Fic: Edge of a Knife -- Chapter One, Thorin/Bilbo Mafia!AU (Part One)
Title: Edge of a Knife, Chapter One (also available on AO3 and FF.net)
Author: Emiliana Darling
Fandom: The Hobbit (2012)
Pairing: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11,500 this chapter
Contains: Alternate Universe (Modern, Mafia). Tags will be added as necessary.
Summary: When Bilbo and Thorin started dating, there might have been a few things that didn’t quite add up. He always tried to avoid talking about his job, he always seemed to be surrounded by men that he worked with, and his family was more than a little strange. The realization that Thorin was the head of an organized crime ring, however, was more than Bilbo ever bargained for.
Author's Note: Hey, everyone! So I’ve been rather swamped with my thesis lately, and my mindset hasn’t been too conducive to writing the next chapter of Mountains. (It’s stubbornly stuck about half-way done right now.) However, I saw this prompt on the kinkmeme and had a sudden desperate need to write it -- so I thought I would share the first chapter with you guys as an apology. <3
Updates for both this and Beneath the Mountains Music Woke are available at my tumblr. :)
--
From Monday to Friday, Pelennor Park seemed to exist in a state of perpetual dormancy. Aside from ever-present early morning joggers and the occasional elderly visitor, the park’s green grass fields, muddling dirt paths, and quaint little duck ponds went largely without outside appreciation for the vast majority of the week.
By contrast, Sunday afternoons in the park were always exceptionally crowded affairs. For Bilbo, whose job did not require him to shackle himself to a desk for eight hours a day five days a week, the contrast was especially pronounced. Families came out in droves for picnics, couples walked hand in hand feeding seed to ducklings, and equestrians even took the opportunity to show off their horses. It was questionable whether, all things considered, Sundays were a particularly good day to visit the park at all.
They were the only day that Bilbo had his nephew Frodo all to himself, however, and so Sunday was always the day they came. Today they were walking along one of the park’s well-worn paths at an easy stroll, Frodo just having polished off the ice cream treat Bilbo had bought for him.
“So now that I’ve sufficiently spoiled your appetite for lunch,” Bilbo began in a teasing voice, and next to him Frodo gave him a chocolate-smeared grin. A little chocolate wouldn’t hurt the boy, after all. Even though Bilbo loved Drogo and Primula dearly, he was the first to admit that they tended to keep Frodo on a fairly tight leash. He could probably do with little bit of spoiling here or there once a week. Smiling, Bilbo reached into his pocket and pulled out a tissue, which Frodo obediently took. “You promised to tell me all about your week at school.”
Standing only as tall as Bilbo’s middle, Frodo nodded as he wiped at his mouth without being instructed to do so. At seven years old, Frodo had already claimed the title of Bilbo’s favourite person in the whole world. He was round-cheeked and a little bit lanky from all the time spent outdoors, but his love for stories made him forever eager to read or be read to. He had his mother’s eyes; so strikingly blue that they looked too old for his young face, and they seemed even brighter against the dark of his curls.
Frodo was also an exceptionally thoughtful child. While he certainly had a mischievous streak that his cousins were always trying to play up, the fact that he spent most of his life around adults was very much apparent in the way he acted.
“It was good,” said Frodo after a long, considering pause. He nodded seriously. “We planted beans in clear jars to see how they grew. Sam’s grew the best, but he helped me make mine sprout really high too.”
“That was kind of him,” said Bilbo, cocking his head. He didn’t particularly believe in talking down to any child, but Frodo in particular had always enjoyed being conversed with like an adult. “Sam’s the one with the crush, isn’t he? On... oh, what’s her name... Mary?”
“Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo chastised him, laughing a little. “Her name’s Rosie. Sam’s in love with her.” He said the last part without any doubt at all, as though it was the truest thing in the world. Bilbo smoothed his mouth into a serious line.
“Is he now? Goodness. Do you think he’ll still feel that way next year?”
Frodo seemed to think about it for a moment. “I think so,” he said after a pause, nodding firmly. His little face lit up the next moment, blue eyes shining. “And Merry and Pippin taught me how to cartwheel, did I tell you?”
Ignoring the non sequitur, Bilbo shook his head. “You didn’t, but you should show me.”
“Okay!” said Frodo excitedly, visibly bursting with the desire to prove himself. He charged off the path and onto an open stretch of field.
“Stay on the grass,” Bilbo warned, raising his voice to be heard, “and be careful!”
He watched as Frodo raised his arms in the air, rocked himself backward and then forward - before throwing himself into a very wobbly cartwheel. From a few feet away and with a huge grin on his face, Bilbo clapped his approval.
“I can do it better!” Frodo called back, starting another cartwheel. It went better than the last one, and with a cry of victory he kept on going into another without pausing. “I can keep doing it!” he shouted gleefully, a whirl of limbs and black curls rolling and rolling in haphazard enthusiasm. Bilbo was starting to feel dizzy just from looking at him. “I think I can go forever!”
He was about to call out and say that as long as you don’t make yourself sick you can do what you like, lad -when a trio of men dressed in dark clothes suddenly came around a large rosebush, moving into where there had previously been open field. Frodo had been keeping his cartwheels in a fairly tight circle, but the circle was getting wider and sloppier the dizzier he got. With horror, Bilbo realized that Frodo was headed straight for the men, none of whom had seen him.
“Frodo!” Bilbo called out, and when Frodo didn’t even slow down he started into a run. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. The three men took notice of his shout and just managed to see the tiny flail of limbs heading toward them, but didn’t seem to know how to react to it in time.“Frodo, stop, you’re -”
Smack.
With an audible sound of collision, Frodo’s small body crashed right into the man in the centre of the three - the one with long dark hair and a trimmed beard.
The man had been too solid to be knocked over by all the weight of a seven-year-old boy, and Frodo had been knocked back onto his bottom. When Bilbo reached the cluster of people his eyes skimmed right over the shocked-looking man and landed on Frodo, who was sprawled with an expression of dazed surprise on his small face.
“Frodo, are you all right?” Bilbo asked, worry clutching desperately at his chest. He knelt down and placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. After a moment, his nephew blinked and then nodded.
“M’fine,” he mumbled, rubbing at his head. He looked up at Bilbo, wincing. “M’sorry.”
“I told you to be careful,” Bilbo reprimanded him - but one look at Frodo’s shamefaced expression made him realize that there was no real need. He sighed, reaching to help Frodo to his feet. “It’s okay. Now you know for next time.”
There the sound of someone clearing their throat, and with a spasm of shock Bilbo looked up at the cluster of three men.
All of them were looking down at himself and Frodo as though they were a veritable spectacle. They were all bearded, but other than that they could not have looked more dissimilar. The one on the left was young and had long dirty-blond hair, and the one of the right was much older with long grey hair and whiskers. And the one in the middle - the one that Frodo had actually crashed into, he reminded himself - was...
Bilbo felt his heart catch in his chest.
“Oh my god,” said Bilbo, heat rushing to his face. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. He just got a little excited and bit out of control and - oh my goodness, I really do apologize. Are you okay?”
The man in the centre was tall and very broad, with a dark beard and long hair that was ever-so-slightly streaked with grey. His eyes were light blue and attentive, and he seemed to be watching Bilbo and Frodo with a look of genuine curiosity on his face.
And he was horribly, painfully attractive. Not classically handsome, not pretty, but attractive in a way that made Bilbo feel dangerously close to babbling out nonsense. The dark blue of his button-up made him stand out from his companions, both of whom were dressed in dark browns and blacks.
