Chapter Text
It’s cold.
Bilbo knows that, okay? He’s not an idiot.
His poor little (well, big, according to the Dwarves) toes are frozen but he refuses to admit it. He’s still got some Baggins pride left in his body, and he’ll be damned if he lets the Dwarves put those stupid constraining things on his feet.
Besides, he can still wriggle his toes, so it’s not like he needs to cover them. They still work. But the stone corridors are so chilly in the winter, even with the heating on, and he wonders if he can sneak fuzzy socks in his room in the mornings and at night before he goes to bed.
Thorin’s been too busy to spend too much time with him anyway, with meetings about food rations taking up all his time, so it would be less likely that he’d be caught. Bilbo doesn’t think his ego could stand being caught with socks on.
Thing is, Bilbo had been warned. He had. Everyone had told him the winters in Erebor were far bitterer than the winters further to the West. And Bilbo had believed them, of course. But there was no way he’d wear those damn boots. Not even if the whole of Middle Earth froze over.
So he may be little stubborn, but Bilbo’s never claimed to be anything else.
“You look like you’re thinking very hard about something,” Thorin remarks amusedly, while Bilbo frowns into the fire. “Anything you’d like to share?”
“No,” Bilbo replies sullenly, tucking his feet up under his legs in his chair. “Just thinking about how silly all you Dwarrows look in your stupid boots.”
Thorin chuckles. “Of course you are,” he replies dryly.
“I am, indeed,” Bilbo insists. “If you were in The Shire, we’d all be laughing at you. Behind your back, of course: because Hobbits may be gossips, but we’re certainly not outwardly rude.”
Thorin looks even more amused at the whole thing. “Is that right?”
“It is,” Bilbo informs him. “You’d be the scorn of the whole place. You’d damage my reputation. You only get one chance to impress a Hobbit, you know,” he goes on, “and I’m not going to look a gift horse in the mouth seeing as I’m getting another attempt at being held in high esteem once we travel through there after the winter. So you, Mister, ought to be on your best behaviour.” The words are teasing, and by the end of it Thorin has obviously had enough, reaching over and grabbing Bilbo by the shirtsleeve and tugging him up for a kiss. But Bilbo’s still halfway through speaking, so his last few words come out muffled as he says them into Thorin’s mouth.
“Are you quite done yet?” Thorin asks with a quirked eyebrow after he pulls away.
“Maybe,” Bilbo hedges, “are you going to try and make me wear the shoes?”
Thorin pretends to consider it. “Not right now, no,” he tells Bilbo eventually.
“Then I’m done,” Bilbo replies pleasantly, leaning up and catching his lips again.
“Perhaps we should move somewhere more comfortable, then,” Thorin manages between kisses, and Bilbo allows himself to be led towards the bed. He’s on the verge of giggling like a child when he’s pushed onto the bed, but there’s a quick knock on the door and Thorin is forced to pull away from him as a voice speaks through the wood, muffled.
“What is it?” he asks irritably, pulling the door open a crack.
“I’m sorry, Uzbad,” the voice says, “but your father requests your presence. He says it’s of the-”
“-utmost importance,” Thorin finishes. “Yes, yes, I’ll be there in a moment.” And then he promptly closes the door in the messengers face. “I’m going to have to go,” he tells Bilbo, resigned. “I think I may be a while.”
“Such a pity,” Bilbo sighs theatrically. “I suppose I’ll definitely be asleep when you return, then.”
Thorin groans. “Don’t remind me.” He presses a quick kiss to Bilbo’s forehead before grabbing his furs and slipping them on.
“Maybe if you’re lucky I’ll wait up and pull it all off of you,” Bilbo informs him, running his hand briefly over the furs as Thorin passes.
“You’ll be the death of me,” Thorin growls, before pulling away.
Bilbo doesn’t say that he kind of already was the death of him, and opts to remain silent while Thorin leaves. He’s trying to tell himself that it isn’t his fault, because that’s what Bofur’s always telling him- and it’s true (he knows it’s true) but that doesn’t stop him from feeling the guilt: from thinking that somehow it’s his fault that the other Thorin died. In some weird way it feels like Thorin didn’t die at all- because he’s right here, in front of Bilbo, breathing and moving and living. So it’s weird, and conflicting.
He yawns, and wriggles his toes once more, before glancing at the boots Thorin had brought back a few days ago with the insistence that Bilbo ought to start wearing them.
