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Bilbo had nothing to complain about. Really.
He tapped his fingers restlessly against his wine goblet.
Merriment swirled around him. The Great Hall looked nothing like the hospital it had been after the battle. Gold banners hung from stoneworks and covered the remaining scars. Glittering crystals redirected streams of light until the entire chamber glowed. Heavy wood tables bulged with hearty dishes, meats in rich sauces, and soft breads still warm. Music, laughter, and conversation echoed from every corner.
Amidst it all Bilbo sat, not at all hungry.
Well, he was a little hungry. He was a hobbit.
He took another bite of his green salad. Every table had one green dish, a nod to their non-dwarf guests. And it was delicious. Bombur had added some kind of spice that had enhanced the leafy flavors. Bilbo should be devouring it with relish.
He chewed thoughtfully, swallowed, and paused. His stomach felt heavy, just not with food.
He glanced around him. The entire Company, along with a few close family and friends, occupied a large table at the head of the Hall. Kili and Tauriel sat in the place of honor with eyes only for each other. They looked resplendent in their wedding clothes, which Dori took much credit for.
Lady Dis and Balin sat next, the mother of the groom keeping a watchful eye on both her sons. Fili was further down, next to the Ri family. He was leaning intently over Ori’s shoulder as the young scribe talked with one of Dain’s advisors.
Gimli sat near his cousins, and surprisingly, Legolas had joined him, the two absorbed in their own discussion. Gloin glowered nearby and occasionally winced at his lovely wife’s chiding nudges.
Bofur talked of his new toy shop while Bifur whittled a piece of wood into a whistle. Dwalin was arm-wrestling with the captain of Dain’s guard, Oin had begun to sing loudly and off-key, and Nori slipped from table to table eavesdropping with a sly grin.
Bilbo’s gaze paused on the empty chair at the head of the table. Something in his chest tightened. He hadn’t slept enough. That was it. His mood had nothing to do with —
“Is the food not to your liking, Master Burglar?”
Bilbo jumped at the voice near his ear. Wine sloshed from his cup onto his hand and the table.
King Dain chuckled as Bilbo hurriedly searched for a handkerchief. “Allow me,” he said, then wiped the mess with his sleeve. He laughed again at Bilbo’s wince. “Are all halflings so easily startled?”
“Are all dwarves so amused by spills and eager to stain their clothes?” Bilbo threw a reproving look for good measure.
Dain bowed mockingly, then sat in the chair beside him. “We are a rough and tumble race. I’m afraid you’ll have to take us as we are. But I think if you’ve lasted this long, you don’t mind too much.”
Bilbo sniffed, although he was not so annoyed as he pretended. It was hard to take offense at King Dain’s jovial character. Dwarves, he had learned, appreciated a little friendly verbal sparring. “You have some redeeming qualities,” he conceded. “Why, you host a party as well as any hobbit in the Shire!”
“Praise indeed! From what my cousin tells me, hobbits are much given to celebration.” Dain’s gaze swept across the Great Hall, a twinkle of nostalgia and joy coming to his eyes. “I never thought to see Erebor this way again. We owe you much, Master Burglar. Mere words of thanks are not enough.”
Bilbo fought the urge to squirm or blush. All the dwarves seemed determined to thank him without end for his small part in the quest. Since his protests were met with even more zealous thanks, he’d taken up the strategy of redirection. “I’m happy we survived to see this day. And there’s no finer way to celebrate than a wedding.”
“Indeed, it is a good omen.” Dain lifted the flagon at the center of the table and refilled their cups. “And another one on the horizon.”
Bilbo coughed after taking a hasty sip. “I’m sorry?”
“I confess, I’m surprised Kili got there first.”
“You mean another wedding?”
Dain drained half his cup — without coughing, Bilbo noticed — and smirked knowingly. Then he glanced around the table at the Company. Bilbo followed his example, pausing at each individual, trying to determine Dain’s meaning.
He stopped on Fili. The prince’s quiet affection and Ori’s feigned obliviousness made the courtship difficult to see, although Fili’s arm sneaking around Ori’s chair spoke of a particular protectiveness. Nothing official had been declared. But Bilbo had seen many pairs of fauntlings undergo the same dance, and he gave it until next midsummer at the latest.
