Another Side, Another Story • Thorin/Bilbo [01]

[igrab]

Despite the early summer dusk warming over like precious silks, turning late afternoon gold to vibrant purples and pinks and oranges, scoring the sky and clouds overhead with a rainbow before fading it all out to the deepest and royalest of blues, Thorin Oakenshield could tell the moment he stepped foot in the Shire. He came in off the East Road out of Bree, and through his sturdy Dwarvish boots he could feel the road as it softened from the tread of horses and ponies to the distinct wear of feet, the edge of where they did not often tread almost ascertainable by a single footstep.

The leather strap of his pony’s reins rubbed against his callous hand, and he gave a sharp tug to dissuade the beast from meandering off the path. The trees whispered and rustled in the slight breeze, the grass grew plentiful and lush. He could see houses set in the rolling hills, with little candles in their windows and brazers. Insects hummed, and his pony called out to the local livestock as it grazed.

The Shire was, in a word, beautiful. Lush and well cared for, the paths lovingly worn down by Halflings and their queer habit of going about without shoes. The homes were cozy and precious, with gardens out front and little gates with mailboxes. He saw the occasional person outside enjoying the warmth, men in waistcoats with their sleeves rolled up carefully, smoking their pipes, women wrangling children growing tired from a day at play and no doubt ready to be tucked into bed. He paid them no mind, and they paid him far too much mind. The Shire was beautiful and he resented it and its people.

How idyllic their homes, he thought to himself as he strode down the path past a sign pointing towards Marish and the Woodhall, how quaint their families. Do they not know, his face set in a hard grimace, how easily it could all be taken from them. How easily their homes in the hills would burn and collapse. Do they know how fast their grass and crops would turn to smoke?

No, he reasoned to himself, passing the sturdy wooden post marking the path to Budgeford and Bridgefields, they do not know to fear or fear to dream of fire and dragons, of their children turned to ash. A hard knot clenched painfully in his chest and he yanked at the reins a little harder than necessary. These people knew nothing of war or of pain, their life was peace and prosper and proprietary. And he hated them for it.

Only fools try to deceive themselves, his memory supplied the words as fast as he tried to suppress them, And only cowards succeed.

And at the mental council of ghosts, Thorin grumbled darkly and admitted to the privacy of his own thoughts that no, no he did not hate the Hobbits. Not for their plentiful land or their lovingly built homes with their soft beds and their collections of trinkets. Not for their peace and their soft hands and rotund bellies.

Thorin regarded the Hobbits like dwarven children, certainly they were of similar stature and softness in the face. They were innocents, and the lion’s share of a century wasn’t enough time to grind the desire to protect out of the young prince. So engrossed in his thoughts, such as they bit at their own tail like a lame snake, he managed to miss the road. ‘Hobbiton’ was what the wizard had said. ‘Hobbiton’ and ‘Bag End.’ Names of places that settled in his mind, objectively someone’s home, many peoples’ homes, perhaps. But not Erebor, and not home to him.

So, with a mutter about Hobbits and their gentle land, far more bitter than needed for being in the company of a pony, a dozen firebugs, and the yawning expanse of the sky, he turned back and walked a ways. And managed to miss the road a second time. Such was the luck of the heir of Durín, he thought to himself, aggressively turning the pony about face once more.

Once properly on track, he did not let his mind consume itself again, this time paying keener attention. Hobbiton was well upon him, distinguishable by the increase in houses noticeable only by their great, round doors and deep set windows. An unlikely place for a burglar, his mind supplied, ever mutinous to his intentions, but how often is a wizard wrong?

The answer was ‘Not very.’ and he had already passed the portion of the evening where his mind attempted to deceive itself, so there was little point grumbling about it with no one to listen to him. And besides, the pony might know where a burglar was to live from the fuss it had begun to make, neighing and tossing its head. The beast had heard its kin only a few moments before Thorin heard his own, the sounds of boisterous dwarves filtering through the peace, and a group of ponies far up along the path and up a hill, all tied to a quaint fence.

