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Bilbo wakes gasping from a memory of fire.
He doesn’t often dream of that horrible moment deep in Mount Doom, not anymore. He used to, but it’s been years since then, and the terror and sick misery have faded with time, as all things do. These days he’s more likely to have nightmares of the dragon spirit, or of Frodo getting hurt somehow, or just formless awfulness of the sort that can’t even be explained in the light of day - though he doesn’t have nightmares that often, really. It’s hard for any fear to reach him when he’s wrapped up in Thorin’s arms.
But sometimes it does sneak through. He can remember the heat of the lava beating against his skin, and the bitter fear, and the knowledge of his own death waiting.
“Ghivashel?” Thorin murmurs sleepily, and tugs Bilbo closer. “What’s wrong?”
“Just memories,” Bilbo says.
“Mm,” Thorin mumbles, and nuzzles at Bilbo’s hair. “Not good ones.”
“No.” Bilbo swallows hard. “Grief, and fire, and fear.”
“Ah,” Thorin breathes, and curls around Bilbo, broad shoulders blocking out the world. “Bravest of hobbits.”
Bilbo chuckles and reaches up to toy with a lock of Thorin’s hair. “Stubbornest, perhaps.”
“Bravest, stubbornest, finest in all ways,” Thorin insists. Bilbo shakes his head, smiling.
“You are ridiculous and I love you.”
Thorin shuffles a bit until he’s comfortably settled, blanketing Bilbo without squashing him. “I am king over a mighty people, honored with the love of a great hero, with heirs of my blood to make any dwarf proud. I am not ridiculous.” Bilbo can hear his smile, even if he can’t see it in the dimness of their chambers.
“Absolutely ridiculous,” Bilbo says, and cranes up to kiss the tip of Thorin’s nose. “And I love you.”
“Ghivashel,” Thorin murmurs, and takes Bilbo’s mouth in a searing kiss. Bilbo melts back against the pillows, sighing in contentment.
This was worth every moment of fear, every nightmare of fire. It would be worth it again, ten times over. “Ghivashel,” he murmurs back, and Thorin rumbles happiness into their kiss.