[Disclaimer: the characters and the work of fiction on which this is based are the property of their respective owners. The present work is just a writing exercise, and let's be honest, quite a bit of self-indulging.]

The camp was a rather miserable one that night. The company had lost most of their supplies, and they barely had the means to make a fire. What precious little food they had in their pockets and pouches had been carefully rationed to last them for at least one day, in case they couldn't find any game or fruit right away. Without a good blaze to warm them, nor hearty meal to cheer them, nor even the necessary supplies to properly tend their wounds, they had spent a very glum evening at the base of the peak where the eagles had left them. They huddled together for warmth, making makeshift bedrolls out of their cloaks.

Being the smallest of them all and having the lightest clothing, Bilbo found himself at the center of the group, shielded from all sides against the chill of the night. But even in this relative warmth and safety, the hobbit could find no peace. Restless, he lay on the hard, uneven rocks, staring into the darkness with wide open, almost manic eyes. The events of the previous day were finally catching up with him. Near-death experiences danced in his mind, one after the other. His own mad resolve to pursue this adventure, his tookish streak leading him to do the most reckless things…

All because of him.

Just to prove to him that he wasn't worthless, that he could be all that his dwarves were, and more. All of this just to see respect and acceptance in those steely eyes that always looked at him with nothing but disdain.

Well, he certainly got what he wanted, didn't he? He got more than what he had wished for, in fact. Only that wasn't enough anymore. His heart contracted at the memory – still so fresh, so very vivid in his mind – of the icy gaze melting before him like snow in the spring sun; of the ever frowning, ever preoccupied face coming alive with a smile so warm and gentle it seemed to shed all its years of trouble; of the prince's gratitude as he had looked at him, a simple hobbit, his admiration, and, yes, fondness washing over him, engulfing him, choking him as surely as that bear hug had. For a blinding instant, Bilbo had felt entirely lost, and frightened out of his wits. The scares he had experienced beforehand had been nothing compared to the panic that had seized him as he was pulled into that embrace.

Because that simple gesture, that brief moment of closeness had brought him a joy more fierce and wild than anything he had ever felt in his life. And because there was nothing that he now wanted more than to feel that joy again.

Bilbo was terrified. Never had something so untamable, so unreasonable possessed him like this. His heart quivered like a frantic bird in a cage at the mere thought of that smile, of those arms around him, holding him fast, holding him close. Was this what falling in love was supposed to feel like? He'd had his share of infatuations in his youth, but nothing could compare with the sheer power of his current wretchedness of mind and soul. How could people stand it? Why would people seek it, of all things? Bilbo's fear escalated into horror when he thought about what would happen if any of this surfaced. If someone noticed…

If he noticed, Gods forbid!

Armies of goblins, orcs and wargs had not weakened his resolve, but now he truly wanted to leave, to flee. Of course they will notice. He will notice. He will know.

The hobbit flinched inwardly as he imagined that regal face full of disdain again. Full of disgust. If his disapproval had been painful before, Bilbo knew it would now be unbearable. He squeezed his eyes shut as he felt the sting of oncoming tears.

Why? Why?

When everything finally seemed to take a turn for the better, just when he had finally managed to earn his trust, to properly earn a place in his company –

Both his mind and body froze as a strong, leather-clad arm wove itself around his waist and gently pulled him close. In his daze, Bilbo had forgotten next to whom he was lying, and it was almost as if his thoughts had summoned their object out of nowhere. He reeled from the touch, from the feeling of the rough hand on his stomach, of the broad chest against his back. He forced himself to take deep, slow breaths in an attempt to steady his heartbeat, which was now careening out of control.

"You are troubled, little one," came a low whisper, frighteningly close to the hobbit's ear. It was a statement, not a question, but it carried an invitation, as well as a hint of concern.

Gods, Bilbo pleaded silently, his mind howling in desperate prayer, If I should betray myself…

"The day has been a bit… full, I guess," he whispered back, trying to sound lighthearted. "Don't mind me, I'll be right as rain in the morning."

But it seemed that he would not be able to get away that easily. If anything, the dwarven prince now sounded more concerned.

"Yours is not a warlike people," he said in a soft whisper. "You have known nothing but peace for generations. Gandalf tried to explain, but I refused to understand. I do now. For my sake, you have put yourself into harm's way. You have killed. I understand now what it must have cost you, how it must affect you, no matter how stout your heart is. If there is anything I can do in return, to ease your mind…"

Bilbo wanted to scream. Ease his mind? Ease his mind? While he was holding him like this, so close, so maddeningly close, whispering so intimately into his ear…! A small, still reasonable part of him understood that it was meant as a gesture of comfort, of sympathy. What did he know of dwarvish custom? They were probably prone to touch and to hold in any kind of circumstances, and it didn't carry the same intimate meaning for them. The currently entirely unreasonable rest of him seized that train of thought like one catches a conveniently growing branch when falling into a precipice.

Why not?

Why not enjoy the moment while it lasted, if it wouldn't be taken amiss?

Before he could stop himself, he leaned further against the dwarf's chest, his hand shyly seeking the one resting on his abdomen. It was a great shock to Bilbo when the thick, rough-skinned fingers slowly entwined with his own. A pleasant shock, to which the hobbit abandoned himself completely, drinking in the warmth that the embrace brought both to his body and his soul. For a moment, a blissful moment that kept darkness and fear at bay, he wanted nothing more than to stay like this, held protectively, almost possessively by the one he would follow to the ends of the earth and back.

"We shall give you what counsel we can," the dwarven prince whispered after a while, as the tension in the hobbit's muscles began to ease. "Learning the warrior's way may be of use to you, even though you have proved yourself to be made of stronger mettle than we gave you credit for. For now… try to sleep, Bilbo."

The hobbit shivered slightly at the sound of his name. The other dwarves of the company called him by his first name most of the time. But not their leader. Not once. Always he would refer to him as "halfling", "hobbit", "burglar", or "Master Baggins" at best. Bilbo had never given it a second thought, but what a difference it made now! It was another form of intimacy, and one more easily achievable. He took comfort from the fact that he may at least enjoy hearing his name spoken by the dwarf every now and then, since he didn't expect to ever be held like this again.

He did not wish to sleep in the slightest, holding on to every shred of this moment of closeness. But the fatigue he had repressed so far and the turmoil of his mind were finally taking their toll. Lulled by the warmth he was cradled in, he felt himself drift off.

"I will not need to try very hard, it seems," he muttered sleepily. "Thank you… Thorin."

The whispered name echoed in his heart, and he savoured its sound as he fell into a deep slumber. In his dreams, he felt a calloused hand squeeze his own, as if in reply. A smile played on his lips as he slept. A sad smile, full of new longing.

[Author's comments: I may or may not write other chapters. I have some ideas, but am still trying to wrestle them into shape. This was written essentially to externalize my own newfound feelings about this particular ship. It took me entirely by surprise, and it has now taken its quarters in my head. This has not been proofread by either a beta reader or a Tolkien scholar, so if you spot any mistakes, do point them out to me so I can correct them. Also, I'm still trying to find my writing voice, so any feedback on storytelling and such would be greatly appreciated. Thank you for reading!]