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It would be entirely the rain’s fault if Bilbo took one look at him and turned him away.
Each step Thorin took along the dirt roads of the Shire muddied his boots that much more. The rain had long since soaked his fur surcoat to the point it had started to give off a vaguely unpleasant musk. And the less said about his formerly meticulously groomed hair, the better. Apparently, late summer weather in the Shire included torrential downpours. That would have been nice to know. For a moment, Thorin wished he still had the pony he had travelled from Erebor with to at least keep some of him out of the mud but it had come up lame just outside of Bree. He’d taken it to a nearby homesteader who had agreed to let the animal graze peacefully in exchange for a handful of gold coins. The loss of his mount, besides meaning the last stretch of his journey was taking longer than expected, completely ruined his fallback plan for explaining his presence in the Shire to Bilbo. No pony meant his story of being part of a caravan from Erebor to Ered Luin and back and deciding to take a detour to visit the Company’s burglar while they were near the Shire was entirely implausible.
Which meant Thorin had nothing to tell Bilbo but the truth.
Nothing to say but that he was no longer King Under the Mountain. That he no longer wore the crown that burned when placed upon his head or sat upon the throne he could hardly stand to look at.
At first, Thorin had been convinced that such sensations were side effects of the madness that had stolen his mind and they would pass with time. But they did not. Even after he could hold the Arkenstone and feel nothing but remorse… even after he could stand in the middle of the treasure room and watch Erebor’s gold being given away to Men and Elves… the trappings of his royal station were still painful and heavy. Thorin had carried on anyway. The crown and the throne were his burdens to bear and no one else’s. The constant dull ache in his heart was his punishment for his transgressions.
And all the while, Thorin thought about Bilbo Baggins.
Given even a moment to itself, his mind would often wander onto the topic of the Company’s former burglar. At first, it was only to hope that he returned to his home safely. After word was received that he had, the sentiment changed. Thorin had hoped, with an intensity that surprised him, that the hobbit was happy. To him, happiness had always been a fleeting thing. A moment or two but nothing more. But Thorin needed Fate to be kinder to Bilbo than he had been for long stretches of their journey. He needed Bilbo’s happiness to be something permanent and lasting. The hobbit should always have a reason to laugh and there should always be a smile upon his face. Never again should Bilbo know even the smallest fraction of the horrors he had endured and conquered. Even on the hardest of days, the image of a smiling Bilbo puttering around his hole in the ground could lighten Thorin’s spirit.
They had exchanged a pair of letters, brief and slightly impersonal things. Bilbo had written of finding his home in a less-than-desirable state and Thorin had responded with an update on the restoration of both the mountain and his health. Bilbo had replied with reassurances of his respect and Thorin had answered with his eternal gratitude for everything Bilbo had done for him and for Erebor. He kept Bilbo’s letters on him at all times; even now, they were tucked inside a pocket on his innermost tunic, hopefully safe from the rain. Bilbo’s looping, Shire-influenced handwriting was so very different from anything else he saw in all of the multitude of reports that required his attention.
And still, that dull ache had remained. His habit of rubbing at that spot on his chest in a foolish attempt to ease the throbbing had not gone unnoticed by Oin, who had informed him that it was likely a lingering effect from one of his battle injuries. It was the simplest and easiest explanation except for the fact that Thorin knew with an odd amount of certainty that the wise healer was wrong. In council meetings, he listened half-heartedly while he thought about mithril shirts and comfortable armchairs. With each extended hand, he saw only a small hand that just might have fit perfectly in his own holding out an acorn that matched the only thing he could recall with clarity from the depths of his madness. Nights were often the best and the worst as nightmares could be sometimes held at bay by summoning the memory of holding Bilbo in his embrace as if the hobbit was a shield against all that haunted him.
It had taken him an amount of time that Thorin had no intention of ever admitting to aloud to comprehend the simple basic truth: he missed Bilbo. His heart ached because Bilbo was not in his life. It was not just the companionship that he missed. Thorin supposed that could have been endured but it wasn’t a missing friendship that had him looking for Bilbo in hallways and dining halls. It was everything that had lain unspoken between them. It was lingering glances and soft smiles. It was hope and wonder and possibility. He missed everything that could have been.
