Chapter Text
The closer Thorin came to the Hobbit-hole, the more clearly he could hear the sounds within—music, laughter, the clatter of dishes, and the unmistakable noise of dwarves making themselves entirely too comfortable.
The warm glow spilling from the round windows only deepened his irritation. His company had arrived before him, and by the sound of it, they had already turned the poor Hobbit’s home upside down.
“That’s what Bilbo Baggins hates!” voices, chanted from inside. And laughter soon followed.
He stood before the green round door for a moment before knocking firmly against the polished wood.
Almost immediately, the noise inside ceased.
There came the sound of hurried footsteps, hushed whispers, and something crashing loudly to the floor.
Then the door swung open.
And Thorin Oakenshield forgot, for one brief moment, how to breathe.
Standing before him was the Hobbit.
Soft curls framed a face far finer than Thorin had expected. His eyes—clear and bright in the moonlight—were the warm green of spring leaves after rain. There was confusion written plainly across his features, but also politeness, despite the obvious chaos happening somewhere behind him.
Thorin’s gaze lingered longer than it should have.
Hobbits were small creatures, that much was obvious, yet Bilbo Baggins carried himself with a quiet sturdiness. He was neither overly thin nor particularly stout—comfortable-looking, solid, well-fed in the way Hobbits often were. Respectable.
Dangerously respectable.
And his mouth—
Thorin forced himself to stop staring.
Elves were called beautiful by many across Middle-earth, but there was something about this Hobbit that unsettled Thorin far more deeply than Elvish beauty ever had. Bilbo looked untouched by hardship, warm and bright like the hearth fires of home.
Far too gentle for the journey ahead.
“Would you be Thorin?” the Hobbit asked at last.
His voice snapped Thorin from his thoughts.
“Yes,” Thorin answered. “And you are Mr. Baggins.”
“Yes, that’s me.” Bilbo offered a strained smile and held out his hand politely. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
Thorin took the offered hand carefully.
Instead of shaking it, he bowed his head and pressed a brief kiss against Bilbo’s knuckles.
The Hobbit froze.
A bright flush spread quickly across Bilbo’s cheeks, and he nearly snatched his hand back in alarm.
“I—your company is in the dining room,” Bilbo stammered.
To Thorin’s private amusement, the Hobbit could barely look him in the eye afterward.
Thorin stepped inside, removing his fur-lined cloak as he entered the warm Hobbit-hole.
The scent of baked bread, ale, pipe smoke, and stew lingered heavily in the air.
The dining room was in complete disarray.
Dwarves occupied nearly every chair, several balancing mugs dangerously close to the edge of the table while others argued loudly over the map spread across its surface.
At the center stood Gandalf, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You’re late,” Dwalin grunted.
“I arrived precisely when intended,” Thorin replied dryly as he sat at the head of the table.
Bilbo hovered awkwardly near the doorway, clearly uncertain whether he ought to remain.
The discussion quickly returned to Erebor.
Their homeland.
Their birthright.
The map lay open between them, moon-runes faintly visible beneath the candlelight.
“The hidden door cannot be found without the key,” Balin explained patiently. “And the last instructions left by Thrór are written in the Elvish tongue.”
At once, Thorin’s expression darkened.
“I have no desire to seek aid from elves,” he said coldly.
Gandalf sighed heavily around his pipe. “Your pride will freeze you faster than the mountain winds one day.”
While the dwarves argued, Bilbo slowly edged closer to the table, curiosity overcoming caution.
He leaned down slightly to study the map.
“Erebor…The Lonely Mountain…” he murmured softly.
Unfortunately for Thorin, the Hobbit had unknowingly positioned himself directly between Thorin and Balin.
And unfortunately for Thorin, his attention wandered.
His gaze dropped.
The Hobbit’s trousers fit rather well.
Far too well.
Thorin stared for several seconds longer than was appropriate.
His hand twitched once against the tabletop before he forced himself still.
Then Gandalf’s voice rang sharply through the room.