Yeah, he’s still not putting on the shoes.
Bombur’s been kind enough to introduce him to this thing called Cider. They had mulled wine in the shire, and plenty of ale, but Cider is new to him. So maybe, in his excitement, Bilbo’s had a few (a few too many, that is). He’s quite sure if he gets to his feet that he’ll fall over. So instead he stays at the table and entertains himself with Gloin and Oin’s drinking songs. They’re sung in Khuzdul, and now that Bilbo can understand (at least some of) the words he can hear just how rude they really are. But he’s not surprised.
He’s almost nodding off at the table when Balin laughs and tells Dwalin to go and get Thorin. It doesn’t take him long to show up.
“Bilbo,” he sighs, slipping an arm around Bilbo’s waist and pulling him to his feet.
“Hellooo,” Bilbo sings the word into Thorin’s neck.
“Are you quite alright?” Thorin asks.
“Of course!” Bilbo pulls himself back to look up at Thorin so quickly that he almost falls over. Thorin catches him though, Thorin always catches him. “I’m terrific.” The words are slurred, and he staggers a little even though he’s standing still.
“You’ve had too much to drink, I think.”
“Maybe,” Bilbo allows. “I’ve never had Cider before; it’s very, very good.”
“It certainly is,” he agrees. “But I think you need to rest now.”
“Rest sounds very, very good too,” Bilbo declares, tripping over himself trying to walk.
“How about I help you,” Thorin cuts in smoothly, letting Bilbo lean all his weight into his side. He navigates them both out the door and down the hall. “Silly Hobbit,” he mutters fondly.
“Silly Dwarf,” Bilbo says in reply, but it’s a lot louder. One of the guards they’re passing snickers, but keeps his face straight. Bilbo nuzzles at Thorin’s neck. “Are we going to bed?” he wants to know.
“Yes, we’re going to bed.”
Bilbo (always logical) figures it’s okay because they’re in the royal wing now and alone and bites Thorin on the neck. It’s a playful nip, and it has Thorin’s arm tightening around his waist.
“Not yet, Bilbo.” It comes out gruff and pleading.
Bilbo just makes an affirmative noise and doesn’t bite him again. He’s feel pleasantly warm and buzzing, even if his vision is swimming a little. “I think I like Cider very much,” he declares as Thorin opens the door to Bilbo’s room. “I think I’ll have it more often.”
“I think you ought to stop thinking about Cider,” Thorin informs him, shutting the door.
“Oh no,” Bilbo says, mournfully, falling onto the bed. “My head’s going to hurt in the morning, isn’t it?”
He must be looking at Thorin with wide, worried eyes, because Thorin bursts into laughter. “Yes, I do think it will,” he tells him.
“Then I refuse to go to sleep,” Bilbo slaps his feet on the ground, as if protesting. “I can’t get a headache if I stay awake.”
“Always so logical,” he grins, leaning in and kissing him. “But I get the feeling you’ll regret that decision when you’ve sobered up.”
“I can’t win, can I?” he groans.
“No,” Thorin replies, laughingly, “you can’t.”
Dwalin doesn’t have the best control. He’s a bit of a hedonist, if he’s being honest. So it’s really, really hard to not jump at Ori in the library, even if it’s in the quieter section of the stacks. He tried that once and they almost got caught when one of the other librarians came looking for Ori, realising they hadn’t seen him in a little while. Dwalin’s not quite prepared to risk that again. At least not so soon after their first brush with potential embarrassment.
That having been said- Dwalin’s never been very good at doing what he’s supposed to do.
“Dwalin,” Ori hisses, hands flat against his chest, pushing him back. His clothes have been partway slipped off, and Dwalin’s just itching to finish the job. “Not again. If I don’t get this work done I’ll be here all night. Besides,” he gives Dwalin a firm push as he speaks, “Balin’s in here- and would you like to be caught out by him?”
Dwalin makes a face. Ori definitely has a point. Damn it. “Fine, fine,” he puts his hands up. “I’d rather not ‘ave that ‘appen, you’re right.”
Ori grins at him, straightening his clothes. “Later,” he promises, reaching up and pressing a quick kiss to Dwalin’s lips before grabbing his books again and darting off.
Dwalin can definitely handle later.
“So are you cold yet?” Fili teases, nudging Bilbo’s arm as they walk along the forest.
“You sure you don’t want to borrow some of my boots? I’ve got thinner ones in my pack- they’re not as heavy as the ones I have now, but they’d do you better than nothing at all.”