But the crown was heavy against his brow and the throne was cold against his tunic. It did not matter that part of him had left Erebor and gone west.
As life in Erebor shifted from survival to restoration, Thorin gained the habit of starting each day by looking out over the cursed battlements at the land surrounding the mountain. Greeting the sun, Bilbo had once called it. If his eyes always ended up focused westward that was between him and the stone. Or at least, Thorin had thought it was until the sunrise several months ago when he had arrived at his usual spot only to find Balin there waiting for him.
“You have regained a kingdom but lost something far more important. You and Bilbo deserve to be happy. You need to go home, Thorin.”
Balin’s words had lit a fire in him that he had had no idea how to contain. What his advisor was suggesting was impossible and putting the idea in his head was pure cruelty. It was a cruelty that accrued as each member of the Company approached him that day to tell him more or less the same thing in their own way. Dwalin had been blunt, Bofur crude, Ori nervous, Gloin longwinded. His sister-sons had been noticeably and strangely uninvolved until he had returned to his chambers and found them waiting for him with grins and parchment. One document stating his abdication of the throne, another authorizing Balin, Fili, Kili, and the council to rule Erebor until Dain could arrive and be crowned, and a letter from Dain that had only three lines: “I’ve got your mountain. You go be with your hobbit. May Mahal bless you both.”
His kin and Company had conspired around him and all Thorin had felt was a giddy sort of relief. It wasn’t cruelty; it was a planned and welcomed insurrection. Thorin knew he could rule. He had been raised to do it. It was as much his birthright as Erebor was. It was a burden he had carried for so many years, even in exile. It was a weight he would have continued to bear without complain until he finally went to the halls of his forefathers but those he cared about (and who cared about him) had refused to let him carry it another step. Thorin knew it was an act that he would be forever equally thankful for and guilty about. He could barely remember trying to argue with his sister-sons about the whole thing. He would always remember each of them pressing their foreheads against his in turn and how they each whispered a promise that they would ensure that there was peace and prosperity in Erebor.
It had quickly became obvious just how long this particularly operation had been in the works because he departed Erebor exactly a week later since provisions had already been gathered and travel arrangements had already been made. Thorin rode away from the mountain he once called home on a clear, warm morning with Fili’s demands to tell Uncle Bilbo we said hello and Kili’s shouting about the Company expecting wedding invitations echoing in his ears.
There was no longer a crown or a throne, only the road ahead and a smile on his face.
The long journey alone had had the drawback of giving him time to think and it hadn’t taken Thorin long to realize that it was one of the rather large flaws in their plan. Time to think had given him time to doubt. Fili had called Bilbo his uncle and Kili had mentioned weddings but all alone on his pony, Thorin thought such things weren’t just premature – they were unlikely. Bilbo would greet him as an unexpected houseguest that intended to leave not as someone he wanted to stay. There was more than one moment he almost turned around and returned to the throne.
At some point after leaving the Mirkwood, Thorin started to have the strangest hopes. Balin had said that they both deserved to be happy. Did his old friend know something that he didn’t? It would not have been the first time. Was Bilbo unhappy in his Shire? Had he written to Balin of loneliness and longing? Thorin began to want the hobbit to be a bit miserable. He wanted him to be distracted from his books by thoughts of shared campfires and deceptively casual touches. He couldn’t decide if he wanted that acorn to have been carefully planted in Bilbo’s garden or to instead be carried close like a tenuous link to a treasured moment.
He wanted Bilbo to miss him.
His feet walked through the Shire unguided. For all his difficulties in navigating the place over two years ago, it seemed there was no such issue this time. Thorin took it as a good omen, in spite of the blasted rain. Even the weather itself might not be completely terrible since the conditions seemed to have driven all of the hobbits indoors so there was no one to witness the drenched dwarf slogging across their lands. It also meant it was likely that Bilbo was at home.
Bag End. It was called Bag End.
And there was the round green door he remembered. It had looked far too rustic and impractical to his eyes the first time he saw it but now it merely seemed right. Bilbo had said to just come in. That had been the last time Thorin had heard his voice. Tea is at four. Don’t bother knocking. However, knocking was probably prudent. Walking in unannounced would likely end badly. Bilbo might not have been a trained warrior but he had gained the reflexes of battle. Thorin wasn’t keen on getting stabbed with that letter opener of his. He had been stabbed (and slashed and bitten) enough for two lifetimes.
