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The bread is familiar under his hands, dough yeasty and fresh, and the puffs of flour on his arms and apron a bearable mess. Bilbo sighs, rolling his shoulder with a wince and stretching out his fingers before moving on to the next loaf. 

He hadn’t meant to stay in Erebor. In all honesty, he isn’t sure exactly why he’s still here, but. Well, it’s only been a few days since Azog was defeated, not even a week by Hobbiton reckoning. It’s only natural that he should like some time to recover. 

He shapes the dough beneath his palms without much thought. He wonders idly if Thorin has made much progress on his mountain of paperwork, and if he’ll even have moved from his desk when the supper Bilbo is working on is finally ready. He hopes not. The King is meant to be resting his foot, lest swelling make room for infection.

He’s stopped noticing the mingle of smells in the air around him, already a few hours in and used to it, as well as the warm, clinging humidity in the air from the woodsmoke and steam alike. It is good food, though. It’s not as if he’s making it for Thorin- nor is he making it alone. This is all to feed the repair workers, the dozens upon dozens of dwarrow and humans that had streamed into the mountain, ready to begin restoring the fabled kingdom of Erebor. He hopes they’re willing to subsist off just stew and bread, after all that labour. He wouldn’t know. The hardest work he’s ever done is a few hours of gardening. 

Well. He supposes that escaping goblins and battling orcs and any of the various other ways he’s spent his time the last seven-odd months may qualify. He had almost forgotten to consider that. But all that aside, it doesn’t change the fact that their current menu is vastly constricted, by availability of ingredients as well as sheer quantity required. He huffs a breath, getting started on yet another loaf of bread. 

He’s only beginning to learn dwarven recipes, but so far it’s nothing he can’t handle on his own. The bustle of bodies behind him doesn’t bother him in the slightest, all of it falling under the normal kind of clamor of a busy kitchen. He grimaces and redoubles his efforts. The exercise twinges the bruising below his shoulder blade, but he pushes through, only thinking longingly of the healing salve waiting in his quarters. 

Bilbo had, in all honesty, planned to be done after kneading the last of the dough, so he could go up to his rooms and soothe the ache, but first he has to wipe the excess flour away from the stone he’d been working on, and then it only makes sense for him to retreat to an unoccupied corner and dust himself off. From there, Bombur catches his attention from beside one of the largest pots the age-old kitchen owns, asking him to stir the stew for just a moment or two while he checks on something else- and as soon as he’s back, one of the younger chefs a stove over needs a hand with a vegetable fry that’s beginning to burn while she’s occupied with a roux, and then- well. By the time he extracts himself from the bustle, it’s nearly time for supper anyway. Rather than making an overtaxed servant do it, he serves up two bowls of Bombur’s stew and slices of his own freshly-made bread, and balances them on a tray to take all the way up to Thorin’s rooms.

He knocks carefully, to keep from spilling. After a short pause, Thorin calls for him to enter. 

That’s good. Bilbo keeps reminding him not to get up for small things like opening the door. His foot needs to heal. 

“Delivery for the King,” he says as he pushes through, grinning when Thorin scoffs. He’s still watching the tray to keep it steady until he can slide it onto a corner of Thorin’s desk, which the dwarf quickly clears off when he sees him coming. The desk itself is something of an artistic marvel, stark white marble with golden caps on every corner, offering a contrast to the dark stone that makes up the floor, walls, and ceiling, all of which are shot through with rich veins of silver and inlaid with faceted gems of a dozen different shades and sizes; Bilbo doesn’t understand how dwarrow can bear to live encased in unforgiving rock and metal, but that doesn’t mean he can’t see the beauty of it. The room damn near glitters in the light of the fire Thorin’s built in the hearth.

Bilbo wiggles off the thick coat he wears between rooms, just like most of the dwarrow. Until they restore more of the airways and pipings in the mountain, the halls are icy-cold, and the rooms only truly begin to heat with a good fire or a large crowd or both. He slings it around the second chair, then heaves a sigh and sets his hands on his hips.

“You were in the kitchens?” Thorin says, in that characteristically plain-spoken way of his. 

“Yes, actually!” Bilbo replies. His brow furrows. “How could you-”

Thorin points at no part of him in particular, and Bilbo looks down to find himself splattered with bits of broth, flour, oil, and other cooking detritus. 

“…Ah,” he says. “Well, yes. I did wear an apron, you know, but- things happen.” 

He slides one bowl off and checks the bottom for heat, then hands it off to the King and balances a slice of bread on top. He doesn’t mean to fuss over him, Thorin is a grown adult and a ruler to boot, it’s just- it feels natural. This is what you do with someone who was injured, after all. 

It doesn’t matter. Thorin nods his thanks, and Bilbo picks up his own bowl before going to sit.

It’s been less than a week in Erebor- the time spent tiptoeing around the dragon, and the time spent barricading themselves in at the whims of Thorin’s goldsickness don’t count. It’s been less than a week, so he supposes it’s not so exceptional, but the hobbit still finds it a tad shocking that every mealtime that they both take has been spent together. Thorin often skips breakfast (to Bilbo’s horror) and Bilbo lately finds himself forgoing a proper luncheon in favor of cramming something into his mouth without tearing his eyes away from his tasks, but without fail, every day that supper comes around, they’re both here, eating it together. 

(It’s been an adjustment to live without second breakfast, or supper, or elevensies, or tea time, Bilbo’s personal favorite meal of the day, but his months on the road helped condition him, and the limited supplies in the kitchens now make sneaking extra food a rather guilty affair. He’s settled regretfully into three meals a day, and does his best to compensate with large portions.)

Seven months on the road was enough to thoroughly disabuse Bilbo of any notions of ‘kingly behaviour’ he might have expected out of Thorin, but it feels… different, in the Mountain. Here, Thorin is the dwarf that everyone expects him to be. Noble and proud and wise, the silver in his hair only serving to make him seem all the more fit for a crown. Of course, he hasn’t made many public appearances, not when he’s supposed to stay off his feet, but Bilbo had witnessed his first speech at the start of the repairs, and he’s not blind to the way the servants bow all the way out the door after delivering meal trays. So the fact that Thorin is spending time with him, with little ol’ Bilbo Baggins, is flattering. Alternatively, he could call it incredibly nerve-wracking.

Either way. Bilbo spoons the last few bites of stew into his mouth and mops the last of the broth up with his bread. He stretches his wrists as he chews, then takes the time to clean the dough out of his cuticles.

“So,” he finally begins, cracking his neck with a quiet groan before working the soreness out of his elbows, “how goes the mountain?”

He’s not referring to the one they currently reside in, and they both know it- they’ve taken to referring to Thorin’s load of paperwork as ‘the mountain’, due to the way it sits in great piles across almost all of his desk. Trade arrangements, blueprints, material requisitions, foreign missives. Limited in mobility as he is, the only task Thorin can really set himself to just yet is parchment-pushing. Luckily, or perhaps unluckily, there is plenty of bureaucratic head-scratching to be done in the kick-starting of a dormant kingdom.

“Its elevation grows higher by the day,” Thorin replies with a weary smile. “I would like to say I am making progress, but I am not entirely sure of as much. For now, I simply fight not to lose ground.”

Bilbo snorts, rolling out his shoulders. The left one still makes him wince, and he’s sure if he went to a looking-glass he could find a wide purple bruise blooming across much of it. He stretches it cautiously, lips pursed as he pulls his arm forward and back and forward again. “The deal with Laketown? How is that going? I do remember some of them were rather ornery about it, but Bard is trying to set them right, I hope?”

“It has been worked out,” Thorin confirms. “The refugees are to be housed within the mountain. Those who are able will help with reconstruction, and as soon as the snow thaws, they’re welcome to begin rebuilding Dale. Would you like your salve?”                                                                                                               

Bilbo blinks at the quick change in topic, although it’s not too surprising. He hasn’t been hiding any of his faces of discomfort. “Only if you replace your bandages first,” he counters, "I just know you haven’t since this morning, you foolish dwarf.”

Thorin chuckles. “Agreed, master burglar,” he says as he pushes to his feet. 

“Ah, no, wait-” Bilbo protests at Thorin retrieving his supplies for himself, but Thorin has that twinkle in his eye that he gets whenever he’s doing something specifically to irritate someone, and Bilbo knows there’s no dissuading him now. He grumbles under his breath and stands to fetch his bruise salve from his own rooms. 

Thorin’s quarters are large and impressive, something fit for a King, but Bilbo’s aren’t much smaller. They’re directly next door, connected by the sitting rooms so he doesn’t even have to brave the open hallway. It is rather convenient, if a little odd. By the time he returns with the tin, Thorin is sat in a chair by the fire, half-bootless and tugging at his dirty bandages. Bilbo stands and watches with crossed arms as the King removes the old ones, inspects the wound, cleans the edges of it with an alcohol-damp rag, then pats it dry and wraps it in new bandages. His stitches have stayed straight, and the swelling is minimal, he notes with satisfaction. That’s good.

Impalement through the foot is nothing to scoff at, considering the sheer number of tendons, veins, and small bones in the area. Before the medics had examined the exact placement, there had been no knowing if Thorin would ever walk again. Still, Bilbo is grateful that he’d sustained nothing worse.

Since Thorin won’t let Bilbo treat the wound himself (he’s certainly tried a few times, and been rebuffed at each), he compromises by crouching in front of him and running his hands over the finished product. He pulls at the edges, to be sure it’s tight enough, then smooths his hand over the top and nods.

“Very good,” he says as he stands. He’ll leave it be. 

He doesn’t mean to fuss, he really doesn’t. Thorin can take care of himself, he’s certainly treated wounds of similar nature before. Bilbo finds himself worrying all the same. 

Thorin shoves his foot back into his boot and gestures expectantly at the chair next to him. They’re sturdy things, both of them, chiseled grey stone frames with decorative carvings along the top. Thankfully, they’re also padded with thick cushions along the seats, backs, and armrests. Bilbo’s yet to find anything equivalent anywhere except the King’s quarters and his own.

“Alright,” Bilbo acquiesces, lifting his hands slightly. He hands off the tin and sits, aiming his back at his friend. “Alright, yes. Give me a moment.”

His fingers are sluggish on his own waistcoat, the day finally catching up with him and pulling at his limbs with exhaustion, liquid-heavy and honey-thick. He unbuttons his shirt just as wearily, then cautiously disentangles himself from the left sleeve, leaving it all hanging limply off his other side. The tin cracks open with a hollow sound and releases a low aroma of beeswax and oil.

“Alright,” he says once again, quieter now. “Go ahead.”

Thorin begins with two fingers, smearing the salve in circles from what must be the center of the bruising. Bilbo contorts his face at the flaring pain and forcefully relaxes.

Thorin draws the stuff outwards in broad, sweeping motions, ever gentle, then works to rub it in with care; sharp notes of scent waft from the movement, fresh and clean-smelling, braided with hints of lavender. He braces one hand at the edge of Bilbo’s shoulder and uses the other to keep rubbing slow, concentric circles into the blooms across his skin. Bilbo sighs, relaxation growing easier. Thorin keeps on until Bilbo is nearly leaning into his palms, releasing another few breathy noises of relief. The salve smarts in a cool, soothing way, gradually making its way into his skin and all the damaged tissues below, lavender and pine wending through the air around him. 

He can remember what it had been like, to take the blow meant for the King. The look on Thorin’s face, in those frozen seconds, the eye contact that went on forever as Bilbo sluggishly registered the pain seizing across his torso. In the moment, he hadn’t understood why Thorin was twisting around beneath him, until Azog fell aside, blood gurgling in his throat and hands clawing at the elven blade wedged into his breast.

