” Ori argued tearfully.
“That is exactly what worries me.”
Kíli had seemingly entered anticipatory grief.
“I always thought he would outlive all of us,” he whispered dramatically.
“This is ridiculous.”
The voice cut through the table cleanly as Dís lowered her cup with a sharp look, making the Company fall silent.
“You are all behaving like absolute fools.”
“We are concerned for Bilbo,” Balin said carefully.
“Yes, I gathered that from the mournful atmosphere.” Dís rolled her eyes. “Have any of you considered asking the hobbit what is wrong with him?”
Silence followed as Thorin slowly looked around the table, not one dwarf met his eyes.
“…You have not asked him,” Dís realized.
“Well,” Óin sputtered, “we did not wish to distress the patient.”
“He is not just a patient,” Dís snapped. “He is a person.”
Kíli looked faintly ashamed. “In fairness, he keeps falling asleep before we can finish our conversations.”
The entire Company turned, almost as one, toward Thorin.
Thorin stared back.
“Why me!?”
“You are closest to him,” Balin said.
“Well—”
“He is your husband after all,” Dwalin said flatly.
Thorin sighed, admitting defeat. The walk back to their chambers felt tense, as Thorin did not think his husband would be happy about being woken up for the up-teenth time that day.
Behind him came the unmistakable sound of fourteen dwarven footsteps attempting to sneak quietly through stone corridors, to which they failed terribly.
Thorin stopped outside the door.
Behind him the Company clustered together immediately, trying and failing to appear inconspicuous. Kíli crouched behind a decorative pillar despite being fully visible.
Thorin rubbed at his brow.
Then he entered, looking around for a furry foot or tail poking out from under blankets. Bilbo was not there however. He was not in their bed, or near the fire, nor curled up in an armchair.
Thorin called out to his husband, to no response. Somewhere deeper within the royal chambers came a faint muffled thud. Thorin went still, and another noise followed.
Slowly, Thorin followed the sound through the adjoining sitting room, lit only by the slowly dying hearth and a small lantern which sat beside it.
At first he saw nothing unusual, that was until his eyes adjusted.
Thorin stopped dead.
Mahal! The entire room had vanished. Or rather, it had ceased being a room in any recognizable sense.
Blankets covered nearly every visible surface in sprawling chaotic layers. Pillows had been arranged into walls of impossible softness around the hearth while quilts and stolen furs formed a massive nest-like structure in the center of the room.
At the sound of the door opening, one eye peeked out.
“Oh,” Bilbo mumbled. “Hello.”
His voice sounded thick with sleep.
Thorin looked slowly around the room once more.
“…What,” he said carefully, “is this?”
Bilbo furrowed his eyebrows.
“My nest.” He stated, as if Thorin was supposed to know what that meant.
Thorin approached slowly. “Bilbo.”
“Mhm?”
“What is wrong with you?”
Bilbo blinked slowly.
“…Excuse me?”
“The Company believes you are dying.”
There was a pause…
“You think I’m what?”
From the doorway came a muffled crash as someone stumbled.
Bilbo’s gaze narrowed instantly.
“Why are you all stacked outside the doorway?”
Fíli waved weakly from somewhere near the floor.
Bilbo looked back at Thorin in utter disbelief. “You all thought I was dying?”
“You sleep constantly,” Óin defended from the doorway. “And your appetite has become unnatural.”
“It is winter.” Bilbo said plainly.
“Yes,” Thorin said carefully, thoroughly puzzled.
Bilbo stared, and then stared harder.
“…You do not hibernate?”
The room went silent.
“Hiber… what?” Ori asked.
Bilbo looked genuinely alarmed now.
“You mean none of you sleep through winter?”
“No!” several dwarves said at once.
“But winters are dreadful!”
“Yes,” Dwalin said. “That is why we build bigger fires.”
Bilbo blinked rapidly, nose twitching, seemingly horrified on their behalf.
“That sounds exhausting.”
“Bilbo,” Thorin said slowly, “what precisely is hibernation?”
The hobbit frowned and rolled his eyes as though trying to explain breathing to idiots.
“You sleep more during deep winter and eat more beforehand. Then you build a proper nest!” He gestured vaguely around himself. “It helps me stay warm so I can sleep through the worst of storms. Everyone does it.”
“No one does it,” Kíli whispered.
