Work Text:
The first few days of the aftermath of the battle were quite a blur for Bilbo. He had a couple of minor scrapes and bruises to attend to, and a nasty concussion from smacking his head upon the cliffs of Ravenhill, but it was nothing compared to what Thorin withstood. A punctured lung, broken ribs, a broken foot, and countless other injuries that were surely hiding under the pile of furs he was covered in. He hadn’t woken up since he had collapsed on the cot in the sick tent. In fact, they scarcely believed he would make it through, even with the best mending that could be afforded.
Bilbo tried to stand vigil, but he was exhausted, so he settled for clutching Thorin’s hand as he drifted in and out of sleep beside his cot. Yet after a few weeks of applying salves and changing bandages, Thorin finally blinked his eyes awake.
Immediately, Bilbo felt the fingers in his grasp twitch, waking him from his slumbering state.
“Bilbo,” Thorin rasped.
“Thorin,” Bilbo whispered in turn, unable to help the smile forming on his face and the tears starting to form in his eyes. “Don’t ever do that again, you blasted dwarf.”
“Whatever you wish, my burglar.” Thorin smiled.
Their time together was cut short, however, as Thorin was forced to begin taking on his duties as ruler, even on his sickbed. Moving all the dwarfs back into the mountain, excavating safe living quarters, negotiating with the Elves and Men, and learning how to walk again didn’t leave much time for social visits.
Bilbo busied himself by assisting the healers and cooking in the kitchens whenever he could. While he wished he could spend more time with Thorin, he knew that his people needed him more than he did at the moment. Surely, he could be a bit more patient.
However, he did make sure that Thorin at least ate supper every night, at least in the beginning. In his makeshift quarters, he would deliver his meal, perhaps a spot of tea if he could find some to brew. To be honest, Bilbo felt quite useless as the only hobbit in a mountain made for dwarves. But Thorin always removed himself from his work to thank him, spend a moment to eat with him. So Bilbo made it his duty to make sure Thorin took this small break every night and didn’t overwork himself completely.
Sometimes after they finished eating, they would find themselves drawn up on the lounge in front of the hearth, leaning against one another, passing a pipe back and forth. Hypothesizing an imagined future.
It always left Bilbo feeling warm inside after those nights, despite the chill of the mountain seeping into his bones after he left Thorin’s rooms. That even after such hardship and loss and change, there was something to look forward to, something to hope for.
However, it was the very next evening after one of these nights spent between the two of them that something changed.
Bilbo brought Thorin their suppers like usual. As always, he was hunched over his desk, papers scattered around him in an unorganized fashion. He himself looked a bit worse for wear, his hair frizzy and sticking out from his braids, dark circles under his eyes.
“Did you get any sleep last night?” Bilbo asked, setting the tray down on a table, making his way towards the desk to tidy it up.
Thorin grabbed his wrist as he reached out. “Leave it.”
Bilbo blinked in shock. “I’m just trying to—”
“I know. And I do thank you for bringing my meal here. But I have much to do, if you’ll excuse me.”
Bilbo yanked his hand back, rubbing the spot, trying to figure out why his touch was no longer as gentle as it was the night before. He searched his eyes, trying to find an explanation for this behavior under his steeled facade.
But finding no give, he resigned and let it go. “I’m sorry, I’ll take my leave.”
And so he made the short trek back to his own room, in too much disbelief to process what had just happened.
The next day, he was apprehensive to go back to Thorin’s room, but figured that surely there was some reasoning for the strange interaction and they only needed to talk it out and everything would return back to normal.
He knocked on the door this time before entering, tray in hand and steeled resolve. Thorin sat at his desk, even more disheveled than the day prior.
“I—I’ve brought your supper,” he managed to get out.
“Thank you, Bilbo. Please set it on the table,” he said without even turning around.
Bilbo knew he should have said something right then, tried to dig the reason out of him for why he was acting in such a way, yet, he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words past the lump in his throat.
“Yes, alright. I’ll just be going, then.” And off he went to his chambers to weep.
From that day forward, he had an attendant deliver Thorin’s meal to him, unable to gather the courage to do it himself. If his presence was unwelcome, then he would respect that.