He hadn’t thought of death, really, even though he had been jumping in front of a killing blow. He hadn’t remembered the coat of mail, or considered taking the blade in a non-lethal place- he couldn’t even begin to tell you where that would have been, anyway. He had only seen Thorin in danger, and thrown himself between. It was the mithril that saved them both.

How different a hobbit he is now, than the one he had been. Seven months seems like nothing, not even enough time for the apple trees to bloom and fruit, and yet he is all the different for them. He isn’t sure what all to do with it, truth be told. 

Thorin withdraws, hand lingering on his shoulder for but a moment before he’s capping the tin with a gravelly “done”. Bilbo brings himself back to the present. 

That’s not their first time doing this, but it still surprises him how nice it feels. He shakes off whatever stupor had fallen over him. The accompanying sleepiness stays, nonetheless, and Bilbo smiles tiredly. He slips his shirtsleeve back on with much less stiffness and buttons it up- it’s a lost cause after his day in the kitchens, anyway, and the residue of the salve will come out in the wash. 

“You were telling me of the plans for Dale,” he finally says after a syrupy minute. His ears pop with the beginning of a yawn.

“Aye,” Thorin agrees, then continues on to do just that. 

Bilbo stays, late into the night, sitting with the King in matching chairs as his chin begins to dip towards his chest. 

- - -

Some days, Bilbo works in the kitchens, helping feed the rapid influx of repair workers. They’d come in droves at one point, seeming to multiply from one evening to the next, but now that the snows have begun to set in they’ve steadied into a solid number. Still, it’s a task to feed them all, and there’s a veritable army in its own right crowding the kitchens every day just to meet the task. He spends much of his time chipping in to the effort, turning his skills of cooking with finesse for one into something with more mass applicability.

Yes, some days, he works in the kitchens. Others, though, he spends in the library. 

It’s a vast place; as much as any in this cavernous mountain. He wonders sometimes at the effort it took to hollow the place out. But unlike many of the more important chambers in Erebor, the library has a low ceiling and a sprawling floorplan, making the room feel comforting and mysterious; a winding array of shelves that could swallow you up at a moment’s notice. They’re not horribly tall, at least not to the dwarrow, but considering that everyone and everything here is at least half a foot taller than him, the shelves still seem quite towering to Bilbo, and it only accentuates the feeling of losing himself, wandering until there’s nothing but books and more books. It’s a good feeling.

The room did not go untouched in the siege nearly two hundred years past, although it’s unlikely that Smaug himself came to pillage a room of parchment and leather when there were stores of gold to be seen to. No, most of the damage here came from the rattling and shaking of a kingdom being taken. Pillars have collapsed, sending rubble in every direction and making the twisting pathways seem all the more narrow. Shelving has splintered, one row of books collapsing into the next, or falling entirely off, until whatever system of organization there once had been is completely irrelevant. More than that, it’s the years that have taken their toll; paper isn’t forever, after all, and these books have gotten stiff and fragile over time. 

That’s why he’s here. He’s not even going to attempt reconstruction of any kind on the room itself. It would be a waste of time with his minimal strength, and he might even make things worse in the process; no, he’s here to restore the tomes. Some of them can be repaired, the binding restitched or reattached, the contents re-inked where they’ve begun to fade. Others are a lost cause, needing to be copied by hand into a blank book. There are a few of those in decent condition, thankfully- saved behind the borrowing desk, miraculously untouched despite the dust that once choked the air. 

So that’s what he’s doing today. Much of the thickness of the air has been cleared out, and it hardly even smells of dragon down here, so it's easy to focus on inking one mindful letter at a time. Bilbo doesn’t speak Khuzdul, not does he read it. He couldn’t even begin to tell you what this book is about- you’d have to ask Ori, over at the borrowing desk (who was knitting away on hats for the construction workers, last he checked). But you don’t need to know the language to copy the symbols, and that’s exactly what he’s doing. The parchment is sturdy and smooth beneath his hand, the quill so familiar he’s stopped thinking about it at all.

It’s a rather meditative process, if incredibly detail-oriented, so Bilbo doesn’t even notice that someone has come in until they’re setting a hand on the edge of his little workspace, sequestered away in a corner. 

Bilbo looks up, smiles at the King, then jumps and does a double-take. His smile morphs into a frown. 

“What are you doing here!” he says, far louder than anticipated. The stacks are mostly empty, anyway. “Thorin, honestly! You’re supposed to be resting- who even let you be on your feet! Oh, Yavanna, that’s such a long walk, far too many stairs, and it’s got to have twisted your stitches-”

He gestures with his hands, still holding the quill and accidentally flinging a drop of ink onto the table, which he wipes off without pausing, frown only deepening. “-such a terrible idea, Thorin, really. If you want to see me just send someone to fetch me! You’re supposed to be resting. Why are you even here?”

Thorin waits a moment, as if checking that he’s really done. “Óin believed the steps would be beneficial. He said I was well enough to start exercising in moderation.”

“Oh,” says Bilbo, all the wind taken from his sails.

“He even told me I could find you here, and that the walk was approximately the correct distance,” Thorin continues, with the smallest teasing smile. 

“Right, yes. Of course. Very good, then. I- you’re being careful, at least?”

Thorin nods, smile growing in piecemeal. 

“It’s- it’s wrapped properly, I hope? Did you have Óin check it for you? You really should have, I hope you did. How does it feel? Do you need me to walk you back?”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says. His name sounds rather nice in the dwarf’s smooth baritone. He knew that already, of course, but with Thorin smiling as wide as he is, it is even more so. “I am well. I merely wished to visit.”

“Yes,” Bilbo agrees vaguely. He scrunches his face instead of scratching his nose. “Well, ah- would you like a tour?”

If the King’s medic has said that he should walk, then Bilbo will let him walk. He’ll just… dally a bit, is all.

Thorin dips his head in neutral acquiescence, so Bilbo takes a moment to mark his place in the book he’s copying, then sets his quill down and stands with a scrape of the chair. There is some wooden furniture in Erebor, he has discovered, likely because while rock is quite sturdy, it is rather difficult to make comfortable. Luxurious stone chairs with thick cushions are only for royalty and their ilk, or so it seems.

He shows Thorin around the cleared walkways, talking at length about the efforts required to clear them even as far as they have been. He points out the damaged shelves, and the whole ones, informs him which sections are full of salvaged books deemed sturdy enough to stand on their own. 

“-we’ll have to reshelve everything later, of course,” Bilbo continues, talking with his hands as they circle back the way they came. “‘In decent condition’ isn’t a proper system by any measure. They’re all mixed up! It’s a terrible mess. But I suppose everything else is as well, so it’s not so bad down here. I’ve been making real progress on those copies, you know. And over here is the borrowing desk, which Ori has taken to rather well, I think. Hello, Ori!”

“Hello, Mister Bilbo!” says Ori cheerfully, the wooden needles in his hands slowing but not stopping as he looks up. “Gree’ings, Your Majesty.”

Your Majesty, he calls him. Bilbo wonders suddenly if he should be calling Thorin by his titles. Is he breaking a dozen rules just to refer to his companion by name?

Thorin nods, perfectly friendly. “Ori,” he returns, “how goes it?”

“Oh, just lovely, Your Majesty. A shocking lot of those workers love to read, they do! We’ve had plen’y of traffic. And Mister Bilbo is very good about his work in the meanwhiles!”

“Ah, you flatter me,” Bilbo replies automatically. “But, actually, on that note- Thorin, this way, if you will. Come look at these tomes.”

Thorin lifts a hand in goodbye to Ori before following back to Bilbo’s workspace.

“I’m rather proud of these copies,” Bilbo admits. “It was somewhat difficult to get a handle on Dwarvish lettering, I’m so very used to my own stylings. But look at these originals! They’re fascinating. The illustrations, especially- since that’s all I can understand, of course. I’ve been wondering what this one is about.”

His friend hums, leaning closer to squint at the fading illustration in question. He glances at Bilbo’s copy of the words, then the original, and back at Bilbo’s, eyes flitting down the parchment. 

“The impacts of… cold-weather humidity levels on… various fruit-bearing trees,” Thorin summarizes for him. “That’s this page, at any rate.”

“Oh!” Bilbo replies happily. “Oh, how delightful. That’s a topic I’ve some thoughts on, myself. But, later. I believe that is the end of our tour, unless you had something else you wished to see. Shall I walk you back, Your Majesty?”

Thorin’s face drops immediately. “I believe I can manage,” he declines, somewhere between reassuring Bilbo and shutting him out with professionalism. “But I thank you for the offer, Master Baggins. I shall take my leave, if that is all.”

“Ah- yes,” Bilbo flounders in the sudden shift, “it- should be. I suppose. Yes.”

With that, Thorin tilts his head cordially, and makes his way to the exit with only a slight limp. The heavy stone door swings shut with a boom, leaving Bilbo with the feeling that he’s done something wrong.

- - -

The incident in the library appears to have blown over by supper the same night, and Bilbo quickly resolves to never call Thorin by his title ever again. It felt wrong on his tongue, anyway.

Now, many days later, the fire is warm at Bilbo’s side, his face towards his King as they enjoy a simple sort of barley-vegetable scramble that Bombur’s cooked up, along with more chewy bread of Bilbo’s own making.

Sometimes, when they dine together, they chat through the whole meal, taking far longer than they should to finish two servings because there’s so much to say. Other times, they eat in comfortable silence, perhaps striking something up once they’ve finished, or just lighting their pipes and enjoying the peace together. Bilbo thinks that tonight will be one of the second kind, until about four bites in, when Thorin speaks.

“I attended a Council meeting today.”

Thorin has been confined to very short walks around familiar areas for ten days, and stuck in his rooms for three weeks before that. Bilbo knows it’s begun to drive him a bit mad. 

The Council, of course, is not who they used to be. In Thror’s time, the Council was there to advise on larger decisions, to handle the minutiae of lower-level bureaucracy, and to rule in the King’s stead for brief periods of time; when the goldsickness set in in earnest, their roles became vestigial and ceremonial. Now, they’re back to full strength (and therefore full power of irritation) but none of the previous members remain, having been elders already when Smaug struck. If any did survive the sack, they are long dead now, anyway. The new Council roster is much less cohesive, much more hodge-podge, and still in the works. From what Bilbo hears, Dwalin and Balin are the only core members at this point in time. But the group has been drafting a majority of the plans for the reconstruction, leaving only final tweaks and signoffs to Thorin, brought up to his quarters by runner on a twice-daily basis. Bilbo shudders to think of what his paperwork load would look like if it were left solely to the King- a full mountain range, perhaps.

But after his extended medical leave, this was Thorin’s first time joining the Council. Bilbo stops, then swallows, fork clinking against the dishware. “And?” he prompts.

“We’ve decided to move the gold,” Thorin says plainly. Like this isn’t an earthquake piece of information, isn’t going to rattle Bilbo in his own skull and make him want to reach for the nearest surface to steady himself on his feet, even though he’s already sitting. 

He does his best to restrain his incredulity to reasonable levels, but he doubts he’s particularly successful, if Thorin’s responding expression tells him anything. 

“Let me explain,” Thorin says, almost beseeching, (which is strange enough on its own), and Bilbo shuts his mouth with a singular nod.

