#and yes - bilbo is the one stuck in the loop but it's from Thorin's POV

[atlantablack]

from a groundhog day fic I may or may not ever finish

He’s alone in the throne room when Bilbo finds him, a miserable look on his face. It’s been quite some time since he’s seen Bilbo look this unhappy and even with the arkenstone forefront in his mind he still finds the space to worry about it. Focuses on the tight lines of his mouth and the trembling of his hands and feels nothing but worry. 

Bilbo who helped him reclaim Erebor. Who is as precious to Thorin as the gold in the next room. Once the arkenstone was found and the thieves at his front door were dispersed, once he had time and space, he would make sure that Bilbo had a place of honor at his side. 

“Bilbo,” he says, blinking furiously as he tries to stay focused. “Are you well? Has something happened?” 

Bilbo shakes his head and comes to a stop in front of the throne, dropping to his knees in front of Thorin. It’s so out of character that for a minute Thorin’s vision tilts. 

“Bilbo,” he says again, softer, pressing a hand to Bilbo’s cheek and tilting his head up. While it is a dream to have Bilbo in front of him this way he doesn’t like the grief filling his burglar’s eyes. “Tell me, what has happened?”

“I’m sorry,” Bilbo says, a sob working its way out of his mouth after the words. “I keep messing up and I’m going to mess up again but I’m trying.” 

He frowns, not sure what Bilbo is speaking of. “I do not understand.” 

Bilbo smiles at him, tragedy written in every line of his face. “I know. But I needed to say it anyway.” 

“This isn’t going to work, but, I’m going to try anyway, okay?” Bilbo pauses, studying Thorin’s face like he’s looking for something. Thorin doesn’t know what but he would give it to Bilbo if he can. 

“Just,” Bilbo swallows, presses into the hand Thorin still hasn’t removed from his face. “Just, please, don’t hate me, okay?” 

“I could not,” he says, wondering what could have happened to make Bilbo think otherwise. It does not once occur to him that betrayal could come from the one in front of him and more fool him. He is blinded by his regard for the hobbit and so, when Bilbo reaches into the pocket of his robe, he has no expectations. 

None, until he catches a glimpse of light playing off of Bilbo’s fingers. No, he thinks, breath catching. The room tilts dangerously and he doesn’t realize that his fingers are digging into Bilbo’s face until he whimpers. 

In the end the most remarkable thing about having the arkenstone pressed into his hand is not the arkenstone at all. It is the tears silently streaming down Bilbo’s face as he presses the stone into Thorin’s hand, his fingers curl over Thorin’s, the stone hidden between their hands. 

“How long have you had this?” Thorin asks, knows his voice has gone dangerous, but he’s helpless to stop the fury licking at the base of his spine.

Bilbo closes his eyes and in the smallest voice Thorin has ever heard from him says, “From the beginning. I found it almost as soon as I went into the treasury.” 

Thorin can’t breathe, the betrayal so strong he feels as if he’s going to drown. For all that he had thought someone would take the stone he had not truly believed Bilbo capable of such a thing. “You,” he says. “You would steal from me.” 

“No, no, I didn’t steal it,” Bilbo says and he sounds as if he believes this. “I was scared to give it to you, Thorin. I’m still scared. You’ve gone somewhere I can’t follow and I don’t know how to help you.” 

“I have gone nowhere,” he says, frowning and realizing that it’s true, Bilbo is terrified, is shaking under Thorin’s hand. It doesn’t erase the fury but it tempers it. He is trying to understand. Feels as if there’s a fog in his mind as he tries. He wants to understand though, does not want to believe that Bilbo could betray him so thoroughly without a reason.

Bilbo tries to shake his head but Thorin’s hand holds him steady. “You’ve gone away into your own mind,” he says, looking up at Thorin with wet, pleading eyes. “You’re sick Thorin. I need you to break out of it.” His voice breaks and he’s a liar, a pretty liar, but a liar nonetheless. 

Thorin pulls away, holds the arkenstone up to his face and finds it as beautiful as he remembers. He looks back down at Bilbo and finds nothing but grief looking back.

