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HP fic - Drunk in Love

Rating: M

Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter

Summary: basically Ron suffers. Harry and Draco are in love.

AN: what do you mean thats a Beyoncé song

also, @amloveabledeathmo is an instigator

“He’s late,” said Ron, checking his watch for the fourth time in ten minutes.

Seamus did not seem concerned. “Held up by Robards again, I reckon,” he speculated. “He’s got that lecture whatsits.”

“Oh. Right.”

Ron had forgotten about Harry’s upcoming lecture at Hogwarts, in which he would give an awkward speech to the bright-eyed students of The Git’s DADA class all about the Amazing Life of an Auror. It’s just paperwork and cursed doorknobs. Hardly amazing, Harry had grumbled. There was also the repeated reports of Voldemort Is In My Yard Please Send Help, but Harry didn’t like to talk about those. Not even to complain.

So what with the life of an Auror not being glamorous in the least, and Harry’s natural aversion to talking about anything personal, it wasn’t all that surprising that it took Robards two months to convince him to do it. Good for recruitment, he’d said at first until eventually he’d resorted to, do it or Weasley’s fired which worked and Ron found hilarious.

“Doom and Gloom has entered the building,” Seamus suddenly announced. Ron turned to the fireplace and saw Harry step out, his expression hangdog.

He slouched over to the bar and huddled next to Ron.

“Firewhiskey,” he said to Hannah when she raised her eyebrows at him.

“Bad day, Harry?” she asked sympathetically.

He shook his head. “Bad life,” he said, and stared at the shot Hannah had poured for him. “Can I have more?”

She frowned. “How much more?”

“All of it.”

Ron clapped him on the back. “Steady on, mate,” he said. “Tell your pal Ron what’s ailing you.”

“Yeah, tell us,” Seamus agreed. “We care. Also we like to laugh at you.”

“You’re both the worst.”

Harry threw back his shot and cradled his other one, glaring into the distance with dead, dead eyes.

“It was Malfoy. He dropped by the office to ‘make sure I wasn’t going to traumatize his students’ or ‘make them think my impressive degree of stupidity is actually acceptable in real life’ and also that I ‘comb my hair for once.’ It was horrible and I regret so much.”

He sipped at his glass this time, looking broody. “Why is it always me?” he muttered.

Ron exchanged a look with Seamus. “When are you expected to do it?” he asked.

“Next week. For four classes. Malfoy says I’m supposed to collaborate with him, too. He insisted and everything, which, honestly? A bit suspicious. I’m beginning to think Malfoy is up to something.”

Dean, who had just emerged from the loo and was coming toward them with a smile on his face, suddenly halted in his tracks. When he heard 'Malfoy’ and 'up to something’ his eyes widened and he turned right around and left. Smart lad. Ron was jealous.

“….and he was a git about that too. Kept going on and on about my wardrobe. What’s wrong with cable knit anyway? Fuck if I know. Not good enough for Draco Malfoy. Or, excuse me, Professor Malfoy. Hah. Professor Arseface, more like. Git. Too bad the position isn’t still cursed. Do you think we could put it back on? Maybe a spell that causes discomfort in hard to reach areas – ”

“I’ve gotta go,” Seamus said, before taking up his pint and running away like the coward he was.

Ron grabbed at his robes but it was a lost cause. Warily, he turned back to Harry with a pained smile and interrupted his muttering.

“Harry,” he said. “Mate. Maybe slow down a bit? That’s your fourth shot and even Hannah’s looking concerned.”

“She’s a good person,” Harry said morosely, and then hiccuped. “Not like Malfoy. Twat. I like him. No. I don’t like him. What am I saying.”

Ron blinked and looked away. “Why is this happening to me?” he whispered to himself.

Harry patted him on the arm. “Because Malfoy,” he mumbled.

Which yeah. Alright. But also Harry. Malfoy and Harry. When was it not Malfoy and Harry?

“It always comes down to you two,” he sighed.

Harry’s head suddenly whipped around and he looked at Ron with horrified eyes. “I would not go down on him, Ron, oh my god.”

“Wait. What?”

“Ok, maybe the once.”

And that was about all he could take sober. “Hannah, love?” he called down the bar. “Top off? Actually, just bring the bottle. Yeah, all of it. Quickly.”

“Just to see what it was like, you know?”

“Quicker.”

“Why do you keep looking around?” Ron asked, squinting at Harry.

Harry looked cagey. “No reason.”

Ron’s best friend was a bad liar. “What have we done now?” He slurped at the foam at the top of his beer.

“You haven’t done anything and neither have I.”

“Harry.” Ron stuck a finger in his face. “I am you and you are me and we are we. You get arrested? I get arrested. You get clobbered? I get clobbered. You follow spiders? Somehow I follow spiders I still don’t understand how that happened. You throw up and start sobbing about baby animals after only six pints? I clean up your vomit and laugh for a long, long time. You’re like my brother, do you understand?”

Seamus, who had been loitering to the left of them, shook his head at Ron. “You’re so drunk,” he mused.

“Very much,” Ron agreed. “Now, what are you looking for? Or who. Is it a who? Who could it be? All your friends are here already.”

Harry discretely wiped his eyes and huffed. “I have other friends.”

“Nah.”

He huffed again. “Jokes on you because I’ve invited someone.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up. “Eh?”

Seamus looked equally surprised. “Did you get a boyfriend?”

Harry’s lack of response had them all crowing.

“Great Gods! He’s finally getting rogered!” Seamus shouted.

“Today he becomes a man,” Dean nodded solemnly.

“Everybody! This is my son,” Ron announced loudly, clasping Harry’s shoulder. “And on this momentous day, this day of all days, my son, whom I have raised, will finally experience the passions of the body – ”

“I see you’re as idiotic as ever, Weasley,” came a very familiar voice from behind them. “Good to know some things don’t change.”

Ron groaned. “Not you. Go away. We’re celebrating.”

Malfoy crossed his arms. “Excuse you, I was invited.”

The table went silent.

“Oi! You lot!” Hannah shouted at them from the bar. “Anymore shouting and I’ll cut you off!”

“Hello, is this the My Best Friend is Dating a Berk support group? My name is Pansy and I’ve been afflicted for three months.”

“Hi, Pansy,” Dean sniggered. “Heard you were living with muggles.”

“Well, in the muggle world I don’t have a history of trying to sell Potter out to the dark lord so….” she shrugged.

Ron found none of this funny. Pansy Parkinson’s presence was, apparently, another consequence of Harry dating Malfoy. He turned and glared at the two at fault for this nefarious invasion of Slytherins. They were at the end of the table whispering to each other, probably playing footsie under the table and everything. Ron leaned down to check.

“Footsie?” Pansy asked, sighing.

Ron nodded. “Has it only been three months? It feels like longer. I’m exhausted.”

“Maybe it won’t last,” Seamus pointed out wisely.

Ron and Pansy gave him identical looks of disdain. “After nine years of pining and foreplay?” Pansy said.

“And even during the year when Harry was dating my sister and the long eight months we spent living in a tent? Not likely, mate.”

“Weren’t you in a dorm with him?” Pansy asked incredulously.

“Seamus always slept like the dead. He never heard…things,” Ron explained.

“Blaise used to record Draco moaning Potter’s name in his sleep with a quick notes quill. Excellent blackmail material, I must say.”

“That is both disgusting and impressive. High five.”

Pansy did not leave Ron hanging.

“I love you so much right now.”

“I’m sad, though.” Harry covered his face, turning his head when Draco grabbed at his fingers to pry them away. “I had a shit time of it.”

“Me too.”

“I hate Voldemort.”

“Me too.”

“I love you, you know? I think I’ve always loved you.”

Draco blinked. “Really?”

“Yeah. I think we’re soulmates maybe.”

“Soulmates?”

“Yeah.”

“….I’m going to the loo.”

This was the very important conversation Ron did not overhear, because he was too busy arguing with Seamus about the upcoming Quidditch World Cup, in which England had its first chance at winning since '66. Seamus, who supported Ireland, was convinced that his team would beat out England and secure their rightful place in the final, despite the fact they’d already been knocked out of the running by Portugal last week. Things were getting heated.

“I have to pee, but when I get back….” He flung up two fingers with a glare. “We’re finishing this, Seamus Finnigan.”

“Bring it, Ginger Shit.”

He stumbled toward the back and swung open the doors to the loo. It took him around ten seconds to realize that there were noises coming from one of the stalls. Sex noises.

“I’ll be out of your way in a minute!” Ron told the anonymous lovers, and waddled toward the urinal.

But before he could unzip and proceed, a blond head popped up from the top of the stall door. “Beat it, Weasel,” said Malfoy.

Ron gaped.

“Ron, please,” came Harry’s voice, sounding pretty pitiful but occupied at the same time. He quickly scrubbed that observation from his brain.

“You!” He pointed an accusing finger at Malfoy. “Don’t have sex in public places!”

“I’ll do it where I want,” Malfoy said primly.

“Please, Ron.”

“I should call the Aurors!”

Draco threw his hands up. “You are an Auror. The man sucking me off is an Auror. Do we need any more law enforcement here? I don’t think so!”

“There’s always a need,” Ron hissed. “Don’t get me started on the downsizing.”

“Yes, well, I would like Potter to continue downsizing my dick, so there’s the door, goodbye, thank you, fuck off.”

It was at this point that Ron realized that he was traumatized for life. That he’d just caught his best mate sucking off someone in the loo. That life would never be the same. That he was a changed man.

He said this all out loud, of course.

Harry groaned from inside the stall, and it wasn’t the good kind of groaning either.

“No one respects me.”

Hermione turned her keen eyes on her boyfriend, looking so much like Professor McGonagal that Dean made a face and ducked behind Seamus.

“We’re at the Leaky Cauldron, aren’t we?” she said. “You were allowed to choose the venue. You also chose the flavor of the cake.”

Ron pouted. “Strawberry is fantastic.”

“Harry hates strawberry.”

Hermione wasn’t having any of his complaining even though she’d not consulted him on the party at all. It seemed like no one wanted Ron to plan his best mate’s birthday, and that honestly hurt.

“The theme was going to be Near Death Experiences. I was going to make bald party hats and hand out edible noses.”

“And I wanted the cake to be shaped like a giant cock,” Seamus added. “Malfoy could be equipped, you know. Near death experience is right.”

“SURPRISE!”

Harry had tumbled out of the floo and confetti had been quickly thrown in his face. Malfoy strutted out of the fireplace behind him with a sneer.

“Happy birthday!” shouted everyone.

Ron bravely managed to put aside his disappointment and enjoy the party. It was rather tame for the most part, though the drink flowed liberally and Hannah was looking a little done in after the third hour. Ron had also forgotten why exactly he was not respected enough or whatever.

“I love you so much,” he told Hermione, who was not drunk but absolutely giggling. “I never didn’t like you. The moment I saw you I said to myself, 'Ron Weasley, you will never measure up to her,’ and that sounds bad, I guess, but in my kid-brain I knew. I knew that what I really meant was, 'Ron Weasley, that girl right there is the best girl you’ll ever find. You can stop looking now, mate.’”

Hermione was bright red, and Harry was crying.

Malfoy looked unimpressed. “When I first saw Harry I thought he didn’t bathe,” he announced.

Harry scowled.

“But then I realized he was just poor and felt bad for him.”

Dean whistled.

“But then I realized none of that mattered because he was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, and if I could have him then I wouldn’t mind being seen with an unwashed peasant in public, because I would be the happiest person alive.”

Harry sniffled.

“In fact.” Draco suddenly stood up. “I’d like to say, for the record, that I am not drunk.”

“Why?” Seamus asked, appalled.

Draco straightened his robes, and then slowly and dramatically – got down on one knee.

“Harry Potter, with no alcohol running through my delicate veins – ”

“What?” Ron hissed.

“ – and with nothing keeping us apart, most especially dark lords and Weasleys – ”

“What?”

“ – on the anniversary of your birth, this momentous day, I ask for your hand in marriage.” He then gazed up at Harry affectionately. “Marry me,” he said.

“NO,” shouted Ron.

“Yes,” cried Harry.

“Mazel tov,” said Pansy. “It’s about time.”

CODA

“Ever since we defeated the dark lord, Harry and I have spent most of our time drunk,” said Ron, the Best Man, holding up his glass of champagne for emphasis. “In retrospect, it would have been nice to have been drunk before then, but I imagine we would have had a harder time winning the war that way. Or easier. You never know.”

Hermione dropped her face into her hands.

“The first time Harry came to me with the news that he and Malfoy were dating, I was not drunk enough. The second time was better. I had passed out by then. After that I sort of accepted that no matter how much I drank and how many times I tried to ignore it, Harry loving Malfoy was not a hallucination or a dark spell I contracted via doorknob. No, the truth was, Harry loved Malfoy. That was it. He loved him.”

Harry sent Draco a shy smile.

“After a brief period of mourning, I decided to vet Malfoy thoroughly. I have with me now a stack of parchment documenting the many wet dreams Malfoy has had during his seven years as Blaise Zabini’s roommate, his questionable choice in music, his criminal record, and the fact that he doesn’t like cheese as proof that there are many things very wrong with Draco Malfoy.”

Hermione looked furious, but Ron only nodded to her respectfully.

“But Harry loves him. He loves him and he’s not even drunk. So to hell with it.” He raised his glass. “To Harry and Malfoy. May you continue to love each other until the end of time. Be happy. Stay sober. Someone get me another drink.”

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Bagginshield #16 - birthdays

Rating: M Summary: for the 30 day otp challenge. Bilbo relives the day he dies over and over again until he gets it right. But that might not mean surviving is the best thing for those he loves. Groundhog Day fic. AU see warnings inside

Note: sorry for the wait!!

Warning: violence, major character death, non graphic suicide, mentions of eating disorder (self-starvation), unhealthy relationships, suicide ideation, racism, xenophobia, and angsty angst

I

It is September the 22nd and Bilbo has died.

There are no tears, no mourners, and no extravagant funerals. Bilbo is simply gone.

No one has realized it yet. And they won’t. Not as long as it remains September the 22nd.

It’s been his birthday for a month.

On the first day Bilbo is woken by a knock on his door. He grumbles and turns over, thinking that whoever it is that believes Bilbo will be getting up before ten on his birthday must have a death wish.

Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo sits up. “Go away!” he snaps at the door, before tumbling back into his nest of blankets.

Kili thinks this means enter, and two seconds later Bilbo is being involuntarily cuddled by an overgrown child. “Bilbo, come out,” Kili implores, tugging at his blankets. “Fili and I have made breakfast for you!”

How exactly that serves as a proper incentive for getting out of bed is a mystery (the boys have never cooked a thing in their life), but Bilbo isn’t a bad person for all he is tired and grumpy in the mornings.

He gets up.

“Yay!” cries Kili. “Come to the hall when you’re ready!”

He tears out of the room and leaves Bilbo to sigh into his pillow.

  He enters the hall and heads for the company’s table (it has been unequivocally theirs since the beginning of the rebuilding, when the tired and hungry members of Thorin’s group had all huddled there at the end of a long day). Everyone is present for Bilbo’s breakfast, and even though he’s still rather cross at being woken up so early, he can’t help but be touched by the gesture.

They all yell their birthday wishes, swarming around a veritable buffet of breakfast items. Bilbo casts a subtle glance at Bombur, who winks and waves him on (it’s safe to eat, then). He slouches next to an amused Thorin and tentatively tastes the hot cakes, pleased when the warm and buttery softness melts in his mouth.

“Do you have plans today?” asks Thorin, picking at his food. He seems nervous, as he does most days when he is forced to talk to Bilbo.

But that isn’t fair, Bilbo reminds himself, because he’s as much if not more to blame for the awkwardness between them.

“No, not really,” he answers, his voice purposely friendly. “Balin and I were going to work with the Stone Masons this morning. Hash out that contract.”

“Oh yes,” Thorin nods, adopting the same tone. “I wish you the best of luck, Master Baggins, Ganim is a hard dwarf to please.”

Bilbo laughs quietly. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

They fall into an awkward silence for the remainder of the meal.

Balin, who is sitting on Bilbo’s other side, eventually clears his throat. “Shall we go now, Bilbo? I would like to go over our notes one more time.”

“Yes, of course.”

He rises and turns to go, but Thorin reaches out a hand and catches his wrist – halting him. “Master Bag– Bilbo. Uh. Bilbo, I wanted to say happy birthday.”

Bilbo stares at Thorin’s hand in shock, before mumbling, “thank you, Thorin.”

The king lets him go, and Bilbo follows Balin out of the hall. His friend doesn’t say anything immediately, but Bilbo can tell that he wants to. Finally, he has enough of the weighty silence.

“He made his choice,” he says. “Who am I to take that from him?”

“He hasn’t though.” He can see Balin’s brow furrowing out of corner of his eye. “He needs more time, Bilbo, that’s all.”

Bilbo raises a shoulder. “Then he has it,” he allows. “Until spring.”

“Bilbo….”

But he merely speeds up walking and refuses to look at Balin all through the rest of their journey to the meeting rooms. When they arrive, the Stone Masons have yet to show, and Bilbo gets right to the business of reviewing his notes.

The meeting goes just how they expect, in that it is both productive and unproductive as well as frustrating and amusing and the same time. Erebor’s last little details are coming together with the signing of this contract; the government, its assets, and its politics have returned, and should everything operate as it should – Thorin’s kingdom will soon be complete.

It has been Bilbo’s dearest wish to see Erebor rebuilt before he goes back to the Shire, and he has until spring to do it. Spring is when things begin again.

If they can.

After their meeting Bilbo begs off lunch with Balin and retreats to his rooms for a quiet tea. Or at least, that was his plan until he saw Kret lingering outside his door.

“Blast and damn,” Bilbo mutters, before pasting on a smile. “Kret. Hello. Can I help you with something?”

The dwarf stares at him, and the unkind twist of his mouth and his piercing black eyes make Bilbo shiver. “I don’t know, halfling, can you?”

“Alright,” Bilbo answers as amiably as possible. “If there’s nothing you need – ”

He reaches for his door but is blocked by Kret’s considerably bulky form. Bilbo cannot help but flinch backward.

“Did they sign the contract?” Kret asks.

Bilbo looks up and gapes at him. “What on earth – ?” he says in disbelief. “You know I can’t tell you anything about that! Is this why you’ve been harassing me?”

Kret seems to find this funny. “I’m merely curious, halfling. There’s no need to fuss.”

He decides enough is enough and practically shoves Kret out of the way. The dwarf laughs again and Bilbo enters his rooms and shuts the door in his face. He listens as his heavy footsteps draw away, and then leans his head back and breathes a sigh of relief.

Bilbo spends his lunch picking at a sandwich and smoking his pipe. He has only been at it an hour when there’s a knock on his door, and he gets up with a huff to see who it is.

Marís.

“I heard it was your birthday,” she says, clapping him on the shoulder. “Kili told me there was going to be a party tonight, Master Baggins.”

She looks at him knowingly, and Bilbo realizes he hadn’t included her in his invitations.

“Oh, Lady Marís, I’m so sorry! It was just a matter of the invitation – you haven’t been forgotten! I have your gift right here – ”

“Quite alright, Bilbo, quite alright,” she tells him, her lovely smile instantly putting him at ease. “But what’s this about gifts? Is it not our job to give you those on your birthday?”

Bilbo shakes his head. “Hobbits do the opposite, actually,” he explains.

He figures he’s had a long enough lunch break and invites her in as gathers his papers, slipping on his coat as Marís asks more about the Shire. They walk out together and troop down to the library, chatting as amiably as always.

Bilbo likes Marís.

Some might think that this makes things more complicated for him.

It doesn’t.

“You might want to head back out,” Ori tells him when they’ve reached Balin’s office. “The Diamond Miners are disputing the contract.”

“What are they saying now?” inquires Bilbo, irritatedly. He is not surprised. Disputes have been filed nonstop for the past two months; if it wasn’t the Diamond Miners weighing in on the negotiations than it was the Gemstone Company, or I&E, or everyone else in the private sector with some kind of grudge toward Ganim and his ilk.

Ori points at Balin, who stands over a pile of law books looking a bit perturbed (and for Balin this means he may as well have been in hysterics).

“They’re saying Title 67 is irrelevant and that the regulations are outdated, but they don’t want an amendment, they just want the same offer as SM.”

“That contract is generous and we aren’t offering anything willy-nilly. When the Diamond Miners have the amount of revenue coming in as the Masons do, then perhaps we can talk,” Bilbo snaps, though he doesn’t mean to. It isn’t Ori’s fault.

Ori isn’t bothered though. “So you won’t meet with them? They’re asking for you.”

It’s Bilbo’s birthday. He’s tired of dealing with government acquisitions and Ereborian politics. He’s just tired, honestly.

“No, he won’t,” says Marís. She takes Bilbo’s arm. “Let’s go visit Thorin, Bilbo, and relax a bit.”

She doesn’t know that visiting Thorin will only frazzle Bilbo more, but she means well and he doesn’t want to be here anyway, so he follows her out of the room.

It’s just like Marís though, to leave him once he’s outside the throne room. She gives him a cheeky smile before walking off, and Bilbo stares at the door in front of him morosely. He wants to see Thorin.

He doesn’t want to see Thorin.

Bilbo turns and leaves, deciding to spend the afternoon outdoors instead.

  He wanders down to the kitchens later, to help set up his little dinner party. Bombur tries to shoo him away at first but seems to sense his restlessness, so he lets Bilbo help with the main course. They work companionably until evening comes, and then it is an hour until Bilbo must put on a happy face and host his birthday party.

He doesn’t want to.

Bilbo goes up to his rooms and puts on his best waistcoat. He brushes his curly hair and takes up his sack of presents. He’s jittery as he walks down to the hall, but when he sees the company milling around a table full of food, something loosens in his chest and he finds that he is suddenly quite genuinely happy. It isn’t surprising – he loves his dwarrow very much, after all.

“Thorin is delayed,” Balin tells him apologetically. “But he will be along shortly.”

Bilbo blinks. “Yes, of course.”

They all gather around and eat, hugging Bilbo and telling stories and accepting their presents with exaggerated delight. They devour a delicious meal and cut into the cake with cheers and singing. Bilbo is smiling so wide it hurts.

Thorin doesn’t show.

  It’s three hours later that they all hear the tremendous crash. Even Bilbo, who has not grown up around mines, knows what that sound is. The company shoots to their feet and everyone piles out of the room to find the hallways in chaos. Dwarrow are yelling for help, and Bilbo follows his friends down to the scene of the accident.

“How many are trapped?” Balin asks, his expression grave.

“Around twenty, give or take,” says one of the miners. “They’ll have enough air for now.”

Removing the rubble is a study in caution. Bilbo rolls up his sleeves and joins one of the lines carrying rock away from the collapsed entrance. He works until his arms feel like jelly, and his face and hands are covered in dirt. They can hear the trapped miners yelling from inside the caves, and Bilbo shudders with fear for them. And then –

“Oi! Carry that out!”

“No! Don’t!”

There is screaming, and it is like the whole world is falling apart, and rock and rubble crumbles and sends dust into his eyes and nose. After the thunderous crashing ends, the dwarrow trapped in the caves are silent.

Bilbo can only stand and stare.

  It is almost midnight on September the 22nd. Bilbo is walking back to his rooms in a daze. He is tired, and dirty, and heartsick. He doesn’t notice that the door to his rooms is open.

He doesn’t see who stabs him in the back.

Bilbo doesn’t see.

  Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo sits up. “Go away!” he snaps at the door, before tumbling back into his nest of blankets.

Then he blinks his eyes open, feeling a rush of deja vu. “What a strange dream,” he mutters to himself, before Kili rushes in to say good morning.

  “Do you have plans today?” he hears Thorin ask, but doesn’t answer at first. Bilbo is a little confused. It feels as though he has lived this day before, but he knows it must have just been in a dream. Logically. And yet…the well-wishes are the same. The food is the same. The conversations are the same.

Bilbo must be going mad.

“I – ” He comes back to himself at Thorin’s concerned calling. “Um. Sorry. No. No, not really.”

The strange feeling doesn’t pass, but Bilbo forces himself to ignore it. Instead he tries to enjoy his birthday. Tries, being the operative word.

  “Oi! Carry that out!”

“No! Don’t!”

  For all that he is sure he has lived this day before, Bilbo still walks into his room without paying attention. He is still too shocked at the miners’ deaths.

The blade sinks in again.

  Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

And Bilbo sits up.

Something isn’t right.

  Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo flings himself out of bed and tugs on his robe. He rushes to the door and opens it.

“Morning, Bilbo,” Kili says, smiling at him happily. “Fili and I have made breakfast for you!”

He asked yesterday, but Bilbo will ask again. “Is it my birthday today?”

Kili’s expression turns cheeky. “Yeah…starting to forget things in your old age?”

Kili had said that yesterday too.

Bilbo only nods. “I’ll be down in a moment.”

  He enters the hall and heads for the company’s table, and they all yell birthday wishes at him as he goes to get his breakfast.

“Do you have plans today?” asks Thorin.

“Yes,” he answers for a change. “Balin and I were going to work with the Stone Masons this morning. On their contract.”

“Oh yes,” Thorin nods, adopting the same tone. “I wish you the best of luck, Master Baggins, Ganim is a hard dwarf to please.”

Bilbo stares at the table.

“You don’t have to tell me twice,” he says.

  The third day goes like the first and second, and it takes him four days to realize that this is real, and it isn’t ending.

  Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo sits up and waits for Kili to enter this time. “Good morning,” he says to the dwarf when he barges in. “Have you made breakfast for me?”

Kili looks momentarily confused, but then starts to pout. “Aw, who told you? Was it Balin?”

“Hmm,” Bilbo answers noncommittally. “I’ll be down soon,” he says, and hurries through his morning routine.

He goes to breakfast and sits next to Thorin, running through his strategy for the next fifteen hours.

“Do you have plans today?” asks Thorin.

Bilbo looks at him. “Yes,” he says. “I’m going to do something different from yesterday.”

Thorin frowns in confusion. “…alright?”

He is suddenly tired of the dwarf’s sheepish looks and melancholy eyes. He is tired of being treated like a broken thing.

“Maybe you should try it too,” he snaps, and then storms off.

He feels regret almost immediately.

  Bilbo doesn’t go to the meeting today. Instead he goes down to the mines.

The miners aren’t sure why he is there, and seem offended by his questions about their general safety. He annoys them further by asking to inspect the tunnels – access to which he is denied. It isn’t until Bilbo inquires about the odds of a collapse that he is forcefully removed by the guards.

Apparently dwarrow are extremely superstitious.

So when the collapse happens it spreads quickly that Bilbo had been asking, just that morning, about the possibility of an accident.

They mob him. He falls to the floor and covers his head but there are too many, too many, and he is in agony and bleeding from the head, and they won’t stop…they won’t stop….

  Two knocks.

“Bilbo!” says Kili, his voice far too cheerful for so early in the morning. “Happy Birthday!”

Bilbo ignores him. He stays in bed all day, sleeping away the memory of fists and feet driving into his body, until he wakes to an explosion of pain in his chest, the silhouette of his murderer standing over him, and then feels nothing more.

  He tries twice more to inspect the mines, and though he isn’t beaten to death again, he is too close to the entrance the second time the tunnel collapses. Then, when he tries to actively avoid his rooms and instead goes to hang around in the kitchens, he is too tired to watch his step and falls down the stairs.

Bilbo is starting to realize that while saving the miners is all well and good, saving himself from dying might be a bigger problem.

  The next day he focuses on avoiding being stabbed. And then he tries to avoid falling down the stairs. He can’t avoid a shadow pushing him, however.

  Bilbo is getting tired of dying.

  Finally he decides that the identity of his murderer is the first thing he must figure out. This involves asking himself why someone might want to murder him in the first place.

He asks Balin if he’s got any enemies he should know about, who tells him nothing…and everything.

“You shouldn’t worry, laddy. Politics are like this,” says Balin. “It’s the nature of the beast.”

Bilbo goes to some of the company then, and they, all of them, shy away from the subject or change it all together. Bilbo…doesn’t know how to feel. He needs to know what they aren’t saying.

And so for the first time since this endless day began, Bilbo puts on his magic ring.

  The best places in Erebor for gossip are the barracks, the tavern, and kitchens. Bilbo knows this from experience, for hobbits and dwarrow aren’t that different in some rather important ways.

It is among the guards that Bilbo learns his first bit of gossip.

“….crown prince will marry instead. Lord Vorís makes a fool of himself.”

“I don’t believe he is the fool here, brother. That dwarrowdam is fit for a king.”

“Ah, not this again….”

“I can’t say I approve of it when I don’t, Dof. That creature has ensnared them all with his elf magic – ”

“He’s not an elf.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again; there’s no room in Erebor for a stinking halfling.”

“That’s Iron Ore talking.”

“And they have the right of it.”

Bilbo reels from this information though he supposes that he shouldn’t be surprised. Tongues have been wagging ever since Vorís arrived from the Iron Hills with his daughter Marís in tow. A lord full of ambition and rather transparent in his intention to convince Thorin to marry his daughter, Vorís had edged into Ereborian politics as silently and smoothly as a snake. Thorin had so far not agreed to the union, but Bilbo thinks it is only a matter of time.

For Marís is…wonderful, really. Even Bilbo adores her, and he cannot hate her just because he isn’t good enough. That isn’t fair.

So he isn’t surprised that the guards like Marís better, but he is somewhat taken aback at the Iron Ore Association’s involvement. He’s not heard about that particular organization during the talks, whereas every money-maker in the private sector had weighed in on the Stone Mason contract. He knew of the rivalries of course, but hadn’t heard about Iron Ore having it out with anybody. Least of all the crown.

Was this really just about Bilbo, then?

When he goes to the tavern that night (missing his birthday party, but there was always tomorrow) he overhears more of the same vitriol, only this time he hears it from workers in the Mint and Treasury. That argument had escalated into a brawl between a supporter of the Miner’s Union, who was more offended by the SM contract than about the insults to their king.

Whom they call hardheaded, weak, and simply unqualified for the job.

The kitchens are a bit better, but only because Bombur runs a tight ship. Even so, Bilbo still catches a snatches of gossip here and there….

“All our hard work wasted! Doesn’t even show up to his own party.”

Bilbo winces guiltily.

“ – if his highness thinks I’ll serve the halfling he’s mad! I cook for dwarrow, not fussy little upstarts from nowhere.”

“He’s from the Shire.”

“He’s a nuisance. Our king would be better off throwing him out of the mountain. The Men can have him. Or the elves. Ha! Perhaps a wandering orc pack.”

Bilbo leaves then, unable to take anymore, and sits himself down beside the door to his rooms where he knows his murderer waits. He can hear the commotion start up, and he thinks of the poor dead miners. He forgets how many times he’s tried to stop it from happening.

He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes, trying his very best to look at the situation logically. Bilbo is, after all, used to criticisms and cruelty – dwarrow have nothing on the meanness of hobbits. But for some reason he feels hallowed out and exhausted, or perhaps he has felt this way for a long time and he’s only just now noticing.

Bilbo knows his time in Erebor is coming to a close. Only he hadn’t realized there was so many that would be happy to see him go.  

He gets up and enters the room. There’s agony and then nothing.

He wakes up again – and that hurts more than the knife.

  It’s around the two week mark that Bilbo loses his motivation. He has been trying to solve the mystery of his murder, but it goes so slowly and he is still not sure who is behind it. He did get a glimpse of his assassin, however, but it wasn’t anyone he knew nor did anyone know him from Bilbo’s description.

He has come to the conclusion that politics is to blame for his death, and well…hatred for Bilbo, of course. The situation has come to a head, as arguments between factions supporting Thorin and factions wanting his abdication had been growing more and more heated every day.

At the root of it is Bilbo.

Bilbo begins to see the sensibleness in his murder. He thinks that it is too bad that he cannot see the results, because he is quite sure tensions would easily diffuse with Bilbo gone.

He doesn’t want to die, not really – but he’s beginning to think that he has to if Thorin wants to keep his crown.

  Kret is lingering outside his door.

Most days Bilbo just avoids him and doesn’t come back to his rooms at that particular time, but today Bilbo is going through the motions and not much caring about making any changes.

He doesn’t have any obligation to be nice to Kret though, and a part of Bilbo that has been flat and hopeless for days rises up gleefully.

“Kret. How wonderful to see you,” he says, sarcastically enough that even Kret would know he wasn’t sincere. “You’re looking particularly stupid today, well done.”

Kret’s mouth turns down. “Watch your mouth, you little rat.”

“Temper, temper,” laughs Bilbo. “It was only a joke. How can I help you? Oh, wait, let me guess…you want to know about the contract.”

The dwarf narrows his eyes. “How’d you know that?”

“I’m clever,” Bilbo answers. “I’m wondering though…who exactly are you working for? Iron Ore? Mint and Treasury? Or are you not with them at all? Perhaps you’re a hired killer – ”

“Killer?” Kret repeats, surprised. Then he smirks. “Someone out to get you, halfling?”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow. “I’ll be murdered tonight actually. And on my birthday no less! Quite rude of them, really.”

Kret’s eyes widen, but his expression is not of a caught or cornered dwarf. Bilbo doesn’t think he has any knowledge of his upcoming demise.

“And how did you find this out?” he asks, looking almost comically intrigued.

“I have a magic ring that makes me invisible, so I go about eavesdropping for a laugh.”

Kret frowns; speechless for a moment. He doesn’t seem to know what to make of Bilbo. Not today at least.

“You’re having me on,” he says, his face turning red.

“I’m really not, though it is an attractive idea. You’re so easy to rile up. Must be because there’s nothing in between your ears.”

Kret growls at him, and normally this would scare Bilbo, but he’s died sixteen times already. What can Kret do?

Never tempt fate, Bilbo, he thinks to himself as Kret pushes him to the floor.

“Think you’re better that me, halfling?” the dwarf shouts, kicking Bilbo in the kidney. He reaches down and drags him up by the lapels, before slamming Bilbo into his door.

“Where’s this backbone from, huh?” Kret laughs in his face. “You have any idea what I could do to you?”

“You can certainly try,” Bilbo curses him, clawing at his fists.

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Unhand him or I’ll remove your head from your shoulders,” Marís interrupts, her axe at the back of Kret’s neck.

Bilbo has no idea where she came from but is so happy to see her that he laughs with relief. “She’ll do it, too!” he says, squirming to he let down.

Kret wisely lets him go.

“Now bugger off back to the hole you crawled out of,” she growls.

He casts one more snarl in Bilbo’s direction before hurrying away, his face a mask of fury.

“Are you well, Master Baggins?” Marís asks him, turning concerned eyes on his person. “Shall I call for a healer?”

Bilbo’s bravado suddenly drains from him, and he’s left slouched against the door. Then, to his eternal shame, he starts to cry. His whole body shakes with it, and all he can think about is how exhausted he is, and how heartsick, and how he hates that when he dies he never actually stays dead.

Marís is completely out of her element, and vacillates between awkwardly patting his arm and looking up and down the corridor for help. She murmurs to him as if comforting a child, but it isn’t comforting, and as much as Bilbo appreciates her he cannot stand for her to touch him.

“Please make him happy,” he finally chokes out, still sobbing on the floor. “I can’t do that. I can’t.”