“It is…” Thorin begins, then sighs. He runs a hand down his face, suddenly looking incredibly tired. “That gold is dangerous. We do not know… it is unclear if that is thanks to Smaug, or if it has always been this way. Gandalf mentioned- something about the dragon- so that may be it- but it doesn’t matter. We know that it is dangerous. You have seen the effects for yourself,” he adds, breathtaking blue eyes meeting Bilbo’s own.

Bilbo purses his lips, processing, not disagreeing, and Thorin settles in for a long speech.

“Reflecting on my grandfather…. on Thror, there have been theories. And the majority of the council, myself included, believe that this problem stems from quantity. If we can disperse the coin, it will turn harmless. There is little proof, but… it was the only way to find agreement in the Council. And we must do something. 

We will ask the people of Laketown to help. With so many hands, we can form a cycle of who is handling it- to prevent any more… attachments. If they agree, we will have the ability to spread it across the Continent. That coin will buy us supplies, food, support. Everything we need to survive, and to rebuild Erebor.

When the snows thaw, we will begin shipping it out by the cartful. We can trade it for other currencies, to diversify our treasuries and build alliances. We can stabilize the ruins of my home, Bilbo. And anything leftover, all that we do not need to live… we will dump in the ocean.”

Bilbo scoffs halfheartedly at that. “It sounds like you’ve thought about this in some detail, then.”

Thorin lowers his eyes to the floor. “The Council must talk every idea to death before giving it a shadow of a chance. They have been discussing what to do with the treasure for nine days without tangent; I managed to steer them into a decision.”

The hobbit eventually shakes his head, swallowing. “It’s… not a bad idea. It might even be the best option. I only- I worry for you. It’s already taken you once, Thorin, I don’t want to watch it happen again.”

Thorin lifts his head only to dip it again in a facsimile of a nod. This is strange, all of it, the way that Thorin is practically seeking his approval. For weeks now he has been speaking to him as if Bilbo holds sway over the decisions of court- and Bilbo has been going right along with it, as if it’s only natural! He is a hobbit, and a Baggins at that; he is not suited to Dwarven politics. And yet, he goes along with it. It’s good to hear of Thorin’s days, and it makes a degree of sense for the dealings of the throne to be discussed right along with the quality of the food and the state of the weather. It is… comfortable, if nothing else. 

Thorin speaks again, quiet, the words sounding something close to an apology. “Then it may comfort you to know that I will be doing none of the work myself. I am…” he seems to grimace, forcing the sentence out, “I am to hide, in the meeting halls. Deal only in parchment and plans. I, along with the Council, will make the arrangements, but all of the earnest work will fall to others.”

Bilbo’s brows rise in shock, mouth open but temporarily speechless. Thorin has never been one to delegate. Then again, his evident frustration makes much more sense, all taken into account.

“It was Balin’s idea,” the King admits after a moment.

“I might have guessed as much,” Bilbo finally replies. “But that is good, Thorin. This is good. You should not be the one to handle the coin, and there is plenty of work to be done in administration, I’m sure.”

Thorin says nothing, frustration rolling off him in waves like summer heat from a stone. Bilbo leans closer.

“This is good, Thorin,” he reiterates. He sets a hand on Thorin’s elbow. “I am glad for it. I want you to be safe, you foolish dwarf. And I am glad this is a measure you are willing to take.”

The King begins to soften. He meets Bilbo’s eyes, somehow looking up at him from below despite his extra head or two of height.

“Very well,” the dwarf murmurs, as if Bilbo’s approval is really what will cement the plan. 

Bilbo nearly scoffs at the notion. But instead he just smiles, gentle, and holds Thorin’s gaze as the fire sighs and glows.

- - -

Time passes faster than Bilbo has ever known it to, and spring comes with the chirping of birds and the cheerful sprouting of grasses and wildflower stems in front of the mountain. With it begins a new influx of workers (only a trickle for now, but sure to increase with terrifying rapidity), as well as blessedly enormous shipments of food and tools. 

It’s on the same day as one of these shipments, which he watched from the balcony down the hall from Thorin’s room- the only one in the mountain- that he receives a package. 

“But I haven’t ordered anything,” he tells the runner, a spritely teen of a girl, her large front teeth fitting right in with the scratchy auburn whiskers of her not-quite-there-yet beard. She’s a tall girl, for a dwarf, taller than him by at least a head, limbs longer and thinner than most he’s seen yet in Ererbor. He’s sure she’ll grow into them. 

She merely shrugs, lifting the package with the motion in a way that says ‘and yet here it is’. 

“Really, I haven’t,” he insists. He’s hardly even sent any letters, even though Thorin assured him that the ravens were unbothered by the cold. He had sent exactly one, many weeks previous, to his cousin Drogo in the Shire, to assure him without prompting that yes, he is still alive, in fact, and please not to let anyone touch any of his belongings, he will be back… eventually. He certainly hasn’t sent any kind of order or purchase.

“I’s prolly a gift, sir,” she says. She’s got to be a child of one of the repair workers, he thinks. Her accent isn’t quite the same as any of his friends’. She puts too much weight behind the vowels. “Anonymous-like. I ‘aven’t got ah name on it, y’urs or any other. Jus’ says to delivur to this ruum.”

Bilbo frowns thoughtfully. “...It’s already paid for, then?”

She nods, hefting it higher in her arms. Brown paper wrappings, around something thin and flat. Multiple somethings, judging by the way it moves. 

“I suppose I can take it, then,” he says slowly, brow still furrowed. “...Yes, alright. Give me a moment to find my coin, I’ll give you some largess.”

“Man’y thanks, sir!” she replies brightly, following him a step or two into his sitting room and setting the package gingerly next to the door. She marvels at the room as he hunts for his purse. “Mighty large quar’ers,” she offers idly. 

“Hm? Oh, yes,” he accepts, reaching under the tea table. “Well, perks of the job, you know.” Being a burglar was stressful, to be sure, but not without reward. His fingers finally catch the leather of his coin pouch, and he retracts his arm. “Aha!”

He doles out a few coins, dropping them into her open palm. “There you are. And if you run into Bombur at supper, tell him Bilbo wants you to have an extra slice of bread. All that running must leave you hungry.”

She grins ever wider. “Thank y’u, sir!” 

And with that she’s off again, onto the next task, and he’s left with a mystery parcel in his empty sitting room. He puts his hands to his hips, staring at it for a moment. 

It does not actually change anything to just look at it, and so Bilbo steps closer and gingerly begins pulling at the sealants, trying to unwrap it cleanly. It tears quickly. He gives a muttered “oh, bother,” before ripping it all off in great sheafs. 

It is… frames. Picture frames, four of them, stacked and wrapped carefully to keep from dinging the corners.

The wood is light in color and smooth in finish, carved simply but properly. Birchwood, perhaps, or poplar. The style isn’t quite that of anything Shire-made, but quality nonetheless. There are four of them in all, three smaller and one larger, all at least as long as his arm; two are filled with lovely landscape paintings, the palettes similar and somewhere between cheery and serene. 

It’s the third he inspects, the larger one, that really takes his breath away. The frame is the same as the others, although nearly the width of his entire arm span, and ornamented with curves and corners in a way distinctly reminiscent of his own furniture back at home. Certainly not Shire-made either, but a valiant homage nonetheless. And the canvas… the canvas is beautiful.

What he sees first is the green. The perfect, ebullient, vivid green of his home, of the trees, of the clover stems, of the grasses in the peak of summer. It covers the landscape, the rolling hills and two little rivers which converge into one, sparkling over its rocky bed. There are paths, and gates, and big round doors… yes. It’s the Shire. The vantage is below middle, sweeping upwards to play out every feature of the main hill. And all the way up, tracing his gaze to the top, is Bag End. 

Bilbo sighs shakily. He would put hands over his mouth if they weren’t full. Too suddenly, he finds that his eyes are damp with tears, and he smiles to himself, still looking at the painting. All the homesickness and nostalgia he’d hardly realized he was holding onto sweeps through him all at once, a dizzying rush that unsteadies his footing, and pours itself directly into the canvas. He sniffs, resisting the urge to hug the frame to his chest. Instead he gives it one more long look, smile still shaping his lips, before setting it oh-so-carefully aside and picking up the fourth frame. 

It’s the same as the other two, on the smaller side, simple and sturdy, only this one holds nothing. A white backing as a place holder, and a scrap of paper pinned with it. 

Welcome to Erebor! It says, From, your friends, The Company.

Alone in his rooms, Bilbo scoffs, lifting his gaze to the ceiling even as affection curls its way around his heart. 

His walls are dark stone, shot through with silver just like Thorin’s, but without the crust of glittering gems, so the light wooden frames somehow complement the scheme despite being a vastly different style. He stares at the empty spaces, all the places he hasn’t had the chance to fill in his few months here. His quarters, while spacious and beautiful, are painfully sparse; aside from the simple fact that they lack the decades upon decades of clutter he has accrued back in Bag End, much of the original furniture and nearly all of the decorations have been wrecked or fallen to dust in the time since these rooms were last occupied. The workers cleared the broken things early on, putting him rather high on their list of priorities (which he still finds rather strange), but he’s had no way to fill them since, not with the snows of winter which only recently melted. These paintings will be his first real addition to the base necessities he’s been living off of.

He looks back at the largest frame, and the sheer size and detail of the painting of the Shire. It must have been commissioned months ago to be done in time. Then he looks at the empty frame, and the note from his friends. 

He breathes deeply, wiping his eyes, and almost immediately resolves to fill it with a group portrait of the entire Company. Then he turns back to the room, and begins planning where to hang them.

- 

Gradually, more packages arrive. No one in the Company has brought them up, and Bilbo is almost hesitant to mention it himself, but two weeks after the frames it’s a new nightstand. Just last night, he had been mentally bemoaning the lack of some place to put his before-bed reading and his glass of water, but the project must have taken weeks to make and weeks more to ship, so clearly someone knew of his problem before he himself.

After that, it’s a small bookshelf, just the right size to fit between his ancient couch and the sitting room wall. Then it’s a tapestry, patterned in colors complimenting his existing scheme. With the falling crest of spring and the beginning of summer, it’s new linens for the bed, and a ceramic tea set, which goes beautifully with the tea gifted to him by Nori.

The company has been giving him gifts individually, of course, and he them; Nori had given him some exotic new varieties of tea as soon as he returned to working as a merchant in his times between construction. Bofur lent him two shirts and bought him one more, to expand his painfully small wardrobe, and Ori had bashfully presented him with a book one day, to be kept in his rooms instead of borrowed from the library. Dwalin gave him a sharpening stone for Sting, along with a grumbled explanation of not always being there to protect him. Bombur shared with him numerous small treats and snacks, as well as a delightful new scone recipe he’s been dying to try- and Thorin, being who he is, has furnished Bilbo with every small necessity that he has been willing to accept, including the thick cloak he wore before they fixed the airways, a new comb, a product for his hair that smells like the one Thorin himself uses, a few tea spoons, new buttons, and even two gold rings that Bilbo rather thinks compliment his skin tone. But furniture is a step above anything he has received, and no one is yet willing to claim responsibility.

- - -

There was a day, before the linens and the tapestry and the bookshelf, that he had spent in the library. Well, actually there were many of those days- considering that he spends the majority of his waking hours in either the kitchens or the library, or in Thorin’s quarters discussing matters of state. But this particular time sticks out in his memory.

Fíli and Kíli had joined him, as they often did when not busy with repair work or princely obligations. Bilbo had immediately resigned himself to a less productive stretch of time, but that was alright. He enjoyed the company of any of the Durin boys. 

