Chapter Text
The blanket around his shoulders still smelled faintly of Bell Gamgee's laundry soap and Bilbo would be a terrible liar if he tried to claim it wasn't a comfort. Given another few days and nothing would remain; it would carry only the scents of traveling. Already the heaviness of wood smoke was overshadowing it and Bilbo closed his eyes, taking another slow inhale of sweet, clean soap.
It wasn't as if he particularly needed a blanket. The fire was plenty warm enough and the weather was pleasant, not a hint of any summer rain. Their camp was orderly, set up around him and Bilbo hadn't needed to gather so much as a stick of firewood. He supposed there was something to be said for having a young, hardy group of Dwarves as traveling companions. Not that any of those in Thorin's company had shirked, not at all, but few of them could have claimed the stoutness of youth as one of their merits, Bilbo included.
Ruefully, Bilbo wondered at just how much time had sweetened his memories of their travels, like heaping spoonfuls of sugar desperately into bitter tea. His recollections had had their pains, true, but some of them seemed to have fallen away, hidden beneath the tempering fog of nostalgia.
Three days on the road had stolen away some of the syrupy sweetness of it and only now did he truly recall the aching in one's backside and legs from being astride a pony for hours at a time. If his tailbone had ever forgiven him for the indignity, Bilbo could only hope it would offer leniency to him again. His grumbling belly added its own complaints, quite reluctant to return to the days of a mere two meals cooked over a fire and one luncheon eaten cold whilst on pony back.
There were, admittedly, a few changes. The first was Thorin's guard, waiting precisely just outside of the Shire. Their campsite had been hastily disassembled and the lot of them had been on their ponies and ready to travel in short order. Frodo had watched it from his little nest in the wagon, his eyes wide and Ferdinand had been much the same, the pair of them goggling at the sight of a dozen Dwarves in armor atop ponies.
In a way, it was amusing to see from this side. Bilbo supposed he might have been much the same not all that terribly long ago. No, it was more of a lifetime ago, before he'd taken in the sight of an army of Dwarves, Elves, and Men battling Goblins and Orcs alike. Not that he ever wanted these two to see blood spilled as he had. Let them keep their wonder and wide eyes.
Neither of them had offered a complaint yet, not even of boredom and Bilbo found it rather sheepishly dismaying, for he well knew he'd had complaints aplenty on his first travel out of Hobbiton. Looking back, he wondered at Thorin's patience and in hindsight it had been astonishing; it was a wonder Thorin hadn't abandoned him at the first likely farmhouse the moment he'd cried foul over the loss of his handkerchief.
There was another difference, strange as it was. On their first journey Thorin had been distant, distracted by the burdens he carried, and, if Bilbo were honest, rather irritable. The word hardly seemed to suit him this time around; he barked out orders with the surety of one accustomed to being obeyed, true, though somehow he lost a great deal of his sternness when those commands were offered at the same time he had a small Hobbit child balanced on his shoulders.
The sight made Bilbo smile, hidden beneath the folds of his blanket. Frodo had two hands that likely weren't as clean as they could be clutching Thorin's hair like the reins of a pony and whenever Thorin turned, teasingly threatening to dislodge his rider, Frodo shrieked in delight, his heels thumping merrily against Thorin's chest and his fingers tugging madly at the wild curls wound around them.
It left Thorin looking more like a ruffled pony himself than royalty and if his guard found the sight of their King at the mercy of a small child disturbing, none of them offered so much as an askance look.
Truth be told, they had yet to offer even a smile. They seemed a rather solemn lot, not at all like the other Dwarves Bilbo knew, for not a song or even a word of cheer had left a one of them. Being a guardsman certainly didn't seem to be a profession for the merry sort; small wonder Dwalin had wanted no part of it.
Indeed, Frodo's accomplice in the theft of baked goods was sitting on the other side of the fire, whittling at a piece of wood. Ferdinand was sitting close by, apart from all of them and that was a touch familiar as well. Bilbo had been much the same at the beginning, surrounded by strangers in a strange place. He had often curled up on his bedroll early on, exhausted and aching, homesickness settling thickly in his chest.
Ferdinand, it seemed, had chosen another route, his mouth pursed and his eyes narrowed as he worked at what seemed to be a tricky bit of embroidery. Probably a difficult enough task without squinting in the firelight but if it settled him, all the better, though Bilbo reminded himself to offer the lad a word or two of encouragement if he ever seemed to be flagging. This time around it seemed that Bofur's role would be his own and Bilbo was determined to do it justice.
His musings were cut short by a hand settling gently at the nape of his neck, the tender stroke of a thumb beneath the line of his hair sending a delicious shiver down his spine. Thorin crouched next to him, leaning in to murmur, "Are you warm enough?"