Deep down, he understood that there was a heavy weight on Thorin’s shoulders. While they may have been able to play a bit more fast and loose on the road, things were different now. Thorin must have finally realized he didn’t have time for such things as…whatever they were. The home they had so longed to retake was now in need of rebuilding, and being leader of such an effort demanded a lot more than traversing halfway across Middle Earth, where one has the chance to grow closer with their companions.
So even if it made his own heart break, he wouldn’t falter now. Even if his dreams of being by Thorin’s side were delayed, it didn’t matter. What kind of hobbit would he be if he left the dwarrow now, when they were so in need of every effort? No, he would not let his personal feelings about the leader of the company come between helping the dwarrow finish reclaiming their home once and for all.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
A few weeks later after much of the same treatment, Bilbo woke with a dreadful feeling he couldn’t shake. He wanted nothing more than to stay in bed for the whole day, will tomorrow to arrive already, but he knew no amount of wishing would make it so.
He reluctantly rolled himself out of the covers and made his way to breakfast with some members of the company. Only a few of them were present, most having duties related to the evening’s proceedings. He tried to ignore the small talk from the remaining ones, but it seemed everyone was abuzz with anticipation for the coronation.
Slipping away unnoticed, he made his way towards his favorite little alcove, hoping to find some reprieve from the insistent hum of energy from the mountain.
Through a narrow winding path, some old forgotten thing, it led out to a tiny opening out of the mountain. A miniscule balcony or terrace of some sort, someone’s hidden secret from before the mountain fell, surely.
The view was gorgeous, the vastness of the plains filling the entirety of his vision. Though, he did wish it was the other side of the mountain instead, that he wasn’t able to see Ravenhill. But objectively he knew that it was quite beautiful.
He liked to imagine who the dwarf was that formed this spot, what they liked about coming outside, when most dwarrow would prefer to stay within the rocky confines of their mountain for their whole lives. If they shared the same spirit of adventure that made him leave the Shire and comforts of Bag End. If they made it out of the mountain before the dragon came.
No, that was too morbid. Maybe they passed on before the mountain fell. Yes, that was much better. They lived a long, nice life full of peace and no worries about dragons or war or gold or any of the like.
Maybe they were royalty. Perhaps not of the line of Durin themselves, but maybe instead married into the family, trying to find a piece of themselves before they got swept up into the chaos of what it meant to be truly part of the mountain.
He shook his head of the thought. Who was he kidding?
Settling onto a jutted out stone, he brought out his pipe and smoked, emptying his mind of every ridiculous notion until he had to get ready for the evening.
He was planning on spacing out most of the proceedings, head down in one of the pews, Bifur on one side and Bombur on the other. He drowned out the noise of the chatter around him while waiting for them to just get on with it already.
That is, until the doors to the throne room finally opened.
In royal Durin blue robes, littered with all the finery imaginable, save for the top of his head, Thorin shimmered and shone in the halls of his forefathers.
There were bright blue sapphires scattered in his long, dark hair, and mithril beads adorning the ends of his many braids.
Everyone stood up, Bilbo scrambling to follow along as Thorin made his way down the aisle at the end of the procession. In front of the throne awaiting him were Dís, Fíli, and Kíli off to the side, while Balin stood in front of the King’s seat. Above it, that blasted stone.
It was dead silent as Thorin walked towards the throne, robes swishing with each step, the thump of his cane reverberating throughout the room. He’d probably never walk again without it. Yet, he still looked every bit the part of a dwarven king to be, confident strides and eyes focused ahead. He had a regal air about him that he’d had as long as Bilbo had known him, but it was no more evident than as he made his way to his rightful place.
Bilbo watched him go by in awe like everyone else, feeling like he might actually have a chance at getting through the evening, until he caught the slightest glimpse of icy blue eyes directed at him.
The glance probably lasted less than a second, but it felt like an eternity trapped under Thorin’s gaze. Never had he seen him so intensely determined since sometime on the quest. But behind the obvious fierceness he put on for such an occasion, Bilbo could tell there was something else there.
The faintest hint of contrition and sorrow behind a facade of strength and resolve.
Thorin looked away, finally, and took his place in front of Balin to begin the rites of the coronation. Though, throughout the entire ceremony, Bilbo couldn’t unsee it. He tried to convince himself he was only imagining things that weren’t there, but the more he stared, the more obvious it became.
