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: Fill for a prompt on the hobbit-kink meme.

An Unexpected Comfort

Naturally, in the beginning, Bilbo Baggins did his best to stay far out of the giant's way. The intense dark eyes, unreadable expression, the tattoos and piercings, wild hair, the tallness… It was enough to send the poor hobbit scampering to hide behind Gandalf or Bofur. Especially when he was accidentally on the receiving end of Dwalin's scowl or look for a moment before he refocused on his king, seemingly always just a step behind the brooding Thorin.

And he particularly kept a careful distance when the massive weapons were brought out for cleaning or practice. That first night, early on the trail, when Bilbo had jumped three feet in the air and landed in an undignified heap on the ground, frightened at the sudden ringing of steel in the quiet night, had been a terribly embarrassing moment for him. Especially with the jabs from the company and explanation of the sound simply being Dwalin sharpening his weapons.

So he tried to be invisible, silent, and out of the way around the warrior. And the Halfling was totally ignored in turn.

Thus it was a surprise then, sometime later, after another long day of walking and dealing with a lingering headache, that Bilbo found the tension in his body easing and his head clearing some as he self-consciously listened to the rhythmic sound of Dwalin sharpening his weapons on the other side of the campfire. His expression a mask of concentration, with his face bathed in a mixture of firelight and shadows, he worked with firm, sure movements. With each ring of stone sliding against metal, Bilbo found himself being nearly lulled to sleep. And each following night where the tall dwarf did this ritual, the exhaustion, fear, soreness, and homesickness loosened its hold on the little Halfling as he listened and watched.

Perhaps it was the feeling of habit. Or the need to be soothed no matter the way. But most likely it was the sense of protectiveness emitting from the warrior. Bilbo had noticed the fierce loyalty the dwarf had for his king, offering unfailing support and belief to his leader. While none of it was ever directed towards himself, of course (only suspicion), the hobbit drew comfort from it and an inexplicable sense of being safe.

So then on the ninth night that Dwalin tended to his weapons, with a mixture of nervousness, tiny bit of courage, and longing, Bilbo silently rose from his place beside Bofur to cross the campsite and curled up next to the bald dwarf without a word. Knees tucked under his chin, arms wrapped around his legs, eyes fastened on his woolly feet. He cautiously leaned against Dwalin. Half expecting to be growled at, pushed away, or something, he dared not look at him or anyone else to gauge their reactions to his obvious impropriety. He just wanted to listen to that calming, safe sound.

There was the briefest pause in the rock sliding against the axe head, and then it continued along its path. Again and again and again. There was no word or sound from the warrior while he sharpened the rest of his weapons. As the minutes passed with the steely ringing lifting into the air, Bilbo relaxed more and more against the dwarf, who was warm like a furnace. After all was done, without an explanation or glance to the king's kin, the hobbit rose and moved to set up his bedroll next to Bofur's as had become his custom. He was well aware of the many quizzical gazes tracking him.

There was no forthcoming explanation from the hobbit, and there was no demand for one or tell-off from the towering dwarf. Things continued as before, with Bilbo mostly keeping company either with Balin, Bofur, or the young princes, and Dwalin kept close to his leader, paying no mind to the fussing creature. The only changes were the numerous confused looks bestowed on the little burglar (he could only shrug in response to the few who questioned him, unable to understand it himself); and the spot the hobbit occupied on the dwarf's right side as he tended his weapons, though never acknowledging his presence.

It was nearly two weeks later, and Bilbo was shifting in his bedroll, that he wondered if he had misunderstood the seemingly silent acceptance on the dwarf's part. Perhaps dwarves did not have direct confrontations in situations like these. Perhaps it was not Dwalin's way. He was one of few words, letting his body language and facial expressions do the talking for him. Maybe he resented the hobbit's close proximity, being virtually a stranger. He could have been uncertain how to address it since they were of different races and cultures. Yes, that had to be it. Sighing sadly, Bilbo resolved he would no longer be a bother.

For the next five evenings when Dwalin settled down with his weapons, Bilbo stayed by Bofur, hunching into himself, ignoring the few curious gazes cast his way, and listening to the rock sharpening the metal's edge. It was familiar, soothing, and yet...not quite as it used to be, not as warm, safe. It is enough, he tried to convince himself as he burrowed under his blanket night after night.

Dwalin did not see to his weapons again until their first night after leaving Rivendell. Knees resting under his chin, hands balled in his lap, Bilbo's eyes followed the long sword as it was unsheathed and rested across the dwarf's broad knees. It laid there for a minute, then two. No grindstone was produced; no shrill sound filled the air. A third minute passed. Puzzled, the hobbit's gaze rose up to Dwalin, and he bit his tongue to still the surprised yelp that desired to escape. Dark eyes bore into him, and there might have been just the hint of a frown behind his large beard. He was angry, offended. Bilbo swallowed hard, his terribly dry throat making an apology impossible at the present. He should at the very least lower his gaze, to try to convey his regret.

But before he managed to do so, Dwalin jerked his head with the faintest movement, his eyes darting pointedly to the space on his right before returning to the green-eyed hobbit. Well, Bilbo could have been knocked over with a feather by this unexpected summons! Lowering his head to hide the questions in his eyes and the hopeful smile tugging on the corners of his mouth, he got up and went over to the tattooed dwarf. Quietly he settled down next to him. Once comfortable, he dared a peek up at his companion. Dwalin studied him blankly, gave an almost imperceptible nod, and started on sharpening his weapon.

Bilbo sighed, sinking into the warm, strong side. The steely ringing, sense of protection wrapped around him. And for once he permitted himself to be lulled to blissful sleep by the sound.

