Archive of Our Own ^beta

Bilbo Baggins of Bag End never quite understood the point of getting one's portrait painted. maybe if there was some grand event in his life that he'd want committed to the canvas, like getting married so that he could at least pose with a spouse, or the birth of a child, in which case the portrait would be of himself with the aforementioned partner (a wife. if there would be a child, then there would have needed to be a wife) and offspring (of whichever gender). perhaps if he was getting old it would make sense as well, given that he would be leaving something behind for the other half or the kid or even some cousin or another.

Bilbo Baggins of Bag End, however, was a bachelor and an adult in the prime of his life and, frankly, thought that having his face looking down at him from his living room wall would be quite tacky. obnoxious, even. he knew how he looked, he owned a mirror - multiple mirrors, in fact - and he logically assumed that any guest visiting him in his home would also already be familiar with his features.

as such, at the time he left the Shire he had no portraits of himself painted and didn't plan to get one upon his return, either.

and that was Bilbo Baggins of Bag End.

Bilbo Baggins the King Consort of Erebor, however, found himself in quite a different situation.

he did not return to the Shire, for one - or, he did, but not for long and not soon enough to find most of his furniture still in place; in the end, he only managed to bring half of what he set out for back to Erebor.

funnily enough, all the portraits of his late relatives that he somehow accumulated over the years were some of the few things nobody was tempted enough to steal. they looked at him from their secure spots on the walls, more judgemental than he remembered them to be. arseholes. of course nobody wanted to snatch them.

secondly, he was married now. he supposed it was going to make it less awkward to actually have a portrait of himself if he wasn't the only figure in it, though he still would have preferred to at least have it commissioned for some sort of occasion - their wedding, maybe, or an anniversary, or even some kind of holiday.

but Thorin wanted a portrait just because. Bilbo wasn't sure what his husband was going to do with it once it was ready, he couldn't really think of a good place to display it or anybody to give it to, but he could endure, he supposed. there was no point in squabbling over a trivial matter like that, anyway.

and that was how he had found himself seated in a chair one morning, dressed up in his favorite tunic and second-best coat and promised to be let free before supper. it sounded like a less than ideal way to spend the day, but - whatever. he's been through way worse for that dwarf; there were days when he dreamed of doing nothing but sitting in an armchair all day, honestly.

and so he sat, with Thorin standing right behind him with a hand on his shoulder.

the dwarf that showed up to their sitting room with an easel, a canvas and an armful of painting supplies was a nice enough dam - not very talkative, but not nearly as gruff as some tended to be. something about artists being of gentler disposition, maybe, though one look at her big arms told Bilbo that she wouldn't have an issue yielding a weapon, or at least throwing someone a few feet. she wasted no time setting up, preparing her work station with practiced ease that let the hobbit hope that perhaps it would go smoothly enough that he'd still manage to have afternoon tea.

he should have learned a long time ago that when it came to dwarves, there was rarely hope of doing anything without a bump or two in the road.

for the first hour and a half, Bilbo could say he quite enjoyed being painted. once he got over the thoughts of why he'd need a portrait of himself, the process was actually quite relaxing. he realized that it's been a while since he had the chance to just sit and think, which was a terrible shame. it used to be one of his favorite pastimes, sitting and letting his mind wander. it would have been better if he was allowed his pipe, but nonetheless, a seasoned thinker such as himself only really needed the head on his shoulders.

so Bilbo sat and thought, like he used to - mostly about his book that he had been trying to write in spare moments. an accurate retelling of everything that has happened before Erebor was reclaimed and some of what happened later, he liked to call it, though he had been told that accurate was a term he used rather liberally. nonsense. if he remembered things as he described them, then his description was accurate, thank you very much.