Dain followed his gaze and snorted. “Aye, they proceed slowly, and for awhile yet. It is not them.”
Bilbo smiled as he realized his next guess. “Oh, you mean Nori and Dwalin? They put on a good show of bickering during Council sessions. Too good, I think. I expect they will announce any day.”
Dain’s eyes widened. “Will they, indeed?”
They watched the pair in question for a few moments. Nori had drifted back towards the Company’s table, and he bumped into Dwalin’s chair in a way that looked accidental but could only have been intentional for the wily ex-thief. Dwalin blustered and swore, but the way his body turned towards Nori — rather like a flower leaning towards the sun, Bilbo thought with a smile, because no one would really compare Dwalin to a flower — spoke of something else.
“Hm,” Dain agreed. “Perhaps so, Master Burglar. You are very perceptive.”
Bilbo’s good humor faltered. Perceptive, hardly. He saw what he longed for himself.
The reminder brought the ache in his heart back with a surge, and a pang of guilt followed. He should be cheerfully celebrating his friends’ good fortune! Not to mention content with his own situation.
First of all, he was still alive. That was no small thing. He had been gifted an expansive set of rooms within Erebor, really more than one hobbit required. And he sat on the King’s Council as an advisor for matters of food procurement and diplomatic relations, two areas in which he was surprisingly adept and the dwarves desperately needed help.
And he and Thorin had reconciled.
It had begun after the battle in the healing rooms. Thorin was bedridden and a particularly horrible patient, so Bilbo did what his mother used to do when he was sick. He read to Thorin. Erebor’s library was somewhat less destroyed than the other parts and contained a surprising number of books in languages other than Khuzdul.
Instead of things ending there, as Bilbo was sure they would once Thorin resumed his full duties, the King took it upon himself to give Bilbo tours of Erebor. They walked together through passages after they were cleared of debris, and Thorin pointed out not just general landmarks but personal ones, often accompanied by stories from his childhood.
Being a proper hobbit, Bilbo always invited Thorin back to his rooms for afternoon tea. They sat in two heavy armchairs — a gift from Thorin — and discussed everything from matters of state to the progress of Bilbo’s writing to the princes’ latest antics. It was altogether quite pleasant.
So pleasant, that in those quiet moment with just the two of them, Bilbo had started glancing at the Thorin’s hand and itching to reach for it. When Thorin took his leave, he imagined what it would feel like to lean into the dwarf’s warmth. And when Thorin nodded his thanks, Bilbo wished to tilt his head up and —
“I speak of Thorin’s marriage,” Dain announced.
Bilbo’s mind stuttered to a stop. “What?”
“Thorin’s upcoming marriage. It is widely expected.”
Everything in the Great Hall suddenly seemed louder, almost suffocating. A cold tension swept through Bilbo’s body as the idea tried to take hold. Thorin? Marriage? To whom?
Dain peered at him, awaiting a reply.
Bilbo swallowed. “He… has not spoken of such. That I’ve heard.”
Dain rolled his eyes and tossed back the rest of his drink. “For Mahal’s sake! Stubbornness has always been a trait of my people, but in my cousin it knows no bounds.”
He’d misunderstood. Surely they could not be talking about the same thing. Fluttering panic gripped Bilbo’s heart. “I’m sorry. You mean… Thorin intends to marry?”
“Any proper king would have done it by now. All of Erebor is waiting. What’s more, it’s so clearly what he wants himself! Oh, it’s not you, Master Burglar. Thorin has a head of rock, as the expression goes.”
“Yes,” Bilbo said faintly. The fluttering burst, then sank into a pool of dread. There was no mistake. Thorin already planned to marry. According to Dain, it was nearly as good as done.
It was unfathomable, except… Of course it wasn’t. With his home reclaimed, it was only natural that Thorin desired what he had so long denied himself. Marriage, and a family, and love —
“I’ve well lost my wager on the outcome,” Dain huffed. “Master Burglar, you’ve gone pale. Are you well? Perhaps I may be of assistance.”