“Oh, hush you,” Bilbo tells them both. “My feet are perfectly fine.”
“They don’t look fine,” Bombur comments from behind him. “A little pink.”
Bilbo wriggles his toes. “They’re fine. Hobbits spend all of winter with their feet bare.” Although the terrain is slightly different here in the forest at the base of Erebor, Bilbo can handle it just fine. After all, his toes can handle a little cold- his real troubles are going to be trying to stop his feet getting burnt off by the dragon inhabiting the Lonely Mountain nearby.
“You are not in the Kindly West anymore, Master Hobbit,” Thorin tells him. “The winter’s come colder and harsher this side of the world.”
“My feet can handle your winter’s just fine, thank you very much,” Bilbo answers primly, his hands on his hips.
“This is hilarious,” Kili whispers as Bilbo twitches for the umpteenth time.
“I wonder how long he’ll hold out,” Fili replies.
“Both of you shut it,” Dwalin growls. “Pick up your weapons again and spar.”
Bilbo’s feet are half-buried in icy snow besides Ori, who’s rugged up so much that Bilbo can barely see him underneath all the wool. “Dori gets a little ridiculous in this weather,” he’d explained when Bilbo had first seen him.
“Are you sure you’re feet are okay?” Ori asks him now, looking like a bundle of yarn with a concerned face attached. “I can knit you some socks for them- proper ones, so they fit you.”
“I don’t need to cover my feet!” Bilbo insists.
“Maybe just for bedtime, then?” Ori suggests, looking a little sly, “the rooms get awful cold when the fires go out because they’re not tended to.”
Bilbo shoots him a suspicious look. “Did Thorin put you up to this?”
“Uh…”
Bilbo heaves a sigh. “Of course he did. Thank you but no thank you, Ori. I’ll be perfectly fine.”
Ori looks unconvinced. “If you insist…” he leans in a little. “Why are we out here anyway? Just because they’re suffering,” he jerks a thumb at Fili and Kili, “doesn’t mean we have to. Why don’t we sneak back inside and have a hot chocolate?”
That idea sounds very good to Bilbo. So they do just that: leave Fili and Kili to their icy torture to get something warm to drink in one of the food halls.
Bilbo’s quite used to getting a few strange looks now and again (he is a Hobbit in a Kingdom of Dwarves, after all, he’s bound to get one or two glances) but he gotten a lot more during these winter months. Well, honestly, they’re not aimed at him- just his feet. He gets that it’s weird. He gets that Dwarves have sensitive, boring feet with little to no hair and delicate, fragile skin. But he’s a Hobbit: a Hobbit. His feet aren’t like Dwarrow feet, that much should be obvious.
But it doesn’t matter- not really, anyway. He can handle a few raised eyebrows. It’s not like it’s anything new. Even in The Shire he’d gotten raised eyebrows; he’d been the centre of gossip. Besides which, he’s courting the Prince- that in itself has a way of catching attention.
The chocolate is just what he needs to warm himself (and, admittedly, his feet), and he feels far more at comfort here than he had been outside. But he’s pretty sure anyone would have felt that way. Today is particularly icy and bitter and the wind had lashed at his cheeks and bit his skin, turning it the colour of ripe apples, and by the end he hadn’t been able to move his fingers all that much. He was grateful, of course, for Ori’s handmade mittens, which saved his fingers from falling off at that particular moment in time.
“Where’s Bofur been lately?” Ori asks to strike up conversation. “I haven’t seen him for a few days now.”
“He’s working a lot,” Bilbo replies with a shrug. “It’s a busy time of year.”
“I suppose everyone wants toys because they can’t play outside in this weather,” Ori muses.
Bilbo hums in agreement. He recalls a time where he was constantly stuck inside his Hobbit Hole, sitting by the fire and playing with his toys to pass the time. They were always going on some adventure, his toys, meeting Elves and riding ponies and climbing Mountains. And he used to imagine it was him there, having those adventures.
Funny how things work out, isn’t it?
Bilbo’s been taking lessons from Balin: a lot of lessons. Languages and etiquette and classes on how to be a proper consort for when Thorin takes the throne. It’s a lot, and it tires Bilbo out- but he does like the languages. He’s always been very good at picking them up with an impressive speed; he’d learned Sindarin easily enough, and Khuzdul is difficult, but not too hard to get a grasp on. He has it down pat- apart from the enunciation. He’s not used to growling so much, so his throat often hurts after his sessions. Thorin doesn’t help by giving Bilbo beard burns all down his neck when he shows him all the word’s he’s learnt so far.
