Chapter Text
Bilbo Baggins passed by him on his way over the bridge. The only reason he'd caught Bilbo's attention was because he was taking up nearly half the sidewalk. That, and he was also absurdly attractive. The man had long soot-colored hair past his shoulders, streaked through with ashy streaks of grey. His tall, broad form leaned languidly on the cold metal railing, booted feet crossed as he took up more space than really necessary. But it was getting late and the evening foot traffic was dwindling to very few and far between faces. The man faced the river, staring at the hazy sun as it sunk in the murky sky, with a cigarette dangling from his lips.
At the time, Bilbo simply dodged him and then a rubbish bin and went on his way, the image of the handsome man's stern profile lingering in his mind's eye for perhaps a moment longer than needed before continuing on.
Inside Thorin Oakenshield was a black hole slowly tearing him to pieces. Days and weeks and months and years had passed with this horrible feeling lingering, with no end in sight. His best days, when he managed to scrape by, it still felt like there was no happiness in the world. The days that were meant to be good, when his sister visited or his nephews stayed the night, he felt as if he were watching paint drying. Dredging up a smile took massive effort. He didn't even bother faking it anymore, really.
And then there were days like this. This was likely the lowest he'd felt since... Well, since that time. His time in holes, with blood on his hands and clothes and no amount of scrubbing could take it away. Or the time were fire scorched his skin and stole his whole life.
He had barely more than nothing. Every goddamn day was a fucking struggle, and it only seemed to get worse. His sisters words of encouragement couldn't reach him now, but even when she said them it only made him feel weak. What kind of fucking big brother was he if he couldn't handle this. If he constantly needed reassuring. He felt needy and useless and by god he hated it. It was embarrassing and terrible and he just wanted it to fucking end.
And as he stared down from the height of the bridge, he wondered what it would be like. Would it be peaceful? What would the impact feel like? Would he feel it at all? The idea of falling seemed so sweet, so calming... To just let it all go, stop clinging, stop struggling... What did he have to lose?
Realizing he'd let his cherry fall, he hastily spat out the filter and stuffed his frozen fingers into his pocket in search of his pack. Lighting up another cigarette, he at once marveled and hated the warmth of the flame. As it flickered out he stared and blinked at the spots it left on his vision. Assaulted at once memories of the fire, and of his lost home.
He really ought to quit smoking.
Or...
His gaze dropped once again to the bleak, grey waves below.
Meanwhile, Bilbo was exiting the cafe a few blocks from the bridge, a coffee in one hand, files tucked under his arm, and the other hand shaking the hand of an elderly man with a white beard.
"We appreciate your help on this, Bilbo," said the old man with a gravely voice.
"Of course, of course, Gandalf," Bilbo replied with a professional smile, "It's not every day you get to hand draw an uncharted island, it's really an honor."
"Yes..." murmured Gandalf, withdrawing his hand and tucking it into the pocket of his grey trench coat. "Well, thanks again, and do take care, old friend."
Bilbo nodded once, still smiling, with a, "Same to you," before Gandalf turned and went on his way, hunched against the bitter chill.
The map-maker quickly ensured he had everything and then began heading back, in the opposite direction of Gandalf. Checking his watch, he found his meeting had lasted maybe twenty or thirty minutes, but already the sky had darkened exponentially. The western most part of the sky held only a slight glow of violet, and the street lamps had come on, turning the sidewalk a dim yellow. It also suddenly seemed too cold for his many layers, so he zipped up his windbreaker and tried to bury his face in his knitted scarf.
The night was quiet and desolate, utterly devoid of the few passerbys he'd seen earlier on. They'd all likely done the smart thing and fled to the safety of warm homes and hot cups of tea.
All except one.
Huffing out a cloud of warm fog, Bilbo hustled down the sidewalk, swapping his warm coffee between his hands. He didn't like staying out after dark, paranoia and yearning for the comfort of his home hastening his steps. Hopping from pool of light to pool of light in the street lamps distracted him for a moment from the figure ahead, but eventually, something, some strange unknown force, drew his eyes from the ground and made him look at the bridge.
This is something of a strange thing for Bilbo, for he spent most of his time staring down at his feet, only looking up when really required to. But something tore his eyes from his shoes and he thanked it every day after that it did.
He stopped in his tracks, blinking at the sight before him as his startled brain tried to catch up with exactly what it was he was seeing. Second guessing his eyes, triple guessing the implication, and quadruple guessing what his reaction should be, he stared at the man standing on the wrong side of the railing.
Make that two.
If he recognized it as the man he'd passed by earlier, it didn't occur to him now. The man hung precariously from the rail, which he clenched firmly in white-knuckled hands. There was maybe a handful of inches of concrete on the other side of the railing, where the heels of his boots rested with his toes hanging a hundred meters above certain death.
