Written for a friend years ago on Tumblr and AO3—figured I'd finally post it over here!
The battle is over.
The pounding in his head is nigh-unbearable, and the world is tipping dangerously as Bilbo attempts to stand up, but he has to get to his feet. He went into the battle despite Gandalf's insistence, did not stay with the elven archers where it was safer for him...
(He couldn't leave the dwarves, because even if he was banished from the mountain, he still cares more for them—all of them—than he has for anyone since his parents died.)
There's nausea twisting in his gut, though, a desperate feeling of wrong that stutters his breathing and causes him to grasp at nothing to try and steady himself. He was knocked out during the battle (he was—is, apparently—still wearing his ring, and that's likely the only reason he's not dead on the ground like so many others), but before he was knocked unconscious, he saw enough to make his blood run cold.
Thorin—the great King under the Mountain—fell to the goblins' spears and did not rise again.
His nephews were standing over him, identical, feral snarls on their faces as their swords flashed in the fading sunlight. Blood coated them from head to foot; wounds marred their bodies, but they did not falter in their defense...not until three arrows pierced Fíli's armor in quick succession, and a scimitar ran through Kíli's gut.
Bilbo was not paying attention to his surroundings as the two dwarves fell; he screamed wordlessly, made a desperate attempt to fight toward them (too many goblins there weren't any allies he can't let them die), but before he could reach them, the blunt end of some weapon collided with the back of his head, sending him to the ground, out cold.
Now, staring around the too-quiet battlefield, he sees no trace of any of the three dwarves, and he feels his mind unraveling in panic.
Maybe we lost. Maybe the goblins made off with the king's head, desecrated his body beyond recognition...and perhaps they took the heirs, too, because they swore to wipe out Thorin's line. Maybe he is too late to save any of them, despite the way he did all he could before the battle—maybe, after all the hardship and the pain, their plans have come to naught, because if the Line of Durin has fallen—
He sees figures moving, off in the distance, and stumbles his way toward them desperately. He has to know if they're all right—Thorin is the king, after all, and Fíli and Kíli are the heart and soul of their Company. Losing them—any of them—is too terrible an idea to even consider.
Especially Kíli. The youngest dwarf has always been a light in their darkness, even during their imprisonment in Mirkwood and the time spent cooped up in the mountain. He has never failed to make Bilbo laugh, has never failed to cheer him up when he feels inferior or hopeless or...
(Kíli's stirred things in Bilbo that he doesn't think he's ever felt before. Deeper hurts, and also impossible joys...but the implications of such thoughts always lead him down roads he does not want to follow, and so he scatters the notion quickly.)
(Kíli is a prince. Bilbo is only a lowly hobbit—not even a dwarf, and certainly not of royal heritage. He knows it is impossible...and so he does not allow himself to even entertain the thought.)
The idea of any of the dwarves lying dead makes him want to be sick...but somehow, Kíli's death is even more terrible a thought. He does not allow himself to dwell on it for long.
The hastily-erected camps are bustling with the healers and the wounded, when he finally makes his way there; Bilbo looks around desperately, feeling rather overwhelmed by the sheer number of taller creatures, but he sees nobody he recognizes. Eventually, he pulls off the ring and simply grabs an elf's sleeve, tugging sharply to get his attention and doing his best not to cringe at the impatience clear on his face as he turns.
"What is it? Are you injured?"
The throbbing in his skull answers for him, but that's not what he needs right now; he only shakes his head, saying loudly over the bustle of those around them, "Do you have any news of King Thorin?"
The elf only stares down at him for a moment with narrowed eyes before apparently realizing who he is (traitor, unworthy of a place in the Company) and nodding sharply. "He is clinging to life, but only barely. He has been tended by our best healers..." The vague disgust on his face makes it clear exactly what the elf thinks of that. "The dwarven tents are to the east, in the shadow of the mountain. I would suggest you seek further answers there."
"Thank you," Bilbo says, attempting a smile that the elf does not return. Soon enough, he is alone again, stumbling his way toward the mountain, looking around desperately for a familiar face. After all, even if Thorin is alive, there are twelve others who may have still perished in the battle. (Fíli and Kíli's falling bodies, their horrified faces and grasping hands, are seared into the backs of his eyelids, and he has to swallow down his panic at the thought that those wounds looked fatal.)
Eventually, he runs into a bloody Balin, who is half-carrying his brother into the dwarf camp. It's impossible to tell how badly injured Dwalin is, but he is at least awake, spitting profanities at his brother and at anyone else who dares to come near. At least, to Bilbo's untrained eye, he does not seem to have sustained any life-threatening wounds.
"Do you have any news of the others?" Bilbo asks loudly, quickly falling into step next to the older dwarf as he peers around, clearly searching for a spare healer. "Is everyone all right?"
"I don't know, laddie," Balin says, sounding rather distracted as his grip tightens on his much taller brother. "I've just come back from the battlefield myself. You're the first familiar face I've seen."
It feels like a brusque dismissal from the usually kind dwarf as he hastens into a nearby tent, leaving Bilbo to stand outside so as not to get in the way. He knows that Balin is surely more concerned for his brother's safety right now, that family is more important than anything else to dwarves...but he still feels rather insulted as he retreats from the tent entrance, resolving to simply find someone else.
(So long as they aren't all dead.)
He does not see anyone else he recognizes, but he eventually finds a large tent with two burly guards; it's not hard to deduce who is inside. His heart is in his throat as he steps forward, clearing his throat to get the guards' attention amongst the busy crowds of people. "Excuse me," he says loudly, causing both of their heads to snap toward him in suspicion. "Are Thorin and his nephews in here?"
Both dwarves are utterly unfamiliar to him; he bears their scrutiny with balled fists and a straight spine, waiting for one of them to reply. "You're the halfling," one says, his eyes narrowing in recognition. "You were banished from the mountain—what right do you think you have, being here?"
Bilbo's breath catches—the dwarf is right, of course, but in the disaster of a battle that followed his banishment, he had practically forgotten. (And, surely, it doesn't matter now, if they are so injured? Surely, he wouldn't be denied access?) "They are my friends," he says stubbornly, glaring up at them. "I know they were badly injured. I only wish to see that they are well."
"You have no business here," the other guard says, shifting slightly to stand more fully in front of the entrance. "The king will not wish to see you, especially after you so dishonored him."
A cold pit of horror is settling in his gut, sinking like a stone and refusing to dislodge itself. "Are they alive, at least?" he's able to say, standing his ground even as the first guard steps forward threateningly. "Will they be all right?"
"Leave, halfling, before we take care of you ourselves." It's spat like a curse, like his very race is a dirty insult, and Bilbo does not doubt the sincerity of his threat. So with one last glare, he turns around, stalking away with shaking hands and slipping his ring back onto his finger, finding a quiet corner before losing his composure entirely.
Thorin, apparently, is still alive, but surely injured...because Bilbo had seen the spearhead embedded in his body as he lay upon the ground. But the guards spoke of him as if he were still living...that has to mean something, right?
But they said nothing of Kíli and his brother.
His hands are shaking violently and heaving gasps tear through his chest—his head is still pounding so terribly that he can't even think. What is he going to do, if any of them do not survive? Thorin is King under the Mountain, after all; though he has two heirs, they are too young to rule, too young to rebuild an entire kingdom—
Far too young to die.
Such desperation as he has never felt before tears through him, and he's halfway to his feet already, thinking of sneaking past the guards with his ring...but logic eventually stops him, sending him back to the ground with a sob of defeat. After all, the tent flaps are sealed; the guards would never miss it if he opened them to get inside. They would not understand, but they would not hesitate to run him through in duty to their king.
Thorin probably despises him, after all, and he has every reason to. Bilbo only wants to ensure that they will survive, wants to say goodbye, and then he will leave them to their stone and their jewels. No matter how much it will hurt him to leave his friends—and Kíli—behind...if that is what they want, he will return to the Shire without complaint.