Not that Bilbo minds. Or complains. In fact, he rather likes it. But still… it’s kind of weird when the guards pointedly avoid looking at it the next day.
Although as things go it’s not a terrible problem for a person to have. His life is pretty good if he’s spending his time worrying about beard burn.
He has to say, as well, that his life is pretty lucky, all things considered. To be so peaceful and happy after everything that had happened.
He leaves Ori afterwards to read a little somewhere warm and quiet- although Ori’s not too devastated, because Dwalin’s finished torturing Fili and Kili in the snow and is dragging him off Mahal knows where. Bilbo’s quite sure that he doesn’t want to know.
“You bought a book on our journey?” Nori asks, disbelieving. He’s got an eyebrow raised, and an amused smirk building on his lips.
“Ori brought a book with him,” Bilbo returns calmly. More than one, in fact.
“Ori is a scribe, lad,” Bombur interjects from across the fire. “It’s his job to carry books.”
Bilbo finds himself rolling his eyes. “Don’t think I don’t see you carrying three more pots than you need,” he tells Bombur. “And Nori has far too many knives in his pack.”
“You can never have enough knives,” Nori defends now.
“I think twelve might be a bit too much,” Kili teases.
“You joke now,” Nori points at him, “but just wait until you need one, then you’ll be begging at my feet.”
Kili just rolls his eyes and chucks a bit of stale bread at him, hitting him right in the middle of the forehead. Kili raises his arms in victory. “That’s why I’m the best archer in all of Middle Earth!” he declares happily.
“It’s also why you’re about to be a dead man,” Nori spits, lunging over the fire. A scuffle breaks out and food is beginning to be thrown and there’s an awful lot of shouting so Bilbo can’t read any more of his book. He sighs, snapping it shut.
“Now that’s just a waste of food,” Bombur states mournfully.
“Am I interruptin’?” a head pokes around the corner, and Bilbo glances at Bofur from where he’d been staring blankly at the wall.
“Not really, no,” Bilbo smiles. “I was in a bit of a lull, admittedly. Lost in my own head. I thought you were busy running the stall today?” The business has been booming for Bofur, and he’s been run off his feet just trying to keep up. Bilbo supposes that an endorsement from the royal family certainly helps, but he’s n no way discounting Bofur’s skill. He certainly would have been able to do it himself, perhaps not as fast without the help of Thorin and his nephews, but he still would have gotten there.
Bofur shrugs. “Its lunch,” he says like it should explain everything. And it kind of does. “Thought I’d come over and check on you.”
“And not eat?” Bilbo lets his mouth drop open in mock shock. “I can’t believe it!”
Bofur just laughs. “Perhaps we’ve slipped into another universe, eh?” he teases.
“Please no,” Bilbo laughs now, “I’ve had more than enough of that for my lifetime.” He pauses. “Where’s Nori?” he wonders. “Surely he ought to be following you around like a warg pup.”
Bofur grins. “He’s off stalkin’ Dwalin, actually, making sure he’s treatin’ Ori right and all. Apparently Thorin is going to spar with him this afternoon to work off some stress. He says it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen; those two fighting.”
Bilbo’s never actually seen it- when he catches Dwalin sparring it’s usually with Fili and Kili. Thorin’s often off doing other duties.
Bilbo doesn’t think he’s ever seen him fight at all- unless you count that one time with Fimpin (although Bilbo had been a little too preoccupied to actually watch him fight) but he doesn’t think that really counts because he never actually saw anything. He’s seen Thorin fight in the other world- the world he came from, but he doesn’t think that counts either.
He’s intrigued, but it’s cold and if he goes outside again he just knows he’ll crumble and put something over his feet, and he refuses to do such a thing, so instead he spends his afternoon indoors, relishing in keeping his feet by the fire. Bofur keeps him company as long as possible, before rushing back off to take over the market stall again.
Sometime that night Thorin drags himself into Bilbo’s room, looking cold and ragged.
“Did Dwalin beat you, then?” Bilbo wonders.
Thorin looks at Bilbo like he’s just mortally wounded him. “Of course not!”
“Well, you looked so dejected, how I was to know?”
Thorin sighs. “My body aches,” he admits. “I fear I am getting older faster than I had planned.”