He felt jumbled and queasy. The earlier cause of his evening’s anxiety paled in comparison to Dain’s revelation.
In the past few weeks, Thorin had taken to calling him, ‘my friend.’ It had sent Bilbo spiraling between hope and doubt. Did Thorin say it with growing affection? Was it an extension of their existing friendship, or something more?
He’d tossed and turned over the possibilities. Hoped, dreamed, dwelled. It had never occurred to him that Thorin was using the words to dissuade him. He knew of Bilbo’s feelings, did not return them, and ‘my friend’ was his gentle way of ensuring Bilbo knew his place. Friend and nothing more. Thorin was meant for another.
Bilbo’s arms shook as he pushed away from the table and stumbled to his feet. “If you’ll please excuse —”
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder.
“Oh! For such overbearing and riotous figures, dwarves have a remarkable propensity for sneaking.” Bilbo barely got the words out before he saw who received them.
Dain roared with laughter. “Cousin, you have earned your hobbit’s ire.” At Thorin’s answering scowl, he held up his hands, then stood and bowed to Bilbo. “I’ll leave you to it, Master Burglar. Don’t let him off too easily.”
Thorin ignored the parting jab and sat in Dain’s chair, bringing him to nearly the same height as Bilbo stood. “I did not mean to startle you.”
The breath that had left Bilbo’s lungs upon seeing Thorin had yet to fully return. He scraped together a more appropriate greeting. “Your majesty.”
“I heard Dain offer his assistance.”
“Nothing. It was, I’m fine.”
“You don’t look it.”
Bilbo felt a familiar exasperation break through his turmoil and he resisted rolling his eyes. Really, couldn’t Thorin at least try to be more diplomatic?
“You have only to ask if you are in need,” Thorin continued. He leaned forward, and his eyes, strikingly blue in the Great Hall’s light, looked upon Bilbo with a softness unlike any gem. “We… I would see you comfortable and happy, my friend. Above all else.”
Bilbo’s heart swooped. It was too much. On the cusp of Dain’s pronouncement, to hear Thorin offer him something so close to what he wanted, and yet again say ‘my friend,’ it was too much. “I need some air.”
“Bilbo?”
He ignored Thorin’s call and fled. He dodged around merry-making dwarves, grateful for his small size and quick feet. When he saw doors at the far end of the Hall he made for them, pulled them open just enough to slip through, and was met by a rush of crisp outside air. He tugged the balcony’s doors shut.
Darkness surrounded him. Only a murmur of music and laughter carried through the heavy doors. Autumn’s chill crept at his back, less than comfortable, but clear in a way that allowed him to breathe. He leaned his forehead on the door and did just that. And again.
Then he let loose the clutch in his throat and sobbed. Just once, for a moment. It was no use doing so, after all. Nothing would change.
Falling in love with a king. Of all the impossible, foolish things. Perhaps a hobbit really did have no business living in a kingdom of dwarves.
The wooden doors bumped open.
Bilbo tumbled back with a surprised ‘oomph.’ Two broad hands quickly caught him and pulled him into a firm, fur-clad chest.
“Bilbo.” Thorin’s voice rumbled next to his ear. “Are you alright?”
He felt almost as tossed about outside as he was inside. “Confounded dwarves,” he muttered, only to find the vibrations of Thorin’s laughter entirely too pleasant.
“So you’ve called us many times,” Thorin said, his voice amused before turning serious. “Why did you run?”
“Breath of fresh air, is all.” Which Bilbo was certainly not finding nestled against Thorin’s warm body, smelling faintly of earth and stone, with Thorin’s hands resting lightly on his back. Not steadying but simply holding, as if Thorin wished to —
Bilbo pushed himself back with great effort. He could not continue to tempt himself. Thorin had made his feelings clear, and Bilbo had to accept them.
Thorin frowned, although he let go easily. “Is the hall too hot, or crowded? Only I understood that hobbits enjoy parties from your previous descriptions.”
“They do. We do. It’s all quite grand. Really.” He knew how hard Thorin had worked to prepare everything. It would not do to let him think Bilbo found the results wanting when the truth was the opposite.