After a moment, the man held out a hand. It was a big hand, several of the thick fingers decorated with silver rings, and it took Bilbo far too long to realize that he was offering to help them up. The two other men looked surprised as well, but Bilbo took the hand gratefully and pulled Frodo to his feet at the same time.
“Yours?” the man asked, his voice a deeper than Bilbo had expected. He blinked.
“Pardon?” he asked stupidly. A half a moment later, he realized. “Oh! You mean - oh, no, Frodo’s my cousin.”
“Nephew,” Frodo insisted childishly, and Bilbo made a small noise at the back of his throat. He reached over to pat away some of the dirt that had accumulated on Frodo’s clothes in order to give his hands something to do. He swatted distractedly at the dust and grass.
“Well, we call you my nephew, Frodo, but you’re really - no matter.” Bilbo straightened, giving the man another apologetic look. “I really do apologize. You’re sure you’re not hurt?”
But the man did not even have the chance to respond before Frodo was tugging at Bilbo’s waistcoat. He stood on his tiptoes, and Bilbo leaned forward - only for Frodo to ask “Uncle Bilbo, why does the man have badger hair?” in a whisper so loud it could likely be heard clearly by everyone there. Bilbo’s face flushed hotter with mortification, and he found himself rather wishing that the world would open up and swallow the two of them whole.
“Frodo Baggins,” Bilbo snapped, flustered and appalled, and Frodo looked suddenly terrified. “Do you have any idea how rude that is? You apologize to -”
“Thorin,” the man supplied helpfully, a small smile on his face, and Bilbo barely registered the sight of his companions looking at him as though he had grown a second head.
“-to Mr. Thorin immediately. It’s not okay to ask people that kind of question.”
“Well, actually - Frodo, is it?” asked Thorin, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with Frodo. “It’s not okay to ask most people that question, but you can ask me if you like. I have grey in my hair because I’m getting older -” he shot Bilbo an amused look over the top of Frodo’s head - “and because I’ve led a very long and exciting life. But people don’t usually like being reminded that they’re old, so it’s best not to ask. Does that make sense?”
Frodo seemed to think about it for a moment, then nodded. “It does!” he said, smiling up at Thorin. “Thank you. Sorry I was rude.”
“Quite all right,” said Thorin, nodding in much the same way one might nod to a business associate. He raised himself up from the ground, making Bilbo realize all at once that Thorin was quite a bit taller than he had thought at first. When he turned to look at Bilbo, there was an amused little smile tugging at his lips.
“I have nephews, too,” said Thorin in brief explanation, and there was such confidence about the way he spoke and held himself - such utter certainty about everything he said or did - that made Bilbo feel quite ridiculous by comparison. He pulled Frodo close so that his nephew’s back was pressed against his legs, Bilbo’s arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders.
“Now, there is a favour I’d like to ask you in return for the inconvenience,” Thorin continued, looking Bilbo right in the eyes.
“Of course,” Bilbo hurried to say, feeling rather overwhelmed. In front of him, Frodo fidgeted slightly.
“Come to dinner with me.”
The statement - not a question, almost a kindly-worded demand - came out of absolutely nowhere, leaving Bilbo wide-eyed and completely at a loss for words. In front of him, Frodo seemed to be perking up with interest again. Bilbo blinked, hesitating, eyeing both Thorin and his companions in an attempt to discern if this was some kind of joke.
Neither of Thorin’s companions seemed amused, though. Surprised, yes, and perhaps a bit bewildered. The one with blond hair looked as though it was taking every ounce of his self-control to stop from blurting something out, and the older one’s air of quiet competence had softened considerably. But neither of them gave any hint that the request might be mean-spirited in nature.
And Thorin... Thorin just stared right at him, never moving his eyes away. Calm and self-assured and utterly in command of both himself and the situation, patiently waiting for Bilbo’s response.
“Are you serious?” Bilbo asked, stumbling over the words a little. In front of him, Thorin continued to hold his gaze, and Bilbo couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were very pale indeed. Thorin crossed his arms, raising a single thick eyebrow.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, sounding slightly amused.
“I... okay,” Bilbo replied at last, practically surprising himself with the acceptance. “If you want. Does... does next week work for you at all, or -?”
“How about tonight?” Thorin interjected, cutting him off before he could even finish the sentence. Bilbo felt his eyebrows fly up into his hairline. It was an eager sentiment, but Thorin didn’t seem to feel any need to put on a show of distance. He emanated confidence with his every gesture and word too strongly for that.
“Oh,” said Bilbo quietly, swallowing hard. “Oh, um. Thank you, but... I’m spending tonight with Frodo,” he finished awkwardly, giving his nephew a squeeze. “Perhaps another -”
“S’okay, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo piped up, tilting his head up and grinning against Bilbo’s stomach. “Mum will be home at four, she said so. I don’t mind.”
“Then it’s decided,” Thorin cut in smoothly, leaving Bilbo blinking at the speed of which his evening’s plans had apparently been taken over by a complete stranger. Thorin reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a very expensive-looking cell phone, and gave Bilbo a quizzical look. “Your number?”
Still feeling dazed, Bilbo gave it to him. He was about to provide his name as well, realizing in a wince of embarrassment that he hadn’t properly introduced himself, but Thorin entered his name into the contact without being prompted. He winced; he didn’t think he’d ever been introduced to someone so achingly good-looking as ‘Uncle Bilbo’ before. Once his number was entered into the phone, Thorin slid it back into his pocket with a small smile.
“I’ll send you a text with the restaurant’s address. Shall we meet there at seven?”
“Okay,” said Bilbo, his voice perhaps a little higher than usual. “That... yes, okay, sure.”
When Thorin extended his hand a moment later, it took Bilbo ever-so-slightly too long to realize what he wanted. Feeling very surreal indeed, he reached out and slipped his hand into Thorin’s. They shook, Thorin’s palm cool and rough against his own. Something clenched in his chest at how completely Thorin’s hands dwarfed his own as they shook.
“It was lovely to meet you, Bilbo,” Thorin said, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, before crouching down and solemnly giving Frodo’s hand a shake as well. “You as well, Frodo.”
With that, Thorin stood. And the three men - two of whom had never even spoken a single word, and Bilbo didn’t even think to get their names - turned on their heels and walked away. From his many visits to the park over the years, Bilbo realized they were heading to the closest parking lot.
In his arms, Frodo was starting to fidget again. All Bilbo could do, however, was stand and stare and wonder what on earth had just happened.
--
Just as Thorin had promised, Bilbo received a text with the chosen restaurant’s address only ten minutes after their meeting in the park. Because he was occupied with driving Frodo home, however, he didn’t actually get the opportunity to check it until some time later.
The two of them chatted in the car on the way to Frodo’s house, Bilbo attempting to distract himself from the utterly surreal events at the park. Frodo did most of the talking, from describing the stages of growth of a plant to complaining about the ‘old-timey’ radio station that Bilbo always played in the car to insisting that he could probably cartwheel forever if he wanted to. Even though Bilbo made all the right noises in all the right places, however, his mind was very much not on the conversation at hand.
They arrived at Frodo’s house just as his mother Primula was pulling into the driveway, which meant it was impossible for Bilbo to go anywhere until he’d had two cups of tea in the garden, half a plate of biscuits, and heard everything there was to know about their recent household renovations. After a suitable amount of familial visiting time had elapsed, however, Bilbo excused himself with a hug and a kiss and headed back home.