But he doesn't know if they're alive. He doesn't know anything, and he thinks he'd prefer to die rather than return to the Shire without finding out.
He resorts to watching the crowd, standing as close to the King's tent as he dares (even with his ring, he doesn't want to take any chances) and watching for any new developments. He thinks he sees Óin a few times, flitting between tents busily as he tends to the wounded. He goes into Kíli's tent, once, and Bilbo has half a mind to stop him and demand information when he comes out...but he does not know whether the old dwarf is angry with him, and before he can steel himself to ask anyway, he is already gone.
Bilbo's left alone with his thoughts, and they're spiraling darker and darker as the minutes stretch into hours, as night falls upon the camps and the activity begins to slow. His head is still pounding like a second heart, but he doesn't even think to get it tended to—if something were to happen to Kíli and his family while he was gone, he doesn't think he'd ever forgive himself.
His mind seems to have taken on a mind of its own, though, running at blistering speeds through different scenarios, each worse than the last. Thorin dies, and Fíli becomes king. Thorin and Fíli die—Kíli winds up with a crown he has never wanted. (After all, what state would he be in to rule, if his brother and uncle were dead?) All three of them die—all but unthinkable—he can't think of, can't even imagine, Kíli's impish grin slackened, his bright eyes dimmed and sightless, his cheery voice never to be heard again—
He feels his heart speeding at the very thought, feels his breathing growing harsh, and forces himself to calm down with senseless thoughts of of course he'll be fine, don't be stupid, it's not like the damn sword went through his heart and he wouldn't be in a healing tent if he were already dead, right?
(But where did the blade strike him? Maybe this is a tent of the dead, and the guards are only protecting their bodies? He cannot remember what happened, in the battle; his head is spinning and he feels like he's going to be sick and he can't handle this, this isn't going to be all right—)
He never told Kíli anything of what he's been feeling these last few months. He never told anyone, because nothing would come of it anyway, and what would be the point of it? He was still sorting out his own feelings, after all, and even after he and Thorin became akin to friends, he would not dare to suggest such a thing, not when Kíli was the second prince of the greatest kingdom in Middle Earth—
He saw Kíli's face light up in wonder and amazement when he entered the mountain, watched him stare around at the veritable mountains of gold and the beautiful architecture and the mountain that he could call his. He remembers wishing, suddenly, that Kíli would look at him like that.
(It's a stupid dream, because Kíli would never desire anyone as plain and boring as Bilbo Baggins, but during the long weeks in the mountain, he had to give himself some hope for a happy future.)
He's found himself thinking of Kíli more and more often recently; he's never been in love, but he thinks that this might be the beginnings it. (If this isn't love, then he can't imagine what it might be like, because this is the most equally euphoric and terrifying thing he's felt in his entire life.) It's doomed—he knows it's doomed—he's a hobbit, for Eru's sake, and Kíli is a dwarven prince who surely can pick any partner he wants—
He has no chance, but that doesn't mean he can't dream.
(And it's all he has right now, curled up in the shadows of a midnight-black camp, only able to pray that Kíli and his family are still alive.)
.
.
He thinks he must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next thing he knows, the sun is rising over the mountain and the camp is busy once again. He shakes out his stiff limbs, pops the crick out of his neck from sleeping on his knees, and peers curiously around the camp.
Two guards—different ones from yesterday, but equally intimidating—are still at the entrance to the tent, and Bilbo has half a mind to try asking them for information. Maybe they're nicer than the others were; maybe Thorin or Fíli or Kíli is even awake, and can dictate whether Bilbo is welcome—
(Surely, Kíli and his brother, at least, will not deny him information? Thorin may be a different matter entirely, but...)
He's on his feet and making his way over to the tent, preparing to pull his ring off, when Óin walks out of it, his mouth set in a grim line and blood on the apron he's wearing. Bilbo's stomach plummets as he mutters something to the guards, who nod and stand ever-straighter, axes held in firm grips.
Bilbo has never been more terrified in his entire life.
But he's faced orcs and wargs and spiders and dragons, for Eru's sake, so he sucks up the last of his courage and follows after Óin as he hurries away toward another tent. "Óin! Óin!" he calls, pulling the ring off his finger and stuffing it into his pocket absentmindedly. He curses under his breath when the dwarf does not turn, for his ear trumpet is nowhere to be seen; he only puts on an extra burst of speed, finally catching up and tugging on the dwarf's sleeve.
Whatever he was expecting to see on Óin's face—irritation, anger, hatred—is not what he gets, because Óin's face falls slack in clear, overwhelming relief as he catches sight of Bilbo and pulls out his ear horn, clasping the hobbit's shoulder. "Master Baggins! I haven't seen you since the battle—I was starting to fear the worst!"
"No, I'm perfectly fine," Bilbo says, even as his head gives a particularly nasty throb. (It feels no better than it did yesterday.) "I saw you were in Thorin's tent—how are they? I know they were injured, but the guards threatened me when I asked whether they were all right—"
Óin's face hardens a bit, and Bilbo wonders whether the old dwarf is angry with him after all...but the he says, "They are still with us...however, Kíli's and Thorin's wounds, especially, are very grave. Fíli woke, earlier, but they are all still losing too much blood for my liking."
Bilbo does not know what combination of emotions rushes through him, then—relief, surely, mixed with terror because they are alive but only barely—as he sags against Óin's strong grip. "Do you think—do you think you could convince the guards to let me in? Just to…?"
But Óin's face is growing grim, and Bilbo knows the answer even before he finishes his question. "I'm nobility, laddie, but Thorin himself passed down your banishment," he says, regret clear on his face as his grip on Bilbo's shoulder tightens. "If Fíli is awake when I next check on them, he may permit it, but I'm afraid no one outside of that tent would be able to allow you inside."
"Yes…yes, of course," Bilbo says, his shoulders slumping. Of course, he shouldn't have expected anything less, because even if Thorin and Óin are cousins, the latter is far-removed from the ruling line. "Could you please—let me know, if anything happens?"
"Of course," Óin says, and his gaze flickers across Bilbo's pale face and slightly unfocused eyes before he adds, "Let's get you checked, make sure you didn't knock anything too terribly in the battle."
Bilbo tries to deny such things even as the dwarf pulls him into a nearby tent (because if he dares to stray too far from Kíli, terrible things might happen and he would never, never forgive himself for not being there), but Óin will have none of it; he glares the hobbit down until he admits to being knocked unconscious, to a pounding in the back of his head and nausea and all the other signs of a simple concussion.
He's fine. He's not been run through or shot or—
The dwarves in the tent he's led to glare at him mistrustfully, but a short bark in Khuzdul from Óin have them turning away quickly, only muttering amongst themselves as the old dwarf applies some sort of poultice to the back of Bilbo's head. "I'm sure Thorin will lift your banishment when he wakes," he says bracingly, patting Bilbo on the arm when he's finished. "Everything will work out, lad, you'll see."
Bilbo only wishes he could believe him as he nods, doing his best to smile, and leaves the tent.
.
.
He's been convinced—by a very relieved Bofur—to move away from the king's tent, but his thoughts rarely stray from Kíli—still, apparently, unconscious, and bleeding his life out even as Dáin's best healers do their best to staunch it.
Thorin is no better, and while Fíli is improving, he has not yet woken again, and so Bilbo is barred from entering. Dwalin rarely leaves their sides, though, only exiting the tent when his brother makes him—his wounds, though bloody, are not life-threatening, and he is only bandaged and confined to the use of a crutch for a couple of weeks.
He had snarled near-ferally when the guards attempted to make him leave, had informed them quite dangerously that as cousin to the king and captain of his guard, he outranked each and every one of them—and unless Dáin himself intended to make him leave the tent, he would be doing no such thing.
