Chapter Text
Bilbo woke with a sneeze, shaking his head and drawing back from the tickly mass against his nose. He blinked in the weak sunlight, squinting at the black thread all over his hands.
Only it wasn't thread, he slowly realised, but hair.
A lot of long, dark hair. In his bed.
“Hello.”
Bilbo yelped, shuffling back from the low, deep voice so quickly he almost threw himself off the edge.
“Thorin,” he said, voice thick with sleep as it all came rushing back. The Satyr, the trap in the woods, the cart ride home, the bath, and then... Thorin creeping into his bed like a thief in the night.
He felt his cheeks warm up as Thorin half sat up, sweeping his long hair over his shoulder. It had come out of its braid in the night somehow, and with the covers around Thorin's belly, he looked... well, he looked...
“Um,” Bilbo replied, dragging his eyes up from Thorin's chest. “Breakfast?”
Thorin crooked a small smile and nodded his head. Then he swung his legs out of bed, hooves clacking on the floor as he sat on the edge of the mattress.
Right. Hooves. Of course.
He and Thorin were completely different creatures, and he was just giving him a place to recover before he went back to join his family. That was all. He was just being kindly, and unselfish.
Thorin stretched, his thick arms rising up above his head. The muscles across his back jumped and quivered, and his little tail waggled so hard it was a blur. Bilbo watched as Thorin pushed himself up onto his hooves, a frown pinching his lips when Thorin stumbled a little and grunted in pain, looking down at his ankles.
“Oh, dear. Still sore?” Bilbo asked, wriggling out of the bed and pulling on his dressing gown.
Thorin nodded morosely, sitting back on the bed and bending over to touch his ankles – but Bilbo batted his hands away before he could.
“No, no. None of that – you'll only make it worse. You've to leave it alone.”
Thorin shot him an affronted look, but he crossed his arms over his belly and huffed out a noise. Bilbo decided it was one of agreement, and smiled.
“Good. Well, I imagine some breakfast will make you forget all about those aches and pains soon enough. Nothing that can't be fixed by a good meal is worth worrying about – it'll sort itself out if it's meant to. That's what my father always said anyway, and he was full of good advice. Can you stand?”
Bilbo moved to Thorin's side as the satyr grunted again and pushed himself up onto wobbly hooves. He hobbled forwards, reaching out one big hand and putting it on Bilbo's shoulder for support.
Thorin's fingers were warm even through the dressing gown and Bilbo's pyjamas.
He cleared his throat, concentrating on helping Thorin walk through to the kitchen and then settling him down in a chair. After fussing around the kitchen and putting the kettle on the newly lit hearth, it wasn't long before Bilbo was bringing him a hot cup of tea.
“Scrambled eggs on toast is what you need. Eggs are awfully good for making you strong. My uncle made this fantastic egg soup, and he always said he'd take his recipe to the grave with him! Hah! Well, we're the sorry ones, because he really did, you know!” Bilbo exclaimed as he cracked six eggs into a bowl and began to whisk them with a little salt and pepper.
Thorin slurped his tea, sniffing when Bilbo poured the eggs into a saucepan and started to stir them. He cut a couple of slices of bread and put them on the rack over the hearth. As the smells of breakfast started to infuse the air, Bilbo hummed a little tune his mother used to sing when she was cooking.
Suddenly, Bag End felt like home again.
Bilbo put down a plate piled with toast and eggs in front of Thorin, the fruit bowl following along with a top up of tea to the satyr's mug.
With all the ferocity of someone who hadn't been fed in months, rather than hours, Thorin tucked into the meal.
“You'll give yourself a stomach ache if you eat that fast,” Bilbo laughed, taking a generous mouthful of his own food. Birdsong wafted through the window he'd opened while cooking, his little curtains dancing in the cool breeze. Though it was soon to be winter, the sun still shone brightly, and the stove kept the kitchen warm enough for some fresh air.
Thorin sighed happily when he was done, pushing the empty plate away and leaning back in his chair.
“Thank you,” he rumbled, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Oh, not at all! A pleasure. Are you still hungry? I've got a little cheese, if you'd like something to nibble on,” Bilbo replied, setting out a wooden plate of cheese and crackers, putting a few apples around the plate as well.
Once again, Thorin tucked in.
Bilbo grinned. A healthy appetite was definitely a good sign, and it had been a long while since he'd had cause to really feed someone. As his mother had fallen sicker and stopped cooking, he'd prepared meals for her, of course, even right to the end when all she could manage was a few mouthfuls of broth, and-...
He swallowed hard, turning away from Thorin as his eyes stung.
“Honey-cakes,” he mumbled to himself, hurrying to the pantry to find the ingredients. His breathing was a little rough, and he gripped one of the shelves for support. From the kitchen the sounds of Thorin's fork and knife were clear, along with the crunch of apples and the smell of cooked breakfast.
Bilbo hung his head.
“Oh, bother,” he whispered, the first tears rolling down his cheeks. Now he was being silly. Had he really not had anyone round for breakfast since his mother had passed? How easy it was to become a hermit, and not even notice...! He saw Hamfast all the time, and often met friends and family in the marketplace, or the Green Dragon, but when was the last time someone had been in his home?
With a sniffle Bilbo scrabbled for his handkerchief, dabbing at his eyes.
“Silly Bilbo Baggins... crying is no way to start the day, and you've a guest in your kitchen. Come now, buck up! Winter's always a melancholy time, but that's no excuse for such nonsense when you have things to do.”
He took a few deep breaths and pushed himself away from the shelf.
“Honey, flour, milk; eggs are in the kitchen. A little special spice, I think, as a treat,” he said firmly, wiping his eyes a last time and grabbing the ingredients.
Bilbo turned towards the door, freezing when he saw Thorin standing by it, concern on his handsome face. He had a bit of an odd stance, as if being on his hooves was painful – the left seeming more so than the right.
“Oh,” Bilbo said. “Oh, I'm just... it's awfully dusty in here. Not that the food's dusty, goodness, I just meant, well... well, nevermind,” he stuttered, hurrying out of the pantry with his cheeks burning.
As he walked past the satyr, Thorin's heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
“Bilbo,” he said, his low voice making all the hairs on Bilbo's feet stand on end. Bilbo looked up at him, opening his mouth to respond. But before he could, Thorin was giving his shoulder a squeeze and crooking a brief, gentle smile. “Thank you.”
“Not at all,” Bilbo breathed, his own lips twitching into a small smile to mirror Thorin's. “Not at all. Let's get you sat down again, before your ankles give out, hmn?”
Thorin nodded, limping as he walked them back into the kitchen and sat back down, picking up the half of an apple he hadn't finished.
Bilbo gave him another smile and started to prepare the honey-cakes.
Yes, it felt like home, again.
And that was no bad thing.