That…yes, that was slightly different as well. Bilbo cleared his throat, trying to will away the sudden thickness lingering within it. "It's kind of you to ask, but I assure you, I'm perfectly warm. It is midsummer, I'm in front of a fire, and I have a blanket. If I were any warmer, you'd be able to roast potatoes by my feet."
Thorin's laughter was soft, intended for Bilbo's hearing alone and he risked a glance about to find Frodo had usurped Dwalin's whittling, snuggling into his lap and close to drowsing. The other Dwarves were still bustling about, laying out bedrolls and cleaning up from supper. Still others were discreetly visible around the edges of their campsite, standing guard.
It was all very strange, indeed, made no less so by Thorin settling down at his side and Bilbo took his chance to settle the corner of his blanket over Thorin's lap, fussing with the edges until he was covered as well. To his amusement, Thorin tolerated it with little more than an ill-disguised frown, waiting with impatience until Bilbo was satisfied.
"There we are, snug as can be," Bilbo said brightly, adding a sweetly solicitous, "Are you warm enough, then? I shouldn't like you to get a chill."
"How very kind of you," Thorin began, his voice dry as dust, only to choke on the last word as Bilbo settled a hand on his knee beneath the blanket. He gave a firm squeeze, fingers trailing lightly up the inside of his thigh before he drew back, clasping his hands innocently in his lap. If Thorin thought he could tease without repercussions, he was overdue for a lesson.
It was only then that Bilbo noticed the book in Thorin's white-knuckled grip, the same one he'd been reading at Bag End. "Were you thinking of reading in this light?" Bilbo asked in disbelief. He could hardly believe that Ferdinand was managing his embroidery.
The heat in the look Thorin sent his way eased into something more quizzical, "There's plenty enough light for reading."
"If you say so," Bilbo said doubtfully. If it were him, he would have to be almost atop the fire to make out the words in this dimness and smoldering pages did not make for a good read.
"His Highness always reads at night when we're travelling about," Dwalin snorted, rubbing his knuckles lightly over Frodo's head in spite of the child's grumbling protests, "Doesn't sleep well on the road."
"I haven't been sleeping well myself," Bilbo said ruefully, pushing a hand against the small of his back and stretching in an effort to ease the ache that lingered there. "I do believe the ground is harder than it was when I last slept upon it."
"Aye, you may be right," Dwalin chortled. "Harder and colder and stonier, I do b'lieve."
"I seem to recall it was the two of you accusing me of weakness for my preference to sleeping at inns," Thorin added, dryly amused and he nudged at Bilbo's knee lightly with his own.
"Forgive me for my impertinence, your Highness," Bilbo said promptly, "And if you'd see fit to bed us down in the first inn we come across, I should be very grateful."
"It would be my pleasure," Thorin murmured and nothing in the smokiness of his voice promised that there would be a whit of sleep involved.
"Yes, well," Bilbo coughed, well aware of Dwalin's snort from across the fire, "Of course. That is…your book. Yes, yes, books, you never did finish reading that poem to me."
It was only when the words tumbled free that Bilbo had the chance to recall just what the poem was about and he winced in regret, already seeing Frodo perking up from his drowsiness, eyes brightening at the thought of a story. Even Ferdinand paused in his sewing, curiosity shining in his gaze and Dwalin hooted out a laugh, tugging at his beard.
"Aye, read to us, Thorin!" Dwalin called sweetly and Bilbo winced afresh. Coyness was something he fervently wished Dwalin would not attempt. "The lad and I want to hear some of your pretties."
"Yes, please, Uncle Thorin!" Frodo pleaded, hands clasped together as he begged. "Please, tell us a story, read to us!"
"Won't you? Please?" Bilbo added his own entreaty to the rest, resigning himself to retribution later. From Thorin's thunderous expression, it would be forthcoming soon enough.
Three pleas did not outweigh the word of a King, to be sure, and yet Thorin only sighed, opening the book with visible grudgingness. "I suppose I can read a page or two," he muttered, shooting Bilbo and Dwalin both a dark glare, though his gaze softened on Frodo as he cheered happily, settling his chin in his palms as he waited impatiently for Thorin to begin.
There was a long moment of silence, pages turning, and Bilbo closed his eyes as Thorin started to read. The richness of his voice seemed to caress the words, syllables rounded as they slipped free, the story molded around Thorin's speech and Bilbo lost himself in both, basking in the story and Thorin alike.