Because Drogo and Primula had moved into the same suburb as him (which was largely pleasant and only very rarely unfortunate), it only took a few minutes before Bilbo was on his own front step. The key twisted smoothly in the bass lock, allowing the green door to swing open as he walked inside.
His house - Bag End, the realtor had tried to tell him, but it was such a silly name that he’d never been able to say it with a straight face - was small, quaint, and in his opinion absolutely perfect. The walls were a soft beige lined with light wood trim, and every room seemed to soak up the sun. Absolutely everything in Bilbo’s house was made for comfort, from the well-stocked pantry to the soft reddish-brown of his bed linens to the spacious office he used for writing. He worked from home, and as such needed his space to be both restful and energizing; when he had stepped through the front door for the first time all those years ago, it had all seemed too good to be true.
Bilbo hadn’t purchased Bag End for any of those reasons, though: more than anything else, he had bought it for the garden.
While the front garden hosted a few very lovely rosebushes, it was the back garden that Bilbo loved above all else. A rambling sprawl of flowerbeds and narrow pathways, every inch of the back garden thrummed with life. Plants of every colour, nature, and purpose seemed to burst from every corner, with medicinal herbs and brilliant blooms and fruit trees all clustered together and reaching up into the sun. Other than a small breakfast table and a trellis for the wisteria to grow on, Bilbo had done very little to change it since moving in.
Still buzzing with an excitement he tried to ignore, Bilbo came inside, kicked off his shoes - he preferred going barefoot whenever possible - and headed into the garden. As soon as he was settled into the breakfast table, he finally checked his phone.
He stared at it for far longer than necessary, reading and re-reading the very extremely brief message.
From: 654-383-4491
September 20th, 3:36pm
The location is 1753 West Emnet Drive. I look forward to seeing you. - T
A furrow grew between his eyebrows as he read the message again, letting out a small noise of disappointment. It was a bit of a strange message; overly formal and even slightly abrupt, and so very different from the warm and interested way that Thorin had treated him in the park just a few hours ago. Bilbo deflated slightly, wondering if he had badly misjudged the entire encounter. With a little twinge of regret, he copied the address into his phone’s browser so that he could at least have an idea of where they were going.
Oh.
Oh.
Well, then.
He was definitely going to have to change for dinner.
--
When Bilbo arrived at the restaurant a few hours later, having spent the bus ride into town largely worrying about being stood up, he was both pleased and mildly surprised to find Thorin waiting for him outside. He was unmistakable even from a distance, long hair swept back into a low ponytail and dressed in a smart-looking suit, and the sight of him made nervous energy churn in the base of Bilbo’s stomach.
The sheer number of people lined up in the hope of getting a table was also more than a little daunting. They stretched down the block, all of them dressed in evening dresses or suit-jackets and looking progressively more and more impatient the further away from the door they were standing. Meduseld, its name spelled out in golden letters on the sign above, was an extremely old and highly reputable establishment. He had never been there himself, but the fact that Thorin had decided to wait for him instead of getting in line made Bilbo question his sanity.
Anticipating a long wait in line, Bilbo sped up his pace. He ducked around an imposing-looking man with tattoos on his head and a large beard, giving Thorin a hesitant smile as he got closer. When Thorin caught sight of him, his face shifted from a neutral expression to a wide, shining grin.
“Good evening,” said Bilbo, torn between looking at Thorin and looking at the restaurant. The place was expensive, infamously so. For a few seconds, he experienced a pre-emptive panic attack about how the bill was going to be split.
“You came,” Thorin greeted him, voice full of a warmth that made Bilbo give him his whole attention. Thorin was impeccably dressed: his dark blue tie was perfectly straight, his shoes practically shone in the lamplight, and now that he was closer it was apparent that Thorin’s suit fitted him so impeccably that Bilbo rather suspected he’d had it custom made. The touches of grey in his long hair were still visible even though he wore it pulled back, but they didn’t spoil the effect. Instead, they somehow made him appear even more regal.
“I did,” Bilbo confirmed, somewhat unsure of what to say.
After some deliberation - as well as some semi-frantic googling to discern what ‘semi-formal to formal’ might mean in this particular instance - Bilbo himself had decided to go with a cream-button up, a grey vest, and a deep red tie. The tie was his favourite part of the outfit by far. He liked colours, enjoyed incorporating them into his wardrobe where he could. He’d made an attempt at forcing his curls into something manageable, too, but that hadn’t been nearly as successful.
A smile still on his face, Thorin gestured toward the warm lights of Meduseld. “Come along, then. We have a reservation.”
“A reservation?” asked Bilbo in disbelief, eying the long line of people waiting for tables. Thorin just gave him an amused look, reached out a hand - and placed it in the small of Bilbo’s back, guiding him toward the restaurant doors. It was a small gesture, done seemingly without thought - but the heavy pressure of Thorin’s hand made something white-hot twist in the base of Bilbo’s stomach. They walked right in without being stopped.
Inside, Meduseld was so shiningly gorgeous it made Bilbo suck in an involuntary breath that made Thorin chuckle with obvious pleasure. The main hall was long and dotted with small tables, and the floor and pillars were so subtly but detailed with intricate carvings that it was almost hard to look at them. The insignia of a blazing sun was prominent at the hall’s far end, and many small hints of gold - the napkin rings, the buttons on the wait staff’s uniforms -shone gently in the soft light.
“How did you possibly get a reservation here with four hours’ notice?” Bilbo hissed, trying not to stare.
Thorin smiled broadly in response, his hand still resting proprietarily against Bilbo’s back. “I know the owner,” he replied, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “He owed me a favour.”
Bilbo was still shaking his head in disbelief when the maître de arrived. He seemed to know who they were without being asked.
“Right this way, Mr. Durin,” the man said graciously, leading them to a small table in the back corner. Thorin Durin, thought Bilbo, rolling the name over in his mind. The name had a bit of a strange rhythm to it, not that he would ever say so out loud.
The maître de moved to pull out Bilbo’s chair for him, but he shooed him away with an embarrassed wave of his hand and mumbled excuses. Honestly, he really didn’t need anyone to hold his chair out for him no matter how ridiculously fancy an establishment might be.
Once they were sufficiently settled, however, a few moments passed with only the hustle and bustle of customers and staff around them to fill the silence. Bilbo licked his lips, remembering to be nervous.
“So,” Bilbo began, the words sounding awkward and stilted to his own ears. He let out a nervous laugh - and just at that moment, a loud vibrating noise cut across them.
The sound was coming from what Bilbo could only assume was Thorin’s cell phone, an insistent buzzing coming from his suit jacket pocket over the back of his chair. Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from darting an uncertain look at the source of the noise. Thorin swore quietly.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, sounding truly apologetic - but also very commanding all of a sudden, with none of the playfulness he had greeted Bilbo with outside. His expression was hard, and he was already getting to his feet and plucking his phone out of his jacket pocket. “I need to get this. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Putting on what he hoped was an expression of quiet understanding, Bilbo nodded. He watched Thorin leave the restaurant with almost regal efficiency, the phone already open and pressed against his ear by the time he was halfway across the hall. Bilbo looked down at the gorgeously-set table in front of him. All at once, it felt very empty. He took a sip of his ice water.
He sat there, surrounded by the idle chatter of the restaurant patrons and understated string music, a whole new concern tugging persistently at the corners of his mind. Bilbo plucked up the menu, glanced over a few items without really reading them, then dropped it back onto the table restlessly.
