Chapter Text
“I've missed this face.” Fingers carded through his beard, and Thorin allowed himself to revel in the sensation, arching towards it like a cat. His flat was cool even without the air conditioning turned on, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above them, but that made the warmth under his duvet seem even cosier.
Lying close enough to share a pillow, Bilbo hadn't stopped smiling for hours, even when tears had streaked across his blotchy red cheeks. Neither of them had survived that night with entirely dry eyes, but now, curled together in the soft glow of Thorin's bedside lamp, things had settled into peaceful fellowship.
Sliding a thumb over one of Thorin's cheekbones, Bilbo leaned in for a soft, fleeting kiss before resting their foreheads together, one hand still cupping Thorin's jaw. “God, how I've missed you.”
There was nothing he could say, nothing he had not tried and failed to say earlier in the evening— it would take more than one night of desperate reunion for Thorin to free himself of the guilt that sat cold in his gut. Bilbo had lived a life without him, more than eighty years with his memory, while Thorin hadn't suffered the ache of a lost love until the hobbit was back in his arms.
Not a hobbit now, though; William Baggins was a man, much the same as Tom Durin. The finer details were still jagged and jarring, like bits of glass prodding at his brain if he thought about them too closely, but lines had begun blurring between the two lifetimes shoehorned into Thorin's skull. It was disorienting, but at least it was better than feeling like a stranger in his own skin, as he had with orgasm tearing through him and Bilbo panting into his hair. He was Tom as much as he was Thorin, whatever the hell that meant.
He knew that the asparagus fern in his office appreciated a splash of cold tea in its water once a week, and precisely how to walk the line between demanding and ingratiating when dealing with every individual print shop in his address book. He also knew the feeling of orc flesh giving way under the weight of a good dwarven blade, and the magnificent view the sun made rising over the distant Iron Hills. He remembered seeing his grandfather's severed head rolling towards him across a muddy battlefield; he remembered finding his grandfather slumped over the desk in his study, flesh gone waxy white and already cold.
He knew Khuzdul better than the French he'd taken in university, and the bitter-sharp tang of steel heated red hot was as vivid in Thorin's mind as the heady scent of his favourite espresso, brewed in the absolutely convoluted machine his nephews had bought him last Christmas. His nephews, whose bodies he'd seen bloodied and and broken on the steps of Erebor, and who currently shared a small, comfortable flat two streets away from the Oakenshield office.
“Thorin?” Bilbo's thumb was stroking his cheek again, wiping gently beneath his eye, and Thorin took a deep, steadying breath.
“Come here,” he said, rather than continue to delve into the deep and the darkness; Bilbo didn't resist being rolled onto his back, sighing happily as Thorin's weight settled over him. Mussed curls spilled across the golden yellow pillowcase, and warm thighs parted, welcoming Thorin to cradle close against the luxuriant, slightly podgy curve of his stomach.
Kissing Bilbo was a fine way to temporarily banish old ghosts, Thorin had discovered, and luckily enough it was a remedy he was eager to repeat as much as necessary.
“You are a gorgeous little thing, here in my bed.” Sliding his hands slowly up Bilbo's sides, mapping every inch of smooth skin he could reach, Thorin licked his way into the furnace of that tempting mouth. Hips rolled up against him, grinding slow and sinful as Thorin planted his knees for more leverage, and Bilbo's delighted groan vibrated through them both. Fingers moved from his jaw to his shoulders, kneading muscle and teasing up to his nape; this was a truly lovely way to set madness aside for a moment.
It was better than any dream he could imagine, to wake cocooned in warmth, with his muscles aching with a well-earned soreness, his nose buried in soft curls, and his cock nestled against the plush curve of Bilbo's arse. Shifting just a bit, tightening his arm around the body curled against him, Thorin nuzzled a lazy line of kisses over Bilbo's shoulder and let himself drift back—
Then another chorus of knocks rapped against the front door, loud and jaunty, and Thorin realized why he'd woken in the first place. Knocking, rather than a buzz on the intercom, was just compelling enough to persuade him out of bed.
Bilbo groaned pitifully when Thorin attempted to extract himself; before he could even slip out from under the quilts, he found himself on the receiving end of a confused, bleary-eyed frown.