For a moment, Thorin considered seriously questioning the success rate of this particular wizard’s judgement calls. But the blue rune called to him like the mothers at Bywater called to their children, and he squared his shoulders and marched up the hill, tying off his pony next to the others.

Perhaps old Gandalf was right, he thought to himself, perhaps this Halfling is the man for the job, the one who can help us reclaim our home. Hope was not a bird that Thorin often held in a cage, it was not something he kept with him to sing him to sleep. And when the door opened to reveal the most un-extraordinary Hobbit he’d ever seen, his stony expression slammed into place and he damn near snapped the Hope-bird’s neck.

If this was their salvation, he’d rather face the dragon alone.

•
He felt shaken head to toe; like a massive wind had come up and swept through him and disturbed every part of him that ever believed in anything at all. A wind, he thought, made of wizards and dwarves.

He couldn't put a finger on what, exactly, ended up being the final catalyst to flying out the door half-cocked without even a pocket-handkerchief. What Gandalf had said, about his ancestors - that stuck under his skin, but he would've been perfectly comfortable paying no heed to the words of wizards, thank-you-very-much. They were odd, and Bilbo was no stranger to odd, since he kept his door so firmly latched against it. The dwarves weren't odd. They were just... dwarves, but they would've been easy enough to ignore, too.

But then he'd heard the Dwarf-King sing.

And then it seemed as if he'd blinked and here he was, on a pony of all things, and he'd left the Shire far behind him and his sanity farther still, what little of it he had left. He could dimly remember being cross at not having anything at all left in his pantry, and the pipes were stuck and he couldn't take a proper bath unless they were un-stuck and really, what was he going to do with this long silly piece of paper? And would the King of Erebor remember him as the hobbit who never left home and never did anything interesting and never proved himself worthy of a dwarf's regard?

No, no, he couldn't have that. Not one bit. He'd show them. He was a hobbit, and he was far from home and he wasn't on an adventure, but he was no coward. He would do whatever it was they asked of him, and then he would take his share and go home.

•
It was not long into their journey that Thorin found himself of the opinion that if one were to leave Bilbo Baggins alone in an empty clearing for an afternoon with nothing but dust and wind, he could very probably find himself in some sort of trouble. His evidence to this fact was that left alone in the Shire, he managed to find himself mixed up with a baker’s dozen of dwarves, and when sent to bring soup to the dwarves put in charge of watching the ponies, he managed to get himself hung upside down by trolls. Naturally.

Though the content of their company was peppered with warriors, they were all brave hearts, and despite the Hobbit’s lapse in judgement, aided in part by Fili and Kili and their complete inability to make sound choices, they were all, the baker’s dozen, willing to charge into the clearing with weapons drawn. Or sling-shot drawn, be it the case.

The skirmish was confusing, which was to their advantage, and quick, which was rather not, because before they could properly fell one beast let alone the three, Thorin found himself facing a sight that send a snap of chill through his bones. The Hobbit, held between two trolls, by arms and legs. Thorin stopped dead, and called the others to a halt. Their threat was clear, it did not need to be spoken, and to hear it did nothing for Thorin. For the choice he had to make. He could sense eyes flick to him, then to the trolls, and really, there was no choice. No debate or argument. They laid down arms so that the Halfling might keep his.

The unceremonious trussing and bagging, the sight of his kin tied to a spit, it made Thorin’s blood boil. And fire, always fire. He wondered if it was his fate to watch everything in his life burn away. Futilely, he struggled against the bonds, attempting to work himself free so that he might miraculously rescue them from this. It would be a sorry state of affairs if they had set off to slay a dragon only to be eaten by trolls.