She doesn’t have any idea what Bilbo means, but nods anyway as Bilbo finally stumbles to his feet. He opens the door to his room.

“Master Baggins, I – ”

He closes the door.

This time, Bilbo doesn’t wait to be murdered, and somehow it hurts less when he dies by his own hand.

  After that, the days are listless.

The 22nd never becomes the 23rd.

He lives and dies endlessly.

He wilts.

  Two knocks.

When Kili doesn’t shout through the door Bilbo frowns. This is…different.

Three knocks.

“Um. Who is it?”

“…Bilbo?”

Bilbo’s breath catches.

“I came to wish you a happy birthday,” Thorin says through the door. “May I come in?”

  Before

“You don’t have to say anything,” Bilbo tells him, his hands twisting the ends of his shirt nervously. “I just wanted you to…know. About me. About how I – uh, feel.”

Thorin has his back to him, so he cannot see his expression. But what’s most important is that he says nothing, and despite what Bilbo said before he is desperate for a response. Thorin must say something. He must.

Anything.

“I’ll just be going then, ah, Balin is probably wondering where – ”

“I’m a king,” Thorin interrupts.

Bilbo frowns. “Yes…?”

“I have a duty to my people.”

Thorin will not look at him. “I cannot return your feelings,” he says quietly.

Bilbo freezes. “Yes, of course,” he responds automatically, his lips moving without his permission.

“I’m sorry,” Thorin tells him.

Bilbo nods. Smiles. “Please don’t trouble yourself,” he says. “I understand.”

  II

  It is September the 22nd.

It is the day that Thorin loses everything.

  Bilbo dies.

Bilbo dies and Thorin is…Thorin is frail, eviscerated, turned to ice and melted down and broken up and burned.

Thorin is dead too.

The company tries to bring him back. They mourn with him – the whole of Erebor mourns, even those that did not like Bilbo much – but the days continue on as hollowly as usual. The sun comes and goes, the stars shine and don’t. And Bilbo is still dead.

It takes a month for Thorin to follow him.

  He doesn’t hear about it directly. A guard is talking, panicked and upset, outside of the armory. Thorin only listens because the dwarf sounds horribly distressed, and then both of them are grasping each other and carrying on, and this is when Thorin hears it:

“…but the king loved him so.”

And that is a…strange thing to say.

“What’s happened?” another guard asks, approaching them and unknowingly standing very close to where Thorin is hiding.

“Master Baggins was killed. It happened just now.”

There is a moment where everything pauses, and a ringing sounds in his ears and a pressure begins to build in his head. And then Thorin runs past them. He runs out into the halls and up the stairs and toward Bilbo’s rooms. He bangs open the door, shouting for the hobbit, and when he does not see him he sprints away – down to the emptied hall where Bilbo had his birthday party. Thorin is shouting for him, but he doesn’t answer, and there are people trying to stop him now, but he shoves them away and bursts into the infirmary.

The company is there, and they are standing over a body.

Some animal noise claws its way up from the bottom of Thorin’s throat, and he doubles over against the wall. He slides down.

“Thorin, lad,” Balin says to him gently. “I’m so sorry,” he tells him as if that is enough to comfort him. I’m sorry, they say, thinking it will help.

But it’s not enough.

It will never be enough.

Bilbo is….

  Bilbo is dead.

There is nothing for him here.

He stops eating. Stops sleeping.

Thorin stops.

  He wakes up alive, which cannot be possible. He wakes up healthy, which is…not right. Thorin is confused until he thinks to ask the date.

It is September 22nd.

This is called a second chance.

  He knocks twice, but there is only silence on the other side of the door. Somewhat impatiently, he knocks again.

“Um. Who is it?” Comes Bilbo’s muffled voice. He has missed that voice more than he’s ever missed anything before. Thorin hears it now and feels his eyes fill with tears. He puts his hand flat on the door and leans his forehead against it, swallowing down his ugly sobs.

“…Bilbo?” he finally manages. “I-I came to wish you a happy birthday,” Thorin says with a bit of difficulty. “May I come in?”

Please let me in. My Bilbo. My beloved. Please let me see you.

Bilbo opens the door, and his eyes are wide and dark and beautiful, and Thorin simply can’t help himself. He bursts into tears and clutches the hobbit to him, feeling simultaneously ripped apart and put back together.

“Thorin?” Bilbo murmurs into shoulder. “Is it my birthday?”

Thorin laughs wetly. “Yes,” he confirms. “Yes it is…and I promise that you won’t die today.”

He expects his hobbit to be very confused, but instead Bilbo gasps and starts to cry too.

They hold each other for a long time.

  “How long have you been stuck?” Thorin asks. He has not moved from Bilbo’s side. He doesn’t know if he can.

Bilbo shakes his curly head, dark circles underneath his eyes. “A month, maybe? I’ve started to lose track.”

Thorin doesn’t blame him. He can’t imagine living this day over and over and being unable to change anything. He meets Bilbo’s hopeful eyes. “Do you think…do you think this time is different?”

Bilbo’s expression crumbles. “It has to be. It just has to be. Please,” begs the hobbit quietly. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”

Thorin pulls him close and holds him again, breathing in his comforting smell; basking in his solid warmth. They remain entwined until a knock comes at Bilbo’s door.

The day will not wait.

  They don’t separate. At breakfast they sit nearly on top of one another, with Bilbo whispering in Thorin’s ear most of the time. They ignore the company’s surprised but pleased looks.

Thorin tries to concentrate, but Bilbo’s presence is heady. He has been without those small smiles and soft eyes for too long. He tells Bilbo this over and over, because in his own time he hadn’t said it. He’d been too afraid and then it was too late.

“Thorin,” Bilbo finally cuts him off. They have long finished breakfast, and Bilbo has waved off Balin because they will spend today together, trying to change fate. “I know that there are things we must say to each other. I’m just not sure if we have the time right now.”

Thorin isn’t a fool. He doesn’t think this will be fixed on Bilbo’s birthday. He has hurt his hobbit, and there are consequences for his actions. He must be punished, and he says as much to Bilbo.

“No, no,” the hobbit tells him, holding his hand tightly. “Leave that for now. What I’m speaking of is our deaths. I’ve…lived this day so many times, Thorin, and if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s that many of the dwarrow of Erebor despise me, and by proxy they think ill of you.”

“They don’t matter,” Thorin replies heatedly. “They mean nothing – ”

“Don’t be silly,” he says, frowning. “Of course they matter. They’re your people.”

“You’re my people.”

Bilbo sighs. “Well. If we cannot speak of that then there is another problem we must address…the fact that you went and died.”

Thorin gazes at him in confusion. He has told Bilbo that he cannot live without him, and he sees no fault in that, for love is a vital thing for dwarrow and for Thorin especially. And he may have been a coward about saying it, but he has never not been in love with Bilbo.

“I cannot be everything to you,” Bilbo tells him now, and it makes his heart ache. “I love you. I love you dearly. But you and I must still live, with or without each other.”

“Impossible,” Thorin says. He blinks back tears. “You ask this of me, after you so cruelly suggest that I see the political benefit in your murder? You have never been so blind.”

They stare at each other before Bilbo sighs again. “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He shakes his head. “I think we have a lot to work on, but we both need to be alive to do it.”

Finally, Thorin smiles. “Better.”

  For over thirty days Bilbo has struggled to convince the miners that he means no harm. For over thirty days he has tried to save their lives. He has died twelve times in the process.

Thorin closes the mines down for the day, and that is that.

“They killed me once,” is all Bilbo will say when Thorin asks why he looks so nervous around the workers. Thorin is horrified.

Bilbo’s killer is another story. After Bilbo died, Thorin had gone on a single-minded hunt for his murderer.

“…what?” says Bilbo. “But Marís?”

“She wasn’t involved,” Thorin reveals quickly, panicking a bit when he sees the pain in Bilbo’s eyes. “She’s actually the one who found out who had killed you.”

Bilbo looks reassured. “Oh, good. Marís is….”

“A fine dwarrowdam, aye. But unwilling to marry me, even if I wanted.”

The hobbit’s head shoots up. “Wait, what?”

“She’s quite taken with Dori, you know,” Thorin says with a wry smile. “I imagine he will agree to a courtship any day now.”

Bilbo blinks, seeming a bit lost. Thorin realizes that this thing with him and Marís has bothered him for a long while and Thorin wishes he had told Bilbo this sooner, but he has never been the most observant of dwarrow.

“Well,” Bilbo clears his throat. “Then I suppose we should arrest my killer. To be honest, though, I am very surprised it was not Kret.”

“Kret?” Thorin frowns. “What’s this now?”

Bilbo bites his lip, hesitating, but he eventually (finally) tells Thorin what’s been happening.

  Kret is on the floor, bleeding from the mouth. Bilbo’s hand is on Thorin’s arm and he stops hitting the dwarf before he kills him, but it is a close run thing.

Bilbo’s look of distress does not help his temper. “But…I thought the Miners Union was against the contract? And they…they were defending me. I heard them defending me.”

“Idiots,” Kret curses. “They don’t see what you are. You don’t belong here. You’re not one of us and you’ll never be. Get out of our mountain.”

He spits at Bilbo’s feet.

Thorin has to be held back again until the guards can come and take Kret away. In contrast to his rage, Bilbo is calm. Solemn. Composed.

“I am so sorry,” he says, feeling brittle and ashamed of his people.

Bilbo gives him a fond glance, before turning his eyes back to Kret being dragged away. “It’s not your fault,” Bilbo tells him. “I’ve learned another thing being trapped here, and on our journey, and in the Shire as well. It’s that some people hate what’s different, and some people just hate.”

He reaches for Thorin’s hand and squeezes it. “But there’s you.”

  They do not go back to Bilbo’s rooms after the party. Thorin takes him to his own rooms instead, and they sit by the fire and wait for the night to pass. Bilbo explains that he has tried to stay up past midnight before, but always falls asleep. Thorin reminds him that things are different now.

He is here.

Eventually they drift off.

Then…one knock.

Balin’s voice comes through the door, saying that Thorin will be late.

The day is wasting.

Bilbo looks at him with wide eyes, fearing that this morning isn’t any different (though at least we’re trapped together, he thinks), but the king is smiling.

“He didn’t say that yesterday,” he whispers, and brushes Bilbo’s curls away from his forehead. “It’s tomorrow.”

Bilbo smiles at him, slow and sweet.

It is September 23rd.

[shockcity]

so it’s finals week and most of my brain power is gonna be on not failing college, but honestly the hardest part of writing these little fics is coming up with ideas! So if there’s something you’d like to see (AUs, divergences, etc.) feel free to request it!!! In the meantime I might be a bit delayed posting these. Sorry guys :(

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #15 - getting lost somewhere

Rating: G Summary: for the 30 day otp challenge. Thorin goes missing on the way home from a diplomatic trip to Gondor. AU - Fix it. Crack.

Note: initially i was going to fill a different prompt but then angelsallfire shared THIS with me and my whole life changed

He hadn’t meant to get separated from the main party. How was he supposed to know that there would be orcs watching the roads? It was the Rohirrim’s job to keep riffraff away from travelers – especially kingly ones. Like Thorin. The king. Who was lost and it wasn’t his fault, Bilbo, please –

Thorin had gone over excuse after excuse in the hours since he’d gotten completely lost in the Brown Lands (or what he assumed were the Brown Lands, based on the lack of…everything), but none of it sounded good enough for his husband, who had specifically told him before he’d departed from Erebor that he was not to get lost. That he was to follow Balin and only Balin, and to keep his map on him at all times. And extra socks. Oh, and another blanket, even in the south it gets so cold at night, Thorin, darling….

And so on.

Bilbo hadn’t even wanted Thorin to go to Gondor, but had understood the necessity of it as much as he’d hated the idea of such a long separation. Thorin had been even worse. He’d sulked for days after Bilbo had decided he was more needed in the Mountain than on the trip. He would have to take over Balin’s duties after all…and someone needed to keep an eye on Fili and Kili.

“We can just bring the boys with us!” Thorin had argued, but Bilbo had only given him a patient look until he’d come to his senses.

So it was that Thorin was separated from his hobbit for two long months, all in the name of making nice with the Gondorians who no one actually liked (their perpetual doom and gloom was so bad that it even got to ‘You-Know-Nothing-of-the-World Thorin Oakenshield’). Plus they kept insisting that one could not simply walk into Mordor for some reason.

Thorin paused on a slope of blackened rock, examining his map before glancing at Mount Doom.

Thanks, Gondor.

“What do you mean he’s lost?” Bilbo asked Roäc, his tone very very careful.

“Just that. He’s wandered off.”

Bilbo slowly raised his hands and pressed them against his temples. “Bofur,” said Bilbo with his eyes closed. “I need the fastest horse we have, enough provisions for two, and three pain killers.”

“Balin would also like you to know that he might have gone south,” Roäc added. “Toward Mordor.”

Bilbo exhaled slowly. “Make that five pain killers and a bottle of wine.”

Bofur wisely acquiesced.

“If I follow this star I’ll be going north,” Thorin muttered to himself, but then realized that there were two stars of equal brightness in either direction.

The next morning he watched the sunrise. “That is east,” he said to himself, committing the mountain range to memory. “Now, which way is home? Ah! This way.”

He started out in that direction.

The map was upside down.

Bilbo made very good time to the Brown Lands, which was mostly due to the emptiness of the roads, and the anger (and alcohol) that was fueling his speed. He stopped only to rest the horse and quench his thirst, before setting off across the barren landscape to find his wayward husband.

He didn’t see signs of Thorin until he got closer to the Black Gates, which…of course. Trust Thorin to end up there. Then he spotted some suspiciously dwarf-like footprints leading up the slope of a mountain and right into Morgai.

Bilbo didn’t bother stopping and muttered angrily as he followed his husband’s footsteps up and into Mordor.

“This isn’t right,” Thorin mumbled, looking around. From what he could tell he was still not going north, but had gone east instead. He’d thought it was weird that he’d been traveling at an incline….

And it was really hot, and he was pretty sure he was standing on top of an actual volcano.

Then he saw a figure slowly making their way up the side of the mountain.

“MY HOBBIT!” he cried out joyfully.

Bilbo looked up at him. “YOU ARE SO DEAD,” he promised.

Thorin didn’t doubt it, but was happy to see him anyway.

The eye of Sauron watched them curiously. After all, it wasn’t everyday that there was a domestic on Mount Doom.

“And I told you to take an extra blanket! You could have frozen out here! Whoa, where do you think that goes?”

Thorin blinked at the entrance to the volcano. “Maybe it’s another way down! Let’s look.”

Bilbo glared at him but followed behind. They walked down the path and straight into the heart of the volcano, which was hot and stinky and Bilbo’s eyes immediately started to water.

“This is awful,” he said, reaching into his pocket for his handkerchief. “You have the worst ideas. And no sense of direction. Why are you like this.”

“I told you I was sorry,” Thorin sulked. “How long are you going to be mad at me – my hobbit you’ve dropped something!”

Bilbo had taken out his handkerchief and something had gone flying and had fallen right into the lava pit.

“Oh, dear,” he said. “I hope it wasn’t anything important.”

Then the volcano began to erupt.

Gandalf peered down at them from on top of a giant eagle.

“I think you’ve done middle earth a service, though I haven’t the faintest idea how you managed it.”

Bilbo, lying next to a confused Thorin on top of a rock surrounded by lava, merely glared at him. “I don’t either,” he said. “But you could have told me that you had an eagle capable of flying into Mordor. Life would have been so much easier.”

Thorin nodded in agreement. “Walking sucked.”

[shockcity]

@gerec @giggle-fit Aww you guys are awesome thank you!! And i totally left the end open just in case I wanted to expand (I keep doing that why do i keep doing that). So perhaps this may happen!! Thanks for your encouragement my friends, I am so blessed (人´ ♡ ` )

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #14 - in a fairytale

Rating: M

Summary: for the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Detective Inspector Durin has been trying to put Smaug behind bars for years, but something almost...supernatural keeps getting in the way. Bilbo Baggins has been running since he was a kid, but no matter where he goes he can't escape his curse. Maybe they can help each other. Alternate Universe - Modern Setting/Magical Realism

Part II

Also on ao3

second note: ummm I think this was difficult for people to read cuz it's like 18k words and the app dies when you try to bring it up (/ω＼) so im reposting this in two parts sorry for the technical problems~ this is part II!

It was tempting to simply besiege the warehouse right that very moment – to run out and recklessly challenge Smaug with their oh so intimidating team made up of one magical hipster, a sort-of-but-you-had-better-not-ask wizard, and a disgraced detective inspector. But food and rest could not wait, and took priority over even the destruction of a great evil.

Bilbo was more than happy to just sit back and eat, and Thorin couldn't help but goggle as he gorged himself on an entire loaf of bread, three thick chunks of cheese, and a whole sleeve of chocolate digestives.

"Don't stare," Bilbo said, swallowing his mouthful and giving Thorin a bashful look. "Doing magic makes me hungry!"

"Do you do a lot of magic then?" Thorin couldn't help but tease.

Bilbo's jaw dropped. "Are you calling me fat?!"

Thorin bit back a smile. "Plump," he said. "That's what I thought when I first saw you...that you were pleasantly plump."

"Yeah, sure," Bilbo said skeptically. He finished off his cup of tea and leaned back in his chair a bit despondently.

And now Thorin felt bad.

"It's true!" he said, before pausing to find the right words. "I...well, to be honest, I thought you were lovely. And I...was very disappointed that you were a suspect in a murder."

He made a face at his own awkwardness but Bilbo was extremely amused. "And now that I'm not a suspect?"

Thorin raised his eyebrows. "And now that I know that you're just a magic man with a guitar, you mean?"

Bilbo smiled. "Yeah," he said, motioning for Thorin to answer.

"I...." He blew out a breath, realizing that Bilbo was just teasing. "You're a menace."

Bilbo cracked up. "A pleasantly plump one, though!" he cackled. "Hey, I'm flattered. Sincerely flattered. Still, I don't think it's a good idea to start dating each other while people are trying to kill us."

Thorin nodded sardonically.

"But once this is over I think we should probably have lots of sex."

Thorin's eyes widened, which only set Bilbo off again. Thankfully Gandalf decided that they were all in need of quiet time and herded Bilbo into Radagast's room to sleep. The wizard came back a little later and joined Thorin at the table, pouring himself a cup of tea with a sigh.

"You should sleep too, you know," Gandalf told him, watching him intently over the rim of his teacup.

Thorin considered him for a moment. "You knew my father well," he said, after a short silence. "You know about our...ancestry. About this whole world I'm supposed to be apart of."

Gandalf hummed in agreement.

"Why did my father never tell me?"

The wizard shook his head. "That I cannot answer, Thorin. I don't know why he kept it a secret from you. Perhaps he sought to keep you away from the danger that comes with knowing. Perhaps he thought you wouldn't want to know. I can only guess."

Thorin stared at his hands. "Then can you tell me this," he said, looking up and into Gandalf's eyes. "Who really killed my father?"

"Ah." Gandalf rubbed a hand down his face tiredly. "I suspect you met him tonight."

"After you get me what I want, I will kill you slowly."

Thorin raised his gun.

"Like I did your father."

"His name is Azog. He is the leader of a Warg pack, one of the many that work for Smaug on occasion. Now be aware, I am not entirely sure what happened, but Azog's kin fought your grandfather at one point, and many of them were wiped out. Azog swore an oath that he would destroy the line of Durin, and avenge his fallen pack. That is why he hunts you now, and it is likely what killed your father, in the end."

"Azog," Thorin said, repeating his name like a curse.

"Don't let vengeance cloud your judgement," Gandalf warned him. "You will meet your father's killer in battle soon enough."

He took the advice to heart and nodded. Gandalf pulled out a pipe from his robes (the man looked absolutely ridiculous in them, and Thorin wondered what normal people would have to say about it if they could see him) and packed it with tobacco. He puffed until the leaves smoldered, looking tired but peaceful.

A bit like Bilbo, in that he was excellent at pretending to be unfazed. Which reminded him....

"Can I ask you something?" he said, breaking the silence.

Gandalf eyed him amusedly, chewing on the end of his pipe. "You want to know about Bilbo," he surmised.

Thorin dipped his head somewhat sheepishly.

"You would not be the first, nor will you be the last, to be fascinated by Bilbo Baggins." Thorin started, having not known Bilbo's last name. "He is truly a one of a kind creature that never fails to surprise me."

Thorin's mouth quirked. "I don't know him that well," he admitted. "But somehow I understand what you mean."

"Yes, I dare say you do." The old wizard winked at him.

Trying not to blush, Thorin shook his head and turned serious again. "What I want to know is what his connection to Smaug is...why does he want Bilbo?"

Gandalf, whose face had grown more and more resigned as Thorin spoke, let out heavy sigh. "It's rather a long story."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere," he said, accidentally sounding a lot like his bobby alter-ego. "I want to know."

"Alright. I suppose...I suppose it starts with his power."

Thorin leaned forward.

"Bilbo's power is quite singular," said Gandalf. "Words have weight, and with the right words, well – you've seen what he can do; call up storms, ward off enemies, cause terrible destruction – I have also seen his influence on the mind. He can...persuade people to do things. Sometimes without him even realizing it. The point is, Bilbo has an extremely useful gift. Useful...but dangerous if uncontrolled, and Bilbo struggles with restraint."

"What about that other minstrel in England?" Thorin asked. "Bilbo said there was two. How do they control their powers?"

The old wizard sighed again. His favorite thing to do tonight, it seemed. "There is no second minstrel," he revealed. "There's not another minstrel in all the world. I made it up, to convince our kind that Bilbo is not as special as he truly is. I thought the existence of another would lure Smaug into seeking this fictitious person out, but alas, I underestimated Smaug's obsession with the boy."

"What is that obsession? Why does he want Bilbo so much?"

"Partially for his power." Gandalf shrugged. "But also because of his mother."

He frowned. "His mother?"

"Yes," Gandalf paused and relit his pipe, his expression reluctant. "What happened was this: one day, Bilbo's father got very sick, and Belladonna, Bilbo's mother, could not cure him. They had only been married six months...and here was Bungo at death's door. She was heartbroken. Bella worked night and day to find a cure for him, but nothing helped. It wasn't until another apothecary told her of the healing power of dragon scales, that Bella considered approaching Smaug. Unwilling to lose Bungo, she took the risk and begged the dragon for his help. Most likely finding her amusing, Smaug gave her one of his scales and simply told her that all he asked for in repayment was the fulfillment of a request at a later date."

Thorin winced.

"Yes. Terrible mistake. Bella returned home, and of course the scale worked, and Bungo was back on his feet in no time at all. Three months later, Bella realized she was pregnant with Bilbo, and he was born a healthy baby in late September. As the years passed little Bilbo was a delight to his parents and his extended relations; a bright star in an otherwise murky sky, one might say. And then one day, when Bilbo was six years old, Smaug finally called upon Bella for his favor.

"I think that he probably meant to ask her to do something cruel and humiliating for him. Yes, he no doubt had some form of torment in mind. But then, of course, he met Bilbo, and immediately knew that the boy had immense power. So he asked Belladonna for repayment...in the form of her firstborn son.

"As you can imagine, this didn't go over well. So Smaug made her a deal (he likes his games, if you recall). He would give them three chances to find a better form of repayment than the little boy. Once a year, he would visit and ask what they had for him instead. Three chances. Three years.

"The first year they presented him with their wealth. They'd worked endless hours, and saved and scrounged for months, feeding only Bilbo, until they'd collected a good sized fortune. This they offered to Smaug, but the dragon only laughed, and kissed and hugged Bilbo, who did not know any better and showed Smaug open affection (and I must say, I have always wondered if that had ever affected him; there were many times the dragon could have simply killed the boy, and yet...) in any case, he did not accept their offering, and went away until the next year.

"When he returned the second time, Bella and Bungo offered him something far more precious: their blood. Magical blood is extremely potent, and with it other magicals can, for a time, harness the other's gift. It cannot be donated by the very powerful, I'm afraid (and Belladonna was indeed, quite strong) so it was Bungo who stepped forward in exchange for his son's freedom. Smaug claimed that he would first try a taste of the man's blood to see whether or not it suited him. But a taste was not what he had in mind. He killed Bungo; tore him limb from limb as his wife watched, and after it was over, he announced that the blood was not good enough, and warned Belladonna that she had but one more year before she lost her son forever."

"He killed Bilbo's father."

"Yes. Now it was in the third year that everything changed. I never learned what Bella had planned to offer Smaug, for in the end it didn't matter. Smaug had something he wanted this time. A request that would void out his earlier claim on Bilbo. He had heard from some other calamity – some evil whisper somewhere – of words that could bring him unimaginable power. Of words that would give him dominion over the entire world. All Smaug needed was a wordsmith, a minstrel – a creature whom, at the time, was considered only a myth. But Smaug had suspected for a while that Bilbo was of the Words, and so he came to the Bagginses with a plan...and a curse.

"What he had with him was unspeakable. They were Words that should never be said aloud; should never be read, or even written down. Words that only Bilbo could invoke. But what Smaug did not realize was that though the power was within the Words, it also came from the wordsmith. That is to say, unless Smaug himself possessed Bilbo's gift, it could not be transferred. And it could not be stolen."

"So Bilbo has this...unimaginable power?"

"Perhaps," Gandalf muttered noncommittally. "Perhaps not. All that is known is that after it was Said, Smaug went off believing that it had worked. By the time he realized that he had been given nothing, Bella and Bilbo had already fled. From then on they moved about the world, helped by me and other enemies of Smaug. Kept secret. Safe. Smaug took her defiance very personally, and part of the reason he has searched so obsessively for them was because he believed that he had been tricked. They were truly lucky to have lived undetected for so long. Then, when Belladonna fell ill and died, Bilbo wanted more than anything to return to his home. And well, you see how that turned out."

Thorin closed his eyes for a moment. "Then he is in great danger.”

"We all are," Gandalf agreed, and then gave him a pointed look. "But that's where you come in."

In the next room, in a dream that he would not remember come morning, Bilbo stood in front of a roaring bonfire on a white cliff that overlooked an endless black sea.

"Alright, little one, you know what to do."

Bilbo smiled up at the nice man and turned to face the fire. He inhaled, slow and deep, and with considerable power collected on his tongue, he said,

"One ring to rule them all...."

"Do we even have a plan?"

"Of course we do, weren't you paying attention?"

"Yes, but I thought you were joking."

"Quiet."

They fell silent as Gandalf glanced around the warehouse from their hiding place behind a shipping container, his eyes roving over the men that prowled around the yard. Bilbo fidgeted beside Thorin, his guitar on his back, and Thorin almost laughed aloud when he realized that, in this case, his gun was completely outclassed next to a acoustic guitar. Bilbo caught him staring and gave him a 'what?' look.

"There," Gandalf suddenly spoke. He pointed his staff at a large tower crane just as its engines fired up. Lorries beeped as they backed up out of its way, and a man in a hard hat suddenly shouted and made the universal sign for OK. The crane rose, and on the end of it was...a rock?

"What the hell is that?"

But it wasn't Gandalf that answered. Instead, Bilbo got a queer look in his eye, and whispered, "there hammer on the anvil smote, there chisel clove, and graver wrote. There forged was blade, and bound was hilt; the delver mined, the mason built."

"Durin's axe," said Gandalf.

Thorin frowned at the rock attached to the end of the crane, until suddenly, he caught sight of something glinting in the sunlight. He then realized what he was looking at: it was a hilt. The hilt of an axe – which was firmly lodged in stone.

"That belongs to you," Bilbo told him, turning to him with a smile.

Thorin smiled back fondly.

"Now is our only chance," Gandalf interrupted, getting to his feet rather nimbly for an old man. "Thorin, you must get to the axe. No matter what happens, this is your task. You cannot fail."

"What am I supposed to do after that?" Thorin demanded, rattled by Gandalf's intensity.

The wizard stared into his eyes gravely. "You will know," was all he said. "Bilbo, with me."

"What? Wait!"

Bilbo put a reassuring hand on Thorin's shoulder. "It'll be alright," he told him. "We're just going to cause a distraction. It'll be fun."

Thorin wasn't fooled for a moment.

"Be careful," he said worriedly. "I mean it, Bilbo."

"I will," Bilbo promised, and then flashed him a wicked grin. "After all, I'm looking forward to all that sex."

Thorin blushed, and Bilbo laughed into the back of his hand as he moved away and ran off after Gandalf.

He turned his attention back to the axe. The workers were slowly lowering it onto the back of a flatbed lorry, and it didn't look as though they were in any sort of a hurry. As he waited, he checked his magazine before clicking the safety off his gun.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as a cacophonous screeching sound suddenly split the air. Forgetting what he was doing for a moment, he looked about wildly until he spotted the source of the commotion. A stack of shipping containers had toppled over, hitting another stack and causing three more to fall like dominoes. And there...there was Gandalf standing on top of a high platform, his staff glowing white.

Thorin heard a deep and guttural growl, and saw that the workers had abandoned their human skins for fur. Wargs. At least thirty of them. They snarled at Gandalf, half-crouched like sprinters at the starting line, ready to tear the wizard apart.

But then something sweet whistled through the air – something soft like a slow breeze at dusk, whispering:

come and see come and see what's hidden underneath come and see come and see my great big teeth.

Bilbo. Thorin spotted him on another container, perched like Gandalf and glowing – a smile on his face.

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

The ground exploded. It cracked and rose like a rocky wave, striking out at the Wargs and knocking them off their feet. Thorin himself was unaffected, and he knew that it was now or never. He tore off toward the stone as fast as his feet could carry him.

Rock and dust flew up around him as the Wargs yelped. Another pulse of Bilbo's guitar ripped through the air, propelling a Warg away from Thorin. He managed to get a few shots off, taking out two men coming for him head on, and then he made it to the lorry and slid behind it for cover.

His breath caught as he looked up and saw the axe in the stone. His birthright.

He knew what to do.

With a grunt, Thorin climbed up the side of the lorry and onto the bed. Around him the fight carried on, but he paid it no mind. He could not tear his eyes away from the axe.

Thorin reached forward. He wrapped his fingers around the hilt. He lifted.

The axe slid out, and the world trembled.

For a time Thorin wasn't aware of where he was, of what he was doing, or even who he was. There was only light; the light of the axe in his hand which shown bright enough to blind him. But it wasn't only coming from the axe, for it also grew out of Thorin's own body – enveloping him in warmth, and in courage, and in strength. It was a feeling reminiscent of being reunited with a long lost love. Of becoming whole.

This light had been in him all along, and all that was needed to summon it was his ancestor's call. A call he could hear now. And this time, he didn't need Bilbo to craft the words for him.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk; Beneath the mountains music woke: The harpers harped, the minstrels sang, And at the gates the trumpets rang. 5

Thorin could see something above him, hovering in and out of his mind's eye, and real, if one chose to look. It was bright and big, and strangely familiar to his heart.

It was a crown of stars.

The image shattered, and in its place was a shining helm, slowly descending toward Thorin. When it came close enough, he instinctively straightened his neck, letting it fall onto his head with gentle finality. It was then that Thorin came back to himself. He looked at the axe in his hand and touched the helm on his head, and felt content for the first time in a long time.

There was a growl - too close - and a Warg pounced on him, throwing them both over the side of the lorry. Viciously it snapped in Thorin's face with its sharp teeth and putrid breath. He struggled to get the thing off of him, using both hands to push the hilt of the axe into the Warg's neck to keep it from biting him. Thorin managed to get a leg underneath him and he shoved as hard as he could.

The Warg fell, but another one came for him from the opposite direction. Thorin breathed hard, glancing down at his weapon. He brought it down to his side, took a deep breath, and sliced upward.

The ground rose with it, summoning hot rock and spitting magma. Black stone bloomed at his feet, cracked with crawling lava. He suddenly registered the screams – the Warg, blinded by Thorin's strike, was now writhing in the dirt. He turned to see the other gain its feet and charge him, and this time Thorin made contact. The axe cracked into the Warg's chest and sent it flying.

Before he could marvel at its strength, he was being attacked again, and this time he noticed that Bilbo and Gandalf were facing the Wargs too, and that their numbers had grown.

It was a veritable army that marched toward them now, all of them glaring with bright eyes full of malice. Thorin fought off the Wargs closest to him and stopped to think for a moment, breathing hard.

His wandering gaze found the tower crane.

It was risky, but there were too many for Thorin to take on by himself, and Bilbo and Gandalf had to be tiring.... He made his decision and sprinted over to its base, quickly judging where he should strike.

Please let this work, he thought, before using both hands to draw back the axe and chop at the base of the crane, almost as if it were a tree.

He'd figured it would take a couple of hits, but this was also one hell of an axe.

The base exploded as if Thorin had launched a rocket at it. There was an ungodly, groaning screech – one of the strangest and most frightening sounds he had ever heard – and then the crane was coming down. The Wargs in its path didn't stand a chance, for there was nowhere to really run. The steel rained from the sky and landed with a tremendous crash.

Thorin watched, wide-eyed, as the dust cleared. He caught a glimpse of Bilbo hopping up and down on his container, cheering, and couldn't help but smile.

They had won.

And then there was pain.

"Thorin!"

From far away he heard Bilbo call to him, but there was something wrong...his arm –

He opened his eyes just in time to dodge Azog's mace. Rolling to his feet with a pained moan, Thorin held his axe and his aching arm close to his chest. The pain was horrible, and he could feel warm blood trailing down his fingers.

Azog did not wait for Thorin to gain his bearings. He charged, swinging his mace toward Thorin's head. He let go of his arm and brought the axe up to parry, dragging the mace to the side. Thorin backed away swiftly as Azog moved to swipe at him again. He heard a frightened yelp coming from where Bilbo was, and he turned to see...he wasn't sure what he was seeing.

Giant...trolls?

The earth trembled as they moved toward Bilbo and Gandalf, the wizard raising his staff high into the air. But then Thorin had no time to watch his companions, because Azog was lumbering toward him with a cruel smile on his face.

"Durin," he growled, and there was amusement in his voice. "Durin the Deathless. King Under the Mountain."

Thorin frowned, keeping his axe up as Azog circled him.

"That right is mine," said Azog, pointing his mace at Thorin's helm. "That is my crown."

"This is the right of Durin's folk," he snapped, angry that Azog was even looking at the weapon of his ancestors. "Not filth like you!"

"Durin's folk," Azog laughed, his scarred face deforming grotesquely. "Dead folk. Unworthy. Not even Thrain's pride could inspire your ancestors to crown a new king."

Thorin went very still. "You killed him – " he said, shaking with fury. "It was you, wasn't it? You bastard – "

"I thought the old fool would pull the axe from the stone, and then I would harness its power." Azog eyed the weapon and helm with envy. "But it seems your father was not good enough for the crown. It seems he wasn't a true king."

Thorin attacked, bringing up his axe and striking at Azog over and over. The Warg managed to block, but something else was happening – heat rose from the ground, blackening everywhere Thorin stepped, and embers rose from the hot blade of his axe, creating a burning gust as powerful as the strongest bellows in the largest forge.

Rage raised the fire higher, and rock and ash burst from the ground and pummeled Azog from every side. Still Thorin pressed him, roaring as the earth shook and flames leapt from the edge of his blade. Azog cried out and smashed to the dirt after a particularly hard strike, and Thorin stood over him panting.