“Someone at the door,” he said, answering Bilbo's wordless hum of inquiry, and pressed a brief kiss against the peach fuzz of the other man's cheek. Even in this life, Bilbo did not appear the type to worry overmuch about stubble, though he did have a fine dusting of dark blonde hair trailing down from his chest. Thorin had spent a great deal of time the night before exploring that golden trail, and all the sweet treasures hidden along it.
“Waffles,” Bilbo rasped in return, managing such a hopeful little smile that Thorin couldn't help but laugh.
“Yes, all right, waffles it is.” Pulling on a pair of pyjama trousers, Thorin tossed his warmer tartan dressing gown onto the duvet for Bilbo to make use of, shrugging on his grey silk robe instead. Another knock sounded, and he forcibly dragged his eyes away from the rumpled sight of his warm, comfortable blankets and the man lying in them, knotting his robe and padding out into the hall.
The lock was already turning by the time he made it to the door, and Thorin made a point of yanking it open with some force, startling his nephews enough that they both jumped back, yelping. There were few enough people with a key to his flat— precisely the sort of key clutched in Filip's hand.
“Jesus Christ!” Standing just behind his brother's shoulder, with an iPhone pressed against his ear, Kalle huffed a weak, breathless sort of laugh. “No, no we found him, still alive and all. Yeah, here, you talk to him—”
Levelling them both with a stern enough stare to send them ducking their heads like misbehaving children again, Thorin took the mobile Kalle held out without a word, glancing at the screen for a moment before lifting it to his own ear.
“Tom Durin,” he said pleasantly enough for half-seven on a Saturday morning, while very purposefully standing firm in his doorway, not allowing the lads inside.
There was a part of him that wanted nothing more than to pull them both into a bone-creaking hug— alive, they were alive— but that would have raised far too many questions. It was best to fall back on ill-temper, which wasn't too difficult to dredge up, considering the warm, pliant man he'd just been bothered into leaving back in his bed.
“Well now, looks as though I owe Blaine a pint,” said the deep, gruff voice rumbling from the phone. Deryn sounded more amused than put-out about the bet. “I was sure you'd had that heart attack you've been angling for, but my brother disagreed. You're not in the office.” Thorin might have been surprised by the admission of such an off-colour wager, if Deryn Fundin had ever showed even a passing concern for delicacy or tact. Thinking of another dear old friend, one just as bald and boorish as Deryn, Thorin shook off the rush of memories that followed.
“It is Saturday.” If he sounded hoarse, Thorin assumed it would be blamed on sleep and annoyance, rather than the lump in his throat. Growing brave again, the lads had begun whispering to each other while shooting him curious glances. Another memory flickered into the fore of his mind, much more recent than slaughtering orcs and raising cups side by side with Dwalin son of Fundin— Bilbo, biting at the tendons in his neck while riding him hard into the mattress. That was enough to give Thorin a fairly good idea of what was so fascinating about the collar of his robe. “Anything wrong?”
“Not a thing, just that you've not taken a Saturday off in three years. And you weren't answering your mobile.” The mobile that was set to vibrate and tucked into his jacket pocket— the jacket that was still crumpled on the floor in his entranceway, not too far from his bare feet. He was actually standing on the very nice blue and lavender striped tie that Bilbo had yanked off him the night before; of course the lads noticed it, with Filip elbowing his brother knowingly, and both of them grinning like loons.
“I'm taking one off today. If you need to get in touch, call.” There was a bark of laughter through the phone, and Thorin knew he'd be hearing about this for weeks, if not longer. Any ribbing he suffered was more than worth it.
“Right,” Deryn chuckled, a noise rather like gravel under boots. “Put the lad back on, would you?”
Hanging up would do absolutely no good; Thorin could easily guess what was about to happen, and he wouldn't delay the inevitable. He passed the phone back to Kalle without argument, bracing himself for what was to come. Snatching the phone with an amused little smirk, Kalle turned away and chattered into it, muffling his words with one cupped hand. Thorin heard lovebite and shagged out, then stopped listening.
“I'm not inviting you in,” he said to Filip, jerking one thumb down the corridor towards the lift. “I don't want to see either of you until Monday.”