Later he would reflect on the moment, when the Hobbit managed to find a way to his feet, to stumble forward. How his voice was raised in the way of a man who never had a reason to fight to be heard until recently, quavering at first, and then growing stronger. At first Thorin could hardly believe his ears. Did the Hobbit mean to sell them all to the trolls in exchange for freedom? Did he mean to ensure them tortured? He could hardly believe it of the small, delicate thing, with his handkerchiefs and his velvet robe and his charming waistcoat. Hobbits were vocal about how civilized they were, and here the Hobbit spoke of skinning them all. And, later, when reflecting back, Thorin might admit that he was no scholar or especially quick study in the art of deception, and the Hobbit certainly had cause to speak so ill of them after their words, his own especially. But the Halfling’s attempt was clever. He would not admit it out loud, of course, for cleverness can only get you so far and there was no need to encourage cleverness in a being so easily crushed should he not be clever enough.

When they were free, and the blasted wizard was chewing his ear for his treatment of the Hobbit, Thorin briefly entertained the thought of thanking the halfling. Very briefly. Luck was not to be leaned on, and it seemed as though their burglar had run into a patch of his own. Very fortunate, as was the nature of luck, that it had ended with them all alive and in one piece, but a Hobbit of the Shire had no place beyond those well worn trails, beyond the beautiful fields with it’s firebugs and it’s impossible expanse of sky. If Bilbo Baggins had any sense, he would turn right around and go back to his cavernous hole in the ground.

The Hobbit might have run into luck, but Thorin Oakenshield, as ever, certainly did not.

As for Bilbo, the episode with the trolls left him a bit shaky and weak at the knees and very, very much in need of a long hot bath and a longer night's sleep. He got neither of those things, of course. Was he ever going to see a proper bath again? No, not likely. And for all he'd very likely saved all their dwarven arses, yes, thank you, the one person he'd wanted to impress was giving him more of the cold shoulder than ever.

Confused and disheartened, he plopped down beside Kili as they tended the fire one night. He almost took that space in between them, so hungry was he for comfort, but he'd thought better of it - he couldn't remember ever seeing them separated, even for a moment, and the other dwarves all seemed to give them a curious space, as if something between them had knit their souls to one piece and couldn't possibly be separated.

"Why the long face?" Kili teased, grabbing hold of Bilbo's beardless chin and waggling it back and forth. He halfheartedly tried to fend him off, but even Kili was far too strong, no match for him in the slightest.

"No reason," he muttered, trying instead to stick his tongue out and fend him off another way. Kili gave a little cry between delight and disgust and yanked his hand away, and the quiet Fili broke into a bubbling laugh.

Kili wiped his fingers on Bilbo's coat (disgusting, but entirely warranted, and it was filthy enough besides) and leaned back against Fili's side. "But really, what's got you down? Homesick?"

Bilbo blinked. Yes, he supposed he was, but... no, that wasn't really what bothered him. Missing home had just become a part of his daily routine.

However, he hadn't spent years upon years fending off mothers and aunts of unmarried young ladies (the aunts were the worst - vicious, nasty little things) for nothing. He knew how to turn the conversation to other things.

"So... how exactly did the two of you lose track of the ponies?"

They sputtered and stammered and blushed and laughed and it ended up being Gloin, of all people, who had to spell it out for the poor confused hobbits.

"The blasted idiots were neckin' in the trees," he grumbled, whapping them both upside the back of the head. "Can't ye keep it in your bloody pants for two minutes?"

"We did," Kili piped back up instantly. "And then those two minutes were up-"

"And somethin' else was, too," Fili finished for him, sending the other into a fit of giggles.

Thorin's voice called out from across the fire. “That’s enough out of both of you. Hush before the lot of you turn into giggling maidens.”

"They already are," Gloin muttered under his breath, but none of them noticed the way that Bilbo shrank back in on himself a little. Kili... and Fili? But they were both - well. Aside from being brothers, which Bilbo wasn't all that shocked at - everyone in the Shire was related, after all - but they were both. Well.

