Sorry again for my terrible summaries. So, here's a new fic (multi-chapter this time-lookie there, I'm steppin' up my game), but I don't expect this one to be too terribly long. But who knows, it might develop into a biggie. Can't promise regular updates, though I'll try to be good about them, but right now I got 18hrs at school including 2 studio classes which means a lot of extra work for me-hurray! But not really... So, thought I'd give fair warning if I go three weeks without updating or something...
Anywho, hope y'all enjoy and as always I own none of the characters!
He stretched, the hobbit groaning when something popped in his back before he settled once more, eyes not moving away from the form laying in front of him. It was but a day or so after the battle (Biblo wasn't exactly sure—he was having some difficulty keeping track of the time). What he did know though was that it was late into the night; he could feel the press of sleep against his lids, but he resolutely shooed the feeling away, unwilling to leave the dwarf just yet. He tracked his eyes over the linen bound torso, some areas stained with blood and whatever ointments Óin had thought it necessary to apply. While not a great sight, it definitely was an improvement over the last time Bilbo had seen the dwarf—all of his parts were securely where they were meant to be this time and not spilling out everywhere on the battlefield. Bilbo shuddered at the memory, ripping his eyes away from the chest to stare at the blood and dirt covered face.
He nearly tutted at the sight, and of the matted hair full of the grime of battle. But he supposed he couldn't blame the others for not cleaning him up—they had been rather busy with just piecing him back together to worry about a bit of dirt. But all the same. He sighed as he stood up, walking over to the side of the tent where some water and rags had been left. Carefully, he brought a bowl of water over, dipping one of the rags in before gently running it across the far too pale face, doing his best to remove at least some of the muck.
"Oh Thorin."
He wasn't stupid. He knew what the possibilities of this hare-brained scheme had been, knew what fate could've awaited him, all of them. But for some reason, he had never included Thorin into any of those gruesome ends. It just had not seemed like a possibility. He couldn't say why, but the dwarf had seemed untouchable to him. Which, really, he should've known better after what happened during their first run-in with Azog. But no matter how much he had fretted and worried over the end to this journey (if he even got to see it's end), Thorin, by the end of it, was always sitting on his newly reclaimed throne. He certainly wasn't hanging on by a thread in some hurriedly put-together tent that looked as if the wind blew too hard it would certainly topple over. Then again, Bilbo had never thought the dwarf would try and kill him.
Bilbo cringed at the thought, hand stilling as he rung out the rag. He couldn't imagine what state Thorin would be in if he knew Bilbo was here right now. Certainly, he hopped what had happened with the Arkenstone was just the gold-sickness, but the lead weight in his stomach kept telling him otherwise.
He shook his head at the train of thought, not willing to let it continue any further as he passed the damp cloth one more time over the now much cleaner that he stood again, returning the items to the side where he had fetched them earlier before he returned to the dwarf's side. He had not been sitting there long when Balin walked in.
Bilbo gave a little start as he heard the curtain flap, receiving a gentle smile from the older dwarf as his eyes landed on him. He breathed out slowly, willing his heart to slow down as Balin approached.
"You should rest laddie. We can call you if anything changes with him," he said softly, placing a hand on the tired hobbit's shoulder as he did so.
"I'm fine," was all Bilbo managed to get out, and he knew how unconvincing it sounded.
Balin turned to look at him, his eyes that had been studying his kings face now turned to him and Bilbo tried not to fidget under the look. "Now Master Baggins, you yourself have sustained injuries," he started, glaring sharply at Bilbo's snort, "and you've spent all day and night amongst the cold and the dead—you'd be good to rest."
There was a moment of silence before Bilbo spoke, words soft and nearly hesitant, body tight with tension. "Are you telling me to leave Master Balin?" and while over the course of the journey it had become Balin, and while he didn't seem too upset about the whole Arkenstone debacle, Bilbo all the same was unsure of his standing with the older dwarf.
Balin's eyes softened at the question. "Of course not laddie."
The tightness bleed out of Bilbo in an instant. "Good," he murmured a few second later. "All I would've done anyways was gone to Fíli and Kíli's tent."
There was a soft huff of laughter from behind him at the comment and then another pat on his shoulder. "Think about rest, laddie. You had us all rather worried."
Bilbo nodded, more for Balin's sake than his own willingness to acquiesce to the request. He was rather stiff though, and he supposed he could owe that to the uncomfortable arrangement he had found himself in when he had woken up a couple hours ago. He wasn't exactly sure what had happened, only that one moment he was stabbing an orc in the stomach and the next he was waking up to a litter of corpses around him and a pounding headache. After the initial nausea had worn off, he had finally gotten up and made his way to the nearest tent he could see (which had taken far more effort than he cared to admit). He had been terribly confused at first when no one had responded to him, nearly running over him a few times, that was until he remembered that the ring was still securely around his finger. After having enough sense to take the trinket off, he had been quickly pointed into the direction of the dwarf camp. He hadn't made it that much farther when in the distance he saw Bofur running his way. The dwarf had rightly knocked the wind out of him with the crushing hug he decided to bestow on the hobbit, not minding the grateful tears streaming down his face. "We thought you dead," was all he heard as way of explanation before he was lead to the rest of the company.
There, much to his relief, he had been met with smiles, and cheers of reliefs, and more rather forceful hugs and not the utter hatred he had half expected to be met with. After a quick look from Óin with the diagnosis of a mild concussion he was steered to Fíli and Kíli's tent (the sight of which had not been pretty), before finally being taken to see Thorin where he has not left since arriving.
"How are the boys?" he asked after another long stretch of silence between them.
The answer was a heavy sigh that Bilbo was certain the older dwarf had not meant to utter. "No worse, no better."
"That's not saying much. They've not got much worse to get," Bilbo said blandly, thinking back to their waxen, sweat covered bodies.
"There's always worse to get. And either way, they're still better off than Thorin."
"That's not saying much either," he pointed out.
There was more silence between them and Bilbo nearly cursed himself for his thoughtfulness, had he have had the energy to do so. The silence went on for some time before there was another pat to his shoulder and Balin was leaving the tent. Bilbo watched Balin leave, slightly reluctantly, and nearly apologized to the dwarf before he decided against it and he was watching the flap of the tent flutter with the other's exit.
He looked at that spot for a moment more before turning back to Thorin, his eyes scanning the other's form—for what he wasn't exactly sure, but he felt better for doing it. He shuffled again, stretching out his tired muscles (hearing another round of satisfying pops) before he settled himself in for a very long night.
Well, there's chapter one for everybody! I hope peeps enjoyed it, and of course comments, critiques, etc. are always welcome and appreciated. Hope to get the next one out here quick!