Thorin is not sure how on Middle-earth did the talk suddenly turn to old loves and faded romances.
Then again, he should have expected Fili and Kili to be planning something or the other to get to know their hobbit-burglar better and what better way than this rare night that they could spend in an inn, with good food and ale and warm beds to sleep in later.
There were many things he already knew about Bilbo Baggins, things that he would never share with his nephews, indeed, not even to any other soul. He already knew that Bilbo’s laughter was an infectious, joyful sound and he’d known all the ways to coax that out of the hobbit already. He knew how well the hobbit could cook, somehow create something delicious to eat out of a few sparse ingredients and herbs. He knew how much Bilbo loved stories of other lands and other places, dreaming of adventures but amazingly not so naive to believe that adventures were all romance and great deeds and happy endings.
Thorin remembered how warm and right the hobbit had felt in his arms, how he could wrap himself around Bilbo from behind and bury his nose in sweet-smelling chestnut curls and for once, know some measure of peace and contentment. In those moments, he was not the Prince or the crownless King, not the head of an ancient bloodline that extended back to the beginnings of the world, or any of the ten thousand responsibilities he’d borne for so many decades.
Thorin remembered laughter, most of all and yes, love was there, he could admit it to himself. In that dark, terrible period of his life, when he’d felt he would break from the shame and the grief, he thought he might never know joy again.
Bilbo had changed all that.
Thorin hadn’t expected that the Hobbit Gandalf would choose to be the fourteenth member of his company was Bilbo Baggins. And fool that he was, he had thought he was already a faded, if good memory, for Bilbo.
But he’d seen it, in those few unguarded moments, with Bilbo’s tongue loosened by drink. He’d seen the grief and the heartbreak and Thorin hated himself all the more and Mahal was only merciful enough to grant that Thorin, of course, would look so different without a proper beard that Bilbo had failed to recognize him.
And of course, Thorin was not the name he had given when he’d wandered into the Shire all those years ago as a simple blacksmith.
So it was easy to pretend that Bilbo was a stranger to him, to mock his gentlehobbit ways, to question his ability as a so-called burglar. And if Thorin had any sense left, he should never have sung that night in Bag End. Because, of course, he remembered that Bilbo had loved music and his voice and Thorin wanted to throttle that contrary part of himself that had immediately wanted to possess, to reclaim what he had lost any right to so many years ago.
Oakenshield, the Dwarves had called Thorin, for his deeds at Azanulbizar. Halfwise, Fool and Faithless would all have been better.
Already, Thorin was garnering strange looks from Balin and Dwalin. He’d managed to choke on his drink a few times like a halfwit and destroyed at least three mugs and the sane, sensible thing to do would be to excuse himself. And fight the part of himself that pointed out it would be a lovely idea to hoist a Certain Hobbit over his shoulder and carry him off to bed with him.
Just for a few more moments and perhaps it was the drink fuddling his mind, Thorin allowed himself to remember soft hands, a husky voice murmuring the name he’d called himself then, kisses that were achingly sweet, kisses that undid him utterly and quiet moments where he felt, for once, that he was home and home was not Erebor.
***