Scattered incidents were running through his mind: the choice of restaurant, the impeccable fit of Thorin’s suit, the urgent phone call and abrupt demeanour with which Thorin had answered it. For a few minutes, he tried to come up with things that he and Thorin might have in common - and predictably came up with very few.
The invitation in the park had seemed too good to be true, at first. Perhaps it still was.
“Sorry about that,” came a low voice that broke through the ambient noise, and Bilbo startled a little in his seat. It was Thorin, who had apparently arrived back at the table without Bilbo even noticing. He had an air of composed apology about him. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“Family trouble?” Bilbo asked, taking a stab in the dark. Thorin hesitated, then shook his head.
“Business,” he explained, tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Letting people go is always hard, even with good reason. My associate needed some advice.” Thorin gave a small, sardonic smile. “Sometimes it feels as though my employees can’t do anything without me. I haven’t had a proper night off in ages. Anyways, you were saying?”
Caught off guard at the sudden redirection, Bilbo attempted to gather himself together. “I was going to ask what kind of person you have to be for the owner of a place like this to owe you a favour,” he said after a moment, regaining his thread of thought. “And I must say, now I’m doubly curious.”
For a moment, Bilbo thought he saw Thorin’s eyes darken - but it must have been a trick of the candlelight, because moments later he was smiling back in amusement.
“I’m the CEO of a fairly successful firm,” Thorin admitted smoothly, giving a small shrug - as though owning a whole company was no kind of achievement at all. Not for the first time, Bilbo wondered how on earth he’d managed to find himself here. “It’s called Arkenstone Limited. It’s dead boring, I promise.” He shrugged. “We’re a professional services firm. Accounting advice, audit information, things like that. The owner of this place had a little bit of trouble with his finances a few months back. We cut him a break.”
“That sounds interesting,” said Bilbo loyally, taking a sip of his ice water.
“It’s not,” said Thorin, giving Bilbo a long-suffering smile. “Trust me, people are usually already snoring in their soup by the time I tell them that much.” At Bilbo’s snort of surprised amusement, Thorin continued. “It’s bittersweet, anyways. The only reason I’m in this position is because it’s a family company; before that, I was... more than a bit unpredictable. My father and grandfather passed away a few years ago. They left it to me.”
“Oh,” said Bilbo quietly, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in Thorin’s voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It was almost a decade ago, now.” Thorin sent him a sad smile across the table. “I’m nearly forty years old; you’d think it would stop hurting by now.”
“It doesn’t,” said Bilbo automatically. His mind drifted to the way his father always used to smell of pipe tobacco, to the way his mother would hum when she cooked. He smiled sadly. “My parents passed away five years ago and sometimes I still wake up in the morning thinking I can call them for advice. Isn’t that stupid?”
“No,” Thorin insisted, leaning across the table. His gaze was intent. “No, that’s exactly it. I mean, I still have my family - I live with my sister and her two sons, and they’re everything to me - but it’s just never the same.” He paused, making a small noise in the back of his throat. “When my brother died, the first thing I thought - the very first thing - was god, I wonder how dad’s going to take it. My father had been dead for two years, and it was the first thing I thought.”
A flood of horrible sadness washed over him, seeing Thorin with his eyes downcast and dark, and it occurred to Bilbo that perhaps they weren’t too terribly different after all.
Without even thinking about it, Bilbo reached over and placed his hand on top of Thorin’s larger one, which was resting on the table. It wasn’t meant to be a grand gesture; just a quiet acknowledgement of shared pain. A recognition of the fact that the two of them were both human and flawed and probably slightly broken.
Thorin, however, stared at Bilbo’s hand as though it was the most precious thing in the world. After a long, drawn-out moment he tensed - and wrapped his fingers around Bilbo’s own, giving them a squeeze. It made is so they were actively holding hands at the table. Bilbo’s face felt hot and flushed, but he didn’t pull away.
“Enough about me,” said Thorin abruptly, shaking his head as though to clear the topic from the air. “What I’m really interested in is you, Bilbo Baggins.”
“How did you--?” Bilbo asked in surprise, certain that he never introduced himself with a last name - but after a moment, the memory of chastising Frodo with both first and last name came back to him. He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got quite a memory on you, you know that?”
“Only with the things that interest me,” replied Thorin easily. It should have been a lascivious comment, full of flirtation and promise. Somehow, though, it wasn’t. It was just a simple statement of fact, and that made Bilbo feel more flustered than anything. “You know about my job. What do you do for a living?”
“Aha,” Bilbo answered, raising his free hand up to lean his cheek against nervously. “Yes, well. I always hate this part.” He shrugged, feeling his own eyebrows contorting into what was likely a very amusing expression. “... I write?”
“You’re an author,” said Thorin, a mild note of surprise in his voice. “Of what sorts of things? Articles, books?”
Hesitating, Bilbo bit down on his lower lip and sent Thorin a hapless look. “... fantasy novels?”
There was a pause. This, Bilbo knew, was where most people tended to go a bit glassy-eyed. For the most part, people tended to treat his status as a fantasy author as some kind of ticking time bomb; as though he was likely explode and bombard them with an hour-long lecture on elves at any moment. And even though some of his dates had been impressed at the idea of dating an author, the actual reality of it - of frantic bursts of creativity, of annoyance over writers’ block, of him being immersed in fictional worlds so much of the time - never seemed to appeal.
Male, female, it never seemed to matter: for some reason, his lack of a real job tended to wind up a turn-off. Through long experience, Bilbo had discovered that relative silence was the best way to handle his occupation with most people.
Across from him, Thorin had an impressed look on his face. “Novels?” He asked, stressing the plural. “As in, multiple novels?”
“That’s right,” Bilbo admitted sheepishly. “The There and Back Again series. I have a penname.” He shrugged. “They sell well enough to keep publishing. Not amazingly well, but. Well. I’m working on the fifth in the series now.”
“Fifth? ” Thorin asked in incredulity, staring at Bilbo in the most open display of uncensored emotion he’d displayed all evening. “You -” He cut himself off, giving his head a little shake. “You have no idea how remarkable you are, do you? Five novels, that’s... you have an entire world that you created inside your head. I could never do that. I’m not sure you understand how amazing that is.”
Mouth slightly open, Bilbo made a small noise at the back of his throat. He should say thank you, he knew, but it felt as though he had forgotten how to form sentences properly. Thorin seemed so completely earnest in his praise; he was still staring right at him, the low light making his eyes seem dark and hungry. Looking at Bilbo as though he was the marvel of the two of them.
Their hands still rested together on the table. Thorin’s hand was so much larger than his; rough and heavy, but the gentleness with which he cradled Bilbo’s smaller one was somehow even sweeter because of it.
“You must tell me everything there is to know,” Thorin insisted after long, charged silence. His thumb stroked over Bilbo’s knuckle.
“About the books?” Bilbo asked, feeling rather breathless.
“About everything,” said Thorin matter-of-factly. And so they talked.
They sat in their small corner table in one of the most expensive restaurants in town, talking with an intensity that made it all feel like a dream afterward. They talked over dinner, over dessert, over the two small cups of coffee that came afterward. They talked about family and fantasy, about books and films and where they went to university. Thorin poked fun at the way he fussed with his coffee until it had just the right amount of cream and sugar, and Bilbo teased him right back for how seriously he responded to the simplest of questions.
They talked until the other tables began to clear out, and eventually - his low voice humming with warm certainty - Thorin asked if Bilbo would like a ride home.
And without having to think twice, Bilbo said yes.
--
Click here for Part Two
Author: Emiliana Darling
Fandom: The Hobbit (2012)
Pairing: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 11,500 this chapter
Contains: Alternate Universe (Modern, Mafia). Tags will be added as necessary.
