Chapter Text
Waking up on a cot in the infirmary was enough to make Bilbo wonder if the last week and a half had only been a dream. Just the thought of it made his heart ache, after the progress Fíli and Kíli had made, as well as his own with Thorin. If it had all been a fever dream, his mind fleeing his body to escape the pain, it had been an awfully coherent one.
Bilbo tried to roll over, noting that although he could do it without pain, he met some resistance. Warm, hard resistance. Hairy resistance, he found after reaching behind him.
Thorin.
Memories of the previous night came flooding back. He had spent the entire afternoon with the princes and Tauriel, in the hope of catching Fíli in another brief conscious moment. It had involved a lot more poetry reading, which thankfully had been enjoyable enough for Bilbo and Tauriel even without the princes responding. She wasn’t at all familiar with dwarven poetry, but like Bilbo was eager to learn. Tauriel wasn’t naturally an academic, but if an elf had ever been born who couldn’t manage some poetry, Bilbo hadn’t yet met them.
Not long after the evening meal, Thorin had returned, Balin apparently having given up on managing his schedule as tightly for the time being. Bilbo had expected him to be stiff and cold with Tauriel around, but apparently her care for Kíli had softened him toward her somewhat. They did have her to thank for protecting Kíli when he fell, after all. Not to mention the eager audience she proved to be when Thorin’s contribution was to tell some of Fíli and Kíli’s favorite bedtime stories from when they were young. It could only help that Thranduil had banished her, even though she admitted that her King had made several hints that she would be welcome to return. She hadn’t, and Thorin couldn’t dislike someone who ignored Thranduil’s goodwill.
They had decided to take the night in shifts, though Bilbo remembered protesting that Thorin needed his sleep almost as much as the princes needed to be awake (and Óin insisting that Fíli would wake up when he wanted to and there was nothing they could do about it). But Thorin was the king and this was his mountain, so he had insisted on taking the second shift, allowing him a nap on a cot during Bilbo’s shift, and promising to return to his room during Tauriel’s shift.
Apparently he had not.
“Thorin!” Bilbo hissed, nudging the sleeping dwarf in the ribs with his elbow. “You have a bed you should be sleeping in.” Tauriel, he noted, was studiously looking away.
Thorin just muttered something sleepily in Khuzdul and wrapped an arm around Bilbo’s waist, pulling him closer. It wasn’t terribly comfortable, considering that they were lying on two cots pushed together, but that really wasn’t the heart of the problem.
“That arm is still broken,” Bilbo hissed, unwilling to roughly handle the arm around him. “You need to be careful with it.”
“Then don’t move,” Thorin replied, his voice rough from sleep.
Bilbo sighed in exasperation, but he couldn’t escape without jostling Thorin’s arm, so he stayed where he was. Thorin really did sound tired, probably worn out from worry. He might claim that he could rest easy knowing that Fíli and Kíli were in Bilbo’s care, but it had to always be at the back of Thorin’s mind. The previous night had just been the first time he had truly allowed himself to feel it, with no mountain of work to bury himself behind, and no meetings with diplomats to look forward to where looking anything but perfectly at ease was a disadvantage.
“Did anything happen during the night?” he asked Tauriel, hoping that maybe being unable to sleep would encourage Thorin to seek greener pastures.
“Kíli’s fever seems to have faded,” Tauriel reported. “He asked for water, but fell right back asleep. Fíli moved a little, but he didn’t wake up.”
Not very different from every other day Bilbo had spent watching them. Kíli improved slowly, and Fíli remained the same. That he had woken up for just a moment before didn’t necessarily mean he was still in there. It hadn’t been reasonable to assume that maybe the three of them spending the night watching him would somehow change something. That wasn’t how healing worked. But, if Fíli really could hear them as he slept, Bilbo hoped the lad was happy at the attention, anyway. Happy that they hadn’t given up on him yet.
“I suppose worrying never did make anything happen faster,” Bilbo muttered, mostly to himself. At least they were showing signs of recovery. He had watched illness take his parents in a long, slow decline. He had never given up, but in the end they had. There was a part of him that was unwilling to lose another patient.
A knock on the door sounded, reminding Bilbo that the main infirmary was just on the other side of the wall. What would the wounded dwarves be muttering now, seeing Thorin enter the night before and not seeing him leave, even if it was his nephew’s sickroom? Or was Nori already spreading word of their ‘reconciliation’ around the mountain, troublesome spy that he was?
“I’ve got breakfast for the lads,” Óin announced, entering without invitation. He carried a tray with two bowls of soup balanced on it, which Tauriel immediately accepted from him. “You’ll have to find your own- Thorin didn’t sleep here, did he?”