Azog cackled, blood on his teeth.

Father, thought Thorin. He raised the axe....

There lies his crown in water deep, i> till Durin wakes again from sleep. 

....and brought it down.

"Whoa, there," he said, catching Gandalf as he swayed from side to side. "Alright, old man?"

"Old!" Gandalf coughed, giving Thorin a one-eyed glare. "Old enough to take care of those!"

He waved his staff in the direction of the giant, ugly....

"What are these exactly?"

"Trolls!" said Gandalf, stretching his back with a pained groan. "Dimwitted creatures with terrible hygiene."

Thorin's mouth twitched. "Well done, then," he said. "Where's Bilbo gone?"

"He's around here somewhere." Gandalf waved a hand vaguely.

"I'll get him." Thorin moved off once he was sure the wizard wouldn't fall over, and walked toward Bilbo's container. He looked up as he came to it, but didn't see him.

"Bilbo?" Thorin called, but there was no answer.

Frowning, Thorin walked around to where he'd last seen the man, standing tall and invincible and laughing in the face of an army. But Bilbo wasn't there.

Thorin squinted, catching sight of a trail of blood. His eyes followed it from the top of the container to the bottom, where it pooled sickeningly. He quickly followed it  around to the other side, and then gasped.

On the ground beside where Bilbo once stood – was his guitar.

Thorin plucked at a few strings listlessly, staring off into the distance. He heard Gandalf arguing with someone in the next room, but couldn't be bothered to listen. He kept seeing Bilbo's quirky little smile, and he swore he could hear his sweet, understated voice singing words filled with affection and good humor. It was strange how much Bilbo being gone affected him – Thorin not only felt paralyzed with guilt and worry, but his heart was hurting too.

" – matter of great importance! I would not ask otherwise!"

There was a low murmur as whoever it was they were talking to responded to Gandalf. Then there was silence. Thorin looked toward the door as Gandalf came thundering out of the room. He caught a glimpse of a glowing orb and a timid looking Radagast, before Gandalf's terrible temper demanded his attention.

"They refuse to help! Insufferable creatures!"

"Who?"

"Your subjects, that's who! Our fellows who are too scared of calamities to fight them, and much too stupid to understand that they haven't a choice! Evil such as this can never be left to its own devices!"

Thorin scoffed. "And they won't answer to me? To the king of...whatever?"

"They need proof first," explained Gandalf, his face stormy. "And they will get it, but not now. Now we must rescue Bilbo from Smaug. Do you remember what I told you, Thorin, of Bilbo's story?"

He met Gandalf's eyes, recalling the details now...realizing that things were a lot more dire than he thought. "Bilbo's power...."

"Yes," Gandalf confirmed gravely. "Which is why I must go with or without the help of my peers. Without you, even. I cannot leave Bilbo to this horrid fate, nor allow this world to suffer the spread of so great a darkness. Smaug must be stopped."

Thorin swung the guitar around his back and stood up. He faced the wizard determinedly, jamming the helm onto his head and holding onto his axe with both hands.

"Let's go," he said.

But Gandalf did not move, and instead looked down at Thorin gravely. "It is very dangerous," he warned. "We may very well die."

Thorin shook his head. "I don't care."

The wizard nodded. "Good, nor do I," he agreed, and they set off into the night.

Thorin had never technically been to Smaug's penthouse. He'd certainly staked out the outside of it, but he didn't think that counted. Getting a search warrant from the magistrates had always been like pulling teeth, but in Smaug's case it was nearly impossible. He was a man of means and shamelessly unethical, and approaching the courts with a blank cheque was not above him, nor would it be a surprise. All this meant was that storming the flat, as it were, was made doubly difficult by Thorin's not knowing the place he was walking into.

"What should we do? Is there a way in? Should we climb up the lift shaft?"

Gandalf stared at him dubiously. "Don't be ridiculous, we need only convince the security guards to let us pass. I don't imagine it will be very difficult. Though your appearance leaves much to be desired."

"My appearance?" Thorin said. "You're wearing a dress and a pointy hat."

Gandalf narrowed his eyes at him, but Thorin pressed on. "Can't you do a spell? Make us invisible? Bilbo mentioned that he could do something like that."

"Yes, but that is Bilbo," the wizard told him. "My magic is quite different from his, I'm afraid. Spells like invisibility are too subtle for me to do with any sort of precision, I would only blow you up if I were to attempt it."

Thorin did not want to be blown up.

"Right." He nodded. "I'll hide my axe and take the helm off if you'll at least give up the cap. I'm assuming the staff is staying?"

Gandalf scowled at him – so yes.

Without further delay, Thorin and the wizard made their way to Smaug's building. His flat was at the very top, and Thorin eyed the lifts behind the front desk determinedly. A security guard stood by, watching them.

"Can I help you?" said the concierge.

"Yes, I'm afraid I've locked myself out of my flat," Gandalf lied, and not very well. "I'll just be going – "

"I'm sorry, sir." The concierge frowned. "May I ask your name?"

Gandalf looked from side to side, as if thinking over his options. Thorin covered his eyes with his hand.

"Smaug...?" said Gandalf.

The concierge raised both eyebrows and looked the old man up and down. "Sorry?"

The security guard was stepping forward.

"No, no," the wizard said hastily. "I mean that Smaug is my nephew. Yes. My favorite nephew. Although perhaps not."

"I'll go ahead and phone Mr. Smaug, sir, and see if we can't clear this up," offered the concierge, his expression bemused.

"No!" Gandalf said. "There's no need for that, surely? Can I call you Shirley?"

Thorin groaned aloud this time.

"It's a surprise visit! Yes. For his...birthday."

The concierge hung up the phone. "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

"Oh, but...." The security guard was coming over now, and there went their chances of remaining inconspicuous. The doors to the lobby suddenly crashed open, and Thorin and Gandalf turned to look.

Blocking their exit was a group of truly bizarre looking creatures. They were humpbacked and bald, their pallor a sickly grey and their eyes too big for their face. They snarled, showing off rotted, blackened teeth, and began to prowl closer.

"What are these things?" asked Thorin, slamming his helm on his head and taking the axe out from under his coat.

"Goblins," said Gandalf. "Very fast. Man-eaters. Quite unpleasant."

Thorin raised an eyebrow, and then prepared to defend himself as the daywalkers shot toward them. Thorin swung his axe and two of the creatures went flying. He saw the wizard point his staff, sending three into fits of pain. They screeched and drooled on the floor, but their fellows did not stop to help them. There were so many, coming from out of nowhere – Thorin struck out over and over but saw no end to them.

"Enough!" said Gandalf, clearing a space around himself. "Keep that helm on your head, Thorin Durin, or perish with them."

"What?" Thorin shouted, but Gandalf was already raising his staff.

He brought it down and a blinding light filled the room. Thorin slammed his eyes closed, listening as the snarls abruptly stopped and a car horn went off before there was a loud crash. Then everything went silent.

Oddly, it was difficult to reopen his eyes, but he managed with a great deal of willpower. He immediately saw that Gandalf was surrounded by collapsed goblins. Then he looked at the security guard and concierge, who were similarly knocked out.

"Have you killed them?" Thorin yelped.

"Of course not!" Gandalf denied defensively. "They are merely asleep."

Thorin saw now that people on the street had passed out as well, a few at the wheel but miraculously crashing without hurting themselves or others. Thorin gaped at Gandalf accusingly.

"How many people did you do this to?" he demanded. "And why wasn't I affected?"

Gandalf turned toward the lifts impatiently. "Your helm, of course. There is little that can penetrate it. I am unsure just how many people were put to sleep, but I wouldn't worry so. It's a relatively harmless spell, I assure you."

That didn't reassure Thorin at all, but there wasn't time for getting angry at Gandalf. "I doubt the spell managed to reach the upstairs," the wizard said. "We'd best hurry."

They quickly sprinted for the lifts and crammed in, awkwardly adjusting axe and staff so as to not hit each other. Then they pressed the button for the top floor. They had just made it past the sixth when they stopped and the doors popped open. Thorin quickly pressed for them to close again but nothing happened.

"Bugger," he said when a horde of Wargs appeared in the hallway.

"I suppose we'll take the stairs," said Gandalf, a bit sadly. He quickly left the lift, his staff held high, and bowled over the Wargs at the front of the pack. Thorin followed with his axe, striking down the second wave.

The last two were bigger than the others, and Thorin faced them warily as they stepped up and over the downed members of their pack. Then they transformed, and Thorin saw a true Warg for the first time.

They were massive, rather more the size of a bear than a wolf, and their jaws looked so powerful that Thorin was sure they could cut him in half with one bite. Their fur was a thick brown and a bit mangy, and their eyes were yellow-red.

As they prowled closer, Thorin raised his axe and wished he knew more about using it in combat, and just more about combat in general. So far he'd been holding his own, but these were also really big wolves.

He had no time for fear, however, because the Warg was coming for him, and he was suddenly using his axe to keep those teeth away from his throat.

The Warg snapped and spat, and then clawed down Thorin's side. He yelled out in pain, cursing as he used his upper body strength to shove the thing off of him. He felt something strain in his already injured arm when he did it, and seeing as the Warg had to be over three hundred pounds, it was no wonder his arm felt useless when he managed to get back on his feet. The Warg came for him again and he cried out in agony as he raised his axe and brought it down on its head.

There was no strength behind it, Thorin's arm was shot and his speed was dismal, but the moment it touched the Warg's head the axe seemed to sense its master's desperation and gathered its own power. It slammed into the Warg and drove its head straight into the ground, breaking apart the carpeted floor and leaving a Warg shaped hole. Its bum and legs stuck up a bit, and Thorin couldn't help but laugh a little.

He turned and helped Gandalf finish off the last one (nearly getting singed by one of the wizard's spells for his efforts) and by the time the pack had been defeated they were in pretty rough shape. Thorin panted, checking his bleeding side and moaning every time he moved his arm.

"Come, I can help with the pain," said Gandalf, motioning to him.

Thorin gazed at him skeptically, but handed over his arm for inspection anyway. It hurt too much not to. "You said you couldn't do subtle magics."

Gandalf sent him a disgruntled look. "You may be a bit giddy afterward, possibly even for a day or so, but you shan't be in so much pain. Now which is it? Yes or no?"

"Yes."

The wizard's spell did indeed make Thorin feel giddy, and also extremely refreshed. With a new energy he took his arm from Gandalf and hefted up his axe.

"Your arm is still injured, Thorin, so mind how you use it," Gandalf warned him, watching as Thorin tried the lift again. They made for the stairs when it refused to work.

They climbed as quickly as they could, the axe heavy and the miraculously unharmed guitar bumping against his back. He counted the seventh, eighth, and ninth floors before losing track. The penthouse was on the fifteenth, and to Thorin that seemed thousands of miles away.

It was on the thirteenth floor that something strange started to happen; there was an odd scraping and tapping noise, as if thousands of needles were falling onto metal. The unseen thing hissed like something slithering, and Thorin slowed in order to listen closer.

Then something came down the staircase. It was black and spindly, and made of what looked like tendrils of writhing vines that slowly inched toward Thorin and the wizard.

"Don't let them touch you!" cried Gandalf. "They are probably poisoned."

Thorin swallowed around a groan of frustration and began to hack away at the vines, but like a hydra, the more he cut the more they seemed to multiply.

"How exactly am I supposed to kill this thing?!" Thorin asked as the thorns continued to advance.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," Gandalf said unhelpfully.

Thorin continued to hack and slash, getting nowhere. "Can't you use light or something? Like from the movie?"

Gandalf's head shot up. "What movie?"

"Harry Potter!" Thorin yelled.

His expression grew thunderous. "That isn't real magic!" he snapped. "And I am not that Dumbledorf person!"

"Oh for god’s sake!" Thorin shouted in frustration.

He purposely recalled the sensation he had felt the first time he had used the axe – the moment when he'd called up the hot rock and flame – but this time he wished for searing light to accompany it.

The axe came down and flame spread out in a fan, electricity running ahead of it like foam on a wave. It crashed into the thorns and incinerated them, sending a strange sulfuric stink into the air.

Thorin coughed and looked around at Gandalf. "See?" he couldn't help but needle. "Are you a wizard or not?"

Gandalf scowled. "Yes, well, fire tends to work most of the time," the old man grumbled.

They ascended once more, climbing up to the fifteenth floor at long last, but wary of what they would meet there. The door to the stairwell swung open easy enough, and Thorin saw a long hallway before him. At the very end was a door made of textured glass.

Thorin and Gandalf walked toward it cautiously, the eerie silence of the hall a large difference to the chaotic noise of before. Thorin's ears were even ringing.

When he reached the end, he hesitated.

Despite his fear for Bilbo and the adrenaline coursing through him, he had to stop and take a deep breath before touching the handle. When he finally did it clicked open easily.

"This is absolutely a trap," Thorin hissed, looking around.

The room was painted a deep gold, with red neon lights lining the high ceiling. A large tube-like structure made of the same textured glass as the door sat in the middle of the otherwise empty room.

Thorin moved forward cautiously, peering around it. That's when he saw the opening, and that's when he saw Bilbo.

Thorin immediately ran to his side, calling his name. Bilbo was laid out on a gold colored bed, looking just the same as when Thorin had last seen him. His ugly yellow cardigan and maroon knit cap were slightly askew, but otherwise...he was completely unhurt.

And yet Bilbo would not wake.

"Bilbo? Bilbo?" Thorin shook him a little. "Bilbo, wake up."

"An enchanted sleep will not hold his power for long," Gandalf suddenly said. Thorin turned around quickly, spying the wizard looking at someone standing in the doorway.

"No, but it will keep him quiet," responded Smaug, and of course it was him.

Thorin stepped away from Bilbo, removing the guitar from his back and gently placing it on the floor beside the bed. He left the glass circle, creeping out until he caught sight of Smaug.

The dragon faced them calmly, his sharp gaze finding Thorin before flicking back to the wizard. He wore a fitted black suit, and his long, chiseled face, was as hard as stone. As usual, his full lips were turned up in a cruel smirk.

"You cannot take the power of the ring for yourself. It is lost to you now," Gandalf said, leaning on his staff.

"Then I'm sure I can...persuade him to work for me," Smaug replied, shrugging. "He's always been such a gullible little thing. So eager to please...."

Thorin's face grew hot with fury. "You'll have to kill us first," Thorin snarled. "He's a wizard, and I'm a king. How good do you think your chances are?"

Smaug raised his eyebrows in amusement.

"A king, are you?" he said silkily. "So quick to take up that honorable mantle, Detective Inspector! Could it be you enjoy the power that axe gives you? It feels good doesn't it? To destroy. To command. To be more than just human. What makes you so different from me?"

Thorin glared. "The biggest difference is that I don't do monologues," he replied, and raised the axe. To his satisfaction, he saw Smaug's eyes widen as the weapon came down, striking the floor with a boom.

The dragon was thrown off of his feet and into the door, which shattered on contact. Gandalf shot a bright, pulsing light from the end of his staff, and it slammed into Smaug, who screamed in pain. As Thorin advanced, he felt the hilt of the axe heat and looked down as sparks came off of its straight edge. It must have been hot enough to burn, but Thorin's hands remained unharmed.

Gandalf's spell ceased, the old man seeming to tire a bit, and Thorin stepped forward and slashed his axe across his body with one hand. The ground rumbled and turned to hot black stone, from which bright orange magma bubbled and hissed to the surface. He marveled for a moment at the magic it took to summon a veritable volcano in a penthouse flat, before he was distracted by the liquified floor. It had turned to lava, and Smaug was sinking into it with an ungodly screech.

And then those pained eyes focused on Thorin, and his porcelain skin began to change. Black vines, reminiscent of the thorny creature that had attacked them on the stairwell, crawled out of Smaug's eyes, which had turned the color of fire.

Then Gandalf stepped back. "Oh, dear," he said.

Thorin looked at him quizzically, not liking the sound of that, but he understood why the wizard was wary when the strange vines around Smaug's body began to pulse.

"You will burn," the dragon hissed, and then exploded into darkness.

Writhing clouds of pure black smoke flew up into the air, congealing to form a hulking, massive shape. The roof groaned and broke open, and Thorin tripped over his feet to get away from the falling debris.

Smaug the dragon, the actual dragon, came out of the smoke head first; his snake-like neck curving back as if he were stretching after a long time trapped somewhere small.

"Our little game ends here," Smaug rumbled, his voice was like thunder. "Now you die."

Thorin dove out of the way just in time as Smaug let loose a ball of fire. He moved quickly out of the dragon's reach, stumbling into the far wall, and too late realized that he was close to the sleeping Bilbo and probably putting him in terrible danger.

And yet Smaug did not attack. He eyed Bilbo as well, his head swaying from side to side in agitation, and Thorin understood that the dragon would not risk hurting the minstrel with his fire.

That did not stop his teeth, however, and then Thorin was moving again – this time away from the dragon's snapping jaws.

As he dodged and ducked, he heard Gandalf call out from above, and Thorin looked up and saw that the wizard had escaped up to the roof. He seemed to be chanting and slowly gathering light at the tip of his staff. Smaug narrowed his eyes at the wizard and slithered through the hole in the ceiling, completely distracted by the foreboding shine of the spell.

Thorin followed, nearly tripping over bits of plaster, and managed to pull himself up to the next floor with the help of some stacked debris. On the next level he immediately saw a stairwell to the roof, and he sprinted toward it and up to the outside. And just in time too – for Gandalf's spell had only made the dragon angrier.

The night was brisk and windy, and Thorin could see twinkling stars behind Smaug's red-scaled bulk. Gandalf glowed a bright white, and in solidarity the axe in Thorin's hand pulsed with heat. He watched as Smaug reared back, the scales on his chest beginning to ignite, and did something he had never done before. He held the axe securely by its hilt, reached back, and let it fly.

It was aimed straight for Smaug's chest, but the dragon had seen him prepare to throw it, and brought up his wing just in time. Miraculously, the axe did not bounce off of the armor-like scales, and instead sunk deep into his hide.

Smaug roared in pain and fury, clawing at the axe until it fell to the ground. Thorin watched it with despairing eyes, swallowing as the dragon angrily crouched and made ready to pounce.

Thorin had no choice but to run, but where to run to? He took off for the other side of the roof, listening as Gandalf shouted in some other language and the wind suddenly grew stronger. He had to find his weapon –

The floor cracked beneath his feet and collapsed, and Thorin's stomach dropped as he fell, his hands reaching out desperately for something to grab. He landed bum first on the next floor, which crumbled apart but thankfully slowed his fall, and before he knew it he was crashing back into Smaug's penthouse.

He groaned, feeling blood roll down his leg and side, and reached up to wipe the dust out of his nose. The ground shook as he crawled blindly toward the wall, frightened of falling again.

He heard the dragon roar and knew he should get up – he knew that the wizard needed his help – but his axe was gone and though his helm protected his head it didn't do much else. He took a second to catch his breath, riding out the pain from his injuries. He turned his head tiredly, looking around at the destruction, when his eyes caught sight of the large glass circle.

"Bilbo," he murmured, starting to panic. How had he forgotten about Bilbo? The room was trashed, the roof was falling down, and the dragon was crashing around and setting fire to everything and poor Bilbo was, was –

Completely fine.

"You lucky sod," he laughed, quickly moving to Bilbo's side. It must have been some magic spell that kept him from harm, for everything within the glass circle was relatively unscathed, though a bit dusty. Thorin put his hand over Bilbo's, feeling tired and sore. He needed to finish this, for Bilbo's sake.

And apparently Smaug agreed; the dragon crashed through what was left of the ceiling and braced his forelegs on the floor, the rest of his large body coiled on the roof.

"Thief!" rumbled Smaug. "You will take nothing from me! I laid low the warriors of old, and now you shall meet the same fate, o' Son of Durin!"

The dragon opened his jaws, showing off his terrible teeth, and Thorin looked around desperately for something, anything to use as a weapon.

His eyes found Bilbo's guitar.

He dove out of the way of Smaug's reach, wincing when he heard his huge jaw snap closed, and crawled quickly toward the instrument. Thorin picked the surprisingly heavy guitar up just in time, swinging it around to hold in front of him as Smaug thankfully bit into it instead of Thorin.

The guitar splintered and then broke apart, the wooden top separating from the whole, and Thorin felt bad for a second until he realized that there was nothing else to use to defend himself but the remains of the guitar. It wouldn't do much, but he grabbed the wooden top anyway and held onto it by the hole, using it to cover most of his arm and face as Smaug attacked, and this time with his skull.

And surprisingly, the top didn't break. Instead, the force of Smaug's head butt pushed Thorin back, his feet sliding along the ground until his heel caught on a chunk of concrete. He went down hard but forced himself to keep moving, to keep rolling away and to run, run, run to who knew where....

The axe.

He spotted it underneath a large piece of the fallen ceiling, and he ran full tilt for it. Smaug slithered after him, but Thorin was faster now, for there was at last an end in sight. He crashed into the wreckage and reached beneath it, feeling the hilt and wrapping his hand around it. Smaug took a breath.

The world was fire, but Thorin wasn't burning. He had thrust the guitar top and axe in front of him without thinking, and the flames crashed into the shield and axe and fanned out around him. Thorin knew then that this was his only chance; that his body simply could not take much more of this. So he closed his eyes and listened to the call.

The King beneath the mountains. 6

....began a voice not unlike Bilbo's. The dragon's deadly fire ran out, and Thorin brought his axe close to his lips. He said the next verse, this time.

The King of carven stone.

Smaug was preparing another strike, but Thorin knew what to do. Thorin was ready. He reached back with his axe in hand, feet staggered and spread apart.

The lord of silver fountains.

His whole body twisted forward, and with stunning accuracy, he threw the axe straight for Smaug's heart.

It met its mark.

...shall come into his own!

Smaug roared and writhed in pain, the axe lodged deep within his breast. From where the blade had punctured him, cracks soon appeared – Smaug's chest glowing as the axe worked its destructive magic. Then the great lizard bellowed one last time, and his body cracked like broken glass – and finally shattered.

Golden sparks burst from where the dragon once stood, and Thorin covered his eyes as they went every which way. When all was done and the room had fallen silent, he looked up cautiously...and saw that the dragon was gone. That Smaug had at last been defeated.

Out of breath and hurting worse than he ever had in his life, Thorin stood there in disbelief. A smile slowly spread across his face, and he couldn't help but laugh when he realized that the danger had passed, and that against all odds...he had survived.

Then he remembered Bilbo.

His breath caught and he spun around, seeing Bilbo there still fast asleep. Thorin stumbled over and leaned heavily against the bed, wondering if Bilbo should have woken by now. He heard grumbling and the sound of falling concrete as Gandalf jumped down from the floor above and back into the room.

"Why isn't he awake?" Thorin said, turning to glare at Gandalf.

Gandalf brushed off his robes and glared back. "How would I know? The enchantment should have ended. Perhaps if you give it a moment? So impatient!"

But Thorin was remembering something. It was a wild theory and unlikely to do much of anything, but all he could think of was leaning down and kissing Bilbo lightly on the lips. And so he did it.

It lasted only a few seconds, but it was the sweetest few seconds Thorin had ever known.

And then Bilbo's eyes fluttered open.

"Hmm?" he inquired, blinking the tiredness out of his eyes.

Thorin flinched backward, putting up empty hands in surrender should Bilbo be cross. But the man only yawned and peered at Thorin happily, looking for all the world like he had just woken from a rather pleasant siesta.

Then his smile vanished, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Hold on," he said, pushing himself up into a sitting position. "Was that a kiss? Were you just kissing me right now?"

"No!" Thorin answered automatically, and then he winced again. "Yes. Sorry."

Bilbo stared at him for a moment before grinning slowly. "That's alright," he said cheerfully. "I'm just sorry I missed it. But where on earth am I? Was I asleep? Holy shit, what a mess! Ooh, wait – "

Bilbo leaned into Thorin's space excitedly. "Was that true love's first kiss?"

Gandalf, who had been shuffling around in the wreckage, threw them both an irritated look. "Of course not," he said crossly, kicking a piece of broken plasterboard away. "This isn't a fairytale!"

Bilbo made a face. "Spoilsport."

"Another gas leak! The world is just falling apart," said Bilbo, slapping down the front page of the newspaper. A picture of the ruins of Smaug's penthouse was on the cover, and Thorin couldn't help but shake his head. Had he truly been that oblivious once? How many gas leaks had really been gas leaks, anyway?

The morning after the battle with Smaug was horrid for both Gandalf and Thorin. Gandalf was still asleep, snoring away in Radagast's room, while Thorin had been up at the crack of dawn as always, unable to ignore his internal clock. His whole body protested any and all movement, but he'd made it to the loo and the kitchen well enough, and then couldn't find the energy to slouch back to bed after that.

Bilbo had taken the initiative and had made him some porridge and tea, and then happily hovered around him like a mother hen.

"At least no one was killed," Bilbo said thoughtfully, popping a piece of toast in his mouth. "You two got the worst of it. How's your arm by the way? Should I change your bandages?"

"In a bit," Thorin told him, smiling softly. "I'm glad you're alright, you know."

Bilbo nudged him with his shoulder playfully. "Me too! And thank you for saving me," he said. "I can't believe you defeated a dragon all by yourself! It's very cinematic!"

"Stupid more like," Thorin scoffed, taking a sip of his tea. "We nearly died multiple times. But it was worth it, in the end, to see you safe."

Bilbo looked at him for a moment, his expression terribly fond. Then he leaned over and kissed Thorin on the cheek.

"Finish your breakfast," he said, and got up to refill the kettle.

Thorin took a few more slow bites, his gritty eyes fixing on the axe and helm leaning casually against the wall. And next to it was the remains of Bilbo's guitar....

"Bilbo," he began, feeling positively wretched. "I'm so sorry about your guitar."

But Bilbo only smiled. "Oh that's alright!" He waved it off. "I can make another. I didn't much like using oak for it anyway. Too heavy...."

He cast a curious glance at the splintered pieces. "Made a great shield though," he added cheekily.

Thorin snorted. "That it did."

After he finished eating he let Bilbo pile gauze and sterile pads on the table, watching as the man bustled around the kitchen. He carried over a round bowl full of hot kettle water, and Thorin obligingly removed his shirt. Bilbo hissed in sympathy when he slowly removed the soiled bandages.

"Tell me if I hurt you," he said, and began to clean the wound.

Thorin's arm would need to be re-wrapped, as well as his leg, and he felt a bit guilty about enjoying Bilbo's ministrations, despite the pain it brought. He liked having Bilbo close, and he especially liked the coddling. Who knew Thorin was so fond of being fussed over? He couldn't help but gaze at the man affectionately as he worked.

"So, I don't mean to be that person," Bilbo began, his attention on Thorin's wound. "But someone has to say it: what now?"

Thorin frowned. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that Smaug is gone, and half the hunstman in England are dead. All that's left are people like us. And we still don't have a leader."

Thorin looked away.

"Once word gets around that Smaug isn't in charge anymore, someone or something is going to rush to fill that void. I'm not saying it should be you – "

"But shouldn't it be me?" he interrupted, meeting Bilbo's eyes. "Aren't I...king now?"  

"Well, I didn't vote for you."

Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Really?" he said in amused disbelief.

Bilbo shrugged, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Couldn't help myself. But yeah. I guess you are king. King of...I don't know, a load of people with bizarre talents, probably. But hey, you know what? I think you'll make a splendid king for us. Best we've ever had."

"You haven't had any."

"Exactly!"

He shook his head at Bilbo, but he was smiling. "What about my life, Bilbo? I don't...want to leave it behind. I like my job. I worked hard to get where I am. But most of all I just still want to help people."

Bilbo bit his cheek and looked away thoughtfully. "Well, there's no reason you can't be a king and a cop."

"You're not serious," Thorin laughed, though he didn't find it funny.

"Why not? At least for now you can keep that part of your old life."  Bilbo secured the gauze around his chest and sat back with a sigh. "We've got lots of work to do before you're even considered a real king anyway."

Thorin nodded at the table. "That's right, whose to say the magicals will ever acknowledge the crown? Might be a lost cause."

"Not at all!" Bilbo wrapped a gentle arm around his shoulders, hugging him. "People talk, you know, and they'll be talking about this battle for a long time. 'King Thorin' they'll say, 'wielder of axe and broken guitar! A most excellent detective and surprise kisser!'"

Thorin groaned. "I'm never going to live that down."

"Aww, but it was true love!" said Bilbo, giggling. "You woke me from an enchanted sleep and now we're obligated to give it a go! In fact, we can just skip the courting and get right to the se – "

He cut Bilbo off with a kiss. Thorin had to live up to the legend, after all.

"Got one for you, detective," said the desk sergeant, poking his head into Thorin's office.

"Yeah, I'm coming."

Thorin pushed aside his paperwork and slipped on his blazer, walking idly toward the interrogation room. "What's this?" he asked Bofur.

"Lady come in asking for you," Bofur shrugged. "Said she wanted to speak to you alone."

Thorin sighed and nodded, taking the case file Bofur handed to him. He opened the door and slipped inside.

"Heard you wanted to talk to me," said Thorin, cutting to the chase. "What seems to be the problem?"

The red headed woman sitting at the table had an earnest look about her, and her green eyes were bright as she solemnly said, "I'd like to report a crime."

Thorin frowned. "Alright...?"

"It's to do with...one of ours."

His stomach swooped nervously, and he titled his head at her in confusion. "One...one of ours?" he repeated.

"Yes," said the woman. Then she eyed him speculatively. "You...you are King Thorin Oakenshield, aren't you?"

Thorin inhaled, mouth moving but nothing coming out.

"The detective?" she pressed.

He let out a long breath. King Thorin Oakenshield, he thought with an laugh. That was Bilbo all over. And...she had called him a king and a detective. She knew of him. Bilbo was right...word was spreading. 

And now it sounded like she needed his help.

He turned his attention back on the woman, who had been waiting very patiently.

"Yes..." Thorin said, smiling a little. "I suppose I am."

Notes:

(1) The Old Walking Song (original)


(2) derivative of “or so sworn, good or evil, an oath may not be broken, and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end.”


(3) “Down the swift dark stream…” from The Hobbit


(4) literally what the legend says


(5) “Song of Durin” from The Fellowship of the Ring


(6) “The King Beneath the Mountain” from The Hobbit

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #14 - in a fairytale

Rating: M Summary: for the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Detective Inspector Durin has been trying to put Smaug behind bars for years, but something almost…supernatural keeps getting in the way. Bilbo Baggins has been running since he was a kid, but no matter where he goes he can’t escape his curse. Maybe they can help each other. Alternate Universe - Modern Setting/Magical Realism. Part I

Also on ao3

Note: So this is one of those urban magical realism fics. Bilbo is a magical busker and Thorin is a hard boiled detective who’s gonna find out magic is real and then try to arrest it!!!! Amazing!!

There’s elements of Sleeping Beauty, Snow White, King Arthur, Rumpelstiltskin (and like so many more, holy shit) in this story. It’s basically an extravaganza of fairytale tropes. It was also really fun to write my dudes, so I hope it’s fun to read! ♡

A nervous sweat ran down the side of his face as he watched Smaug idly tap his fingers on the metal table. He wasn’t even listening to their questions, and he certainly wasn’t falling for Ori’s innocent act or Dwalin’s (usually effective) bad cop routine. All the bastard did was give the two detectives a slimy smirk, and remain stubbornly and infuriatingly silent.

“…fact that you were found in the back of the club, Mr. Smaug, and no one can say where you were at the time of the murder…” Ori was saying, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

The door to the interrogation room burst open.

“My client has nothing to say to you,” Thranduil announced, looking as haughty as ever. “And seeing as you’re not charging him with anything, I think we’ll be leaving now.”

Thorin cursed viciously. “Thorin!” Balin called out, but he was already tearing out of the surveillance room and barging through the door.

“You want to explain the blood we found all over him when we brought him in, Oropher?” he growled, ignoring Dwalin’s warning glance. “Or how about the fucking head we found in the car boot – ”

“Which you found without my client’s permission to search!” Thranduil snapped.

“And really, Thorin, it’s time to let the severed head go,” Smaug said, looking from his lawyer to Thorin, and then leaning back and crossing one leg over the other – like he owned the place. “I haven’t the faintest idea how it got there, nor whom it belonged to. Perhaps I never will…one of life’s mysteries, I suppose.”

Smaug was laughing at him, and Thorin was having to count to ten in his head. Calm, he thought, remain calm.  

Thranduil scoffed. “What’s not a mystery is the gross injustice the Met continues to inflict upon my client. In fact, we’ve decided to file a harassment suit – ”

“Now, Mr. Oropher,” Balin objected, standing behind Thorin with a grim expression on his face. “We’re just trying to do our jobs. Someone has died – ”

“I can’t see how it concerns me,” Smaug said flippantly. “I can’t be blamed for every murder that comes across your desk, Chief Inspector, which is something your Detective doesn’t seem to understand. But then again, loss makes us do the craziest things….”

Fuck it.

Thorin threw himself at Smaug and in one fell swoop he ruined their investigation, gave Thranduil ample evidence for his lawsuit, and demoted himself back to sergeant. Balin later said he was lucky he wasn’t fired.

“Take this time to reconsider things,” Balin told him. His old friend may have given him a cup of tea and a sympathetic shoulder, but he was still Thorin’s boss, and Thorin’s behavior had been a problem for a while now. “Work the beat for a couple of months. Try and remember why you wanted to be a cop in the first place.”

Thorin licked his lips, gazing down at his now cold tea. “I know why,” he said, after a moment of silence.

He looked up and met Balin’s eyes. “I wanted to get scum like Smaug off the streets. And I can’t. I can’t, Balin. Something is wrong here. There’s evidence just disappearing…no one ever sees anything…and let’s not forget that his fingerprints were on the murder weapon! He killed one of our own for god’s sake!”

“Thorin….”

“He killed my father.” He was breathing hard; desperately trying to hold back the angry tears collecting at the corner of his eyes. “He killed him. And no one will help me prove it.”

“Roads go ever ever on, over rock and under tree, by caves where never sun has shone, by streams that never find the sea…." 

He plucked the often played melody and sang the next verse with a passion. This was his favorite song, after all, and his very last one of the day. He’d made nearly fifteen pound off it once.

"Over snow by winter sown, and through the merry flowers of June, over grass and over stone, and under mountains in the moon….”

Bilbo glanced up at the crowd as he sang, checking for yawns or frowns, but all he saw was smiling tourists and a few rambunctious children running about. It was a cold day in Trafalgar Square, and it looked as though it was about to get even colder and wetter. He watched the dark clouds swirl ominously for a moment, before he turned his gaze back to his audience. It was then that he saw the eyes.

Stunned, he messed up the next chord and quickly forgot his lyrics. He gaped for a moment, fear rising and threatening to paralyze him, but somehow he managed to press on – this time with more urgency.

“Under cloud and under star, yet feet that wandering have gone, turn at last to home afar.”

Obediently, one by one, the crowd began to leave. They floated away as if in a dream; forgetting the music, and forgetting Bilbo.

All but one.

“Eyes that fire and sword have seen, and horror in the halls of stone,” he sang desperately. “Look at last on meadows green, and trees and hills they long have known.” 1

Everyone was looking away now, paying Bilbo no mind as the music focused their attention elsewhere. But still those eyes were watching, and he nearly tripped over the last verse as he hurriedly added:

Think you’ll find me no you won’t! Now you see me, now you don’t.