Knocking, then.
As his knuckles rapped against the wood and he used his other hand to futilely brush strands of wet, stringy hair out of his face, it occurred to Thorin that perhaps he should have written to Bilbo to tell him that he was coming.
“Hamfast, you didn’t need to come out in this weather! Come on in before you catch a cold!”
The sound rattled him. Thorin laid both of his palms against the wood and leaned slightly into the door to brace himself. The voice was exactly as it was in his memories. That was their burglar on the other side of the rounded door.
He had no idea who Hamfast was but there was likely a reason that Bilbo was shouting instead of answering the door himself. Time to let himself in, Thorin supposed. The entryway looked different than it did in his mind. Perhaps something had been moved or more likely, his memory was false. Thorin couldn’t see Bilbo from where he was standing but he was reluctant to venture from the spot where he was standing. It was bad enough that he had tracked in what mud he already had and he didn’t have to look down to know there was a puddle forming underneath him. Making a mess out of the floors of Bilbo’s home seemed like a bad way to start off something that was definitely going to be awkward. Thorin turned to close the door so he was expecting the nearby faint thud. What he didn’t anticipate was the barely audible gasp behind him.
Bilbo.
With a deep and careful breath, Thorin steadied himself for what he would see when he turned back around. Would Bilbo’s eyes be flashing with resentful anger or would the corners of his mouth be turned up in indifferent surprise?
Many years later, Thorin would be forced to admit that it wasn’t those kind eyes shining in what could only be delight that caught his attention first. Nor was it the waistcoat in Durin blue and its geometric patterned buttons that Thorin could remember Bifur giving Bilbo before he left. It was Bilbo’s hair. Honey colored curls grown longer than he had ever seen them and it suited him as if it were meant to be. So very far removed from the dwarves he had known and yet Bilbo had not cut his hair. It was long enough to braid. Thorin’s mind didn’t know how to move past that fact. If the elation in Bilbo’s eyes was not a lie… if everything went exactly right… if he could trust in his hopes and his heart… then maybe he might be permitted to weave a braid into Bilbo’s hair. It was too much. His heart was beating too fast and Bilbo must have seen something in his expression – the quickly rising panic perhaps – because all of a sudden, he was coming closer with determination and worry easy to see on his face.
“Thorin? Are you all right? Of course, you’re not all right. You are soaked completely through. And don’t you try and tell me otherwise. I know you.”
The words washed right over him in a way that was unexpectedly soothing. Bilbo was fussily concerned and that familiar stubborn tone was there in his voice. Everything was as it should be. It was the last three words that lingered, though. I know you. And he did. Bilbo probably understood Thorin better than either of them realized. But until he heard those words, Thorin hadn’t grasped just how big of a void that Bilbo’s absence had created in his life. Perhaps Oin had been right after all and the ache in his chest had truly been the result of a festering wound, albeit of a far more personal nature. Bilbo continued to prattle on – apparently he was an idiot for both being out in the heavy rain and for not writing to let Bilbo know of his journey. That was comforting too, in its own way.
“I have missed you, Bilbo.”
When the flow of words stopped abruptly and it seemed all Bilbo was capable of was blinking, Thorin feared that he had stepped too far past a boundary that he could not see. For all he used it in his head, he was quite aware that he very rarely had spoken Bilbo’s given name aloud. Did its use now offend despite the previously proffered assurances of forgiveness and friendship? Or was it the sentiment itself that was an unwanted bother even though it had seemed his arrival was welcomed?
The cloud of worry quickly dissipated as Bilbo took another step closer (not even an arm’s length away now) and graced him with that smile. The one Thorin had conjured with his mind’s eye so many times. The smile that shone brighter than any piece of gold ever could. He had most certainly missed seeing that.
“Oh, Thorin… I missed you too.”
The smile that came to his face was embarrassingly large. Thorin felt it stretch his lips in a fashion they had grown unaccustomed to. It was a smile that only Bilbo had ever evoked and he had forgotten what it felt like on his face since Bilbo had been gone from his life. He found that he could no longer quite meet Bilbo’s eyes – so full of a terribly familiar wistful longing – as he felt the swell of innumerable emotions grow within him, threatening to drown him in it.