The pair are chatting away, as lively as usual, and when Bilbo tunes himself back in he finds Fíli teasing his brother about something or other.

“-but you do, you like her! You’re turning red- look at him, Bilbo, he’s turning red!”

Kíli is, in fact, turning rather flushed in the cheeks, frowning defensively across the table. “Am not!” he says, although he definitely is.

“C’mon, brother, tell us about her. You’ve got feelings for the elf!”

Fíli is laughing gleefully, even as Kíli reaches over to shove him in the shoulder. “Shut up!”

“Now, Fíli,” says Bilbo in the tone he’s coming to recognize as something close to a chastising parental figure, “be nice to your brother.”

Fíli smiles and shakes his head in disappointment, but settles nonetheless. “Yeah, fine. I’m not wrong, though. Kíli, what I meant to say was this: how was your date?”

“Fí, c’mon, it was just one evening, there’s no reason for you to pry-”

“But it was! It was a date! You admit it then!” Fíli is immediately energetic again, standing and putting his hands to the table with some force. Kíli just groans and buries his face in his fingers. 

“It was not-”

“You went on a date?” says Bilbo curiously. 

Kíli sighs, gritting his teeth and dropping his hands. “Fine. Yes. We went for supper in Dale, to try the new merchant stalls popping up in the streets. Then we went for a walk by moonlight. It was lovely. Are you satisfied?”

Fíli’s grin has been growing wider and wider, threatening to tear his mustache down the middle. “There we are, brother. That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

“That sounds wonderful, Kíli,” Bilbo says much more gently. 

“Great, now leave me alone about it,” he grumbles. Fíli scoffs comfortably and stands.

“As you wish,” the blond accepts with snark. He pokes his brother in the shoulder and back five or six times on the way out, making Kíli shoot him an obscene hand gesture, and an ugly expression to cover up the smile he’s fighting. 

Bilbo moves to stand as well, rearranging his materials to carry them back to his desk hidden in a nook, knowing that Kíli will be following his brother at any moment.

“Actually, Master Baggins,” Kíli begins, catching him by the forearm. “If you could stay a moment.”

“Of course- but it’s Bilbo, Kíli, for the hundredth time.”

“Not,” the dwarf replies in a low pitch, as if fearing eavesdroppers, “in matters such as this. I had hoped to… ask your advice.”

Bilbo sits back down. “Of course,” he says again.

Kíli opens his mouth, then closes it again. Finally, he says, “I would like to get her a gift. But…”

“What to get?” Bilbo finishes for him. The boy nods. “I’m afraid I don’t actually know who, exactly, we are discussing. What’s her name?”

“Tauriel,” Kíli says softly. His cheeks turn a shade of pink once again, and a smile creeps onto his lips, seemingly without his knowledge. Bilbo raises his eyebrows in knowing, but says nothing. 

“Right. An elf maiden, then. I can’t say that I know what sort of gifts an elf might fancy, unfortunately.”

Kíli chews at his lip. “Me neither.”

“Perhaps flowers?” Bilbo muses, “although that may be only a Hobbitish tradition. Perhaps you could simply ask her. How long have you been courting?”

The dwarf ducks a little, looking to the floor. “I am unsure.”

“What?” Bilbo says incredulously. 

“With the way everything was going, everything going on, we didn’t really… do things the proper way?” Kíli explains. “I had not seen her for the duration of the winter, she went traveling, but we’ve exchanged letters. I’m not sure if she… if she still wants…”

Bilbo sets a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, and Kíli lifts his head again. “Talk to her, my boy. It’ll be alright. Just ask her what she wants.”

The boy holds his eyes for a moment, deriving some kind of confidence from it, then nods firmly. He straightens his posture. “Thank you, Master Baggins- Bilbo. You are as helpful as always. I will take my leave.”

“Good luck,” Bilbo offers, and Kíli turns for the door.

- - -

Thorin’s quarters are warmer than his own, when he steps through the connecting door, although that’s only from the early-morning fire currently fizzling its way out within the hearth. An indulgence, to be sure, and one that Thorin would likely skip if not for Bilbo, but even in the middle of spring the mornings are quite cold. Life in a mountain, and all. 

They had breakfasted together, for once, both awake earlier than usual and still in their sleepwear. Thorin had smiled tiredly at him as they ate in silence, hair puffy and eyes blinking slowly. Little conversation had been carried. It was a marked contrast to the night before, when Thorin had talked at length about the schedule he was building for the changing of the guard on the remaining gold as they continued dispersing it until the danger within it had dissolved; he had gestured almost animatedly, brandishing a sheaf of parchment with charts, lists of names, times, locations, and all sorts of other information that Bilbo had followed at the time but doesn’t bother recalling now.

It had been far too early to be up and about, in Bilbo’s opinion, and the King had seemed to agree, although Bilbo knows it isn’t much earlier than he usually must rise in order to hold Council. They had eaten in comfortable silence, fire crackling merrily and morning birds chirping away outside, and then Thorin had taken his leave with a murmured apology and a hand on his good shoulder, and Bilbo had risen soon after to dress for the day.

He’s returned now to see to the end of the fire, and to retrieve the dishes to carry down to the kitchens. They could always delegate that task to a servant, of course, but between limited staff and the fact that Bilbo is going to work in the kitchens today anyways, it seems a silly thing not to take care of himself. He stacks the dishware together, all the scraps and utensils on top, then sweeps over to Thorin’s desk to pick up his chalice from the previous night for washing. His eyes catch on a chart. It’s familiar, and upon closer inspection he realizes it’s been shown to him before, just yesterday. The rest of the documents are there as well.

Thorin is planning on discussing this with the Council today, he knows. The King will need these papers. Bilbo chews at his lip, waffling. Thorin could always send a runner to get them, but that would mean poking around in the King’s private quarters, which is a problem for obvious reasons. It’s more than likely that Thorin will come and retrieve them himself. His foot is healed for the most part, but not quite the same as it was, and there are an awful lot of stairs between here and the meeting rooms; Bilbo knows the walk will only aggravate his pain. It would really be best if someone else were to bring them.

Well, alright then. Bilbo sighs, setting down the stack of dishes and picking up the sheaf of parchment instead. He taps it sideways on the desk to straighten it out, then turns and heads right for the door without letting himself think about it too awfully much.

He’s never interrupted one of Thorin’s meetings before, and he actually has to ask for directions before he can find the right level. Once he does, though, it’s easy enough to know which room- it’s a long, tall hallway with many sets of double doors, but only one of them is guarded, and light pours from the bottom seam. The guards step out of his way as he approaches.

He hesitates, then, doors looking heavy and intimidating in front of him. The guards aren’t watching, they’re staring straight forward with impeccable posture, but Bilbo can’t shake the feeling that they’re inspecting him anyway, so he pushes on, if only to get away. He knocks with one knuckle, then pokes his head through one door.

“...Hello?” he finally says, rather quiet.

All heads swivel towards him.

“Bilbo,” says Thorin, not displeased. Bilbo wonders at that, at the way he doesn’t even need an explanation for Thorin to be glad to see him.

“Hello,” he says again. He pulls the rest of his body through the door and lifts the stack of paperwork. “I only- you left this on your desk, this morning, and I knew you would need it, so- yes. Here you are.”

He steps quickly over to deposit it in front of the King, feeling rather oogled. But Thorin only smiles gently as he approaches, eyes crinkling in a way that Bilbo has always found enchanting, gaze trained as if he’s the only thing that matters, just for a moment. It helps, some. 

“Thank you, Master Baggins,” Thorin says, somehow turning the title into something soft. Bilbo smiles in return, stress beginning to drop. 

“Of course. I- yes, that was- all, so I suppose- yes. Goodbye,” he says as he steps backwards. He shoots a quick wave to the rest of the Council, looking briefly to Balin, who is smiling warmly, then slips out again.

He heaves a sigh with his back on the closed doors. He eyes the guards, who still aren’t looking, then heads back the way he came, much slower than before as the tension he hadn’t noticed until a minute ago sluices off his slumped shoulders. He heads for he and Thorin’s joined rooms to pick up the dishes, and mentally prepares himself for another day in the kitchens.

- - -

It’s when a new writing desk and matching chair arrive unasked for that Bilbo decides he must talk to his friends. 

The placement of the King’s quarters (and his own by association), Bilbo has learned, is a very delicate balance of Dwarvish status markers and practicality. They lie very nearly in the center of the mountain, only one floor above the ground level- any higher, and it would be cold and drafty year-round. Any lower, however, and they would ring with the sounds of the mines and forges, and besides, that’s too close to the worker’s apartments to be considered dignified. And dwarrow do best when surrounded completely by stone, no need for fresh air- but the King, whichever King it had been when these things were first decided, had felt that he should have an eye on the outside, a way to know the goings on of his own front gate without waiting for his guards to keep him up to date, so while the rooms themselves are almost directly centered and walled in by mountain stone on every side, the outer hallway ends in the one and only balcony in the entire kingdom, overlooking the main gate from one side. It is one of Bilbo’s favorite places to be. 

He’s brought a stone chair out to sit on, as the only material that won’t get damaged by the elements, and as the weather grows friendlier he’s been spending more and more time watching the flow of bodies through the gates, identifying wagon-types and amusing himself by comparing the bustling clusters of dwarrow to ant colonies. On a clear day, he can count the crumbling battlements of the ruins on Raven Hill, or inspect the progress the workers have begun to make at rebuilding Dale. Kíli is right; there are rows and rows of merchants stalls lining the road just outside the city, their colorful banners and canopies snapping in the wind. 

It’s nearing midsummer by now, and the sun shines so well he may even get a burn, which hasn’t happened in a good many months. Still, the air is pleasant, and the light breeze that wafts over him smells of sweet flowers and growing things. He’s just debating with himself whether or not it’s time to head back inside when a knock echoes down the hall. He becomes suddenly aware of the squeaking, churning sounds of great wheels or carts, and turns in confusion.

Waiting by someone’s door halfway down is one large wagon, loaded and covered with tarp, and three servants to push and guide it. They’re waiting by his door, he realizes, which means they are waiting for him to come and answer. He jumps up and does so right in the hallway.

“What on Earth is this?” he says, hands on his hips. He doesn’t bother asking why it’s here; he’s gotten enough gifts from his friends to know the drill by now. But this one is huge.

“Delivery for Mister Bilbo Baggins, sir,” says the lead servant dutifully.

“Yes I can see that, but what is it?”

“A desk!” says one of the younger ones brightly from behind the wagon. He looks rather like the girl that had delivered his picture frames- a sibling, perhaps.

“A de- oh my word.” He puts a hand to his face, covering his mouth and then his eyes and then his hair before dropping it again. “Alright, well… bring it in, I suppose.” 

He’s not sure what else to ask them to do with it. The two in the back immediately get to yanking off the tarp and lifting from below, while the third directs them through the door and makes sure they don’t dent it along the way. After a moment of bumping and creaking from within his quarters, the third returns for a chair that Bilbo hadn’t even noticed was on the cart, and he realizes he should probably follow them in.

“Just here,” he says, squeezing around the mahogany bulk into his bedroom. “Just- here.”

They set it in a corner as directed, straightening it carefully without so much as a scrape of the wooden legs, and the chair is placed behind it and pushed in. 

“Thank you,” he says weakly. He stares at the new furniture for a moment, then startles, digging in his pockets for their tip and sending them on their way.