Bilbo nodded, shifting slightly to show that he was trapped by Thorin’s broken arm. “Even though he promised not to.”
“You’re not doing that arm any favors,” Óin tsked, prodding Thorin’s splinted arm. “And you know how many foul things can be in the air with so many injured around. You’re only just recovering yourself.”
“I will recover better without your nettling,” Thorin muttered, tightening his grip on Bilbo.
Óin tsked again, switching to nudging the arm with his ear trumpet. “At least let Bilbo go. He’s work to do, even if you’ve finally decided to put your health first.”
The reminder that keeping Bilbo trapped was preventing him from caring for his nephews was apparently what Thorin needed to hear. Slowly, grudgingly, the broken arm shifted with a grunt of pain, and Bilbo was free again. He rolled off the cot immediately, crossing the room to take a bowl from Tauriel.
“How did Thorin sleep?” he asked her softly. “I’d heard he hadn’t been sleeping well lately.”
“As untroubled as Fíli,” she admitted, dripping soup into Kíli’s open mouth.
That decided it. “Let him sleep here,” Bilbo suggested to Óin. “I think being near Fíli and Kíli makes it easier for him.”
Óin toyed with his beard for a moment, thinking it over. Then he nodded. “Don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, except for the risk of his cuts getting infected,” he admitted. “It’s why we put the lads together, after all.”
Bilbo could think of another reason. He was here too often. If Thorin had overslept, the members of the company who thought it would be better for them not to meet would have had their work cut out for them. That was probably the real reason Thorin had only been able to visit at night before. It seemed a little cruel to let the lads get caught up in something like that, though.
“Can you try to keep away anyone who comes looking, at least for a few more hours?” Bilbo asked. Judging by the constant dark circles under his eyes, Thorin could definitely use the extra sleep. Now that he had decided to actually get it, he was as much Bilbo’s patient as Fíli and Kíli.
“What was that now?” Óin asked, holding his ear trumpet up to his ear.
“I said-” Bilbo began, then stopped when he saw the look in Óin’s eyes. He had heard, but for the sake of plausible deniability, he was going to pretend he hadn’t. That should buy Thorin a few hours at least. “Nevermind.”
“If you want your breakfast, make sure you come get it soon,” Óin said, leaving the room. “Your legs work so I won’t be bringing it.”
Once the door had closed behind him, Tauriel turned to Bilbo with a confused glance toward the door. “I don’t understand.”
“Just don’t shout to anyone that Thorin’s in here and we should be fine,” Bilbo said with a shake of the head, testing the soup on his wrist to make sure it was cool enough. It smelled strongly of mushrooms, making Bilbo smile to himself. Apparently Bombur was wasting no time making use of the ‘tunnels full of mushrooms’. Satisfied that he wouldn’t scald Fíli’s throat, he tipped the bowl slightly, starting a steady drip of soup. Fíli swallowed it easily. More easily than usual, Bilbo noted with some satisfaction. Maybe it would be his stomach that woke him up before anything else did.
When the bowl was empty, Bilbo set it aside and started unwinding the bandages around Fíli’s torso. The unconscious dwarf shifted slightly under his touch, something he hadn’t done before. Another encouraging sign, though changing the bandages of wiggly dwarves was harder than with one who lay still. Maybe Fíli’s constant sleep and Kíli’s fever had been blessings in disguise. It had forced them to lie still and recover, something which he doubted they were very good at, if Thorin was any indication.
The wound across Fíli’s chest had closed more quickly than Kíli’s, helped along by lack of infection and his complete stillness. It was little more than an angry red line now, held in place by Óin’s straight, even stitches. When Bilbo prodded it gently, Fíli’s stomach muscles contracted on reflex. They had done that before, but the reaction seemed stronger than usual. In the course of one night, Fíli had become far more responsive to stimuli.
Was it possible-?
Bilbo and Tauriel had a peaceful morning caring for their charges, Kíli even opening his eyes a few times, though thankfully his mind was too muddled from his prolonged fever for him to try flirting. That wasn’t something Bilbo needed to be anywhere near, and he doubted Thorin would be feeling charitable if he woke up to that. He was sleeping so deeply, the lines of his face smoothing out so that he looked younger. It made Bilbo want to reach out and touch that face, but he resisted. This was an infirmary, and a certain standard of behavior was required.
When the door banged open, Dáin appearing with as much noise and destruction as his war boar might have, Bilbo decided that this too was another area where dwarvish manners fell hideously short.