Thorin didn’t want to be there.
To prevent himself from causing a scene right then, Bilbo did space out, unable to bear witness to Thorin putting himself through something he did not want a part of.
Only a few days later, there was a knock at his door. He rolled to the other side of his bed, wishing the offender to take the hint and go away.
Another knock resounded throughout the room.
He sighed, reluctantly getting up and answering the door.
“Can I help—oh.”
It was Thorin.
“I didn’t see you at the reception,” he said plainly.
Bilbo cleared his throat. “I’m afraid I had to turn in early. Dreadful stomach bug.”
“Is that so?” He quirked his lips, one of his more infuriating habits that Bilbo couldn’t get enough of.
“Trust me, you wouldn’t like to know the half of it.”
“Then how come I haven’t heard of a single other being under this mountain who’s caught this so-called bug?”
“Thorin.”
“I would just like to know why my dear friend had to leave early from one of the most important days of my life.”
“Maybe I wouldn’t have left if you actually wanted to be there.”
Thorin stood in shock. “Bilbo, how dare—”
“No, don’t ‘Bilbo’ me. You know I’m right. I understand you feel you have an obligation to your people, to your bloodline, to your family. But it does not change the fact this life is not what you desire any longer. And do not lie to me. Everyone else may take your acceptance at face value, but I can see that this is not what you wish for yourself.”
He was quiet before he answered. “Then you understand why I must do it.”
Bilbo huffed. “To be quite honest, I do not. No, Thorin, I do not understand why you make yourself miserable doing something you dislike. But if you are going to continue to act like an insolent arse by pushing everyone away and torturing yourself, then far be it for me to be the one that stands in your way.”
He seemed to consider Bilbo’s words, before storming away without evening saying so much as ‘goodbye.’
Bilbo shut the door with more force than was strictly necessary, turning around to press his back up against it.
He made it clear to Thorin that he saw through him. Sure, he could have done it with some more manners, but he supposed his time away from his propriety-obsessed neighbors was taking its toll.
He said what he wanted to. He was honest.
So why did he feel so horrible?
Thorin thought death would be a lot less painful. Every part of his body ached, and if it didn’t, then it burned or itched or excruciatingly hurt. He tried to move his hand, brushing against the skin of another.
He blinked awake, squinting through bleary eyes to make out a familiar mop of curls beside him.
His heart sank.
“Bilbo,” he rasped.
Mahal, he could stand the pain of dying a thousand deaths, but he couldn’t bear to stand the thought that he had brought Bilbo with him.
“Thorin,” he whispered back, the relief palpable.
It was warm where their hands were clasped together.
Surely, that didn’t mean…it couldn’t…
He was alive. They both survived.
“Don’t ever do that again, you blasted dwarf,” he continued.
Thorin would do nothing less than anything he wanted.
“Whatever you wish, my burglar.”
And despite the pain, he smiled.
He looked forward to the times Bilbo would visit the most. Now that he was awake, there were many others he had to see. Healers who tried to figure out if he would be able to walk again or breathe properly. Eager dwarrow who wanted to form a council for the mountain already. To be quite honest, he couldn’t care less about such things. They had survived the blasted battle, wasn’t that enough to be grateful for? His burglar seemed to share the sentiment, though it didn’t keep him from scurrying off in the times when Thorin’s audience was required to go help out in the kitchens or the infirmary.
“My burglar" he called him. He didn’t know when he had begun doing so, but he couldn’t stop himself now. He knew he didn’t have any sort of claim over the hobbit, especially after what he had done during his bout of sickness, but a small part of him still hoped that they would be able to reconcile, and become the close friends they were again.
If he really let his imagination go, perhaps, even more than just friends. But he would never admit that to anyone.
Bilbo didn’t seem to mind the name, however. Most often he used it after they had taken their suppers, when they could finally see each other after days of fulfilling their respective duties, and he would smile and duck his head bashfully as he helped Thorin prepare for the night since he was still unable to move.
Once everything was taken care of, he invited Bilbo to sit next to him in his bed. He intertwined their hands, running lines over his palm with the other.
“The healers think I’ll be able to walk again.” he started. “Though I’ll likely need a crutch of some kind.”