Once again and as always, Bilbo came to his rescue.
The hobbit entered his downward-focused field of vision and lightly gripped his wet surcoat in both hands. Both his eyes and his smile were tender and Thorin hoped that Bilbo saw and felt the same when he looked at him. His irritation at the weather renewed itself when he realized the actions he wanted take the most – pull Bilbo tightly against his chest and tangle his fingers in those unexpected and glorious long curls – were highly likely to be not-so-politely rebuffed, thanks to his sodden attire and the fact that he was starting to smell faintly like a wet warg. A shift in his weight caused yet more mud to audibly ooze from underneath his boots. Bilbo chuckled and Thorin had missed that sound too.
“I need to get you dried off and out of all of your clothes. I mean…”
It took Thorin a moment to figure out exactly why that sentence seemed to have flustered Bilbo and made him blush but he knew his cheeks were quickly as flushed as Bilbo’s. Even just the slight suggestion that Bilbo might want to see him like that… that was… that was very promising. Unwilling to watch his hobbit flounder alone, Thorin placed his hands on top of Bilbo’s smaller ones that still had a hold of his surcoat and gave a gentle squeeze. Time for a bit of off-the-battlefield bravery. If he was willing to travel this far just to try…
“I’d like that. All of that.”
Somewhere and somehow, Dis was likely laughing at his extremely rusty flirtatious innuendo. Bilbo didn’t seem to mind, though, because after a few heartbeats worth of watching Bilbo’s mouth soundless open and close, his hobbit finally managed to form words. Thorin felt a bit of pride at rendering Bilbo even momentarily speechless. It was hard to do.
“Confounded dwarf.” To Thorin’s unpracticed ears, it sounded more like an endearment than an insult and a sense of joyful optimism washed over him. Maybe. Just maybe… “I doubt I have anything that fits you so hopefully something in that pack of yours is still dry. I’ll go grab some towels and blankets. You…” And apparently, Bilbo was unwilling to let go quite yet because he was gesturing to the floor on his left with his head rather than releasing his grip on Thorin’s surcoat. “… sit down and get those muddy clodstompers off.”
Bilbo’s hands lingered under his for a moment longer before he nodded, turned, and scurried off down the hallway. Removing his pack, Thorin warily eyed the decorative wooden bench that Bilbo had indicated. It definitely didn’t look capable of holding the weight of a dwarf but he really wanted to get his boots off. Sitting down gingerly, Thorin managed to get one boot and sock off before his mind started shutting down and his hands simply stopped moving.
It wasn’t as if he had truly expected Bilbo to turn him away at the door but the reception he had received was far beyond his imaginings, even his own dreams. Bilbo had looked truly happy to see him and had even said that he had missed him. If absolutely nothing else, it seemed time and distance hadn’t cost him Bilbo’s friendship. But the hair… kept long as if he was always expecting to be amongst dwarves once more. Uncut curls, hanging there waiting to be plaited into a braid. It was a sight Thorin had seen only once before – in a dream he had had while they waited Laketown. This was reality, though. And Bilbo had missed him too.
“Well, you certainly haven’t made much progress, have you?”
Somehow Bilbo was standing right in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, Thorin could see a pile of blankets and towels on a dry spot on the floor. His focus, however, was Bilbo and his eyes, full of concern and affection and a dozen other things that Thorin didn’t dare name. And here he sat, soaked to the bone and only one boot off. He had known exactly where he was going on the entirety of this journey, even through the Shire and straight to the green door. Once he had crossed the threshold, he had become completely lost. Flailing about uselessly in front of Bilbo was definitely not the impression he had wanted to put forward.
“I am no longer king.”
And those were not the words he had wanted to say. Thorin had intended to explain that to Bilbo later. Over a cup of tea or a pipe perhaps and after he had figured out how to best give such an explanation. Now those words were out there, drifting between them, and Thorin watched the affection in Bilbo’s eyes be replaced by confusion, the concern fade away for frustration. The set of Bilbo’s mouth, though – that was anger.