Filip, the smug little shit, stuffed his hands into his jeans' pockets and rocked on his heels. “Big weekend plans, Uncle?” When Thorin merely lifted his brows at the question, Filip's smile broadened, and he made a show of briefly peeking around Thorin's shoulder. “Anyone we know?”
Yes, you remember our burglar, don't you Fili? Kili? You remember—
“No.” It wasn't a terribly odd question, all things considered; his nephews knew how rarely he dated, and how much of a priority Oakenshield was for their uncle. For him to take a day off because of a shag was unheard of, a shift in the foundations of the world, though judging by the matching glints in their eyes, the lads seemed to approve. “Now, piss off, the pair of you.”
“Quick as lightning,” Filip said, clapping his brother on the back. Kalle, who was just stuffing his mobile back in the pocket of his hoodie, favoured Thorin with a toothy smile and added: “As if we were never here.”
“If only,” Thorin muttered as he closed the door, then turned the deadbolt and fastened the chain for good measure.
Picking up his tie and his jacket, Thorin fished his mobile out of the latter as he walked towards the kitchen, and slung his rumpled clothes over the back of a chair. He'd missed nine calls— three from Deryn, four from Blaine, and two from Kalle— and thirty-eight texts. Flipping silent mode off, Thorin ignored the bulk of the messages for the moment, sending only a single text before grabbing the waffle iron from its cupboard and gathering the proper ingredients.
The timer was set for the first batch of waffles and the kettle was moments away from boiling when Bilbo padded out of the bedroom, wrapped in Black Watch tartan and looking altogether self-satisfied. When he crowded Thorin against the sink and stretched up for a kiss, he tasted of cinnamon— he'd found the toothpaste, apparently, and made Thorin all to aware of his own somewhat stale breath.
“That was my nephews at the door.” Squeezing his hands around Bilbo's hips for one covetous moment, earning himself a tempting wriggle for his trouble, Thorin pulled away long enough to fill the teapot and set it to steep. No need to bother with coffee just yet; such a lazy morning as he had planned called for tea. “Filip and Kalle.”
“Did you— Filip and Kalle?” Propping elbows on the countertop, Bilbo dropped his head into his hands. “This is astonishing and it's— it's absurd. I can't think about it anymore until after breakfast, or my head may just pop off. God, I need tea.”
Humming in agreement, Thorin fetched down plates and silverware, and a pair of mugs— he'd never bothered to keep proper teacups. It only took Bilbo a moment to rally enough for manners to overcome confusion, and Thorin was left to put down a second batch of waffles while Bilbo set everything on the table. It felt so astonishingly domestic, even if it was utter lunacy.
Despite Deryn's ribbing, Thorin was all too aware of his own health, and had been even before his father's final decline— he would not give Rufus Drake the satisfaction of having destroyed three generation of Durin men, even indirectly. Bilbo seemed more than happy to reap the benefits of a refrigerator well-stocked with fresh berries and fruit, piling his waffles and staining his lips with dark juice.
Before Thorin could consider the strength of his kitchen table too closely— whether it could, for example, be trusted to hold the weight of one former hobbit through some vigorous exploration of the taste of blueberries and warm syrup on bare skin— his mobile chirped in the pocket of his robe.
Glancing at the screen, Thorin felt one corner of his mouth lift, nearly without his permission. The fact that he'd received a reply at all was telling, but telling of what, he wasn't exactly sure. He slid the phone across the table without explanation, and Bilbo's startled laugh shortly thereafter was not at all surprising.
You're a wizard, read the text he'd sent to Andrew that morning; so glad the meeting went well, was the reply, six words that somehow managed to utterly drip with self-satisfied delight even without the benefit of tone or inflection.
“If anyone knows, beyond us,” Bilbo said, pushing the phone back over. “It's Andrew, though good luck getting a straight answer if he does. Clever, crafty bastard he is.”
“As he's always been,” Thorin agreed, absently licking a bit of stray syrup off one thumb as he considered whether to text Andrew again, or perhaps call the man—
He wasn't quite prepared for a lapful of Bilbo, who was abruptly shoving his chair out just enough to squeeze between him and the table, but it was hardly an unpleasant surprise.
