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Bilbo hadn’t been the same since the start of his adventure with the dwarves, and especially after Thorin’s near-death. It took months for Thorin’s full recovery while Bilbo hovered over him—making sure Thorin knew he wasn’t alone and took care of him even through the hardest of times.
The stress and intensity of his adventures with his newfound family, and many, many unwarranted casualties, had changed the hobbit. Whether the change may be Positive or Negative, he didn’t know for sure.
He had kept his Hobbit cultural practices and rituals close to his chest, whilst also absorbing and adapting dwarf culture. That he had considered a positive change.
A change that he considered bad was the fact that he had gotten used to the stench of dead bodies assaulting his sensitive nose, the sinking feeling in his chest that at times felt debilitating, and the constant feeling of being tired for no reason.
It all used to be so different for him.
He wasn’t unfamiliar with death, since death had taken his parents far before he was even ready. It took him a while to get used to the idea of his parents not being there, but eventually he got back onto his feet and became the hobbit that he once was before meeting Gandalf.
For Thorin’s near-death, it felt different for Bilbo. He hadn’t known it in himself that he cared for him that much to the point he lost sleep and bits of himself while Thorin struggled to stay alive in his earlier recovery days.
It had destroyed him seeing Thorin look deathly. There were times Bilbo couldn’t bear to look at Thorin but remained at his side because of his attachment to the dwarf king.
But since Thorin made his full recovery, Bilbo’s inner anxieties still didn’t quiet down.
Though Thorin could walk normally on his own without stumbling forward or needing someone to rely on, Bilbo still kept an eye on him from afar—not involving himself too much in fear Thorin would grow sick of Bilbo.
Another change in Bilbo he didn’t realize until Bofur pointed it out was the lingering.
It was strange to think that he lingered since he had never cared enough to stay for too long for anyone and had gone home early in the past. But since Thorin, he truly had changed parts of him that he wasn’t ever aware of.
“Master Baggins!” Kili’s voice snapped Bilbo from his thoughts, his hand tightly squeezing Bilbo’s shoulder.
Bilbo had been trapped in his thoughts while reading a book in their library. He had come there to get away from the noise and get a sense of home.
The smell of books, the feeling of paper between his fingers, the fire in his fireplace keeping him warm, the blanket around his shoulder—he had missed it all, his hobbit hole.
“Oh, Kili, how are you doing? What- What are you doing here?” He stammered, still a bit startled from his sudden appearance.
“Oh, just wanted to come get you to say supper’s ready!” Kili beamed, letting go of his grip on Bilbo’s shoulder, and walking backwards towards the door—waiting for Bilbo to get up and follow him.
Bilbo gently shut the book he was holding—careful not to be too loud for it to echo through the empty library. “Thank you, Kili. You can go on ahead first, I just need to do something first…” He trailed off, forcing a genuine smile on his face to not alarm Kili in any way.
If Bilbo had come out to supper looking the way that he looked at the moment, they’d all be worried sick—oggling over him, asking if he was okay. (Which he wasn’t, but he wasn’t ready for that conversation)
Disheveled long unkept hair, his nails grown long and sharp, the bags under his eyes sunken, and his skin pale from barely being in the sun. Everyone would have thought he was sick; it was best to first fix himself before going out with them. But he had to do it quick, he was hungry for supper and didn't want Bombur to steal his meal.
Kili had already left long before he realized, leaving Bilbo all alone in the library.
Bilbo ran down the hall towards his chambers, changing out of his cozy robe and into his more appropriate clothes. He grabbed the nail filer lying on his table, filing down what he could before dashing out to join the others at the dinner table.
The dinner table had been surrounded by dwarves, feasting passionately and furiously as if the food was going to run away from them. Crumbs and drips of beer caught in their enormous beards, and cheering loudly while they ate.
“Bilbo! Come sit, come sit!” Ori waved him over, his hand patting the seat Ori had reserved for Bilbo.
He made his way through the wave of dwarves—dodging and sneaking past as fast as possible to avoid getting stains on his shirt. Bilbo had safely made it beside Ori, already grabbing food from the main dishes and onto his plate to feast on. “Looks delicious!” He cheered along, not wanting to miss out on the fun.