And then he disappeared.

The huntsman looked around for him frantically, pushing through the oblivious crowd, but Bilbo had already gathered up his guitar and money-filled cap and was sprinting out of the square. The nearest tube station was Charing Cross, and he would make it if he ran like the dickens, but when he looked back he saw that the huntsman had caught on and was heading in Bilbo’s direction with frankly supernatural speed.

Goblin.

Bilbo panted as he reached the stairwell and hopped down the steps two at a time. He heard a sudden shout as his pursuer violently shoved bystanders out of the way, but he didn’t dare stop to help. He crashed into the ticket gates and hurriedly reached into his pocket for his Oyster card. Then he realized what he was doing and jumped over it, cursing himself all the while.

Down the tunnel he ran, breathing hard and then gasping with relief when he saw the crowds waiting for the train. He slipped in among them, glancing at the clock and then behind him. He saw the huntsman walking slowly down the platform, peering at people closely. Bilbo tried to catch his breath, staying quiet and still between a man in a suit and an old woman holding her shopping. He kept his head down.

Then a whisper:

So sworn does the oathkeeper, forever pursue the oathbreaker. Show me. 2

Bilbo gasped as his spell broke and the man beside him startled at his sudden appearance. Now visible, the huntsman had no problem spotting him, and he lunged for Bilbo without concern for the people around him. The old woman fell to the ground as Bilbo was tackled, the momentum pushing them both toward the edge of the platform.

“Oi! Break it up, there!”

Bilbo scrabbled at his attacker’s clawing hands, trying to buck the man off of him. He straddled Bilbo and lifted his head up by his clothes, before slamming Bilbo’s skull into the ground forcefully. His vision blurred for a moment.

“Hey, stop!” someone yelled, moving to grab at the huntsman, but he paid the hands no mind and instead drew his fist back for a punch. Bilbo’s eyes widened. He knew that that punch could kill him. If the goblin used his full strength….

No, he thought, gathering his power. He squeezed his eyes shut and quickly murmured,

Goodbye, goodbye I’ve had enough, Shifting, lifting, off and up!

The huntsman flew straight up into the air, hovered for a moment – and then dropped like a stone. Bilbo rolled away and the man hit the edge of the platform, before flipping onto the tracks with sickening crunch. Then Bilbo heard the train.

He pulled back from the edge just in time, saving himself from decapitation, and gazed in shock at where the huntsman had once been. For a moment he heard nothing, saw nothing – the shock was too great. Then he was suddenly forced onto his belly, and the world abruptly came back into focus.

People were screaming, some were pointing accusingly at Bilbo. “He pushed him! I saw it!”

The one time I wish they’d seen, he groaned internally, but he didn’t have time to sulk. Someone was digging their knee into his back and twisting his arms behind him. Ah. He was being arrested. Bother, Bilbo thought, and sighed as he was dragged away.

“Name?”

“….Underhill. Bill Underhill.”

“Okay, Mr. Underhill,” said Thorin, not believing him for a second. “Date of birth?”

“September 22nd, 1989.”

“Right,” he muttered, bored of this already. “Address?”

The man said nothing. Thorin raised his eyebrows pointedly.

“Well,” he mumbled, fidgeting. “I haven’t…got one.”

Thorin took him in properly then, for a moment setting aside the ‘suspected murderer’ part of his first impression. The man looked a bit ragged, true, though he was loads cleaner than the other drifters Thorin had met on the beat.

His hair was full of riotous auburn curls, which were covered by a maroon knit cap that had seen better days. His mustard yellow cardigan and white shirt seemed clean enough, but his blue jeans and boots were rather well-worn. He was short and a little bit plumper than most homeless people, and his dark blue eyes were bright and clear (so no drugs then).

His little nose was turned up, and he bit at his chapped lips nervously while Thorin rudely stared. He was quite lovely, really…which sort of just made the incident even more suspicious.

“You don’t look hard up,” he pointed out, gazing into Bilbo’s eyes and giving him the 'I will find out what you’ve done eventually, so make it easier on yourself and start talking’ look.

“Well, um, I’m more of an…adventurer, of sorts.”

Thorin made face. “You what?”

The man struggled to find words for what he meant, and Thorin checked his eyes again but really didn’t think there was drugs involved. Strange.

“What I mean is, I’m a bit like a nomad. I, um, don’t like being in one place for too long.” He shrugged one shoulder and smiled nervously.

“Right.” Thorin rolled his eyes.

Sensing his disdain (smart lad), he raised his chin defensively.

“Not all who wander are lost,” he said.

Thorin scowled. “What are you some modern day hippie?”

“What? No…” he muttered, frowning. “It’s meant to be philosophical.”

Thorin gave him a look and shook his head, before doggedly moving on. The station bustled around him, and occasionally the man would rattle his cuffs as he answered Thorin’s questions (though for all his chattiness he never said much of anything). Thorin finally finished the standard paperwork and focused all of his attention on Bilbo with a sigh.

“Right. What was all that, then?”

The man blinked. “You mean…at the station?”

Thorin didn’t have to say anything, his expression was answer enough.

“Oh, ok, that’s a yes then,” he mumbled, picking at his cardigan. Then he took a breath. “What happened was…I was waiting for the train, and, um, this man, he, um – for some reason he thought, well, uh, I don’t know what he thought. But he attacked me! It was like he just went mad. Um. I didn’t push him in front of the train, I swear! He just sort of…fell…that…way? Um.”

Everything in him said that this man was not a murderer. He wasn’t sure what exactly the man was, but a killer? He’d be very surprised.

Thorin was tired of this case already. He wished he had been looking when the victim had been pushed; wished he’d witnessed the murder (or possible accident) so that talking extensively with this woeful creature wouldn’t be necessary.

“I’ve got four witnesses that say you pushed him.”

“I didn’t!” the man denied loudly. “Please, you’ve got to believe me! I didn’t push him. He just fell over the side. It must have been some sort of freak accident.”

Thorin stared at him a moment more and then set his report aside. He scrubbed a hand over his face. 

“Alright,” he said, getting to his feet and taking the man with him. "Let’s go.”

“Can I leave then?” the man asked hopefully.

Instead of answering Thorin took him over to the custody sergeant. “Aww, who’s this then?” said Bofur, smiling at their detainee.

“One for the suite, Bof.”

He followed Bofur into custody as Mr. Underhill suddenly seemed to realize he was in loads of trouble.

“Oh, but I can’t stay!” he protested, as if they’d asked him to stay for dinner. “Please! I have to leave!”

Bofur tsked. “Sorry, mate,” he said as he lead him into the cell. He slid it shut and glanced at Thorin. “What’s he in for?”

Thorin rubbed his temples. “Murder.”

“I didn’t kill anyone! Okay, well…not really,” the man denied, distractedly following Bofur’s directions to put his hands out to be uncuffed. “But you don’t understand! I can’t stay here! They’ll find me. They’ll find me and kill me and then they’ll kill you too. Please, you have to let me out!”

“Cute but bonkers,” Bofur said, shaking his head mournfully. He and Thorin made their way out of custody and left the cell behind.

“Please come back! I can’t stay here! Please!” the man begged, but soon there was no one there to hear him.

Thorin rolled his neck, using one hand to massage his aching shoulders. It was just past eleven, and he and a few unlucky newbies were the only people on duty. He blew out a long breath and looked down at his paperwork despondently.

“Work the beat, he says,” Thorin muttered under his breath, reluctantly taking up his pen again. “Remember your past, blah blah blah….”

There was a sudden loud crash.

Thorin’s head popped up, and he looked around for the source of the noise. Nothing. And nobody had reacted to the sound at all. He couldn’t be that tired, could he?

Thump.

No, that was definitely real. He got to his feet. “Ori,” he said. “You hear that?”

Ori didn’t even look away from his computer. “Yeah, sorry,” he mumbled. “That chinese I had for lunch was a bit suspect.”

“No, I meant – ”

Bang! Thwap!

“That!” Thorin shouted. He pointed in the direction it came from. “You take the front! I’ll check the back.”

He grabbed his seldom used gun and ran off before Ori could respond, creeping down the hallway and listening intently. Thorin stopped when he saw a pile of broken glass, and looked up to where the small, barred window pane had shattered, letting in the rainwater. Bewildered, Thorin moved into the next hall, gun first, eyes swinging from side to side. That’s when he noticed it; the door that lead to the custody suites was wide open.

Clang! A roar, loud and long and completely hair-raising, echoed down the hall.

Thorin burst into the room, pointing his gun toward the noise, and saw just about the largest man he’d ever seen lurking in front of the cells.

“Christ,” he breathed, before shaking off his shock. “On your knees!” he yelled. “Hands up!”

But the large man only roared…and then charged at him. Thorin panicked, his finger somehow unable to pull the trigger, but thankfully a voice cried out before he was bowled over by the mad giant.

If you can’t be nice make like ice!

It was suddenly freezing. Thorin gasped as the giant man stopped as if put on pause, and ice – thick white chunks of it – crawled up his legs almost too fast to see.

He was frozen solid in seconds.

“Oh bother,” said a voice from inside the cell. Thorin gaped at the man in the yellow cardigan. “Of course you saw that.”

“Bit hard to miss,” he squeaked.

The man sighed. “You’d be surprised,” he said, before tapping the lock on his cell pointedly. “Bolg will have brought his pack with him. We need to go.”

Thorin blinked, looking from the frozen man to his prisoner, who was calmly peering out at him from behind the bars.

“You’re mental,” he decided, and then wondered if he was mental too. Everyone. Everyone was mental.

The man sighed again. “I’m terribly sorry,” he said to Thorin. “I hate breaking the law normally, but needs must.”

Inside outside woe is me I’ve done no wrong now set me free!

“Pardon?” Thorin asked, but was shocked into silence when the bars to the cell slid open. The man stepped out and hurriedly made his way over, and Thorin didn’t even think to point his gun at him he was so flummoxed.

The man peered up at him for a second, a bit concerned. “Are you alright?” he inquired, but when Thorin said nothing he huffed and shook his head. “Never mind. Of course you’re not. We need to go. Do you know where my guitar is?”

“I….y-yes?” he stuttered.

He grabbed Thorin’s hand and moved quickly out of the holding cell. “Where to, then?” he asked.

But Thorin had regained his senses. Once he was away from the giant frozen man things seemed much clearer. Go figure.

“Wait, no,” he said, waving a hand sternly. “We’re not going anywhere. You – you are going to tell me what is happening. Like what – what…that was, and how…how.”

“We haven’t the time!” the man insisted. “We have to go – ”

Crash! Thud! Another roar, but this time when one ended, another began. There were multiple attackers now.

“Ok, we really have to go,” the man groaned. He grabbed Thorin’s arm in a surprisingly strong grip and tugged him down the hall. “First my guitar, though!”

Thorin muttered a few refusals at first but obediently stopped them when they passed booking. At the man’s prodding he swung the door open, and there the guitar sat beside Bofur’s empty desk chair, unharmed.

The man snatched it up as growls (growls!) echoed through the station, rumbling like thunder and causing all of Thorin’s hairs to stand up. They hurried out of the room and down the hall, making their way to the exit. They had to cross the bullpen to get out, and Thorin couldn’t help but pause as he saw an oblivious Ori still toiling away at his desk.

“What is he – ?”

“No time!”

He heard the growl again and saw a figure standing across the room, its eyes glowing red and fixed upon them. Ori didn’t even look up.

“Why can’t he see – ?”

“Go! Now!”

The man lunged toward them, crashing into one of the desks as they raced out of the doors and into the soaked street, taking off at full speed in no direction in particular. As they ran, Thorin saw his companion click open his guitar case and fumble with the straps on his instrument.  

“Are you mad?!” Thorin shouted, but there was no time for explanations. The man in the yellow cardigan grabbed his hand and lead him to an empty side street before stopping entirely.

“This is not good,” Thorin found himself babbling. “Strategically, this is complete bollocks. Oh god, what are you doing now?!”

The man dropped his guitar case onto the ground, fixing the instrument around his shoulders. He held a pick in his teeth as he adjusted his cap, then took it out of his mouth and started to play.

It was then that the growls caught up with them. Thorin gaped as three hulking figures skulked down the alleyway, sounding absurdly enough like a pack of wolves. His heart beat out of control as they prowled closer, and then it nearly beat out of his chest entirely as he caught a glimpse of their faces under the streetlight. They were growing…fur?

“Wh–what, why…dogs?”

The man shook his head grimly. “Wargs,” he corrected, as if that made any sense at all. “Get behind me.”

Thorin blindly obeyed. He had no clue what was happening. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know.

The music got a bit louder, and the intricate fingering began to slow. Then suddenly, the man took a breath and started to sing:

“Down the swift dark stream you go Back to lands you once did know! Leave the halls and caverns deep, Leave the northern mountains steep, Where the forest wide and dim Stoops in shadow grey and grim!" 

Thorin watched as the three men halted slowly, as if frightened of coming closer.

"Float beyond the world of trees Out into the whispering breeze, Past the rushes, past the reeds, Past the marsh’s waving weeds, Through the mist that riseth white Up from mere and pool at night!”

There was something strange happening, something…unnatural. Thorin looked down at the surface drains, gaping when he saw the water bubbling up far too quickly. The big men seemed to notice it too, and they growled and began to sprint forward. Thorin raised his gun.

“Down the swift dark stream you go!”

The water now spilled out at an impossible rate – rushing around his feet. It was moving by some invisible hand away from Thorin and toward their attackers in a roaring black wave. The music suddenly peaked, and the man in the yellow cardigan shouted rather than sang:

“Back to lands you once did know!” 3

The sky thundered as the wall of water loomed above them. It came from nowhere, everywhere, somewhere – and crashed into the pack of men. For a moment Thorin could see nothing, but as the flood gradually dissipated, Thorin stared open mouthed at where their attackers used to be.

“How…?” he whispered, unable to form a coherent thought.

The man hummed, looking at the mouth of the alley thoughtfully. Then he turned and peered up at Thorin, seeming quite unruffled.

“Hungry?” he asked companionably.

Thorin stared.

“….you could be a spotter, but I’m honestly not so sure. There’s something odd about you. Hmm. I don’t know. I’ll have to consult someone. Are you sure you’ve never Seen before? You’re a bit old to have only just noticed us now.”

Bilbo, and this was the real name of the man in the yellow cardigan, smiled at him in what he probably thought was a comforting manner and then licked a bit of vinegar off of his thumb.

“You should eat,” Bilbo told him. “I’m always starved after singing, especially when I’m wordsmithing, and greasy food is always the best, isn’t it?” He waved a piece of fried fish in the air. “Good for magic and hangovers.”

“Magic,” Thorin said weakly. He swallowed and looked down at his untouched food. “This can’t be real.”

Bilbo frowned at him, his eyes bright with concern. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news…but it’s real.”

He took a steadying breath and counted down from ten, and when he reached one he managed to look at Bilbo properly. “So, what? You’re from…Narnia? Hogwarts?”

Bilbo gave him a confused look. “I’m from Dorset,” he said.

“Right.” Another deep breath. “Right.

"Look.” Bilbo put his fish down and wiped his fingers on his napkin. “I’m not the best person to explain all of this to you. I don’t even know if I can.”

Thorin glared at him. “Can’t you try?”

Bilbo scratched his forehead. “Yeah, alright, fine…uh, I guess we’ll start with what I am, and what I think you are.”

Suddenly conscious of the people around them, even in the relative anonymity of a crowded pub, Thorin leaned across the table and whispered, “you mean I’m like you?”

Bilbo leaned back a bit. “Good lord, no,” he laughed. “And you don’t have to worry about anyone overhearing us. They can’t.”

“What do you mean?”

“If they’re normal they won’t see or hear anything out of the ordinary,” he explained with a shrug. “No one really knows why. Maybe it’s because they don’t want to see. Maybe they just can’t. Only two types of people can see magic. People like me, who are magic, and people like you, who are called spotters.”

Thorin rolled the term around in his head for a moment. “Spotters?”

“Means you can spot magic,” said Bilbo, pointing a chip at him before eating it in one bite. “Sometimes even better than magicals. Spotters are dead useful.”

“Okay. Fine. Spotter.” He shook his head a little. “And what about you?”

Bilbo grinned. “I’m a minstrel! And a good one, if you couldn’t tell.”

He thought back on the frozen man, the unlocked cell, and the wall of water. “Ha,” he said, voice a bit high. “Right.”

“It was strange, actually. My mother was an apothecary, that means she was like a herbalist, you know. She could make all sorts of medicines and treat loads of diseases. She was pretty amazing. Then there was my father, who was bloomer, and they grow plants and things and that, and it was no wonder they got married, because apothecaries and bloomers are obviously well-matched, but their offspring should have taken after either of them, but instead they got me!”

Thorin blinked, trying hard to keep up.

“I was a surprise, that’s for sure. There’s not many minstrels about, only two in England, actually. There’s more of the others though, like speakeasies – they can speak any language and talk to animals! My friend Beorn is one – and tricksters, who aren’t that bad, really. Shameless opportunists, sure, but not evil or anything.”

“What about the men that were chasing us?” he cut Bilbo off. “They looked like….”

He didn’t want to say dogs. Dogs weren’t scary like that. Dogs didn’t make him feel like dinner.

“Wolves?” Bilbo provided helpfully. “They’re called Wargs, and I suppose for normals the equivalent would be werewolves.”

“Werewolves,” he repeated numbly.

Bilbo looked sympathetic. “Yeah, sorry.” He reached for his untouched pint and glanced from his glass to Thorin’s blank face. Then he slid it over to Thorin, who took it gratefully.

Bilbo went back to his chips. “We actually call Wargs and these things called goblins 'huntsmen’, because that’s all they do – they just hunt. And everyone, magic or normal, is their prey.”

Thorin drank his beer and then blew out an angry breath. “They can’t go around murdering people!” he said through gritted teeth.

Bilbo shrugged. “No one can really control them.”

“You don’t have…I don’t know, a government? Magic police?”

Bilbo stared at him a bit uncertainly, as if thinking about how much he should say.

“Detective,” he began, eventually. “I don’t think you understand. There’s only something like three hundred of us in the UK. Even less in other places. See, I’m what they call a fourth generation, because I’m the fourth generation of magicals in a family. Our kind have only been around for a few hundred years.”

“What?” Thorin shook his head. “How is that possible? Did you all fall into a vat of radioactive chemicals or something?”

Bilbo cracked a smile. “Afraid not,” he said, and then he turned serious again. “Something happened…a long time ago, that…wiped us all out, I guess. No one knows what it was. There’s no literature about it, no recorded history – nothing. We were just gone. But then one day we all started coming back – and we’re still in the process of coming back. And while we’re still so new, I’m afraid we’ve been making things up as we go along. We honestly haven’t had time to form a government or police.”

“Yes, but surely you must have some sort of interim leader?”

Bilbo shrugged. “Nope.”

He digested that for a moment, finishing off his pint and picking at his chips a bit. He saw Bilbo eye them longingly and slid the basket over, sitting back and watching the man eat.

There was no way he could pass this all off as the ramblings of a madman. For one, Bilbo seemed intelligent and sensible, if a bit eccentric. For another, Thorin had pinched the hell out of his arm and still hadn’t woken up. This was no dream, and he had definitely seen something that looked a lot like magic.

He suddenly frowned. “The huntsmen,” he said, watching as Bilbo stiffened. “Why were they hunting you?”

The man fidgeted a bit, twisting his napkin until it broken apart. “Well, there’s this calamity – ”

“Sorry, a what?”

Bilbo made an apologetic face. “Oh, right, um, a calamity,” he repeated. “They’re like the…evil overlords of all us magicals.”

Thorin raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said you didn’t have a leader.”

“They’re not our leaders, they’re our enemies,” Bilbo scoffed, before narrowing his eyes at Thorin. “They can be mutually exclusive, you know.”

Thorin agreed with a nod, waving Bilbo on.

“So, there’s this calamity, a dragon, to be exact, who thinks I stole something from him, which I did not, but will he listen to reason? No. All I know is that he got into a row with my mum one day, and then we had to leave and basically wander around so he couldn’t find us again. And then a couple months ago I came back to England, and all of the sudden I’m being hounded, no pun intended, day and night by huntsman working for Smaug!”

Thorin froze. “What did you say?” he whispered.

Bilbo scowled. “Well I’m not going to repeat everything I just said! It was a lot – ”

“No, no…Smaug. You said Smaug.”

“Yes, the dragon. Smaug. You know him?” Bilbo leaned across the table and put his hand on Thorin’s arm. His eyes were wide and worried. “Detective, do you know him? You shouldn’t know him.”

“I shouldn’t?”

Bilbo gave a wry, humorless smile. “No one should,” he said. “Can I ask how?”

Thorin stared at this man who seemed so sincerely concerned for him. “He killed my father,” he revealed in an undertone, his chest hurting. “He killed him.”

Bilbo didn’t look skeptical, or like he thought Thorin was crazy…nor did he look surprised.

“Yes,” he murmured instead. “That I can believe.”

“I’ll get you some extra blankets,” said Thorin, moving over to the cupboard and rummaging around. He handed them off to Bilbo somewhat awkwardly, watching as the man took off his boots and cardigan, yawning widely.

He looked at Thorin with one eye, his mouth turned up. “You alright?” he inquired, something mischievous flashing in his expression.

Thorin blushed. “Yes,” he said. “I don’t…normally have guests.”

“Well, I’m not your guest, am I?” Bilbo pointed out, laying down on Thorin’s couch and snuggling into a pillow. “I’m your new partner!”

Unamused, Thorin shook his head and turned the living room light off. “I already have a partner.”

“But I’m your magical one,” Bilbo insisted, yawning again. “And we’re going to take down Smaug together.”

In the dim light of the hallway, Thorin watched from the open door as Bilbo’s eyes grew heavier and heavier, until he gently fell fast asleep.

This had to have been the strangest day of his life.

And yet….

Something like hope was stirring in his chest. It had taken a while for him to recognize the feeling for what it was, because it had simply been too long since he’d felt anything but dark despair.

He didn’t know if he believed him – this weirdo in a yellow cardigan that had turned his whole world upside down; that had ripped apart Thorin’s carefully constructed reality and had thrown him headlong into this dangerous new world.

But he wanted to, because no matter how dangerous or crazy it all seemed…Thorin had never felt better.

Bilbo was waiting for Thorin to catch up, his keen eyes watchful as they lingered at the bus stop. Thorin finished buying their coffees and they moved on, both a bit paranoid but at least for good reason.

“You’re sure this guy can help us? You sounded hesitant about him before.”

Bilbo side-eyed him as they trotted down the street. “You picked up on that?”

Thorin smirked. “Detective, remember?”

“Right.” Bilbo took a long sip of his coffee. “I’m not…hesitant, exactly,” he said. “Gandalf is an old friend of my mother’s. He actually helped us escape Smaug when I was a child, so he’s been a good friend and ally to us.” He shook his head. “I just don’t want him to be disappointed in me, is all. I only just returned to England a few months ago, and I’ve already been causing trouble.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “If he knows you that well then he should already be prepared for it,” he commented idly, ignoring the dirty look Bilbo sent him. “Is he like you? Is he, uh, a musician magician?”

Bilbo snorted. “Musician magician?” he mocked in good humor, before shaking his head. “No, he’s not like me. He’s…well. He’s just…uh, Gandalf.”

“Just A Gandalf?”

“No, um.” He scratched his head. “I suppose if I had to give it a name I’d say he’s a bit like a wizard.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Haven’t you ever asked him?”

“Yes,” Bilbo replied, somewhat defensively. “And he told me to mind my own business and threatened to turn me into a frog.”

Thorin’s expression was a bit alarmed. “Can he do that?”

“No idea, but I wasn’t about to try asking again. I mean who just goes around kissing frogs? Not someone I’d want to marry….”

Though Bilbo’s description of Gandalf the (supposed) wizard left much to be desired, Thorin still followed the man down High Street; trusting in Bilbo’s judge of character for reasons unknown.

Which…was honestly rather alarming, if he really thought about it. Thorin had even skived off work that morning and had hopped onto a bus to Peckham without thinking about what he was doing or just whom he was trusting. He didn’t even know Bilbo. What on earth was he doing here? Generally, even?

But there wasn’t time for an existential crisis, because they had arrived at their destination.

“Curiosities and Antiques,” he read out loud, looking up at the sign above the little shop. “The wizard lives here? You’re joking.”

“No,” Bilbo frowned, pushing the door open which set off a little bell. “Why?”

“It’s just so obvious,” he muttered. “Though at least it’s not a pub. Or a phone booth.”

His companion only rolled his eyes and waved him inside. Books and old artifacts were stacked haphazardly on the floor and sitting atop dusty shelves. Grubby furniture was piled everywhere, all gorgeously vintage, though most of it was broken. Thorin spied a collection of clocks ticking away in the corner, and a very strange looking plant that he was pretty sure was gnawing on something. Possibly gingerbread, judging by the crumbs scattered around its pot.

Bilbo marched up to the counter and looked around, moving papers and things aside. Suddenly a tiny snout emerged from underneath an ancient textbook, and Thorin startled.

“Hello, Sebastian,” Bilbo greeted the hedgehog. And…of course there was a hedgehog. Of course Bilbo was talking to it. Because why the hell not? “Is Gandalf here?”

There was a sudden crash and Bilbo and Thorin looked up at the ceiling.

“…mushrooms! Last time you ended up in a volcano!” someone was shouting.

“Now, now,” said another, calmer, voice, but the rest of what he replied was too soft to make out.

“Oh good,” Bilbo said cheerfully. He patted Sebastian on the head. “GANDALF!” he suddenly bellowed at the ceiling. “GAND–oh! Radagast!”

A very strange looking man was eyeing them from the stairwell. He looked not in the least bit sane or reliable, and Thorin really hoped this wasn’t Gandalf.

“He’ll be down in a moment,” said the man, and his head disappeared.

“Thanks, Gasty!”

Barely a minute later an old fellow in a large grey robe came clattering down the stairs, his very tall hat hitting the ceiling but somehow managing to stay on his head. He had a long silver beard, sharp blue eyes, and a big stick with some sort of stone on the end.

“What the hell,” Thorin mumbled.

“Bilbo, my boy!” Gandalf greeted, opening his arms so that Bilbo could fly into them for a hug. “It’s very good to see you. Though perhaps not under these circumstances. You’re in a spot of trouble, I see.”

Bilbo moved back, staring up at Gandalf sheepishly. “Just a bit,” he lied. “We were hoping we could hide out here for a little while. Maybe ask your advice.”

“We? Oh.” The old man peered at Thorin curiously. “Who’s this?”

“That’s Detective Inspector Durin,” Bilbo explained, waving a hand in Thorin’s direction. “He arrested me!”

“Durin, you say?”

Thorin frowned in confusion as Gandalf narrowed his eyes, his jaw working as if he were tasting the name on his tongue. “Hmm.”

Bilbo looked from Thorin to Gandalf. “He’s weird, isn’t he? I thought he was weird.”

Gandalf finally stopped examining him and smiled down at Bilbo, patting his shoulder.

“I imagine we have many things to talk about,” he said. “Come upstairs, Radagast has made tea. It might even be palatable, but who knows? Best feed it to the plants.”

They sat around a small table covered with old parchment paper, some of which seemed permanently stuck there by spilled…something. Thorin refrained from putting his hands anywhere, and instead folded them in his lap as Bilbo looked into his teacup curiously.

“Well, now,” said the old man, putting down the kettle. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Smaug,” Bilbo told him succinctly, setting his cup down with a clank. “He’s killed Thorin’s father!”

Thorin jolted, feeling strange at hearing it said aloud and with such certainty. No one had truly believed him before, and he was just now realizing that Bilbo had been the first.

Gandalf, however, looked shocked. “Thrain is dead?” he said.

And just like that, Thorin’s world was upended again. How did….?

“You knew my father?” he asked, leaning over the table to stare into Gandalf’s eyes.

The old man nodded solemnly. “I did, yes. A good man he was too.”

“How did you know him?”

Gandalf sighed a little, his expression reserved but sympathetic. “Most of our kind know of him. Or of your ancestors, I should say. Have you not heard of Durin the Deathless?”

Bilbo suddenly gasped, sitting up in his chair excitedly. “Oh!” he exclaimed, looking at Thorin. “You’re one of those Durins! That’s what I was sensing!”

He shook his head, confused. “I’m a what?”

“A Durin, or of Durin’s folk. You are a descendent of an old clan of warriors that were charged with the protection of our kind,” Gandalf explained. “Long ago a King, then called Deathless, watched over all magical peoples, while also specializing in the extermination and removal of calamities.”

“Apparently your ancestors defeated a great beast, but Durin the first died in battle,” continued Bilbo, his eyes bright. “They buried him in a secret place, hidden from all their enemies, until 'an heir so like to his Forefather that he received the name of Durin’ returned. Or at least, that’s what the legend says.” 4

“Yes, the resurrected king.” Gandalf folded his hands on the table, looking at Thorin intently. “The tale of Durin the Deathless is one of our only surviving histories, though many do not believe that it is true. Thrain sought to prove that his family’s legacy was no fairy story. The last I spoke with him, he was intent on finding the axe to serve as evidence.”

“The axe?”

“Durin’s axe,” said Bilbo. “It’s said to be lodged in stone, and only Durin’s heir can draw it out, and that the one who wields its power would then become king.”

Thorin blinked. “But that’s ridiculous.”

“Most things are,” Gandalf agreed. “But that does not mean they are not important. And this, Thorin Durin, is very important…if defeating Smaug is truly your aim.”

He sat back, mulling over Gandalf’s frankly insane tale. His father was…magical? And alright, he could accept that. But did that mean Thorin had magic? What about Dís? His little nephews? What danger would they be in, if Thorin were to pursue this?

“Smaug killed my father,” he said, thinking hard. “Why?”

“Because he’s evil,” Bilbo piped up, and then turned to Gandalf and became very serious. “He wants the axe, doesn’t he?”

Gandalf nodded. “It’s very likely. Smaug’s one desire is power; he hoards it, and will do anything to attain it. Our kind is not governed by anyone, nor have we chosen a leader. Smaug intends to take control of our people, and he’s unlikely to stop there….”

“World domination,” Bilbo extrapolated. “Very unoriginal, if you ask me.”

Thorin ran a hand down his face, a bit overwhelmed. “How can we stop him?” he asked, looking from Bilbo to Gandalf.

“You’ll have to finish what your father started,” the old man replied solemnly. “We will need to find the axe, and should you accept your birthright, you may use its power to defeat him once and for all.”

“But I don’t know where it is!” Thorin cried.

“Perhaps your father’s possessions will shed some light on the matter,” Gandalf theorized. “Do you have them still?”

Thorin calmed and nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, they’re at my family’s old house. His things haven’t been touched. We didn’t know if we were going to sell it or not….”

Gandalf smiled widely, before rising to his feet. “Splendid! Let’s go.”

“What?” Thorin frowned. “Now?”

“Of course!” The wizard grabbed up his staff and adjusted his hat. “We haven’t much time to waste, I’m afraid. Bilbo’s return to England has quite literally awoken the beast. Smaug will be looking to make his move any day now, and we must stop him before that happens.”

This all sounded very vague to Thorin, and he was smart enough to realize that the wizard was omitting quite a lot of information, but he agreed that time was running out for taking action. Something anxious and afraid was bubbling in the pit of his stomach, warning him that things were about to come to a head – and Thorin didn’t feel anywhere near ready. That would change, though, with their first step toward winning this battle, which was looking into the legacy of Thorin’s ancestors – a legacy that he’d known nothing about.

The house Thorin had grown up in was neither too big nor too small, but just right for a family of five. Thorin opened the door and let Gandalf and Bilbo in, quickly shoving a few boxes out of the way as he lead them to the kitchen.

“I don’t know where to look,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s a bit of a mess, and well…father wasn’t the most organized person.”

“I knew Thrain well enough. Perhaps you have an attic? Or a cellar?”

He frowned. “We have a cellar, yes, it’s over here.” He went to the door beside the refrigerator and opened it, and then quickly moved out of the way as Gandalf bustled past him and down the stairs – Bilbo trotting after him.

Rolling his eyes at their strangeness, Thorin entered the cellar and immediately sneezed. It was dark and dusty, and nobody (or so he thought) had been down there in years. He went to flick on the light but Bilbo waved a hand at him.

“No light!” he said. “Come see this.”

Thorin walked over and looked at what they were examining so intently. “It’s my grandfather’s puzzle box,” he explained. “We could never open it, or solve his stupid riddle.”

“Riddle?” Bilbo pressed curiously. “I like riddles! Go on, then.”

Thorin smiled a little at his enthusiasm. “Alright. A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid,” he recited.

But Bilbo looked disappointed. “But that’s an easy one,” he sulked. “It’s an egg.”

Well it wasn’t easy to me, he thought grumpily. “Maybe that’s the secret password,” he suggested.

“Egg?” said Bilbo. “No, see? It didn’t open. But I bet I could rustle something up.”

Gandalf hummed with approval and set the box down, waving for Bilbo to get on with it. Bilbo took a breath and said:

Eggs in a box, o’ riddle king. Unlock your locks quit riddling!

Nothing happened.

“But…but…!” Bilbo looked at them both, his mouth slack with shock. “My words always work!”

“Hmm,” said Gandalf, staring at the puzzle box thoughtfully. “Curious. Perhaps Thorin is the key – ”

“What could I do?” Thorin blurted, frowning at the old man. “I’m not magical! Cast a spell at it! Aren’t you a wizard?”

Bilbo turned and sliced a hand across his neck, mouthing 'bad idea!’ at him.

Gandalf narrowed his eyes at Thorin and straightened up to his full height. “I am Gandalf,” he intoned haughtily. “And Gandalf means – ”

A loud crash sounded from upstairs, and all of three of them froze.

“Expecting visitors?” asked Bilbo in an undertone.

Thorin kept his eyes on the entrance to the cellar. “Nope.”

Bilbo made a long-suffering noise in the back of his throat and swung his guitar around, pick at the ready. “Sorry about your house,” he said, ignoring the panicked look Thorin threw at him. “But needs must.”

Then he began to strum.

The night had grown cold.

“Gasty,” called Bilbo, clasping his hands together pleadingly. “Please let us in!”

The strange man, Radagast, opened the door a smidgen. “What’s all over your clothes?”

“Um.” Bilbo carefully did not look at Thorin. “A house?”

Radagast frowned suspiciously. “Where’s Gandalf?”

“On his way. Can we come in? Please please please?”

The door swung open and the bell went off, and he and Bilbo pushed their way inside. They immediately locked the door behind them.

“We’ll be safe here,” Bilbo said with a sigh.

Thorin didn’t reply, and instead focused on brushing the plaster off of his clothes. When he saw that Bilbo was about to say something to him, Thorin asked where the bathroom was and retreated before he could try and apologize for the mess they’d made of Thorin’s home (and his life, in general).

He turned the light on in the loo and closed the door, before leaning against it tiredly. He pressed his fingers to his eyes and took a deep breath.

