Chapter Text
If time had lent a rosy glow to the memory of Bilbo's last adventure, the memory of any unpleasantness colored in shades of adventure and turned into bedtime tales, then a few days on ponyback were a stark reminder to the unpleasantness an adventure could put forth.
That was not to say that there weren't a few changes. To begin with, on his last time traveling with Thorin and company, he couldn't recall a single instance of having to wait on the roadway with a troop of Dwarves meandering about in their armor, keeping an eye on the shrubbery.
Considering this was their third stop of the day, Bilbo suspected it was something to which he would become accustomed.
"I'm terribly sorry about this," Bilbo muttered, watching as Frodo darted into the bushes yet again.
Thorin only waved his concerns away. "I have traveled with small children before. I'm familiar with their frequent need for toilet stops."
"Small children aren't the only ones who need a piss now and then," Dwalin snorted, lumbering down from his pony with a mighty groan. "Let's take a moment and give an old bladder some relief, eh?"
With Dwalin following after Frodo, and surely any ne're do wells in the woods with think twice over approaching a small Hobbit with a Dwarf warrior as a minder, Bilbo took a moment to stretch his legs before settling down beneath a shady tree, out of the heat of the day. To his surprise, Thorin settled next to him, one elbow resting on a drawn up knee.
"It is very warm," Bilbo said, idly fanning himself with a hand. The dregs of summer seemed determined to pour its heat over the world. Bilbo eyed the layers of Thorin's heavy clothing and armor with distaste. "You should be cooking in all that like a roast chicken."
Thorin chuckled, nudging him lightly with an elbow. "Dwarves are heartier than that. I could be with clothing or without this day and not mind either way."
"I know my preference," Bilbo teased daringly, considering he'd hardly had the chance to enjoy said preference.
"I can imagine," Thorin sighed. To Bilbo's surprise, he shifted to lie with his head in Bilbo's lap, looking up at him. "Aye, I can imagine quite well."
"Quite vividly?" Bilbo smiled down at him. A glance up told him that none of the guardsmen were close by and Bilbo gave into his urge to sink a hand into the heavy fall of Thorin's hair pooled into his lap. The soft curls were ever eager to tangle around his fingers, silky against his stroking hand. Thorin sighed, his lashes drifting downward, tipping his head until his nose was nearly buried against Bilbo's belly. He could feel the heat of Thorin's breath through his shirt, slow, even puffs of warmth.
It took him entirely too long to realize that Thorin had fallen asleep. One moment Bilbo was petting his hair, combing through the long fall of it with his fingers, and the next he looked down to find Thorin slumbering against him. Lips parted, his lashes a dark shadow against his cheeks. Hesitantly, Bilbo began to untangle his hands, only for Thorin to grumbling sleepily, pushing into his touch like a pet begging for another stroke.
Hastily, Bilbo resumed his gentle petting, trailing the rope of one braid between his fingertips. He marveled at the texture of it, silken-smooth, drew his thumb down the length of it to the bead tipping the end and back up.
There was a rustle in the bushes before they parted and Dwalin stepped out, Frodo at his heels and the both of them looked much relieved. Dwalin took in the sight before him, Thorin asleep in Bilbo's lap and Bilbo with two guilty hands sunk to the wrist in his hair. He arched a brow at Bilbo, who flushed and started to pull away. Honestly, Bilbo thought with some irritation, neither Frodo nor Ferdinand were going to suffer from a view of this.
Only to have Dwalin shake his head firmly, pressing a finger to his lips in a hushing motion. Warily, Bilbo settled his hands back into soft curls, watched as Dwalin shooed Frodo over to the others. With more stealth that Bilbo would have given him credit for, Dwalin crouched next to him, leaning in close.
"Has he slept at all these past nights?" Dwalin asked in a low whisper. Bilbo shook his head silently; he hadn't or not to Bilbo's knowledge. Anytime Bilbo woke in the night it was to find Thorin seated by the fireside and his bedroll had always been empty in the morning.