“Bombur cooked it this time around!” Ori gestured toward Bombur at the other end of the table, chowing down eagerly—very much proud of himself for his work.
Bilbo grabbed his drink, holding it up for Bombur. “Very well done, Bombur! Cheers to that!” He cheered and downed his drink as a dwarf would.
At that point, he was more of a dwarf than a hobbit.
A dwarf on his right cleared their throat, quietly trying to get Bilbo’s attention. It wasn’t hard to guess who the sound came from when his voice sounded royal in itself—after all, he was the king under the mountain.
Bilbo looked toward the sound, seeing that Thorin was already eyeing him as he sipped his drink. “Bilbo… I uh…” He started, wiping his mouth after his drink.
Bilbo hummed in acknowledgement, patiently waiting for the king’s next words.
“Thank you.” He said simply, averting his eyes from Bilbo’s. “I almost threw you out of Erebor, and yet you stayed when I fell in battle.”
Bilbo’s breath hitched—stopping mid-chew while the air tightened around him.
He remembered the feeling of Thorin’s cold skin scraping against his. Thorin’s “last” words had haunted him; those words rang through his head all the while Thorin was struggling to breathe. The dried blood never got washed off from his hands; he could remember it all so vividly as if it had just happened.
“I just wanted to thank you.” Thorin’s voice low and unusually soft for someone like him.
His fingers tensed around the utensils he held, then forced a smile on his face. “It’s- It’s no big deal.” He nodded slightly, looking down at his food. “You weren’t yourself when you almost threw me off.”
Suddenly, he didn’t feel so hungry anymore.
“Oh, Master Baggins, don’t punch yourself down! I find it honorable that you stayed with us after all this time!” Ori patted Bilbo’s back, a warm smile on his face.
“Don’t be modest…” He brushed off, shyly taking a bite.
He crinkled his nose, staring off into the distance while the world around him quieted down.
Honor was far from what he felt.
What honor was there to feel when he loved someone who didn’t feel the same way for him? Why would the king of Erebor care about him the same way he did?
He felt dirty—disgusting, and arrogant even, to ever have these feelings towards Thorin. Not because he was a man, he couldn’t care less about that, nor was it because he was a dwarf and he was a hobbit. But because Thorin didn’t look at him the way he did.
It’s embarrassing for Bilbo.
What did he expect to happen between them? It wasn’t anything other than a friendship.
The love he felt didn’t feel as rewarding as others had felt in the past; instead, it evoked shame and guilt. What did he have in common with the king of Erebor? Thorin was respectable, strong, and royal, while Bilbo was the total opposite—weak, sensitive, and nothing but a random civilian hobbit that Gandalf chose out of desperation and convenience.
It had always been a question in his mind: What if Thorin had died that day? How would he have coped?
He missed his home, he missed his armchair, his pocket-hankerchiefs, His maps; he missed the life that he had before this. The life where he used to feel so safe, and didn’t feel as useless and embarrassing as he was at the moment.
His left hand went down to his vest pocket, his fingers twirling the ring instinctively.
If he hadn’t gone on this adventure with them, if he had never been chosen, if he had stayed home, he wouldn’t have found his precious…
Tiny murmurs surround him. A deep, unsettling need for the golden ring.
“Master Baggins, could you pass me that plate?” Ori’s voice pulled him out from his thoughts.
“Oh, yes! Just give me a second.” He assured, standing up to reach the plate across the table. His dress shirt rode up from underneath his vest as he lifted it from the table. Quiet little whines escaped his throat as he finally reached the plate. “Got it!” He dropped the dish right into Ori’s hands, not paying much attention to anything else, and went right back to eating mindlessly.
It had become unusually quieter around him, and he was sure it wasn’t his mind blocking them out. Bilbo looked up, startled by the sudden eyes staring back at him.
“Sorry, am I missing something?” Bilbo questioned, crinkling his nose.
Silence was met, a beat or two passed by, until Kili was the first to speak up. “Master Baggins, you have a tail!”
Bilbo’s eyes widened, his head snapping behind him to see his furry tail out. “Shit.” He cursed under his breath.
He stood up, his hands up in surrender as if he had been caught. “I’m sorry, everyone, this is just a mere inconvenience!” He swatted his tail away, holding it still.