They both had... things. Between their. You know. They were both - but then, were they? Did dwarves even have a fairer sex, or were they all -

“Master Baggins. Would you be so kind as to gather more water from the stream for us,” though his words were formed as a request, Thorin's tone left no such pleasantries, “Kili. Firewood. Fili, make sure our packs are ready for the morning. We leave before dawn. I suggest you all retire soon.”

•
Things were fairly hairy for a bit there (what with the funny little wizard, whom Bilbo quite liked as a matter of fact, and then the orcs, and the running about, and Gandalf herding them into Rivendell like cattle), but the back of Bilbo's mind was churning like a water wheel, turning things over and over and reaching no satisfying conclusion in the slightest.

He watched Fili and Kili, and now that he was watching he cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. They adored each other, and for the swiftest, fleetest moment Bilbo wondered what it must be like to love like only a dwarf could love - with all of you, with every bone and sinew, with every drop of blood in your veins.

Thorin Oakenshield was watching him watch the others.

Thorin was not unfamiliar with coexisting with other cultures. While living in Erebor, there was the town of Dale and its Men, there was mingling with Elves, there was the odd batch of nomadic Dwarves who did not call the mountain home. But he could honestly say that he had never had any prolonged contact with any number of Hobbits before. They were a soft folk, and they stayed in their Shire more often than not. The ones he had met over the years were very likely considered odd by their kin.

As such, it was a fascinating experience, watching the Halfling, how he interacted with the others, how he held himself. And though Thorin found himself frequently holding him up to the standard of Dwarves, he was very frequently reminded of how different Dwarves and Hobbits were. The most recent example of this being the Hobbit’s reception to the news of Kili and Fili. Though theirs was perhaps an unconventional love, not for their gender but for their kinship, Thorin found he could hardly fault them, and certainly would never actively impede the love of others.

When his mind was not consumed with it’s never ending spiral of thoughts, of home and Erebor, of Smaug and gold and his birthright, of his fellow Dwarves and even of the Hobbit himself, he wondered about the Shire. How peace had treated them and their sons and daughters, how the rolling hills gave birth to gentlefolk. But an odd gentlefolk, with odd customs. To say Master Baggins was shocked more than scandalized was accurate, and Thorin found that the affection and respect he afforded every one of their company, Myself included, despite my treatment of him, extended so far as to not make a spectacle of it. He had heard no ill comments from the Halfling, and there were no disgusted looks that one might expect from a culture so rigidly defined in their definition of love. Curious, Thorin though, perhaps enough to bear discussion.

The ever present discontent that Thorin felt in the presence of Elves chewed on his bones, distracting him from his thoughts. He tolerated them for the sake of his people, and would grudgingly admit that their hospitality was a welcome respite, if only it weren’t their hospitality. Though he distracted himself from his anger, the old kind of anger that ran hot in his veins and licked at his mind, curiosity alone could not keep him occupied for long. Fortunate, then, that Gandalf and his clever words enticed Elrond to examine his map. Though he was loathe to let it leave his hands, he would, in the privacy of his own mind, admit that Gandalf was right, and Elrond was perhaps the only one who would agree to assist them.

And perhaps, he thought to himself with a solidly suppressed grin, there is something to Gandalf’s claim of our burglar’s skill. Thorin could barely feel the Hobbit behind them; those sturdy feet were silent against the stone and the sound of his fine clothes no more substantial than a breeze. So small and gentle, and here I am leading him to the jaws of a dragon. Truly, I will make a great King.

As Bilbo watched them pore over the map, he formed his questions in his head, lined them up like thirteen wine-glasses on the kitchen counter, ready and waiting for company to come.

"Thorin?" he ventured, when Elrond and Gandalf had swept out of the library, their cloaks billowing quite grandly behind them.

The prince turned, eyeing him speculatively, his mess of curls and worn velvet coat, his tarnished buttons. So far from home, among strangers and strangers to strangers. He inclined his head to him, acknowledging him and welcoming him to speak. “Hobbit.”