Summary: When Bilbo and Thorin started dating, there might have been a few things that didn’t quite add up. He always tried to avoid talking about his job, he always seemed to be surrounded by men that he worked with, and his family was more than a little strange. The realization that Thorin was the head of an organized crime ring, however, was more than Bilbo ever bargained for.
Author's Note: Hey, everyone! So I’ve been rather swamped with my thesis lately, and my mindset hasn’t been too conducive to writing the next chapter of Mountains. (It’s stubbornly stuck about half-way done right now.) However, I saw this prompt on the kinkmeme and had a sudden desperate need to write it -- so I thought I would share the first chapter with you guys as an apology. <3
Updates for both this and Beneath the Mountains Music Woke are available at my tumblr. :)
--
From Monday to Friday, Pelennor Park seemed to exist in a state of perpetual dormancy. Aside from ever-present early morning joggers and the occasional elderly visitor, the park’s green grass fields, muddling dirt paths, and quaint little duck ponds went largely without outside appreciation for the vast majority of the week.
By contrast, Sunday afternoons in the park were always exceptionally crowded affairs. For Bilbo, whose job did not require him to shackle himself to a desk for eight hours a day five days a week, the contrast was especially pronounced. Families came out in droves for picnics, couples walked hand in hand feeding seed to ducklings, and equestrians even took the opportunity to show off their horses. It was questionable whether, all things considered, Sundays were a particularly good day to visit the park at all.
They were the only day that Bilbo had his nephew Frodo all to himself, however, and so Sunday was always the day they came. Today they were walking along one of the park’s well-worn paths at an easy stroll, Frodo just having polished off the ice cream treat Bilbo had bought for him.
“So now that I’ve sufficiently spoiled your appetite for lunch,” Bilbo began in a teasing voice, and next to him Frodo gave him a chocolate-smeared grin. A little chocolate wouldn’t hurt the boy, after all. Even though Bilbo loved Drogo and Primula dearly, he was the first to admit that they tended to keep Frodo on a fairly tight leash. He could probably do with little bit of spoiling here or there once a week. Smiling, Bilbo reached into his pocket and pulled out a tissue, which Frodo obediently took. “You promised to tell me all about your week at school.”
Standing only as tall as Bilbo’s middle, Frodo nodded as he wiped at his mouth without being instructed to do so. At seven years old, Frodo had already claimed the title of Bilbo’s favourite person in the whole world. He was round-cheeked and a little bit lanky from all the time spent outdoors, but his love for stories made him forever eager to read or be read to. He had his mother’s eyes; so strikingly blue that they looked too old for his young face, and they seemed even brighter against the dark of his curls.
Frodo was also an exceptionally thoughtful child. While he certainly had a mischievous streak that his cousins were always trying to play up, the fact that he spent most of his life around adults was very much apparent in the way he acted.
“It was good,” said Frodo after a long, considering pause. He nodded seriously. “We planted beans in clear jars to see how they grew. Sam’s grew the best, but he helped me make mine sprout really high too.”
“That was kind of him,” said Bilbo, cocking his head. He didn’t particularly believe in talking down to any child, but Frodo in particular had always enjoyed being conversed with like an adult. “Sam’s the one with the crush, isn’t he? On... oh, what’s her name... Mary?”
“Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo chastised him, laughing a little. “Her name’s Rosie. Sam’s in love with her.” He said the last part without any doubt at all, as though it was the truest thing in the world. Bilbo smoothed his mouth into a serious line.
“Is he now? Goodness. Do you think he’ll still feel that way next year?”
Frodo seemed to think about it for a moment. “I think so,” he said after a pause, nodding firmly. His little face lit up the next moment, blue eyes shining. “And Merry and Pippin taught me how to cartwheel, did I tell you?”
Ignoring the non sequitur, Bilbo shook his head. “You didn’t, but you should show me.”
“Okay!” said Frodo excitedly, visibly bursting with the desire to prove himself. He charged off the path and onto an open stretch of field.
“Stay on the grass,” Bilbo warned, raising his voice to be heard, “and be careful!”
He watched as Frodo raised his arms in the air, rocked himself backward and then forward - before throwing himself into a very wobbly cartwheel. From a few feet away and with a huge grin on his face, Bilbo clapped his approval.
“I can do it better!” Frodo called back, starting another cartwheel. It went better than the last one, and with a cry of victory he kept on going into another without pausing. “I can keep doing it!” he shouted gleefully, a whirl of limbs and black curls rolling and rolling in haphazard enthusiasm. Bilbo was starting to feel dizzy just from looking at him. “I think I can go forever!”
He was about to call out and say that as long as you don’t make yourself sick you can do what you like, lad -when a trio of men dressed in dark clothes suddenly came around a large rosebush, moving into where there had previously been open field. Frodo had been keeping his cartwheels in a fairly tight circle, but the circle was getting wider and sloppier the dizzier he got. With horror, Bilbo realized that Frodo was headed straight for the men, none of whom had seen him.
“Frodo!” Bilbo called out, and when Frodo didn’t even slow down he started into a run. It was like watching a train wreck in slow motion. The three men took notice of his shout and just managed to see the tiny flail of limbs heading toward them, but didn’t seem to know how to react to it in time.“Frodo, stop, you’re -”
Smack.
With an audible sound of collision, Frodo’s small body crashed right into the man in the centre of the three - the one with long dark hair and a trimmed beard.
The man had been too solid to be knocked over by all the weight of a seven-year-old boy, and Frodo had been knocked back onto his bottom. When Bilbo reached the cluster of people his eyes skimmed right over the shocked-looking man and landed on Frodo, who was sprawled with an expression of dazed surprise on his small face.
“Frodo, are you all right?” Bilbo asked, worry clutching desperately at his chest. He knelt down and placed a hand on Frodo’s shoulder. After a moment, his nephew blinked and then nodded.
“M’fine,” he mumbled, rubbing at his head. He looked up at Bilbo, wincing. “M’sorry.”
“I told you to be careful,” Bilbo reprimanded him - but one look at Frodo’s shamefaced expression made him realize that there was no real need. He sighed, reaching to help Frodo to his feet. “It’s okay. Now you know for next time.”
There the sound of someone clearing their throat, and with a spasm of shock Bilbo looked up at the cluster of three men.
All of them were looking down at himself and Frodo as though they were a veritable spectacle. They were all bearded, but other than that they could not have looked more dissimilar. The one on the left was young and had long dirty-blond hair, and the one of the right was much older with long grey hair and whiskers. And the one in the middle - the one that Frodo had actually crashed into, he reminded himself - was...
Bilbo felt his heart catch in his chest.
“Oh my god,” said Bilbo, heat rushing to his face. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry. He just got a little excited and bit out of control and - oh my goodness, I really do apologize. Are you okay?”
The man in the centre was tall and very broad, with a dark beard and long hair that was ever-so-slightly streaked with grey. His eyes were light blue and attentive, and he seemed to be watching Bilbo and Frodo with a look of genuine curiosity on his face.
And he was horribly, painfully attractive. Not classically handsome, not pretty, but attractive in a way that made Bilbo feel dangerously close to babbling out nonsense. The dark blue of his button-up made him stand out from his companions, both of whom were dressed in dark browns and blacks.
After a moment, the man held out a hand. It was a big hand, several of the thick fingers decorated with silver rings, and it took Bilbo far too long to realize that he was offering to help them up. The two other men looked surprised as well, but Bilbo took the hand gratefully and pulled Frodo to his feet at the same time.