“I never knew Hobbits had tails!” Fili exclaimed in fascination, his eyes following the movement of Bilbo’s tail.
Bilbo stumbled back from the table, a nervous smile forming on his face. “Well, now you do!” He said in response to Fili.
What made Bilbo more nervous was the fact that Thorin’s eyes were far from meeting his; instead, watching his tail wave. “Why did you hide this from us?” He asked—nonaccusatory but curious.
His jaw tightened, his tail reflecting his mood—slightly lowering. “Because it doesn’t matter?” He gulped, getting increasingly more freaked out by the attention.
“Why hide it?” Dori spoke up from beside Ori.
Hobbits always had tails, but ever since he was born—it became many’s biggest shame. Hobbits started cutting off their tails at a young age; the reason was that it looked better, and because it was an inconvenience at times.
Many compare Hobbits to small rodents like mice, but the truth is, they weren’t wrong. From what many say, Hobbits are closely related to mice.
Is tail cutting unnecessary and batshit crazy? Absolutely, no doubt about it. They don’t exactly cut it when you're asleep, from what he’s heard—people get them wide awake. He doesn't know what exactly goes down, but all he’s ever heard are their screams, and it didn’t sound pleasant.
From what he knew about Mouse anatomy, the tail was composed of Bones and Cartilage and consisted of two circulatory systems, muscles, tendons, and nerves. But since Hobbits and mice were theorized to be close relatives, he had assumed it was similar to their anatomy.
The main differences between mice and Hobbits were that Hobbits had more complex brains, their spinal cords didn’t reach the very tip of their tail—instead, they only ended at the halfway point of their tail, they didn’t have those big ears mice had, and lastly, hobbits hibernate.
Now moving on to similarities, they both have extremely sensitive auditory and olfactory systems, tails for balance, temperature regulation, and communication, are good climbers, and finally, are nocturnal creatures.
Of course, behaviour-wise, mice and hobbits had way more in common than biologically, but at the moment, it didn’t matter.
Tail-cutting was the norm in their society, and Bilbo couldn’t care less about it and just hid his tail instead. It was cheaper not to do it, and he didn’t really want anyone to do any sort of surgery on him that wasn't needed. Years later, after making that decision, growing up—he had heard his neighbors' and from people he thought he was close with make harsh comments, which birthed his biggest shame: his tail.
He knew the dwarves didn’t care about that, but it was still hard not to feel the shame and embarrassment that came with talking about his tail.
He inhaled a short breath before answering Dori. “Because it is a part of my body, and it’s just weird if you know about it.” His voice getting higher in the end.
The dwarves all looked at each other, confused. Low murmurs erupted in the room, whispering questions about what Bilbo had meant—which Bilbo obviously heard.
“No, my tail isn’t some sort of sex organ, nor is it a third arm. No, I’m not the only hobbit with a tail—I’m not that special, we're all born with it, but lots of others prefer to cut it off. And no, I’m not gonna let anyone touch it!” Bilbo whinged, rubbing his face with furrowed brows on his face.
They were all shocked to hear that Bilbo had heard their questions even from his position, and with all the noise. “That’s quite impressive that you heard all of us at once!” Bombur chimed in.
Bilbo blinked at him, contemplating his next words. “Thank you…?”
“What does it do?” Balin asked.
That deep, unsettling pressure in his chest gradually eased off, suddenly it didn’t feel as scary anymore. “On a biological level, it serves as a balance and regulates our temperature, but physically, nothing; they don’t do much, I suppose.” He said, slightly rocking back and forth with his hands tucked behind him.
“You said others cut theirs off, why?” Bifur tilted his head, almost like he was studying him.
Here comes the pile of questions… Bilbo thought to himself. “I don’t know? It’s none of my business, really.” He sighed, crinkling his nose.
The Dwarves hummed in unison, still confused but satisfied enough not to question him further.
“Why do hobbits have tails?” Gloin asked, and everyone quickly turned towards Bilbo for his answer—also curious.
“No idea.” He shrugged, sitting back down on his chair. “Though some theorized we come from mice and whatnot.” He raised an eyebrow, hoping his answer satisfied him enough.
“Well, are you?” Balin asked for the rest of them, with the dwarves crowding around him.