the others that liked to peer over his shoulders at the unfinished pages and offer their commentary clearly suffered mild memory issues. must have been a dwarven thing, the poor recollection of certain events. he regretted, now, that apart from the pipe he was also not allowed parchment and writing supplies, though he could hardly argue with it. he couldn't imagine trying to paint somebody's face if they had their head hung over their scribbling. he got expressive when he wrote, too, or at least that was what Thorin told him (what Thorin laughed at him for, more precisely). and if he had to have a portrait of himself, then he wouldn't be caught dead making a silly face on it.

still, it was enjoyable. he could always file the passages he came up away for later in his memory - far superior, of course, to the memory of dwarves that would argue with him that they didn't act even half as foolishly as he sometimes described them to.

he had managed to work out a rather troublesome description of the Mirkwood spiders and how exactly he wanted to convert their strange speech to good old Westron - thank the gods, he'd been sitting on it for weeks - when things began to get troublesome.

he knew the feeling of having his hair brushed away from his eyes well, though it still surprised him in the moment. a strand must have fallen out of place without him noticing, it appeared, because just as he had zoned out comfortably he felt the warmth of his husband's fingers at his temple and then the edge of his ear; it twitched slightly, like an annoyed cat's. stupid, oversensitive thing.

"Thorin," Bilbo hissed through his teeth, hopefully quiet enough that the painter wouldn't hear. that kind of embarrassment was the last thing he needed.

the dwarf behind him snickered. it made him sound younger when he did, a little bit like his nephews, and normally the hobbit would have found it endearing.

normally, he wouldn't have been sat before a painter's scrutinizing eyes.

the dwarrowdam behind the easel cleared her throat.

"your majesties," she said; Bilbo could tell she tried not to sound reprimanding in front of the king and consort. "please, don't move."

"of course," Thorin rumbled right behind the hobbit. Bilbo could sense the thinly veiled amusement in his tone just as well as he could the exasperation in the painter's sigh. he had the urge to shake his head but managed to stop himself just in time.

there were no issues whatsoever for another half hour, or maybe even a bit longer than that. long enough for Bilbo to slip back into his thoughts, anyway.

once he had worked out that spider-talk issue, he had moved on to figuring out how exactly he wanted to split that part of the story into chapters, if he wanted to at all. he could, technically, cram it all into one, but knowing himself… maybe he should have worried more about not making it too long. would anybody like to read about the time he spent invisible in king Thranduil's halls? better question yet - would it even be wise to explain that part in detail? there was no guarantee it wouldn't reach the woodland realm and despite the peace established, it was still a rickety thing. did he need it all out there like that? maybe it would be best to keep that chapter short, after all? just to avoid potential-

Thorin squeezed Bilbo's shoulder and his head nearly snapped back on instinct to see what his husband wanted from him when he remembered the painter in front of them.

"what?" he asked quietly.

"nothing," the dwarf replied.

he squeezed the hobbit's shoulder again and again until Bilbo realized that his husband was giving him a massage. then, of all times, while they were being painted. better than the hair-and-ear thing, Bilbo supposed, but still-

eyeing the dwarrowdam, he made sure that she didn't see the subtle way he straightened his back and rolled his shoulders. he never even realized how much tension he carried within him these days. he woke early and spent hours in meetings, in front of a desk and then in meetings again, sat for hours at a long stone table and listening to lords argue back and forth about things that could be settled withing half an hour. not that he did much stretching back in the Shire - he had been far too more active now than ever, actually - but he had not been getting the same kind of sleep at night or easy living during the day and he'd be lying if he said it didn't exactly take a toll.

Thorin was smart with his hands; he always was. it was a continuous source of awe for Bilbo - his husband's work at the forges with things so small it was hard to believe they came from under a large hammer, the clever spinning of a quill when he concentrated, the complicated braiding he woven so easily into his hair, and that was not to mention-

well. not to mention that, because that got him hot. he didn't want to blush in front of the painter and he definitely didn't need to react in any different way.

he cleared his mind as well as he could without physically shaking his head (a silly habit but a persistent one, only a bit less embarrassing than sticking his tongue out whenever he stuttered one time too many in one go) and relaxed. the dwarf ran so warm that it seeped onto Bilbo's skin even through his shirt and coat.

it was very nice, really, to feel the subtle kneading of Thorin's fingers on his shoulders and the top of his spine along the nape. he had a relaxing, firm touch and it was more or less perfect to sit there on the receiving end of it until it moved from the back of him to the side of his neck. suddenly Bilbo was sitting in his chair in his favorite tunic and second-best coat with his husband's thumb sliding slowly up, rubbing a single circle around his throat before progressing carelessly towards his jaw. he was there - really there, which was…

"Thorin," the hobbit reprimanded.