“Yours?” the man asked, his voice a deeper than Bilbo had expected. He blinked.
“Pardon?” he asked stupidly. A half a moment later, he realized. “Oh! You mean - oh, no, Frodo’s my cousin.”
“Nephew,” Frodo insisted childishly, and Bilbo made a small noise at the back of his throat. He reached over to pat away some of the dirt that had accumulated on Frodo’s clothes in order to give his hands something to do. He swatted distractedly at the dust and grass.
“Well, we call you my nephew, Frodo, but you’re really - no matter.” Bilbo straightened, giving the man another apologetic look. “I really do apologize. You’re sure you’re not hurt?”
But the man did not even have the chance to respond before Frodo was tugging at Bilbo’s waistcoat. He stood on his tiptoes, and Bilbo leaned forward - only for Frodo to ask “Uncle Bilbo, why does the man have badger hair?” in a whisper so loud it could likely be heard clearly by everyone there. Bilbo’s face flushed hotter with mortification, and he found himself rather wishing that the world would open up and swallow the two of them whole.
“Frodo Baggins,” Bilbo snapped, flustered and appalled, and Frodo looked suddenly terrified. “Do you have any idea how rude that is? You apologize to -”
“Thorin,” the man supplied helpfully, a small smile on his face, and Bilbo barely registered the sight of his companions looking at him as though he had grown a second head.
“-to Mr. Thorin immediately. It’s not okay to ask people that kind of question.”
“Well, actually - Frodo, is it?” asked Thorin, kneeling down so that he was at eye level with Frodo. “It’s not okay to ask most people that question, but you can ask me if you like. I have grey in my hair because I’m getting older -” he shot Bilbo an amused look over the top of Frodo’s head - “and because I’ve led a very long and exciting life. But people don’t usually like being reminded that they’re old, so it’s best not to ask. Does that make sense?”
Frodo seemed to think about it for a moment, then nodded. “It does!” he said, smiling up at Thorin. “Thank you. Sorry I was rude.”
“Quite all right,” said Thorin, nodding in much the same way one might nod to a business associate. He raised himself up from the ground, making Bilbo realize all at once that Thorin was quite a bit taller than he had thought at first. When he turned to look at Bilbo, there was an amused little smile tugging at his lips.
“I have nephews, too,” said Thorin in brief explanation, and there was such confidence about the way he spoke and held himself - such utter certainty about everything he said or did - that made Bilbo feel quite ridiculous by comparison. He pulled Frodo close so that his nephew’s back was pressed against his legs, Bilbo’s arms wrapped loosely around his shoulders.
“Now, there is a favour I’d like to ask you in return for the inconvenience,” Thorin continued, looking Bilbo right in the eyes.
“Of course,” Bilbo hurried to say, feeling rather overwhelmed. In front of him, Frodo fidgeted slightly.
“Come to dinner with me.”
The statement - not a question, almost a kindly-worded demand - came out of absolutely nowhere, leaving Bilbo wide-eyed and completely at a loss for words. In front of him, Frodo seemed to be perking up with interest again. Bilbo blinked, hesitating, eyeing both Thorin and his companions in an attempt to discern if this was some kind of joke.
Neither of Thorin’s companions seemed amused, though. Surprised, yes, and perhaps a bit bewildered. The one with blond hair looked as though it was taking every ounce of his self-control to stop from blurting something out, and the older one’s air of quiet competence had softened considerably. But neither of them gave any hint that the request might be mean-spirited in nature.
And Thorin... Thorin just stared right at him, never moving his eyes away. Calm and self-assured and utterly in command of both himself and the situation, patiently waiting for Bilbo’s response.
“Are you serious?” Bilbo asked, stumbling over the words a little. In front of him, Thorin continued to hold his gaze, and Bilbo couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were very pale indeed. Thorin crossed his arms, raising a single thick eyebrow.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” he asked, sounding slightly amused.
“I... okay,” Bilbo replied at last, practically surprising himself with the acceptance. “If you want. Does... does next week work for you at all, or -?”
“How about tonight?” Thorin interjected, cutting him off before he could even finish the sentence. Bilbo felt his eyebrows fly up into his hairline. It was an eager sentiment, but Thorin didn’t seem to feel any need to put on a show of distance. He emanated confidence with his every gesture and word too strongly for that.
“Oh,” said Bilbo quietly, swallowing hard. “Oh, um. Thank you, but... I’m spending tonight with Frodo,” he finished awkwardly, giving his nephew a squeeze. “Perhaps another -”
“S’okay, Uncle Bilbo,” Frodo piped up, tilting his head up and grinning against Bilbo’s stomach. “Mum will be home at four, she said so. I don’t mind.”
“Then it’s decided,” Thorin cut in smoothly, leaving Bilbo blinking at the speed of which his evening’s plans had apparently been taken over by a complete stranger. Thorin reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a very expensive-looking cell phone, and gave Bilbo a quizzical look. “Your number?”
Still feeling dazed, Bilbo gave it to him. He was about to provide his name as well, realizing in a wince of embarrassment that he hadn’t properly introduced himself, but Thorin entered his name into the contact without being prompted. He winced; he didn’t think he’d ever been introduced to someone so achingly good-looking as ‘Uncle Bilbo’ before. Once his number was entered into the phone, Thorin slid it back into his pocket with a small smile.
“I’ll send you a text with the restaurant’s address. Shall we meet there at seven?”
“Okay,” said Bilbo, his voice perhaps a little higher than usual. “That... yes, okay, sure.”
When Thorin extended his hand a moment later, it took Bilbo ever-so-slightly too long to realize what he wanted. Feeling very surreal indeed, he reached out and slipped his hand into Thorin’s. They shook, Thorin’s palm cool and rough against his own. Something clenched in his chest at how completely Thorin’s hands dwarfed his own as they shook.
“It was lovely to meet you, Bilbo,” Thorin said, the smallest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips, before crouching down and solemnly giving Frodo’s hand a shake as well. “You as well, Frodo.”
With that, Thorin stood. And the three men - two of whom had never even spoken a single word, and Bilbo didn’t even think to get their names - turned on their heels and walked away. From his many visits to the park over the years, Bilbo realized they were heading to the closest parking lot.
In his arms, Frodo was starting to fidget again. All Bilbo could do, however, was stand and stare and wonder what on earth had just happened.
--
Just as Thorin had promised, Bilbo received a text with the chosen restaurant’s address only ten minutes after their meeting in the park. Because he was occupied with driving Frodo home, however, he didn’t actually get the opportunity to check it until some time later.
The two of them chatted in the car on the way to Frodo’s house, Bilbo attempting to distract himself from the utterly surreal events at the park. Frodo did most of the talking, from describing the stages of growth of a plant to complaining about the ‘old-timey’ radio station that Bilbo always played in the car to insisting that he could probably cartwheel forever if he wanted to. Even though Bilbo made all the right noises in all the right places, however, his mind was very much not on the conversation at hand.
They arrived at Frodo’s house just as his mother Primula was pulling into the driveway, which meant it was impossible for Bilbo to go anywhere until he’d had two cups of tea in the garden, half a plate of biscuits, and heard everything there was to know about their recent household renovations. After a suitable amount of familial visiting time had elapsed, however, Bilbo excused himself with a hug and a kiss and headed back home.
Because Drogo and Primula had moved into the same suburb as him (which was largely pleasant and only very rarely unfortunate), it only took a few minutes before Bilbo was on his own front step. The key twisted smoothly in the bass lock, allowing the green door to swing open as he walked inside.