“Well, hello,” Bilbo said cheerily, then lifted Thorin's hand and suckled at his still-damp thumb, drawing it deep over his velvet-soft tongue until not even the memory of syrup remained. Thorin's cock stirred immediately, stiffening with both interest and jealously at the attention being laved over such an innocuous part of his anatomy. It was better than being a teenager again, even if his muscles were tender. A warm hand slipped inside his robe, pushing silk aside, and Thorin rumbled a pleased sort of noise at the sensation, hips shifting.
Bilbo had told him much earlier that morning, while they both lay sated and panting in the quiet hours before dawn, that he had every intention of making up for decades of lost time. Then, as now, Thorin couldn't think of any objections.
“So you don't actually expect them to recognize me?” Holding his umbrella over both of them to block out the grey drizzle, while Bilbo balanced a pair of takeout cups (a black coffee and an Earl Grey), Thorin shook his head and kept their pace comfortable but quick. His briefcase, hanging from one shoulder on its longer strap, knocked gently against his hip.
“I really don't, no.” It was Monday morning, early enough that Bilbo had grumbled good-naturedly until Thorin agreed that a shared shower would save time (it had, in fact, wasted it; he wasn't going to be late, but it was a close thing). Taking Bilbo to the office didn't precisely feel like a horrific mistake, especially since it wasn't for purely personal reasons, but Thorin worried about the depth of the other man's expectations. “I've known most of them for years, some since I was a boy, and I've only just started piecing together memories another life. They don't... tug on my brain like you do.”
“You say the sweetest things.” A head bumped his shoulder, an affectionate nudge, and a glance over confirmed that Bilbo was smiling at him playfully. “This is going to be quite strange, I've no doubt.”
“Because it's been so very normal until now.” They were just coming up in front of Oakenshield, which filled every nook and cranny of what had been an old piano repair and music shop in one of the less-than-posh but still relatively clean areas of the city. After the family had been evicted from the tall granite office that had been home to Durin & Sons since the Industrial Revolution, establishing a new location had been a delicate balance of weighing cost against client comfort.
It had taken time, but the place eventually polished up quite nicely, and the large shop windows brightened the small foyer (with comfortable seating for appointments to wait, and Donald's administrative desk front and centre). Pushing the door open, ushering Bilbo inside as he shook off his umbrella, Thorin took one final centring breath before following.
“Good morning!” Donald had his best false smile plastered on, though it faltered into something less toothy when he caught sight of Thorin. “Ah, Mr. Durin, good morning.”
“Good morning.” Dropping his dripping brolly in the stand by the door, Thorin took his coffee from Bilbo with a grateful nod. “Bill, this is Donald Durin, our receptionist, among other things. Donald, Bill Baggins.”
“Oh, Mr. Baggins—” Everyone in the Oakenshield office had heard the murmurs about William Baggins the mysterious author, but there wasn't a hint of the eerie sort of recognition that had swept over Thorin. Between the enthusiastic handshake and the curious glances, Donald appeared to have made only the obvious connection. “A pleasure, really, truly. Welcome to Oakenshield Press.”
The moment Bilbo had blurted out thanks, Thorin cut in again, unwilling to linger when there was work that needed doing. “Donald, I'll be in with Bill most of the morning, but I'll still take calls. Any messages?”
There were, of course, a pile of pink slips of paper waiting for him already, each scrawled with a name and number (and, if he was lucky, a summary of the actual message). Thorin took them all, not bothering to flick through at the moment, then proceeded to herd Bilbo deeper into the office without any further conversation.
“That was Dori,” Bilbo muttered softly in his ear. Most of the individual offices had their doors open this early in the day, before the phone calls and meetings began in earnest, and Thorin felt Bilbo tense beside him as they walked past. “Are Ori and Nori... wait, is that Balin? My god, they look different, so human, but I just know—”
“There you are.” Looming like a great granite monolith, Deryn took up most of Thorin's office door; his dark green button-down pulled tight around thick arms, crossed over his chest, and the glossy top of his bald head nearly brushed the lintel. “Don't you look well-rested.”
It was patently unfair, Thorin realized suddenly, that of all these seemingly reborn dwarves, he was the only one nearly as short-arsed as he'd been. Even young Oliver— Ori— stood a few inches taller, and bloody Deryn towered over him by more than half a foot.