Bilbo squeezed his hand, laid his head on his shoulder. “Oh, Thorin, that’s wonderful news.”
It did things to Thorin, to have Bilbo so gentle with him. Emboldened, in a much quieter voice he said, “To be quite honest, I’m not sure how I made it at all.”
“Don’t say such things. You did exactly what you set out to do.”
“I know. It’s just hard to believe after all this time planning and trying to take it back, that it’s finally done.”
“You didn’t think this far ahead, did you?” Bilbo teased without any bite.
Thorin sighed wistfully. “Certainly I didn’t think I would be sitting here with a halfling by my side.”
“Not just any halfling, I hope.”
“No, not just any halfling, my burglar.”
When he woke the next morning, he was still riding off the elation of the night before. Bilbo tucked safely in his arms with nothing threatening to take that away. Of course, he did end up retiring to his own rooms for “propriety’s sake” which disappointed him, but he reveled in the fact he was allowed any time with him at all. Once the reclaiming was mostly through, he would be able to properly court him and give him the life he deserved here in the mountain. That was the only thing that drove him to get up in the morning and do what was asked of him.
Balin came into his room first thing and helped him to his desk. He dropped off paperwork and an agenda for the day, including audiences he would have to entertain. He sighed, already thinking ahead to the evening when he would see Bilbo again.
“Have you given any more thought to the coronation?” Balin asked, snapping him out of his daydream.
“No.”
“Well, you should. The longer you wait, the more talk there will be.”
“Then so be it. There are much more important things to worry about at the moment, such as finding a way to feed all these people.”
“I am aware of that. But you’d do well to make sure that even is convinced that is truly what you care about.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Others might assume your priorities lie elsewhere, if you understand my meaning.”
Thorin scoffed. “You know more than anyone how much I am committed to my duties.”
“I am only trying to show you the bigger picture, lad. Some expect you to commit in all aspects of this role. I know you do not wish to acknowledge it, but it remains true.”
“Please leave me.”
“Of course.” He shut the door behind him, leaving Thorin alone with his thoughts.
He wasn’t stupid, he knew what Balin meant. A political marriage was expected, then.
The notion did not sit well within him. That he had sacrificed his entire being to retake his people’s homeland, and yet was still being asked to give up one of the last remaining parts of himself he had left to give. It enraged him that what he had already done was not enough to satisfy his subjects.
He wished he could pace and let off some steam, but his fucking leg was useless, apparently just as useless as him to his kingdom if he decided to marry whom who truly loved.
Distantly, in the back of his mind, he had been aware that this was a possibility if he retook the throne. But like he told Bilbo the night before, he never realized he would get as far as he did.
Tears pricked at his eyes. He had a choice to make, and he was afraid of what he would choose.
The day of the coronation approached both at a dreaded snail’s pace and far too soon all at once. His leg still gave him trouble, but he practiced the walking bit, and he would be able to make it to the throne with his cane. Of course it couldn’t be plain, but at least he was allowed to keep his usual one and get a separate one for the occasion. In fact, he was in way too much finery for his liking. But that was hardly what bothered him the most. Besides the ceremony itself, there was the dreaded reception, where he would be expected to be diplomatic and make small talk with dwarrowdams to scout out potential spouses.
He was ungrateful to be dreading a celebration solely in honor of him. But it wasn’t really for him, was it? If it was, then he would be allowed to do as he pleased, which would be to skip the whole thing entirely and find someone he hadn’t spoken to properly in weeks.
Would Bilbo even show up? What reason did he even have to stay in the mountain after the way he had treated him?
The thought didn’t stop him from wanting to see him as badly as he did, to find some way to make up for his behavior towards him, do anything to get him to remain at his side. How would Bilbo even stand him, as he wished for such things, even as he took each step in the direction away from him?
He tried to bury the thought. He knew he wouldn’t make it through the day if he didn’t.
There were so many people in the throne room. He hadn’t seen as many since he was a wee pebble and his grandfather was still on the throne.
That made his heart race. He tried to focus on putting each foot after the other. He just had to make it to the throne.
All it took was meeting those eyes.
Mahal help him, he was through.
Of course Bilbo didn’t show up to the reception. Thorin avoided him, so why shouldn’t he do the same thing? He should be grateful he was still in the mountain to begin with.
