Chapter Text
They say timing is everything and they'd be right.
This had much been on Thorin's mind... since that first meeting with Gandalf in Bree.
So much could go wrong so long as the timing stayed right. And right it always seemed to be.
The timing had been perfect again and again. Perfect from the second he saw that crumpled, old wizard hat sitting on the table at the inn that night. Perfect in the exact moment the key was placed in his hand in the parlor of a burglar's house, even after losing his way. Twice. From the discovery of the runes under the light of the very crescent moon they needed and read by the only being that could understand them, even if it was an elf... And then at last setting foot in Laketown with just enough time to reach the door by Durin's Day.
Perfect timing and no mistake.
But for every instance of perfect timing that they enjoyed, there was an equal amount of the worst, most rotten timing ever experienced in this life, in which Thorin would always be reminded just how ill-favored their quest really was.
Getting lost twice on the way to their burglar's house...? Rotten. Finding the only trolls in a thousand mile radius across the south? In the first three weeks of travel? Rotten. Leaving Rivendell in secret only to run headlong into a rockgiant fight in the middle of a thunderstorm? Rotten, rotten, rotten.
Getting lost in the Mirkwood... being set upon by giant spiders and then by more elves- worse elves... trapped in an Elvish prison... That one was more than rotten. More like... hideous. Disgusting. Irredeemably vile.
The push and pull of the timing had shoved them forward and yanked them back in equal measure. Every step and jump and trip and fall had added up to equal this one great journey and they were all so tired.
It was only here, in Laketown, this smelly, forsaken, floating place, that the company was finding their first moment of peace since leaving the Carrock. The Carrock, where they'd spent their days stuffing themselves with Beorn's endless stores of fruits and honey and twice baked cakes and their nights making merry with his custards and sweet wines and honey-meads. Even the memories were sweet.
Here in their rooms above the water, things were quite different. Here the lingering smell of fish was a long way from the scent of the Beorn's wildflowers. There were no man-like dogs delivering their milk and bread, only Bard's children and their dirty little faces offering bowls of fish stew. But it was still a peace they were thankful for. In any case, peace was likely a poor choice of words for either place, for this was no peace at all. It was the calm before the storm. The stillness and quiet before they walked single file into the mouth of the dragon to awaken who knows what chaos.
And yet... this room, this poor, drafty room and this heavy, lingering moment of waiting inside it- this was, without a single doubt, where Thorin would like to remain always. Here, where he dozed quietly in and out of dreamless sleep as the dawn crept into his room, his arms stretched comfortably over his head and his bare form covered in a scant blanket.
He couldn't remember ever feeling so peaceful in all his life, even before the dragon. He'd never before felt so still or breathed so deeply.
A pair of gentle but inexperienced hands combed through his dark hair, giving special attention to the veins of silver streaking through it. He was particularly enjoying the familiar feeling of tightness and tugging as the hands methodically worked their way down his scalp. Braiding practice. Though the feeling itself was familiar, it was also entirely different. This was sacred beyond words. He had never in his long years been afforded such a rare thing.
Thorin did not tell her the weight of such an intimacy and wasn't quite sure if he should considering what lay ahead of them. All he knew for certain was that it felt natural and good on this unhurried morning, especially after the night they had shared. He felt her lips press to the braid she'd been working on- this brave and worthy hobbit lass that he was most desirous to call his own- that he had made his own in the dark of that most perfect night.
Yes... this was where he wanted to stay. For how much more could a dragons teasure be worth than this precious moment, resting his world-weary head on the lap of a soft and beautiful halfling as she braided his hair and stroked the cares and worries from his brow.
A short, copper-colored braid fell forward and tickled his cheek. He caught it between his calloused fingers and felt it thoughtfully down to the bead he had placed at the end of it. It felt cool against his skin as he traced its familiar carvings, the shape of a raven, the sigil of the line of Durin. He pressed it to his lips and breathed deeply of the moment, unable to forget that it might be the last of it's kind. Finally, he opened his eyes and gazed up at the most concentrated expression he'd ever seen on Billa's face. The sight of her made him smile in a way he thought he'd forgotten how and when she met his eyes, they were lit with warmth.
Thorin reached up, unable to stop himself, and stroked her cheek before running his thumb across her smiling lips. They parted under his touch and he felt the warmth of her breath when she sighed happily. He honestly couldn't help his reaction so he felt especially encouraged by the breathless laughter that washed over him as he looked adoringly at her, suddenly on her back and under a very insistent dwarf. He lowered his face to hers in a motion that was quickly becoming wonderfully familiar and let their noses touch. She rubbed them together, still smiling. She was so very lovely he could resist no longer and his mouth crashed into hers, kissing her as ardently as when their night began.
Dawn had past and the morning was here, shining its light onto every corner and every kiss. The only lingering shadow that remained was that of the Lonely Mountain and their final task that slept within it. It stood silent and waiting in full view of their window, happily forgotten for just a few more hours.
But no more than that.
Was this, the most important morning of Thorin's entire life, perfect timing? Or was it the rotten timing he'd come to know so very well.
If his mind were able to focus on anything but her, he might consider that it was neither because they also say that timing's a bitch.
And they'd be right.