The guards left him well enough alone after that, and Bilbo doesn't blame them.
The others visit them over the next several days and assure Bilbo that they will keep him updated—and they do, quite faithfully. They try to keep his spirits up, explain how Kíli's temperature has fallen (Bilbo hadn't even known he had a fever) and how Fíli has been mumbling in his sleep instead of simply lying there and how Thorin's wounds have finally started to close; they assure him over and over and over that they will wake, given time, and that sleep is simply the best thing their battered bodies can get right now in order to heal.
Bilbo doesn't care about any of this. All he wants is to see them and convince himself with his own eyes that they will be all right—and if anything comes after that, he will do the best he can with what he's given.
Every waking moment is filled with thoughts of his friends—and Kíli, especially Kíli—of dreams of staying in Erebor instead of returning to the Shire, of wild hopes of Thorin forgiving him and accepting his friendship, of telling Kíli of his feelings and—impossibly—having them returned—
But intermingled with these are gruesome images of Kíli run through, his face twisted in shock and not-quite-pain as his grip on his sword loosens, his body falling bonelessly to the ground even as his brother, three arrows in his abdomen, collapses nearby—
Of returning to the Shire, to his own kin who he will never truly be a part of again, not after dropping everything to go on a foolhardy adventure—
Of Thorin refusing his friendship and throwing him out of the mountain, never to see Kíli again—
(Of any—all—of them dying—)
He sleeps little, usually only curling into himself in the corner of the camps, lost in his thoughts until late into the night. The others worry, he can tell; more than once, Bofur and Dori and Óin have tried to get him up and about, clearing the rubble from the mountain gates or transporting supplies or simply being helpful in other ways. It doesn't work. He is so preoccupied with worry that everything else falls to the wayside, and as pathetic as he knows it is, he cannot function for the near-panic that constantly invades his thoughts.
They're recovering. They have to be.
(Right?)
.
.
Finally, Ori rushes toward him one morning a week after the battle, his eyes wide, and says Fíli has woken up.
.
.
Bilbo drops the basket of bandages he's carrying in his haste to follow after the dwarf, tripping over loose stone and scraping his feet as he follows the familiar path. Soon they have arrived, and though the guards glare at him suspiciously and stand straighter, holding their axes at the ready, Fíli's hoarse voice carries through the thin tent cloth—
"What—of course Bilbo can come in, has he been waiting all this time? How long has it been since the battle?"
Bilbo lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and Balin, near the guards, sends them a pointed glare. They both huff curtly, but apparently, a noble's disapproval and the words of the crown prince himself (acting ruler of Erebor, Bilbo supposes, until Thorin is well) have convinced them.
He wastes no time in hurrying into the tent, Ori and Balin close on his heels.
Fíli is sitting up carefully on his cot, supported by Dwalin's strong hands as he drinks a draught from Óin. "Bilbo," he says quickly, handing the empty mug to Óin as he turns toward the door, and the hobbit is heartened to see the clarity in his eyes. "I'm sorry about all of this, I'll make sure someone knocks some sense into the guards—"
"There's no harm done," Bilbo says, though he feels a great weight lift from his chest at the sight of his friend doing so well. "I'm just glad to see you awake and healing."
"Aye," Fíli says quickly, though his gaze flickers to his family, in cots on either side of his. "And they tell me Thorin and Kíli are doing well."
The doubt and badly-concealed worry are clear on his face, though, and Óin is quick to reassure him—"They're healing, laddie. You know your brother and uncle—they're made of tougher stuff than most. Just give them a little time."
Fíli nods, though the crease in his brow has not relaxed at all, and he winces and grasps at his bandaged chest as Dwalin helps him lie down again. "We'll leave you to your rest," Balin says, and it's clear that it's exactly what Fíli wants; Ori and Dwalin quickly follow after him (though the elder needs some harsh convincing from his brother), calling good-byes and promising to bring the others later. Óin fusses over Fíli's bandages for a moment longer before taking his leave as well, telling Fíli to yell for a guard if something feels wrong, or if either of the others wakes.
Then Bilbo is left standing alone in the tent, torn between letting Fíli get the rest he surely needs and satisfying his burning desire to know that Kíli is all right.
It seems to take a moment for the dwarf to realize that he is still here, but when he does, he snorts softly and gestures to the stool between his and Kíli's beds. "Feel free, Master Baggins. I know you must have been worried."
"Yes," Bilbo says truthfully, nearly collapsing onto the rough stool and facing his friend. "They wouldn't tell me anything at first, even whether you were alive or dead."
Fíli hums, his mouth turning down into a frown, and it's a moment before he says, "Thorin will lift your banishment, you know…he has to. He…he wasn't himself, in the mountain, but once the battle started…" He trails off, his gaze drifting to the floor. "Everything will be all right."
(Bilbo can't tell which of them he's attempting to reassure, and realizes with a start just how inexperienced in war Fíli and his brother truly are.)
"Yes, it will," he says, smiling and reaching over to grip Fíli's hand tightly in his own. The dwarf meets his gaze for a moment, as if searching for something…and eventually nods (though Bilbo has no idea what he could have found there), tilting his head to look at the tent's ceiling.
"If you don't mind terribly, I'd like to get some sleep. You're welcome to stay, in case Kíli…"
His voice fades away, unconsciousness already pulling at his mind, but Bilbo thinks he understands. He holds Fíli's hand until his eyes have closed and his breathing has evened out, and then he stands, fussing with the dwarf's blanket for a moment before turning to Kíli's bed.
The bandages are not, as he feared, around the dwarf's chest, but instead directly beneath his ribs—even so, Bilbo knows it must have been an extraordinarily lucky hit, that he was not killed by such a blow. Kíli's brow is clear of perspiration, so Bilbo supposes his fever must be gone entirely now; but his mouth is downturned vaguely into a frown as he lies in the bed, unnaturally still, breathing slow and deep. Bilbo puts a hand to his bare arm and finds it cold, so he pulls the blanket further up his body, carefully minding the bandages as he tucks him in like his mother used to do for him as a child.
(Now is not the time, he knows, but he can't help but briefly admire Kíli's build—so different from a hobbit's, but undeniably attractive—before it is obscured by the sheet.)
He hesitates, glancing across Fíli's cot to Thorin's, wondering if he should check on him as well…but the king seems to be slumbering peacefully (though his whole torso is wrapped, and he, too, frowns in his sleep). Anyhow, he isn't sure such attentions would be welcome from the hobbit who so callously betrayed the Company that employed him.
So instead he simply seats himself on the stool, facing Kíli's bed, starting to detangle the dwarf's unruly hair and smoothing it carefully from his face. And when that is finished, and he's fretted over the blanket half a dozen times and ensured that all three of them look well and truly comfortable, he seats himself gingerly, scoots the stool a bit closer to Kíli's cot, and takes his hand carefully, simply drinking in his image for a moment.
And, so engrossed in this task, he does not notice the faintest hint of a smile forming on Fíli's face as he looks on.
.
.
Fíli wakes a little while later, and Bilbo is woken from his own light dozing by the dwarf's coughing. He jumps to his feet immediately, rushing to Fíli's bedside, hands hovering nervously—is this normal or does he need to call for a healer or—?
It subsides after a moment, though, and Fíli needs only to gesture vaguely for the water jug before Bilbo is there, filling a mug quickly and handing it to the dwarf. Fíli huffs and attempts to push himself up slightly onto his elbows; with Bilbo's help, he's soon vertical enough to drink, and then he's lying down again.
"Are you feeling all right?" Bilbo asks automatically as he sets the cup aside. "Do I need to get Óin—?"
"I am fine, I swear," Fíli says, and a small smirk is on his face as he looks up at the hobbit. "My throat was dry."
