"Master Baggins, hold on! Take my hand!"

Under any other circumstance, perhaps the pleading, desperate command would have seemed odd coming from the mouth of a mighty dwarf king. And under any other circumstance, Bilbo Baggins was solidly sure he would have given Thorin Oakenshield a disconcerted look, scrunched up his nose before politely and respectfully declining.

As it was, however, clinging to the side of a barrel as they crashed through tumultuous waves, the hobbit was all too happy to grab hold of the dwarf's hand, clinging to it desperately while his other hand grasped the wood's edge. He gasped, sputtering out water as they tossed and turned, and he tightened his fingers frightfully, blinking out the water from his tearing eyes. He could hardly breathe, it all came rushing up to meet him and forcing itself down his throat in gushing torrents that made him choke and writhe, knees banging against his wooden lifeline with dulling aches.

Once again, he felt Thorin's hand, except this time, it was the dwarf's entire arm that wrapped itself around his back, holding him tight to the barrel's side.

"Hold on!" he heard the dwarf cry again, more desperate now as they rebounded sharply off of a riverbank wall jutting out and over them, and oh, Bilbo was very lucky he was on the side he was—else he would have been stuck in between that collision—and that would not have been good—gosh, he was about to throw up from all the water forcing itself down his throat—

—bang.

Bilbo grunted unintentionally with the hit of that one—a rock that was piercing the water and neither could avoid as the river forced them into it. Thorin's grip on him tightened fiercely in response, and Bilbo, for a split-second, couldn't help but think that maybe they would make it—if Thorin's arms were as steel-like as they felt, tensed and protective, binding him to the woodwork and metal of the barrel like a safe and broad clasp, perhaps they'd get through this after all.

Maybe—

—but the next collision nearly tore everything apart.

It was so sudden, so jarring, and the barrel itself bended to the force of the pressuring weights—Bilbo was afraid it would snap in that split-second of clarity he had before everything went underwater, and he was suddenly breathing in liquid and bubbles and choking out more water and wetness and where had the oxygen and light gone why did his eyes sting his chest his chest his chest something wasn't working; get off get off get off so the pressure will lessen, whatever you are that is clogging the world I need to breathe—and then something cracked and his head jolted, and he couldn't see—

—the last thought he had was the absolute, most terrifying certainty that he, Bilbo Baggins, was very much going to die.

Something in Thorin died that same instant.

The hobbit's body that he still desperately clung to by his shaking, weak arm limped into lifelessness. And as he saw the small hand that had clutched to the barrel's edge loosen and begin to slide, he cried out, soul ravaged by a jagged dagger of fear as he grasped for the burglar, pulling him closer and tighter as the torrent pushed them along in its storm.

"Master Baggins, wake up!" he cried, desperation a heavy and fluttering, writhing monster in his ribcage. Don't be dead. Don't be dead. Don't you dare die on me now, Halfling. "Bilbo!"

There was blood.

Redness of a darker, more ominous shade that Thorin recognized even with the barest glance he could make while caught in the entourage—it began to mix in to the rusty locks and to spill into the river—pushed about by waves and crashing currents—and that, more than anything else, made his throat seize and oh, was he breathing? Or was he drowning, too? He couldn't tell, not with the panic that surged through him as his eyes darted about, searching and searching for land because they needed it—now—and—

"—Uncle Thorin! Uncle Thorin! Over here!"

Kili. Mahal bless the child.

He hadn't noticed that they were so close to one of the sides—but apparently they were—and even more apparently, this was where the others had been able to pull themselves up and away from the dangers of the rapids, as well.

Thanks to the several reaching hands out to him, he managed to grab Dwalin's even while still clinging to Bilbo with his other arm. But it was a stretch—a desperate one that somehow, miraculously worked even though his muscles quivered in exhaustion—and grunting at the strain, he gestured with his head to their barrel, gasping and holding, "Pull—pull us closer—I can't—I can't lose him—"

—the rush of understanding in the other eyes quickly hardened into shared desperation, and with a strong yank as he knew Dwalin to be capable, and even dependable for, suddenly, Thorin found himself meeting land, pulled quickly forward with several reaching and grasping limbs.

