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It's been many moon cycles since they started reconstructing Erebor, and she was now standing tall and proud beneath the lonely mountain.
As a Hobbit, Bilbo couldn't be of much help in the heavyweight department, not that they had even let him try. As soon as the hobbit walked towards the pickaxe, he was tugged away by the princes.
Not even in the kitchen he was of much service. After offering to make a mushroom soup, thinking they'll be as happy as he was when he found the fungi, Bombur had carefully told him that while he cared for him, he had to stop.
So, Bilbo had to find other was to entertain himself such as spending the afternoons retelling the company's mission to the little pebbles, or teaching whoever wanted to know how to knit.
And had to swallow his annoyance when the dwarrowdame proudly showed him her piece. A perfectly crafted dolly.
It wasn't like it took him longer to even learn the knot, not at all.
Braiding was certainly an art that he needed to learn, but no matter how many times he asked the Company, they would all run away from his hands as if they were going to hurt them. Bilbo had to remind himself it wasn't against him in any way and that it must have to do with their culture.
He attempted to do a braid in his own hair but the locks weren't near long enough to properly practice. The braid he made was barely three fingers long and could hardly be held by a tiny bead he made with a seed.
Looking into the reflection of a mirror he felt it was good enough, and given by the look of Thorin when he saw it that night, the dwarf agreed.
During those months, he got even closer to the king. He wouldn't want to assume anything, but he felt-
No, he couldn't.
It wasn't possible.
But still, the little voice keeps whispering that the king wanted him, or could some day want him.
That would be insane. He wasn't more than an old hobbit, but every time he heard the king say his name, in the way he did, it sent shivers down his spine.
His tongue would roll down his name like it was an incantation; almost like it was in his own secret language.
The first time he heard it, after he forgave the king for the twentieth time for everything that happened, he blushed like a flower and had to excuse himself to get Thorin's some more food just so his heart would start beating normally again.
Now it's been months, and he was still stuck in his silly fancy for the rough king with long dark hair and piercing blue-
“You're not a faunt,” he mumbles, shoving the book int the bookcase with unnecessary strength but feels guilt when one of the corner golf under the force. He sighs, trying to straighten it and barely makes it.
“I need a break.”
Walking towards the kitchens he encounters Bombur and all his new helpers running around making the food for the company and Dain's dwarrows.
Standing fairly to one side he stays silent seeing the chaos and panic. It takes more than five minutes for them to notice him staring.
“Master hobbit!” A lass greets as she poured a spice on the stew.
“Well, hello there, everyone,” he adds when they throw a look at him.
As they were platting Bilbo gets an idea.
“Could I,” he walks closer to Bombur and whispers, “could I bring Thorin his plate?”
Bombur has to bite his smile as he looks away from the hobbits face then nods.
“Of course! Here,” he settles the plate on a platter with a glass of wine.
Bilbo gets it and starts to walk away, but after a few steps he turns back and puts the platter on an empty counter then gets another piece of bread to place next to the stew and an empty mug, then grabs it and walks away. As he's walking he looks around before grabbing the dandelion he had put in his pocket that morning and places it on the mug.
If any dwarrow saw him carrying the platter through the hallways and thought something of it, then they didn't say anything. He was fairly grateful for that, for even with the silence, he feels his face blush like a flower.
Thorin was in the east side of the castle, leaning over a construction plan, with Balin at his side as they murmured in low Khuzdul.
The king was clad in his Durin blue robes with the silver accents around his chest and waist; the threads were kingly and delicate, and he was fairly certain that specific stitching on the fabrics had to mean something too. Upon his head was placed his crown; his braids with silver beads framing the sides of his face.
He looked…
Bilbo moves the dandelion so it's facing the stew.
“It's time for lunch,” he greets, and walks to an empty little table to the side of the room, well aware that the dwarves were now looking at him as he pulled a chair next to the table.
“Bilbo,” was the king's greeting and he felt himself flush. “Ah, thank you, but we need to finish this.”
Bilbo looked around the space at the unfinished room.
“As in today? I don't think that's possible.”
He didn't miss the king's frown, but he ignored it and gave a light pat to the chair. “Come, sit.”
Thorin turned his head and went to the broken down wall. This particular room on the east side of the castle had been left for the end, for they wanted to insulate the rest of it before. The priority had been the living quarters over the leisure areas, but now that they were here, Thorin must feel that he was falling behind; that he was slow, even though his kingdom was livable.
“Thorin.”
The king ignored him, and removed a piece of broken stone and threw it next to the other ruble.
Bilbo crossed his arms over his chest, warm annoyance settling in his stomach.
“Master dwarf!”
There's the sound of ruble then a yelp.
“Aklâf!”
A piece of the upper wall had fallen just as Thorin was removing a piece and fell on his hand.
“Thorin!”
He ran to the king and attempted to take his hand but the dwarf drew it back.
“Don't be a faunt, let me see.”
There was an annoyed grumble in response but he did extend his hand towards Bilbo. He took the appendage in his hand and let his thumb clean away some of the dirt next to the nicked area. It was red and had a tiny cut in the middle. Dwarves were truly stronger than others, the damage should have been at least louder in terms of blood but there it was: just a little nick.
“Does it hurt?” He barely receives a grumble in response but he assumes it means ‘of course not.’
He was lifting the hand towards his face without thinking, and only realised what he was doing when the dwarf tugged it away.
“W-what are you doing?”
The dwarf's voice was deep and nervous.
Bilbo suddenly felt like an idiot kid as he covered his mouth. Just what was he thinking?
“I'm sorry! I wasn't-” he takes a step back. “Terribly sorry, my king.”
Thorin seems to consider something then his voice shakes as he asks.
“You had a reason for that.”
“Ah… why yes.” Before he can stop himself, he starts rambling against his will. Why his tongue had a mind of his own. “It's a silly thing, really. Fairly is a thing that's more common towards faunts, and you're clearly not a faunt so I'll see myself-”
“Master hobbit.”
“Back to master hobbit, I see,” he mumbles as he turns back around to look at the dwarf king. “Fine. Er… it's a thing in The Shire, really. Well, I'm almost certain it's something that humans do too. Where… er….”
Oh, he was going to die.
“If something, uh, hurts you, well, k- no I can't.”
“Bilbo.”
“That's not helping!” He breaths deeply then rips the bandaid. “Kiss it better.” he mutters.
There was the sound of something falling but Bilbo was far too concentrated on the hair of his feet. He should comb it, it's all messy.
In fact, he's going to go do that immediately.
“I'll see myself out-”
“WAIT!” he jumps at the sudden shout. Thorin clears his throat. “It… it hurts.”
Maybe Yavanna was attempting to take him earlier.
“... Does it?”
“Ah- yes. I didn't- I didn't understand the question!”
Bilbo couldn't possibly be blushing more than he was, but he still took the hand in between his. The fingers were rough and his palm was callous; the fair memory on his rough skin of hard labour. It made him all the more infatuated with the dwarf.
He lifts it to his mouth and caresses his skin with his lips just below the cut.
The hobbit must look idiotic, with his soft beliefs of love making it better, but upon raising his eyes at the towering king, that thought slipped away.
The warmth in his eyes made him feel weak in the knees.
“... I also hurt my face.”
Oh, the cheek.
"While congratulations are in order," Bilbo jumps away from the dwarf as Balin's voiced filled the room. His face must be as red as a poppy, "we do have to finish this."
"It's lunch time," mumbled the king, leaning down to Bilbo's level.