It is, as they said, a desk. Mahogany as he thought. Dark wood, dense grain, high quality; it’s nearly twice the size of his one at home, with enough drawers to hold more parchment than he’ll ever use in his life. He stares at it for another long moment, posture nearing defeat with his hands back on his hips. Then he sighs, and begins wondering how to get all his friends from the Company in one place to talk.

-

In order to plan time with all the dwarrow at once, he has to ask Thorin, Bofur, and Ori separately, as well as Fíli and Kíli together, and those five will spread the word to all the others. Glóin left for the Blue Mountains some time ago, Nori is in Dale selling his wares, and Óin, as Fíli and Kíli tell it, is having a busy week in the infirmary for no reason in particular and can’t make it. So it’s the ten of them, plus Bilbo, who meet in Bifur and Bofur’s sitting room. 

It’s rather small for all of them, but they make it work, all the sets of brothers packing together on small couches or rugs on the floor. Bombur’s family is audible in the attached quarters to the right, his wife having arrived only a few days prior, and Bombur himself is in Bofur’s kitchen, where Dwalin and Thorin are keeping him company (or just staying out of the way). Nearly everyone is here, chatting merrily away since to them this is nothing more than a social call. Bilbo steels himself and dives right in.

“Bofur,” he begins, catching the attention of the dwarf next to him as well as a few on the next couch over, “I wanted to ask you something.”

“Aye?” Bofur replies easily.

Bilbo places his hands together in his lap. “Do you know anything about… furniture?”

“Ah, not much meself. I dinnae think I could build ya’ anythin’, but I know some folk who could help ya’ get started on materials, if ya’ like!”

“N-no, I meant more, I- hm. I’ve been receiving… deliveries? New furnishings, to my quarters. Do you… know anything about that?”

“Oh, aye!” he replies cheerily. “We’ve been arranging those! Have ya’ been likin’ em’?”

“Aye,” agrees Kíli before Bilbo gets a chance to reply. “We think of them all together, the lot of us, although it’s Thorin that pays for them all. They’ve been delivered on time, then? Have you gotten them all so far?

“Yes, I believe so,” Bilbo says, “although I can’t be sure about ‘all’, since you haven’t told me until now. I only-”

“Apologies, everyone,” says Dori as he pushes through the front door, “we didn’t mean to be late. We had to wait for Ori’s ovenwork to be done.”

Ori lifts a tray of cookies in confirmation, the smell wafting into the room when he closes the door behind him. He sets it on the low, scratched table in the middle of the room. “They’re for everyone,” he says. “‘ello, Mister Bilbo. You mind if I sit with you?”

“Of course not, Ori,” he says helplessly, and makes room. Dori sits himself atop an armrest next to Bifur. 

“What were you saying, Bilbo?” Kíli prompts, and Bilbo smiles in relief. 

He tries again, “yes, right. These deliveries, I just- they’re lovely, of course they are-”

“Tha’s good to hear!” interrupts Bombur, returning from the kitchen. “We did think rather hard about those, you know.” He slides a large metal platter on the table, overflowing with bits of bread and cheese, sliced apples, shredded meats, and chopped mushrooms. “Lunch, everybody. Tuck in. How did you like those paintings, Bilbo?”

“They’re gorgeous,” says Bilbo. That, at least, he can say with honesty. Thorin and Dwalin trail in too, fitting ceramic trays of chopped vegetables and bowls of ripe berries next to Ori’s cookies. “The one of the Shire- how did you manage that?”

“An old painter, just this side o’ the Misty Mountains,” answers Dori. “Nori met him once, in his traveling days. Promised he was the best.”

Fíli tacks on, “we sent correspondence all the way to Bree, too.” He nods, mustache beads swinging. “Figured someone there would give a better description than any of us.”

“And- and the money? Did Thorin- for those-”

“It was nothing,” Thorin replies, sitting comfortably on the floor with his back to the wall. Dwalin stands next to him with his arms crossed, but his face as friendly as it ever gets. “Little in sum, compared to what we owe you. What I owe you.”

Bilbo finds himself jealous of the King’s ability to command a room, if only because it lets him finish multiple sentences in a row. The content of his speech takes a moment to filter through the clutter of his brain. 

“That’s-” he tries, “...thank you, Thorin, I-”

“There’s a few more on the way!” Kíli chimes in brightly before stuffing a cookie in his face.

“Oh, aye!” Bofur agrees with a grin. Bifur says something in Khuzdul with a rough gesture in DSL. “Oy, right, Bifur, did you ever get that worked out with the merchant? The fellow with the eyeglass?”

Bifur and Fíli reply at the same time, and then Bombur says something to Ori, and Thorin is murmuring to Dwalin, and suddenly everyone is talking at once, and Bilbo doesn’t get another chance to ask the question he’d brought everyone here for in the first place.

Why, is what he wants to ask. Why are they giving him all these things? It’s unlikely that they’ve each had a birthday, so close together, and even if they had, there would be other celebrations as well, not just gift-giving. It’s not that he’s complaining- they are lovely, and all quite to his taste. The new furnishings make his spacious rooms feel a little less lonely and cold, and each one brings something warm to his heart. But he’s not staying, and he’s not entirely sure his friends know that. They are, very likely, wasting their time and coin on furnishing rooms that will very soon be unoccupied. 

He doesn’t know exactly when soon is going to be, however, which makes it a little difficult to tell them all. Besides, it’s so loud in here now, he couldn’t get a word in even if he tried. Instead, Bilbo surrenders to the flow of conversation, tucking eagerly into the food on the table and listening as Bofur, Bifur, Fíli, and Ori debate over their conversation with the merchant who wears an eyeglass. 

It is hours later, after the candles have burned inches lower, that dwarrow begin filtering out. Bifur and Bofur live here, of course, but Bifur retires to his room, or perhaps to the kitchen to begin cleaning. Bilbo isn’t quite sure. Bombur goes for supper with his wife and children, and Dwalin slips out with a muttered word about new recruits. Fíli and Kíli start up another energetic conversation between themselves, the subject of which Bilbo couldn’t even hope to follow as they keep slipping between Common and Khuzdul, and eventually they leave in a familiar huff, presumably to settle the matter. Dori moves to leave, and Ori gives Bilbo a shy wave goodbye before picking up his empty tray and following.

Then, it is only Bofur, Balin, and Thorin, and Bilbo breathes a sigh of relief at the sudden stillness. He enjoys his time with the Company, he truly does, but fourteen bodies in one room would be quite a lot for anyone.

Between the four of them, even soft conversation falls into a lull. Bilbo nibbles on the last blackberry. 

“I never got to finish,” he points out after a moment. 

“What d’ya mean?” says Bofur curiously. 

“What I was saying earlier. About the furniture? I only- I wanted to ask- why. Why you’re putting in so much effort, just for me.”

“We only wish for you to be comfortable,” Thorin answers. “We know that Erebor is a far cry from your dwelling in the Shire, Master Baggins. If we are going to house you in a place so different from home, even temporarily, we would at least keep you from sleeping without a bed or dining without a table.”

Temporarily. So he does know, then.

“I already have a bed,” he protests absently, “but… thank you, Thorin. All of you,” he adds, smiling at Balin, then Bofur. 

Thorin opens his mouth as if to reply, but just then, a knock rings out. Bofur is the first to open the door.

The runner says, “Missive for the King.” They’re not too breathless, so it can’t be dangerously urgent. “I was told I could find him here?”

“I am,” Thorin confirms, standing as smoothly as he can and stepping into view.

“Ah. Summons for you, m’lord. The Council is requesting your presence.”

The King sighs under his breath. “No rest,” he mumbles, and Bilbo would laugh if they weren’t in front of a stranger. “Yes, alright. Let us go.”

He nods to Balin and Bofur, then holds Bilbo’s eyes a few extra seconds before turning to leave. Bofur lets the door fall shut behind him.

They sit for a moment, a group of four turned to three. A room over, Bombur’s children shriek with delight. 

“Thorin is right, laddie,” Balin finally says. “We only wish for you to be comfortable.”

“Besides,” Bofur adds, “all these rooms have been empty since Smaug an’ all, but, y’know, yours were empty for a good whiles before that.”

Bilbo’s brow furrows slightly. “Really? Why’s that?”

Bofur only shrugs. “Just happened tha’ way, I s’ppose. Thror married an older lass, and then she died a whiles before ‘im- and then, o’course, he wasn’t much of a mind to find another, considerin’... all those later times. So it’s been an extra, oh… seven’ty, eighty years?”

He looks to Balin, who nods in agreement. Bilbo finds that this answers none of his questions. He sets to puzzling it out, but before he can ask again, Balin is cutting in with an earnest sounding, “Master Bilbo. How long do’y think you are stayin’, anyways?”

He pushes the confusion aside for now. “I’m… not quite sure, truth be told. I really should head back to the Shire before winter sets in again, but…” he sighs. “I don’t know. I haven’t been able to think quite that far ahead yet.”

“Well, you’re welcome here as long as you like. You needn’t worry about overstaying.” Balin smiles, although it slowly slides into something more pensive. “If I’m bein’ honest… that’s likely a part of it. The gifts.”

Bilbo almost asks what he means, but Balin answers for him.

“Thorin wants you to stay, laddie.”

He shuts his mouth again. Balin smiles once more, something knowing in his eyes. 

“He’d never force ye, o’course, but he’ll do everything in his power to make life good for you here. He doesn’t want ye goin’.”

“None of us do,” Bofur adds in the same gentle tone. 

“I…” says Bilbo. He doesn’t have anything to follow it with.

“But let's not worry about that now,” Balin says suddenly. He pats him on the shoulder once again. “How much o’ these leftovers do you want to take with ye?”

- - -

The days of fading warmth tick by one after another, bleeding together in a joy-tinted wash of watercolor. Before he knows it, his chance to arrive home before the snows has slipped right away, and Bilbo is trapped in Erebor for another half-year while he waits for next spring. He can’t find it in himself to mind when the air of late autumn is crisp and fresh, the feel of dried leaves carried to his skin even so far up the slope of the mountain. Bilbo even attempts a few hikes, with varying degrees of success. He drags his friends along, usually, especially Ori, Nori, and Fíli and Kíli, and, on one memorable occasion, the King himself. The view from Raven Hill had been a lovely panorama of orange and red and brown as they tucked into their picnic luncheon. 

This morning had been temperate, but rather windy. With the grassy slopes of Erebor only just beginning to regrow their luscious tree coverage, the path to the front door can, at times, turn into a rather unfortunate recreation of a wind tunnel. Luckily, Bilbo was already planning on spending his day inside. There is a book in the library which he’s been rather engrossed in rebinding; the stitching was done very artistically, and he’s been having a grand time trying to replicate it in the damaged sections. He doesn’t know how many hours he’s been at it. He doesn’t even know where he is, right then; the library has dissolved around him, all his attention focused needle-sharp on the threads before him. The next section isn’t too badly damaged, it’s likely that he can just add a bit on the left, and…

“-Gahh!” says Bilbo, startled by the hand on his shoulder. He looks up, back in the library. He’s at a little desk, although it’s not his usual one- the library is uncommonly busy today, and someone had claimed it before him. Thorin blinks at him with brows raised, leaning on the cane that Óin had recently recommended for him, when his pain proved to linger after the healing was done. “Oh, my. Don’t scare me like that, you foolish dwarf!”

“Apologies,” Thorin offers in reply, beginning to smile wryly. On worse days, he walks with a pronounced limp, but today doesn’t seem to be one of those. “I did call your name first, but you did not seem to hear.”