"your majesty…" the painter sighed. "your hand…?"

"of course," Thorin put it back on Bilbo's shoulder. "of course, excuse me."

the dam nodded shortly, Thorin fixed his stance and Bilbo made sure not to look like his husband was still rubbing his shoulder (though much more subtly now) as he sank back into the chair.

think about the book, he told himself firmly. think about the spacing and the chapters and not about his husband's hands. think about what could and could not be included. think about…

think about Laketown. think about water in his airway and the panic and the raging current.

it was easy, to be honest. it was easy to think of all the things he hated to say but wanted to write down. he had almost drowned there, he was sure! think about the dirty stray dogs running the streets, fishermen's weathered faces, the smell of fish that assaulted his nose everywhere. hell, think about Kíli running a delirious fever. that part needed to be included, too, as much as the memory still made his stomach tighten with fear.

but by all that was sacred, do not think about Thorin's thumb slipping underneath the collar of his tunic-

what a terribly insolent dwarf. one would think he was half the age he was, sometimes.

Bilbo tried to be as still as a statue. he really didn't want to give the poor painter any headache, and he certainly didn't want to embarrass himself; no matter embarrass Thorin - the bastard deserved it. he should be embarrassed, at least a little.

he thought, with some rather snarky satisfaction, that it must have at least been humbling for the dwarf to see him turn so unreceptive to his affections. that's what he got for getting touchy at inappropriate times, like a faunt sent to sit in timeout for sneaking cookies before dinner. even if it felt so nice when Thorin's thumb slid up and down the back of Bilbo's neck, even if he would normally lean into it gladly- no, no, he's done enough leaning for a day. how would it look, anyway, if the king consort of Erebor was caught leaning in a painting? oh, no, he wasn't leaning at all. he sat there with his back straight and his eyes fixed on a spot on the wall just behind the artist's ear and he was still.

and then Thorin's fingernail scraped slowly down the knobs of his spine, and Bilbo took a rather bothered breath.

right. still as a statue. he realized too late that he had committed to the bit a touch too well and forgot that unlike a statue, he actually needed air in his lungs.

the dwarrowdam didn't even say anything this time, which was somehow much more mortifying than anything she could have said; just looked over the canvas with tired eyes.

Bilbo considered, briefly, if he could handle ruling the kingdom alone if his husband was to be strangled in his sleep by, say, a burglar. a completely different burglar, of course, or so his book would say.

Thorin either didn't notice her stare or, more likely, couldn't be bothered to care about it. cocky bastard. he had a tendency, Bilbo noticed, to think that being king meant that he could simply get away with things. while fundamentally untrue, it at least served to solidify his relation to his nephews. Bilbo could have gone without the confirmation; it was enough that Kíli looked exactly like young Thorin except for the eyes (those were entirely his father's) and Fíli was like his father reincarnated with Thorin's blue gaze.

he really didn't need all three of them to be able to be identically obnoxious.

it was a tiny little bit sweet, maybe, how his husband felt that need to touch him at all times when in proximity. Bilbo couldn't deny how it made him feel loved, underneath all that awkwardness.

but, for the love of Yavanna, it was only ever actually cute when they were alone - and perhaps very rarely when he was in a more Tookish (or simply frisky) mood. it absolutely wasn't when he was trying to appear somewhat dignified, or at least respectable, and there was Thorin, oblivious to the looks they got that ranged anywhere between amused to condemning, with his wandering hands. and while Bilbo's Took half could enjoy the little scandal on a good day, his Baggins half (quite the primary one) could only imagine what his neighbors and relatives back in the Shire would think and how those thoughts must have still been at least a bit relevant to the dwarves.

nobody wanted to see that, damn it, and if they did (weirdos), they absolutely didn't need to.