"Oh…well, that's good, I suppose," Bilbo says (rather lamely, and he wants to kick himself for it) as he hovers awkwardly at his bedside, and the two of them fall into silence.
It's not uncomfortable, but Bilbo still fiddles for something to do, his hands twisting around each other nervously as he casts his gaze around the tent. Thorin is in the same position he was when Bilbo was last awake, and Kíli, similarly has not moved; and while neither of them look worse off than they did before, his heart still sinks to see that they have not yet woken.
(They'll be fine. They have to be.)
"You remind me a bit of Kíli, you know," Fíli says, breaking the silence suddenly and making Bilbo jump. "The way you're fretting over me. He does that as well, whenever I've been sick or injured, back at home."
"Oh?" Bilbo asks, interested, and raises an eyebrow down at the dwarf even as his heart swells to hear such things. Despite the way his attraction to Kíli has grown steadily over the past several months, he hasn't heard much of his earlier life—and such a quirk is news to him. "I can't imagine him settling down long enough to fret over someone confined to bed."
Fíli laughs heartily at that, and Bilbo can't help but crack a smile as well. "He'll go to the ends of the earth for someone he cares about," the dwarf replies, and his gaze has suddenly become piercing as he looks up at Bilbo. "I imagine you're the same way."
"I—should like to think so," Bilbo says slowly, rather thrown by Fíli's sudden change in demeanor. "I'm no great warrior, by any means, but when push comes to shove, I believe I'd do anything in my power to protect those I care about…you and the rest of the Company included."
(Images of the battle going differently, of Bilbo arriving before the princes were shot down, flash in his mind's eye…and he realizes suddenly that he would have thrown himself in the way of those weapons in a heartbeat, if it would mean saving them.)
Fíli stares up at him with narrowed eyes for a moment (and Bilbo is reminded of earlier, when he seemed to be searching for something in his face…though he still does not know what it was) before nodding slightly, his lips turning up a bit. "Well, let's just hope you survive the onslaught once Mother arrives. If you thought the dragon was terrifying, you've seen nothing in comparison to her."
"What—what onslaught?" he's horribly confused by all these sudden changes of topic, and he has no idea what Fíli could possibly be getting at with all of this. "What have I done, that your mother would be upset with me?"
"I'm not blind, you know, and Kíli tells me nearly everything," Fíli says bluntly, raising an eyebrow. "I expect that once he wakes, you two will want to talk. I'd give you privacy, but…" He gestures vaguely toward his chest. "I'll do my best to pretend to be asleep, though, is that acceptable?"
Bilbo very nearly chokes, his mind stuttering through the implications of such a statement as Fíli smirks up at him. "You—" he begins, but he has no real idea of what he wants to say—so his mouth only hangs open as he stares wordlessly at the dwarf. He knows? He knows of Bilbo's thoughts toward his brother, knows he wishes their relationship would extend beyond friendship—but—
"I have no issue with it," Fíli says, breaking him out of his quickly-spiraling thoughts. "If I'm not mistaken, Kíli doesn't either. Though it goes without saying that if you hurt him, you will die a very slow and painful death at the hands of at least a score of dwarves."
"I—I don't intend to ever hurt him," Bilbo says, a little dizzy at the prospect—that he is receiving a shovel talk from Kíli's older brother when he has not even declared his intentions yet—and maybe dwarves do things differently than hobbits because this is all rather terrifying—"I, um—I appreciate the vote of confidence, I suppose, though I had hoped I was being subtle."
Fíli laughs loudly, a grin splitting his face as he says, "I suppose you were subtle, Master Baggins; I wasn't sure until I saw you earlier, fixing his hair and fussing like a hen over his blanket."
Bilbo splutters, and he feels his face growing even redder—"Was I not—was I not supposed to touch his hair? Is that some sort of dwarven custom nobody's decided to inform me of?"
"Not necessarily," Fíli says mildly, his grin turning impish—and Bilbo is so suddenly reminded of Kíli that he nearly does a double-take, "but I didn't see you fixing mine or Thorin's, and that is rather telling."
Bilbo does choke, this time, and Fíli's hearty laughter can be easily heard outside the tents.
.
.
The next day or two pass in a blur of dwarves and reconstruction and healing. Fíli—though his armor and mail slowed the deadly path of the arrows that struck him down—is still recovering from what Óin has declared an incredibly lucky near-miss, and Kíli and Thorin are still sleeping.
It's their bodies fighting to heal themselves, the dwarves say. Their wounds are healing well enough, are probably not life-threatening any longer, and they will wake when they are ready.
(But as time goes on and still they slumber, Bilbo sees the worry growing on his friends' faces…and feels it rising steadily in his own heart.)
Fíli is still confined to bed but is quickly growing impatient with it; more than once, as Bilbo—and, often, Dwalin, when he is not needed elsewhere—keep vigil in their tent, he has asked them to help him stand up and walk around, or at least take the few steps to Kíli's or Thorin's cots to see them properly.
Bilbo thinks he would give in, were he not so wholly terrified of Óin's wrath.
Gandalf has been in and out, seemingly everywhere at once as work on the battlefield and in the camps continues. Bilbo rarely strays far from any of his friends—indeed, spends most of his time with Fíli and his family, if only to keep the poor lad company—and one day, the wizard simply appears in the entryway, sending an appraising glance over the tent's occupants before ducking inside.
"Bilbo Baggins," he says, and though his tone is admonishing, there is no real anger behind it, "I've been searching for you for some time—Ori said I would have the greatest chance of finding you here."
Fíli snorts, and Bilbo feel his ears go red as Gandalf smiles down at them. "So, did you need something?" Bilbo asks after a moment, when Gandalf does not seem about to continue. "I'm surprised you're not off on 'wizard business'—have you ever stayed so long in one place before, do you think?"
Gandalf huffs, and there is a definite pout in his voice as he replies, "I only wished to discuss your return journey to the Shire. Dáin has promised supplies, and Thranduil, safe passage through his forests—it is only a matter of when you wish to leave."
Fíli jerks and turns to stare at Bilbo, even before the wizard is done speaking; his eyes are wide and questioning, though he does not dare say anything. Bilbo, for his part, has not thought of leaving at all—in all honesty, he has been too busy worrying over the lives of his friends, helping with reconstruction where he can, even though much of the work is too much for either his stomach or his lean arms. "I hadn't even given it a thought," he says honestly after a moment, shrugging up at Gandalf. "I suppose I'll be here for a while yet, if the dwarves will have me."
(He won't say it aloud just yet, doesn't want to overstep his bounds, but he thinks he'd like it if he didn't have to leave Erebor at all.)
Gandalf's sharp eyes do not miss the way he convulsively grasps the blanket covering Kíli. He says nothing on it though, simply huffing as Fíli butts in indignantly, "Of course you can stay, Bilbo, for as long as you want—there's more than enough room, you know that!"
"Very well, then," Gandalf says, tapping his staff on the ground as he straightens slightly. "I have business in Rivendell, so unless you wish to travel alone, you will have to wait here until I am finished with that."
"Of course," Bilbo says automatically, because honestly, that just gives him an excuse if, for some reason, Thorin still wishes him to leave. (Fíli has nearly convinced him, now, that the madness has passed…but sometimes, he can't help but still worry.) "I don't mind that at all."
Gandalf stares at him for a moment longer before he nods sharply, turning around and leaving the tent without another word. "I meant that," Fíli says, his voice serious as he turns to Bilbo. "If you wish, you can stay as long as you want—you will always be welcome here."
As if he can read my mind, Bilbo thinks, rather shocked, but he musters a grateful smile and pats his friend on the shoulder all the same.
.
.