Thorin peered at him but said nothing. Bilbo fought the urge to fidget. Then, quite suddenly, he found himself wrapped up in the King’s heavy cloak.
“Oh! That’s not necessary.”
“You will get cold,” Thorin said in his gruff and implacable tone, the way he always sounded when he intended to be stubborn.
“And now you will.”
“Dwarves are made to withstand such things.” As if sensing Bilbo about to take offense, Thorin added, “And you wished for fresh air.”
Bilbo muttered a few choice observations about dwarves and fought the urge to bury his nose in the cloak’s warm fur. He thought he spoke low enough so the King wouldn’t hear him, but when Thorin’s lips twitched in amusement, Bilbo turned away. Then he caught sight of the sky. “The stars.”
They stood in silence as the sky above sparkled. After several moments, Thorin cleared his throat. “I can order more of the balconies cleared. Perhaps some new ones carved.”
“What?” Bilbo turned to look at him. “In winter?”
Thorin pursed his lips. “It’s not unusual for dwarves to never see the sky, especially during winter. But if hobbits — I would provide you the opportunity as often as possible.” He glanced back along the rock face. “Perhaps an overhang. For all the shoveling we do in the mines, I can only imagine the grumbling if I were to ask dwarves to shovel snow.”
It was all together confusing, ridiculous, and touching. Bilbo could not think of the right way to respond. Well, he knew how he wanted to respond, but leaping into Thorin’s arms and kissing his bearded face all over seemed even more ridiculous than the King’s offer itself. Yet Thorin appeared quite serious. “I… well, that…”
“I would see you happy, my friend.”
The bubbling warmth inside him burst. ‘My friend,’ and nothing more. Bilbo felt the cloak brush against him and wished very hard he could remove it without freezing.
Thorin continued with his plans. “We’ll create more terraces in the spring for gardens. There is not much of a growing season, but the men of Dale manage well enough. It might be more of a challenge on the mountain. Perhaps if we locate them lower, in a more sheltered spot? Although not too low. I’m told sunlight is important.”
The further ridiculousness of a dwarf — of Thorin — talking about growing seasons and sunlight overrode Bilbo’s tumultuous feelings. “You want me to garden?”
“It’s not been done before, and would be a challenge, certainly. But dwarven engineering has tackled greater problems. I’m sure with the right system of supports —”
“You want to build me a garden,” Bilbo repeated, dazed. It was meant as a reward, surely. Further thanks for his service to Erebor. Thorin could not possibly know what such an offer meant to a hobbit.
“Would you be happy staying in Erebor without your prize-winning tomatoes?” Thorin said it with a hesitant smile, as if trying to joke about something not-at-all funny.
They had avoided talking about Bilbo’s circumstances. Oh, Thorin had given him position on the Council and quarters of his own. It had somehow been implied, but never expressed, that Bilbo was welcome to stay as long as he wished.
Thorin was asking him to stay. Sort of.
On the cusp of Thorin’s upcoming marriage…
By gifting him a garden.
Bilbo’s breath stuttered in his chest. He took a few steps towards the edge of the balcony, his head aching. Footsteps sounded behind him, and he knew Thorin was following, guarding the edge more clearly in the darkness than Bilbo’s eyes allowed. For all that Thorin had once held Bilbo over a precipice, they had moved past that. Thorin cared enough to watch over him. To offer him a garden.
But not the full meaning behind it.
Could Bilbo stay? Tend his garden on a mountain, take comfort in his friendships, and enjoy walks and tea with Thorin. Then watch as Thorin courted another, someone beautiful and talented and charming — a consort fit for a King. Thorin would take walks with them. Bilbo would have tea alone and provide flowers for the wedding.
“Bilbo?”
His heart sung and stung in equal measure as Thorin said his name. He couldn’t. Maybe if Thorin had married a few months ago, if Bilbo had never felt this overwhelming thing that had settled into every part of himself. Maybe then he could have stayed.
Thorin’s hand hovered over his shoulder for a moment, then withdrew. “You’re upset. What did Dain say to you?”
