Disclaimer: The Hobbit, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J. R. R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.

Author's Note: Set in the same universe as Elf Friend Mine. Fill for a prompt on the hobbit-kink meme.

A Different Approach

It had been a stressful last couple of days (weeks, if he was honest): Mirkwood's depressing effect on the company, getting hopelessly lost, running out of food, being poisoned and captured by the spiders, running into the elves…

So while Thorin Oakenshield stood tall and proud with a composed expression before the elven king, his head throbbed, exhaustion weighing his body down. Thranduil's words flowed around him, cool and smooth. The dwarf worked hard to hold the other's intense gaze, respond; his words were a heartbeat late, struggling to maintain his indifferent tone.

"I will let you go, if you but return what is mine."

The dark-haired dwarf's lips twitched. "A favor for a favor," he mused in a rough voice, throat dry from lack of water.

The elf narrowed his eyes, leant forward a little. "You have my word. One king to another."

Thorin breathed deeply, fighting to ignore how the world swayed slightly. "I would not trust, Thranduil, the great king, to only his word." Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the elf guards step closer to him. If he was shoved, he was not sure if he could keep his feet, not collapse—

"Come!"

It took a moment for the dwarven lord to realize Thranduil had left the throne and stood inches from him. Before he knew what was happening he was being directed by a firm, steadying hand on his shoulder toward a door he had not noticed before. They headed down a hallway he did not recognize. Thorin blinked up at the elf, catching a glimpse of the other's frown.

"Must you see me personally returned to my cell?" He silently groaned as soon as the words were out of his mouth.

"Nothing of the sort," Thranduil denied instantly, his stride growing more determined.

Blinking repeatedly, the dwarf opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, shut it. If not for this terrible headache, he'd be able to concentrate…

"Then where are we going?" he finally asked, attempting to stop walking. He did not like this. For his troubles he was literally dragged along resolutely by the taller creature.

"To my chambers" was the stunning answer.

Everything became pretty much a blur after that. Vaguely, Thorin knew his half-hearted protests went unheeded. That when installed in the king's private baths he insisted on washing himself (he wasn't sure if he was entirely successful, and had a memory that had to be a dream of falling asleep in the warm soothing water, saved from accidental drowning by the fretting king barging back into the room). How gentle the elf tended to his wounds.

Seemingly by magic he was seated at a small table with a plate heaped with food. For one moment he eyed it, told himself he would not have a mouthful until he demanded and received an explanation. But it all smelled delicious… Never had he eaten so fast in his life. Thranduil's tisk-ing could have been of disapproval or of concern. The drink supplied to him was only water, but the dwarf viewed it like the finest wine, cool and refreshing, and his eyes closed in content.

The dwarven lord was too tired to grumble when he was carried like a babe and tucked into the elven king's large warm bed.

"What is all this?" he fought to stay awake, peering up at the pale elf.

It was impossible to read the emotion that momentarily flashed in Thranduil's eyes. "Sleep, you are safe," his tone was surprisingly calm, soft, lacking its usual coldness and hardness.

In a moment the dwarf was asleep.

But despite being safe, nourished, and warm, it didn't last. More than once he jerked awake due to nightmares featuring Azog's leering face, stone giants, dragon fire, and huge poisonous spiders. The sixth time he woke up and fought to calm his breathing, he was startled by a heavy sigh in the dark. The mattress dipped as someone got into the bed. His grogginess lessened and Thorin's eyes rounded as he was pulled into the elven king's arms, settled against the taller creature's chest, the blankets tucked around him to Thranduil's satisfaction. Was the elf...cuddling him?

He stammered, "Elf, what are you—?"

"You need your rest," Thranduil responded simply.

And this would help?! Thorin's cheeks grew hot, mortification, bewilderment, and something else swelling inside him. He squirmed.

"Thorin, sleep," the elven king ordered with a sigh.

The dwarf grew still, rigid. He wanted to argue, should object. But he was still exhausted, wanted sleep. And he was very comfortable in his new position he grudgingly admitted to himself.

"Fine," he huffed, relaxing.

Thranduil chuckled lightly. "Goodnight, Thorin."

"Goodnight…" – elf friend, he swallowed back the long-forgotten name just in time – "Thranduil," he murmured.

He closed his eyes, the unspoken words ringing in his ears.

He woke up refreshed, headache completely gone, and hugging the elven king as he had when he was a dwarfling. Neither commented on it when Thranduil inquired how he'd slept and invited him to breakfast. Feeling a rare bout of shyness and gratefulness, Thorin humbly accepted.

It was not until the meal was nearly over that the dwarf steadily gazed into the elf's light eyes, and stated, "I would reconsider your offer from yesterday, if I may."

The small smile Thranduil gave Thorin was genuine. "You may."

THE END