Still, it didn’t stop Thorin from worrying that the damage he had done to their relationship was irreparable.
He tried to wait it out, but there was only so much willpower he had while stuck up in his rooms with only boring paperwork and his own thoughts.
In a brave stroke of indulgence, he grabbed his cane beside his desk, made his way to the doors of his chambers.
The guard on duty was clearly startled, so Thorin told him he was leaving before he got a chance to get a word out.
Off he went, slowly but surely, to find his burglar.
He was right. Mahal, of course Bilbo was right. But, oh, how he wished he wasn’t.
Why couldn’t he be happy with his fate? Not even happy, maybe satisfied, or perhaps content? Why wasn’t it enough that he had done a service to his people and was following through on what it required of him?
Being crowned should have felt victorious, a fitting acknowledgement for everything he accomplished. Instead, it only felt like a sentencing, the last moments of freedom he had before his whole life belonged to the blasted mountain.
Thorin didn’t know how long it had been since he last saw Bilbo, but it must have been quite some time. He looked worn and weary now, though he knew he wasn’t being overworked. He made sure that all of his needs were met and more, that he had every privilege each member of the company deserved.
He brought their suppers, like he used to do. They ate in an awkward silence, after an attempt at stilted conversation. Thorin began to believe he was right about what he had done being irreparable. Clearly, things couldn’t be like they were before. Bilbo’s words only encouraged the thought.
“I’m leaving Erebor.”
“Why? You know you are welcome here.”
“Is that so? I do not feel welcome here.”
“You only need to tell me who is bothering you, and it will be taken care of—”
“It’s you, Thorin. You act as if I don’t exist.”
“I’m so sorry, Bilbo—”
“Please save it. Unless you have something to say that isn't an apology, I don’t want to hear it.”
“What about an explanation?”
He scoffed. “Are you going to tell me that I started to bore you, or that you just couldn’t stand me anymore? I don’t think I want to hear that either.”
“I wanted to see you more than anything, Bilbo.” That shut him up.
He leaned forward, extending his hands. Bilbo allowed him to take them in his own. “I made a terrible decision to push you away, but I couldn’t stand to face you knowing how much a failure I am.”
“You’re not a—”
“Bilbo, I am. Nothing I do is enough. The dragon is gone, I still have to win the war. I win the war, I still have to become king. I become king, I still have to spend all of my days to rebuild it. I do that, and they still want me to marry for an alliance. To them, I am a failure.”
“If you don’t want this, then why don’t you say so?”
“I cannot just step down.”
“Yes, you can, Thorin. It’s your life. You have a say in the choices you make.” Bilbo cupped his face. “Don’t you think you’ve given enough of yourself to them already? You’ve given your people their home back. They don’t deserve you if they think you’re a failure after that.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and tipped his forehead forward so they were pressed together. He shakily exhaled, calmed by the sense that Bilbo was right here.
“Oh, Thorin,” he whispered.
He pulled away and Thorin’s heart dropped, before he felt his lips gently kiss the top of his head.
“Please don’t leave.”
“Please don’t make me.”
“Tell me how to fix this, I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”
Bilbo shook his head, escaping his grasp. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can.”
“I mustn't—”
“I am king. I order that your wishes may be fulfilled, so long as I live, my burglar.” Slowly, he brought his hand to Bilbo’s face, guiding their foreheads together once more. “Please, Bilbo,” he whispered, breath ghosting over his lips. “Tell me.”
He sighed, frowning in thought before speaking.
“Come with me.”
Slowly, he collapsed into his arms, heaving with silent cries. Bilbo rubbed circles into his back, shushing him with sweet nothings.
“I just want you to be happy, my dear. I can’t stand to see you this miserable.”
Thorin let himself be held, trying to satisfy his wishes at least in the moment. He had to admit that he hadn’t felt this content in ages.
After a long while, he pulled back to meet Bilbo’s gaze. At last, he asked, “What will they say?”
Bilbo smiled at him with glossy eyes. “Who cares?”
Hand in hand, they arrived at a familiar green door with a peculiar mark.
Bilbo tsked. “We’ll have to take care of that.”
Thorin squeezed his hand. “I think I’m rather fond of it.”