The press of his body along Bilbo's side was warm and when a large hand settled over Bilbo's, he promptly twined their fingers together, pressing his thumb gently into the cup of Thorin's palm, circling lightly. If any of the others noted Thorin's voice cracking, no one said a word, and peering out from beneath his lashes, Bilbo found the others as rapt as he was.
No, not just the others. Dwalin and Frodo were both engrossed and somehow Frodo had crept silently closer, sprawled out on his belly by Bilbo's feet as he gazed up, enraptured, at Thorin. Ferdinand had laid his embroidery aside, eyes wide and his hands clasped in front of his mouth to hold back a gasp as Thorin's voice rose, describing the lovers as they met in secret, struggling to keep their love hidden from their kin. Close behind Ferdinand was one of Thorin's guard, some of his stoniness cracking and his own eyes were wide, revealing the truth of his youthfulness. Others were around them as well, leaning against trees or crouching down, sitting with elbows propped on their knees as they listened to Thorin read.
It was only when his voice grew hoarse that Thorin finished, a collective sigh rising from the camp and if Bilbo had thought Thorin drew respect from his people in Erebor, in this camp the damp looks cast his way were nothing short of worshipful.
Frodo was the one who broke the grave silence, his small voice carrying over the camp as he asked, curiously, "What does 'lustfully' mean, Uncle Thorin?"
In that moment Bilbo and Dwalin both promptly found other places for their eyes to be; Bilbo discovered the ground at their feet had suddenly tripled in interest, as had the glowing coals in the fire, begging for a stick to poke through them idly and Dwalin was happy to oblige them. Both enthusiastically refused to notice Thorin floundering, answering with only a nonsense string of, "Ah…that is….well…"
Rescue came from an unexpected source, Ferdinand bursting out with a starry-eyed gush, "That was beautiful, your Highness, Mister Thorin, sir!"
Thorin sighed, hardly as grateful for the salvation as he might have been, "As I have said, several times now, boy, please simply pick one title. I do not require all of them."
"Yes, sir. I mean, your Highness." Ferdinand floundered, casting a wild look at Bilbo, who only gazed back innocently. He'd done his own adjustment to Dwarves; Ferdinand would simply have to find his way. Ferdinand gulped and nodded firmly. "Yes, Mister Thorin."
"Much better," Thorin said wryly.
"Uncle Thorin!" Frodo complained, obviously displeased with his question being ignored. He plunked himself into Thorin's lap, oblivious to his startled, and rather high-pitched, grunt of discomfort. "What does it mean? You said he stared at her lustfully. Did he not like her?"
"It means..." Thorin began, coughing away the uneven squeak to his voice. "It's...rather the opposite, Frodo. He liked her a great deal."
"Oh," Frodo chewed his lip, considering, and Bilbo waited with the amused patience of one who'd answered many a barrage of 'why' questions in his time. "If he liked her, why didn't he just say so, instead of staring at her all the time?"
"Ah," Thorin winced and shifted Frodo from his lap to his knee. He met large blue eyes with all graveness, his voice lowering, "I would tell you that someday you will understand, and that would be a truth, akhûnith, if not the answer you want."
Frodo's lower lip quivered, hovering on the edge of a pout and Thorin pressed a light kiss to his forehead. "Let me say this, then; sometimes, it is not so very easy to tell someone you care for them."
"Why not?" Frodo insisted stubbornly and Bilbo only sighed inwardly. That boy was like a mangy dog digging for a meager bone when he had his eye on an answer. "I like you, I like Mister Dwalin. I like Uncle Bilbo. I can tell you. I love all of you."
Almost, Bilbo might have missed the flick of Thorin's eyes towards him. There was nothing beseeching in that look, no pleas for assistance. Only one brief glance, as though to assure himself that Bilbo was there, sitting by the fire with the rest of them.
"Then perhaps not all of us are as brave as you, little one," Thorin said, softly. Frodo opened his mouth in what was surely a protest, only for his words to be smothered in a peal of laughter as Thorin stood, tossing Frodo over his shoulder with ease. "Now, then, I think it's time for small Hobbits to be abed. And large ones as well, I suspect."
"I'm not tired!" Frodo tried, a protest nearly hidden by large yawn.
"Then you can rest on your blankets until you are," Thorin told him, unmoved by pleas or sighs. He tucked Frodo into his bedroll until the child was nearly mummified, and he hardly glanced at his guard before two burly young Dwarves took up position around the lad, eyes alert and weapons at hand.
A tad excessive to Bilbo's mind, but he was hardly going to protest. Letting Thorin indulge his protective instincts was going to cost nothing but a little sleep to a few Dwarves who were young enough not to feel that sting too sharply. Though he noted with a touch of wariness that with Frodo abed, Thorin's eyes were only for him, and there was a word for that look, a word that had recently confounded his nephew.