Bilbo swallowed. "It's, ah." Goodness. How was he supposed to put this into words? Let alone that it was Thorin he was speaking to, of all people - Thorin Oakenshield, King of Erebor, who had shown quite plainly that his standards were mighty high indeed and a little hobbit like Bilbo couldn't ever hope to meet them.

Not that he'd ever stop trying. He'd come all this way, hadn't he? There was nothing for it but to press on.

"I have... questions, I suppose." He twiddled his thumbs and stared at the beautiful stained glass ceiling and tried to think of a way to put this that wouldn’t sound terribly offensive. "About Kili and Fili."

Thorin cocked an eyebrow as the Hobbit seemed to gather his words, or his wits as the case might be, to voice his inquiry. The prince was not surprised to hear that it was the matter of his nephews that had prompted the halfling to follow him. Thorin had a salacious thought or two, but out of respect or avoidance gave them no floor on which to dwell.

“If you can manage to look me in the face to ask and not tax my patience, such as it is, perhaps I can give you answers.” Thorin’s low voice held threads of amusement in them, and he was already predicting the kind of soft spoken outrage that Hobbit had demonstrated in his own home those long nights ago. “Go on. Ask.”

Bilbo's eyes snapped down to frown at the dwarf - and he was surprised to see the amusement in those blue eyes. It gave him courage, in a way, to clear his throat and pose his question. "Is that... common? Among dwarves?"

Right, well, it could have been better phrased, but he was quite understandably a bit disconcerted about the whole matter.

A defensiveness of the uncontrollable sort threatened to rise up in the king, and he very swiftly put it in it’s place. He didn’t think the Hobbit capable of being insulting on purpose, and certainly did not seem to think his kind better than Thorin’s. All the same, Thorin took a moment, regarding Bilbo with an easy stare, crossing his arms over his chest and tilting his chin down once in acknowledgement of the question.

“I take it you know very little of Dwarves. Our men vastly outnumber our women, but there is no shortage of admirable souls. We regard each other as simply Dwarves first, and men or women secondarily. A relationship between men is as common as gold among my people. Though,” and he let a very slight grin play across his handsome face, “I’ve heard that it would send a Hobbit into a case of the vapours to hear of such a thing.”

Bilbo snorted. And made a little hiccuping noise in the back of his throat and sniffed. "Yes, well, I'm quite certain most Hobbits would go a bit catatonic at the thought of taking tea with dwarves in a palace of elves." And preferring their company, Bilbo thought with a bit of surprise at himself. Yes, he found the elves to be fascinating and Rivendell to be... glorious, but when all was said and done, he found himself to be much more at ease among the familiar eccentricities of the dwarves.

"It's just - it's not done, among hobbits, I mean it is but it's - you're right, is what I mean," he finally spit out, stumbling over his words like rocks in a stream. "And no, I don't know much of dwarves, so I feel a bit... at a loss."

“It,” he cocked his eyebrow again, features every sardonic, and leaned a breath closer to Bilbo, “is perfectly accepted among my people. Though perhaps you’d prefer to speak to Glóin. He is wed to a woman, with a son of his own. I’ll admit that he’s a bit old fashioned as far as long-beards go, but that might suit your Hobbit sensibilities.”

Thorin put some effort into softening the timbre of his voice, letting his lips twitch into an expression that meant no overwhelming offence. He was teasing the Hobbit, he rather belatedly realized, to watch the way he stuttered and flushed and tripped over his words. It was a warming sight to behold.

“If you have questions, ask them, though be mindful of whom you ask and when you ask.” Thorin crossed his arms and took half a step back to lean against the great crystal table that Elrond had examined the map on. Though his body language was not especially welcoming, he was sure that the Halfling could figure out that the fact that he remained there at all meant he was willing to indulge his curiosity.

"I shouldn't think it'd do me better, asking someone who's - er. Old-fashioned, as you said." Bilbo should really start making a habit of thinking before letting words out of his mouth, but it would require a great deal of practice before he could master it. Now was not the time. His little hobbit mouth was set in a stubborn line, and it was with genuine interest that he squashed away his reservations and ploughed right on.