“Master Baggins, have you seen-” Dáin began, with an urgency that died the instant he spotted his sleeping cousin. His panic was replaced almost instantly by slyness, then covered up with his normal cheerfulness. “Takin’ a bit of nap, is he?”
“He’s been working himself to death,” Bilbo replied, trying not to snap at the dwarf lord. He knew Dáin would do everything he could to help, even if his entrance had definitely woken up Thorin. “It finally caught up with him.”
“It’s about time,” Dáin admitted with a hearty laugh. “He’s always taken too much on himself.”
“If I don’t, no one else will,” Thorin grumbled.
“Och, there are dependable people all around you,” Dáin disagreed, patting Thorin’s shoulder. “Some of them handled that wretched woodland sprite this morning, for example.”
Thorin groaned. “I forgot about that,” he admitted, rubbing his eyes. “How did it go?”
“Fine, fine,” Dáin assured him. “More importantly, are ya reconciled with your Bagginshield?” He winked, and Bilbo had to look away. As well-meaning as Dáin was, these dwarves really did have appalling manners. He was going to have to do something about that.
“His name is Bilbo,” Thorin said, his jaw set stubbornly.
“And also right here, thank you very much,” Bilbo observed tartly.
Dáin gave a short laugh. “So, when is the wedding, cousin?”
Tauriel turned toward them in surprise. “Oh, are congratulations in order?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” Bilbo rushed to assure her. Then noticing Thorin watching him, said, “Well, sort of, I mean-”
“Don’t be shy now,” Dáin said with a laugh, clapping Bilbo on the back. “Half the mountain knows already. More than half, if I’ve done my work right!”
“Please tell me you haven’t written to Dís,” Thorin said, sitting up and rubbing his temples.
“You mean you haven’t?” Dáin asked, thunderstruck.
“It seemed hasty without first talking to Bilbo, and thoughtless while Fíli and Kíli are in the infirmary,” Thorin pointed out, and Bilbo realized he was talking about his sister. Fíli and Kíli’s mother. Yes, judging by what he knew about this family, she likely wouldn’t have taken that well at all.
“You mean amad would kill you if she knew,” Kíli observed weakly, his eyes half open, his mouth twisted in a smile.
“Kíli!” They said his name as one, quickly crowding around his bedside.
“It was just a scratch,” the young dwarf protested, apparently amused by the intensity of their reaction.
“An infected one,” Bilbo replied firmly, squeezing Thorin’s good hand to intercept whatever harsh chastisement he was readying. Looking up at the dwarf king, he realized he needn’t have bothered. Relief was radiating off Thorin, becoming a warm smile, though he didn’t release Bilbo’s hand, opting instead to lace their fingers.
“Is Bilbo going to be our new uncle?”
Bilbo nearly cracked his neck whipping his head around. Everyone else followed suit, though more slowly. The voice had been Fíli’s. Cracked from lack of use, weak and whispery, but Fíli’s. His expression matched his brother’s: tired and wan, but with a smirk that told Bilbo his suspicion was probably right.
“And the first thing I’ll do as your new uncle is suggest a punishment for pretending to still be asleep,” Bilbo scolded him, letting Tauriel handle Kíli for the moment. Fíli immediately looked sheepish. “When did you wake up?”
“Yesterday,” Fíli admitted, smiling weakly up at his disapproving uncles, the rotten prankster. “When I realized Tauriel was here, I pretended to go back to sleep.”
“Why?” It was Thorin who asked, his joy at both nephews being awake clearly dampened by the deception.
“I wanted you to be there,” Fíli admitted, looking away in embarrassment. “But I wanted you to get some sleep, so I waited.”
It was incredibly hard for either Bilbo or Thorin to argue with that, considering how little time Thorin had been able to spend with them, but Kíli found a way.
“You sure you just didn’t want to get a bit more sleep before you have to get back to work?” Kíli asked, earning a nudge in the ribs from Dáin.
“Don’t think you’re safe now, lad. Wound mostly healed, fever gone, you’re in better shape than Thorin these days! About time to put you to work, as I see it,” Dáin suggested, eyebrows wiggling in a way that made Kíli pale.
Bilbo shook his head lightly, turning back to Fíli. He had always been the more questionable patient. They might as well try a few things while Thorin was here to help. “Try sitting up.”
Fíli did his best to obey, muscles straining to obey him, but in the end he flopped back on the bed, his face red from exhaustion. “How long have I been asleep?” he gasped as Thorin helped him into a sitting position, one hand coming to rest on his chest wound with a wince.