“Oh… Just, remarks about the wedding. That’s all.” Bilbo’s mind whirled. Where could he go? Back to the Shire? The thought didn’t warm him as it once had, and the biting chill meant he’d encounter snow before he reached the mountain passes.
“He must have said something.”
Bilbo thought of Greenwood and stifled a jerky laugh at the idea of visiting Thranduil. Maybe Beorn, then. It was terribly impolite to impose in such a manner, but he had limited options.
“Bilbo.”
“Hm? It’s nothing, Thorin.”
“There!” Thorin gestured so wildly that Bilbo almost jumped back. “You called me ‘Thorin.’ Tell me what’s wrong.”
“Thorin — Your majesty, I assure you —”
“You never use my name. You use honorifics unless you’re distracted.”
“I don’t —”
“I hardly understand why. You never follow even my simplest orders.”
“I do so follow your — that’s not the point. The point is…”
“Yes?”
Bilbo huffed. “We were talking about the wedding.”
Thorin tossed his hands up. “Save me from ornery hobbits!”
A heavy lump set in Bilbo’s throat. Gods, he would miss this. He treasured every moment with Thorin, even their silly arguments. He didn’t want to leave.
Thorin straightened to his full majestic height. “If you will not tell me, I’ll confront Dain. Insist he reveal your conversation or meet me in a duel.”
Bilbo gaped at him. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“According to you, dwarves are regularly ridiculous. You should not be surprised.”
“You wouldn’t seriously disrupt Kili’s wedding.”
“Dueling is an honored tradition,” Thorin intoned. “Often done as entertainment at such affairs.”
“Of all the stupid, hair-brained…”
Thorin turned and strode to the door.
“Fine!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Your wedding! That’s what Dain said. Your marriage to…”
Bilbo trailed off, unsure of how to finish. Thorin had stopped walking, and a long pause fell between them. Oh, but only Thorin could make Bilbo lose his tongue so dramatically. The wind whipped around them with a whispery roar, and he clutched tighter at Thorin’s furs.
It was too late to take it back. Bilbo wasn’t even sure he wanted to. Something urged him on, to get everything out and find relief from this terrible back-and-forth. “Dain said you’re getting married.”
Thorin turned, his face inscrutable. His lips parted, but he said nothing.
“That’s what we were talking about,” Bilbo rambled. “Your marriage, and, well.”
Something flickered in Thorin’s expression, too complicated for Bilbo to grasp. “And this has… upset you.”
Bilbo focused on the feel of his fingers buried in the cloak’s fur. If he only felt that, maybe he wouldn’t fall apart. He searched for the right thing to say. “I want you to be happy.”
Thorin’s hands curled into tight fists. “But you are unhappy. With the idea of it. Marrying.”
Bilbo sighed and nodded. “Yes. I didn’t realize how much until Dain mentioned it. It surprised me.”
“You were surprised?”
“Well, yes, Thorin. You’ve never spoken of it before. I suppose it’s one of those things, you being a King, that’s just expected. Hobbits don’t have kings.” Bilbo fiddled with the fastenings of the cloak, unable to watch Thorin’s beautiful, inexplicable face. “And, well. It just didn’t occur to me. I want you to be happy. You deserve it more than anyone. Only I can’t stay.”
Another pause. Bilbo dared to glance up and saw Thorin rubbing his hand over his face. “You can’t stay. Why?”
“Because you’re marrying.”
“Apparently not.”
“You’re… what?”
Thorin’s shoulders drooped like a flower in a drought. He stepped forward and gently grasped Bilbo’s hands. “Do you think so little of me?”
“What? Of course not.”
“My friend…”
“Stop,” Bilbo blurted. Thorin’s eyes widened. “Calling me that. I’m not. I mean, I am. But I —”
“You have not forgiven me.”
Thorin’s voice sounded haunted. Gods, could Bilbo do nothing right? He squeezed Thorin’s hands before he could withdraw them. “Yes, I have. You know I have. But when you call me that, I… it’s not what I want.”
Thorin exhaled heavily, and Bilbo could feel him shaking. “If it bothers you, then I will stop,” Thorin said. “Anything if you would stay. Tell me what you wish.”
“Thorin, that’s not how this works.”