A few hours later, several of the Company have visited, riling Fíli up (Óín's indignant squawk when he finally noticed the commotion remains in Bilbo's mind as one of the funniest things he has ever heard) and then thoroughly exhausting him; now, the young prince is fast asleep, and Bilbo, too, is dozing. His hand is habitually fisted in the blanket covering Kíli, though loosely, and he feels himself about to drop off more completely when something shifts beneath his fingers.
He jerks awake, his eyes still slightly blurry and his mind attempting to catch up with the rest of the world. (No matter how long he spends on the road, he will always be an incredibly deep sleeper.) When he realizes that the blanket beneath his fingers is shifting of its own accord, though, his senses snap to attention, and he stands up quickly only to lean over the cot, attempting to ascertain whether Kíli is truly awake, whether he needs to call for a healer, whether—
"Fili…?" His voice is a hoarse croak after so much disuse, but it is so welcome to Bilbo's ears that he barely muffles a sob. Kíli is alive; he is finally, finally awake, his dark eyes peering up in the evening gloom in an attempt to focus on Bilbo's face.
All the worry of the past week and a half is finally falling away now, because Kíli will be all right.
"No, it's Bilbo," he says softly, keeping a gentle hand on the dwarf's shoulder as he attempts to sit up. "Fíli is here—he's fine, he's sleeping right now."
"Thor'n?" he asks, his voice slurred but clearly worried. Bilbo realizes suddenly that the last thing he must have seen was the spear in his uncle's body, the arrows in his brother's, and he knows the source of the near-panic in his eyes.
"He is healing. Everyone is all right, the battle is won—don't worry about anyone but yourself right now."
Kíli hums quietly, his brow still furrowed and his mouth downturned into a frown. "Your hand, s'cold," he says suddenly, wriggling his shoulder a bit uncomfortably, and Bilbo laughs quietly. He supposes it must be, though he barely notices anymore—winter is well on its way, and the temperature has been dropping steadily. But—
"You'll have to promise me you won't try to get up before I take it off. We've been worrying about you, you know—you're—you're badly injured."
Kíli makes a noise that might be in agreement, though he's clearly falling back asleep. "Rest," Bilbo says soothingly, pulling the blanket more snugly around the dwarf's shoulders as his drooping eyes follow the movements sluggishly. "You can talk to us in the morning."
He doesn't get an answer, though, because Kíli is fast asleep.
.
.
Fíli takes the news about as Bilbo expected, when he wakes in the morning.
Kíli is dozing still, but his face is more relaxed than it was before—and Fíli nearly calls for him at the top of his voice before Bilbo can convince him against it. He is fine—was still half-asleep during his conversation with Bilbo, clearly, but he understood what was said to him and did not seem to be in a great amount of pain.
Fíli is still nearly vibrating with excitement and anticipation throughout the morning, though, waiting eagerly for the moment his brother will wake again. Óin comes in sometime around noon, and is also pleased to hear that Kíli woke—though he admonishes Bilbo for not alerting someone. "He might have been too asleep to realize if anything was wrong—the fact that he didn't show any discomfort doesn't mean much—"
But Fíli's agitated face and convulsive clutching of his blanket stop that train of thought quickly, and the old dwarf only huffs, shaking his head and making Bilbo promise to alert someone the next time Kíli wakes.
Conversation is limited for the next half an hour or so, after Óin leaves—Fíli's gaze rarely leaves his brother, and Bilbo, too, is waiting anxiously for Kíli to show any signs of life. Finally, their efforts are rewarded, and Kíli wakes slowly, squinting his eyes open and rolling his head around a bit, clearly trying to get his bearings. "Kíli?" Fíli's voice is a strained whisper, and he props himself up on his elbows as much as he can to look over at his brother. "Kíli, are you awake?"
Kíli mumbles something incoherent before finally tilting his head all the way over, his eyes taking a moment to focus on his brother's face. "Fee…?"
"Yeah, it's me," Fíli says quietly, his shoulders relaxing in relief as a wide smile grows on his face. "How're you feeling?"
"Hurts," Kíli says, and is silent for a moment longer before he says, "You all right?"
"I'm perfectly fine," Fíli assures him, even as Bilbo quickly gets up to find a healer. He supposes a wound like Kíli's would hurt, even after more than a week, but his stomach still flips uncomfortably as he ducks out of the tent, catching one of the guard's attention. One of them nods quickly, hurrying off, and Bilbo re-enters the tent just as Fíli's attempting to sit up all the way to get a better look at his brother.
Bilbo makes a choked noise and rushes to push him back down on his back; Fíli, though larger and stronger than the hobbit by a mile, is still injured, and he can only growl his protests as Bilbo fusses over his bandages. "Óin will have my head if he sees you trying that again," Bilbo says sternly, wagging a finger at Fíli. "And you," he says quickly, turning as he sees movement out of the corner of his eye. Kíli slumps back onto the cot, looking guilty. "Now, the guard has gone to fetch a healer, so both of you should just sit quietly until one comes."
Both of them look like they want to argue, but neither of them dare to do so as Bilbo seats himself stubbornly on the stool between their cots, shifting it so the brothers have a clear enough view of each other but still within reach to whack either over the head, should they try anything too dangerous.
"It's been nearly two weeks since the battle," Fíli is saying, his brows pulled down in concern as he looks Kíli over yet again. "We were all worried for you—Óin says you're lucky you're not dead—"
"It hurts, but I'm not about to die," Kíli says quickly, and Bilbo is sure that if he were able, he'd pull his brother into a hug. "You don't need to—"
"Kíli, lad!"
Óin's loud voice cuts off the rest of their conversation as the old dwarf rushes into the tent, relief radiating from him. "It's wonderful to see you awake!"
Kíli only hums in agreement, looking pleased as several more of the Company hurry in as well, wide smiles splitting their faces. The next several minutes are a bustle of activity, where Óin tuts over both brothers, examining their injuries (though he did the same thing not even an hour ago), poking and prodding Kíli until Bilbo is sure the younger dwarf might explode.
"I'm fine, I swear it," he says for the fifth time in as many minutes, wriggling to try and get out of the healer's reach. "Nothing hurts that badly—look, you already said I'm healing, right?—"
It's several more minutes before Óin finally pronounces him to not, in fact, be in any danger now that he has woken up, that his renewed (however limited) movement will not harm his stitches or his healing insides. "You're not going anywhere for quite a while," he says, though, glaring sternly down at Kíli as the other huffs impatiently. "When they first brought you in, we thought you dead—Thorin will have my hide if I let you walk around too soon."
Kíli makes a noncommittal noise even as his gaze flickers across the tent toward his still-unconscious uncle, and Óin sighs before straightening up, gesturing for the door. "Unless you want us to stay, I'd suggest you get some more rest. We can always come back later, when you're feeling a bit better."
Kíli grumbles something about how he feels fine now, thank you very much, but Fíli nods at Óin and the others; soon enough, they're clearing out of the tent, and as Kíli nestles himself more comfortably into the pillow, Bilbo wonders whether he should leave as well… But as he makes to stand up, he feels a hand grab hold of his sleeve and hold him there, and he looks down to see Kíli staring up at him, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Stay. Please."
So Bilbo does.
There's something like a half-smile on Fíli's face as the hobbit sits back down, and he very deliberately announces that he's going to take a nap, promising to whack Kíli over the head properly later for worrying them all. He turns onto his other side as far as his wounds will allow and pulls his blanket over his head, falling still almost immediately. Bilbo huffs at his antics, and Kíli looks rather nonplussed for a moment before his eyes widen, and his face turns a bit pink as he glances toward Bilbo and then down to his hands.
The silence stretches between them for several seconds, filled only with their steady breathing, and Bilbo is wondering whether Kíli wants to sleep after all until the dwarf says, very quietly—"So everyone is all right?"
"Yes," Bilbo says immediately, smiling reassuringly and putting his hand on Kíli's arm. "You and Thorin were the ones we were most worried about, and it's only a matter of time until your uncle wakes. Óin says he is healing just fine."