Dwalin nodded shortly and walked back to the others. A curt gesture had them off their ponies with haste and Bilbo could only watched, nonplussed, as it seemed there would be a hot lunch today after all.
It was something of a surprise to find that Dwarves could, in fact, be quiet and stealthy or at the very least the Dwarves of the King's Guard were able to manage it for in short order they had a cook fire blazing and a pot atop it, bubbling and scenting the air with a mouthwatering aroma.
Ferdinand wasted no time finding his own tree to curl beneath, pillowing his head on his folded arms and sleeping with the dedication of a Hobbit familiar with an idle afternoon or two. Or perhaps that was unfair, Bilbo conceded, for he suspected the young Hobbit wasn't sleeping much at night, either. That was something Bilbo was remembering from his past adventure; hard ground littered with rocks and twigs were no substitute for a soft mattress.
Frodo and Dwalin were some distance away, far enough to soften any din they made yet close enough for Bilbo to keep half an eye their way. To Bilbo's squinted gaze they were concocting some sort of fort from a collection of spindly twigs, Frodo darting around happily, stretching his legs.
In his lap, Thorin slept away, the silvered pool of his hair spread over Bilbo's thigh like a silken blanket.
The heat of mid-afternoon was only just trickling away when Thorin finally stirred, scrubbing his hands over his eyes much as Frodo did when he awoke. He blinked once, twice, and by the second he was alert, looking around them.
"How long did you let me sleep?" Thorin accused, frowning.
"Let you?" Bilbo began, then yelped allowed as sensation began returning to his legs in a rush of pins and needles. He rubbed them, stretching and wincing as the flow of blood resumed.
"Yes, let me. The sun was on the other side of the sky when we stopped," Thorin scowled.
"The lad needed a rest," Dwalin broke in, handing Thorin a bowl of stew with enough force that he needed to fumble with it to keep the entire mess from landing in his lap. "Bit of a lie-down for a young lad."
"I wasn't—" Frodo began.
"Yes, I'm afraid he's simply not used to travel," Bilbo interrupted loudly.
"But Uncle Bilbo, I didn't..."
"...mean to hold us back, but I believe we're ready to travel on now," Bilbo added hastily. "Thank you, Frodo, there's a good lad, finish your luncheon and then into the wagon!"
Frodo, bless him, only gave him a curious frown and a slow nod, trotting back to the wagon without protest. Bilbo met Thorin's suspicious look with one of wide-eyed innocence, taking up his own bowl of stew and eating heartily despite the fact it was still steaming hot. Thorin did as well, with more caution. There was a gleam in his eye that firmly stated, I am not fooled by your pretense.
Bilbo only offered a silent, Why, I have no idea what you are speaking of and my, this stew is delicious, in return.
Luncheon was devoured and dishes cleaned, and Bilbo had only settled his aching backside back into his saddle when a small voice piped up over the snorting of ponies and the gentle clank of armor.
"I have to use the bathroom!" Frodo called out, already scrambling from the wagon and darting for the bushes.
A muffled snort of laughter came from behind him, along with a mingled array of long-suffering sighs. Bilbo cast a look over his shoulder to find nothing but calm expressions from the guardsman. There was no question of where the laughter came from for Dwalin's shoulders still shook with it.
"I'm terribly sorry—" Bilbo began and Thorin shushed him with a shake of his head.
"So long as we make it over the mountains before the first snowfall, it will be well," Thorin said, a small smile curving his mouth. "If the journey home takes twice as long as the travel from it, I would call that a price well paid."
"Home," Bilbo murmured beneath his breath. Soon enough, Frodo came running from the bushes, his shirttail flapping as he clambered into the wagon next to Ferdinand, his small face eager.
Without a word spoken, the ponies began again, trotting east, away from the setting sun and towards Erebor, though surely there would be a few more bathroom breaks along the way.
-fin