His house - Bag End, the realtor had tried to tell him, but it was such a silly name that he’d never been able to say it with a straight face - was small, quaint, and in his opinion absolutely perfect. The walls were a soft beige lined with light wood trim, and every room seemed to soak up the sun. Absolutely everything in Bilbo’s house was made for comfort, from the well-stocked pantry to the soft reddish-brown of his bed linens to the spacious office he used for writing. He worked from home, and as such needed his space to be both restful and energizing; when he had stepped through the front door for the first time all those years ago, it had all seemed too good to be true.
Bilbo hadn’t purchased Bag End for any of those reasons, though: more than anything else, he had bought it for the garden.
While the front garden hosted a few very lovely rosebushes, it was the back garden that Bilbo loved above all else. A rambling sprawl of flowerbeds and narrow pathways, every inch of the back garden thrummed with life. Plants of every colour, nature, and purpose seemed to burst from every corner, with medicinal herbs and brilliant blooms and fruit trees all clustered together and reaching up into the sun. Other than a small breakfast table and a trellis for the wisteria to grow on, Bilbo had done very little to change it since moving in.
Still buzzing with an excitement he tried to ignore, Bilbo came inside, kicked off his shoes - he preferred going barefoot whenever possible - and headed into the garden. As soon as he was settled into the breakfast table, he finally checked his phone.
He stared at it for far longer than necessary, reading and re-reading the very extremely brief message.
From: 654-383-4491
September 20th, 3:36pm
The location is 1753 West Emnet Drive. I look forward to seeing you. - T
A furrow grew between his eyebrows as he read the message again, letting out a small noise of disappointment. It was a bit of a strange message; overly formal and even slightly abrupt, and so very different from the warm and interested way that Thorin had treated him in the park just a few hours ago. Bilbo deflated slightly, wondering if he had badly misjudged the entire encounter. With a little twinge of regret, he copied the address into his phone’s browser so that he could at least have an idea of where they were going.
Oh.
Oh.
Well, then.
He was definitely going to have to change for dinner.
--
When Bilbo arrived at the restaurant a few hours later, having spent the bus ride into town largely worrying about being stood up, he was both pleased and mildly surprised to find Thorin waiting for him outside. He was unmistakable even from a distance, long hair swept back into a low ponytail and dressed in a smart-looking suit, and the sight of him made nervous energy churn in the base of Bilbo’s stomach.
The sheer number of people lined up in the hope of getting a table was also more than a little daunting. They stretched down the block, all of them dressed in evening dresses or suit-jackets and looking progressively more and more impatient the further away from the door they were standing. Meduseld, its name spelled out in golden letters on the sign above, was an extremely old and highly reputable establishment. He had never been there himself, but the fact that Thorin had decided to wait for him instead of getting in line made Bilbo question his sanity.
Anticipating a long wait in line, Bilbo sped up his pace. He ducked around an imposing-looking man with tattoos on his head and a large beard, giving Thorin a hesitant smile as he got closer. When Thorin caught sight of him, his face shifted from a neutral expression to a wide, shining grin.
“Good evening,” said Bilbo, torn between looking at Thorin and looking at the restaurant. The place was expensive, infamously so. For a few seconds, he experienced a pre-emptive panic attack about how the bill was going to be split.
“You came,” Thorin greeted him, voice full of a warmth that made Bilbo give him his whole attention. Thorin was impeccably dressed: his dark blue tie was perfectly straight, his shoes practically shone in the lamplight, and now that he was closer it was apparent that Thorin’s suit fitted him so impeccably that Bilbo rather suspected he’d had it custom made. The touches of grey in his long hair were still visible even though he wore it pulled back, but they didn’t spoil the effect. Instead, they somehow made him appear even more regal.
“I did,” Bilbo confirmed, somewhat unsure of what to say.
After some deliberation - as well as some semi-frantic googling to discern what ‘semi-formal to formal’ might mean in this particular instance - Bilbo himself had decided to go with a cream-button up, a grey vest, and a deep red tie. The tie was his favourite part of the outfit by far. He liked colours, enjoyed incorporating them into his wardrobe where he could. He’d made an attempt at forcing his curls into something manageable, too, but that hadn’t been nearly as successful.
A smile still on his face, Thorin gestured toward the warm lights of Meduseld. “Come along, then. We have a reservation.”
“A reservation?” asked Bilbo in disbelief, eying the long line of people waiting for tables. Thorin just gave him an amused look, reached out a hand - and placed it in the small of Bilbo’s back, guiding him toward the restaurant doors. It was a small gesture, done seemingly without thought - but the heavy pressure of Thorin’s hand made something white-hot twist in the base of Bilbo’s stomach. They walked right in without being stopped.
Inside, Meduseld was so shiningly gorgeous it made Bilbo suck in an involuntary breath that made Thorin chuckle with obvious pleasure. The main hall was long and dotted with small tables, and the floor and pillars were so subtly but detailed with intricate carvings that it was almost hard to look at them. The insignia of a blazing sun was prominent at the hall’s far end, and many small hints of gold - the napkin rings, the buttons on the wait staff’s uniforms -shone gently in the soft light.
“How did you possibly get a reservation here with four hours’ notice?” Bilbo hissed, trying not to stare.
Thorin smiled broadly in response, his hand still resting proprietarily against Bilbo’s back. “I know the owner,” he replied, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “He owed me a favour.”
Bilbo was still shaking his head in disbelief when the maître de arrived. He seemed to know who they were without being asked.
“Right this way, Mr. Durin,” the man said graciously, leading them to a small table in the back corner. Thorin Durin, thought Bilbo, rolling the name over in his mind. The name had a bit of a strange rhythm to it, not that he would ever say so out loud.
The maître de moved to pull out Bilbo’s chair for him, but he shooed him away with an embarrassed wave of his hand and mumbled excuses. Honestly, he really didn’t need anyone to hold his chair out for him no matter how ridiculously fancy an establishment might be.
Once they were sufficiently settled, however, a few moments passed with only the hustle and bustle of customers and staff around them to fill the silence. Bilbo licked his lips, remembering to be nervous.
“So,” Bilbo began, the words sounding awkward and stilted to his own ears. He let out a nervous laugh - and just at that moment, a loud vibrating noise cut across them.
The sound was coming from what Bilbo could only assume was Thorin’s cell phone, an insistent buzzing coming from his suit jacket pocket over the back of his chair. Bilbo couldn’t stop himself from darting an uncertain look at the source of the noise. Thorin swore quietly.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, sounding truly apologetic - but also very commanding all of a sudden, with none of the playfulness he had greeted Bilbo with outside. His expression was hard, and he was already getting to his feet and plucking his phone out of his jacket pocket. “I need to get this. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
Putting on what he hoped was an expression of quiet understanding, Bilbo nodded. He watched Thorin leave the restaurant with almost regal efficiency, the phone already open and pressed against his ear by the time he was halfway across the hall. Bilbo looked down at the gorgeously-set table in front of him. All at once, it felt very empty. He took a sip of his ice water.
He sat there, surrounded by the idle chatter of the restaurant patrons and understated string music, a whole new concern tugging persistently at the corners of his mind. Bilbo plucked up the menu, glanced over a few items without really reading them, then dropped it back onto the table restlessly.
Scattered incidents were running through his mind: the choice of restaurant, the impeccable fit of Thorin’s suit, the urgent phone call and abrupt demeanour with which Thorin had answered it. For a few minutes, he tried to come up with things that he and Thorin might have in common - and predictably came up with very few.