Bilbo first clenched his jaw, then scrunched his nose, then felt the tendon in his neck flex slightly.

"Thorin," he said calmly.

third time truly was the charm. his husband coughed quietly into his fist and finally set the offending hand on Bilbo's shoulder where it damn well belonged.

it was blissful peace until the painter carefully set the canvas aside, collected her supplies, thanked their majesties for their time, to which Bilbo responded with his own polite thanks, and left their chambers. the hobbit wanted to believe from the bottom of his heart that she was not rushing, but his eyes rarely deceived him.

damn it.

Thorin looked as sheepish as he should have been, standing in the middle of their sitting room (ha, irony), inspecting his nails as if it was the first time he saw them.

for a second or two, Bilbo reveled in his obvious uneasiness. well deserved, if anyone bothered to ask him. really well deserved. if Bilbo had to suffer through hours of second thoughts about how they definitely had made the painter uncomfortable or at least annoyed, then Thorin could suffer some clarity after. still, it made him feel a little bad, curse his soft little heart. he wasn't the type to enjoy others' suffering, especially not his loved ones', he was just kind of petty - but name a hobbit that wasn't.

"Thorin," he said for the fourth time that day, softer this time because he truly couldn't stand to be cruel for too long, definitely not in silence. the silence always made it feel too brutal. they could still argue.

"you're really upset with me, aren't you?" the dwarf asked.

he could truly be infuriating. he could be so irksome that Bilbo got truly mad, at times. he could piss him off so bad that the hobbit didn't even hesitate to literally drag his husband out of a council room by the ear and have a talk outside about whatever diplomatic failure he witnessed. he was, from time to time, such a pain in the arse that they both took a good hour to cool down before they spoke to each other again after an argument, because Thorin was a stubborn donkey and Bilbo was as headstrong as a ram.

he could also be so, so maddening that the hobbit just wanted to hold his stupid hand and tell him that everything was fine so he got his stupid frown off his stupid face.

the weasel. the wretch. the shmuck.

"you were being fairly annoying, you know," he said, but his voice has lost the edge. maybe it was the time passed, or maybe it was the way Thorin tried to make himself seem smaller, or maybe Bilbo was just too gone for him.

"I didn't think-"

"yes, you did not," Bilbo cut in. "what were you thinking?"

Thorin looked at him with the expression of a miserable little puppy, which was the level of unfair play only ever achieved by the sons of Durin.

"that we… we don't get enough time together. and I could finally spend a day with you, and… I missed you."

and if Bilbo didn't like using foul language too much, fuck him for actually having a sweet reason to be such a pest.

"honey," he finally switched to a petname. it made Thorin's eyes light up. fuck him for being so hard to be angry at, too.

"I know…" the dwarf sighed. he reached awkwardly for Bilbo's hand and he was too inclined to take it to continue acting offended. he'd have plenty of other occasions to, anyway. "you weren't… too embarrassed, were you?"

Bilbo wanted to say that he was. he wanted to say that he was mortified and he hated the way the artist rushed out and that his head was just full of scenarios where she went around telling everyone that'd listen how terribly the royal couple behaved, because that's what would have happened with some of the folks in Hobbiton.

but he looked at those blue, wet eyes, he squeezed Thorin's big fingers and felt his warmth bleed into his skin, and he wasn't thinking much of it anymore. he wouldn't until he stepped outside again, which wouldn't be for the next few hours. not until morning, at least. late morning, if he could get away with it.

"too embarrassed…" he felt himself smirk. all his annoyance was now redirected at his father, bless his soul (but not too much, Bilbo had a bone to pick with him, now for marrying a Took). "for what, exactly?"

Thorin's little frown turned into a big, big smile when he took a step closer.