“Part mouse?” He scoffed, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, only for his face to fall flat when he realized they were dead serious. “No!” he exclaimed.
“Some say we had ancestors who were related to mice, and others say we were related to rabbits, but at the end of the day, it's a bunch of rubbish. Nothing’s confirmed. So who knows?” Bilbo shrugged, picking up a cup to drink from on the table.
The hobbit that he was when he first joined the adventure wouldn't believe the situation his current self put himself through, purely because of an accident.
Thorin hummed, nodding along with the rest of the dwarves. “Were you going to tell us?” Thorin eventually spilled out—his voice gentle and delicate, unlike his usual unyielding and robust tone. His striking greyish-blue eyes looked up into Bilbo’s.
Some may find Thorin intimidating, terrifying, and mad, but not Bilbo. He did think that at first, but as time went on, it became clear to Bilbo that Thorin was more than that.
There was a saying that the eyes were a reflection of your soul. Thorin’s greyish-blues showed him the rawest parts of himself that no one ever knew about. He felt special, being the sole hobbit he trusted most.
There was something so beautiful in his eyes that lured him in.
He wanted to feel the softness of Thorin’s hair—tangling his fingers between each strand. Would it be as smooth as he had imagined in his head? He licked his lips, his legs slightly shaking.
“I- uh, Well…” He stammered, taking in a deep breath before choosing his next words. “I don’t know.” He said in a low rumble, averting his eyes from the rest in shame.
“Look, I’m sorry, everyone, but the show’s over!” Bilbo bowed dramatically, quickly tucking his tail down his pants.
Disappointed and shocked grumbles erupted from the surrounding dwarves, making more of a ruckus than before. Some continued eating, some were trying to push past other dwarves to get to Bilbo—which he presumes meant they had more unanswered questions that Bilbo didn’t know the exact answer to, and some chatted with each other.
With all the chaos, Thorin’s commanding voice broke through. “Sit down.” He said with authority.
The Dwarves' eyes landed on Thorin, and quickly sat back down in their spots on the table. Thorin’s eyes scanned the room—giving them all a warning look.
It had felt awkward for Bilbo now, having caused a whole scene then getting the dwarves scolded by their king is quite hilarious, but now is not the time to brush it in their faces.
Bilbo’s mouth twitched, contemplating his next move.
It would be quite awkward sitting in this atmosphere after all that, and would the awkwardness dissipate once he moves onto another topic, or make it worse? Would it be better if he left? But what about his supper?! He’d never go without his supper. But, he could just bring his plate elsewhere…
He smacked his lips, collecting his plate and drink into his small arms. “I’m just gonna… uh…” He faltered, standing up. “Well, see you all later, I’m just gonna eat in my room.” He bowed slightly before dashing towards the hall.
Before entering the hallway, he paused, turning back to face his friends. “If you have any questions, don’t feel free to ask me, because I don’t know either. Thank you!” He announced, leaving the dining hall with his eyes trained on the ground, the rest of the way to his chambers.
He had enough dealing with Dwarves for the day.
Sometimes, the chewing could get too loud, their footsteps deafening, and everything else could get overwhelming.
Suddenly, he started missing the cozy quiet of home. He was grateful for them, yes. But did he miss home? Absolutely.
He felt out of place; he wasn’t where he belonged.
What was he still doing in Erebor? The quest was done, and he did his job as a burglar. There was no reason to stay there… Did they even want him there?
Bilbo changed out of his dress shirt, vest, and coat and into his pajamas. He was out of sight from everyone else anyway. There was no reason to look presentable.
He grabbed his blanket, wrapping it around himself. The blanket’s warmth and weight reminded him of his Hobbit hole, snug and comfortable.
The second before taking another bite of his meal, a knock on his door interrupted him—his smile dropping. “What did I just say!” He groaned, getting up from his chair, and stomped over to the door.
“I made it incredibly clear, I wanted to be left alone!” he fumed, swinging the door open just to stumble back in surprise to see Thorin on the other side. “Oh, it’s you…” switching from an aggressive tone to a much softer tone.
“Yes… It’s me. Do we have a problem?” His eyes scanned down to the toes, and all the way up back to his messy curls.
Bilbo gulped at the sight of him, shocked that he had followed him.