The invitation in the park had seemed too good to be true, at first. Perhaps it still was.
“Sorry about that,” came a low voice that broke through the ambient noise, and Bilbo startled a little in his seat. It was Thorin, who had apparently arrived back at the table without Bilbo even noticing. He had an air of composed apology about him. “It won’t happen again, I promise.”
“Family trouble?” Bilbo asked, taking a stab in the dark. Thorin hesitated, then shook his head.
“Business,” he explained, tucking his phone back into his jacket pocket. “Letting people go is always hard, even with good reason. My associate needed some advice.” Thorin gave a small, sardonic smile. “Sometimes it feels as though my employees can’t do anything without me. I haven’t had a proper night off in ages. Anyways, you were saying?”
Caught off guard at the sudden redirection, Bilbo attempted to gather himself together. “I was going to ask what kind of person you have to be for the owner of a place like this to owe you a favour,” he said after a moment, regaining his thread of thought. “And I must say, now I’m doubly curious.”
For a moment, Bilbo thought he saw Thorin’s eyes darken - but it must have been a trick of the candlelight, because moments later he was smiling back in amusement.
“I’m the CEO of a fairly successful firm,” Thorin admitted smoothly, giving a small shrug - as though owning a whole company was no kind of achievement at all. Not for the first time, Bilbo wondered how on earth he’d managed to find himself here. “It’s called Arkenstone Limited. It’s dead boring, I promise.” He shrugged. “We’re a professional services firm. Accounting advice, audit information, things like that. The owner of this place had a little bit of trouble with his finances a few months back. We cut him a break.”
“That sounds interesting,” said Bilbo loyally, taking a sip of his ice water.
“It’s not,” said Thorin, giving Bilbo a long-suffering smile. “Trust me, people are usually already snoring in their soup by the time I tell them that much.” At Bilbo’s snort of surprised amusement, Thorin continued. “It’s bittersweet, anyways. The only reason I’m in this position is because it’s a family company; before that, I was... more than a bit unpredictable. My father and grandfather passed away a few years ago. They left it to me.”
“Oh,” said Bilbo quietly, caught off guard by the sudden sincerity in Thorin’s voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“It was almost a decade ago, now.” Thorin sent him a sad smile across the table. “I’m nearly forty years old; you’d think it would stop hurting by now.”
“It doesn’t,” said Bilbo automatically. His mind drifted to the way his father always used to smell of pipe tobacco, to the way his mother would hum when she cooked. He smiled sadly. “My parents passed away five years ago and sometimes I still wake up in the morning thinking I can call them for advice. Isn’t that stupid?”
“No,” Thorin insisted, leaning across the table. His gaze was intent. “No, that’s exactly it. I mean, I still have my family - I live with my sister and her two sons, and they’re everything to me - but it’s just never the same.” He paused, making a small noise in the back of his throat. “When my brother died, the first thing I thought - the very first thing - was god, I wonder how dad’s going to take it. My father had been dead for two years, and it was the first thing I thought.”
A flood of horrible sadness washed over him, seeing Thorin with his eyes downcast and dark, and it occurred to Bilbo that perhaps they weren’t too terribly different after all.
Without even thinking about it, Bilbo reached over and placed his hand on top of Thorin’s larger one, which was resting on the table. It wasn’t meant to be a grand gesture; just a quiet acknowledgement of shared pain. A recognition of the fact that the two of them were both human and flawed and probably slightly broken.
Thorin, however, stared at Bilbo’s hand as though it was the most precious thing in the world. After a long, drawn-out moment he tensed - and wrapped his fingers around Bilbo’s own, giving them a squeeze. It made is so they were actively holding hands at the table. Bilbo’s face felt hot and flushed, but he didn’t pull away.
“Enough about me,” said Thorin abruptly, shaking his head as though to clear the topic from the air. “What I’m really interested in is you, Bilbo Baggins.”
“How did you--?” Bilbo asked in surprise, certain that he never introduced himself with a last name - but after a moment, the memory of chastising Frodo with both first and last name came back to him. He narrowed his eyes. “You’ve got quite a memory on you, you know that?”
“Only with the things that interest me,” replied Thorin easily. It should have been a lascivious comment, full of flirtation and promise. Somehow, though, it wasn’t. It was just a simple statement of fact, and that made Bilbo feel more flustered than anything. “You know about my job. What do you do for a living?”
“Aha,” Bilbo answered, raising his free hand up to lean his cheek against nervously. “Yes, well. I always hate this part.” He shrugged, feeling his own eyebrows contorting into what was likely a very amusing expression. “... I write?”
“You’re an author,” said Thorin, a mild note of surprise in his voice. “Of what sorts of things? Articles, books?”
Hesitating, Bilbo bit down on his lower lip and sent Thorin a hapless look. “... fantasy novels?”
There was a pause. This, Bilbo knew, was where most people tended to go a bit glassy-eyed. For the most part, people tended to treat his status as a fantasy author as some kind of ticking time bomb; as though he was likely explode and bombard them with an hour-long lecture on elves at any moment. And even though some of his dates had been impressed at the idea of dating an author, the actual reality of it - of frantic bursts of creativity, of annoyance over writers’ block, of him being immersed in fictional worlds so much of the time - never seemed to appeal.
Male, female, it never seemed to matter: for some reason, his lack of a real job tended to wind up a turn-off. Through long experience, Bilbo had discovered that relative silence was the best way to handle his occupation with most people.
Across from him, Thorin had an impressed look on his face. “Novels?” He asked, stressing the plural. “As in, multiple novels?”
“That’s right,” Bilbo admitted sheepishly. “The There and Back Again series. I have a penname.” He shrugged. “They sell well enough to keep publishing. Not amazingly well, but. Well. I’m working on the fifth in the series now.”
“Fifth? ” Thorin asked in incredulity, staring at Bilbo in the most open display of uncensored emotion he’d displayed all evening. “You -” He cut himself off, giving his head a little shake. “You have no idea how remarkable you are, do you? Five novels, that’s... you have an entire world that you created inside your head. I could never do that. I’m not sure you understand how amazing that is.”
Mouth slightly open, Bilbo made a small noise at the back of his throat. He should say thank you, he knew, but it felt as though he had forgotten how to form sentences properly. Thorin seemed so completely earnest in his praise; he was still staring right at him, the low light making his eyes seem dark and hungry. Looking at Bilbo as though he was the marvel of the two of them.
Their hands still rested together on the table. Thorin’s hand was so much larger than his; rough and heavy, but the gentleness with which he cradled Bilbo’s smaller one was somehow even sweeter because of it.
“You must tell me everything there is to know,” Thorin insisted after long, charged silence. His thumb stroked over Bilbo’s knuckle.
“About the books?” Bilbo asked, feeling rather breathless.
“About everything,” said Thorin matter-of-factly. And so they talked.
They sat in their small corner table in one of the most expensive restaurants in town, talking with an intensity that made it all feel like a dream afterward. They talked over dinner, over dessert, over the two small cups of coffee that came afterward. They talked about family and fantasy, about books and films and where they went to university. Thorin poked fun at the way he fussed with his coffee until it had just the right amount of cream and sugar, and Bilbo teased him right back for how seriously he responded to the simplest of questions.
They talked until the other tables began to clear out, and eventually - his low voice humming with warm certainty - Thorin asked if Bilbo would like a ride home.
And without having to think twice, Bilbo said yes.
--
Click here for Part Two