“Morning, Deryn.” Resisting the urge to shoulder past, though Deryn would likely let him, Thorin motioned toward Bilbo with his coffee. “Deryn Fundin, this is Bill Baggins. Bill, Deryn's our senior editor, and a vicious bastard with a red pen. His brother Blaine is our acquisitions editor.”
“Baggins, did you say?” Putting that thunderstruck look on Deryn's face, if only for a moment, might have been one of the highlights of Thorin's day... except his day had started with a long, luxurious blowjob in the shower before being fucked hard against the slick tiles, so things were already skewed a bit past normal. “Well now, not a myth after all. Good to meet you.”
Watching Bilbo's hand be utterly consumed in Deryn's massive paw, Thorin glanced around at the other office doors along the curving corridor; he was relieved at the lack of peering, curious faces. Oliver was puttering around the small kitchenette in the centre of the u-shape, completely engrossed in fixing a cup of tea, but he perked up at the name Baggins. He'd already been sketching that morning, if the smudge of dark ink on his cheek and the side of his little finger was any clue— possibly the illustrations for their latest small batch custom order, hand-bound. Thorin had already approved the preliminary proofs.
“—sure you and Tom have a lot to talk about.” Tuning back in at the sound of his name, Thorin turned to find Deryn having moved out of the way, allowing Bilbo to slip into the office. When Thorin attempted to follow, a massive hand on his chest stymied his progress.
“Tell me,” Deryn rumbled very quietly, leaning close. “That you didn't spend your weekend shagging that author.”
Thorin didn't answer verbally, simply levelled a steely hard stare, and the other man backed off with palms raised. “Right.” Deryn huffed a growling breath, displeased but not willing to push. “Your business. Fuck's sake.”
“It is, yes.” Stepping into the dark panelled refuge of his office, Thorin pushed the door shut pointedly, then took a deep breath. So far, things were going about how he had expected. Setting down his briefcase and coffee, he shrugged off his overcoat and draped it over one of the clothes hangers on the back of his door. “Bilbo, you coat?”
“Hm?” Shaking his head a bit, as though clearing it, Bilbo turned from his study of the leggy asparagus fern spilling greenery over the edge of the steel filing cabinet. After a moment's pause, he stripped himself free of his short, brick-red trench and passed it over. “Oh yes, of course, thank you. Your plant needs more light, by the way.”
Clever family investments and a comfortable (though not excessive) amount of old money meant that William Baggins had never needed a proper job, though he did take a few hours a week at a flower shop and greenhouse in his village. A love of things that grow... Thorin recalled a certain fussy hobbit had been surprisingly content with soil under his nails, if it was to the benefit of something green.
“You should put it out front,” Bilbo continued, stroking a gentle hand over the soft needles and absently sipping his tea. “Nearer the windows. In here, maybe a pothos... yes, that would be lovely.”
They had made a stop at Bilbo's hotel Saturday afternoon, picking up his bags and cancelling the remainder of his reservation. With enough clothes for a week at his disposal, and an unfortunate need to wear more than a pair of Thorin's pyjama trousers slung low on his hips if they were going out in public, Bilbo had put together dark russet trousers and a mossy green jumper. The white collared shirt beneath did a fine job at hiding any marks Thorin may have left low on his neck, including a frankly indecent amount of beard burn (his face, thankfully, had weathered the weekend with only a bit of healthy looking pinkness). Thorin himself wasn't quite so lucky— one purplish set of toothmarks peeked out at his nape, glaringly visible just below his hairline, and the slight twinge of the bruise brushing against his own starched collar was sinfully distracting.
Not quite as distracting as the lingering ache in his arse, but Thorin could not afford to think about that for even a moment, or he'd be hard-pressed not to have Bilbo bent over his desk.
“No, no, stop that.” Bilbo waved a hand, as if swatting at a fly; Thorin blinked. “Thorin, stop smouldering over there as though you want to jump me, or I can't promise we won't end up having sex in your office. I'm terrible at self-denial.”
Swallowing hard, Thorin moved around to put the desk between them, taking a long drink of his coffee as he dropped into his chair. “Sit, please. We actually do have business, you tempting little creature.”
“The book,” Bilbo said, taking the offered seat. The rain had put a bit of frizz in his curls, making them look perpetually ruffled.
“The book,” Thorin agreed, ignoring the urge to ruffle those curls any further. “And Red Drake.”