Thorin didn’t seem too upset that Bilbo had just yelled at him a few seconds ago, nor did he notice, and has yet to mention Bilbo’s disheveled look, which he appreciated. He was in no good mood to be worrying about his looks.
“No! Not at all, come in, please.” He held the door open, giving space so Thorin could enter without bumping into him.
Thorin pushed past him, scanning his surroundings. This had been Thorin’s first time in Bilbo’s chambers, which made Bilbo even more nervous than before.
“Sorry, I didn’t expect any company!”
“No, it’s fine.” Thorin flashed him a small smile, trying not to look at the tiny things in Bilbo’s room. “I just wanted to check on you. You seemed upset.”
“I was, yes! But not really, I was just overwhelmed.” Bilbo said timidly, frantically straightening his outfit.
Bilbo’s tail betrayed him, lowered to the ground, and swayed side-to-side, indicating his tenseness.
“I see…” He stepped towards the hobbit, his eyes kind and soft.
The way Thorin’s eyes looked down at his made his cheeks flush red. Getting Thorin’s attention was always something he unconsciously sought, but getting what he wanted and getting to spend time with him alone made him insane.
“Well, it’s complicated,” he blurted out, holding his tail in place. “Not a lot of hobbits even knew about my tail, you know? And it's just quite random if I revealed it on a random morning to all of you.”
Thorin hummed, tucking his hands behind his back—tentatively listening to his burglar.
“I didn’t…” He trailed off, suddenly feeling the embarrassment weighing down on his shoulders. “I didn’t think this was gonna happen, I wish I was at least prepared, but a little too late for that, I suppose.” his mouth twitched up, shyly looking down to the floor.
“But, I’m okay with it! It- it’s out there now, and you were all gonna find out eventually anyway.” He shrugged, sitting down on his bed.
Thorin nodded. “So you were going to tell us?”
Bilbo paused for a second, blinking up at him. “Well, I don’t know.”
Thorin went and sat beside him on the bed. “Bilbo, you know you could tell me anything, right?” He patted Bilbo’s head—soft and gentle.
In Hobbit culture, the head is a sacred place that is only touched during courting rituals.
Bilbo shivered under his touch. The weight of his rough, calloused hands brought Bilbo a warm feeling in his chest. His tail started frantically waving behind him. “Y-yeah…” He panted, desperately hiding the flush of his face and the gratification he felt.
The guilt started creeping up from his legs, an uncomfortable tingling sensation he couldn’t get rid of easily.
It was unfair. How could his own body betray him? What did he do to deserve falling in love with someone who couldn’t possibly feel the same way back?
It was disgusting, the way he felt about him—the way he felt the slightest bit of gratification under his touch and watchful eyes.
“Are you okay?” Thorin pulled his hand away, seeing how Bilbo’s mood immediately changed.
“Yes, I’m fine. Just not used to the…” He gestured to his head where Thorin’s hand was.
“Oh.” Thorin moved away from Bilbo, clearing his throat. “I apologize.”
“No, no, no! You can sit next to me, it’s fine! I’m just not used to anyone patting me on the head.” He stammered, nervously rubbing his hands together.
Bilbo watched the way Thorin’s Adam's apples bob up and down.
Awkward tension filled the room.
Bilbo stood up, exhaling a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. “You should probably get back to the others, don’t want to keep a king from the dwarves for too long.” But before he could make his way toward the door, a hand gripped him in place.
How pathetic. Even as simple as his hand around his wrist made him feel weak.
He turned his head to look toward Thorin, his eyes wide in surprise.
“I know I already told you this during supper, but I just wanted to thank you again.” His hand lingered in the moment before letting go of his grip.
“It's no problem, Thorin. What’s important is that you're here.” Bilbo replied, a soft smile on his face.
He’d do anything for the king of Erebor. He’d do anything for Thorin to look at him the way he does when he wasn’t looking. He’d do anything to have his hands run along every crevice of his body. He could almost feel the love and light rush back into his heart just from Thorin’s gaze.
Bilbo made his way towards his chambers door, opening it wide open. “Don't want the others to worry, nor do I want you to starve, now.” He chuckled nervously. “I’m just glad you're okay, Thorin.”