"...But... how on earth does that work?"

In his youth, Thorin had been known for his impulsiveness, his unwillingness to think before he acted. Over the years and into adulthood, he had honed that into a warrior's instinct, and had let the grace of his position excuse the rest. But with those salacious thoughts not quite banished from his mind, he found himself falling on very old and dusty habits. He supposed that the Hobbit might see where Kili and Fili got it from.

"You cannot learn how to lay with another through word or books, Halfling," Thorin's voice pitched every slightly lower and he pushed off the surface of the crystal table, drawing up to his full height and advancing towards Bilbo, his steps measured and quiet. He halted just short of invading Bilbo's personal space, his blue eyes trained on the Hobbit's face in an unblinking gaze. "You can only learn from from being shown, from being laid with."

Bilbo made a small noise in the back of his throat, a sort of half-squeak, but once again, the words happened before the thinking did.

"I should think one could manage quite reasonably with book learnings," he said primly, as if he had any idea what he was talking about.

How deliciously infuriating he found the Hobbit's very proper demeanour, like a knot that could only be undone by clever fingers, or metal that deigned to be worked a certain way before it would yield. His grin grew somethnig very close to predatory, and he leaned into the Hobbit's space.

"Tell me, Halfling. Can a book teach you what wine tastes like? Or how a stew tastes. Did your book learnings prepare you for trolls or dwarves or elves? A book cannot touch you, Hobbit. It cannot embrace you, or kiss you, it cannot hold your wrists to a bed and undress you, it cannot make you blush." The force of his gaze as he looked Bilbo over was almost like a physical force. "A book can neither fuck you nor make love to you, though the right one might be able to tell you what the difference is."

Bilbo stared. Just... stared, for a long moment, for the words took a bit to sink in but the eyes - oh, those eyes would slay him long before he could untangle the dwarf king's web of words. What did he say to such things? It was so far beyond anything he'd experienced, just as trolls and dwarves and elves were, not so very long ago.

"I-I've never," he stuttered, swallowing rapidly. "Anything at all, really. I don't suppose I'd know the difference." He meant the difference between a man's kiss and a woman's, but it came out a bit wrong in the wake of Thorin's words.

How tragic a Hobbit’s life that they were denied pleasure from almost half of their people. Thorin almost felt bad for them and their misguided ways. But far be it from him to dictate the ways of other people. He brought his focus entirely back on Bilbo, his grin widening at the smaller man’s stuttering admission. He could practically see the train of thought as it jumped around.

“You’ve never...? Fucked? Made love?” Thorin had the suspicion that that had not been what the Hobbit meant, but he was having his fun getting under his skin, so the prince remained deliberately obtuse. “Perhaps you should ask my nephews to show you the difference.”

Bilbo sputtered and snorted softly. "Well, no, but that's not - I've never. Anything. With anyone." He made a little wiggly motion with his hand in the air, though he wasn't sure what he was trying to convey, and it only served to demonstrate how very... very... close they were.

If you had told him, earlier that day, any other day, that standing very close to Thorin Oakenshield in an elvish library would've made him feel anything other than panic, he'd've laughed. Outright laughed. But now that it was happening, it wasn't like that at all. In an odd sort of fashion, he felt... safe, with the familiar dwarfish scent of leather and metal and sweat curling around him, as if he could protect him from all the world's strangenesses. Bilbo felt his muscles go slack and relaxed and he knew exactly why dwarves were so eager to follow him, this king of kings, this man made of confidence and gold.

"So I wouldn't know," he finished slowly, "if there was any difference. Beyond the obvious," and this time his gesture was very definitively beard-related, and a little curling smile touched his lips.