Heaved away from danger and suddenly finding that the world was no longer spinning and rolling, the dizziness took that opportunity to grab hold, and for a blind moment, Thorin could only remain on shaky hands and knees as he waited for everything to settle. It reeled and reeled, and he swallowed, gasping and focusing all mental capacity on reality, and that which was solidly beneath him—firm, stable earth and grass. Good, dependable, and tangible land, steadfast and reassuring.

It was good. It meant good. It meant that finally, they were safe. He was safe. They both were going to be okay; they had made it—

"—Bilbo? Bilbo! Uncle, what's happened to Bilbo—he's bleeding—"

"—h-he's not breathing, either! Uncle, he's not breathing—"

—something within him shut down. Suddenly. Sharply. Commandeering.

In the next instant, Thorin wasn't exactly sure what happened.

A buzzing erupted from within his skull, and before he knew it, he found himself gasping for air, pinching the hobbit's nose shut as he leaned forward (again? Wait, how many times had he already done this while he wasn't aware…?), pressing lips to lips and forcing air—precious, precious oxygen—into the feeble, failing lungs of the creature beneath him.

He pulled away. He pumped three times. He inhaled deeply. He dove again, forcing and shoving life back into this being who was only ever meant to be animated and not so still—

—again—

—no movement yet; so again—

"—Thorin—"

—and again—

—don't stop now; can't give up (again); he's not gone; he can't—

—again—

—again—

—stop this, Bilbo; it isn't funny; move don't just lie there—

"—Thorin."

A gasp.

It was strangled, and it was weak, but it was an inhale all the same, and with help from Dori and Balin who had knelt beside them, Thorin managed to turn Bilbo over so he could cough out the water from his lungs and retch out whatever had filled his stomach.

It was gross, it reeked and made his eyes water, but Thorin was glad to see it.

And when Bilbo's body finally slumped forward in fatigue to the arms holding him up, system cleared, aching, but empty, the shaking started, shock settling into the hobbit's wide-eyed frame. Bofur was the first to step forward upon seeing the change, and wrapped one of their thickest blankets around Bilbo in response to it. It took Thorin a moment later to notice that someone else had also placed one on his shoulders, as well—but with a glance at it, he then quickly pulled it off and threw it around their smaller companion—who definitely, he decided with a dismissive grunt, needed it more.

Bilbo's eyes snapped to his in surprise at the gesture, teeth clattering violently and noisily. "Th-Thorin—"

But the dwarf king shook his head. "No. Do not argue. We'll…we'll discuss this later, Master Baggins. Once you are…feeling better." Whatever 'it' was, and whenever that would be.

A hesitant stare proceeded the hesitant nod that eventually followed, and appeased at it, Thorin finally managed to tear his eyes away from the half-drowned Burglar.

It felt like the first time he had done that the entire afternoon.

Time, while rushed and frenzied throughout their entire escape, finally slowed down to its regular, even pace later that evening.

In fact, it wasn't until then that both dwarf and hobbit finally managed to find the time to discuss "it"—whatever "it" both was to them. Thorin wasn't really sure, still, sitting there at the fire as the others began to tuck themselves into their packs for the night. (Though they had argued with him for the rights to first watch, he had won under the pretense that he just couldn't sleep yet—left over adrenaline and troubling thoughts, lingering "what-if's"—and while that had only been part of the truth, they seemed to believe him or trust what was left unsaid anyway.)

And if he were to be honest, the dwarf king kind of…expected that quiet shuffle of cloth that sounded in the following silence a moment later after the others began snoring. So no, no he wasn't surprised at all when that tiny form was suddenly at his side, huddled still in that thick blanket Bofur had handed him earlier, white-knuckled hands gripping it as if for confirmation he was alive.

He had…he had known Bilbo would approach him eventually. The hobbit was like that, somehow—dependable in that sense. He was good. Kind. Never one to let a deed go unthanked, as was the "respectable" way to go about business, the dwarf supposed.