“Get out,” he says, the words heavy in his mouth. “Leave Erebor. I will grant you safe passage only because you did, in the end, give me what is rightfully mine.”

But Bilbo is already shaking his head. “No,” he says, a stubborn tilt to his mouth. “No. I’m not leaving you.”

Thorin barely thinks before backhanding him “GET OUT,” he roars. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, there’s shrieking. Dwalin and Nori come running in and for a minute stop dead in the doorway.

Bilbo’s sprawled on the dais, one hand to the blistering red of his cheek, but he still sits back up, eyes terribly wide and betrayed, and says, “No.”

Thorin can see him trembling. Can see Nori, his jaw set, creeping towards them as if Thorin would not notice. “You will leave,” he says, leaning down to the hiss the words in Bilbo’s face, “or I will make you.”

Bilbo’s chin tilts up. “Then make me, Thorin.” And then, like he has no concept of how much danger he is in, he tips forward and presses his forehead to Thorin’s. “I can’t leave you,” he murmurs into the space between them. “I can’t watch you die again.”

Thorin feels frozen. The press of Bilbo’s forehead to his overwhelming. He clenches the arkenstone in his fist until it bites into his skin and dimly, he thinks that he should be concerned about breaking it.

“Get out,” he says again, voice gone unaccountably soft. “I do not want you here. Traitor.”

“Like I said, make me,” Bilbo says, leaning even closer, the words ghosting over Thorin’s mouth.

Bilbo’s mouth, when it finally brushes his, is soft. He presses against Thorin so sweetly and for a minute Thorin wavers. Presses back. Thinks, please, thinks, let me have this one beautiful thing. He wavers—

—and then he pushes Bilbo down the dais stairs. It is not a long fall but Bilbo falls easily and with a resounding thunk as his body hits the bottom. Nori is at his side before Thorin can blink, pulling him to his feet and pulling him towards the door. Thorin feels so dizzy he could fall over.

“You’re a fool,” Dwalin says from the bottom of the stairs.

“I am king,” he says, voice raspier than it should be. “I will not tolerate thieves and traitors.”

“Aye, but you have always been my king. Even without that stone. You used to know that.”

“Get out,” he snaps.

Dwalin leaves and Thorin stares down at the arkenstone for a very long time. Feels like his head is splitting apart. Feels like his heart has torn itself asunder. He’s not sure when he falls to his knees in front of the throne but he’s listening to Bilbo’s voice on repeat, You’ve gone somewhere that I can’t follow. Thinks of Dwalin’s words and the grief that had seemed to pass from Bilbo to Dwalin. A shared grief that Thorin can’t understand, doesn’t want to understand. You’ve gone somewhere that I can’t follow.

The arkenstone, when he throws it across the hall, does not shatter, but Thorin’s head feels clearer than it has in days and so of course, the guilt comes pouring in. By the time Bard and Thranduil arrive the gold haze has almost completely cleared from his mind.

It doesn’t fix anything.

——

“Thorin,” Bilbo gasps, sliding to his knees next to Thorin. “No, no, you can’t do this, not again.”

“Bilbo,” he sighs, reaching for Bilbo’s face despite the way it exacerbates the pain. “Amrâlimê, there is nothing to be done.”

“No,” Bilbo says, voice choked. “You can’t do this. You need to live. I need you to live.”

The side of Bilbo’s face is an ugly mess of blues and purples and Thorin’s heart manages to find the energy to clench. “I have done you a disservice,” he says, struggling to get the words. “You were right to keep the arkenstone from me for as long as you did.”

“No, don’t do this,” Bilbo says and he’s fully crying now. “I can’t do this again, please.”

Thorin presses his palm to Bilbo’s face, says, “I wish to part from you with you knowing that in any other circumstance I would have returned your affection.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo whispers, leaning down to press a furious kiss to his brow, to cheek, to his mouth. “Please, just hold on for a little longer. The eagles will be here soon.”

“Go home, master burglar,” he says, wishing he were not leaving Bilbo to such pain. “Go home to your armchairs and your books. Go home and live a good life.”

Thorin dies. Thorin dies and then—