“No longer king? What sort of dwarven nonsense is that?” Thorin opened his mouth to try and answer Bilbo but his hobbit didn’t notice or stop. “Did someone challenge you for your crown? How dare they? After everything you went through to reclaim Erebor?” Bilbo’s voice was starting to shake with indignation. “I won’t let it happen. I don’t know how I can help you get your throne back but I will. Thorin, I swear to you that I’ll…”
Reaching up, Thorin gently placed one finger on Bilbo’s still moving and so very soft lips, stopping the rush of words and dropping the room into silence. Bilbo’s cheeks were pink and one hand was on his hip while the other was frozen in mid-air. Oddly enough, Thorin realized he had missed the hand gestures too. And Bilbo’s heart – that protective, constant heart so outraged on his behalf. Needlessly angry and Thorin knew he needed to sort that out.
“I have abdicated, Bilbo. I want neither crown nor throne. They will be Dain’s. He should be king by now, I suppose, but I do not know for certain.”
The anger faded swiftly from Bilbo’s eyes as he spoke and Thorin rather grudgingly let his finger fall away from Bilbo’s mouth. He couldn’t read the emotions that remained in them, though, and that made him more than slightly nervous. There was confusion there – that was obvious and certain. But what else? Could Bilbo be disappointed in him? In how Thorin had given up the kingdom that Bilbo had fought and bled to help him secure? The strength and courage to hold Bilbo’s unreadable gaze failed him and Thorin’s own gaze slid downward to stare at the floor once more. His bare foot looked unusually small next to Bilbo’s larger (and hairier) ones and he had big feet for a dwarf.
Not even the feather-soft sensation of Bilbo’s fingers brushing along his cheek made him lift his eyes from the floor. It was a feeling that Thorin had imagined a hundred times on the road from Erebor to Bag End and for a reason he could not clearly define, it terrified him. Harshness was so much easier for his heart to deal with than gentleness. Those fingers trailed upward; the tip of one traced along the scar that he knew bisected his eyebrow. One small part of the legacy of not only his battles but his madness. The hesitant touch brought his eyes back up to Bilbo.
His hobbit’s eyes were a little watery at the edges and for the life of him, Thorin couldn’t figure out why Bilbo was sad. The little smile on his face seemed at odds with any sort of sadness – it wasn’t an unhappy or resigned smile. Instead, it was cautious and curious. The curiosity was, at last, something Thorin understood. Another aspect of Bilbo that he had missed. Bilbo’s fingers had travelled back down his face toward his jawline and had stilled, gently caressing the edge of his beard. It was casually intimate to touch a dwarf’s beard like that and while he knew that Bilbo understood the importance (and privacy) of beards to their culture, Thorin didn’t think that Bilbo even realized what exactly he was doing at the moment.
It should have been awkward to just stare at each other like this but it wasn’t. Thorin didn’t dare guess or hope at what Bilbo was experiencing right now. For himself however, it was comforting, like the warmth from a hearth. Out of everything, this quiet togetherness was what he had missed the most. On the quest, it had taken the form of shoulders brushing and knees touching. Later in the healing tent, it had been Bilbo sitting at his bedside even when he should have been anywhere else, one hand on top of another but never holding or grasping. Then Bilbo had returned to the Shire and all Thorin had to comfort him was the nebulous image of two worn armchairs placed close together. He never could quite picture the two of them actually sitting in them, though. Not quite.
“Why, Thorin?”
Bilbo looked apprehensive about breaking the peaceful silence and his question made Thorin’s stomach clench. Why did you give up the throne? Why did you leave Erebor? Why are you here? The truth. He had to be truthful and clear. There could be no hope or possibility without honesty.
“I am not myself without you. Not anymore. I do not want a life that does not have you in it, Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.”
That was it. The naked and pure truth of it. And now Thorin was laid bare in front of the one his heart called to and all he could do was pray to Mahal that he was not the only one who had ached in these days apart. That he was not the only one who had longed and wondered in the days together and the months separated. Please, Bilbo…
But Bilbo was looking more and more anguished as the moments passed. That stricken glint in his eyes threatened to shatter Thorin’s very soul. Bilbo’s fingers still rested against his face and Thorin tried (he needed) to draw faith and strength from that steady touch.