Dwalin carefully set aside his last weapon, sharpened to his satisfaction. He turned his attention down to the hobbit fast asleep, burrowed into his side, a peaceful, content expression on his beardless face. Well. Glancing about the campsite, he caught the eye of Thorin who raised an inquiring eyebrow. His friend responded with a slight shrug.

No, he did not know why their burglar had daringly curled up next to him while he sharpened his weapons. Nor how such a routine strangely did not bother the dwarf (contrary to his earlier agreement with Thorin that Master Baggins was a nuisance), leaving him instead feeling less on edge, providing him the ability to breathe more easily. Or why the unexpected ending of the hobbit's silent companionship had oddly displeased and baffled him (and which had no connection to his acting like a bear more than usual, according to his brother's observations). Nor why he had requested for Master Baggins to finally return to his side. And why the arrangement had left the warrior feeling a great deal pleased though no less confused, with only the brightening of his eyes and happy ringing of steel hinting of his pleasure. He most certainly could not explain the small, warm creature leaning against him, snoring lightly. In the beginning he had been perfectly aware that he terrified the little fellow, of how the lad gave him as much space as possible, exchanging no more than two words since the company had set out from the Shire. Yet here he was with Dwalin, asleep. Where did such trust come from?

Shaking his head, the dwarf took Bilbo into his arms, careful not to wake him. Slowly and effortlessly he got to his feet. The hobbit shifted in his arms, rubbing his cheek against the fur lining the dwarf's jacket, and then he grew still. For a second Dwalin froze and squeezed his eyes shut tightly. This moment carried him back to being a young lad and cuddling with his little sister who shadowed him everywhere. So pretty and full of life, she had been delighted when she was tucked into his side or held firmly in his arms while he spun them in circles. She had adored him, and he had been wrapped completely around her finger. He tried not to think about her too often, his little sister who had not lived to see her tenth summer. It was too painful, with bittersweet memories. Bilbo reminded him of her.

Drawing a long, low breath, Dwalin resolutely walked across the campsite to where Bilbo's bedroll had already been laid out by Bofur. With the toymaker's assistance, the hobbit was shortly settled in his bed to the dwarves' satisfaction. Sharing a brief nod with the dwarf before he laid down beside their burglar, the warrior went to his own bed.

Unfortunately, there was not much time for Dwalin to try and understand everything, let alone time for his routine with the Halfling to properly resume. Instead his attention and energy were taken up with wild wolfs, legendary stone giants, capture by goblins, the disappearance of Master Baggins (please, not again), the reappearance of Azog, the loss and revival of Thorin (thank you, Mahal), and finally the long, tiring descent down the Carrock.

Now the whole company was collapsed at the bottom of the rocky formation. Panting and shaking still, Dwalin was draped over his brother who sat against a rock. With more effort than usually was required, he slowly opened his eyes and raised his head. Gandalf was the only one who seemed to be on any sort of watch, eyes sweeping their surroundings. The rest of the warrior's friends were scattered about in little groups with their own kin: he and Balin, Gloin and Oin, the Ri brothers, Thorin and his nephews, and there the Urs.

Wearily, he shut his eyes. All accounted for and saf— Frowning, the dwarf's eyes flew open and searched quickly about. ...There. A way's off from everyone, sitting crossed-legged, rocking slightly, and staring unblinkingly at the Carrock was Bilbo Baggins. Wincing as his body protested at the movement, Dwalin got to his feet and walked toward the Halfling.

His brows drew down in a concerned frown as he took stock of the fellow. He appeared the worst for wear. In shock, Oin had said, sparing a brief moment to inspect their burglar before concentrating on Thorin. That he did appear. Such a soft little creature, fond of comforts and peace, he was not used to such danger. And one's first killing always is something of a shock, he mused, kneeling in front of Bilbo, who did not register his presence at all.

"Master Baggins?" Dwalin's voice was low and gravelly.

No response. Just that constant rocking and unbroken, far-off stare.

"Bilbo?" worry crept into his tone, raised a little in volume, the hobbit's name tumbling, unfamiliar, off his tongue.

Nothing.

Considering, Dwalin stood, pressing his lips into a firm line for a short moment. He stepped closer and easily lifted up the Halfling into his arms. He froze at Bilbo's frightened gasp and flailing arms until recognition filled the pale face.

"'Tis me, lad," he said carefully.

"Dwalin…?" Bilbo whimpered, burying his hands and face into the dwarf's massive beard, tremors shaking his body.

"You are all right, Bilbo," the dwarf reassured, turning on his heel and starting back towards his brother. Feeling the creature rapidly shake his head, Dwalin's jaw clenched. "You are, will be, little one. We will be all right," he promised tensely.

Reaching Balin, he sat beside the silent dwarf, gathering him close; he settled Bilbo on his other side who clung to him like a frightened dwarfling. Dwalin blinked against the sudden tears and long-ago memory that rose in his mind. He retrieved the closest weapon on hand - one of his throwing knifes from his boot - and his grindstone from his pocket.

A sniffle and weight pressing closer into him drew Dwalin's gaze to Bilbo. Leaning down to the hobbit, he made a shushing sound in the back of his throat, hesitantly patting the head full of curls. With trembling hands, he took up his knife and rock and started sharpening the blade. As the rhythmic steely sound went on, surrounding the three, very gradually their fear and shock lessened, the tension loosening in their limbs, comfort settling over them.

This is what they needed, Dwalin thought, protectiveness flashing in his eyes as they swept over Balin and Bilbo, both having fallen into an exhausted slumber.

This is where they belonged.

THE END