“That’s the trouble with age,” Bilbo teases. “It likes to sneak up on you.”
Thorin rolls his shoulders and groans. “It’s the cold,” he decides now. “It can’t be me.”
“Of course not,” Bilbo says gently, coming over to the end of the bed where Thorin has sat down. He runs his hands through Thorin’s hair before rubbing at his shoulders. “It must be the cold.”
Thorin leans into the touch, very clearly enjoying the pressure on his tense muscles.
“Lay down,” Bilbo instructs, “I’ll make you feel better.”
Thorin has no trouble complying, pressing his face into the pillows and stretching out languidly. Bilbo climbs over the bed and presses his warm palms into the small of Thorin’s back, pressing down. Thorin reacts immediately, groaning deeply and twitching.
“Does it hurt the most here?” Bilbo wants to know. Thorin mutters something into the pillows that Bilbo barely catches. “Here?” he asks, pressing his fingers gently into the skin a little higher. Thorin’s fingers twitch. “I think Dwalin did you more damage than you’d like to admit,” Bilbo goes on, kneading the skin. “He’s such a big strong dwarf,” the words are teasing, but Thorin grouses into the bed anyway. “No wonder Ori’s so smitten.” Thorin huffs something, and it sounds vaguely like “he’s not that good”.
Bilbo laughs, and moves further up to Thorin’s shoulder blades. “You’re still very tense,” he remarks. “You need to relax. That’s what this whole thing is about.” He looks at Thorin’s scars as he massages him, all the lines and marks along his back. There’s a fairly bad one edging around his hip, down his lower back. There’s something that looks painfully like the lash of a whip down one part of his back, and several marks that look like possible stab wounds. Bilbo wonders what Dwarfs are made of, to last through such things.
Bilbo bends down and presses a quick kiss to the lash mark on Thorin’s back, and then, as an afterthought, runs his tongue over it. Thorin arches in surprise, but he doesn’t seem bothered, so Bilbo makes it his duty to seek out the rest of his scars and kiss them as well. When he’s done with his back, and gently nudges Thorin over and presses his hand flat against the scar that runs down his neck and chest.
“What happened?” Bilbo asks, wondering if perhaps he ought to have been polite about it. He and Thorin are the only ones staying close to the edge of the river, the rest of the Company diving further down into the water, splashing at each other and laughing loudly.
Thorin follows Bilbo’s gaze to the long scar down his left arm. “Moria,” he replies, seemingly not bothered by Bilbo’s question. He’s been better since the Carrock, but the closer they get to Erebor, the quieter he gets. It’s odd, because Thorin’s not very vocal anyway, but there’s still a noticeable change.
Bilbo looks down at his own body now, wondering what he’d look like with scars. He’s a bit scratched up from their adventures, but he has no such marks just yet.
“You’re lucky,” Thorin says suddenly, catching Bilbo’s attention once more. “To not have experienced the pain of a scar.”
Bilbo smiles a little. “I’ll be lucky if it stays that way by the end of this, I suppose,” he remarks. It’s light hearted, but Thorin looks guilty. “I’m sure I can cope with one or two marks, Thorin,” he assures the Dwarf, “us Hobbits are very resilient. I mean, just look at me- I haven’t had bacon in almost three months now and I’m coping just fine.”
Thorin lets out a small snort, and Bilbo likes to think it’s because he’s amused. “Of course,” Thorin agrees now. “You Hobbits are strong indeed.”
“Did it hurt very much?” Bilbo asks, rather stupidly. They’re standing very close now, although Bilbo doesn’t remember moving.
“Of course,” Thorin replies. “But not for long. The adrenaline took over and I had to keep on fighting, so I hardly noticed until it was over.”
Bilbo touches it without thinking. It’s healed over, obviously, and now is just an indent in the skin. It seems so much a part of Thorin, all his scars, that Bilbo can hardly imagine him without them. They map his skin, telling stories of pain and victory. It makes him a proper warrior. He wonders if he only thinks that way because he’s spent so much time with Dwarves. He knows Hobbits certainly wouldn’t think that way about Thorin’s damaged skin.
“Did it very much?” Bilbo asks Thorin now, even though he knows it would have.
“Not for long,” Thorin promises, and Bilbo gives a little wry smile at the similarity in words between the old Thorin and this Thorin. “I was, uh, rendered unconscious because of the shock of it.”