Bilbo huffs, although it’s mostly for show. His heartrate is already returning to normal. 

Around them, in the extra-crowded library, dwarrow are beginning to murmur, throwing sideways glances as covertly as they can. Bilbo is used to that, as the only hobbit in the mountain. It’s diminished somewhat in the last months, making this far more attention than he’s received in a while, but- still. He thinks nothing of it.

“Yes, well. Ahem.” Bilbo straightens his waistcoat, drawing his shoulders back until they hit the chair. “Have you something to tell me?”

“On the contrary. I have a book.”

Bilbo’s eyebrows shoot up before he can think any better of it. He says nothing for a moment.

“Do not give me that look,” says Thorin with a playful glare. “I do, in fact, know how to read, Master Baggins.”

The other patrons are watching them. One woman covers her mouth to whisper to her friend, but her gaze is trained unsubtly on the pair. Two young construction workers whose faces are smeared with coal are trading smiles in understanding.

“Of course you do, I know you do, I-” Bilbo says, trying to ignore their audience, then shuts his mouth. Thorin has to know how to read, if he wants to be able to do his job. Bilbo just never took him for much of a leisure-reader is all- his general demeanor as well as his literal shortsightedness taken into account. Bilbo presses his lips together, although the King’s eyes are sparkling with mirth, and says instead: “what’s wrong with it?”

There must be something wrong with it if it’s being brought in to the repair desk. Indeed, Thorin unearths the book from an inner pocket in his clothing, and the front cover has been torn halfway off.

“Ah, well that’s an easy fix,” Bilbo says brightly. “Just need to stitch that back on, won’t take long. I can bring it up with supper, if you like?”

“That would be perfect,” Thorin replies in that soft rumble of his that seems to be reserved just for Bilbo.

Dwarrow are whispering around them. 

“-the King?”

“-sort?”

“a hobbit-”

Bilbo grits his teeth and puts them forcefully out of his mind. Yes, a lowly hobbit is interacting with the King. How scandalous. He looks instead to Thorin, ignoring the royal furs and the Durin-blue of his tunic. At least he’s skipped the crown today. And his posture, of course, is far from its usual regal boldness, as he instead caves himself to lean down and speak with his friend; yes, this is the Thorin whom Bilbo is far more comfortable talking to. 

Not that his crown doesn’t normally look quite fetching on him, the carven black stone framing his face and making his eyes stand out all the more, but- oh, toss it all. It doesn’t matter. For now, Thorin is in the library, the twisting stacks enclosing them in dusty comfort. The audience is irrelevant. Bilbo smiles at his friend.

“It shall be done, my King,” he says with a mock-bow. Thorin snorts, shaking his head. 

“Aye, thank you. I will see you tonight, Bilbo.”

“Tonight,” he agrees as Thorin takes his leave. 

At the next table over, an older man gives him a sour look, but his wife just smiles with gentle knowing. Bilbo shakes himself out of the moment with a frown.

What on Earth could she be knowing about?

- - -

Winter nights in Erebor have a strange energy about them, although perhaps that is only because he spends them all with Thorin. Not every night, of course, will they be pasted together from knee to shoulder, but at the very least they take supper together before retiring separately. It is a comforting point of consistency in the otherwise bustling chaos of an underground society. 

Thorin’s quarters sparkle just like the first time he saw them, the flickering orange light of the fire glinting off every streak of silver and every inlaid gem. Bilbo has some concerns about Thorin being surrounded by wealth after all his experiences, but Gandalf has assured them that since Smaug never came this high there is little danger, and besides, Thorin is convinced that staying anywhere else in the mountain would be a blight upon his reputation, and a quick way to send rumors flying. So here they stay, in the King’s quarters and the attached suite. The air has a heaviness to it, some kind of slow mixed in, and miniscule bits of melancholy hang like specters in the shadowy corners. 

Bilbo isn’t quite sure why. But he feels it all the same, the grief, and knows there will be no avoiding it tonight. Not when Thorin is staring at the polished floor like he’s a hundred miles away. Bilbo chews at his lip, eyes fixed in the heart of the fire; it is a dangerous shade of white-gold behind its wrought-iron grate. He feels the temperature contrast outlining the edges of his face, his skin collecting the exuded heat in a way that does nothing to dispel the deep blue sadness.

“I find myself with the wish to apologize,” Thorin says quietly. When Bilbo looks, he is staring at a thick vein of silver, one with just enough texture to catch the light and shimmer ceaselessly with it. 

“What?” says Bilbo, brow furrowed.

“My words, and my deeds, at the gate. I know it was some time ago, but… it lingers. I wish to apologize.”

“Thorin, you’ve already done so multiple times. There’s no need. But…” he inspects Thorin’s face, the heavy way it falls, carrying the weight of all the things he can’t let go. “...if you think it will help. Very well. Go ahead.”

Thorin finally meets his eyes, with a shallow blue that holds all the depths in the world. “I am sorry, Bilbo. Truly, deeply sorry, for everything I have put you through. What I did, that day… had I succeeded, I would never have forgiven myself.”

“You weren’t yourself, Thorin. I understand.”

“No,” Thorin agrees roughly, “I was not.” He clenches his jaw, looking to the floor again. “That feeling… that terrible grip, in the back of my mind. I could sense it growing, day by day, but did not truly think on it until it was too late.”

He seems lost again, but Bilbo lets him have the moment, gives him the time to speak his thoughts.

“It was something with claws and teeth,” Thorin murmurs in distant horror. “My breath, it wheezed from my lungs. I do not know… there was an exhaustion, bone-deep. Unshakeable.”

The King speaks haltingly. Bilbo has never known him to be much of a poet, but, he supposes, there must be no better way to describe the things he has experienced. 

“It was… a weight,” Thorin says, inhaling like he’s starved for it. He blinks rapidly. “And weightless, at once. Adrift, helpless, but self-contained and sluggish. I was… unfulfilled. Seeking more whilst desperately clutching at what I already had. I knew there was a poison in the very center of me and veil over my eyes, something I could not reach through. I could not see, could not change, nor think, nor seize control of my own actions. Could not trust my own heart,” he continues, voice breaking at the end.

“I was… trapped, and cold,” he whispers. Bilbo stands slowly and steps closer, as Thorin looks to meet his gaze again with blue eyes watering and wavering.

“Suffering,” Thorin declares quietly with finality, “and paralyzed.”

Wordless, Bilbo closes the rest of the gap between them and hugs him tight. He puts his arms around the bulk of Thorin’s waist, letting the dwarf crumple, his head to Bilbo’s shoulder, and does his best to manage the weight. 

Thorin squeezes him tight, breathing unsteadily. 

“I am sorry, Thorin,” Bilbo finally murmurs into his hair. It’s wiry and thick against his cheek. “I am sorry you had to go through that. But it’s over now. You are here- I am here. Erebor is reclaimed. It’s alright now. Everything is alright.”

Thorin only trembles in his arms, face hidden. They do not move from that spot for a long, long time.

- - -

Snowy days slip by, one after another. Temperatures hit their lowest of the year and begin to rise. The winds of very early spring are spitting and bitter. Most of the dwarrow do not know this, because in the mountain, weather matters little, but Bilbo makes the time to at least step onto his special little balcony at least once per day- fresh air is a core pillar in the maintenance of his sanity, even if it is laced with frost.

He has long missed his window to travel, in fact a new one is beginning soon, and he isn’t sure how to feel about it; on the one hand, he’s built somewhat of a life here, but on the other, there is much he would give to see the familiar sights of the Shire outside of paint on canvas. 

But, either way, the weather does not yet give him a choice, and so he stays. His cousin Drogo had replied to his letter some months previous, and their correspondence has been chugging merrily along. As it turns out, few hobbits believe him to be alive- they are convinced that his letters are the beginning steps of a scheme from some kind of impersonator, aiming to leave Bag End unguarded and untouched, setting themself up for the perfect heist- utter tosh, all of it. He’s sent Gandalf along, as the only person other than himself who might be able to clear the whole thing up. For now, Drogo has promised to leave Bag End alone, and not let anyone else make a mess of it either.

In the meantime, Thorin has forgotten his paperwork on his stark white desk. Once again.

Bilbo sighs, shaking his head with a faint smile as he taps the stack into a tidier shape. He walks himself all the way down to the Council chambers; a familiar route, by now, since this is far from the first time he’s done this. The apple he’d snagged on his way out the door swings merrily in his hand, and he tosses and catches it a few times on his way. 

This time, the guards at the door give him a somber nod of acknowledgement (about as friendly as they ever get while on the job, which is probably for the best), and he pulls the door open smoothly. Conversation comes to a halt. 

“Good morning,” Bilbo greets cheerily, ignoring most of the Council members. He looks to Dwalin, who jerks his chin in what Bilbo has come to learn means amusement, and Balin, who smiles as warmly as ever. 

“Bilbo,” greets Thorin from the head of the table. “What is it?”

 Bilbo slides his parchment in front of him. “You forgot this,” he replies easily.

Thorin pauses, then dips his head in thanks. 

“How’s your foot?” Bilbo continues. His pain had flared the day previous, and he knows it’s not the sort of thing to vanish overnight. 

Yet all Thorin tells him is a vague, “It is fine.” 

“Are you sure?” Bilbo presses, leaning slightly closer in concern with his brow furrowed. He puts a hand to Thorin’s elbow. “Only, I know it was a tad problematic-”

“Bilbo,” Thorin interrupts with the beginnings of a smile.

“-and you didn’t even bring your cane, you foolish dwarf! Why ever wouldn’t you. Shall I go fetch it?”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says again, slightly more insistent.

“Yes, yes, very well. Anyway, I brought you an apple,” he sets the fruit on the table as well, “I know you skipped breakfast, and luncheon isn’t for a good many hours-”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says once more. His eyes are soft, tone almost obnoxiously fond. Bilbo stops, then deflates. 

“Alright,” he finally concedes. He knows at least half the Council is glaring at him, but he can’t bring himself to mind as he pats Thorin on the elbow, then finally turns to leave. He tosses over his shoulder, “I will see you this afternoon, yes?” 

“Yes, Bilbo,” Thorin allows, affectionately exasperated. Bilbo smiles faintly and slips back out the door.

- - -

Bilbo has stayed in Erebor far too long. It fills him with dread, some days, or a terrible, bleeding homesickness for the Shire; an aching craving to see the rivers and hills and little round doors of his home. 

Time passes so easily here, for there is so much to do, and so many people who wish to see him. He spends nearly every night with the King, every morning in his own spacious and well-furnished quarters, every afternoon with people who care for him and work he enjoys. He has explored many nearby deer trails, and begun to make a dent in the library repair work. He has learned the feeling of winter, spring, summer, autumn, and winter and spring once more in the fabled kingdom of Erebor. He has not seen the floorboards of Bag End in three years. On these days, the days that he misses it, it strikes him strongly enough to bring nausea and fatigue. 

Other days, it bothers him not at all. And there are some benefits of staying, as well. The King’s raven had brought glad news recently: Lady Dís, of Ered Luin, will be arriving in hardly six weeks, and if Bilbo stays as long, they will be introduced. 

As the last available member of the royal family, the dwarrow of the Blue Mountains looked to Lady Dís for guidance. She helped them decide what to bring, when to leave, which routes to take; many did not intend to leave at all, but plenty of others simply needed help to do so. She had stayed behind with the last of the stragglers. But in the West, the snows thaw early, and besides, the Lady is impatient to see her sons, and so this year she has set out early; set out for a six-month ordeal of hauling possessions, supplies and keepsakes alike, and caring for the young, the elderly, contending with bitter spring frosts and sucking, dragging mud. 