He waited until Thorin sat back down next to him, close enough that their knees brushed, before he muttered beneath his breath, "You may as well keep your lustful stares to yourself. They'll not avail you a thing, and I already know you like me."
"You wound me," Thorin said with a mournful sigh, "To think that I would ever gaze at you with anything but the utmost of respect and care."
"Aye, it's not his eyes you should have a care about!" Dwalin called and Bilbo would have cheerfully crawled into the earth and planted a shrub over his own head. From the scandalized looks of the guard, they would likely offer him a trowel.
"Thank you ever so much for your assistance, Dwalin!" Bilbo snapped. "As grateful as I am that you're looking after my virtue, is it possible that you could take a long walk in the woods, perhaps lose your way for an hour or three?"
"I'd have to take Thorin along to lose my way for that long, and you'd not want that," Dwalin snorted, flopping down entirely too close to allow for any discreet words. "And it's not your virtue I'm meant to look after."
Surely he wasn't…Bilbo blinked, mouth open and whatever resemblance he might have to a fish could not be helped. Surely Dwalin knew just where Thorin had spent his last few nights at Bag End, with all his sly insinuations and prodding. He couldn’t possibly mean, Thorin was…he hadn't been…
Dwalin rolled his eyes with vigor and nodded towards the bedrolls where Ferdinand was bedding down next to Frodo. "That lad is not nearly asleep yet and I'm thinking that other little troublemaker you brought along isn't of age, either, aye?"
"Perhaps…no, I think Ferdinand is still in his tweens," Bilbo said faintly.
Dwalin gave the pair of them a beady look. "You'd not want to be impugning young minds with your—" The gesture he made would have been plenty of impugnation on its own. "Would you?"
"Dwalin—" Thorin began tightly and whatever fury he was about to unleash was caged by Bilbo's hand on his knee, squeezing hard, for Frodo would never sleep if these two started an argument at this hour. Thorin nearly choked on his words, startling beneath Bilbo's touch, and Dwalin took the opportunity he was granted to climb to his feet, stretching noisily.
"Now that we've cleared that air, I'll be off to bed myself. I'm too old for this gallivanting across the country, Thorin, and in a wagon at that."
"I'll be sure to offer the Gamgees your regrets, then, when we visit the Shire next," Bilbo dared and noted Dwalin's crimsoning pate with satisfaction.
He grumbled off to the collection of bedrolls, settling his close to the edge of camp, and left Thorin and Bilbo the fire to themselves. The warmth felt lovely with the night air chilling and Bilbo basked in it for a long moment, only remembering that his hand was still resting on the solid warmth of Thorin's knee when a large hand settled over it, squeezing gently.
"I do hope you know that I meant what I said," Thorin told him, softly. "I look at you with the utmost care and respect."
"I do know," Bilbo agreed, quietly, and twisted his hand so that he might curl their fingers together before he added, very quietly, "So long as you know I'm quite fond of the lustful looks as well, in the proper time and place."
Thorin's chuckle was as gentle as the night breeze and Bilbo relished it as much as he did the fire's warmth. Thorin raised their joined hands to his mouth and brushed a kiss over Bilbo's knuckles. "Never fear, you'll have your share of those in Erebor."
In the King's bedroom, Bilbo was sure, and he closed his eyes for just a moment, allowing himself the indulgence of picturing Thorin reclining against fine bed linens, furs, silks, whatever it was that befit a King. Blue, he decided shivering faintly, Thorin would look his best sprawled over a sea of blue silk.
Bilbo shifted uncomfortably, muttering, "Yes, well, I hope we see one or two of those inns you promised me before we arrive."
"A worthy challenge," Thorin murmured damply into his palm before taking a deep breath and laying Bilbo's hand aside. "Get some rest."
"I should," Bilbo agreed, rising reluctantly. He frowned when Thorin remained where he was, book still open, prompting softly, "And you?"
"Soon," Thorin promised.
Bilbo settled into his own bedroll alone with reluctance, very aware of his own pair of guards roosting next to him. Sleep was already calling insistently, the aches of the day making themselves known and Bilbo was drifting, snuggling into the warmth of his blankets. It was perhaps minutes or hours later when he startled awake, still not reaccustomed to the hearty snoring of Dwarves around him. From beneath his sleepy lashes, he peered at the fire, taking in the shape sitting next to the glowing coals with a book still opened in his lap.
Almost, Bilbo called to him, inviting Thorin to the empty bedroll beside him. Sleep overtook him again before he could and instead Bilbo fell back into an exhausted slumber, his own quiet snores joining the rest.