“Please. Anything. I swear.”
“You can’t give up your happiness for me.”
“You are my happiness!”
Bilbo froze. The echo of Thorin’s shout rang across the stone balcony.
Thorin breathed deeply, as if his words took all possible effort to say. “I am happy with you. Nothing pleases me more than our time together. You have given me a kingdom,” he waved haphazardly back at the mountain, “and yet, your company is the only thing I want. The only thing that settles me.”
This was not… no. Nothing made any sense. Thorin was meant to be telling him about his marriage. Bidding Bilbo a fond farewell.
“I had thought you felt as I do,” Thorin continued. He looked down at their clasped hands. “That you loved me as well. Perhaps my hope blinded me. Be easy, my… Bilbo. Master Baggins. You do not have to marry me. I would never force —”
“Wait. Wait, please.” Nothing was right, and yet… Bilbo ran through the evening’s conversations in his head. “Dain said you intended to marry. But not to whom.”
Thorin’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”
“I didn’t think…” Bilbo hesitated. But the sound of Thorin’s voice calling him ‘my happiness’ still rang in his ears. “I didn’t think he meant me.”
“Who else would I marry?”
“It was a guessing game, you see, and I…” Bilbo’s voice shook as realization set in. “You want to marry me.”
“My cousin persuaded you otherwise.” Thorin’s expression turned thunderous. “He is a black-hearted, unscrupulous, bastardly son of a swine.”
“Thorin,” Bilbo chastised. Or at least, he tried to. His voice trembled with disbelief and the beginnings of joy. Thorin wanted to marry him.
“For what he has done, he will taste the steel edge of my blade.”
“Stop, really. Thorin.” Bilbo held fast as Thorin tried to pull away. He supposed he should be glad Thorin had no blade on him. “I’m trying to tell you I love you.” At Thorin’s quickly indrawn breath, Bilbo paused. “Oh. I should not have said that quite so scoldingly.”
“Please,” Thorin said. “Say it again.”
“I love you, too. Um. If that’s what you were trying to say earli— oomph!”
For the second time that evening, Bilbo found himself tugged forward. He didn’t stop at Thorin’s chest, though. Even as Thorin halted inches from him, Bilbo let himself fall. Their lips met in a soft press and released something so bright in Bilbo’s soul that he was sure the whole world was aglow.
The kiss ended much too soon for Bilbo’s liking, although their heavy breaths mingled in the small space between them. “Confounded dwarves,” Bilbo muttered, then pressed forward again to smother Thorin’s chuckle.
Thorin didn’t seem to mind. In fact, Thorin’s arms only tightened around Bilbo, cloak and all. Well, one hand had slipped under the cloak, and — oh. That was even better.
“Wait,” Bilbo breathed, yet hardly allowing Thorin to move away. “Wait. The garden. Did you know?”
“Know what,” Thorin rumbled into his neck.
Bilbo shivered at the delicious vibration that created. “No, the… um. Garden. Hobbits. Don’t you dare laugh, I’m trying to…” Thorin kissed him again. “… ask you something. Oh, never mind.”
But before Bilbo could start their next kiss, Thorin answered, “Yes.”
“What?”
“An offer to build a garden is a traditional proposal of marriage,” Thorin recited.
Bilbo paused, dumbstruck. “How could you possibly know that?”
Thorin scowled at him, although it was somewhat less effective with his flushed face and heavy-lidded eyes. “I am not as unskilled at diplomacy as you like to believe.”
“Oh Gods. How many of my relatives did you offend?”
Thorin growled, and oh, if teasing Thorin got him to sound like that, Bilbo was never going to stop. “Do you know what the cloak means?” Thorin countered.
The heavy fur still surrounded Bilbo’s body. Combined with the gentle pressure of Thorin’s arms, and his chest resting against Thorin, he had never felt so safe. Cherished. Loved.
Thorin loved him.
Thorin wanted to marry him.
“An offer of protection,” Thorin said, his voice softer, unconcerned with Bilbo’s lack of a verbal response. “To offer someone your clothes is to invite them into your family.”