“You mean you fainted because of the pain?” Bilbo grins. “How sweet.”
Thorin rolls his eyes. “I did not faint. I passed out.”
“Right, yes, of course,” Bilbo pulls his best serious face. “I apologise. You’re a mighty warrior- and mighty warriors do not faint.”
Thorin reaches up to press his hand against Bilbo’s cheek. “Of course not,” he agrees gently, his eyes soft and warm, and a replying warmth spreads just under Bilbo’s ribcage.
“Are you still sore?” he wonders.
“A little,” Thorin admits. “But I feel much better now.”
“You should stretch more,” he suggests.
Thorin’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Your body wouldn’t jar so much if you stretched. Surely you know that.”
“Is this a Hobbit thing?” Thorin asks, raising an eyebrow.
Bilbo shrugs. “I don’t know,” he replies. “But it certainly helps, I can tell you that much. Come on,” he grabs Thorin by the arm and ushers him into a sitting position, “I’ll show you.”
Thorin looks intrigued and amused, and allows himself to be tugged off the bed and to a part of the floor that’s free of clutter.
“Can you touch your toes?” is the first thing that Bilbo asks, and it seems to throw Thorin.
“Why would I need to touch my toes?” Thorin wonders, looking at his feet, free from his confining boots.
Bilbo rolls his eyes. “This is going to be interesting, I’m sure of it.”
He shows Thorin some basic stretches, things to help him with his back, and a few other things that would help him with his posture (not that he needed help with that, of course, but Bilbo figured it might make things a bit easier on his shoulders) and some stretches he could do to ease aches and pains. Thorin, however thankful he may be for Bilbo’s help, wasn’t exactly a helpful subject to work with (being far too busy watching Bilbo than trying the stretches himself) and it took them a long while to go through them all because of it.
Thorin does admit, however, that he felt better when they’d finished.
Bilbo shrugs, a little smug. “I told you,” he said simply.
“You did indeed. I think I shall have to do that again tomorrow.”
“You’ll certainly notice the difference,” Bilbo promised him. “I don’t see why you Dwarves don’t do it anyway. You all must be terribly jarred from all your fighting.”
Thorin hums, falling back onto the bed. “I feel terribly relaxed,” he says, looking up at the canopy of the bed. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.”
“You don’t always need to be on alert, you know,” Bilbo teases. “Guards are paid for that.”
“I am a Prince and a warrior,” Thorin announces, propping himself up on his elbows. “I need to be on alert.”
Bilbo just sighs, crawling into the bed after him.
“How are your feet?” Thorin asks conversationally while Bilbo settles against the pillows at his sides. It sounds so casually, but Bilbo knows it’s anything but.
“They’re fine.”
“Not cold?” Thorin’s face is devoid of any emotion, but there’s a smug sparkle in his eye.
“Not cold at all, thank you very much. Us Hobbits and our feet are made of sterner stuff than you Dwarves.”
“Uh-huh,” he doesn’t seem convinced. “So your feet are fine?”
“Perfectly fine.”
“Not cold?”
“Not cold at all.”
“Not hurting?”
“No.”
“So I assume you wouldn’t be in need of a foot rub, then.”
“Well, I never said that,” Bilbo argues, without pause or inflection.
Thorin grins. “But you said your feet were fine.”
“Do my feet need to be raw and bleeding for me to deserve a foot rub? Perhaps I don’t need one, but I certainly want one.”
“Ah,” Thorin says, “of course.”
Bilbo’s feet are sore. Of course they are, he’s spent most of his day standing on cold stone and walking around in snow. So the pressure from Thorin’s fingers, gently digging into the soft skin just under his toes, is absolutely lovely.
“Oh,” he practically mewls at the feeling, “that is nice.” He sinks further into the pillows. “I should ask you to do this more often.”
“Only if you do those stretches more often,” Thorin counters, and Bilbo would have rolled his eyes but it just feels so good and he can’t bring himself to do anything but relax and enjoy it. And he does. So much so that he falls asleep.
Although he doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up the next morning, alone in bed, but toasty and warm… which is odd because the fire’s gone out, and usually at this time in the morning, Bilbo’s rushing out of bed and complaining to himself while he re-lights it.
But he’s not. Because he’s warm, and it’s only until he wriggles his toes that he realises why.
“Socks!” he shouts, probably waking the whole hall, and jumps out of bed. “Oh, how dare he!”
Thorin’s going to pay for that.