“Well hobbits do,” Bilbo huffed. “Or sensible creatures generally.”
“And you are not ill?” Thorin asked outright.
“No!”
The entire Company sagged with collective relief.
“This,” Bilbo informed them all severely, “is also usually considered a private matter.”
Every dwarf in the doorway immediately looked guilty, aside from Dís. Dís looked delighted.
“Well,” she said smoothly, “It seems we have solved our ghost problem.”
Bilbo froze, his eyes slowly sliding toward Thorin, then toward the pile of cloaks currently beneath him, and finally at the many, many heaps of stolen blankets and pillows surrounding him. The tips of his ears glowed bright pink.
Fíli and Kíli gasped and pointed vigorously, “Master Boggins is the ghost!?” They exclaimed in unison.
“Those are my knitted cushions!” Bofur said.
“And there is my beloved pillow!” Bombur said solemnly, before picking the pillow up gently, cradling it in his arms.
There were many recognizable things in Bilbo’s nest; Thorin’s missing winter cloaks, Dwalin’s fur throw, at least three blankets embroidered with Fíli and Kíli’s initials, and, somehow, Ori’s mattress topper.
Bilbo looked up at the company sheepishly.
“I am sorry! It was my instincts, I could not help it.” He said truthfully
“All is forgiven, Master Bilbo,” Balin said “Now, we shall gather our things and–”
Balin was interrupted by a quite indignant sound of distress that came from Bilbo.
“Let us not get carried away! Do you know how long it took me to complete this nest? There must be a thousand other blankets and such around this mountain and if you think for a second–”
“Peace, Ghivashel.” Thorin said calmly.
Bilbo simply crossed his arms and stuck up his nose the way he always did when displeased.
Thorin turned back to the company before speaking, “He is right. There are other linens that can be distributed. Now we know that Bilbo is not ill, I believe it is only fair that we allow our hobbit some uninterrupted rest.”
The company looked at him, then to each other, but said nothing more.
“It is settled then.” Thorin said simply.
The company continued to stare until the irritated thump thump thump of Bilbo’s tail against the floor roused them to motion.
They wished Bilbo a good rest, and then filed out one by one.
The small lantern glowed faintly near the hearth beside an abandoned teacup and an open plate of seedcake crumbs.
At the center of the disaster lay Bilbo, seemingly exhausted from the whole ordeal.
Thorin gestured vaguely toward the mountain of stolen textiles.
“It seems you stole half of Erebor.”
Bilbo seemed to consider this.
“I borrowed it.”
Bilbo yawned enormously, clearly losing the battle to remain conscious.
Thorin smiled fondly at his husband.
Bilbo merely made a soft impatient sound and lifted one arm from the blankets in a sleepy beckoning motion.
“Come here.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Bilbo then gave him a very specific look. A look that he knew Thorin would not say no to.
“Please?”
He was King Under the Mountain; he had duties and responsibilities to attend to.
Thorin should have objected, but instead he found himself stepping carefully over stolen cushions toward the hearth.
The closer he came, the warmer the nest became. Heat radiated outward from layers upon layers of wool and fur while the entire structure smelled faintly of cedar smoke, tea leaves, and Bilbo himself.
Bilbo shifted sleepily beneath the blankets as Thorin approached.
Then, without warning, one hand shot free from the nest, caught Thorin firmly by the wrist, and tugged.
Thorin stumbled forward with a startled curse as blankets swallowed him whole. The nest was outrageously soft. Before he could properly recover, Bilbo had already curled warmly against his side with a deeply pleased sigh, cold feet immediately finding Thorin beneath the blankets.
“There,” Bilbo murmured drowsily. “Better.”
Thorin stared at the ceiling.
“…You are spoiled.”
“Mhm.”
Thorin pondered for a moment.
“You stole my cloaks, but no one else’s.”
“Mhm.”
“Why?”
“Yours smell right.”
“Smell right?” Thorin repeated quietly.
Bilbo nodded, already halfway asleep again.
“Warm,” he mumbled. “Safe. Like home.”
And truly, Thorin had no sensible response to that at all.
Bilbo tucked himself even closer and pressed a lazy kiss beneath Thorin’s jaw.
Warmth bloomed through Thorin as he held his husband close within the heart of the nest and felt, perhaps for the first time in many years, entirely home.