It was this thought that spurred Bilbo into action, when he realized, suddenly, desperately, that this man was about to kill himself. And there was absolutely no one here to stop him with the exception of Bilbo himself.
He pulled himself short, a shout on his lips, but he stifled it, realizing that startling him might make this end a whole lot quicker than he wanted it to. His heart in his throat, he tried to get as close as he could without surprising the man. Thankfully, he was superbly quiet when he wanted to be.
However, he was not, in fact, invisible, and the man caught a glimpse of Bilbo in his peripheral vision and jerked his head around to look at him.
"Don't come any closer!" the man's voice boomed, giving Bilbo the fright of his life.
After recovering, Bilbo tried to make himself look as non threatening as possible (not very difficult really) by splaying his fingers in a placating gesture. "Okay, alright," said Bilbo in a soft voice. "You... you alright there?" he asked, eyes flicking down to the man's hands which still clung to the bars. Praying they would remain there.
It appeared Bilbo's sudden appearance had solidified the man's resolve, and he turned back to look out at the black river. "I will be soon," he answered, turning Bilbo's heart cold.
"No, no, no," stammered Bilbo, shuffling forward in panic. "Don't do that!" he begged.
"Why shouldn't I?" the man challenged, gazing down at the pitch dark water.
"Well, because..." Bilbo floundered, utterly at a loss of what was proper to say in this situation. He realized politeness would get him absolutely nowhere, and cut right to the chase instead. There was no proper way, no polite phrasing, nothing he could think of that would make this easier. So he asked, "Why would you?"
The man furrowed his brow, distracted. "Because there's no reason not to. I've lost everything, and it's just too much to bother with," explained the man curtly. "It's better for everyone if I just disappear."
Bilbo was already shaking his head in disagreement. He felt ridiculous relief when the man turned to look at him, only slightly. He had his attention, so he could talk him out of this. "I highly doubt that," he told the man confidently. "No one benefits from someone they care about dying."
The man opened his mouth to argue, then snapped it shut. After a moment he said, "Well, I will." His fingers loosened on the railing.
Heart leaping in fear, Bilbo raised his hand as if to stop him. "No! Wait, no, you have the rest of your life ahead of you, don't do this -"
"Life is cheap," interrupted the man. His long hair fell over his shoulders and whipped about in the chilled wind.
Bilbo felt frustration tinge the desperation in his voice as he argued, "No, it isn't. It's the most valuable thing there is."
"And the most painful."
Bilbo's heart suddenly ached for this man. "Yes... yes, but also the most wonderful."
The man only scoffed, and to Bilbo's horror, let go with one hand
to raise his smoldering cigarette to his lips.
Dizzy with fright, Bilbo stepped forward, ready to reach out and yank the man to safety.
"Take another step and I'll jump," threatened the man darkly.
Bilbo didn't doubt him.
Steeling himself, and taking a deep breath, Bilbo tried again. "Okay, so..." he pursed his lips, and wiggled his frozen nose. "So, I read an article once... they interviewed a some people who attempted suicide and, erm, survived... And every one of them told the interviewer that they realized, about half way down, that every single problem that caused them to jump was in fact fixable..." Bilbo exhaled heavily through his nose, staring intensely at the man as he exhaled a cloud of grey smoke. "Every... single one of them said that. So, imagine all the ones... all the ones that didn't make it, who probably thought the same thing," Bilbo finished, his voice breaking horribly at the end.
There was a throaty chuckle that made Bilbo warm down to his toes. He didn't realize it now, but he would later give anything to hear that laugh every day of his life. The man turned to look at him with an empty smile and emptier eyes and told him, "That's a nice story Mister Grocer, but this is the best I've felt in months."
And there, dangling off the rusted railing of an old, oxidized bridge, he felt more alive than he'd felt in ages. Thorin couldn't remember how long it had been since he felt this light, this free. With the knowledge that loosening a couple of fingers could result in no more worries, no more pain, no more empty days of nothingness, he felt an unhinged sort of peace. He held on by only one hand now, and his the exhilaration of looking down both excited and terrified him.
However, he would be lying if he said there was no shadow of doubt in the back of his mind. The short grocer was bothering him, but not in the way he expected. He almost... felt sorry for him.
"What's your name?" Thorin wondered idly.
"Bilbo Baggins," answered the little man quickly, "What's yours?"
Thorin ignored his question. "Mister Baggins, if you so wish you can return to the warmth of your home and pretend this night never happened. I doubt you'll want to watch. I will wait until you are out of sight, even."