Bilbo felt about to burst. He focused on Thorin’s words, trying to clear his head. “As I remember, you didn’t offer. You draped it over me yourself. Is that traditional, too?”
Thorin hesitated. “In a way.”
There was something there. Something Thorin wasn’t quite saying. Bilbo let his mind run over it. “What about taking it off?” Thorin’s fingers twitched, tightening around Bilbo’s waist. Bilbo felt a rush of heat and did his best not to smile mischievously. “Do I take it off myself, or do you?”
“I’m sure he’d prefer to, Master Burglar,” Dain said, amused. They whirled to see the King of the Iron Hills standing just outside the balcony doors. “Although perhaps not until you’re in Thorin’s bedroom.”
“Scoundrel,” Thorin swore. He placed his body protectively in front of Bilbo.
“Oh, for — Dain, really. Thorin, there’s no need,” Bilbo said.
“Indeed, Thorin,” Dain said cheerily. He held up his hands, as if showing himself unarmed, which Bilbo realized was probably actually what he was doing — dwarves, really. “I merely wanted to assure myself of our Master Burglar’s wellbeing.”
“My,” Thorin growled.
Dain quirked one eyebrow.
“My burglar,” Thorin said. “You had best remember that.”
Possessiveness was not attractive, Bilbo told himself. He did not feel like swooning. He was just hungry.
Actually, he was hungry. And with Dain present, it seemed unlikely there would be more kissing. For the moment, anyway.
Bilbo placed a hand on Thorin’s back and felt a small thrill when Thorin shivered. “Thorin, as much as I’m sure you and Dain are enjoying your posturing, it’s getting late. And I’m, well. I’d like to see if there’s any salad left.”
Dain guffawed. “In a room mostly full of dwarves, there will always be salad left.”
Before Thorin could do something else ridiculous, like offer to make more salad, Bilbo stepped in front of him and pressed a short kiss to his lips. After all, Dain had already seen them, and it was his own fault for interrupting. “You can take the cloak off me later.”
Having sufficiently stunned Thorin into silence, Bilbo turned towards Dain. “And you, Lord Dain, are very lucky things turned out well.”
“Oh, but there was never any doubt,” Dain said, a twinkle in his eyes. “Dwarf though I may be, I do believe you and Thorin were written in the stars.” He bowed, more graciously than Bilbo had seen before. Then he reentered the Hall, leaving the two of them alone.
“Wait,” Thorin said.
This time Bilbo did so without hesitation. He leaned into Thorin, relishing the feel of Thorin’s broad hands as he cupped Bilbo’s shoulders. “What is it?”
Thorin wet his lips. Not distracting at all. “You said you no longer wish to be called…”
Ah. Another thing Bilbo had fouled up. Only, had he? “When Dain said you were planning to marry, I thought it might have been your way of dissuading me.”
Thorin looked startled. “From what should I dissuade you?”
“I thought you saw my feelings and were telling me you did not return them,” Bilbo admitted. The squeeze of Thorin’s hands reassured him that the words were not true. “That you saw me as a friend and nothing more.”
“You planned to leave,” Thorin realized. “Mahal, I might have lost you.”
“No. Even if I had gone, I would never be lost to you.”
Thorin brought his forehead down to rest gently on Bilbo’s. For a long moment they stayed, simply taking each other in.
“Why did you start calling me ‘my friend?’” Bilbo asked. He stayed close, not quite sure what he wanted the answer to be.
“It was the only option I felt worthy of using at the time.”
“Compared to?”
“Ghivashel. Amralime.” The endearments vibrated off Thorin’s tongue. Bilbo recognized them vaguely, having heard Kili use them with Tauriel. “Dear one.”
“That’s…”
“I could not until you knew. But I feared I would forget, so I used the other in their place.”
Thorin’s avoidance of those words — ‘my friend’ — was both touching and ridiculous. His beautiful, caring dwarf. “Will you now?” At Thorin’s heated look, Bilbo’s breath hitched. “Which is your favorite?”
Thorin tucked his nose into Bilbo’s curls, which were no doubt quite messy. Then he pressed a soft kiss to Bilbo’s brow. “My dear one.”
It was a good choice.