It took everything in Bilbo not to burst into tears. The yearning ached in his heart. He didn’t know love could hurt so much.
If Thorin stayed, he feared what it would have done to his heart.
Instead of leaving immediately, Thorin embraced Bilbo in a hug by the door. The Dwarf king’s arm wrapped around the back of his head, while his other hand came onto his back.
Due to his height, Bilbo could only place his hands around his waist and over his back. He’d pause time just to feel his arms around him forever.
Bilbo was the one who pushed him away—afraid he’d feel his heart beating out of his chest.
Thorin nodded to Bilbo as he walked away, not once looking back as he walked further and further away.
“Oh, thank the stars.” Bilbo panted under his breath, immediately shutting his door.
The uncomfortable tenseness in his chest was lifted off him, but his need for him grew.
What was he doing? He was the reason Smaug targeted the city of Dale, causing them all to lose their homes, injuring thousands of people, and killing their king and innocent lives. He shouldn’t feel good about anything, nor did he deserve to have the king of Erebor all to himself.
He’s selfish.
He’s needy.
He’s useless.
It has always been that way.
Bilbo went toward his window, opening it wide to reveal the night sky covered in stars.
In Hobbit culture, the stars symbolized hope and guidance, while the moon represented love and care for all that stood under its moonshine. With that, the hobbits had always admired and worshipped the night.
Night has taken care of and watched over them when they were at their most vulnerable.
Bilbo tucked his head down, mumbling words under his breath for only the stars to hear. “Please, just please, why won’t this love let me go?”
“Oh, Thorin, why do I feel the way I feel towards you?” He clenched his fist, lifting his head up to the stars. “Give me hope and guidance… Forever shall I praise you and be your servant.” He touched his forehead to end his small prayer, expelling the bad energy from his body. He snapped off bits of his locs, rubbing them between his fingers before blowing them away in the wind for the night wind to claim.
His left hand strayed away from the window, twirling the ring in his pocket. He had strangely grown fond of the ring as he had with Thorin.
It had never occurred to him why he hid it away from the others, especially Gandalf. It was strange.
Maybe it was best to sleep this all off; it will be better in the morning once he’s smoked his daily tobacco and walked for a while under the sun. Surely this will get him back working normally.
Bilbo stumbled his way to his bed, tidying it up first—brushing off the dirt that landed there, straightening the sheets, and fluffing the pillows before hopping in himself.
Sleep seems to always be the cure to his roaming, unforgiving thoughts.
Maybe he should go home.
He wouldn’t be a bother to anyone again if that happened, but then again, would he be strong enough to be the one to let go of them?
It was rather pathetic.
Of all the things Bilbo was most afraid of was the one thing he couldn’t get himself to move on from.
What a tragic case that he was.
Maybe this was his curse, loving someone who couldn’t love him. Or maybe his karma for all the death, misery, and injury of innocent lives. It could be a multitude of things, just not anything good.
Guess happiness wasn’t on this journey when he left the shire.
Hopefully, the next morning wouldn’t make him feel as dreadful and revolting as he felt this very moment.
It'd be nice to just not think, or just not wake up at all.
He stayed because he wanted them to have a home and because he cared for them all. Did his choice to care cause him to be miserable for the rest of his life? Even if it were, as much as he’d want to stay miserable but remain by his dwarf king’s side—he’d fear that his negativity would start affecting Thorin as well, like a disease.
But would leaving be the answer he was looking for?
What should he do about the way he was feeling? No one else knows what it feels like to be the way that he is and know how it feels to be so worthless, shitty, unlovable.
When will it all end?
He got lucky that Thorin didn’t suspect anything, or else he would’ve already been exiled. But how would Thorin react? Should he tell him before he leaves? A confession would be too much, if it didnt go the way he planned, they wouldn’t have any sort of relationship.
He’d rather be atleast be friends with Thorin than be nothing to him, because that would mean he meant something to him.
Bilbo shook his head, tossing and turning in his bed—unable to sleep, his thoughts constantly running around.
Even after all the bad thoughts he had, the night was still peaceful. He imagined how serene Thorin would look sleeping—not a worry in his mind.
Oh, to be enveloped in his arms. He thought.
It was embarrassing that he had him in his mind whilst falling asleep.
He was truly a love-sick fool.