"That's…that's good," he says just as quietly, his fingers twisting around each other for several more moments in silence. Bilbo does not want to interrupt his thoughts, but he also knows by the way his face is steadily falling that they are anything but good… "I couldn't protect him," Kíli blurts suddenly, and Bilbo stiffens even as Fíli's blanket rustles behind him. "By the time I got to him, the spear—and there were so many goblins, I couldn't—"
His hands are shaking, fingers tightening around each other until the knuckles turn white, and Bilbo is momentarily shocked into silence as he continues—"It's my fault if he dies, I was supposed to protect him but—"
"Now you listen here," Bilbo say loudly, cutting him off abruptly and causing him to look up. (He pretends not to notice the unnatural brightness of the dwarf's eyes.) He doesn't know what to say, only that he has to say something—"I saw you and your brother protecting Thorin on the battlefield—I saw exactly what happened—and you did the best you could, both of you—"
"You were there?" Kíli croaks, his eyes widening and face draining of the little color it had before. "What were you thinking, going into that battle—it's a miracle you weren't killed—!"
"I couldn't just let you all die!" Bilbo says, even as he feels his face heating up. "I had to—"
"You shouldn't have been there," Kíli says, his voice tight, and he disentangles his hands to latch onto Bilbo's with a crushing grip. "War—Mahal, you're just a hobbit, you're never meant for that—what would we have done if—"
Bilbo's indignant rebuttal dies on his tongue as he recognizes the unadulterated horror on Kíli's face, the way his jaw is clenched and the way he is desperately blinking back the tears threatening to fall from his eyes. "I'm perfectly fine," he says instead, his voice gentle, and he smiles as he squeezes Kíli's fingers. "There's no harm done. And if I'm not mistaken, you and your family are the ones we should be worrying about right now, yes?"
Kíli does not answer immediately, only shifts slightly so he is closer to Bilbo…and his grip on Bilbo's hands does not loosen as he eventually mumbles to the cot—"I'm so glad you're alive."
He could be speaking to Bilbo, or to Fíli, or to any member of their Company (and surely is, because the battle was horrific and it is truly a miracle that they all survived), but as Kíli finally looks up into Bilbo's eyes, he knows there is something else, there.
"I'm not going anywhere," Bilbo says, reassuring, and dares to disentangle one of his hands to brush some of Kíli's hair from his face, letting it settle on the dwarf's shoulder after. "Gandalf's gone off to Rivendell, so I'll be in Erebor for a while yet."
"Truly?" There is so much hope in that single word, so much happiness in the way Kíli twists his neck to look up at Bilbo properly from his angle. "Do you…do you know how long you'd like to stay?"
Bilbo swallows, because this is truly the point of no return—but the anticipation in Kíli's eyes, the way his mouth is slightly open and twisting upward into a tentative smile, gives him courage, and he replies, "As long as you will have me…I am not opposed to leaving the Shire behind for good."
There's a sharp intake of breath from somewhere behind him, but Bilbo's attention is focused wholly on Kíli, whose eyes have grown even wider than they were before—but his mouth soon splits into the widest smile Bilbo has ever seen, and he doesn't doubt that if the dwarf were hale, he would be sweeping him into an enormous hug. "I don't think I would mind that at all," he says instead, his voice a bit breathless, and Bilbo can't help but smile broadly back at him.
Kíli wants him to stay.
And as the dwarf tentatively brings Bilbo's hand to his lips, ghosting them together—barely any touch at all—before dropping it away quickly, his face blushing a bright red that Bilbo finds utterly adorable…he realizes that this may all turn out all right after all.
.
.
Any conversation they may have wished to have a bit later—Bilbo insisted Kíli sleep a little longer, for his wounds are still grievous, and there will be time enough for talking when he is well—is forestalled by a deep groaning from the other side of the tent.
Fíli sits up like a shot despite Bilbo's squawk of protest, and the hobbit pushes him back down onto the cot with a glare before hurrying across the tent to Thorin's cot, forgetting entirely that the last time the two of them spoke, they did not part in kindness. Thorin is clearly attempting to wake fully, one hand bracing him on the cot while the other clutches his bandaged abdomen—and Bilbo finds himself putting a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from moving further and causing him to blink his eyes open with a scowl.
Bilbo's not entirely sure what he's expecting to see in Thorin's face when he realizes who is holding him down…but he seems to be spared such trouble for the moment, because Thorin does not recognize him at all—he only frowns harshly up at him, clearly squinting to try and focus better, before cringing in on himself, clutching his wounds.
"Lie back down, before you hurt yourself more," Bilbo says quickly, making his voice as authoritative as he can—and he's astonished when Thorin obeys almost instantly, though he still looks greatly displeased as he casts his blurry gaze around the tent. Bilbo glances behind him—Kíli sleeps, still, while Fíli looks on with wide eyes and clenched fists, clearly cursing himself for not being able to help. "Guards!" Bilbo calls loudly, hoping his voice will carry outside, "Guards! Thorin is awake!"
There is a commotion outside for several seconds before one set of footsteps scurries off; satisfied, Bilbo turns back to Thorin, who has returned to attempting to recognize him, his features twisted into something that might have been funny, were Bilbo not so unsure of the king's health. "What hurts? Are you all right?"
His scowl, impossibly, deepens, and he opens his mouth, though it takes him a moment to find the words—"What do you think, Halfling?"
Fíli huffs a relieved laugh from behind him, and Bilbo feels his own face break into a small smile. The king's voice is—unsurprisingly—hoarse, and his face is taut with discomfort as he continues to clutch at his abdomen…but he is aware (alive) enough to be irritated with Bilbo, and so he can't be too badly off.
Within moment, an intimidating dwarf who Bilbo does not recognize hurries into the tent, pushing him out of the way impatiently and swooping down on Thorin's cot. Bilbo can do nothing but retreat to Fíli's side, sitting stiffly on the edge of his cot and ready to hop up at a moment's notice if the the healer needs anything.
"Fíli, Kíli—where are my nephews, are they all right—"
Thorin's hoarse voice is rising over the healer's head, terror marring his voice—and he reluctantly steps away long enough for Thorin to focus on Fíli, who is smiling reassuringly at him—and Kíli, who, somehow, has slept through this whole ruckus.
"Kíli—is he—"
"He is sleeping," Fíli says immediately. "He woke up this morning—Óin says he will be fine."
Thorin collapses against his pillow in relief as if robbed of every drop of energy, but after a moment he turns his head again to focus on Fíli, the intensity in his eyes that Bilbo has come to know throughout this journey so very clear again—"The rest of the Company? Are they well?"
"They live," Fíli says, nodding quickly. "You and Kíli were the worst off—don't worry about anyone else right now, all right?—"
Thorin huffs a laugh (almost a sob) of relief, gesturing vaguely at the healer. Immediately he is back to work, peeling back bandages and huffing over wounds that Bilbo does not wish to see, packing some new, foul-smelling poultice against the skin before wrapping him with fresh linen. But finally, Thorin seems to lose his patience; he barks a harsh order to leave them—that he is fine, that he wishes to speak with his Company and his nephews. And though Bilbo isn't entirely convinced that Thorin is free of pain—because his hand is grasping the blanket so tightly his knuckles are turning white—he is clearly not in any great danger.
"Burglar," he says, once the healer has finally left, his gaze unwavering as he turns to Bilbo. "Why are you still here?"
Fíli stiffens, at Bilbo's side, and the hobbit can't help but make a small, desperate noise in the back of his throat at such a proclamation. Even though the gold sickness is gone—because Thorin's eyes are sharp and clear, so unlike the way they were in the mountain—maybe he is still angry at Bilbo for everything he did to betray the Company—
"I wasn't going to leave when I wasn't sure that you all were going to be all right," he says in reply, forcing his voice to stay level and lifting his chin slightly. "I've traveled with you for months—and now you think I would just leave when the three of you were on the brink of death?"
