Chapter Text
Fili, heir and nephew of Thorin Oakenshield, son of Dis, and older brother to Kili stokes the fire in the middle of their camp on this very sunny day. And it does not matter what his idiot brother says he is not staring at the elf.
He is not staring at the elf.
Furthermore, his mouth does not go a little dry when the elf stretches his long arms upwards and a tiny hint of skin is revealed.
It doesn’t.
Blue snickers from behind curled fingers and he is not quite certain that she can’t read his mind. Stupid hobbits and their stupid laughs. Wait, if the Burglar can read his mind then she will absolutely tell Uncle what he said about stupid stupid hobbits and then he will be dead (without ever even tasting) or at least maimed and he just needs to think forgiving thoughts and yes, beautiful hobbits and their beautiful laughs, oh wait that will make Uncle jealous and . . . .
He is an idiot. Bluebell Baggins grins a quick grin at him when she hops up, “Don’t look so angry Fili, you look like you’re about to blow a gasket.” She pats him once or twice on the arm and then goes to take her place on watch.
Maybe that’s why everyone has been avoiding him today, he looks too angry. Mahal, he probably looks like a poor facsimile of Uncle Thorin. Without the dark hair of course. He, Frerin, and his mother were the blonde haired line of Durin. His blonde was so much darker than his blonde though and Fili really, really, really cannot help if he wonders what the colors would look like meshed together.
Dwalin quicks his head to one side beside Thorin and holds in a laugh, “How long has he been staring, my friend?”
The King Under the Mountain turns, regally even in his dishevelled blacksmith state and groans, “He has no skill of subtlety, Dwalin.”
It is only by mere milliseconds and years of friendship that keeps Dwalin from suffering a blow by Oakenshield’s hands when he says, “Neither do you.”