And just as he predicted, the next thing Thorin knew, the hushed whisper finally came. "You saved my life."

Thorin grunted, automatically responding. "And you've saved mine."

Bilbo's lips pressed together, pensive and curved downwards. "Y-yeah, but…" A sigh. "It wasn't…you know, it wasn't anything like that—"

"—of what do you mean?" Raising an eyebrow, Thorin finally turned to look down at the halfling at his side, confused and curious, because last he remembered, the entire ordeal of saving someone's life wasn't ever somehow classified into different types. (How could it be? Wasn't it something you just did, in whatever way you had to?)

The tips of Bilbo's ears reddened first before the rest of his face followed in meek suit. "I—well, I hadn't to—uh—I hadn't had to—" But after a gaping pause in which he couldn't fill, the hobbit finally and dismissively huffed. "—oh, just—forget it. Never mind."

Chin burrowed into the furred blanket, Bilbo's face was almost entirely lost and hidden to the dwarf from his side-long view. Almost, however. It wasn't enough, really—not enough to hide the small fingertips which gradually and tentatively slid up to touch his mouth in halting, remembering wonder, with a trace sadness and awe—

—and Thorin, understanding and amused, smirked. He turned his eyes away and back to the fire. "I would do it again, you know."

"W-what?" Bilbo blinked, suddenly coming back to reality as his head snapped to the dwarf king. "Wait, do what again? Save me?"

A humming grunt of concession. "That, too. No, but that other part."

"That other…?" But Bilbo's voice trailed off as the flames erupted from behind his ear-tips again, spreading down and across his face like molten lava. "W-what—wait—you mean—you mean the k—" –sharply cutting himself off to glance around at their sleeping crew—making extra sure they were truly slumbering—he then leaned forward and hissed, "—the kissing part?"

"Master Baggins, it wasn't kissing," Thorin chided quietly, trying to stifle his chuckles, but it wasn't working. Not when the hobbit looked so flushed. "It was basic resuscitation. Anyone would have done it. It had no romantic ties to it. Just survival."

"Yeah—b-but—you want to do it again!" Bilbo whispered harshly as if scandalized, or if in scolding. "What—just what are you trying to say, Thorin Oakenshield? What does that mean?"

Thorin hummed, unfazed. "I suppose once wasn't enough, it seems," he murmured quietly, reigning in his grin to a half-moon as he turned and muttered, "By any chance, are you feeling half-alive again, Bilbo? Because I am. I might just need another 'kiss of life' in order to bring me back to working order—"

"—y-you're horrible."

It took every ounce of willpower to not laugh. Especially when the hobbit, red-faced and modestly embarrassed, decided to take that opportunity to immediately stomp off and back to his bedroll, almost petulantly dumping himself back in his sleeping bag to burrow among his several blankets and pillows loaned to him from the others who were concerned for his care. Thorin, meanwhile, couldn't help but smirk to himself.

So he wasn't the only one who's thoughts were preoccupied with that moment in particular…

…well, that definitely gave him a warrant to try again tomorrow.

Crystal's Notes: OMGSH I SHOULD NEVER HAVE SAID I'D FINISH THIS BEFORE I GO TO BED I'M SO TIRED RIGHT NOW OMGSH IT'S 3:30 IN THE MORNING OMGSH IT'S NOT MY BEST WORK BUT YEAH I'M GOING TO GO SLEEP NAOW ANYWAY SO KTHXBAI.

(Oh, uh...and important thing: this was inspired by the lovely ewelock's most recent art featuring Thorin and Bilbo in sharing/not-really-sharing a barrel as they tumble down the river-rapids. This image can be seen on Tumblr. So just...just go and see it. Go to AMS's Tumblr page as seen on our profile page here, and enjoy the beauty you find there. I reblogged it, so hopefully you'll see it. You better. Because I'm dead tired and #ain'tnobodygottimeforthat. Yeah.)

((That happened.))