Thorin wasn’t really mad at Bilbo, or Gandalf for that matter. His house would need repairs (a lot of repairs) of course, but they had escaped with their lives and unscathed to boot. Thorin had seen too many unlucky sods, dead or worse, in his line of work to be angry about the loss of material things. But that man….

“Durin,” growled the giant creature. He was pale and scarred, and his teeth were sharpened to little points. His clear eyes gazed down at Thorin with amusement. “After you get me what I want, I will kill you slowly.”

Thorin raised his gun.

“Like I did your father.”

He shot, and shot and shot and shot, but his chamber was soon empty and the man was still unmarked. It was like he didn’t bleed.

The next thing he knew, Bilbo was standing in front of him, shouting, and the giant man was thrown through the wall. They turned to run….

He wasn’t sure what happened after that. His head was too full of questions. Thorin had thought that Smaug had killed his father, but what if that wasn’t true? What if Thorin had another, unseen enemy? And someone just as dangerous as Smaug?

“Thorin,” Bilbo called through the door, knocking thrice. “Gandalf’s back.”

He inhaled again, deep as he could, and turned to wash his hands and face. Bilbo was waiting anxiously outside the loo when he emerged.

“Alright, let’s see what this box is about,” said Thorin, again cutting off Bilbo’s string of apologies.

“It looks like it’s supposed to twist open, but it’s jammed,” Radagast was saying. He was wiggling his finger into a little ridge on the side of the box.

“Hey, that wasn’t there before!” Bilbo exclaimed.

“Perhaps it was your egg spell,” Thorin joked, as sort of a peace offering.

Bilbo rolled his eyes and nudged Thorin in the side, but he looked pleased.

“Hmm.” Gandalf rubbed his chin as he inspected the box. “Did your grandfather give you more than one riddle?”

Thorin frowned. “No – wait, maybe…. It’s not much of one, but he used to say it often. ’Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the key-hole.’ Whatever that means.”

“Hmm,” said Gandalf.

“Interesting,” Bilbo nodded.

“Ugh,” Radagast said with an eye roll. He grabbed the box and put it in the window. “Conveniently enough, it’s sunset,” he explained as if they were all exceptionally stupid.

It took a moment, but then the box began to glow.

“There!” Bilbo cried out, pointing at the hole that had suddenly appeared.

“Can we unlock it?” Thorin asked excitedly.

“We haven’t got a key!” Bilbo reminded him.

“But we do have a burglar of sorts,” Gandalf suggested, his eyes bright with amusement. They all turned to look at Bilbo.

“What? I’m not a burglar!” Bilbo protested. “I’ve never stolen a thing in my life!”

“Escape artist then,” Thorin said, dragging Bilbo over to the window. “Right. Go on. Open sesame.”

Bilbo scowled at him, but turned his attention to the box. He gazed at the key-hole thoughtfully for a moment, before saying:

Inside outside, won’t you be free? Silly box of riddles open sesame!

He sent Thorin a cheeky grin just as they all heard the lock click. Thorin reached out and lifted the lid.

“That’s…it?” said Bilbo, peering down at what was definitely a folded up map.

Thorin blinked at it before lifting it out of the box. He unfolded it carefully, for the paper was very old and delicate, and laid it out on Radagast’s messy counter.

“How strange!” Bilbo exclaimed. “None of these places exist. Gondor…Mordor? Suppose they’re ancient countries or something?”

“Or they’re just fictional,” Thorin grumbled. “This could be a bloody map of Westeros for all we know.”

Radagast tutted at them and Gandalf shoed Thorin’s hands off the map. “Your father used this map to find the ancient weapon of his ancestors. Of your ancestors.”

“But how do you know that he found it?” asked Bilbo.

“Because of this.” Gandalf held up a small white square. It was a business card. “It was also in the box. And I should say that it was not Thrain that found the axe in the end…rather Smaug did.”

The address on the card was for some warehouse in Millwall, which meant absolutely nothing to Thorin. Until he remembered.

“He owns property in Canary Wharf,” Thorin murmured. “We searched one of his warehouses once. We didn’t find anything.”

Gandalf raised his eyebrows knowingly. “That’s because you didn’t know what you were looking for,” he said.

End Part I

Go to Part II

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #13 - getting married

Rating: T Summary: for the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Bilbo and Thorin get married! It’s awesome! And horrible! Wow! Alternate Universe - Fix It

Bilbo probably should have realized what their wedding would be like just by how Thorin had proposed to him.

“Thorin wants to know if you’ll marry him,” Kili had asked, sweating buckets for some reason (he’d run all the way from the training grounds and up to the library at record speed, Bilbo would later find out). “He might be dying so please say yes.”

“What?”

In an effort to teach Gimli how to properly swing his axe farther and faster (???), Fili had twirled around in circles as if he were doing a particularly inspired hammer throw, but before he could let go he’d of course managed to hit someone. Luckily the sharp end was pointed in the other direction so that only the back of it met Thorin’s head.

“Good thing it wasn’t double-edged, eh?” said Fili, nudging Bilbo and laughing nervously.

Bilbo, clutching Thorin’s hand and still deeply worried despite the ‘all clear’ from Oin, cast Fili such a scathing look that the dwarf stumbled over his own feet to escape the infirmary. Kili, upon seeing his brother flee, hastily followed on reflex.

“Don’t be angry with them, Bilbo,” Thorin said, squeezing his hand. “This is not the first time I’ve been hit in the head with a blunt instrument.”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow. “You don’t say?”

Dwalin came to visit Thorin eventually, seeming unconcerned and even a bit disdainful of Thorin’s injury. When they started comparing instances of head trauma and arguing about who had passed out the longest, Bilbo had rolled his eyes and retreated into the storeroom to make more of Thorin’s tincture. That’s when he overheard them.

“….reschedule, you’re in no shape for dancing. And we can send the pachyderms back, there’s a thirty day return policy….”

Bilbo did not like the sound of any of this.

“No! We’ve been planning it for months!” said Nori, and when did he get here? “I’m not stealing all that wine again.”

“Some thief you are.”

“Hey!”

“Quiet before he hears you,” Thorin interrupted them. “Tell the others that we will rendezvous at the secret room in three hours. And I suppose we must get rid of the pudding.”

“What? No!”

Having heard enough, Bilbo clinked a few vials together pointedly and turned to leave. When he reentered the room, Nori was nowhere in sight, Thorin had a stupid grin on his face, and Dwalin’s expression was deeply pained.

“What’s going on?” asked Bilbo, looking between the two of them suspiciously.

“Nothing at all,” Thorin replied, before raising his hand for Bilbo to take. “I think I might rest now, my hobbit.”

“I’ll stay with him,” grunted Dwalin. He would not meet Bilbo’s eyes.

He sighed. “Very well. I suppose I’ll come see you later.”

Bilbo grabbed a broom from the store room and trotted out and into the hallway. He zeroed in on the small wooden door above him, which covered the old laundry shoot for the infirmary. Bilbo whacked it twice with the broom handle.

“What,” said Nori, opening the little door and peering out. His eyes widened when he saw Bilbo.

“Get down from there!” Bilbo hissed. “Tell me what’s happening this instant.”

Nori ducked his head and peeked over the edge of the shoot. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t make me come up there!”

Nori’s eyes grew even wider. He said nothing for a moment, seeming to think over his options. “Alright,” he gave in, taking a fortifying breath. “Thorin wants to know if you’ll marry him.”

Bilbo only stared.

Nori grimaced. “And…he’s…very keen?”

Bilbo raised an eyebrow.

“Are you, uh, keen too?”

Bilbo said nothing.

“Ok bye.”

Nori retreated and swung the door closed. Bilbo could hear him shuffling through the vents hastily.

He was getting a massive headache, so he took out one of Thorin’s pain relievers and knocked it back. It tasted like frustration and defeat.

It only got worse, of course.

“What do you think about…weddings?” Gloin asked him tentatively, blocking the way to the kitchens.

“I think I’m hungry,” said Bilbo.

“Oh, we’ll have food, of course. A proper feast. Was that a yes?”

Balin had put an arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, his expression fatherly and affectionate. “Bilbo, I’ve been meaning to ask you about your future here with us….”

Bilbo raised his eyebrows. “Am I being promoted?”

“What? No.”

Eventually Bilbo realized that sarcasm simply did not work on dwarrow, and so he would have to be blunt with them. He got his chance when the last dwarf to confront him with this nonsense was Bofur, who was shockingly no better than the rest. In fact he was the worst, which wasn’t fair because Bilbo had trusted him more.

“….what with you two having already sealed the deal, as they say, or er, consummated your sacred vows of sorts. Loudly. Anyway, the next step is tying the knot, so to speak, settling down and all. The old ball and chain. Then maybe a few sprogs. Two or three? No one’s counting, though, Bilbo, there’s no pressure. But about saying yes to my proposal – ”

“To Thorin’s proposal, you mean?” he interrupted, rather sharply. His blood pressure had risen ever higher the longer Bofur had gone on. “Which he should be making? And not you?”

Bofur wisely backed away a bit. “….yes?”

“I don’t care if he’s hospitalized and you all feel wretched about it!” Bilbo exploded, stomping his foot for good measure. “This is Thorin’s moment! Or did he put you up to this? He should know that proposals can wait until he’s not got head trauma!”

“No, no!” he denied hastily, waving his hands. “Thorin has no idea we’ve spoken to you! We…well, we wanted to help.”

Bilbo crossed his arms, glaring. “Well, you haven’t! And he’s going to be heartbroken when he finds out you’ve all proposed to me for him. Honestly!”

“I….” Bofur looked down at the ground, a desolate expression on his face. “I hadn’t thought….”

“Which is why you’re going to go away and tell everyone to keep quiet about pestering me, and I will act surprised when he proposes in some grand and extremely humiliating manner, and you will all help him propose in that grand and humiliating manner, or I swear Bofur I will make all of your lives utterly miserable!”

Bofur gulped and nodded and turned to scurry away. Then he paused. “Was that…a yes?”

The murderous look Bilbo sent the dwarf’s way would haunt him for years to come.

In the end, the proposal went exactly how Thorin wanted it to, and if the company all glanced at Bilbo for approval during the entire production, then that was between them and the hobbit. Thorin was oblivious to Bilbo’s involvement anyway, and was instead quite pleased with himself for pulling it off.

“He was so surprised!” Thorin told Dís later. “By the birds and the giant pudding and the dancing!”

“The pachyderms especially,” added Bilbo with a smile.

Thorin grabbed up Bilbo’s hand and kissed the back of it. “It went off without a hitch, concussion notwithstanding.”

Dís looked at Bilbo a bit sympathetically. “You sure you want this one, Master Baggins?”

The hobbit smiled. “I do love your brother, I’m afraid. I’ve seen a healer about it but he says it’s incurable.”

Thorin kissed his temple. “I am very happy you’re diseased, Bilbo.”

Bilbo only sighed good-naturedly and kissed him back.

It was to be a winter wedding at Thorin’s request. Bilbo wasn’t fond of winter as a rule, but the dwarf loved it so much that Bilbo could not help but let him have it. Hobbits may have usually preferred spring and summer for handfasting, but the Shire was far away from here, and Bilbo wasn’t so loyal to hobbit-ways that he could stand to make his future husband unhappy.

In fact, he left almost all of the planning and decision making to the king, who seemed to be fixated on them having the most extravagant and memorable wedding in the history of middle earth. Bilbo was worried, but didn’t keep Thorin from realizing his dreams. Dís warned him not to be too soft when it came to Thorin’s enthusiasm, but Bilbo was bad at refusing Thorin these little things, however irritating or embarrassing they were.

Bilbo was busy enough mediating between the counsel members, anyway, who were all dwarrow of exceptional impatience and no little paranoia. They seemed to listen to Bilbo more than even the king or Balin, so both had happily stepped back and had thrown Bilbo to the wolves. This just meant that Bilbo had no time for picking wedding colors, drawing up seating charts, or stopping Thorin from hiring anymore large animals.

It wasn’t until the wedding was two months away that Bilbo was even asked his opinion.

“Is there a particular ballad you prefer? Though I’m sure I can compose one….”

“No, that’s alright,” Bilbo said quickly. “You choose, Thorin. You know what I like.”

Thorin grinned and wrapped his arms around Bilbo’s waist, tugging him against his body. “I do, don’t I?”

“I’ve just said that you do.” Bilbo reached up and brought his lips down for a kiss.

But before it could get heated Thorin abruptly pulled away. “That reminds me; once your relations arrive, is there any of them you would like to include in the ceremony?”

Bilbo’s smile vanished. “My what?”

“….we may need ushers, perhaps a few jugglers, if any of them have the talent for it….”

“Thorin, who did you invite from the Shire?” Bilbo demanded, cutting him off. He pulled away completely in order to put his hands on his hips.

“The Shire,” said Thorin with a frown.

“Yes, the Shire,” Bilbo repeated impatiently. “Who did you invite?”

“The Shire!”

“Is there an echo in – oh. You invited the Shire.”

Thorin grinned. “Yes!”

“As in everyone. In the Shire.”

“Yes!”

Bilbo blinked. “I – oh dear.”

“You look displeased.” Concerned, Thorin put a hand on his shoulder. “Should I not have invited them? I’m sorry, Bilbo, I would cancel but I’m afraid they’re already on their way. But this will cheer you, I’ve managed to attain Bard’s cooperation with crowd control in Dale. He was surprisingly helpful, in fact. He might be up to something, maybe an invasion….”

He had to know, even if he didn’t really want to know. “His cooperation for what?” Bilbo asked tiredly.

“The parade, of course.”

Of course, thought Bilbo, rubbing his temples. What have I got myself into?

“Bilbo Baggins! How dare you run off on an adventure without telling anyone! Congratulations on your engagement. You look terrible.”

Aunt Donnamira plucked at his clothes and pulled on his curls. “Too skinny!” she tutted.

“He looks like a corpse,” Aunt Rosa added. “You hear me, Bilbo? You look dead.”

Thorin was gazing at Bilbo worriedly now, so he waved his arms at his relations to get them to shut up. “I’m quite fine, thank you! Hello, Uncle Isengar. Laylia! And Prim! Oh, it’s wonderful to see you.”

“You sound like you like them better than us,” said Donnamira with narrowed eyes.

“He does like us better than you,” said Sigismund. Flambard, as usual, was hovering next to him.

“Thank you for coming!” Bilbo interrupted, his voice a bit high. “But of course you didn’t have to, it’s such a long way….”

“Do you mean we shouldn’t have come because we’re old?” Aunt Rosa immediately asked.

“Yes,” said Flambard.

Bilbo made a loud noise in the back of his throat. “OF COURSE NOT YOU’RE ALL AMAZING,” he rushed to say.

“Good, because Fort and Grim are right behind us with that Drogo fellow in tow. Maybe you can talk some sense into him. He’s been giving Prim the eye and Mirabella would never forgive me if her daughter was deflowered in the wilderness – ”

“GRACIOUS ME, YOU MUST BE TIRED AFTER YOUR JOURNEY. YOU SHOULD REST.”

“Well there’s no need to shout,” said Donnamira.

Bilbo managed to herd them toward the royal wing, but not before kicking Thorin in the shin, who had the courtesy to look ashamed. It didn’t help his temper when he caught sight of the company lurking in the hallway, all of them watching the hobbits argue with obvious glee. Nori (who was hanging upside down from the ceiling vent) even had the nerve to grin and point.

Unfortunately, when Fortinbras and Adalgrim arrived Bilbo was too distracted to pay attention, so poor Thorin was left at their mercy.

“Just what have you done to my cousin?” Fort asked, looking Thorin up and down. “Has there been any buggering?”

“Yes, buggering,” Grim emphasized.

“Thorin, don’t answer that,” Balin interrupted, thankfully.

“We’re just trying to get to the bottom…” Grim sniggered “…of all this, my good dwarf.”

“Not without his advisor present,” Balin insisted. “And if you’re not charging him with anything then I’d like to take the king elsewhere, if it’s all the same to you.”

Meanwhile, Bilbo had squirreled Drogo away from the crowd and was checking him over for injuries. “I’m alright, Bilbo,” Drogo told him. “No one has hurt me.”

“Physically, maybe. But mentally….”

Drogo smiled, though his eyes were suspiciously wet. “It’s good to see you, you know. But I’m also angry with you! You just disappeared! What if you had died?” He sniffled. “We never would have know what had happened to you – !”

Bilbo hugged his favorite little cousin close. “I’m so sorry, Drogo, I didn’t think.”

“Too right you didn’t think!” Aunt Rosa said, popping up from out of nowhere. “Head of the Baggins family and grandson of the Thain…run off to parts unknown to participate in unwed debauchery!”

“Ah ha!” shouted Fort in the distance.

“What would have happened if we needed you? What about your tenants? Your vineyards? What if we called on you to take over the Thainship!”

“I’m eleventh in line!” Bilbo protested.

“Eleven of us could have died,” Grim pointed out. “Sometimes I feel close to death already.”

“In line?” Balin interrupted them, beginning to look rather concerned. “You don’t mean that Bilbo is royalty?”

“No, of course not! Hobbits don’t have – ”

“Yes,” said Flambard.

“He’s A Very Important Person,” Sigismund revealed, before pointedly looking at Thorin. “Those are quality fields you’re plowing.”

Grim sniggered.

“Aulë,” Balin cursed breathlessly. “But this changes everything!”

Bilbo twisted his fingers together anxiously, looking from Balin to a shocked and motionless Thorin. “Nothing has to change,” he said comfortingly. “Please don’t fret! We can just have a small ceremony if you like, and there’s no need to be formal – ”

“Bigger,” Thorin muttered dazedly.

“What?”

“It needs to be bigger.”

Balin was looking a bit hysterical. “I’ll order more acrobats,” he said, and marched away quickly.

There were three things Thorin and company did not account for when they were planning the Royal Wedding. Bilbo might have told them if he was at all consulted, but since he was not, events that could have been avoided went ahead and transpired in a very efficient and pointed manner.

The first thing they ignored was something as simple and as uncontrollable as the weather, and it just so happened that on the day of their wedding, there was a snowstorm. A big one.

“Ruined! It’s all ruined!” Thorin announced, bursting into the room where Bilbo and his family were gathered. Unfortunately, this was breaking the rule of not seeing the bride before the wedding, so Thorin was immediately besieged by angry hobbits, who forcefully pushed him back out into the hall.

“Honestly!” Bilbo said, dodging Donnamira and slipping out of the room. He shut the door with a snap, and turned to the king. “Thorin, tell me what’s happened.”

“A blizzard! We can’t have a parade in a blizzard!” Thorin paced up and down. “Half of the ceremony is outdoors!”

Bilbo frowned. “We can move it inside, can’t we?” But when Thorin did not look comforted he had to step forward and embrace him. “Come now, it’s supposed to be a happy day, my dear.”

“I tried to make it so,” Thorin muttered into Bilbo’s shoulder. “And now my efforts are all for naught.”

Bilbo smiled and ran his hands through Thorin’s hair. “Of course they’re not,” he insisted. “We’ll just move the party inside, darling. I quite like the idea, anyway.”

Thorin lifted his head up and stared at the hobbit earnestly. “You do?” he said.

“I do,” Bilbo answered cheekily. Then he gave a much cheered Thorin a very sweet kiss.

Which would help when the Second Problem They Overlooked (which was actually a succession of issues that usually came up when too many people were stuck in the same place for too long a time) reared its ugly head.

“We’ve already had to cancel the circus animals and the parade,” said a frazzled Balin. “What will we do without the theatre troupe?!”

“I’m not bad at improv,” Nori volunteered.

“No,” Dori said quickly, glaring at his brother “I’m sorry Balin, but there’s nothing for it. Gripe happens.”

Bofur arrived then and announced his presence with a loud sigh. “The acrobats have got it too.”

“It’s spreading?!”

“We’ve quarantined them in the mines.”

“You what?”

“Don’t worry, we left them plenty of ale.”

But the true problem in regards to proximity that really should have never been overlooked, was the longstanding feud between the Ironfists and the Stonefoots, as well as the Firebeard habit of drinking to excess, which was exasperated by the Stiffbeard’s ever-present disdain coupled with their penchant for unwanted criticisms.

“Our rooms are very small,” a Stiffbeard declared haughtily. “One might think we’ve been given the short end of the stick.”

“I’ll give you a stick right up your arse,” said a Stonefoot.

“Only if you remove the one up yours first,” snapped an Ironfist.

“Where’s all the ale gone?” asked a Firebeard.

By then it had devolved into a brawl in the throne room, where everyone had started to gather to witness the momentous occasion of Bilbo and Thorin getting married.

…..if it happened at all, because the third problem was the worst of the bunch, as it happened right at the beginning of the ceremony.

From what Bilbo understood of dwarven culture, the wedding itself was a thing of formality and solemnness, while the reception was reserved purely for fun and revelry. Hobbit ceremonies were never formal, and many times the bride and groom were drunk before they even walked down the aisle. And that was another thing; there was no aisle to walk down, rather there was a maze.

“You and Thorin will pass through the crowd in a snake-like formation, slow and stately so that the audience can properly genuflect, and once you arrive at the throne you’ll be lighting your unity candle – ”

“Where do I come in?” Isengar interrupted Balin. “Am I on the right or the left?”

Balin frowned, looking away from his floor plan. “Pardon?”

“I’m walking Bilbo down the aisle, of course,” Isengar explained. “Filling in for his mother and father, rest their souls, and I must say I do like the idea of the genuflecting – ”

“Oi! Hold on,” Fortinbras cut in. “I’m walking Bilbo down the aisle!”

Isengar glared, putting his hands on his hips (cane and all). “Why on earth would you do that?”

“I’m the oldest cousin and Bilbo’s favorite.”

“Hey!” Sigismund protested.

“Well, why should it be any of you?” Rosa wanted to know. “I’m his aunt. I even nursed him!”

“Gross,” said Flambard.

“I may not have nursed him but I’m definitely his favorite,” Donnamira argued, pushing her way to the front of the group. “His first word was ‘I love you aunt Donna!’”

“That’s five words!”

“I’m the one who should do it!”

“Says who?”

“I helped deliver him!”

“I was there when he was conceived!”

“Gross.”

The squabbling didn’t stop until Bilbo stepped forward and proposed that they all be involved, and that no one should mention his breastfeeding or conception ever again. They begrudgingly agreed.

….and this was what lead to the third and final disaster.

Thorin and Bilbo made their slow journey to the throne, and the hobbits followed behind them like ducklings (who occasionally and purposefully stomped on each other’s feet). The groom and groom gamely ignored both the unruly group behind them and the tense atmosphere on the dwarrow side, where the Ironfists and the Stonefoots were ominously crammed together.

They made it to the stage without incident, but just as the wedding planners were about to let out a sigh of relief, an Ironfist suddenly shoved a Stonefoot out into the aisle, which tripped up Sigismund who fell into Flambard who knocked into Fortinbras who accidentally hit Bilbo and propelled him into the altar, which rattled the ceremonial candelabra enough that it toppled right on top of the curtains and caught them on fire.

There was immediate chaos.

“Someone fetch water!”

“Blow it out!”

“That made it worse!”

“What do we do?!”

“Thorin!” Bilbo shouted, pulling him away from the altar which was now engulfed in flames. He tugged Thorin toward the antechamber, looking back to make sure the company was handling the evacuation alright.

He intended to deposit Thorin somewhere safe and return to put out the fire (which seemed to be beyond the capabilities of the entire throne room) but before he could sprint off, he was held back by a hand on his wrist. Thorin stared at him sadly.

“I don’t understand…” he said. “We planned everything down to the last detail. It was supposed to be perfect.”

Bilbo looked at the king intently, out of breath but otherwise rather calm. “Wait here,” he said after a moment of silence.

He ducked out of the antechamber and ignored the bedlam for a moment. “Balin!” he called out, waving to the dwarf when he got his attention.

Balin hurried over and Bilbo dragged him into the room. “Marry us,” Bilbo whispered into his ear.

The dwarf blinked. “What?”

“Marry us right now!”

“But…but…” Balin saw that Bilbo was not joking and swallowed his protests. “But we need a witness!”

“Nori’s in the vent,” Bilbo hissed, pointing up.

“Hello,” said Nori from somewhere above them.

Bilbo lead Balin over to Thorin, who was sitting down now with his head in his hands. “Darling,” said Bilbo. “None of that. Just repeat what Balin says.”

“What? What do you mean?”

Balin glanced at Bilbo, who nodded. “Ahem. I, Thorin, take you, Bilbo Baggins to be my lawfully wedded husband….”

Thorin, realizing what was happening, immediately brightened and repeated the vows. It was quick, painless, and Thorin had never looked happier.

And Bilbo loved him so much in that moment that he went ahead kissed him before Balin could pronounce them husband and husband. Nobody cared – it wasn’t like this was a traditional wedding anyway.

(They wisely evacuated shortly thereafter.)

Eventually the fire was put out and everyone who had run outside and into the blizzard had thankfully been retrieved. Balin announced that the wedding was over, and the party would go on as planned even though there was smoke damage and minor injuries.

Though there weren’t any acrobats, or a theatre troupe, or circus animals and a parade; though there was little to no formality, the ceremony being completely ruined, and they’d technically been hitched while in danger of burning to death – Bilbo and Thorin were married on a winter’s day with their friends and family in residence and their love for each other undefeated.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me,” Bilbo told Thorin as they danced their first dance as king and consort.

Thorin gazed down at his husband with open affection. “Yes?” he inquired.

“Yes.” Bilbo leaned in and pressed their lips together, before smiling against Thorin’s cheek. “Because I am never getting married again.”

You Are Cordially Invited To

The Marriage of

Primula Brandybuck

and

Drogo Baggins,

On the Fifteenth of Astron, a Trewsday ~

“Oh, no.”

.

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #12 - dancing

Rating: M Summary: for the 30 Day OTP Challenge. One dance in Paris. Alternate Universe - World War II 

Note: idk why but here’s a ww2 au. Thorin and Bilbo are also secret agents because why the fuck not. And lol you guys want some music?

April began with the bright-eyed arrival of daffodils in the Palais Royal.

A stubborn chill was all that remained of winter as the hidden colors of Paris unveiled itself all at once. Vivre, thought Bilbo, standing beneath a raining magnolia tree. He listened to the susurrus of a sweet breeze and the chatter of life in the distance. It wasn’t boring. He loved this place in spring.

The gardens attracted more foreigners than Parisians, and they circled Bilbo in pairs as he waited. It was almost time, but he was impatient; he had been waiting since Rome.

To:

B. BAGGINS 00185 PIAZZALE ALDO MORO ROMA, ITALY

………………….

MAY FIRST, A BIENTÔT À PARIS. ALL MY LOVE,

- T.D.

………………….

And now here he was. Joie de vivre.

“Danser avec moi?”

Bilbo smiled at the ground. Pink magnolias stirred at his feet. He turned.

“Your French is horrible,” he said.

Thorin gazed at him fondly. “Your German is worse.”

“Let’s not talk then.”

They wasted no time at all. 

There are silk sheets and apéro and champagne (Thorin lived the life of a king outside of the simple world of a Jewish soldier).

And Bilbo. English in Italy and so literally lost in translation: Professor, what is ‘I love you��� in English?

“I love you,” he whispered as Thorin moved inside of him. They are sweat-slick and breathing hard, and Bilbo is coming apart one touch at a time.

Thorin’s hands wrap around his wrists as he hitches his legs up higher, making enough noise that he would not be surprised if they heard him in the street. Thorin seemed to have the same thought because he suddenly laughed. He leaned down and kissed Bilbo deeply, not having to say aloud that the window would remain open. It was too nice a day to shut the doors.

“Do you ever grow tired of being something you’re not?” Bilbo asked him, twining his arms around Thorin’s neck. They swayed from side to side to the music on the radio.

Dis-moi pourquoi les plus beaux jours sans toi sont tristes. Pourquoi sans toi la vie n’a plus d’attrait pour moi! †

Thorin hummed thoughtfully. “Do you?” he asked.

“Whatever do you mean? I’m an academic, and nothing else at all.” Bilbo grinned up at him cheekily.

Aucun espoir. De bonheur. Quand tu me quittes j’ai peur, tout me chagrine et tout m’ennuie….

He rested his head on Thorin’s chest, shivering as a sudden wind tossed the pale blue curtains from side to side. “Do you think there’ll be a war?” he murmured.

Thorin pulled Bilbo a little closer, huffing. “We’re dancing, Bilbo.”

“Are we?” He sighed. “Let’s just do that, then.”

Dis-moi pourquoi les plus beaux jours sans toi sont tristes. Pourquoi sans toi la vie n’a plus d’attrait pour moi!

“I’m staying in Paris,” Bilbo told him, half laying on top of him with one leg tossed over his own. Bilbo stared at him intently. “Things are not good in Italy.”

“They’re not good anywhere.”

“Yes. Ha!” Bilbo tumbles onto his back, arms spread. “And look, Paris goes about its business being Paris. We can make love and drink champagne here. I’m staying.”

Thorin frowns at him, brushing his curls away from his face. “I wish you were farther away.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s Paris. Death doesn’t exist here. Only champagne, I told you. Joie de vivre!”

They sat beside the Canal Saint Martin at midnight and held hands. It was dark enough to hide them, but light enough to see by, so Thorin looked at Bilbo for a long, long time.

Bilbo looked back.

“Farewell,” Thorin told him, his hands on either side of Bilbo’s face. “Perhaps the next time we meet, the world will be a merrier place.”

He kissed Bilbo soft and slow. The day had reached its peak, and it had come and gone without a care for those it left behind.

“We’ll have more days like this, and more time to dance,” said Bilbo, kissing his hand. “I know it.”

Thorin craned his neck and pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes tightly, before sighing and letting go. “I could never doubt you, Master Baggins. Until next year, then.”

I love you.

“A bientôt à Paris,” Bilbo whispered, watching Thorin walk away. “Farewell.”

DISPATCH

FROM: GRYH RECEIVED BY: BLETCHLEY 4

TO: CAPT. THORIN DURIN

ACTION: IMMEDIATELY PROCEED TO WARSZAWA 000277 TO AWAIT ORDERS FOR DEPLOYMENT

+ PLAC ZAMKOWY WARSZAWA, POLAND

ACKNOWLEDGED:

25 AUGUST, 1939

Notes:

^Hitler invades Poland on the 1st of September, 1939 ^Paris falls to Nazi Occupation a little over a year later on the 14th of June, 1940

†Dis-moi Pourquoi - Lys Gauty

*A bientôt à Paris means: see you in Paris

[shockcity]

THG fic: and you will know me by my name

Rating: T Summary: there are the old legends…and then there is Peeta Category: Gen

Note: The Hunger Games with a little Avatar: The Last Airbender fusion kinda sort of. I don’t even know I’m not even in this fandom.

1

He is five and his father suspects.

There are small clues, but his father spots them because he has been looking for them ever since Peeta was born. It isn’t until he catches Peeta healing himself that he knows for sure though, and he reacts so violently that Peeta never does it again – no matter how injured he is.

He takes Peeta to Mrs. Everdeen.

“There is no cure,” she says, after she’s done poking and prodding at him. “It isn’t a disease, Baz.”

She looks at Peeta and sighs. “He’s still your son.”

His father only sobs. Peeta has never seen his father cry before, so he reaches out with one little hand to touch his arm. His father pulls away from him.

Mrs. Everdeen’s expression his cold. “He needs you to protect him,” she says.

His father asks if she would take Peeta instead. She tells him no, and she sounds so unfriendly and disappointed that Peeta is worried his father will never stop crying.

2

The Seam has a long history of producing the Nameless. In District 12 they came from the coal – a bit like how in District 4 they rose from the sea. But these are only rumors in schoolyards; the history books tell a different story. They say that the Nameless are monsters, like mutts but worse, because they looked just like everyone else but could do horrible things. Some can drown you just by thinking about it, they say. Some can take all the air from your lungs. Others can make the earth crush you or bury you.

Some can burn you alive.

The Capitol managed to kill them all a long, long time ago. Before Peeta was born. Tales of the Nameless are used only to scare children now. If you don’t go to bed, parents would say to the naughty boys and girls, the Nameless will get you.

But the truth is…the truth is they are not really gone.

Like District 13, they survived, and even though they are not what they once were, they can still make the earth move, or the wind blow, or the water flow, or the fire burn. They live.

And something else does too. Most people don’t know, but there’s another Nameless that has no name, not even Nameless. It can do what all the others can do. Only better. This is the Nothing, and it is not used to scare children.

Because it scares their parents too.

3

Peeta’s Aunt Marra was like his great Uncle Kif, who was like his mother Sang, who was of the air like her father Roe, and so on, and so forth. Aunt Marra disappeared one day, and Uncle Kif hung himself. Aunt Marra could drown you (or heal you), and Uncle Kif could burn you (or warm you), and it is the way of things that the books leave out the helping, and tell only of the hurting.

Peeta is a gentle boy that cannot stand to hurt or kill anything. He is kind, and special, and just like his Aunt Marra, his Uncle Kif, and his mother who was Sang and could fly without wings – he is a Nameless.

But something else too. Something even his family does not understand.

When his mother finds out, what little love she had for Peeta is destroyed. His brothers learn by example and draw away. His father cannot stand to look at him. Peeta is special.

Peeta is alone.

4

His father tells him that he is going to die.

“You can’t fight, Peeta,” he says, sobbing like he did all those years ago at Mrs. Everdeen’s. “They’ll come for us if you do.”

He is a Nameless, and he knows that if the Capitol finds out, they will kill his entire family so that the gene cannot pass on. Peeta mustn’t use the earth, the fire, the air, or the water in the arena. He must die, instead.

(He understands, but he is also very scared.)

What’s worse is that Katniss Everdeen goes to her death as well, and Peeta has loved her for so long that he wishes he could use his power if only to save her. Even if they kill his family, or make sure that he will never leave the games alive. Even if they capture him and do terrible things to his mind and body – it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter that Katniss will be scared of him afterward, or if she hates him when she finds out.

Because she will live.

In the end, Peeta is relieved and disappointed that she does not need his help. True, his shame is kept secret and that is good, but he also learns that she does not need him as he needs her. She does not love him. But that is…alright, he thinks. Peeta is not surprised.

He returns to District 12 a champion. Alive. Undetected. Safe. 

His parents are not pleased. 

Peeta lives alone and makes bread and tries to take care of Haymitch and plays starcrossed lovers with a woman that does not love him at all. And he hides.

He hides everything.

5

The one that they call Nothing is a monster Peeta has dreamt of once before. It glows sapphire from its perch ontop of a galaxy; a great watching bird, red-eyed and hungry. It swoops down on him, and burns him from the inside out. This dream is even worse than the nightmares from the games, because this dream makes him do Nameless things.

Katniss is suspicious when they suddenly wake to a fire. He tells her that he left a candle burning, instead of the truth, which is that he dreamed. She goes back to sleep, turning in his arms to steal his warmth, for he burns hot.

Hotter than she can ever know.

6

“Do you think they exist?” Prim asks him one day. She is helping him bake. Peeta likes her, and is glad that she was not Reaped, in the end. She is kind to him.

“No,” he answers automatically. “And you shouldn’t talk about them.”

She sighs. “But I think it would be amazing to make water or fire, or make flowers grow! That would be the best thing, making flowers grow….”

“It wouldn’t be worth it,” Peeta tells her, smiling wryly. “You’d be a monster, remember? And I don’t think monsters even like flowers.”