“Thorin,” the wizard said flatly, “kindly stop staring at the Hobbit’s backside and listen to Balin.”
The entire room went silent.
Bilbo nearly choked.
His face turned scarlet as he immediately straightened and stumbled backward toward the doorway.
At the far end of the table, Kíli and Fíli dissolved into poorly concealed snickering.
Even Dwalin looked mildly disturbed.
Thorin glared murderously at Gandalf.
The wizard merely puffed smoke rings in response.
Balin cleared his throat loudly, attempting to salvage what little dignity remained in the room.
“Now then,” he continued carefully, “Mr. Baggins…”
Bilbo looked as though he wished the floor would swallow him whole.
Still, he approached.
Balin handed him the contract.
The scroll unrolled all the way to the floor.
Bilbo blinked at it in alarm.
As he read further and further down, the color slowly drained from his face.
“Funeral expenses…?” he whispered faintly.
The dwarves exchanged glances.
Then, very unhelpfully, several began listing possible dangers.
“Goblin tunnels,” said Óin.
“Wargs,” added Dwalin.
“Orcs,” Kíli offered cheerfully.
“Dragon fire,” muttered Bofur.
“Falling from cliffs,” said Bombur.
“Being eaten alive,” someone else contributed.
Bilbo swayed once.
Twice.
Then promptly fainted onto the floor.
There was a pause.
Bofur leaned slightly over the table to inspect him.
“Hm,” he said thoughtfully. “Think the lad’s dead?”
“He is not dead,” Gandalf sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Kíli,” he continued, “take Mr. Baggins to the sitting room.”
Kíli immediately stood.
Thorin rose as well.
“I will carry him—”
“No,” Gandalf interrupted sharply, striking his staff against the floor. “You will remain seated and behave yourself.”
Several dwarves coughed suspiciously to hide their laughter.
Thorin sat back down with visible irritation.
Meanwhile, Kíli scooped Bilbo up easily and carried him into the sitting room.
After some time, Bilbo slowly stirred awake upon the couch.
He blinked blearily at the unfamiliar ceiling before looking toward Kíli.
“Good evening, sleeping beauty,” Kíli greeted with a grin.
Bilbo frowned faintly. “Why are you smiling like that?”
“Oh, no reason at all.”
“That is never comforting.”
Kíli laughed.
Before Bilbo could question him further, Gandalf’s booming voice echoed from the dining room.
“Bilbo!”
The Hobbit jumped.
“Have you considered our offer?”
Bilbo sat upright slowly, still pale from earlier.
“About becoming your burglar?” he asked weakly.
“Precisely!”
Bilbo rubbed his face tiredly. “I have scarcely regained consciousness, Gandalf.”
“An excellent time for decision-making,” the wizard replied.
Bilbo stared at him in disbelief.
Eventually Gandalf relented enough to allow him time to think.
The company resumed discussion while Bilbo remained in the sitting room, anxiously turning the contract over in his hands.
_______
Hours later, after much pacing and worrying, Bilbo finally gave his answer.
“No,” he said quietly.
The room fell still.
“I belong here,” Bilbo continued. “I am a Baggins of Bag End. Adventures are not for me.”
For once, Gandalf did not argue immediately.
Instead, the wizard studied him carefully before nodding.
“I see.”
Thorin’s jaw tightened when Gandalf later informed him of the Hobbit’s refusal.
“He will not come,” Gandalf said simply.
That night, as the company prepared to depart, the dwarves sang quietly together beneath the dim candlelight.
Far over the Misty Mountains cold
To dungeons deep and caverns old
We must away, ere break of day
To seek our pale enchanted gold…
Bilbo listened from his room down the hall.
The sorrow woven into the song settled heavily within him.
And long after the music faded, sleep did not come easily.
Morning arrived pale and golden over the Shire.
Bilbo awoke to silence.
The dwarves were gone.
His home, though still cluttered, had been tidied considerably. To his surprise, the dishes had even been washed.
He wandered into the dining room and found the contract lying forgotten upon the table.