"But—" Thorin's face is not angry, as Bilbo feared, but there is something strangely like confusion there as he struggles to continue, "After what I did, in the mountain, I thought—"
"You won't be getting rid of me that easily," Bilbo says, "and Gandalf's gone off to Rivendell, so I won't be leaving for quite a while yet…even if you wanted to uphold my banishment."
"You—you wish to stay?" Thorin sounds horribly incredulous, and his gaze flickers to Fíli, as if asking for confirmation, wondering whether this is some sort of joke. "You are not angry with me?"
"I'm more relieved that you're alive than anything," Bilbo says honestly, because while he had harbored no small amount of resentment for Thorin, in the days before the battle…all of that seems so insignificant now. "And I think I'd be hard-pressed to leave, when Kíli and Fíli and the others all seem to want me to stay."
Fíli nods quickly, a smirk playing on his lips as he says, "Sorry, Uncle, but I'm afraid someone might actually come to bodily harm, should Bilbo try to leave the mountain."
Bilbo huffs a laugh, and Thorin's face breaks into a small smile as he says, "I have no objections to it, Master Baggins. I'm sure we'll be able to find you rooms easily enough."
"Oh, I doubt that will be a problem after very long," Fíli says, his grin growing wicked as he punches Bilbo's arm lightly. "What with—"
He's cut off by the tent flaps opening, allowing in most of the eager Company, but that doesn't stop Bilbo from choking on his own saliva, nor does it curb Thorin's curiosity of what, exactly, his nephew was talking about.
They aren't given the chance to discuss it further, though, because Dwalin is at Thorin's side in a matter of seconds—Óin not far behind—looking him over and demanding whether anything still hurts. The others hover nearby, nearly buzzing with excitement, and even as Bilbo turns his bright red face toward a grinning Fíli to rebuke him, he can't find it in himself to be angry.
After all, Thorin is awake and healing; Kíli, even now, is stirring awake from the commotion; Erebor has been reclaimed by its rightful rulers, and Bilbo has been offered a place in their home.
Right now, he truly cannot ask for anything more.
.
.
.
.
"You're sure you two are all right?"
Thorin's voice is an unexpected addition to the commotion around Kíli, but it's anything but unwelcome as he hurries to look around, making an aborted attempt to sit up before his still-healing insides protest vehemently. It seems that most of the Company has crammed themselves into the tent, speaking excitedly even as Thorin looks toward Fíli with a deep crease in his brow.
"We're absolutely fine, uncle," Kíli says, smiling reassuringly and causing his gaze to snap toward him instead. The tightness around Thorin's eyes seems to relax a bit, and something like a smile tugs at his lips as he looks between Kíli and Fíli. Bilbo is seated on the edge of Fíli's cot, with his back to Kíli; but at his pronouncement, Bilbo turns and beams at him, his ears turning a bit pink as he gives a sort of half-wave in his direction.
Kíli grins right back, wishing he could leap up right this second and embrace Bilbo—and Fíli and Thorin and everyone, because for the first time in weeks, the whole company is together in body and mind again. Thorin's face is still unhealthily pale from what Kíli can see, and all three of them are decidedly confined to their cots, but Kíli feels overwhelming relief wash over him that at least Thorin is out of bodily danger—and in control of his mind again.
Dwalin is hovering by the king's cot, while Balin and Dori stand between Fíli's and Kíli's, clearly ready to push them down if they attempt to move too much. Kíli isn't sure he's stupid enough to do such a thing, because his abdomen is still raging as if on fire…but at the very least, it feels better than it did earlier, so he's not about to mention it.
Thorin is speaking in a low tone to Óin and Dwalin, who nod after some hesitation, backing away from his cot and ushering the rest of the Company out. Kíli nearly gives a squawk of protest before he catches Thorin's gaze; his uncle is still worried, likely wishes to speak to him and Fíli alone, and he supposes that's reasonable enough…especially when the last thing any of them saw on the battlefield was the still forms of their kin, terrible wounds marring their bodies.
(Kíli is sure he'll never forget the sight of his brother impaled on those arrows, his eyes terrified and his mouth open in a voiceless scream and his hands grasping for Thorin or Kíli or a sword or a miracle and it is surely Mahal's will that Fíli still lives, because those wounds looked fatal—)
Eventually, the three of them are the only ones left in the tent, and as Bilbo scurries out after Bofur, Kíli feels an irrational pang of disappointment. After all, the two of them have scarcely spoken since the battle—not spoken nearly at all about whatever has been budding between them. When Bilbo left the mountain, Kíli resigned himself to the fact that that would be the end of it—he would never see the hobbit again. He supposed it was for the best that Bilbo left—after all, with war brewing, Kíli wouldn't want him anywhere near a battlefield…magic ring to protect him or no.
But he was there anyway—he risked his life for Kíli and the others, and the dwarf isn't sure whether it's exasperation or pride or terror that bubbles in his chest as he thinks of it now.
And then he realizes that this could be Bilbo lying on a bloody cot, inches from death because of some accursed orc's weapon, and he wants to be sick—because Bilbo was never made for war and blood and broken bodies spread out on a gruesome battlefield, and the thought of Bilbo dying in such a place—of Kíli being unable to save him—is too terrible an idea to ever consider.
Bilbo is all right. He sustained only a relatively minor head injury—one that is healed already—and Kíli has nothing to worry about.
(Except where things are supposed to go from here.)
"Kíli."
Thorin's voice cuts through his gradually spiraling thoughts, causing him to jump slightly and look over. Fíli is smirking at him, a knowing twinkle in his eye (and damn but Kíli should not have confided in him, back in Mirkwood, in the darkness where he was sure it wouldn't matter because they were all going to die anyway) even as Thorin's brow is scrunched in worry.
"I'm all right," Kíli says, quick to reassure, and elaborates when his uncle glares imperiously at him—"Just…thinking about how lucky we all are."
Thorin gives a grunt of assent, his gaze lingering on the bandages wrapped around Kíli's torso before addressing both of them—"You—neither of you should have done that for me."
Kíli only blinks at him, even as Fíli gives a cry of indignant protest, propping himself up slightly to better glare down their uncle. "Don't you say that again, Thorin, or I'll have Dwalin beat some sense into you. You were injured—we thought you were dead—we couldn't not protect you—!"
"I have not earned any sort of respect from you by my actions these past weeks," Thorin says loudly, his mouth pulling down into a frown as he continues, "After what I did to Bilbo—" here, his gaze lingers on Kíli, and he wonders for one horrified moment whether Thorin has guessed his intentions toward the hobbit—"and to all of you—you had every right to leave me to the orcs. And if you had died—"
"It would have been in defense of our king and kin," Fíli cuts him off harshly, his fist clenching in the blanket. "It would have been the right thing to do, and I wouldn't have regretted it for one moment."
"If you had died, I never would have forgiven myself," Thorin finishes, his voice like thunder as he glares down the both of them. "Do you think I would have been unaffected, had you fallen? You two—you are like sons to me, and I know I did not raise you to throw your lives away uselessly—"
"No, you didn't," Kíli says, defiant despite the sudden lump in his throat. "You raised us to value family and to protect what we care for at any cost, and that is exactly what we did."
Thorin seems struck silent for a moment, his mouth slightly open as he looks between both of their obstinate faces. After several seconds of silence, he closes his eyes, turning his head away and muttering, "You're idiots, both of you."
But there's a thank you somewhere in his clenched jaw, an I love you both in his trembling shoulders as he fights for composure, and Kíli only smiles and turns to look at the ceiling of the tent; Fíli huffs a laugh and falls back onto his pillow.
There's so much more to say, but none of them need it voiced aloud in order to understand.