But when she leaves, he crouches down on his back porch and tentatively grows a primrose. Then he realizes what he’s done and smashes it with his fist.

7

Peeta likes the idea of a rebellion, but worries for Katniss. She’s become a symbol, Haymitch says, and though Peeta understands and appreciates why this has happened, he still worries. Katniss is everything good in the world, in his opinion, and he thinks that it is about time that the Districts realize it too.

He is also scared for her, and is even more anxious about everything when she tells him about President Snow’s threats. He feels horrible for her. He feels guilty that his actions (however well-intentioned), have trapped her in a relationship with him.

Peeta…loves her, and it is no hardship to fall into the fantasy that she loves him back. It’s like a drug: her kiss, her smell, her voice, her fire – he drinks all of it up and flies with it for as long as the camera demands. But Katniss is forced to go along with the ride, and that is Peeta’s fault.

He is very much a monster.

8

Being Reaped is one of the worst things to ever happen to Peeta. Some of his worst things include his father catching him with the water, his mother burning him on the oven (over and over, and she was so mad that it never hurt), and Katniss volunteering for Prim. But the one good thing to come out of the Reaping is that Peeta makes friends.

Back home, Delly had been good to him (though she was honestly good to everyone), and a few of Delly’s friends didn’t mind Peeta either. But they didn’t feel like this. Like how he felt around Haymitch and Effie, and Johanna and Finnick.

They are nice to him, and understand how bad the games had messed him up. Peeta isn’t very, very good friends with them, of course, because they were fixated on Katniss (Peeta thinks that this is understandable; he is fixated too), but he feels close to them all the same.

They don’t think much of him, he knows, and of course he doesn’t blame them. Peeta is just glad that they stay. After all, the difference between this group of misfits and his family is that they are affectionate regardless of what he is. They look at him.

They might not see him, but still, they look.

9

The first indication that things will go awry isn’t at the Reaping for the Quarter Quell. Peeta already expects President Snow to make them suffer. This is just his opening move.

No, it is Johanna that makes Peeta understand how much danger Katniss is really in.

“So…what?” she says, with more fire than Katniss could ever have. “You think you’re going to save her, Lover Boy?”

She laughs a not very nice laugh.

“No one is getting out of that arena,” she tells him. They are face-to-face. Up close, he sees that Johanna looks sad. “Especially not her.”

Peeta swallows around his mumbled denials. He knows that Johanna is right. He shakes. He knows, he knows, she didn’t have to say it….

They are never getting out.

10

“Haymitch,” he says, coming into the dark room where his mentor reclines; obviously intoxicated. The night is clear and cold.

Tomorrow they die.

“I need you to do something for me,” Peeta asks.

Haymitch smirks humorlessly. “Last requests, boy? Alright. Lay it on me.”

Peeta licks his lips, and closes his eyes. Resigned. “I need you to get my family out of twelve, when the time comes.”

His mentor frowns. “Time comes for what?”

“Just…in the arena, if I say to you that it’s time, will you get my family somewhere safe?”

Haymitch does not know what Peeta means, but there is a spark of understanding developing in his eyes. (He doesn’t know what Peeta is, so he comes to the wrong conclusions, of course.)

“Things aren’t that bad yet,” Haymitch denies, even though they both know he’s lying.

“They will be.”

With or without Peeta being a Nameless, District 12 is in very real danger. Peeta needs to know that there is a sanctuary for his family should he make things even worse.

“Alright,” Haymitch tells him, shaking his head tiredly. “I’ll see what I can do.”

11

He feels pain.

He meant to channel the shock but misjudged it badly. His heart has stopped. Katniss is sobbing into his chest.

Some part of him knows that he can take that fire and feed it into his dying body. That he can rise again even better than before. Peeta is, after all, of the fire and of the lightning. He is not meant to die like this.

But then his friend gives him air. Breathes life back into him. And there…his friends smile as he gasps awake. They have protected him. They see him, and save him, and he sees them and will save them in return. Because Peeta is not only of the elements.

He is of this family too.

This epiphany leads to 12.

12

“Haymitch,” he says, panting. They are at the base of the tree, and Beetee has fallen. Katniss has her arrow. It will not be enough.

“Haymitch, if you’re there, get them out.”

The sky begins to rumble.

“Get them out!” he shouts, just as Katniss runs toward him, as Finnick flies into view, as the storm gathers overhead and the electric ground rises up to reach for the buzzing, booming overhead. The lightning…the lightning….

Peeta spreads his arms, and feels it come. Katniss is howling like the wind.

It strikes.

He uses it, twists it, shoots it back up, until it hits the arena and explodes in a shower of flame. They, all of them, everywhere, are staring at him – holding their breath. Oh, they say, oh…now they see him.

He’s here.

As everything collapses, he stands in the wreckage as someone else. As someone known, but never by name.

Until now.

“Peeta,” Katniss gasps.

.

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #11 - in battle side by side

Rating: M Summary: for the 30 day OTP challenge. Bilbo and Thorin have wed, were attacked by orcs, kidnapped, and now they’re probably about to die. But both will find out that together they can beat the odds, and that love comes from the oddest of places, and at the most inconvenient of times. AU - Arranged Marriage. This is Part II >>> Go to Part I

Warning: bit of violence here, but nothing too graphic. Bilbo also continues to be a complete badass.

Note: So….sorry this took so long, my professor gave us the deets for our term paper and it’s a monster. Then I got sick and all I did was lay around watching Kitchen Nightmares, and THEN the Defenders trailer dropped and I basically lost my mind and got stuck on the kinkmeme. So yeah. But I’m here and I love you all now have some bagginshield

It has always been the fate of Arnor that the shadow to the east would one day rise and seek to destroy it. In another time and in perhaps another place, Arthedain falls – and events transpire just as one might think; evil comes and so too does good, and they fight beneath a sky that has seen all manner of battles many times before, and will see them many times after. But it does not happen that way, and the world Gandalf must save is this one, and so he sits among the arguing dignitaries of Arnor and prays for patience.

“We obviously have a traitor!” exclaims Mirabella. “And they mean to collect a hefty ransom from us no doubt! Hefty!”

She levels a pointed look at the dwarow. There is no outcry at this accusation, as there would be if anyone but a dwarf were under suspicion. Balin, ever the diplomat, only looks calmly at Mirabella with his tired eyes.

“My lady,” he says slowly. “All we want is our prince and our prince’s husband returned safely to us. Our efforts are wasted pointing fingers at those in this room. It is orcs that took them, and it is orcs we must fight to get them back.”

“Yes! These so-called orcs,” counters one of the King’s advisors. “You claim they are from Moria, and that one of them looked like the defiler. The defiler whom you said was dead!”

“I saw him!” Dís bursts out, pounding her fist on the arm of her chair. “I would know that ugly face anywhere! He took my brother! He killed our grandfather! I know Azog the defiler, and don’t you dare tell me that I do not!”

“Lady Dís, peace,” Gandalf intervenes, placing a calming hand on her shoulder. He hears one of the hobbits scoff, “Lady, he says,” and he glares in their direction. 

"I believe Lady Dís,” he tells them. “For I have seen and sensed a stirring in the east. On my journey through the North Downs, I saw with my own eyes a large white orc of the same description as Azog the defiler. It was him, I say, and if you doubt the word of a wizard then say so, though suspect you will not. I said nothing of it, for I was not sure until the dwarrow gave their testimony of the attack, but now there is no doubt in me at all – Azog has returned, and I fear he is not alone.”

The Arthedain King had so far listened silently, but now he sits up and leans toward Gandalf with his brow furrowed in concern. “Do you believe there is any truth in the rumors?”

“What rumors?” asks Mirabella. It is echoed by many of the hobbits, but for Gerontius, who looks knowing.

Gandalf casts them a stern glance, waiting for quiet. “There has been word of large orc packs, traveling across the downs and menacing settlements, and reports of trolls where they should not be. The Wights are also restless. They are more aggressive and have ensnared those unlucky enough to be out after dark.”

He hears one hobbit gulp, and then turns back to meet the King’s eyes. “The shadow stirs. I sense a great evil that has long been dormant, but which now seeks to wake.”

"Sire! Sire!” a soldier runs into the council room, out of breath. “You must come! They have found the dwarf prince!”

The dwarrow shoot to their feet. “Is he alive?” Dwalin growls.

“Aye,” says the soldier. “He’s near-drowned, but he lives.”

More than just dwarrow hover around Thorin’s bed. Hobbits clutter up the infirmary like so many squabbling children, and Strider must wade through them to come to Gandalf’s side.

“What does he need?” he asks the wizard, who is peering at Thorin intently.

“Nothing,” says Gandalf, pulling back. He turns to Strider but glances at the dwarrow too, in order to include them. “He’s mostly exhausted, but he should wake soon. If not naturally than because hobbits have not the sense nor the common courtesy to be quiet in an infirmary!”

Gandalf is easily overheard, and a few of the hobbits look scandalized but thankfully shut up. Thorin mumurs then, face twitching, and Dís moves to his side. She touches his face, whispering in Khuzdul to coax him awake.

He comes to and is disoriented for a few minutes, blinking up at them, but then quickly becomes agitated.

“Where…where?”

Dís puts a restraining hand on his shoulder. “Calm down, brother. You are safe. You’re in Annúminas.”

“Annúminas….”

“Never mind that!” shouts one of Bilbo’s relations. She shoves to the front of the pack and points a gnarled finger in Thorin’s direction. “What have you done with my nephew?!”

The group makes noises of agreement, getting ready to devolve into a proper mob, but Thorin suddenly sits up, his eyes growing wide.

“Bilbo!” he exclaims, and then struggles to get out of bed. He fights with the blankets wrapped around his legs, going so far as to push Dís away when she reaches for him.

“Bilbo was with you?” the hobbits cry.

“They took him,” Thorin pants, shoving at Dwalin now too. “I have to find him. Get out of my way!”

Dís shakes her head, looking frightened. "Thorin, stop this! You cannot get up, you need to rest – ”

“Get off! Bilbo! Bilbo!”

Gandalf sees that the prince is about to become very unruly, and steps forward with his staff raised. He does some wizardry that soothes not only Thorin, but the nervous crowd standing around him as well.

“You cannot go to him now, Thorin,” says Gandalf. “The healer must watch you for a while, to be sure that you are not injured or ill. Be sensible now.”

“Bilbo…” Thorin whispers, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Yes, our hobbit.” The wizard moves back, leaning against his staff pensively. “You say that he has been taken?”

Thorin tries to nod, but this seems to pain him. Dís lays a comforting hand on his forehead. “Nazgûl,” says Thorin, and it is so low and so surprising an answer that Gandalf and Strider are sure that they have misheard. But then he says again, “Nazgûl,” and there can be no mistake.

“Black riders?” Strider looks at Gandalf, horrified. “But whatever can they want Bilbo for?”

Gandalf’s frown is fierce, and it creates new lines on his old face. “I imagine that Master Baggins was collateral damage, of sorts. He is an unfortunate victim caught up in the long war between the shadow and Arnor, and perhaps…perhaps the Pale Orc’s plot for revenge as well.”

Thorin moans despondently, and Dís turns to glare at the wizard. “Don’t say that!” she snaps. “You know how he is.”

Gandalf nods, at once looking regretful. “It is not for you to take the blame, Thorin Oakenshield. We have no time for games such as that. Aragorn? A word.”

They move off to the corner of the room that is unoccupied by hobbits, and begin to murmur secretively. Dís watches them for a moment, frustrated, before scooting closer to her brother. “You frightened me,” she says. “Don’t do it again.”

Thorin shakes his head, his black hair fanning out on his pillow. He is falling asleep. “We must find him, sister,” he tells her with drooping eyes.

“We shall,” she assures him, glancing back at Balin and Dwalin worriedly. “I promise. Rest now, Thorin.”

He nods off, unable to stay awake despite his fear for Bilbo. The dwarrow huddle around him protectively, unsure what has happened, or indeed, what will happen now.

Bilbo wakes to snowfall.

He is bundled up on the back of a horse, staring up at a black sky. Flakes of white swirl gently around him, sticking to his hair and face. The horse snorts, and he hears the sharp clopping sound of hooves on stone.

The Nazgûl.

He manages to turn his head, his neck crying out in pain, and look around him as they make slow progress across what looks like a very narrow bridge with a large, dark chasm beneath it. Around him are the shadowy silhouettes of a mountain range. He can see his breath when he exhales anxiously.

The horse suddenly comes to a stop, and Bilbo tries to look past the hulking black rider to see what is happening. The sound of stone and steel grinding together makes his ears ring, and his heart speeds up when they move forward and through a black metal gate. He catches a glimpse of red eyes peering down at him from the turrets, before he gasps and looks away.

Bilbo wiggles a little as the black rider comes to a halt and then dismounts. Hands grab him and slide him off of the horse, and Bilbo goes tumbling to the ground. The sack is torn off of him. He gets to his knees, prepared to run, but is quickly and efficiently lifted up and dragged until he can get his feet underneath him. He looks at where he is for the first time and gasps.

It’s a fortress; a black curtain of steel that to Bilbo’s eyes seems completely impenetrable. He loses track of all the windows and winding towers, loses track of where the dark night sky begins and where the reaching, clawing spires end. They drag him through an ominous looking portcullis and immediately up the closest stairwell. There are orcs behind him too, hustling him forward, and when Bilbo turns his head for one last look behind, he sees the Nazgûl ride back through the gates. He shivers in terror; worried for who he knows they are after now.

He prays that Thorin made it to the capital.

Up the stairs he is pushed and pulled, herded like a mouse between cats, until finally they stop ascending and the orc clawing his arm opens the door to a cell. Bilbo is shoved in without ceremony.

He lands on his knees, skinning them on the damp and dirty stone. It’s freezing.

“Great,” he sighs, turning to sit cross legged and rub his hands up and down his arms. “Just great.”

Despite his less than stellar circumstances, Bilbo can’t help but worry more for Thorin rather than himself. There was no beating the Nazgûl, though they had certainly put up a brave fight. None of Bilbo’s arrows had aimed true (though he is beginning to realize that that was more the fault of dark magic than anything, for Bilbo sensed that the beasts that the Nazgûl rode were tainted with evil; invincible even to an arrow to the heart) and Thorin had met swords with the riders, but could not unseat them. They rode back and forth, striking at the hobbit and the dwarf as they passed – playing with them.

Bilbo knew what had to be done. He’d apologized to Thorin sincerely, but though sorry he hadn’t hesitated. With one great shove, he’d thrown Thorin off the side of the cliff (not a high drop, thankfully) and then had sprinted away and into the forest. The Nazgûl had followed.

Now Bilbo is their prisoner, locked in a cold cell with no food or water. He is terrified and aching from his ordeal, but finds that that he cannot tear his mind away from his fear for his husband. Fear that he had drowned. That Bilbo had killed him.

He chokes down a sob and draws his knees to his chest, trying hard not to cry. Bilbo knows he must be strong for Thorin and focus on getting out of Carn Dûm. And yet that doesn’t stop him from being absolutely terrified of what the night will bring, and for Thorin, who is dead for all the hobbit knows. Let him be alive, Bilbo prays, curling in on himself. He doesn’t know yet, how much I care for him.

No one answers, but still Bilbo prays.

Though he is exhausted and ill, Thorin does not sleep. He is restless – it has been a full day since Bilbo was taken and his unceasing demands to be let up so that he can search for the hobbit have been ignored. No one is doing anything, and Thorin feels as though he is going mad trying to make them listen.

“The truth of the matter, is that they do not trust us,” Dís confesses to him. She is sat at his bedside, looking pale and tired. “Not now. Not ever. They will not let us join their party.”

“He’s my husband,” Thorin says through gritted teeth. “And I am his. They cannot forbid me to do my duty to him.”

Dís does not respond, though the expression on her face is telling enough.  "Gathering an army takes time,“ she reminds him.

"And do we have that time, sister?” he snarls, frustrated. He clenches his fists in his bedsheets, anxiety squirming in the pit of his stomach and angry curses waiting on the tip of his tongue.

Dís puts a hand on his shoulder in comfort, and opens her mouth to reassure him (with false hopes, no doubt) when a hobbit bustles into the infirmary and marches straight for Thorin’s bed. Dís’ hand aborts it’s movement and flies to the hilt of her sword.

“Never mind that,” says the hobbit, waving at Dís. “I’m not here to wallop him, I sort of like the sod.”

“Mrs. Baggins,” Thorin greets. He swallows audibly. “I’m so sorry –”

“Stuff,” she cuts him off. Her auburn curls (so like Bilbo’s) bounce as she puts her hands on her hips, staring at Thorin with narrowed eyes. “I know my son, Master Oakenshield, and he’s as much to blame for this mess as you are.”

Thorin frowns. “Bilbo did nothing wrong! We were attacked – ”

“There, see? Then neither of you are at fault.”

Thorin thinks that he has maybe been tricked.

“But I’m not here to cast stones,” Mrs. Baggins goes on. “I’m here to spring you out of this place so that you can skip all this tedious bureaucracy and save my son sometime in the next age or so.”

Dís mouth twitches. “That all, Mrs. Baggins?”

Bilbo’s mother spares her a smile. Her sharp eyes turn back to Thorin quickly, however. “You’re fond of my son, I think.”

Thorin’s brow furrows. “Of course.”

“Hmph.” She eyes him a moment more before waving a hand. “That will do. Alright, up, get up! I’ve borrowed two horses and some provisions for you down in the stables, only we should probably hurry considering I left Adalgrim on watch. Not my brightest idea, I’ll admit.”

She bustles them out of the infirmary without anymore delay, creeping silently through the halls and leading them through the castle with surprising ease. Thorin sees the same stealth in Bilbo, and so is not too surprised. Dís looks quite impressed though.

They make it down to the stables without incident, and find not only the hobbit named Adalgrim waiting, but Dwalin as well. “Aunt Bella!” the hobbit squeaks. “I’m glad you made it.” He side-eyes Dwalin. “The courtyard is clear.”

“Fantastic. Alright, dwarrow.” She turns to them, watching as Thorin heaves himself into the saddle, still looking a bit wobbly. “Don’t get yourselves killed. Find my son.”

“Aye,” Dwalin says.

Thorin bows his head a bit. “You have my word,” he promises, before turning his horse in the direction of the gates.

With the hobbits watching, they set out in the direction of Angmar, where Bilbo is presumably imprisoned – and where the shadow waits.

Bilbo hears the grating sound of black speech outside of his cell. It has been so long since he has seen another orc besides the one giving him scant amounts of food and water every six hours or so. He has a feeling that his purpose here is about to be explained, and Bilbo cannot tell if he is relieved that the waiting is over, or if he would rather he were left alone to die in his cell. He is anxiously crouched in the corner, dirty and exhausted, when Azog the defiler opens the door.

The pale orc strides in, two underlings shuffling behind him. Their faces are grotesque, rotten and deformed, and Bilbo shies away when he sees them up close.

"Gimbut nazg ta, thrakul dug dûmpat," says one of the orcs in the dark tongue. Bilbo shivers.

"Ska! Snaga krul búbhosh," says the other.

“Sha.” Azog stops them talking and steps forward. “Where is Oakenshield?”

Bilbo gapes a bit. “You…speak Westron?”

Azog sneers, his scarred face twisting upward. He bends down and moves in close to Bilbo. “Where is Oakenshield?”

“No idea,” Bilbo tells him, then clears his throat. “We were separated.”

Azog stares; he examines the hobbit with sharp, cruel eyes. He sniffs Bilbo, as though he were savoring the scent of his favorite meal. Bilbo hunkers down and turns his head away.

“Where does he go? He will come for you, little thing?”

Bilbo holds his breath, trying hard not to show how terrified he really is. “No, he won’t,” Bilbo says. “And I’m not going to tell you anything.”

Azog smiles. “Where?” he asks again.

Bilbo turns and meets the pale orc’s eyes, scowling. “I’m not,” he repeats, slowly. “Telling. you. anything.”

One of the orcs standing by the door curses in black speech, but Azog pays him no mind. He stares at Bilbo intently, eyes never leaving the hobbit’s face. “You will tell me, little thing. Or die.”

Bilbo is not stupid. He knows that Azog could kill him easily; that he could crush Bilbo’s skull with one hand, or tear him in half with both. But the orc is after Thorin – Thorin who is dutiful and strong. Thorin who is endearingly awkward and surprisingly (under that gruff exterior) quite kind. Thorin his friend. Thorin his husband. And Bilbo hates this orc for threatening so good a dwarf.

So he glares defiantly, and says, “bugger off.” 

And alright, Bilbo might be a little stupid.

Azog hits him so hard that Bilbo cuts his lip on his teeth. His head spins and his ears are ringing as he’s dragged to his feet.

“Globûrz,” says Azog, shaking him by the scruff of his neck. "Now you will suffer.”

He motions the two orcs forward with a sharp swipe of his hand. Bilbo backs away, but there is nowhere to go; the cold stone wall is behind him, and the doorway is blocked. Azog smirks at the hobbit one more time, before leaving him alone with the orcs.

They make good time crossing the North Downs. Thorin’s body protests the punishing pace, but the idea of stopping is unimaginable and his companions aren’t as winded as he is, anyway. Their concern is not necessary, and he tells them so, and so they continue to Angmar with no pauses but those they make for the horses. The Downs are cold, and the closer they get to the dark fortress, the worse the weather becomes. Soon snow is falling and the roads are slick with ice.

“We cannot take the horses any farther,” Dís tells him. He sighs heavily, his breath visible in the cold evening air.

“Aye,” he agrees, dismounting. He pets the neck of his horse gratefully, before unloading their saddlebags.

“I’ll be the one to ask then,” Dwalin says gruffly. “How are we going to cross that cursed bridge?”

In the distance, Thorin can see the spires of Carn Dûm. The great chasm between the Downs and the fortress has but one path – that of the bridge made entirely of black ice. Thorin has seen it once in the last war, and the difficulty of crossing it is as infamous as is the impossibility of successfully storming its gates. But Thorin has no choice.

“We must find a way,” Thorin tells him, his tone warning Dwalin not to speak of it anymore. He fears that his friend is thinking the likely truth; that attempting to enter Carn Dûm means only death.

They set out once more, this time on foot, and the dark fortress grows bigger as they draw closer.

“We should rest,” Dís says for the third time. They have not stopped since the day before, and all of them are edging on completely exhausted. “Thorin, we must – ”

“Shush,” Dwalin interrupts, pulling both of them behind a snowbank.

Thorin and Dís wisely stay silent, waiting to see what Dwalin had heard. And there – the sound of steady marching as a number of black specks come into view in the small valley below them.

“The wizard was right,” Thorin sighs. “Let is hope he brings an army behind us.”

There are hundreds of orcs camped on the Downs, and so many more within the gates of Angmar besides. Thorin shares a worried, solemn look with Dís.

“We should stop here,” she repeats.

“We need to find another way in, sister.”

“Yes, and running about willy-nilly isn’t the way to do it. Think, Thorin.”

“Every second we waste….”

But Dwalin decides for them both and begins to set up camp. Thorin knows that once Dwalin has made up his mind that there is no moving him, and so he wisely gives in and moves to help. They do not light a fire, and the wet cold seeps through their boots as they crouch in the snow, but they are used to less than ideal conditions and make do.

As night comes they are no closer to finding a way past the army or into the fortress. Frustration rattles Thorin’s nerves and his temper begins to fray. A harsh cough has come upon him, likely from his time in the lake, and Dís eyes him worriedly as they set up a makeshift tent. They double up on their furs and bedrolls before settling down for some sleep. Dwalin takes first watch.

Thorin coughs himself awake not even two hours later, but cannot fall back to sleep. He climbs out of the tent and Dwalin looks up as he approaches.

“Rest, brother,” he says, placing his hand on Dwalin’s shoulder. “I cannot sleep anymore tonight.”

“You’ll kill yourself if you keep on like this,” Dwalin tells him. “And I’m not going to be the one that tells your hobbit if you do. Rather face a Warg.”

Thorin can’t help but smirk. “The Warg might let you live, yes,” he jokes.

“I mean it, Thorin,” Dwalin insists, looking him in the eye. “From what you’ve told me Master Baggins can take care of himself…which means he’ll be doing his best to survive, and so should you.”

Thorin looks away from his friend, nodding reluctantly. “Go to sleep,” he says after a long silence. “I will keep watch.”

Dwalin gives in and disappears into the tent, and Thorin takes his place on top of the snowbank. The night grows colder as the hours pass, and the time for waking Dís comes and goes. He is wide awake, and knows that his companions need to rest more than he does at the moment. Sleep seems an impossible thing with Bilbo in such danger.

Dawn comes quicker than usual, propelled by Thorin’s pensive inattention. He watches the sky lighten above Angmar, never becoming the blue of a clear day, but only a lighter shade of grey. A fog hovers above the fortress.

It is in the eery hour before true sunrise that Thorin sees significant movement down in the orc camps. He moves forward to peer closer, and his eyes widen as he sees among them a giant orc – one familiar, so very familiar to Thorin Oakenshield. Azog is surrounded by his lesser officers and his ferocious white Warg. They speak, Azog seeming to be giving orders, and Thorin imagines that he can hear the growling, tainted speech of Mordor from here.

Azog suddenly mounts his Warg, and Thorin realizes what is happening almost too late. “Wake!” he hisses to Dís and Dwalin, scrambling to the tent and shoving it away. “Wake!”

“What – ?”

“The Defiler!” Thorin shouts. “He is getting away.”

He pauses only to grab his sword before he sprints down the snowbank and toward Azog’s pack as they lumber slowly in the direction of Carn Dûm. He hears Dís call out behind him, and Dwalin cursing, but he cannot stop – he cannot lose sight of the pale orc.

He cannot lose Bilbo.

Dwalin and Dís fall behind, but he presses on without waiting for them, closing in on the pack quickly. Azog does not seem to be in any kind of hurry though, and Thorin creeps around the edge of the forest, intent on ambushing them. But then the pale orc suddenly halts, raising one clawed hand.

“Oakenshield,” growls Azog, and Thorin goes very still. “Foolish, but it is good you are here. Come out.”

The advantage of surprise lost (did he ever have it in the first place?) Thorin sees no other recourse than facing his enemy head on. As he walks into the clearing, the other orcs back away with excited jeers. Azog smirks at Thorin smugly.

“You have come for your little thing,” he says idly, and Thorin’s heart pounds with fear. “He is not here.”

He points his sword at the orc. “You will tell me where he is, and then I will cut your head from your body.”

“You will try.”

“I’ll succeed.”

Thorin stares into those pale eyes, now unafraid (he cannot afford to be frightened when Bilbo needs him, after all). Azog only stands there and smirks, and Thorin feels rage and hatred swirl inside him as the orc dismounts his pet Warg and steps closer.

“I will enjoy carving my name into your skin, Oakenshield,” Azog says as they begin to circle each other. “And into every Durin after – ”

Thorin attacks swiftly and silently, meeting Azog’s mace with a loud clang. The impact vibrates up his arms as he ducks to the side, striking Azog in the arm and drawing first blood. Azog roars in pain, swinging his weapon around and nearly taking Thorin’s head off.

Around him the orcs spit and jeer, and there is no sign of Dwalin or Dís.

The mace comes flying at his left side but Thorin is able to avoid it. He minds his feet as he retreats backward, Azog on the offense now. The orc is incredibly strong, and seems to have few weaknesses. Thorin goes for his ankles and the backs of his knees, but though Azog cries out in agony, he does not fall.

Sweat runs down Thorin’s face as he evades and attacks, steadily hacking away at the orc but never truly making progress. Azog gets in a jarring hit to Thorin’s shoulder with his mace, and he goes down for a second before scrambling back on his feet. Azog grins toothily at his bloodied arm – prowling closer.

Thorin suddenly hears a shout, and then pained gurgling, and glances over just as an orc falls to the ground seeping black blood. He has no time to wonder at it though, as Azog comes for him again, raising his mace and smashing it into the ground where Thorin had once crouched. He rolls to the side and crashes into something, and looks up just in time to see the teeth of the white Warg descend upon him.

A sword drives through its head before it can take a bite.

Thorin moves out of the way quickly as the Warg collapses, and looks up at his timely rescuer.

Bilbo grins down at him cheekily. “Are you always in need of saving?” he says. “Allow me, princess.”

Thorin only gapes as the hobbit turns to Azog and raises his sword in challenge.

Bilbo doesn’t know any black speech, but he does know when someone is arguing. Arguments are hobbit-y pastimes, after all,  and this particular one is definitely reminiscent of his aunts disagreeing on who did what when or faunts squabbling over who hit who in the head playing conkers and exactly how hard.

He just can’t believe he’s witnessing it now, is all.

“Are you…are you arguing about who gets to torture me, first?” he asks, bewildered. The orcs pay him no mind as the debate grows more and more heated.

Bilbo gets to his feet, and even then the orcs do not push him down. He inches along the wall dubiously, slowly making his way toward the door, when they finally turn and screech at him. Bilbo lunges away from a swinging scimitar, before kneeing the orc in the crotch. He tears the sword out of the wailing creature’s hand and clobbers him on the head with the hilt, before blocking a swipe to the face. Bilbo parries again and comes in close quarters, using his small stature to avoid another hit and creep in close. He quickly stabs the orc through the gut before backing away and letting it fall to the ground.

Bilbo can’t help but laugh a little as he runs out of the cell and slams the door shut. The lock slides into place with a satisfying clank. He is covered in dirt and breathless as he sets off to find a way out, aware that dodging an entire fortress of orcs is nigh on impossible.

But he must try, because Azog has planted a trap for Thorin, and Bilbo refuses to lose the dwarf he has so come to care for, in so little time.

They fight.

Thorin is on his feet once more, and Bilbo is a whirlwind beside him. Azog has motioned his orcs forward, seemingly had enough of their duel. That is good enough for Thorin, because Bilbo is here now, and Bilbo fights with him. Between them, Azog will not get away.

“It is good to see you,” Thorin says as he cuts an orc in the back. There is a bright smile on his face, and it is so uncharacteristic of him that Bilbo blinks a bit.

“And you. I was worried you were going to walk right into a trap! Good thing you were smart enough not to – oh, wait.”

Thorin laughs, parrying another blow and kicking the orc’s leg out from under him. It’s quick work to kill it once it’s on the ground. Then, suddenly, two things happen at once: Dís and Dwalin come charging into the fray and Azog…turns tail and runs.

Bilbo sees him go first and runs off after him, Thorin at his heels. They slip a little in the snow and nearly fall down the snowbank, but manage to keep their feet and sprint after the defiler. Though Thorin and Bilbo are quick, when they break out of the frozen wood they find that their prey has vanished. Bilbo inches toward the edge of the hillside. “So you didn’t come alone,” he comments, turning to smile at Thorin.

Thorin looks where Bilbo points. The orc camp is under attack by the allies of Arthedain, caught unprepared by the army that had thankfully followed Thorin to Angmar. “No,” he agrees, brushing his hand with Bilbo’s. “I suppose I didn’t.”

Azog bursts out of the trees then, his mace coming down and missing Bilbo by a hair. They gasp and tear apart, the hobbit falling to the ground painfully. Thorin charges forward between the orc and Bilbo, blocking the mace from striking them. Furious, Azog presses forward, hitting hard as he pushes them closer to the edge of the hillside.

Bilbo suddenly shouts and stabs his sword into the orc’s back, and Thorin takes the opening and slides underneath his legs, kicking the defiler in the knees and down the hill.

It’s not enough of a drop to kill him, but Azog is winded and does not rise for a few seconds. They are just considering how to make their way down as quickly and as safely as possible when the orc gets to his feet and takes off, limping terribly.

Thorin gives a wordless cry and nearly throws himself off of the hill, but Bilbo stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” he says, and the hobbit crouches and picks up a good sized rock. He throws it hard in the direction of the fleeing orc.

It hits Azog in the back of neck – felling him.

Thorin turns to his hobbit, his mouth open in surprise, but Bilbo only smiles sheepishly.

“Conkers,” he says with a shrug.

It is an army of Dúnedain, elvish folk, Men, and dwarrow that come to the aid of Arthedain. They manage to push the orcish army back into the shadowlands, clearing the North Downs of their presence for a short time. All of Arnor knows that this is only their first battle, and that Angmar’s rise has not been completely quelled. Not yet, anyway.

Thorin is aware that another war knocks at the door of the kingdom, and that if the dwarrow are to make peace as allies of the Arthedain, they too should be involved. But understandably, Thorin is wary of committing to anything.

Luckily, Bilbo’s return had made them rather accommodating to Thorin, as if to make up for the obvious distress Bilbo’s kidnapping had caused him, and to thank him for saving Bilbo in the end. He relays often that it is the other way around – that it was Bilbo who had saved Thorin – but few believe him.

It is another spot of good news that though Bilbo is bruised and exhausted, he is otherwise unharmed. Regardless, Thorin finds it…difficult, to keep from touching the hobbit to make sure that there were no secret injuries, or just in general to reassure himself that Bilbo is safe.

They….well.

It is different between them now. There is a warmth in Thorin that is both frightening and perfect at the same time. It is a warmth kindled by the presence of the hobbit at his side; at the touch of his fingers through auburn curls and the soft, sweet smile Bilbo gives to him when they meet each other’s eyes.

“You’re stupid,” Dís tells him one night, when she catches him watching Bilbo sleeping in the bedroll beside him. “I’m happy for you, brother.”

Thorin is happy too. Somewhere along this strange journey, he has learned to be just a little selfish, and Bilbo’s safety has become paramount. He finds this both worrisome and exhilarating, for how is he to juggle his duty with his being in love? It is a world-shaking thing, to be in love. It cripples or empowers, and Thorin cannot afford to gamble on which one it will be – not as a prince, a leader, a warrior…

…and a husband.

“When we get home finally,” Bilbo says, riding beside him as they make their way back to Annúminas. “I should like to have a party.”

“A party?” Thorin repeats, already amused.

“Yes. I want to meet everyone. Everyone, Thorin.” He then grows solemn. “I think Gandalf is probably right about all that dramatic shadow business, and dark times are ahead. Our people should be ready.”

Thorin suddenly realizes that Bilbo means the dwarrow of Ered Luin; that Bilbo has decided that Thorin’s responsibility to his people is Bilbo’s responsibility as well. It reminds him of the past – of when his mother and father bore the weight of the crown together. But Thorin had never dreamed that he would have the same chance to rule in such a way. His mother’s death had also nearly broken his father in the end, and Thorin is unsure whether or not the pain of the eventual loss is worth it, especially with the weight of a kingdom on his shoulders.

He looks at Bilbo, who is chattering away about parties and their people, and about finally going home, and he realizes that it is too late – there is no going back now. Thorin will just have to learn to live with being in love.

He’s not too worried though.

Bilbo will be there to teach him.

.