Bilbo Baggins shook his head vehemently, his mop of curls flopping about his face. He stared beseechingly into Thorin's eyes, which were locked on him for the moment. "Listen..." he began. And Thorin did, for whatever reason. "I understand it might... seem hopeless. But it can be fixed. If you want it fixed."
There was blood in his vision, on his hands, and bodies in the ground. "No," disagreed Thorin. "You can't bring back the dead."
The small man stared at him blankly for a moment, mouth open, about to respond. "You're right," he agreed after a moment. "But dying is no way to honor them."
Thorin was growing frustrated with this stranger, not realizing he'd been successfully drawn into conversation with him. "What do you know about honor?" Thorin scoffed.
"Not sure, but I know plenty about dead people," countered the stranger.
He was getting irritated, and turned around on his precarious perch to fully face the other man. "Don't compare yourself to me. You have no idea who I am, or what I've been through."
Instead of getting defensive, the strange Bilbo Baggins agreed with him. "Of course I don't, and I'm sure you've been through a hell of a lot..." Thorin watched the man's gaze trail down his face to his throat, and he realized his dog tags had slipped out from under his button down. "And... and everything you're feeling is completely valid."
Thorin actually blinked in shock.
But he wasn't done talking, and continued, "Just please, know that if you do this, everyone you have ever known will miss you. And everyone you would have known will too, even if they don't know it." Bilbo Baggins, the strange creature he was, stood firm in the pool of golden yellow light cast by the lamp behind him. He squared his shoulders and stared into Thorin's eyes with such unwavering sincerity it almost knocked him over. He still held the paper cup in his hand, while the other clenched and unclenched at his side, betraying his nerves.
At some point during the conversation between the two of them, it had begun to snow.
Thorin hooked his elbows over the railing, leaning on it in a mimicry of what he'd down earlier in the evening, only now very much on the wrong side of it. He felt less like he was clinging to life and more like he was clinging to sanity. He searched over this stranger's shadowed face, measuring his words, his expression, adding it all up in his head in a familiar sort of way.
"Why do you care?" Thorin asked.
Bilbo Baggins did something funny with his face then, sort of wiggling his nose but it involved a lot of mouth. It reminded Thorin of something... Bilbo shuffled his feet, glancing down, then looked right back up at Thorin as if deciding what to say.
Oh, a bunny. Thorin internally snickered.
"I supposed you could say I'm selfish," said Bilbo unexpectedly.
Thorin's confusion must have shown on his face.
"Well, I certainly don't want to be the last person you speak to. And I don't want the memory of this evening give me nightmares for the rest of my life..." he trailed off, and Thorin frowned at him disapprovingly, not liking his answer at all.
But then he added, "And I also want to get to know you, if that's alright."
Thorin was a little taken aback. Really? This little, homely thing wanted to know this crazed man hanging off a bridge? What was wrong with him?
The irony that he was wondering what was wrong with the person trying to talk him out of jumping off a bridge wasn't lost on him.
Silence stretched into the cold night, and snow began to dust their shoulders. Not a single car rumbled over the stone bridge, nor did anyone wander the streets. It was only the two of them, the bridge, and the snow. Thorin found himself weighing his options in his head, doubt finally muddling the peace he had previously felt. He was thinking of Dis, his sister who loved him so dearly, his young nephews who looked up to him so reverently, and strangely enough this odd, shivering creature who stood before him holding chilled coffee. He knew how much of a disappointment he was to his family, but he also imagined how much more disappointed they would be if they learned of this. They would think less of him, surely.
But then again... none of that would matter to him when he was dead. And, if what Bilbo Baggins had said was true and he did regret it when he was halfway down, he would only regret it for a second...
But...
What if...
Bilbo could see the war raging on the strange man's face, and his only thought was to help him over this railing, in whatever way he could. This had already been the craziest thing he'd ever done in all his life, so why should he stop now?
"Listen, how about this," Bilbo began, drawing the man's attention again. "How about you come back to my place for a cup of tea and if you still feel like revisiting this place... At least I tried talking you out of it."
It was a lie, to be sure. There was no way Bilbo would let this man leave his sight if he still felt like committing suicide. But he would say just about anything to get him off this bridge.
It was enough.
After a moment, the man nodded. Bilbo nearly collapsed with relief. He quickly put his things down on the snowy sidewalk and rushed over to the man, nearly slipping as he went. His heart was thrumming with adrenaline as it had since he'd laid eyes on this man, and now that they had reached an agreement his limbs were shaking and he felt a little dizzy.
Swallowing thickly, Thorin stubbed out his cigarette and let the butt plummet to the river beneath him. Suddenly unwilling to look down, he made to get back over the railing.
He changed his footing and his boot found slick snow, and he slipped.