.
.
Thorin seems surprised that Bilbo comes back into the tent after a short while, followed closely by Balin and Dáin. The hobbit steps quickly to sit on Kíli's bed, smiling brightly at both him and Fíli as Dáin and Balin begin to fill Thorin in about everything he's missed these past two weeks—the number of dead, of injured, of how many plan to stay in the mountain through winter and what kind of trade has been set up with the men and elves—
It's important information, surely, but Kíli has never had the patience for such things. After all, he'll never be king—he'll leave such things for his elder brother to worry about.
(There were a few, terrifying moments, though, when Fíli fell on the battlefield, that Kíli thought he'd have to take up the mantle of his uncle's throne after all.)
Bilbo's hand rests inches from his own, and in a moment of bravery Kíli takes hold of it; the hobbit lets out a soft noise of surprise but does not try to pull away, smiling tentatively down at him as he squeezes Kíli's fingers back. Fíli makes some sort of noise—somewhere between amusement and exasperation—and rolls over, instead catching Balin's attention and speaking to him in a low tone.
"Are you feeling all right?" Bilbo asks quietly, breaking the comfortable silence and allowing his gaze to wander to the bandages concealing the wound in Kíli's abdomen. "I can go find a draught if you need one, or if you'd rather sleep…"
"If you're not opposed, I'd like it very much if you stayed," Kíli says honestly, and his stomach does a funny sort of tumble as Bilbo's face lights up. "I feel better than I did earlier, don't worry. I'm perfectly all right."
"As long as you're sure," he hedges, clearly still concerned, and Kíli only grins at him.
"I am. Now—"
"Kíli, Bilbo." Balin's voice comes out of nowhere, and Bilbo tries to jerk his hand away from Kíli's on reflex—Kíli can see the near-panic on his face, realizes that he thinks their—whatever this is—will not be received well by their friends.
Well, he won't be having any of that, and he only grips the hobbit's fingers tighter.
Bilbo makes a small, pained noise in his throat as Balin steps fully in front of them, his twinkling gaze darting to their clasped hands before focusing on Bilbo's face. "Am I right in assuming you are staying in Erebor for some time, Master Baggins?"
"I—well, I—as long as Thorin has no objections to it, I think I would like to, very much," Bilbo splutters, his face turning an adorable shade of red as he struggles to meet Balin's eyes. Kíli takes pity on him and relaxes his grip, allowing him the chance to pull away, but Bilbo doesn't even seem to notice—and Kíli feels his smile growing wider as he feels the hobbit's smaller fingers entwined with his own.
Fíli heaves a long-suffering sigh as he catches sight of his brother's face, and Balin's kindly face creases in a wide smile as he takes in the two of them for a moment. "Very well, then. Welcome to Erebor, Bilbo, and may your time here be filled with much happiness."
Bilbo splutters something that may be a thank you, and Balin inclines his head to him for a moment, smiling even wider before turning away and leaving the tent with Dáin. "What were you doing?" Bilbo hisses to Kíli, even as Fíli laughs quietly and Kíli's grin only broadens.
"What? They're going to find out, anyway. What's the harm? You don't want them to know?"
"No, I just—not so suddenly, I suppose—"
He cuts himself off with a huff (though Kíli can tell he's not truly upset, for the corners of his mouth are twitching dangerously upward) and shakes his head, reaching over to ruffle Kíli's hair lightly. "You stubborn dwarf, what am I going to do with you, hmm?"
"Would you like a list?" Kíli allows his grin to grow lecherous, and Bilbo swats his head lightly as Fíli groans loudly, turning away again.
"Master Baggins."
Their antics are cut off immediately as Thorin's booming voice fills the tent, and both of them start to attention, Bilbo's face rather guilty—though, Kíli notices with a pleased smile, he does not attempt to pull his hand away this time. "What exactly are your intentions toward my nephew?"
His gaze is locked on their clasped hands, but he does not look angry as Kíli feared—instead, he looks vaguely resigned, rather surprised at the most—as he lifts his gaze to the hobbit. Bilbo's fingers twitch nervously in Kíli's grasp, and he tightens his grip in silent support as Bilbo lifts his chin—"I wish to court him, if you have no objections. And if you do, I daresay you'll have to get through Kíli as well before you convince either of us otherwise."
Kíli turns his sudden snort into a badly-fabricated cough, hiding his grin behind his free hand as Thorin sighs loudly. "I doubt that even if I tried, I would have any success," Thorin says after a moment, and Kíli glances over to see his eyes softening as he looks at the pair of them. "You have long since earned my respect, Master Baggins. I have no issue with it, as long as the both of you are happy."
"We are," both of them say, at nearly the same time, and both Fíli and Thorin snort loudly before the elder turns away, shifting slightly to better lie on his cot, apparently done with the conversation.
Fíli rolls his eyes exaggeratedly at his brother before pointedly turning away, just as Thorin did, allowing the two of them some limited measure of privacy in the fading light of the tent, and Bilbo turns to Kíli with a sheepish smile on his face.
"I hope that wasn't too forward," he says, a whisper that barely carries to Kíli's ears.
Kíli smiles widely up at him, wishing with everything he has that he were well, if only so he could sweep Bilbo into an enormous hug. "That wasn't forward at all. I was going to say it if you didn't."
"Oh—well, that works well, then, I suppose," he says haltingly, that blush Kíli has come to admire creeping back up his face as he fights to keep composure. "So that's that, then?"
"As far as I can tell," Kíli replies, and when Bilbo smiles at him again, Kíli cannot help the blush spreading across his own cheeks, the likely-dopey smile he's sending Bilbo's way.
(How else is he supposed to respond, when the creature who has sent his stomach fluttering for months has just announced that he feels the same way?)
.
.
A week or two later, Kíli is deemed well enough to be on his feet again, and he and Bilbo finally, finally have a moment truly for themselves. Kíli takes full advantage of the opportunity, pulling the hobbit flush against his body in a tight embrace, ignoring his still-twinging stitches and simply breathing in the smell of Bilbo's hair tickling against his neck.
It's a smell he's come to associate with peace and happiness and cozy homes built underground; a smell uniquely Bilbo that he doesn't think he'll ever take for granted. He's admired the hobbit for months, now, but kept his feelings hidden…because he was sure that when the mountain was reclaimed, Bilbo would want to return to his homeland, half a world away and so unlike the mountain home Kíli would be able to offer him. He understood, of course; after all, the whole purpose of this quest—the whole reason every one of them risked their lives—was to reclaim a home. He knew he couldn't expect Bilbo to leave his own behind…not when he has clearly missed it terribly for so long.
But he was wrong—so, so wrong, because Bilbo feels the same way and he'd be willing to give up his own home to stay here, in Erebor… Kíli is not sure that he'll ever be able to express in words exactly how lucky he knows himself to be—that their quest has succeeded, that his family has been restored to their rightful place under the mountain…
And that Bilbo Baggins—the wonderful, impossible hobbit he doesn't deserve to call his own—has stood by his side through everything, has said he wants to stay there with him.
Bilbo is the first to pull away from the embrace, disentangling his fingers from Kíli's tunic and smiling up at him, something like warmth and happiness and growing affection pulling at the corners of his eyes. And when the hobbit reaches up and puts his hand to the back of Kíli's head, pulling the dwarf down and stretching his body upward until their lips meet, Kíli feels something swell in his chest—something prick at his eyes—something so wholly wonderful and right that he can't help but put his arms around Bilbo's waist in return, pulling him closer again and smiling into the kiss, feeling Bilbo beam in return.
This is all he will ever want. His family, his home, his friends, and Bilbo—Bilbo, here in his arms, just as he always should be.
If this is all he has for the rest of his days, Kíli thinks as Bilbo eventually pulls away with a broad smile, he will never ask for anything more.