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #10 - teaching each other something

Rating: M Summary: for the 30 day OTP challenge. Arthedain did not fall, and now Arnor calls upon their hobbit subjects to help make peace with the dwarrow of Ered Luin – which is how young Bilbo Baggins finds himself married to a prince. AU - Arranged Marriage. Part I

Note: soooooooo this is in two parts and fills two fills! The second part should be up soon. Hope this makes up for how long it’s been since I posted :((( right. Couple of things: It’s TA 2923. Some people have not died yet. Bilbo has just come of age, so he’s 33 in hobbit years which is about 21 in human years. Thorin is around 177 and is say….in his late thirties. I’m also using Aragorn’s age from the movies, so he’s 27 here. The divergence begins when Arthedain survives the Battle of Fornost, and so the hobbits remain under the jurisdiction of the Arthedain King. Doesn’t change much, only that hobbits are a bit more worldly and political, and some of the monarchical culture of Arthedain has been adopted by the Shire. If you have questions let me know, but i advise you just to enjoy the ride lol

The Old Took is a friend of his, and so delivering unfortunate news to him is an especially sorry task for poor Gandalf. He sits, cramped and miserable, in a chair made for the hobbits of Arthedain, never feeling more like one of the Big Folk than he does now (having made himself unwelcome in both areas of size and respectable company). But it cannot be undone, and politics are politics.

“And whom would you suggest I throw to the wolves, Gandalf?” says Gerontius, his knuckles white as he clenches his fists. “There is no one of equal standing.”

Gandalf hesitates, but he knows that speaking truths now would not be helpful. The Old Took is aware of where this will lead anyway, but does not want to say it as much as he does not want Gandalf to say it, and so they remained silent for a time.

As the fire crackles merrily and their tea grows cold, Gandalf puffs at his pipe morosely, thinking of who Gerontius might try to persuade instead. There is Fortinbras of course, though Gandalf is fairly sure that he is attached to the Clayhanger girl. Then Adalgrim, perhaps, though it is important to note that that particular relationship would never work (Grim is not the most… sensible of hobbits). Flambard or Sigismond however….

He looks up to find Gerontius watching him. “No,” says the Old Took. “Flambard is not that way, and Sigismond has just fallen in love.”

Gandalf sighs. “Is it a great love?”

Gerontius shakes his head, looking defeated. “One never knows.”

They stare at each other. There is a frown sitting heavily on the hobbit’s face, and his eyes are bathed in shadow. Looking at his friend, Gandalf feels the noose grow tighter.

“Bella will never forgive me,” the Thain says into the quiet. “He’s my favorite, you know, and there are quite a lot of them to choose from.”

Gandalf smiles, but it is fleeting. “They are equals, to be sure.”

“No,” Gerontius relights his pipe and sits back in his chair. “No, they are not. This dwarf, prince or not, simply cannot compare.”

There is nothing else to be said after that, and resignedly, they agree to go to Hobbiton together tomorrow. They also agree that neither of them wants to break the news. It is Adamanta that does it, in the end, and perhaps that is best.

Lessons take place from second breakfast to afternoon tea, and they are purposely grueling, given Bilbo’s tendency to drift off into daydreams. He thinks of his old ambitions and interests, so callously set aside at his father’s behest. It has never been more apparent than now that he is a hobbit of means and respectability, and so has little choice in where his life must go from here.

It is September the twenty-third, and two days ago, Bilbo came of age.

His father had waited only twelve hours after Bilbo’s birthday to sit him down and say:

“Bilbo, you are not just any hobbit. You are a gentlehobbit. You are the grandson of the Shire’s Thain, the Baggins family heir, and a respected patron and landlord. One day, I shall die – no, do not fuss, I’m healthy yet – but die I shall, and when I do, my boy, I want to be sure that our family’s reputation is well in hand. That is to say, it is time to further your lessons.”

Bilbo, who is gnawing on his lip and growing more and more despondent, says:  "But I’ve been training to be a Bounder! I won’t have time for lessons.“

“You will,” says Bungo, solemnly. “Because you simply cannot be a Bounder.”

Life before his coming of age consists of practicing his archery and patrolling (though not in areas known to be very dangerous – he is only a trainee, after all) the boundaries of the Shire. He and Adalgrim had wanted to finish their training in a year’s time, before joining the Dúnedain as scouts and marksmen. This was Bilbo’s dream, but now, here – his father is telling him that it is simply not possible, and Bilbo is heartbroken.

He does not pay as much attention to his lessons as he should, in consequence. He does not want to learn about public speaking, both Shire and Arthedain histories, and boring old accounting and landholdings. He does not care that he is wealthy or born into privilege.

“You mustn’t sulk, Bilbo, you are very lucky you know,” says Strider. He has come to see if Bilbo would patrol with him (they prefer journeying together, most days), but is instead regaled with the details of Bilbo’s most horrid news.

“But I want to help!” the hobbit insists. “The roads grow more and more dangerous as time passes, and those dwarves will hardly make peace with us, no matter what Lord Elrond says!”

“Bilbo,” Strider begins calmly, putting his hands on the hobbit’s shoulders (he is very tall, and so he obligingly gets down on one knee). “You are an excellent Bounder, and one of the best scouts I have ever trained. Though your calling may be a little bit different than you once thought, it does not mean that you cannot help the Shire. If anything, you are in a better position to make a difference than any other hobbit here.”

“But I’m not even grandfather’s heir! Why do they insist on treating me like I’m special?”

“I imagine that it’s because you are special,” Strider theorizes, his eyes crinkling as he smiles. “Or the only one suited for the job, given how well I know your family.”

It is true that Bilbo’s cousins are very…well…hobbit-y. When not obligated to, they generally stay away from Big Folk Business, partially from fear and disgust, and for some, outright hatred. Adalgrim is remarkably tolerant, but is not in any way tactful enough to be around anyone respectable, Hobbit or not. Flambard despises all races (even his own) and Sigismond is afraid of his own shadow.

Besides Fortinbras, none of the others are in the least bit suitable, and so have not been trained in Arthedain politics, various languages, and Elvish etiquette. He also supposes that his added interest in these things has unwittingly signed him up for a lifetime of boredom and misery. To top it off, the title on his father’s side as Lord and gentlehobbit had essentially marked him as Respectable for life, regardless of his grandfather’s status. It really isn’t any wonder that Bilbo cannot run off, bow and arrow in hand, to save all of Arda.

Still, it hurts.

Strider goes away having not made Bilbo any happier, and he tromps back to Bag End with a heavy heart. Lessons tomorrow and lessons the next day, he thinks with a sigh. I must simply resign myself to this unhappy existence.

But when Bilbo slouches up to his little green door it suddenly opens, and before him stands his grandmother.

“Come, darling,” Adamanta says, holding out a hand to him. “We must speak.”

Thorin gazes solemnly at the expanse of his father’s halls, sweat running down his face and into his collar. He is tall for a dwarf, and rather plain by dwarrow standards, but he cuts a striking figure perched on the stone mezzanine. He briefly worries that his size and demeanor will intimidate his hobbit husband, and tries to smile in a comforting manner. It comes out as a grimace no matter how much he practices.

“Have you no objections?” Thrain had questioned him concernedly. “It is a great burden I must ask of you.”

“We cannot starve again,” Thorin had told him. “If I must be married to prevent it – then of course I will be married. I only ask that he is of my own gender and reasonably pleasant.”

He stands and watches his dwarrow now; his people who have come through so very much since the dragon came. Thorin considers it no great trial to marry a hobbit (no matter how cruel he finds them) if it means his dwarrow will not go through another winter of starvation. Marrying into the Thain’s family will ensure that the hobbits think twice before cutting off the food supply again.

The brigands are on Thorin’s mind as he retreats from the balcony and back into his forge; they and the orcs consume his waking hours with worry and rage. He is to go out again, five days from now, to meet his sister and Balin at Emyn Beraid; his betrothed is to meet him there, before they are to be married.

The hobbits (and all of Arnor) believe that the plague on the Great East Road is the fault of Thorin’s kin. Azanulbizar had inflamed Azog and his hordes, this was true, and there are dwarrow among the brigands, he is sorry to say – but this is not the fault of his people, whose population had dwindled steadily over the years as their supply of food grew sparse at the whim of the halflings. Thrain tells Thorin that it has to do with politics, and perhaps straight and honest loyalty to the Arthedain King. But there is politics and loyalty and then there is cruelty. The war between the Blue Mountains and Arnor has been over for three decades now, but still there are those that hold on tightly to their petty grudges.

Thorin is not among them. He saves his anger for the orcs, for Smaug, and for Thranduil. That is not to say that he likes the races of Arnor, nor that he wishes to marry into their society.

“He cares only for duty,” Dís had said to their father before she had left for the outpost. “Not for his own happiness.”

But Thorin does not have the time or luxury to worry for his own happiness. Thorin is a prince of a captured kingdom, a servant of his father’s throne, and a trusted representative of his people.

His desires do not matter.

Thorin will marry a hobbit of the Shire, and ensure his people the peace they so desperately need. It is a small sacrifice, all things considered.

Emyn Beraid is the last bit of civilization before the road turns brittle and dark. Ered Luin looms on the horizon, its peaks split by the winding Lhûn and the Grey Havens. To the south lies the Westmarch, and the iron settlements, whose dwarrow are seldom seen. The Shire lies to the east of Emyn Beraid, and the hobbits must travel from Tuckborough to the Far Downs, and then to the tower hills, where the rangers meet the Thain and his party with food and refreshment.

The elves of Rivendell arrive next, followed by the Arthedain representative. Last is Thorin himself, who comes with a party of only three, and is therefore vastly outnumbered. He is made to feel excluded when among them, and they reference only King Thrain and seem to not think much of his son. The wedding, when spoken of, is treated as an afterthought.

Yet for all they seem to despise Thorin, they rather adore his husband-to-be. The Dúnedain hover protectively, and even the perpetually gloomy Arthedain representative looks enchanted. Elrond too, seems especially fond, and the entire hobbit coalition glares murderously at the dwarrow in a truly impressive show of aggression, given their small size and penchant for expensive waistcoats.

Thorin, himself, has a mixed reaction to his betrothed.

His first thought is that he is small, which though not his cleverest observation, is a notable one nonetheless. He surmises that just as he is tall for his people, this hobbit must be short for a halfling (what he does not know is that Bilbo’s height is quite ideal, even though he is far too scraggy to be considered perfect). Thorin’s second thought is that he could definitely do worse (Bilbo would be furious to hear this, so it is good that Thorin did not say it out loud).

His third thought is forgotten due to his bemusement, for he is boldly approached by his betrothed and without the humiliating wailing that he had initially expected.

“Hello!” the tiny creature greets him. “I’m to marry you! I think.”

It is…impossible not to be charmed by the hobbit, who introduces himself as Bilbo, and then proceeds to name all of his hobbit party and how he is related to them (which takes a while). Thorin finds that he does not wish to interrupt, for the halfling’s voice is pleasant (though rather wobbly, at first, with nerves) and his eyes are whimsically bright and clever.

He stares without really listening after a while, and so his cheeks turn red when he realizes that Bilbo has asked him something. “Pardon me,” says Thorin. “What did you say?”

A spark of frustration alights in Bilbo’s eyes. “I inquired about your company,” he repeats. “You’ve only the one.”

“And Dís and Balin, whom I believe you have met.”

“Oh yes! Balin certainly knows his literature; we’ve had a few riveting conversations already. And Dís is just lovely!”

Thorin disagrees but does not say so.

“Still, that is only four relations to see you wed. Are you sure you don’t want to invite more?”

Haltingly, Thorin tells him that the rest of his family are all busy back in the Halls, and cannot come. He doesn’t have the heart to say to this little hobbit that the wedding is only another addition to a long list of concessions in the treaty. That it is not to be celebrated…but endured.

They feast that night, and mean to go to bed early (the wedding is in the morning, and they leave to return to the Halls shortly thereafter), but Thorin finds that he cannot sleep. Dís cannot either, and so she comes to visit him.

“Brother,” she says. “This is not what I wanted for you.”

He thinks that she also means that this is not what our mother wanted, either.

“It must be done,” he tells her. He has said this many times since he agreed to the marriage.

They sit beside the fire in a small room with a draft. Emyn Beraid is not an inn, but a fortress, and yet there are probably better rooms left empty that were not given to the dwarrow out of spite.

“If it must be done,” Dís repeats his words with a sigh, chewing on her pipe and gazing at him with dark eyes. “Then I suppose I should warn you that the hobbit is quite the handful.”

There is a small twitch at the corner of Thorin’s mouth. “Is he that bad, sister? If so, you must promise not to kill him before we are married.”

Dís huffs. “Bad? No. He is a tiny ball of mischief. He reminds me of Vili. Utterly useless but absurdly charming.”

“Useless? I’ve been told he is quite clever.”

“Oh, yes, that he is.” She grins at him a little. “He likes his books and poetry – and there’s no need to make that face, Balin will satisfy his craving for that sort of talk – but however clever he is, he does not know of what dangers lie before him. Nor of the severe lack of luxury in our Halls, which I believe he is not prepared to account for.”

Thorin has deduced the same, as the hobbit’s clothes are thin and fancy, and not made for their dusty, dirty home. He wonders what else Bilbo will bring with him, that will prove only a burden in so simple a place as Ered Luin.

“As spoiled as he may be,” Dís concludes, rising from her chair with a yawn. “I do believe he’ll make a fine companion for you.”

“I do hope so,” Thorin says, and then repeats into the quiet, once Dís has gone, “please let her be right.”

They are married after breakfast. Bilbo is bleary-eyed but dressed and groomed finely. Thorin has been up since before dawn. Elrond reads the service.

They break bread together, and drink of the same cup, and Thorin taps his forehead to Bilbo’s, hurting his back since he must lean so far down. The hobbit twines flowers in his hair, and Thorin gives Bilbo his first bead.

When all is done, Thorin is married to a halfling from the Shire, and Bilbo is tied to a prince from a forgotten kingdom. But most important – the treaty is signed, and there is peace between the races of Ered Luin and Arnor.

Gandalf, who had refused to come to the wedding in protest, shows up two hours before he and Thorin leave for the Halls. He glares down at Bilbo and stomps his staff in frustration.

“I thought you might have run away.”

Bilbo glares back. “You mean you’d hoped. You’re such a troublemaker.”

“Imagine you saying that to me, Bilbo Baggins! Well. You have not run away and that is that. Tell me of your husband.”

Bilbo, busy adjusting his saddle and saddle bags for their journey, gives the wizard an impatient look. “You’ve met Thorin before.”

“Yes but I should like to know what you think.”

He sighs and runs a hand through Myrtle’s mane. She snuffles at his pockets for the apples he has there, and so he gives her one. “He is very serious,” Bilbo finally says. “Overly dutiful, one might say.”

Gandalf seems amused. “One might.”

“I was just…so glad to not be stuck in the Shire…counting coffers and hosting tea parties, that I suppose I assumed that he would be…happy too.”

The wizard hums thoughtfully. “Thorin is a leader. He thinks of his people, before he thinks of himself. He is a good dwarf, Bilbo. I trust him with you.”

Bilbo smiles softly. “Well, if you think – ”

“But I do not trust you with him.”

He gasps, and then grows hot. “What do you mean by that? I won’t trouble him!”

“Won’t you?”

“Not at all!” Bilbo stomps his foot and Myrtle whinnies a bit. “I know this is important. I know that my family did not believe me when I said I wanted to help, but I do, Gandalf. I do want to help. It’s why I wanted to be a Bounder! And I am not as silly as the others think. I won’t be a hindrance to anyone, not you or Elrond or Strider or anyone. And especially not Thorin, who I must live with now, if you’ll remember!”

“Calm yourself,” Gandalf finally cuts him off. “You are hysterical. I only meant this: Thorin is a good dwarf, and I trust that he will not hurt you. I do not trust, however, that you will do what is best for him in regards to his happiness. You must be patient with him, and kind. Dwarrow are not treated as they should be in Arnor. You must also teach him to think of other things besides duty. To put it simply, you must teach him to be more like you.”

Bilbo thinks on this, gnawing on his lip. “I…yes. I think I can do that.”

“You must also let Thorin teach you how to be more like him,” Gandalf says, giving Bilbo a stern look. “Wanting to help is all fine and good, Bilbo Baggins, but succeeding at it is another thing entirely.”

Bilbo says goodbye to his family an hour before their departure. He figures that this is enough time for them to cry a little and give him their many hugs and kisses. It is not enough time, though, because Bilbo is going far away and it has only just hit them.

Consequently, he keeps Thorin waiting.

The only hobbit that does not cry is Gerontius. “I would ask your forgiveness, but I cannot even forgive myself,” the Thain says, holding Bilbo close.

“You mustn’t fret so, grandfather,” Bilbo tells him. “I’m alright.”

“If you are not, we will come fetch you,” says Aunt Mirabella, and then louder, “and see how these dwarves make do without the charity of hobbits!”

Bilbo shushes her, though he knows that Thorin’s party has overheard. His last goodbyes are tame compared to the wailing his aunts, uncles, and cousins do, and these are his parents, who are likely to miss him the most.

His father, ever proper, does not blubber. But it is a close run thing.

“Be well, my Bilbo,” he says wetly. “Mind your manners, and keep on with your lessons. I expect a letter once a week.”

“The post isn’t as fast as that, dad,” Bilbo laughs. “But I shall write as much as I can. You have my word.”

When Bungo has said all that he can without falling to pieces, Bilbo turns to his mother. Her eyes are filled with tears, but she straightens her back and manages to keep them in.

“Bilbo,” she starts, clearing her throat. “What will I do with you gone?”

Bilbo smiles. “Take care of dad?”

Belladonna sighs. “If I must,” she says. “I love you, so much. And I will miss you every hour of every day. Please be safe. Please be happy.”

He kisses her cheeks and promises her that he will, but she does not look reassured. She gazes past Bilbo’s head at Thorin’s party, who wait awkwardly by their ponies. When she turns her eyes back on Bilbo, they are compassionate and concerned.

“You must be kind to them, my boy,” she tells him, to his surprise. “It is the least that they deserve.”

Bilbo has lived his entire life hearing about the greediness and unreasonableness of dwarves. He has not heard that he should be nice to them. But this is his mother’s request, and Bilbo will meet it out of loyalty if nothing else.

It is his last goodbye, and when he is done they are soon perched upon their ponies and journeying away from Emyn Beraid – a solemn group of hobbits seeing him off with tears in their eyes.

But Bilbo is not so miserable as all that.

“Dalin, right?” he persists, despite the impressive scowl on the face of the dwarf in question.

“Dwalin, laddy,” Balin chuckles. “My ever cheerful brother, as you can see.”

Dwalin scowls harder, and Bilbo glances at him slyly. “Can you use that axe, Master Dwalin? Or is it for decoration?”

Dís, at the head of the group, barks out a sudden laugh. Thorin seems confused though, from his place beside her.

“Dwalin is our weapons master,” he reveals. “He is more than capable. Tell me, hobbit, what weapon do you wield?”

Bilbo raises an eyebrow at the slight edge of antagonism in Thorin’s tone. “The bow, if you must know,” he answers. “And I’m fairly good with knives.”

“Truly?” Dís asks in disbelief. Bilbo is a bit offended at her surprise, but decides to let it go. “I did not know that hobbits did weapons training.”

“Some of them.”

“Are you any good?”

Bilbo shrugs. “I hit what I aim for, more or less.”

Thorin snorts.

The day continues on in this manner, with Bilbo’s well-meaning chatter distracting them, luckily without being overly obnoxious. Thorin can understand why Dís likes the hobbit, and sees as well his similarity to Vili in his mischievous but honest demeanor.

On the maps, the Great East Road ends at Emyn Beraid, but on foot it continues. The road becomes a treacherous, rocky forest with nothing to guide them but foliage and the elusive scent of water. Luckily, dwarrow have walked the path from the Lhûn to the southern mountains many times, and so they move on instinct now.

Thorin predicts that they will reach the river tomorrow night, if they keep to a steady pace. Bilbo is glad; the forest is dark and empty, and makes him feel very small. They set up camp in a practiced manner that leaves Bilbo sitting out rather awkwardly.

“Can I help?” he asks, fidgeting.

“Faster if we do it,” says Thorin, distracted.

Dís sends her brother a warning look that he does not see, and comes over to Bilbo. She is carrying a sack full of dried meats, and she goes through them with him companionably, letting him have first choice of salted strips of elk and steer.

They sit around the campfire and eat their meager portions, drinking a hot tea that Bilbo volunteered to make once the fire was going. Balin talks with Bilbo of their shared interests (which extends to Elvish poetry, much to everyone else’s disgust) until he seems to realize that they have excluded the rest of their group from the conversation.

Balin clears his throat. “…but no one knows the histories as quite as well as Thorin, isn’t that right?”

Thorin looks up, surprised. “I am proficient, but by no means an expert.”

“Don’t be so modest!” Dís pipes up, her expression gleeful. “When we were little he would go on and on and on about Durin this and Durin that, and ‘our esteemed ancestors’….It was awful.”

Dwalin nods sadly into his mug of tea, remembering little boring Thorin with his histories. They tease him a bit more until he stomps off to take first watch, and Bilbo climbs into his bedroll. He asks Dís to get him up when his shift comes around and she agrees.

No one wakes him, of course.

“I’m perfectly capable of taking watch,” says Bilbo to Dís, the next day. “I’ve taken watch before and no one has died or been carried off by orcs.”

Dís looks sorry to have done it, but there is impatience in Thorin’s posture and in his expression. Their ponies plod along as the rocky, flat terrain becomes a dry meadow, filled with small floating flies and long yellow grasses that make Bilbo sneeze.

“And when have you taken watch?” Dwalin asks, making fun but not unkindly.

“Many times with the Bounders.”

“The Bounders?” Thorin repeats.

“Yes, the Bounders. Our patrol. A hobbit patrol, that is. We work with the Dúnedain and are trained by them to scout, track, shoot, spar, and hunt, and so on and so forth.”

Dís turns around in her saddle to smile at him. “I had no idea you lot did all that! I thought the Arthedain King protected your people, and that you had no reason to worry so. But I’ve never seen a hobbit on the front lines….”

“Because we are very good!” Bilbo reveals, looking pleased. “And I imagine if you did spot us, it would be the last thing you ever saw.”

Balin clears his throat pointedly, and Bilbo falls silent. He has forgotten that it was only a few decades ago that Arnor was at war with the Blue Mountains. He opens his mouth to apologize, but Dís only shakes her head.

Thorin is silent as they cross the meadow. The scent of the ocean, cool and briny, comes in from the west.

They reach the Lhûn at dusk, as predicted. This time, Bilbo decides not to ask if he can help, and instead takes the initiative and begins to collect firewood. Thorin says nothing, but Bilbo can tell that he is surprised and just a little pleased.

The mood is much more cheerful around the campfire that night, being bolstered by the pleasant weather and their having a warm broth for dinner. Bilbo scrounges it up at the last minute, adding in any herbs and edible plants he sees growing around their campsite to a simple vegetable base. Dwalin balks at the idea of eating green food and green food only, but gobbles down his portion after he is finally persuaded to taste it.

With comfortably full stomachs the company falls into a heavy sleep, leaving a yawning Balin to first watch.

They are set upon by orcs at midnight.

In the chaos of the ensuing battle, Thorin simply has no time to look after each member of his party. He counts twelve orcs, all well-armed and ruthless. He dodges an axe to the face and downs an orc with a blade to the gut. He turns and faces another, but is almost run through when he is distracted by a distant howl.

“Wargs!” says Dís, her face grave as she slices the head off of another assailant.

“We must run!” Balin cries, and Thorin turns around and yells for them all to flee. They go.

They run as fast as they can through the forest, the orcs growling and snapping at their heels. Thorin bursts out of the woods and runs along the river, looking for a safe crossing. He knows that there is one, but finds that once he has gone off the path that he knows by heart, he is desperately turned around. Halting, he stands and pants, looking around and suddenly realizing that he is alone. His companions did not make it out.

With a wordless growl he unsheathes his sword, ready to tear off back the way he came. But before he can, he is hit over the head with something blunt and hard, and he falls to the ground – unconscious.

Thorin wakes to a hissed argument. His head is throbbing, and the ground beneath him is hard and cold. His arms ache; they are stretched behind him and tied tight with a bit of rope. He can smell dirt, sweat, and something burning.

“Nûphan! Ki-na lôkhi?” one of his captors curses. Thorin opens one eye and squints. It is a Man, and he is obviously agitated as he paces in front of the fire.

“Nê-yâdim.”

“Nêg-nad anHa niyô.” This one seems like the leader, for he manages to put paid to their argument with a few sharp words. He then continues to clean his sword meticulously, ignoring his nervous companions.

They are not paying any attention at all to Thorin, who is carefully feeling out the rope around his wrists for a weakness. It is slow going; he thinks that he recalls waking a few times before, and his head is tellingly muddled. How long have they kept him drugged? Where are his companions? For that matter, he thinks, where am I?

“Nê-yâdim. Agânun unâkhi!” says the second one suddenly.

Thorin manages to wiggle some room into his binds. He shuffles his hands up and down, attempting to squeeze them out of the ropes. Just as he thinks he’s got it, the leader stands up from the ground and throws his whetstone at his companion’s head.

“Bâ ki-bithahê!” he bellows. “Agannûlun ki-yadahê êphal, bâ ki nûphan!”

“Zirbîth. I have not gone, I’m afraid.”

The Men startle badly; the leader’s eyes go very wide, one of them raises their hands defensively, and the exceedingly nervous one stumbles over his own feet and falls to the ground. The voice comes from the forest around them, bodiless and frightening, and Thorin would be quite afraid too if it did not sound so familiar.

“I will make this simple. Let him go, and I won’t put an arrow through your eye.”

Judging by their expressions, two of them consider this a fair trade, but the leader instead raises his sword and bellows, “Ki-zagrahê ha!”

To which Bilbo says, “honestly!” with a long-suffering sigh.

A half a moment later there is an arrow in the leader’s eye – as promised.

“I have been following you for six days!” Bilbo tells him, panting as he cuts the rope around Thorin’s wrists. He then scrambles among the Men’s possessions for anything valuable.

Thorin has no idea what’s happening.

“I almost lost the trail when they entered the hills, but they were awfully clumsy the faster they ran!”

“Bilbo,” Thorin says, stopping the hobbit with a hand on his arm. “Where are we? What has happened? Where is Dís? Dwalin? Balin?”

Forebodingly, the hobbit refuses to meet Thorin’s eyes. “We were split up,” he relays. “The last I saw Dwalin, he was running after you. Balin and Dís told me to flee, so I went into the forest. They stayed behind. I do not know what has become of them.”

Thorin squeezes his eyes shut. Though he knows that his family is perfectly capable of protecting themselves, his fear for them is instinctual and unstoppable. “Why come after me, then?” he asks, voice hollow.

Bilbo frowns at him, very unimpressed. “You’re my husband,” he points out. “And I don’t much want to be a widower. I’d like to actually get to know you first.”

He can’t help but smile a bit. “But where are we? The hills, you said? Emyn Beraid?”

Bilbo shakes his head, going back to collecting his captor’s provisions. “Emyn Uial. We are across the lake now.”

“What! So far!”

“Yes,” Bilbo squints at him. “You need water. Have they kept you drugged this entire time? How horrible!”

Thorin drinks of Bilbo’s flask, and they gather what they can and go to find a new campsite a good distance away from the bodies. Bilbo, conscious of Thorin’s headache, thankfully does not chatter.

They find a comfortable clearing in between two great oak trees, and set about moving debris out of the way for their bed rolls and a fire (though it is mostly Bilbo who does this, as Thorin is still very weak from his ordeal).

There is a stream close by and to the east, and Bilbo goes there to collect water to boil. He makes Thorin a hot peppermint tea, and it seeps into his nose and down his throat like an elixir. He forces Thorin to chew on Elvish lembas bread, though he puts up very little fight once he realizes that he is absolutely famished. By the time Bilbo has finished coddling him, night is coming on, and his head is clearer than it’s been in what feels like ages.

“You spoke their language,” Thorin says, asking without asking.

Bilbo nods. “Yes, a bit. It was Adûnaic, and they were Forodwaith, but not from the wastes. Their dialect was strange. I would have asked them but they were criminals. Awfully fast too, but not very stealthy. My legs have been hurting for days! In any case, they were taking you east, for reasons I could not surmise, and it does indeed look as though you were the target, I’m sorry to say. Have you an enemy that would go to such lengths?”

“I have many enemies,” Thorin answers absently. He thinks of the elves, and of the Arthedain. Then he thinks of the treaty that they have only just signed, and whether or not this unfortunate setback has started up another war (it’s as awful a thought as it is a realistic one).

“You should sleep,” Bilbo says, moving to guide Thorin into a bed roll.

Once cozy, he brushes Thorin’s hair out of his eyes, and gives the dwarf more water, before patting his face gently with a wet cloth. “Rest,” whispers the hobbit. “I’ll keep watch.”

Though Thorin’s head is much improved in the morning, their dire circumstances have not changed at all. They are far from Ered Luin, and unsure as to what has become of their companions. Bilbo tries to remain cheerful, so as to boost Thorin’s dark mood, perhaps, but Thorin is still very tired and weak. He’s rather short with the hobbit, in consequence.

They set out in the afternoon, and after Bilbo sleeps for a few hours. Thorin points them toward Lake Evendim, where they hope to find news waiting for them at Annúminas.

“I do hope my family isn’t worried,” Bilbo fusses. “And that our company has made it out alright.”

Thorin shakes his head. “I’m sure that they are safe. They are all warriors, and Durin’s folk besides.”

“Yes, of course.” Bilbo smiles. “Then I suppose I must pray that our allies do not think we are dead! What a mess that would be.”

Thorin makes a noise of agreement. “I doubt my people could live through another food shortage,” he says candidly. He is more tired, or more distracted with worry than he thought, for normally he would never say such a thing.

Bilbo frowns up at him, keeping pace with Thorin as they trudge through the woods.

“What do you mean by a food shortage?” he asks, with an edge of defensiveness.

Thorin stares, taken aback. “Twelve years ago there was a terrible winter. Many of my people starved to death.”

“Yes, the Fell winter. We struggled too. But you meant to insinuate that we would hold out on you? That we would stop the supplies?”

As confused as Thorin is, he finds that he is growing impatient with Bilbo now. He doesn’t know what game the hobbit is playing.

“After that winter, provisions were cut,” he explains. “And they become more meager by the year. It is Arnor’s way of fighting without axe or sword.” It is a coward’s way, he thinks, but does not say.

“But we would never do that!” Bilbo shakes his head vehemently. “That’s…but…the children…?”

Thorin’s jaw clenches. He remains silent.

“No, that isn’t right,” Bilbo denies, so distressed that he comes to a halt. “Hobbits aren’t cruel like that!”

“But they do despise dwarrow,” he says sharply.

“No…not…no.”  

Thorin thinks that this young hobbit is very naïve, but that perhaps it can’t be helped. He was born into privilege, and sheltered by the prejudices of his people. Bilbo has never starved, or worried overmuch for his family. He has never gone out into the world and found himself an outcast, separated by his appearance and the false reputation perpetuated by their friends and enemies alike. He is not dwarrow, and so does not need to think of these things.

“We’ll break here,” he tells the confused and now melancholy hobbit. They set up a little camp and rest their feet. Bilbo says nothing, and a pall of misery hangs over them for the rest of the afternoon.

That night, Bilbo comes running into their camp with a dead squirrel wrapped in his coat. “Look! I’ve got us dinner!” he says, spirits evidently lifted.

The corner of Thorin’s mouth twitches. “So you have. Can you dress it, or shall I?”

Bilbo stares down at his prize. “You’d best do it,” he decides, stepping forward and depositing the animal into Thorin’s lap. “Strider hadn’t yet taught me how to hunt before I left. I’m very surprised I managed to shoot it, honestly.”

“Strider?”

“Oh! He’s a ranger,” he explains. Bilbo is off then; telling Thorin all about this Strider fellow, who seems to be a great friend of the hobbit’s. He listens as he skins the squirrel, growing more and more surprised at what he hears.

“You were one of these Bounders, then?” Thorin asks, curious.

“Well, no,” Bilbo admits reluctantly. “I hadn’t finished my training before…well, before the wedding.”

Thorin feels a spike of guilt at that, but brushes it off. “You’re an excellent bowman,” he tells the hobbit now, albeit a bit awkwardly. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“Oh.” Bilbo flushes, quickly busying his hands with preparing a broth to warm over the fire. “I…thank you. And of course. Any…time.”

Thorin hums, amused. “In fact you have very much surprised me with your skill, halfling. I would not have thought your kind were suited for the wild.”

“Well, there certainly aren’t a lot of us Bounders,” Bilbo confesses. “What with the king and the Dúnedain watching out for us. But there are a few, mostly Tooks, mind, that are quite fond of adventures.”

He suddenly falls silent and looks at his feet. “They are not as I thought, however.”

Thorin frowns. “What isn’t?”

“Adventures,” Bilbo repeats. He sets their cooking pan on the fire, his expression a bit lost. “I am not so fond of them now.”

“It is hard, in the wild,” Thorin agrees, cupping the now clean meat and dropping it into the pot. The broth steams invitingly.

Bilbo remains slouched on the ground for a time, letting Thorin take over the stirring. He leaves him to his silence, but then startles when he hears Bilbo sniff.

He is crying.

“Why, what, you – ” says Thorin, already beginning to panic.

“I did not know what it was like! I do not know what to feel.” Bilbo wipes at his eyes. “I have never killed anyone before, or run off into the woods after kidnappers and criminals, or tried to rescue anyone ever! I just did it, and now I think about it and I feel positively ill.”

Thorin has sat with warriors on these days before, and has said those comforting words that work, for a time, to drive back the horror. But he does not know how to speak to this creature; they are so very different, and what would have worked for dwarrow might be terribly inadequate for hobbits.

So Thorin does what he has seen many of the tiny creatures do when one of them is upset (or often for no reason at all). He puts down the ladle and slides closer to Bilbo, reaching out to draw him into an embrace.

Though startled at first, Bilbo quickly sinks into his arms. They sit, for awhile, saying nothing.

There are no good words for this, anyway.

On their third day of traveling, Bilbo suddenly stops and turns to glare at Thorin – arms akimbo.

“Where are we?” he demands to know. “We should have reached the lake by now!”

Thorin is…not entirely sure, but he knows he has been going west, at least.

“We must be…close,” he hedges.

Bilbo is not fooled for a moment. “Thorin, are we lost?”

“Um.”

This answer does not satisfy the hobbit at all. “You must be joking!”

“Well, you’re the one that followed me!”

“Because I thought you knew where you were going!” yells Bilbo. “Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t have a sense of direction!?”

“I do have one!”

“Oh? Where is it? Or have you lost that as well?”

It is in the midst of their first fight that there is a sudden bellowing, and they both immediately fall silent. Thorin hears the sound again and drags Bilbo toward the nearest tree.

“Wargs,” he explains.

“Excellent timing! Perhaps they’ll give us direct– hey!” He scrambles onto a branch when Thorin effortlessly lifts him up. “Don’t pick me up!”

“Go up the tree!”

“Why aren’t you climbing?”

“I will stay down here and defend us.”

“Oh, no you won’t!” Bilbo hops back down to the ground, much to Thorin’s frustration. They can both hear growls now, coming closer. “You first!”

“No. Get back up there.”

“You get up there! Staying down here is stupid!”

Thorin wants badly to explode into a rage, but they mustn’t make much noise and so their argument involves a lot of heated whispering.

“You are an infuriating creature,” he says, finally conceding. Bilbo looks smug until Thorin picks him up and slings him under one arm before ascending.