Thorin observed Bilbo quietly, huffing a slight, amused breath at the ineffective pantomime. His keen eyes noted the ease in which the Hobbit held himself, not the stature of a person in discomfort. And despite their questionable surroundings, Thorin found himself to be quite at ease in the younger man's company. The day had truly taken an unexpected turn, but he was never one to not take advantage of a fortuitous situation.

"Ah, but you'll find that some men are as soft as a woman." He gentled his expression, not wishing to come off as hostile and threatening when it seemed that they were finally on some spit of amiable land. Reaching out a hand, he took hold of Bilbo's chin, smoothing his broad, calloused thumb along his jaw. "No two women kiss the same, and no two men kiss the same either, so the difference lies from person to person."

With his hand still on Bilbo's jaw, he became aware of how truly close they were. Curiosity flickered in his gaze, and he tilted his head down ever so slightly. "You've never been with or kissed anyone. Was that your own wish?"

Bilbo blinked. He could honestly say he hadn't actually thought that far, not until right at this moment, but with a warm thumb slipping over his skin, he couldn't say that he was in any sort of right mind to be thinking about it. "Um," he said, as eloquently as he was able. "Er."

He swallowed as he looked up into those inscrutable blue eyes. "...Well, it's." He let out a little shaky breath. "I wouldn't want it to be... an experiment," he mumbled, trying not to sound as pathetic as he felt. "That isn't to say - it isn't about what bits anyone's got, I know that. I just..." Bilbo squared his jaw and tipped his chin up just slightly, meeting Thorin's eye with all the confidence he didn't feel. "I'm not kissing anyone unless it's for real, thank you."

Perhaps there was something to the idea that dwarves and halflings were of similar heart. It was unkind of him, he would acknowledge to himself, to tease Bilbo as he had, but the halfling's response struck a chord with him. He nodded and pulled his hand back, straightening up and pulling out of Bilbo's immediate space, though keeping the amiable distance between them.

"A good policy to keep." His tone was a quiet rumble, with something like approval in it. Though in his day he, and many other dwarves, had done their share of cavorting and laying with others for casual fun, he had begun to understand those like Glóin and Dís, who had found one such other dwarf to commit themselves to. They knew in their hearts what was right for them, and it seemed that Bilbo did, too. And, though he was not likely to admit it out loud, he could respect that.

Bilbo nodded as well, and let out the breath he'd been holding. "Well. That's. Yes." He was still nervous, though, and he couldn't quite bring himself to move just yet.

“Be at peace, Hobbit. Neither myself nor anyone in this company will do anything untoward.” He spoke slowly and firmly, his demeanour a touch more resolute than an informal meeting in the library in the dark warranted, but this was the tone that made him a leader. The ability to instill confidence in those who followed him. “I will not, however, ask Fili and Kili to make a secret out of the bond they share, even if it discomfits you. That is something you will have to make peace with. Though,” and his gaze turned a bit speculative. “I have the feeling that it will not be difficult for you. You are unlike the other Shirefolk.” It was as close to saying that perhaps his initial judgement on the usefulness of a Hobbit in a company of dwarves was incorrect as they were likely to get that evening.

"It doesn't," Bilbo added, determined to have the last word on the matter. "Bother me. It doesn't at all." And with that, he turned quite red and spun around, slipping out of the library as quietly as he was able, which was quite quietly indeed.

He had certainly given Bilbo a lot to think about, though, as they wandered off from Rivendell and headed for the Misty Mountains. He got used to the strange new definition of relationships quite easier than he'd anticipated, but as for Thorin's actions that night, and what he'd said... offered? That was what Bilbo couldn't quite wrap his mind around. Once again, he had no idea where he stood with the dwarven king, and though the rest of them seemed to have accepted him as one of the bunch, it looked to Bilbo as if he would never be able to live up to whatever it was Thorin was looking for when he turned those eyes back towards him.

Perhaps that was what had him so distracted, that he would quite literally lose his footing, and be dangled off the edge of a craggy precipice in the pouring rain, terrified that the company of dwarves would simply move on and let him fall.

tbc