Chapter Text
They have a long tradition of combing and braiding one another’s hair for the day, begun when they were first betrothed, but Thorin always takes longer (no matter what style he creates for her) because he knows Billa loves it, and he loves the way she sways in his arms and goes dreamy, and best of all, she sings.
Little snatches of tunes, ones known to both of them, ones created by her mother, and ones conjured out of her own imagination, spurred on by this slow, quiet moment together.
One morning, she felt a bit ill, and had gone back to bed, apologizing, assuring him it was just for a few hours. Nothing serious, just overtired. She’d been overtired a good bit lately, and Thorin was concerned. Dwarrow were rarely ill, and he didn't quite know what to make of it. And then another morning, and another. She promised she’d see Óin.
He didn’t realize how much he missed those quiet moments with her until they weren’t there, didn’t realize how concerned he was until he was informed by Balin that he was an utter ass all day, and had been for the last three days.
“Go punch Dwalin or something until you feel better,” he snapped.
“Gladly,” Dwalin rumbled and sneered, and that was just it. Thorin stalked off to the training ground and had a very pleasant near-brawl. Dwalin was even nice enough not to go for Thorin’s face, because it always upset Billa.
Happily sore and in a much better humor, Thorin strolled into their quarters and there she was, glowing by the fire, hair unbound, a comb in her hand. She grinned at him and clucked her tongue playfully at the torn shoulder of his tunic.
“Have fun rolling in the dirt with Dwalin?”
“I did,” he admitted, stretching a bit, and moved to her side. “And how are you, my love?”
She looked up at him and wiggled the comb. “Missing you these past few mornings.” He leaned down to kiss her and she dodged him.
“Not that I don’t love it when you smell all wonderful and male and….mmmm.” She put her hand to her chest, her lashes fluttering, clearly rallying her thoughts. “But you’re literally dripping with sweat.” She eyed him and shrank back in the chair a few more inches. Thorin rolled his eyes.
“I also love it when you’re all warm and lovely from the bath.” She bit her lip delicately, desire darkening her eyes, and Thorin couldn’t help but stare.
“I seem to recall a few council meetings starting late because of that, my queen,” he said as he backed toward the bathing room. “I seem to recall several instances vividly.”
Billa tapped the comb against her lips, a secret smile curling the corners of her mouth. “All the more reason for a bath in the evening,” she said, voice low, a silver thread of laughter winding through it. “Plenty of time, after.” She shifted in the chair and her robe fell half-open, the curve of her breast beneath her thin nightgown a promise.
“Wait right there,” he said, his voice rough.
“Of course, dearest,” she replied demurely.
When he came back from his (quick but thorough) bath, he was sorry to see she’d tied her robe. Billa was staring into the fire, humming softly, idly running the comb through the very ends of her hair.
“I believe that’s my job,” Thorin said, plucking the comb from her hands. He bent down for a kiss, and she arched into it slowly with a happy hum, hand on his cheek. She wound her arms around his neck and tugged at him until he bent low enough for her bury her nose in the crook of his neck and inhale deeply.
“Mmm, freshly washed husband,” she murmured, stroking his bare shoulders. Thorin chuckled and untied her robe, slipping a hand in to curve around her breast, warm and heavy in his palm. Billa sighed and pressed into the touch, lifting her face for a kiss.
“Certain you wish me to comb your hair?” he whispered, lips barely touching hers.
“Oh, please, first?”she breathed. “I really did miss it.”
“As my queen commands,” he replied, and slipped behind her in the chair, made to fit the two of them, an indulgence he was grateful for daily.
She swayed and hummed as he tended to her, picking out a soft tune that, once she was satisfied, she hummed from start to finish several times, as if committing it to memory. The third time she ran through it, she left off humming and sang the notes in her warm, sweet voice, and he sang with her, low support under the tune, something he might use to accompany her on his harp. Her voice wavered with emotion and she clutched his knee, but kept singing. When she was done, he wrapped his arms around her.
“What a lovely tune,” he whispered. “Does it have words?”
“Yes,” she said, grasping his arms tight. Her voice was thick.
“Billa?”
She turned in his arms, and tears stood in her eyes. “It’s a lullaby.”
He cupped her cheek. “One of your mother’s tunes?”
A tiny shake of the head, and her smile was radiant. “Not Mother’s.”
His own throat grew tight, hope rising, and it took him a moment to find his voice. “Billa?”
“Mine,” she whispered, took his hand, and put it on her belly. “And yours.”