His gaze lingered upon it.
Then upon the open door.
Something stirred uneasily within him.
And before he could think better of it—
Bilbo Baggins ran.
_______
Far beyond the borders of Hobbiton, the company traveled steadily eastward.
Thorin rode in silence at the front, his mood darker than the gathering clouds overhead.
Then—
“Wait! Wait!”
Every head turned.
Bilbo came sprinting down the hill, utterly breathless, one hand clutching the contract while the other struggled to hold onto his coat.
“I’ve signed it! I did!” he gasped.
Balin took the contract, carefully inspecting the signature before smiling warmly.
“Everything appears to be in order,” he announced. “Welcome, Mr. Baggins, to the company of Thorin Oakenshield.”
Thorin said nothing for a moment.
Then:
“Get him a pony.”
Bilbo opened his mouth to protest. “I don’t really think that is needed-“
Too late.
Kíli and Fíli immediately seized him by both arms and lifted him bodily onto a pony despite his indignant squawking.
A moment later, Bilbo sneezed violently.
“Pony hair,” he muttered miserably while searching his pockets. “Oh dear… my handkerchief. Wait! WAIT! We have to go back, I left my handkerchief..”
“There’s no need fer one o’ those fancy things,” Bofur declared, offering a thoroughly filthy rag.
Bilbo stared at it in horror.
“…Thank you,” he lied weakly.
Before he could suffer further, another hand extended toward him.
Thorin silently offered a clean embroidered cloth.
Bilbo blinked in surprise.
“Oh,” he said softly. “Thank you.”
Their fingers brushed briefly as Bilbo accepted it.
Thorin immediately looked away and urged his pony ahead once more.
Behind them, Bofur leaned toward Óin.
“You seeing this?”
“Aye,” Óin chuckled knowingly.
The journey to Erebor, it seemed, would be a very long one indeed.
_______
That evening, the company made camp beneath a stretch of rocky hills.
Bombur prepared supper while the others settled the ponies and arranged bedrolls around the fire.
Bilbo sat beside his pony—whom he had apparently named Myrtle—feeding her bits of apple.
Then somewhere in the darkness beyond the camp came a terrible shriek.
Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin.
“What was that?”
“Orcs,” Kíli answered casually.
Bilbo stared at him in alarm. “Orcs?”
“The lands eastward are crawling with them,” Fíli explained.
Kíli grinned wickedly. “They usually attack in the dead of night. Quiet-like. Most folk never even wake up.”
Bilbo went deathly pale.
The brothers burst into laughter.
Then Thorin’s voice cut through the camp sharply.
“That is enough.”
The brothers immediately fell silent.
“You treat slaughter as though it were a tavern tale,” Thorin said sternly. “You know nothing of war.”
Kíli looked ashamed.
Before Thorin could continue, Bilbo spoke hesitantly.
“They were only teasing,” he said quietly. “No harm meant.”
Thorin stopped at once.
The anger left his face almost immediately as he looked toward Bilbo.
“…Very well,” he muttered at last.
Several dwarves exchanged knowing glances.
Bilbo, entirely oblivious, curled into his blankets soon afterward and drifted to sleep beside the fire.
Hours later, when the camp had grown quiet, Thorin remained awake.
The firelight flickered softly across Bilbo’s sleeping face.
Peaceful.
Untroubled.
Untouched by the horrors Thorin himself knew far too well.
Slowly, Thorin moved closer and adjusted the blanket slipping from Bilbo’s shoulders.
The Hobbit stirred sleepily.
Then, entirely without warning, Bilbo shifted closer and wrapped both arms around Thorin’s side for warmth.
Thorin froze.
Every muscle in his body locked.
Bilbo sighed softly in his sleep and burrowed closer against him.
After several stunned moments, Thorin finally relaxed.
Carefully—very carefully—he wrapped one arm around the Hobbit.
And beneath the stars of the Wild, Thorin Oakenshield allowed sleep to claim him beside Bilbo Baggins.
_______