But she is coming, and she will arrive before the end of summer. She is almost here. Bilbo supposes he can wait, just a few weeks longer. Fíli and Kíli are excited, and that on its own is enough for him to want to meet her.

-

Six weeks pass alarmingly quickly. If asked, Bilbo would have sworn that it had only been a tenday or so- but no, the Lady Dís has arrived. Between the lengthy procession of carts and travellers, and the uniformed guards lining the hall, the trumpeters playing their fanfare, and the workers beginning the process of splitting newcomers into open apartments, there is little chance for a formal introduction. He sticks by Thorin and manages to say a quick ‘hello’ to the Lady as they direct her towards the royal suites, then leaves her be, for she looks worn and frazzled, and must surely wish to rest.

Indeed, she spends the first few days in her rooms, presumably reuniting with her family and unpacking her belongings. They are the same quarters that Fíli and Kíli were already living in, and while this means they were at least minimally furnished, the brothers are, at their core, young bachelors. This is why, when invited to supper only three days later, Bilbo is shocked to step into a sitting room full of warm, welcoming light, and packed with the furnishings of comfort. Every wall is hung with tapestries and rugs, holding in heat like nothing else. Sturdy wooden and stone furniture is fit into corners, decorated with odds and ends that Bilbo would never have guessed were travel-safe. A fire roars in the hearth, nearly too large for the space. 

“Master Baggins!” greets the Lady Dís. She’s cleaned herself up, oiling her hair and rebraiding her beard into a short tassel off her chin. Her dress, while in the simple and practical style he has come to expect from all members of the royal family, is undeniably quality, with beaded ornamentation along the bust and all the hems. “So good to finally meet you, my dear.”

“My Lady,” he returns with a short bow, a little shell-shocked.

“Och, none of that, now. Call me Dís.”

“Only if you call me Bilbo,” he shoots right back. 

“Very well,” she agrees, grinning. He begins to loosen at the shoulders. “Hello again, brother.”

Thorin smiles with an easy “Dís,” and they pull each other into a gruff but tight hug, complete with rough pats on the back.

Then she leads them into the next room, which is just as well-furnished. A family-size dining table takes up most of the space, large enough for six, and an elaborate candelabra provides plenty of light along with firelight through the open doorway.

“Bilbo, Uncle!” Kíli says cheerfully, his fist full of forks. Fíli nods a greeting with just as much warmth, setting out the last of the knives, and Dís begins ferrying out dishes of food. The main course is kebabs, it seems, skewered through sweet melon and some kind of red meat. Along with it comes a tray of flatbread, and grilled root vegetables. He finds his seat to be sandwiched between the elder Durin siblings, and Fíli across.

“I hope my brother has been kind to you, Master Hobbit,” Dís begins as they serve themselves. 

Bilbo pauses. “Thorin? Ah, well… he’s nice enough, I suppose. Although a bit of a grump in the mornings, if you must know.” He glances over, and Thorin holds his gaze, amused. “I must say, though, it’s incredible what you’ve done with your rooms. I didn’t think one could do so much in only a few days.”

“Ah, t’was nothing,” she brushes off. 

“Dís, how was the journey?” Thorin segues easily. “Not too cold, I hope.”

She nods, swallowing a bite of bread. “Aye, the snows were weak this year. Little to worry about. The muds, though, those were a problem, to say the least. The hills near Evendim were a right kunbel to cross with the wagons, and the lake had nearly jumped its banks….”

She goes on about her months of travel, and Bilbo, with his limited knowledge of any of these places outside where they are on a map, does his best to follow along. The younger boys chip in with questions about places they remember from years past, and conversation flows right along.

“So, Kíli,” Dís finally says, after a lull. “What’s this I hear about an elf?”

The boy ducks his head, beginning to flush. “Aye. Tauriel. It goes well, I think.” 

“Come now, 'ibîn. You must give us more than that! When did you begin courting?”

“The spring before last- thanks in part to our dear Master Burglar, in fact.” Each dwarf at the table shoots Bilbo a grin, approving and glad. Then Kíli’s smile gentles, and he looks to the grain in the middle of the table. “We… spend our time in Dale, mostly. It has been fascinating to watch the progression of the repairs. Some of the locals are beginning to know us. And she has been living on the edges of the city, so we go for walks in the wilderness as well, exploring the new growth before the Mountain.”

“And the picnics,” Fíli adds smugly, nudging his arm. “Can’t forget about those.”

Kíli rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. “Aye, picnics as well. She has recently taken to teaching me her favorite plants, and which varieties of trees on the edge of the forest are best for sitting in. I never imagined I would learn so much about greenery in my life. In return, I have shown her the best viewpoints along the Mountain.” He ducks his head again, going very, very red, before quietly uttering, “I believe I will ask for her hand in marriage, one day.”

Bilbo all but cheers at the admission. Dis seems thrilled, unconcerned about the fact that Tauriel isn’t a dwarf, and Thorin, he knows, has had plenty of time to get used to the idea. 

Fíli just keeps grinning, patting his brother hard on the shoulder. “Good job, nudda. You’re officially doing better than Uncle.” 

Well, it’s not very nice to tease their uncle for being single, but Bilbo supposes there are worse things they could be saying. Kíli just snorts, shoves the hand off his shoulder, and begins stacking plates. 

“We’re very happy for you, my boy,” he says more softly as Kíli comes around to his side of the table. Fíli hauls away the empty platters and Dis replaces them with dessert- little honeycakes, and sliced strawberries- as the discussion shifts to the progress of the repairs.

The evening goes by rather quickly, all of it enjoyable, and by the time Dis calls his name again he’s nearly out the door.

“Bilbo,” she says before he can leave, “I must ask you something.”

He turns around, holding the door open with his hip. 

“Where, exactly, are your lodgings?”

“Ah, just over-“ he says, pointing rather awkwardly around the weight of the door, “-over that way, the one next to Thorin. With the connected rooms, you know the one?”

“I do indeed,” she says oddly, and looks over his head with one brow quirked. He twists around to see where she’s looking- Thorin is behind him, down a ways, looking rather sheepish as his sister pointedly meets his eye.

Before Bilbo can ask what that means, she looks back at him, and gives a polite little bow. “I wish you all the best, Master Hobbit. And do let me know if my brother is ever too troublesome for you.”

- - -

“Master Baggins,” Thorin says one night. The fire crackles merrily, but Bilbo still keeps the couch-blanket drawn around his shoulders, for he is nothing if not a hobbit who enjoys being cozy. “There is something I must discuss with you.”

Bilbo, for reasons unknown to himself, feels his heart drop. 

The King pauses for a long moment. He sits at his desk, although turned away from the papers and instead towards Bilbo himself. He looks rather pensive. 

“It has come to my attention,” he finally continues, “that our friend Bard does not wish to rule.”

Bilbo sighs in relief. Relief from what, he’s not entirely sure. “No?” he replies, “I know he has been averse to his men crowning him King, was that not merely a display of humility?”

“Indeed it was not. Not only is he averse to taking a crown, he does not wish to hold any power at all.”

“Imagine that,” Bilbo marvels absently. “Well, I can’t say I don’t understand it. But who shall rule in his stead?”

“This is the question that I bring to you,” Thorin rumbles, gesturing lightly. He hesitates, then goes on, quieter. “To… to give you honesty, I myself have begun to tire of the crown.”

The hobbit raises his eyebrows, mouth falling open.

“I am glad to serve my people,” Thorin amends, “and I knew from the start that diplomacy would not be a simple thing. I hold no issue with this. What irks me is this constant avoidance of gold- we are approaching the end of our second year, and only just finishing with the dispersal of Thror’s treasure hoard. Even when it is done, any society must deal in finance, and our forges have been cold for far too long. I do not wish to hold back my own kingdom with my limitations, and I tire of being so vigilant towards an ever-present danger to myself.”

Bilbo sits with that, sucking his teeth. A log falls in the fire and sends a shower of sparks. “I suppose that makes a degree of sense. But what would you do? Abdicate the throne?”

“I… do not know.”

Thorin seems unsettled with himself. He stares queasily at the polished floor. 

Thoughtfully, Bilbo turns to the fire and says, “...Fíli is a lad of age, isn’t he?” 

Thorin dips his head. “I had a similar thought. I only- I wished to know if you also think him ready to rule. And what to do with Dale? We cannot give two kingdoms to one boy. He is hardly even eighty.”

“Well, Dale we would give to Kíli, of course,” says Bilbo with hardly a thought. He drops the blanket and sits up, now thinking seriously about this. Thorin blinks. “Fíli is- he’s eighty-two, which is about- twenty-something? In hobbit years- twenty-seven, maybe. Yes, that’s- we wouldn’t consider him grown yet, but dwarrow age differently, I believe. Yes, Fíli is plenty old enough, and I do believe him to be capable. He has grown, Thorin. He’s more mature than he once was. The only problem I could see arising would be in the actual tasks of ruling- he has little of the training that most princes would.”

“I could train him,” says Thorin, in a tone that suggests it poses very little problem. “Have him shadow me in my duties, for a time. He will learn quickly. But- Kíli, in Dale? What makes you suggest such a thing?”

“Well, Kíli is nearly the same age, isn’t he? They’re only five years apart, which is very little for dwarrow. I even thought they were twins, at first. And Kíli may be a bit of a younger soul, but perhaps that would serve him better, in Dale- with how many different peoples found their way there in the past, I suspect some flexibility will be a valuable trait. And besides, he’s got that lass of his- Tauriel. I’ll bet that she’ll level him out some.”

“This would free Bard from the throne…” Thorin agrees thoughtfully. 

“So, training both nephews, then. They will spend their princely years learning diplomacy. And brothers on adjacent thrones will make for a very tight bond between the city and the mountain.” Bilbo nods to himself. “Yes, alright.”

Thorin dips his chin slowly, thinking it over. He offers no protest. Then he looks up again, catching Bilbo’s gaze. “And what of you?”

“Me?” says Bilbo, startled. “What about me?”

“How long are you thinking of staying, Master Burglar? Will you be here to see my nephews take their crowns?”

Bilbo presses his lips together. “Ah. Well… summer is crawling onward, much faster than I think it ever has. If I am to leave before the coming winter, it would need to be… now, really. Perhaps by the end of the week. And that’s just too short of notice, really. Very uncomfortable turnabout. So I think I’ll stay for the next few months, at least. After that… well. I really don’t know. What are your plans?”

“I do not know either,” the King says softly. “Once I relinquish the throne, I do not know what I will do with myself. It would be best for me to leave, I think- gold aside, my presence would insubstantiate Fíli’s position. But I do not know where I will go.”

Bilbo chews on his own tongue. He stops himself, then thinks better, and lets the words tumble out of his mouth: “you could stay with me?”

Thorin looks up quickly.

“In the Shire,” Bilbo clarifies. “In… Bag End. I have extra bedrooms, there would be plenty of space. But would you enjoy such a simple life? We are country folk, there is little glitz or glamour to be found. Only wood and dirt and flowers, I’m afraid.”

“I believe that a lack of glamour is precisely what I am looking for,” Thorin points out with the beginnings of a smile. 

The hobbit inhales, then steels himself. “I think,” he says slowly, each word deliberate, “that I could stay in Erebor for the remaining years it takes to train the princes, if only you join me when I leave.”