“Oi!”

About half way up the tree, the Wargs come into view. They sniff around the clearing where Bilbo and Thorin once stood. Up above, they hold their breath as one of the animals tracks their scent to the base of the tree.

An orc calls to the Warg from the darkness of the wood, and the beast comes on command. The rolling dissonance of the black speech envelopes the clearing, and Bilbo can’t help but shudder.

Then the orc is in view, and Thorin gasps. “No.”

“What? What’s happened?” he whispers, looking at his companion worriedly.

But Thorin says nothing, and they wait in fear until the orc pack is gone. Then they do not come down for another half hour, just to be sure.

He turns to Thorin once they are safe. “Thorin, who was that?”

The dwarf looks away, gazing off – lost in memories that Bilbo cannot see. “Azog,” he answers, finally. “It is…likely, that our misfortune is his doing.”

“Azog the defiler?” he asks, quietly. “But…he’s supposed to be dead.”

“Yes.”

Bilbo bit his lip. “So, he’s the one who’s after you, you think?”

“He said my name.” Thorin nods, but when he sees Bilbo’s confused frown he explains. “Oakenshield. It is what I am called, by our people.”

“Oakenshield,” Bilbo repeats, sounding it out. “Will you tell me the story?”

Thorin looks down at the hobbit, sighing. “Yes. But not now. Azog said something else, in Khûzdul this time – I heard him say Carn Dûm.”

Bilbo gasps. “But that’s in Angmar! It’s been abandoned for hundreds of years.”

“I don’t think so. It is entirely possible that there are Gundabad orcs in the ruins of the red fortress. They go where there is darkness, and spread like a pestilence. Perhaps Azog has bred an army there as well as in Khazad Dûm.” He pauses. “We should scout it out.”

Bilbo frowns. “Thorin,” he ventures cautiously, as if fearing for his sanity. “There are more things than orcs in Carn Dûm. There are rumors….”

“I have heard them too, from the clans in the North Downs. But the Witch-king is gone, Bilbo, however his shadow persists. We must see if Azog has truly gathered his army there.”

“And then what?” the hobbit exclaims, frustrated. “Storm the bloody fortress? A dwarf and a hobbit against all of Angmar? That is not wise! We cannot afford to make a mistake here. Thorin, Arnor is in trouble.”

“And I seek only to help it.”

“No,” Bilbo says, shaking his head. “It is foolish. It is suicide. We need to go to Arthedain. We need reinforcements. Please, Thorin.”

Thorin clenches his jaw, looking in the direction that Azog has gone. “Alright,” he says. “But we must make haste. I do not know what the defiler intends, but whatever his goal, I will not let him succeed.”

They sleep less, and eat as they go. Adrenaline has given them the endurance to keep on when exhaustion would normally fell them. Even Bilbo, as unused to extensive exercise as he is, finds that his breath is strong and his steps are sure; his body seeming to be fueled by raw fear and determination.

In the times that they do stop, Thorin tells Bilbo of Azanulbizar, which turns out much different than what his history books had made him believe. Thorin’s heroics, for one, had been entirely left out. On these nights they often plan their course by the stars, something that Bilbo is (thankfully) good at.

By the morning of their fifth day of traveling, they begin to smell a difference in the air; it is the wet, clear scent of a body of water. Soon Lake Evendim emerges between two trees, its surface a deep and quiet blue.

“We’ll meet with the king and ask for news of our friends,” says Bilbo, laying out his plans as they walk along the shore. “And I am sorry, but Ered Luin will have to wait, it seems. We will need to go back to the downs with scouts, preferably a hundred of them – ”

“Bilbo, be quiet.”

Thorin has halted them, and stands completely silent and still. Bilbo frowns, but then he hears it too.

It is impossible to ignore. It rattles the bones and runs cold steel up the spine. Wild fear overtakes Bilbo, dredged up from the base part of him which knows instinctively that this is the sound of death.

“Run,” Thorin tells him, and then grabs his hand.

They fly around the lake, looking for some sort of shelter – anything. In the distance, they see only the tops of Annúminas, its spiraling fortress too far away to provide sanctuary.

The cry comes again.

“Thorin!” Bilbo yelps, when the dwarf decides to veer back into the forest. “Stay near the water! They don’t like it!”

“Then we swim!”

“I can’t!” Bilbo chokes, eyes wide. “Thorin, I can’t swim!”

There is nowhere to go. A loud screech makes Bilbo look back at the Nazgûl. There are two of them, neither of which are the Witch-king, thankfully. Not that these are much better. Bilbo has only heard about them from Strider, and knows not how to fight them. He does know that the lake is their only chance, though, and so he tugs on Thorin’s arm as they run.

“Go,” he says, panting. “I’ll draw them away. Go into the lake. Can you swim as far as Annúminas? I’ll follow on land.”

To his surprise, Thorin only glares at him. “Never,“ he snarls. ”Nungbâha! “

“That sounds mean.”

The Nazgûl ride quickly, and Thorin knows now that they have no hope of escaping. He thinks that their fate will be gruesome, and that they will probably be captured and tortured for information before they are killed. He sees this happen to Bilbo in his mind’s eye and simply cannot countenance it.

Making his decision, Thorin stops, draws his kidnapper’s sword, and turns around. Bilbo halts as well, looking to Thorin with the same solemn resignation. He nods, takes out his bow, and slots in an arrow.

Then they face what comes for them, side by side.

Go to Part II

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Chapters: 1/30 Fandom: TBD - Fandom, The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: Not Rated Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli (Tolkien), Kíli (Tolkien), Ori (Tolkien), Gandalf | Mithrandir, Thorin’s Company, everyone Additional Tags: Fluff, Angst, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, more TBD Summary:

1. holding hands - post bofa fix it 2. cuddling somewhere - modern setting 3. pet names - modern setting 4. on a date - post bofa fix it 5. kissing - angst 6. wearing each other’s clothes - modern setting 7. baking - post bofa fix it 8. falling in love - modern setting 9. moving in together - angst

ヽ( ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ ヽ( ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ ヽ( ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ

[shockcity]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield Characters: Bilbo Baggins, Thorin Oakenshield, Fíli, Kíli, Gimli, Dís (Tolkien) Additional Tags: Consort Bilbo Baggins, Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Bilbo knows all, Fluff Summary: Fili, Kili, and Gimli are up to no good.

Oh my god I posted this one shot on ao3 (⊙﹏⊙) so wish me luck that I will get nice comments and things maybe ???? Thanks to the lovely wonderful people who convinced me that I should do this I hope I don't dieヽ( ﾟДﾟ)ﾉ

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #9 - moving in together

Rating: G Summary: for the 30 Day OTP Challenge. Bilbo goes back to the Shire. Thorin follows.

It takes Thorin four months to reach the Shire. In that time, Bilbo has had no letters and no news. He worries, but he must trust that Thorin knows the Wild far better than Bilbo ever did, and that soon the dwarf will be standing at his little green door, forever at his service.

He misses Thorin.

The nights are empty without him. His hobbit hole with its creature comforts, which used to be enough of a distraction in the days before the quest – is no help. He knows that there is a thing called symbiosis now – an exchange of touch in the morning, noon, and night – a soft, loving voice in the dark (I love you/I love you too); which Thorin and he shared so naturally. He cannot unknow this, and without it he cannot settle.

He longingly waits for his other half to join him, but manages to find comfort in his little ring and in the worlds trapped in his books.

Until one day Thorin is at his door, and the longing-time is over.

Perhaps it would have killed him if Thorin hadn’t followed him to the Shire; if he had chosen to stay in Erebor. Or if he hadn’t forgiven him, and had decided to send him off without a care. Or even if he had perished in that last battle – uncrowned.

Maybe Bilbo would have moved on eventually and grown used to the loneliness and the silence.

But he doesn’t have to get used to it now, because Thorin is here, and Bilbo is whole again.

They call him Mad Baggins but Bilbo doesn’t care. Bilbo might be mad, but at least he has his dwarf.

Hobbits stare as he sits on the little bench outside of his home, chattering away to Thorin about this and that. They whisper behind their hands and hurry passed, should Bilbo’s mental state be contagious.

It is not, he wants to say, unless you happen to find yourself a Thorin Oakenshield! But there is just the one, he thinks smugly, and he is taken.

They sleep until the late afternoon sometimes, and lay about in bed as the day goes by without them. They touch, and talk, and simply be together.

Other days they rise early and work in the garden side-by-side, though Thorin is hopeless and would kill everything if Bilbo were not there. At dinner they share a meal and speak of only the good things, and reserve any solemnity for the drawing room afterward. They sleep on their chosen sides of the bed, but more often than not end up entwined in the middle.

They have their fights, of course.

Sometimes Thorin will disappear without a word, and leave Bilbo staring at an empty chair and a cold dinner. Sometimes Bilbo will spend too much time in his study, writing and reading at all hours.

But they make up, of course, and forgive each other.

Thorin and he are forever, after all.

When Bilbo is in his seventies he adopts his little nephew Frodo. Thorin is nervous but happy – he misses Fili and Kili, and as a rule all dwarrow are fond of younglings. Frodo is big-eyed and beautiful, and looks confused when Bilbo introduces him to Thorin, but quickly adapts to the dwarf’s presence.

They become a little family, and the days are even brighter, after that.

Rivendell is a sore subject for them. They have visited a dozen times since the quest, and each time Thorin has been sullen and quiet, at times not even returning Elrond’s greetings.

But Bilbo is old now, and so too is Thorin (even though they barely look as though they’ve aged at all), and he wants Frodo to live his own life, and be happy doing so. This means handing over Bag End to its new master.

Thorin gives in to the move to Rivendell eventually, and Bilbo wastes no time planning for the trip. It will be his last, he thinks.

Then Gandalf makes him leave the ring.

A part of him goes with it.

The silence grows between them, and Bilbo feels more and more alone as he gets closer to Imladris. 

Thorin seems sad, though he will not say why.

He settles into his new home among the elves, and finds a bit of peace. All would be well if Thorin would stop disappearing.

One day he does not appear at all.

He is on a ship to somewhere far away, gliding on placid waves in a sea far west from all that he once knew. Frodo is there, and Gandalf. He asks them where they are going to, but they only tell him not to worry. He does not see Thorin, and makes a fuss. He cannot leave Thorin behind.

His friends say that Thorin is already at their destination; that he has been waiting for Bilbo a long, long time. He need only wait, and see, and Thorin will be there to meet him.

Bilbo does not make it to shore.

It has been eighty years since he last saw this face alive. Eighty long years spent dreaming of it, and living with its ghost.

Now Bilbo reaches out, and Thorin gladly embraces him.

They live forever.

[shockcity]

Bagginshield #8 - falling in love

Rating: M Summary: for the 30 Day OTP Challenge - Some people ship Bilbo and Thorin. Two of them are actually Bilbo and Thorin. The world reacts. Modern Setting/Actors AU 

Note: i s2g I didn't set out to write a social commentary, but I just started writing and my brain went where it went, and honestly...I'm cool with that. But if you're not then I totally get it. So warning ⚠️ this features gay people being unashamedly gay. As in people are gay, the world finds out, and Bilbo and Thorin win all the prizes (grain of salt though, this plot would never happen in RL). So if that's not your jam and you'd rather read something that doesn't mirror real life issues, that's perfectly alright and I'll see you in the next story! :) To those who stay: I hope you enjoy it  

-------

It wasn't like they hadn't met before.

Despite what people thought, Hollywood wasn't all that big, and he and Thorin generally moved in the same circles anyway. Bilbo recalled that they'd exchanged polite hugs at the BAFTAs the previous year, and that they had once shared Graham Norton's couch, but besides being very casual acquaintances, they certainly weren't friends.

He and Thorin were not the Hollywood elite, but having a critically acclaimed franchise under each of their belts and a dedicated following had guaranteed that they weren't B actors either. Both had also gained a little more artistic autonomy; years of acting in the mainstream had given them the leeway to branch out into independent films and theater. Thorin, for example, had just finished his run of King Lear in the West End, and Bilbo was currently in the market for a similar change himself.

When Dori handed Bilbo the script for Unexpected, he knew right away that this would be his ticket out of blockbuster hell.

"The title needs work though," he mumbled distractedly, paging through the script. "Unexpected. Unexpected what?"

"Love, I suppose," Dori sighed. "Nori said it was a simple story about two people falling in love."

Bilbo looked up at Dori with his eyebrows raised. "No, I'm reading it right now and that's absolutely not what it's about," he replied. "My character is a lonely bachelor who adopts his orphaned nephew, befriends his troubled neighbor who happens to be a recovering drug addict, and in the end is hit by a car and dies."  

"What."

Bilbo couldn't help but smile. "Nori made it family-friendly so you'd actually hand it to me, Dori," he laughed.

"Well he was right, because if I'd known I wouldn't have let you read it at all. I hate the depressing ones."

Bilbo looked down at the pages again, tilting his head thoughtfully. "I don't know," he said. "It's sad, sure, but...you said Nori called it a love story?"

Dori nodded and crossed his arms, seeming peeved. "That's what he said, but they're not marketing it as a gay romance, so don't get too excited."

Bilbo sighed and dropped the script back into his lap. "Great," he muttered, feeling a little hollow.

"You don't have to do it, Bilbo," Dori reminded him. "There's other scripts."

"Yes, but I like this one," he insisted. "I can see the love here...and you know Elrond Imladris is directing...and he's always been open to script changes, so, do you think–?"

Dori ran a hand across his tired eyes and sat down beside him. "Bilbo," he began, kindly but firmly. "You're a big name. This movie, while not The Avengers, is still expected to make money."

Bilbo had figured it was a long shot. He gave Dori a tiny nod. "Who's playing Richard?" he asked.

"Thorin Oakenshield."

"Oh." Bilbo frowned. "That's...actually a really good choice."

Dori hummed, checking his phone as Bilbo thought it over. Despite his agent's obvious disinterest with the script – and his own, personal, disappointment – Bilbo was still quite attracted to the characters – and Thorin's role, especially. He wanted to see how well he could play off of a character like Richard, and whether or not he could portray a man like Martin, who couldn't help but fall in love with completely the wrong person. And fall in love they did, regardless of what the studio said.

It was a good script that could have been a fantastic opportunity for some realistic representation, had the studio had any decency. That's what made him consider it, truthfully. It just felt like one time too many. Besides, he'd been waiting for a problematic script like this for awhile. He looked down at it again. Yes, this was the one.

"I'll read for them," he told Dori, who looked unsurprised. "Tell Nori I'll see him tomorrow morning."

Dori's thumbs flashed as he texted Nori on Bilbo's behalf. "Done. Do you want to meet Oakenshield? He'll be there tomorrow."

Bilbo knew very little about Thorin Oakenshield personally (though he was familiar with his work, of course) but what he did know about him he liked. The man was a professional, and quite versatile (unlike Bilbo, who was typecast as the bookish boy-next-door most days), and the few times they had met were actually quite pleasant.

"Sure," he agreed. "Why not."

----------------

"Hi. Hello," Thorin stuttered, and then loudly cleared his throat. A voice in his head that sounded a lot like Dis told him to 'chill the fuck out' which...didn't help at all. Thorin had no chill.

Not around Bilbo Baggins anyway.

"Bilbo Baggins is going to read Martin for us," Nori had told him offhandedly. "You're okay working with him, right?"

"Ofcmffwhaffk," Thorin gibbered.

Nori stared. "Wow. Dwalin told me about your crush on him but I didn't believe it," he commented idly. "And all because he returned your house keys?"

Feeling defensive, as he usually did when this story was brought up, Thorin glared at his feet and mumbled, "I was locked out of my home."

"Yeah, for like five minutes."

Thorin did not look up. "He gave me his umbrella."

"That's cute, Thorin. Bet it was just love at first sight, wasn't it?" Nori teased.

It wasn't love at first sight. He was having probably the worst day of his life that day, and here came this person that had turned it around so effortlessly and...truthfully, it was more like awe at first sight. Or gratitude at first sight. Or genuine interest at first sight. And maybe it was a little like love after he'd binged all of Bilbo's movies, but he wasn't admitting to anything.

To put it simply, Thorin was a celebrity with a celebrity crush. And now that crush was standing in front of him wearing a yellow cardigan, a pair of oversized reading glasses, and a confused expression that was rapidly turning alarmed.

"Um," Thorin managed after a long, awkward silence. "It's nice to see you again."

Bilbo tactfully moved the conversation along. "You too, Thorin." He smiled. Thorin gulped. "I hear we're going to be working together."

"You sure are," Dori said, gliding over and handing Bilbo a Manila envelope. "Standard contract. Out-of-pocket expenses, time required, remuneration, and so forth. Read it carefully. Don't sign willy-nilly. Hello, Thorin, I'm Dori, are you two going for coffee? You'll want to get to know each other, I'm sure."

"Um-guh," said Thorin.

"Splendid," said Dori the whirlwind. "I'll call. Ciao!"

Bilbo sighed and slipped the envelope underneath his arm. "Shall we?" he asked, smiling up at him.

"Um-guh."

"I'll...take that as a yes."

----

----

"Sorry, are these your keys?" Bilbo called out, hurrying toward a man sitting slouched on the stoop. "I saw you drop them when you left your cab. Uh, did you know you're getting all wet?"

He moved closer so that the man was sharing his umbrella.

"That's better," Bilbo said with a smile. He passed the keys over. "Here you go. Wouldn't want to be locked out too long in this deluge."

The man was looking up at him now, his mouth half-open. His eyes were very, very blue, and Bilbo couldn't help but blush a bit. He was handsome.

"I...." Handsome blinked. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Bilbo said, but then he couldn't help but frown a little at the man's appearance. "Forgive me for asking, but, are you alright? Only, you don't seem like you are, and you completely missed your keys, even though they were only just over there."

"I–" the man stared at where Bilbo pointed. "I guess I wasn't really looking. But I'm fine. Thank you. Truly."

"If you're sure," Bilbo hummed, unconvinced. "Well, I'm going to be getting a cab, so, here...."

He handed Thorin his umbrella, laughing as the rain fell into his face. "For the next time you lose your keys in the rain."

Bilbo turned around and jogged back down the block, luckily seeing a cab coming toward him. He hailed it just as he heard the man shout, "who says there'll be a next time?"

He pulled the cab door open, laughing, and shouted back, "I do! And you know, there's nothing like looking, if you want to find something!"

----

-------

"The script is already getting a lot of publicity, you know," Bofur said casually, slurping up the last clumps of his smoothie. "Smaug Trāgu went to the press about how Mirkwood was handling it."

Bilbo, who was in the middle of taking a bite of his salad, dropped his fork back onto his plate. "And Mirkwood didn't drop the script?" he asked, shocked.

"No, you're not out of a job yet, thankfully," Bofur reassured him. "Dropping Smaug now would be a PR nightmare, and I heard that Mirkwood can't take another controversy. Thranduil's already pissed off like 80% of Hollywood, he really doesn't need the public baying for his blood too."

"So what are they saying?"

Bofur shrugged one shoulder. "Interview comes out tomorrow. We'll see then."

They fell into a sullen silence. Bofur was looking as though he needed to say something else, however much he didn't want to, and Bilbo was torn between applauding Smaug and feeling sick that, in this case, they were on the same side. Before Bilbo could descend into a proper sulk, Bofur finally found his courage.

"You and Thorin are going to catch a lot of heat for this, you know that right?"

Bilbo nodded, swallowing nervously. Around him, the crowded little bistro continued on with its business while Bilbo's world narrowed down to Bofur's expectant gaze, which was simply too intense to avoid.

"Bilbo, I have to say this," he finally began, and somewhat frostily. "I'm honestly surprised at you. I thought you'd be as far away as possible from a script like this. And I know you accepted the part after the love story was scrapped. And that's....Bilbo, I just don't get it."

Bilbo bit his lip, looking away from his friend. He took a couple of deep, calming breaths.

"Right," he began anxiously. "It's like this: you and I both know that coming out means the end of your career."

Bofur waited for Bilbo to elaborate and when there was nothing else he shook his head, shrugging. "Yeeeeaaah, ok, but what does that...oh my god."

Bilbo licked his lips, his eyes a little wide. He nodded.

"Oh my god." Bofur leaned forward with shit-eating grin. "You're not!"

He shrugged one shoulder, smiling a little. "I'm...I'm thinking about it."

"Oh my god."

"Uh huh." He then waved his hands quickly before Bofur could gush more. "But I'm not completely sure yet. I mean, I'd...feel a lot more wretched about ruining the film for the crew if it weren't Mirkwood and Smaug doing it...but that doesn't mean it isn't still a shitty thing to do. And I didn't just take the part to make a point. The story really is beautiful. I mean, the fact that Smaug wrote it is a bit hard to swallow but...I'm going into this with every intention of producing the best performance of my life, and... probably the last."

Bofur shook his head, his face alight and full of mischief. "Bilbo Baggins, you crusader.”

"I'm not, not really," he denied, but then a bit of fire sparked in his eyes. "But if I'm going to out, then I'm going out with a bang."

---

----

"Can I ask you a question?" Bilbo started hesitantly. They sat across from each other having dinner, the low light from the restaurant lamps thankfully hiding the nervous sweat on his brow.

Thorin looked up from his meal. "Of course," he said.

This was their second meeting, and Bilbo still wasn't sure if Thorin was a safe person to talk candidly to, so it was time to test the waters.

"Why did you take the part?" he asked.

If Thorin understood the underlying question then Bilbo could relax. If he answered with something like "it's the role of a lifetime" or "I really liked their friendship" then this would be their last outing alone.

Thorin wiped his mouth and took a sip of his wine. "I didn't have a choice," he revealed, jaw tight.

Bilbo blinked. "But you're not really desperate for work..." he speculated. "Or, um, are you?"

"No. I'm not desperate. I owed someone a favor. A big favor."

He wasn't sure who the favor was for or why Thorin looked so downtrodden about it, but at least he knew now that Thorin wasn't happy with the script either.

"And if you did have a choice?"

He met Bilbo's eyes, and his expression was both genuine and kind.

"I'd tell them to go fuck themselves."

Bilbo barked out a surprised laugh. "Yeah," he chuckled, shaking his head. "That's...kind of why I took the part too."

Thorin raised his eyebrows, a small, open smile on his face. But Bilbo, still cautious, quickly changed the subject before he could ask.

"Do you still have my umbrella?" he inquired cheekily.

Thorin gaped. "You...you remember me?!"

He looked so shocked (and oddly flattered?) that Bilbo threw his head back and laughed. "Of course I do! Though I didn't recognize you that day, I'm terribly sorry to say. It wasn't until I saw The Desolation that I realized who I'd run into."

"...you saw my movie," mumbled Thorin, blushing.

"Yeah." Bilbo fidgeted with his napkin. "And...I kind of went home after that and streamed all your films."

Thorin was bright red. "I..." he said.

Bilbo smiled at him shyly.

"I did the same thing," he finally confessed.

And a matching blush rose high on Bilbo's cheeks as they smiled at each other bashfully.

---

----

----

----

"Alright, I have to ask."

Bilbo turned to glare at him, shoving a handful of popcorn into his mouth pointedly.

"It's okay, you listen, and I'll talk."

Bofur seemed determined to interrogate him, and Bilbo rolled his eyes and put his feet up on the coffee table.

"So, I know it's only been a month or two, but I think I've only seen you maybe three times at best. I'm your BFF, Bilbo, so I need to know...have you left me for Thorin?"

Bilbo made a face.

"Judging by your expression I'd say my position as bestie is safe. Now I just have to ask if I've been thrown over for a boy." He shook his head at Bilbo. "Don't be that person that abandons their friends when they find true love, Bilbo. Don't be that way."

"Knock it off." He threw a handful of popcorn at Bofur's face. "Thorin and I aren't together. And I've just been busy."

"Gossip mags say otherwise," Bofur argued, making Bilbo groan. "And you know you have stalkers on instagram, right? Because there's pictures of you two going on dates all over social media."

Bilbo, who was not tech-savvy, had not known about this. "They're not dates," he grumbled.

"People are even writing stories about you two. They call your relationship Bagginshield."

"What."

"I'm serious." Bofur was entirely too thrilled about all of this. "They write about you two having hot sex in like...wardrobe. Or under the craft services table."

"Oh my god." Bilbo covered his face to hide his blush.

"It's brilliant."

"Would be if it were actually true," Bilbo mumbled, too low for Bofur to hear. He sighed and sat up. "Whatever, I don't care. Because again, we aren't together."

"But you want to be. All you ever talk about is him. You're obsessed."

"I'm not obsessed!"

Bofur pointed to the television confusedly. "Then why are we watching all of his movies again?"

Bilbo only groaned and threw another handful of popcorn Bofur's way.

----

----

He waited outside of Thorin's apartment nervously, feeling like an idiot for just showing up unannounced. But Thorin had had such a bad day on set today, and he and Elrond had got into it, and he'd seemed so tired and worn out, and....

In any case, Bilbo was lingering outside of his door like a creep when Thorin finally walked up the stairs.

"Hi," Bilbo rushed to greet him. "I made you a cake. Well, a coffee cake. I've never made it before. It might taste awful."

Thorin stared at him.

"You don't have to eat it, of course," Bilbo babbled. "It's just that today was pretty brutal, and I wanted to see if you were alright. Only, you don't seem like you are, and – mmph."

The coffee cake was delicious. They shared it, and they shared some other things as well. Kisses, mostly.

----

---

"Bilbo!" said Gandalf, kissing both of his cheeks. "It's been too long."

Bilbo took the bouquet Gandalf handed him and ushered him into the house. "Oh thank you, and yes it has. Where on earth have you been?"

"The theater calls," Gandalf told him, his eyes twinkling. "And I answer."

"Sure you do." Bilbo rolled his eyes. "Well, come in, come in, we're all in the dining room. Dinner will be in about twenty minutes. Have Dori pour you some wine."

Bilbo's annual dinner party consisted of the few cousins he actually liked, plus Bofur, Dori (and sometimes Nori) and of course, Gandalf. This small group of people were Bilbo's family, something that he'd needed dearly after the death of his mother. He'd spent two birthdays alone before this tradition had started, but now every September the 22nd, Bilbo's chosen family descended on his house to congratulate him on surviving yet another year.

He heard Primula greet Gandalf, and Frodo's happy squeal, and he grabbed up his phone to check the time. He took a deep, nervous breath.

"Can I help with anything?" asked Drogo, hovering a bit.

Bilbo smiled and waved him off. "No, that's alright! Sit down, socialize! We're just about ready to go."

He grabbed up the last platter, which held a lovely roast turkey, and took it out to the dining room. They all oohed and awwed obediently, and Bilbo was just going to have them start sitting around at the table when the doorbell rang.

They all fell silent.

"Ah," said Gandalf. "I'd wondered who the extra place setting was for."

He saw them all exchange baffled looks (though Gandalf seemed unsurprised) before he left for the entrance hall. He understood their shock, of course – Bilbo's dinner party was exclusive to the extreme. He only invited family, after all.

"Hi," he breathed out, opening the front door.

Thorin smiled nervously. "Hi," he said.

----

----

Nori pulled him into the main offices with a tight hand on his arm and a tense frown on his face. The expression was so unlike him that Bilbo panicked for a moment, wondering if someone had died. He was lead to a small conference room where Nori halted him in front of a closed door.

"Thranduil's in there," he said, in that offhand way of his.

"What?" Bilbo hissed. "Why?"

Helpfully, Nori shrugged. "I think it's about the articles."

Bilbo grimaced. "Oh. Too much?"

Nori held up his index finger and thumb, and pinched them together. Bilbo sighed and went for the door, but Nori held him back again.

"It...might be personal too. I mean about you and Thorin."

"That's none of their business," Bilbo snapped, his hands clenching into fists at his sides.

"They think it is," he said, and patted Bilbo on the back. "And that's all that matters."

Bilbo walked into the conference room anxiously (though he was still somewhat angry) and when he saw Smaug as well as Thranduil sitting there, his discomfort only grew.

At least there were no niceties.

"I'll make this quick," said Thranduil. "While Mirkwood Films applauds your work in our upcoming movie, we would appreciate if all public statements and interviews went through a screening process before publication."

His jaw had dropped a bit, and Bilbo closed it and bit his lower lip. From beside Thranduil, Smaug looked amused.

"As it is, Mirkwood Films kindly asks that you take care when making comments to the press, or ideally try not to interact with them at all. I hope that's alright with you, Mr. Baggins. Mirkwood truly appreciates all of your hard work."

Thranduil finished his little speech and stood. He gathered up his business folder and his Starbucks cup and without another word – left the room.

The look on Bilbo's face must have been hilarious, because Smaug laughed loudly at him. Bilbo scowled.

"I always love how polite his threats are," Smaug said airily, his face contorted in a sickening smile. "He's right about one thing though, Bilbo. Your work on Unexpected is phenomenal."

Bilbo didn't smile back. "Thanks."

"Had the script remained in its original form I would have loved to see you and Thorin intimate on the big screen."

Bilbo blinked. "Ok," he said, standing up. "I'm leaving."

"I'm surprised at the passion you both managed to depict. Thorin, especially, was a shock. He seemed so resentful of the part when Thranduil made him take it."

Smaug was not revealing to Bilbo anything that he didn't already know, though maybe he was trying to see how much Bilbo was privy to....

If Thorin trusted Bilbo enough to tell him about his father's unpaid debt at the time of his death, and about Thranduil conscripting him into what was essentially indentured servitude (which had all happened on the day they'd first met, to be precise), then it would be painfully obvious that Thorin and Bilbo were together. Which would be the perfect blackmail for Smaug, since Hollywood didn't like behind-the-scenes romances, and behind-the-scenes gay romances they liked even less.

"Well, isn't that fascinating," Bilbo answered noncommittally. "Right. Sorry, I've got a...thing. Good to see you, Smaug."

"And you," Smaug leered. "Bilbo."

He beat a hasty retreat and descended back down to post. Nori was there with the sound editors, whom Bilbo greeted briefly before drawing Nori away.

"How'd it go?" he asked.

"Smaug was there," Bilbo said. "He was a total creep."

"So...normal."

"And they basically told me to stop talking or else."

Nori shook his head sadly. "You'd better do as they say if you still want to work."

Displeased with this answer, he huffed and put his hands on his hips. "That's the thing, I don't want to do what they say. I shouldn't have to hide like this."

Faced with his sudden rebelliousness, Nori could only smile at Bilbo in amusement.

"I gave that movie my all– my very best gay!" Bilbo insisted.

Nori choked.

"...and I made sure that people were going to walk out of that theater and say 'that was the gayest movie I have ever seen'!"

He even stomped his foot a little.

"So no, Nori, I won't do what they want. It's too late for that now."

Nori looked down at his friend with a fond smile. It soon wilted a little, though. "And what about Thorin, Bilbo?" he asked quietly. "What about his career?"

Bilbo blinked. "I...."

"He owes Thranduil a lot of money, oh don't look so shocked that I know, nothing's secret around here." He sighed and looked away. "Don't get me wrong, I want you to tell them all to go to hell, but Thorin's my friend too, Bilbo, and I-"

"No," Bilbo cut him off. "No, you're right."

"I'm not saying back down," Nori amended, resting his hand on Bilbo's shoulder. "I'm just saying be careful. You've got someone you need to protect now."

Bilbo nodded solemnly. As he left the studios and drove toward home, he thought on Thranduil's threats and Nori's warning. Thorin would suffer, should Bilbo step over the line, and his plans for the premiere went above and beyond that.

"I'm not saying back down," Nori had said, but Bilbo was beginning to realize that that was exactly what he was going to have to do.

----

--

---

Thorin's fingertips ran idly down his back. Bilbo turned over to face him, sinking into his embrace and nosing at the delicate skin of his neck. He smiled slowly as Thorin rumbled with pleasure.

"I don't want to ask what time it is," Bilbo whispered.

"You say as you ask what time it is," replied Thorin. He leaned over a groaning Bilbo to reach Bilbo's phone. "It's nine. We have time."

He laid back down and gathered Bilbo against his chest.

"Are you nervous about tonight?" Thorin asked.

Bilbo inhaled noisily. "I'm..." he began, but then paused. "I'd decided not to do what I had initially planned, you know."

"Do I?"

"You've been curious. I'm sorry."

Thorin nodded and rubbed Bilbo's arm gently. "I have, but I didn't mind waiting for you to be ready to tell me."

Bilbo curled closer. "I wanted this to be my last movie before I came out. Publicly."

Thorin craned his neck to look at him. "After Mirkwood spent so much time denying they straight washed?" He blinked. "That's...devious."

Bilbo couldn't help but laugh. "I just...I knew that this film would always be a problem. And it is. But it also isn't. We do fall in love Thorin, me and you, and Martin and Richard. It's just not the kind of love people expect."

He ran his hand across Thorin's chest absently. "But it still deserves to be on screen. I wanted to come out, and not only reinforce that our characters loved each other, but to tell Mirkwood and all those stupid people who want us to shut up that we won't. Not anymore."

Thorin pulled Bilbo up and hugged him, kissing his curls, his neck, his cheeks. "Why did you decide not to?" he whispered.

Bilbo scoffed, wrapping his arms around Thorin's shoulders. "You know why not, Thranduil...."

"Screw him." He suddenly sat up. "He can rot. Let's do it, Bilbo. Together."

Frowning, Bilbo sat back on his heels and stared. "Are you serious?"

"I am." He nodded. He reached out and touched Bilbo's cheeks. "I want to."

"Thorin, we'll have undermined and humiliated Thranduil and the studio," Bilbo whispered. "Publicly. We'll have attacked the business. The business we work in. No one will hire actors they can't trust to keep their mouths shut. Our careers will be over."

Thorin touched his hair gently, pushing his curls back behind his ears. "I think it's worth it, don’t you?” he said, after a moment. "I'm tired, and I know you're tired of playing this stupid game too."

Bilbo shook his head. "You'll lose everything."

"You don't know that. This could be good, Bilbo. For us. For others. It's not going change on its own. And if we don't try, we're as bad as them."

He said nothing, glancing away from Thorin's eyes-- torn. Thorin moved closer and gently coaxed Bilbo’s head up.

"There's nothing like looking," he said. "If you want to find something."

Bilbo swallowed; his chest hurt and his eyes were a little wet. Thorin was not crying, or upset at all, instead he looked at Bilbo with so much love that he couldn't help but wonder if this were real or just a dream. He leaned in and kissed Thorin, feeling weightless.

Real.

---

"Are you ready?"

Bilbo turned to him with a nervous but determined expression on his face. In the safety of the tinted limo they could not be seen, and Thorin used this advantage to kiss Bilbo thoroughly.

"Well, I am now," Bilbo said, when his lover pulled back.

He grabbed Thorin's hand, prepared to hold onto it the entire night (in sight of everyone, everything, and with no fear) and took a long, deep breath. They were ready.

With Thorin's solid presence by his side, Bilbo opened the door.

---

[shockcity]

@angelsallfire ahh no :( It’s not on ao3…I was thinking about putting it there but I’m scared of mean people. But feel free to send her a link to the story here! And If I can help in any way let me know. Though fair warning me and technology are no bueno lol. Oh and I’m glad your sister was laughing at this silliness. Laughter is love, my dude (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ *✶:・ﾟ✧