“A week and a half,” Bilbo replied matter-of-factly. “Not long enough to starve, but what little nutrition you’ve gotten has gone toward healing that gash in your chest, and even that needs more time before you can start running around again. The muscles were cut, and they don’t heal quickly.”
Fíli was smart enough to accept this, letting his uncle lower him back down without complaint. Kíli on the other hand felt the need to test it, flopping around on his cot like a flipped turtle until Tauriel put her hand on his chest and suggested he stop, lest his wound reopen. Despite his cavalier attitude, even Kíli wasn’t willing to risk another infection.
“But you’ll be here to take care of us, won’t you, Uncle Bilbo?” Kíli teased, and Fíli laughed.
“Well, I don’t know about that,” Bilbo admitted, his chest hurting when he saw the way their faces fell. Oh, he was already in far too deep. “I’ll need to send word back to the Shire. I left before settling any of my affairs.”
“Oh, well that’s easily done!” Dáin declared, reminding Bilbo that he was still in the room, despite his uncharacteristic quiet. “Thorin’s gotta write Dís, and the Shire’s on the way.”
Thorin nodded. “Bring me your letter tonight and your kin will have it within a fortnight.”
It was far faster than traveling there himself, but finding time to write the letter was another matter entirely. Thorin had wasted enough of the morning, and was soon dragged off by Dáin on kingly business. Ordinarily that would have guaranteed quiet, but Fíli and Kíli being awake changed that completely. First they had to be fussed over by Óin, a task made much harder by their desire to be up and about. Neither of them could sit up without help, and even that hurt, but it didn’t change the fact that they’d been bedridden for more than a week and knew it. Gloin’s help ended up being necessary to keep Kíli in place for his examination, even with Tauriel speaking softly in his ear.
Eventually, Fíli and Kíli wore themselves out and fell back to sleep, though a healthier sleep this time. With Tauriel and Óin assuring him that they could manage, Bilbo returned to his room to write. A few short lines sufficed, both to his gardener and to the Mayor, explaining his circumstances in the barest possible detail. Despite that, the bells were tolling the dinner hour by the time he finished. Apparently so much time spent with dwarves had made common hobbit civility less than second nature.
Shaking his head in disapproval, or perhaps in amusement, Bilbo made his way to Thorin’s chamber with his letters, amazed by how easily he gained entrance. No hulking dwarves stood guard, trying to bar his way. Was Thorin not inside, or-
Bilbo nearly collided with Bofur for the second time in as many days, stepping back in a hurry. Bofur was one of the dwarves who had been involved in deceiving him and keeping him from Thorin, and it stung. Bofur had always been a particular friend, his easy friendliness and understanding keeping him motivated during some of the more difficult times. He had stepped back, unless intervention was needed, and so Bilbo had rarely seen him during the last week and a half.
Bofur at least seemed aware that he should be guilty, scratching the back of his head in embarrassment. He didn’t say anything immediately, settling for clapping Bilbo on the shoulder.
“Don’t miss your books so much any more?” the miner asked with a cheeky grin.
“I’ve read them all,” Bilbo pointed out. “Erebor’s library has new books.”
“Never heard of crumbling books being called new before,” Bofur replied, setting off down the hallway with a wave. “Sure there’s nothing else?”
“Well it’s certainly not your manners,” Bilbo said with a grin of his own, before knocking on the door to Thorin’s office.
“Enter,” Thorin called, the deep furrows in his brow smoothing out as he looked up and saw who it was. He set down his quill, apparently in the middle of working on his own letter.
“I can come back later if you like,” Bilbo offered, noting both the half finished letter and the uneaten tray of food on a side table. Not that Thorin forgetting to eat was anything unusual.
“Stay,” Thorin quickly insisted, setting the letter to one side. “Have you eaten yet?”
“Even if I had, I wouldn’t turn down another meal,” Bilbo pointed out, setting his letters on the table and taking the heavy tray, setting it on a larger table and gesturing for Thorin to join him. There was too much here for one person anyway. “I’m not convinced you’ve been eating regularly.”
“I eat,” Thorin insisted, though judging by the way he tucked in, he hadn’t been eating nearly enough. Yet another thing that would have to be remedied.
When the tray was empty, the distant sound of the bells tolling the hour made Bilbo glance at the door, as if Thorin’s next appointment was waiting outside.
“What is it?” Thorin asked, noticing the direction of his gaze.
“Oh, I’m just surprised we haven’t been interrupted yet,” Bilbo admitted, turning back to Thorin sheepishly.
“Dáin cleared my schedule for the rest of the evening,” Thorin replied, reddening slightly.