“What were you thinking? Giving up your throne and your kingdom for what?” Bilbo’s voice had been almost screeching but his next words were spoken in a hushed, disbelieving tone. “For me?”
“For us.”
Bilbo’s eyes went wide and started to water again and Thorin could no longer restrain himself. Ignoring the sticky dampness of his clothing, he stood up, dislodging Bilbo’s hand. Either the sudden movement or the expression on his face must have startled Bilbo because he took a large step backwards. But Thorin was not to be deterred. Not now. Reaching out, he wrapped his arms around Bilbo, pulling him tightly against his chest and his foul smelling surcoat. For a long heartbeat, Bilbo didn’t move – didn’t even react at all. But then… in a sudden, desperate surge, Bilbo was closer than he ever been before. His arms pulled Thorin even closer and his hands were clutching any bit of fabric they could reach. Bilbo’s entire body was trembling or perhaps both of them were shaking. He honestly couldn’t tell. It was almost an exact match for their embrace back on the Carrock but the emotion and sentiment was different now. It was all so much stronger and deeper. Thorin could hear Bilbo was murmuring something into his shoulder but it took a moment for him to truly make out the words. The single word, to be exact.
“Thorin, Thorin, Thorin…”
His name. Bilbo was repeating his name. Thorin’s hold on his hobbit tightened just that much more but so did Bilbo’s hold on him in response. Those longer curls brushed against his face and Thorin gave into the impulse to touch them. One of his hands wandered upward and he carefully stroked and tugged on the end of a particularly long strand. It might be strong enough to hold a braid.
“I couldn’t bear to cut it. Every time I went to, I thought of you… of all of you… and I couldn’t do it.”
Thorin pulled away slightly at the softly spoken words. He wanted… he needed to see Bilbo’s face. It was that smile. His favorite smile but it was just a little bit wider. More than a little bit happier. Thorin wasn’t sure if either of their pairs of lips were capable of stretching any further. Pure joy was leaking out of each of them and Thorin felt water beginning to well up in his own eyes. A second later, he noticed that Bilbo’s gaze had focused solely on his mouth and that was the only warning he received. In the next moment, it was as if Bilbo was intent on climbing him. His perfectly smaller hands were trying to grip everywhere at once before they reached into his hair, tugged at his soggy twin braids, and smashed their mouths together without any real finesse. The forwardness stunned him and Thorin could feel his mind almost freeze. Almost.
Bilbo kissed with his entire being and it was impossible not to feel the passion in it. Thorin had never dared to hope for this. Not even in his dreams did Bilbo kiss with the fierceness of a storm. All he could do was hold on to his hobbit with both hands and kiss him back with every bit of want and need that he had guarded so close to his heart.
It was only the need to breathe that separated them and even that was with obvious reluctance from both of them. Bilbo released his hold on his braids and Thorin immediately missed that as well. Unwilling to be all that far apart, Thorin adjusted their positions so he could rest his forehead against Bilbo’s.
“I should have stayed in Erebor. I should never have left. Why did I…”
“Bilbo…” The last thing Thorin wanted was Bilbo thinking like that. “You belong here. In Bag End with the green hills and blooming flowers of your Shire.” His voice softened and dropped to a barely audible whisper without his permission. “I can only hope that someday I will too.”
There was a great deal of assumption in that sentence but it seemed not only as if Bilbo didn’t mind but that the very idea of a far off ‘someday’ made him happy. Thorin could see that when Bilbo leaned back a little. There was an entirely new smile on his face that Thorin had never seen before and it was instantly his new favorite. It was wonder and contentment and promise.
“You belong with me, Thorin Oakenshield, and that is a good start.”
He did. He truly did. But to hear Bilbo say it…
Thorin was a bit irritated that his hobbit thwarted his attempt at a second kiss by swatting at him and pushing him backwards.
“No more of that until you get cleaned up…” Bilbo glanced down at his own now slightly wet waistcoat and Thorin had to admit that he had missed that annoyed scowl too. “… until we both get cleaned up. Was it necessary to do all that before you even took both boots off?”
He had forgotten about his other boot. Completely and totally.
“Yes.”
With a roll of his eyes, Bilbo took his hand and Thorin was beyond pleased that their hands fit together as perfectly as he thought they would.
“Welcome home, Thorin.”
-fin-