X-posted to AO3

Bilbo leant onto his elbow and sighed over at Thorin, who was stroking his fingers silently over a refurbished harp as the Company relaxed in a small, clean hall in Erebor.

Bofur sat down next to him (ruining Bilbo's contemplation) and snorted.

Bilbo looked at him accusingly.

Bofur raised an eyebrow.

"What?!"

"You can quit sighing over that dwarf and talk to him."

"I could very well talk to him. I talked to him not ten minutes ago!" Bilbo protested.

Bofur rolled his eyes, and, deciding that the two of them could remain a lost cause for a few moments longer, closed his eyes in pleasure as Thorin began to play. Usually, Bofur preferred to play himself than purely listen, but he could, sort of, see where Bilbo was coming from in his mooning.

He leaned his body against Bilbo's shoulder and leaned his spirit into Thorin's music.

Quite abruptly, the music stopped, and then the body was pulled away from him.

Bofur's mouth popped open indignantly as Thorin dragged his pillow away.

Then he closed it. Well then, he huffed, and for a moment he almost followed. He would like to be a fly on the wall for this conversation.

Just because Bilbo was maybe, slightly, infatuated with Thorin did not mean he couldn't recognise what a pain the dwarf could be. Still, he kept his mouth shut as Thorin dragged him through the corridors, and decided that yes, he cared enough about Thorin to give him a few minutes to explain himself.

Thorin didn't stop until they were at his quarters. Then, he turned to Bilbo.

Bilbo waited.

"You hobbits-" Thorin began, and then cut himself off as he realised that probably wasn't the most beneficial way to begin his line of inquiry. (He was helped along in this conclusion by Bilbo's scowl.) "Bilbo, can you embroider?"

"I jolly well can!" Bilbo answered, indignant. What sort of a hobbit would he be if he couldn't?

Thorin nodded sharply, and then began taking off his boot. His first foot came out of the shoe with the sock dangling off the end, and the second came out completely sans sock. Thus revealed to Bilbo were two small, almost-hairless and baby-delicate feet. He swallowed, and tried not to stare.

He stared instead at the two dirty, darkly-stained inner-soles that Thorin presented him with.

Thorin was giving him a deep and meaningful look, and someone really needed to tell that dwarf that hobbits couldn't read minds.

"I want you to embroider Bofur onto each of these," Thorin said.

Bilbo's stomach dropped through his feet. "Bo- oh, um. Well, I suppose that. I, well, I guess?"

Thorin glared.

"Okay?" Bilbo answered, quite upset. Bofur! Well, he supposed he could see the appeal. He did make a nice pillow in his own way. But. But Bilbo had wanted. Well he'd wanted exclusive right to a Thorin pillow (among other things) and this really wasn't looking good for that desire.

Thorin shoved the inner-soles into his hands and clapped him around the shoulders, pulling him into his chest so that Bilbo's face ended up half-buried in hair.

"Thank you!" Thorin breathed.

Bilbo tried his best not to sniffle.

Bilbo started out with the best of intentions. Or maybe, on reflection, he didn't, since he neither planned a pattern nor studied Bofur to get a good likeness. Nonetheless, he started out thinking he had the best of intentions.

The intentions fizzled. In fact, when the (lop-sided, caricature-ish, quite frankly mucked-up) images of Bofur had been finished, he carefully planned out a subtle profile of himself and stitched it many times into the background of each sole like waving lines.

He wasn't happy with how Bofur was in front.

He could deal with the fact that it was Bofur's idiotic image was eclipsing his refined profile, and not anything regal or handsome.

He presented them to Thorin, secure in the knowledge that Thorin would understand that they were far too ugly to wear.

Thorin's face lit up at the sight of them.

He was so delighted that he gave Bilbo another hug.

"Have you seen Bilbo?"

Bofur put down his flute. Thorin looked downright harried.

"Just this morn, at breakfast," he answered truthfully. Now that he thought about it, the hobbit had eaten quickly and escaped early, much before Thorin could be expected. Whatever had this silly dwarf done?

"I think he's avoiding me," Thorin said, much too plaintively for a king. Then, flatly, he said, "You always have breakfast early," and kicked off his shoes.

His feet were still shod in black socks, but the move surprised Bofur. Few to non-existent were the dwarves that walk unshod, even indoors, even socked.

So, wondering if Thorin was making a point, Bofur tried to make out the inner-soles of his shoes. Thorin's superficially careless act had placed them so they were lit well.

Well enough for Bofur to make out the precise, elegant, Bilbo profiles, stained with contemptuous sweaty feet, and less-well-kept than any dwarf would keep his soles unless making a point, in each shoe.

"Is that Bilbo!?" he spluttered, mind unwilling to comprehend what his eyes were seeing.

"No!" spluttered Thorin, grabbing his shoes. "It's you!"

"Me?" Bofur answered, and sure enough the squiggly, amateurish lines in each shoe were him. And what had he done to merit having his king walk on his face?

The horror on Thorin's face as he closely inspected the shoes did not entirely appease his indignation.

He needed a drink.

Thorin's heart was pounding and his head felt vaguely sick. He had been standing on Bilbo! Walking over Bilbo's body like he was no more than a common thief!

(And if Bilbo was a thief, then he certainly wasn't a common one.)

He dashed towards Bilbo's rooms, his urgency too great to re-shod his feet, so quickly that his socks flopped away as he ran.

A pain shot up Thorin's foot. "Ouch!"

A small plank of wood had been lying in wait for the unwary pedestrian and Thorin swore and clutched at his foot, hopping in pain for the last few meters and colliding with Bilbo's door.

Bilbo opened it, and had to steady Thorin as the dwarf all-but toppled into his room.

"Are you alright? What-Your feet?!"

"Why did you embroider yourself onto my soles! Do you think I thought so little of you!?"

"No- I- your feet!"

"I would never walk over your body and you've had me do that for the last week! This is-"

Thorin struggled to find a word. Nothing could convey his horror at how he had proudly stepped all over Bilbo since the hobbit had returned his inner-soles. Oh what must the hobbit think of him?

Bilbo took advantage of his silence and maneuvered Thorin into a cushy chair and inspected his feet.

Each foot had been badly used, places rubbed raw from running on the rough floor of Erebor and spotted with tiny flecks of blood. He stroked his thumb over the smooth white ankle – such a fascinating colour, you'd never see it on a hobbit.

He briefly processed Thorin's words.

"So you don't like Bofur—that's why?"

"NO!" Thorin growled, foot almost jerking in his grasp but for Bilbo tightening his grip on it. "Er, well if you prefer his company I can put up with him."

"I do not prefer his company." Bilbo lowered the foot slightly, not quite able to take his attention off it entirely. (Such delicate toes! With a bit of care, those toenails would be the envy of The Shire.)

Then his attention was glued to Thorin's face. To the heat in his eyes. Bilbo felt an answering heat in his eyes and his belly.

"Bilbo?" Thorin breathed.

"Mmm?" Bilbo was raising that ankle to his lips.

Thorin swallowed, and Bilbo eyed the twitch of his neck.

"You are a wonderful, incredible, ridiculous creature."

Oh. Yes? Not arguing with that look.

...

"Kiss my lips before you kiss my foot?"