“Really? Dáin did?” The meddling old dwarf. Something told Bilbo that Dáin didn’t have Thorin’s desperate need for sleep in mind, either.
Thorin nodded. “His reason was crude and difficult to translate,” he admitted.
Now it was Bilbo’s turn to flush. “I think I can guess,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. It was true that he had to be ready for the full truth to be out in the open sooner rather than later, but getting used to Thorin’s cousins speculating on… intimate matters was something that would take doing. Not that hobbits didn’t do the same, but they were generally more subtle. Well, the Bagginses anyway. All bets were off with the Tooks.
“I’m surprised you let him do it,” Bilbo said, still flushed, to dispel the sudden awkwardness. “The old Thorin would have worked through the night just to prove him wrong.”
Thorin snorted. “The old Thorin did not have a broken arm that throbs whenever Dáin is being particularly unreasonable.”
The arm in question was still in a sling, carefully splinted, and a reminder that whatever Dáin thought, Thorin was in no condition for anything particularly vigorous. Not that he’d been thinking of anything of the sort.
“How very convenient,” Bilbo observed, raising his eyebrows. “Does it hurt whenever Thranduil is mentioned as well?”
Thorin winced as if in pain, and on instinct Bilbo rose from his chair and started forward, until he saw the flicker of amusement in Thorin’s eyes. By then, he was trapped in front of the teasing dwarf, one hand caught securely in Thorin’s good hand.
“Don’t make jokes like that,” Bilbo scolded, very aware that he had initiated it in the first place.
“My apologies,” Thorin said, brushing his lips against Bilbo’s fingers and sounding not at all contrite. The rough hair of Thorin’s beard scraped against the sensitive skin, sending heat spiraling through him.
“Oh, if that’s how it’s going to be…” Bilbo closed the remaining distance, scarcely aware of what he was doing. Somehow he ended up in Thorin’s lap, gingerly avoiding the broken arm. Thorin’s earlier playfulness was gone, replaced by a still watchfulness. He was just waiting to see what Bilbo would do, his breathing suddenly made shallow by the tension in the air. Had Thorin always been this compliant?
Emboldened, Bilbo reached for one of Thorin’s braids, running his thumb across the intricate pattern on the silver bead. Even sitting on Thorin’s lap, their faces mere centimeters from each others, he couldn’t help but wonder if the patterns meant anything. Or perhaps he was just distracting himself with the thought. Thorin was maddeningly warm, but he was still injured, and definitely not careful enough to avoid hurting himself again.
Thorin’s good hand found its way into Bilbo’s curls, his deft fingers gently massaging Bilbo’s scalp. His breath hitching, Bilbo moved his exploration to the rough hair of Thorin’s beard, allowing himself a small smile when Thorin’s hand froze for a moment. He was tempted to run a careful finger along the mostly healed scar bisecting Thorin’s eyebrow, but suddenly it felt like there wasn’t enough room. Their faces were too close, possibly due to the strong hand in his hair pushing him forward ever so slowly. As if he wouldn’t notice!
Bilbo closed the remaining distance, scant as it was, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. The kiss started gentle and tender, but it couldn’t stay that way for long. Not after so much distance and yearning, feelings expressed in everything but words, quickly heating their kiss with need. Bilbo found his hands wandering, exploring the sharp contours of Thorin’s jaw, to the softer curves of his large ears. The rough scrape of beard against his face only served to further inflame him, and when they broke apart at last, they were both gasping for breath.
“If I were to say that I am willing to risk the arm-” Thorin began, a hopeful expression in his eyes.
“I would say that I don’t want to explain to Óin why it broke again,” Bilbo replied with a breathy laugh. “I’m not leaving. You know that, right? We have all the time in the world.”
Thorin smiled, relief practically pouring off him. “We do, don’t we?”
There was no more kingdom to reclaim, no more dragon to slay. No more years of wandering and wondering. It was as if a great weight had finally lifted from Thorin’s shoulders, as if he had only just realized what he had accomplished, with no dragon sickness putting a film over his eyes. For the first time since Bilbo had known him, and probably even longer than that, it looked like he could finally see the world of possibility that his father had seen in his young eyes.
“Mingalaz,” Bilbo murmured, remembering the khuzdul word Thorin had used to describe those eyes.
Thorin’s smile only grew, the corners of his eyes softening with unspeakable tenderness, and it was a long time before they could tear themselves apart. After a few more kisses perhaps, a few more tolling bells, a few more promises of what tomorrow might bring, and every other tomorrow, until the end of their days.