“Then it is decided,” Thorin declares gently. His eyes are trained on Bilbo’s, absolutely spellbinding in their single-minded focus. Bilbo almost doesn’t know what to do with himself under such attention.

“It’s decided,” Bilbo repeats, a little breathless. He swallows. He has signed himself up for years more in the mountain, and as much as he misses home, he can’t bring himself to regret it. He wraps the blanket around his shoulders once more, sinks into the couch, and looks into the red-orange heart of the fire.

- - -

Bilbo is glad for his decision to stay, for his second winter in Erebor is far better than the first. With the airways fixed and all the main facilities repaired as well as trade restored, life in the mountain is far more pleasant, good food and cozy rooms and thick, warm clothes. He has read his way through the entire Common section of books in the library, and chips away at his transcriptions at a leisurely pace. Construction work now turns to ornamentation, including replacing the carven wall in the Gallery of Kings, and the treasure hoard has been fully removed and the forges relit, which means he can both cease worrying about Thorin and enjoy the underground heating that seeps through the entire kingdom.

Tonight, the snow lays heavy on the mountain, but Bilbo cares not, for he’s wrapped thoroughly in a woolen blanket over Thorin’s thickest tunic. While he’s acquired a full enough closet of his own by now, very little of it is suited for truly freezing weather, so Thorin often lends him a thicker garment or two to be sure he stays warm enough- and besides, it smells of Thorin, which he rather enjoys. The couch is cushy and worn, getting close to swallowing him up, and a fire has been roaring in the hearth for hours.

There is an especially large chunk of amethyst in the floor which, in the flickering firelight, appears almost black. It’s a very deep shade of purple to begin with, one that has likely never seen the light of day, and cut into large, shiny facets, each one at least the size of his fist. He’s been staring at it with his head on one armrest for what must be the better part of an hour. He’s considering reading, and since he’s already finished all the books in Common, he knows which ones he likes best, but he doesn’t particularly feel like rereading tonight. And so, instead, he sits, and stares, and contemplates getting up without actually doing so.

In the bathroom, the water drains from the tub, and Bilbo can hear it running down the ‘dirty’ pipe underneath the floor. Thorin must have finished with his bath. 

Indeed, the King emerges a moment later in soft-looking sleep clothes hanging loosely from him, making him look marginally shorter and highlighting the paunch of his belly. Bilbo smiles, watching him squeeze his hair with a towel. Thorin drags over one of the well-cushioned stone chairs to sit near him without disturbing his position, since Bilbo is taking up the entire couch on his own, and sits heavily. 

“Are you enjoying the fire?” says Thorin, “it is beginning to die.”

Bilbo replies with a shrug and a smile. “Mm,” he hums in confirmation. He rubs his eyes leisurely.

Thorin heaves himself right back up and adds another log, crouching in order to stir the embers with a poker, then stands again with a quiet groan.

“Thorin,” Bilbo says suddenly, “will you read to me?”

The dwarf pauses. 

“I’ve run out of books in Common,” Bilbo explains.

Thorin blinks, then rumbles, “what would you like me to read?”

“There’s a book, ah- I just finished repairing it, I’ve been meaning to bring it back down to the library. On my desk, the leftmost corner, it’s- here, I’ll grab it-”

He moves to throw off the blanket, but Thorin sets a hand on his ankle. “Stay,” says the King, “I will find it.”

He leaves through the door connecting their sitting rooms. Bilbo goes back to staring at the amethyst. 

It is perhaps a minute that he is gone, although it feels like longer, in the comfortable silence. He returns to place the tome on his chair, then fetches a candle and lights it carefully in the hearth. He sighs quietly as he sits again. “Very well. What have we?” He holds the candle up to the cover, squinting at the faded runes. “...Fairy stories?”

Bilbo snorts. “Ah, that would make sense. I was wondering about some of those illustrations.”

Thorin’s eyebrows rise in levity. “Such as?”

“A tall prince,” Bilbo replies with snark, “with golden hair, and a hammer nearly as large as himself. There are only so many ways to interpret that, you know.”

The King chuckles, shaking his head. “I suppose so. Shall I begin?”

Bilbo nods, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. 

“There was once a dwarven prince, nearly tall enough to seem a man.” It is unlikely that the original text translates so smoothly, but if these are fairy stories, then Thorin likely already knows the tale, and can tell it partially himself. “He was tall, yet ugly, but he was also kind and just, beloved by all, and his hair was like the sun, for golden hair is a sure sign of a golden heart.”

Bilbo laughs to himself. “Don’t let Fíli hear about that.” 

“Indeed,” Thorin agrees, amused. He turns back to the book. “The ugly prince was a dedicated worker, and his forge never grew cold. One day, a suitor appeared at the gates, and she was beautiful, the most beautiful dwarf he had ever seen. She said she wished to marry him, ugly or no, and carried with her a gift to prove herself. It was-” here Thorin looks up, finding his eyes with a wry smile, “-a smithy’s hammer, nearly as tall as he himself, and as heavy as a mountain, yet weighted to perfection and wielded with ease.”

In the end, it was a tale warning against trusting beautiful folk, for they were rarely honest and sought only to use you to elevate themselves. Bilbo thinks about that, and thinks that if tales like this had been told in the Shire when he was a fauntling, perhaps he would never have joined the Company. He would have taken one look at Thorin and not trusted a word out of his mouth- a dwarf far too handsome to be listened to. Then he laughs at just the thought, at the idea of the entire quest ruined by the King’s good looks. A silly concept.

The next tale begins, something about a cursed king saved by an unassuming peasant boy of another race. They’re halfway through the third when Bilbo interrupts with a small, “Thorin?”

Thorin pauses, lifting the candle away from the page. “Rûnnayê?”

He hesitates. “Could you read this one… in Khuzdul?”

“Would you like to learn the language? I could teach you, if you wish.”

“If I ever learn, it will be a long time from now,” Bilbo admits. “No, I simply… enjoy listening. And it does sound ever so nice in your voice.”

A gentle smile grows on Thorin’s face, crawling into the corners of his lips and eyes like creeping ivy, something he doesn’t seem to be able to control. “Very well,” he murmurs. He clears his throat and turns the page, then begins again in Khuzdul. 

Without the impromptu translation, Thorin’s narration is suddenly smooth, rhythmic, his voice deeper. The words fall from his lips as if without thought.

Bilbo smiles, tilting his head and resettling into the soft side of a throw pillow. The fire crackles, the snow falls outside, and Thorin’s pleasing baritone forms a melody of words he can’t understand. He sits and listens for a long while yet.

- - - 

Nearly three years in, Thorin and Bilbo have long since broken their streak of dining together every single night. Almost every night? Definitely. Every single night, much less so.

Tonight is one such streak-breaking night, as Bilbo has heard rumor of strawberry upside-down cake being served after supper in the Great Hall. He could just get some directly from the kitchens, of course, but he also happens to be looking for an excuse to see his friends, and this works wonderfully. The King himself has chosen not to join them, since any evening spent with the general population of Erebor is a night of regality and performance, and Glóin has officially moved back to the Blue Mountains, but to his knowledge the rest of the Company is trailing behind him through the stone halls on their way to supper (he hasn’t bothered to count in a good many minutes, so who really knows, but they were all there at one point).

The paths ring with the scuffle of dozens of feet and conversations as dwarrow stream towards the Great Hall. Bilbo knows that a communal mess hall and meals provided for all is a rather unusual practice, but Erebor has always been a wealthy kingdom, wealthy enough to at least work towards eradicating hunger amidst its own residents. It’s only one meal a day, and he knows that a good many of the dwarrow prefer to cook for themselves and their families in the privacy of their own apartments, but it is far more than nothing. He commends Bombur for his talent in running such a massive system of kitchens. 

They near the final doorway, and in the shuffle, Bilbo hardly notices the runner attempting to fight the tide, until they’re colliding directly with him. He finds himself and the runner both knocked promptly on their asses. 

“So sorry, sir,” the runner says tiredly with their face towards the floor. Bilbo stands, then offers the runner a hand, since they’ve made no motion to get up yet. They take it gratefully, finally looking up and catching sight of his face- at which point their eyes bug outwards, mouth dropping open in panic. “Y-Your Majesty! Oh, my- deepest apologies, sire, it, it was an accident, I swear, and I will- take my leave, yes- I’m so sorry-” 

Bilbo raises his brows, bemused. He sets a hand on the runner’s shoulder- they’re an inch or so shorter than him, so they must be very young- and pats it once or twice. “It’s alright, really. Nothing to worry about.”

They nod frantically, refusing to meet his gaze. 

“Go on, then,” he prompts gently, and they nod again before sprinting off through a gap in the crowd.

Bilbo only chuckles to himself. He turns to Kíli and Bofur as they finally enter the Great Hall. “Well. ‘Your Majesty’- I must say, that’s a new one for me. Whatever was it for?”

“For the Royal Consort,” Kíli says, like it should be obvious. Ori, Nori, and Dori wave them over to open seating- somehow having beat them in and already claimed an area. 

“What?” Bilbo scoffs, sliding into a spot between Bofur and one of the princes. “But I’m not the Consort.”

His friends exchange meaningful looks across the table.

“Wh- I’m not!” he says again.

“And you’re… sure about that?” Fíli says oddly. His brother nods. The entire Company is staring at him. 

“Yes!” Bilbo reiterates emphatically.

Kíli groans, lolling his head back in frustration, and several other members grumble into their table settings or to their elbow neighbors. 

“Cmon now lads. Pay up!” says the blond gleefully. They groan again, and coin quickly changes hands. Balin appears to have made more than anyone else.

“Were you…. making wagers on my love life?”

Óin chuckles, since Bilbo is upset enough to be speaking quite loudly, and Fíli and Kíli shrug in near-unison. No one answers.

“Excuse you! I do not care for Thorin!” Bilbo insists, something close to chastising now. Then, he corrects himself, “well- I care for him, of course. I wish him to be safe. And I worry about his injuries. But there’s nothing unusual about that, anyone would be concerned!”  

He pouts, although he would never describe it as such, and continues in a rather sullen tone. “And I worry over the gold sickness, of course I do. It wouldn’t do for him to catch it again. And I wish to know that he eats enough, and well, it is rather nice to hear about his days, and it’s not my fault his clothes are more comfortable than mine, and- oh, sweet Yavanna, I’m in love with Thorin.”

Bilbo frowns down at the table. Then he crosses his arms and looks up again. “Which of you was going to tell me?”

“We… sort of thought you knew,” admits Kíli.

“Bilbo,” says Fíli seriously, “you’ve been living in the Consort’s quarters. You knew that, yes?”

“NO!” Bilbo near-shouts. “No, I had no idea, no one has mentioned anything about anything, agh-” he puts his hands to his head briefly, fisting his hair, then goes loose just as quickly and slumps in his seat, arms at his sides. “Saints. This is a catastrophe.”

Bofur pats him hesitantly on the back. “It’ll be alright,” he says after a moment.

“Yeah,” says Kíli, like he’s trying to make up for the mess he’s made. “I’m sure Uncle won’t be upset, he-” his brother elbows him, “-he… won’t. He won’t be upset. I promise.”

Bilbo just sighs, looking forlornly at his empty plate. He could really do with some food to cheer him up right now, but the kitchens appear to be lagging. 

“Just talk to him,” Fíli insists.

He’ll have to, won’t he? There’s no other option, really. Bilbo sighs again as the servers begin carrying out trays. 

He isn’t sure he’ll even be able to enjoy his strawberry upside-down cake, after all of that.