A.N. Originally posted on AO3.

Once More

"So. This is the hobbit."

Bilbo shuts the door and latches it, lingering there with his eyes squeezed shut and trying to quell the faint tremors in his hands. He is slow to turn around, even slower still to draw himself up and look the speaker in the eye. This ought to be the easy part, he reminds himself as icy claws rent through his insides and a curious emptiness washes his mind blank. It's the very beginning, after all, the night of the unexpected party. There are no dire enemies to fight, no hardships or perils to suffer through, no slaughtered friends and empty smials waiting for him at the end of a long and harrowing road. No… all of that will come much later. All he must do tonight is feed his guests, make a halfway decent impression, and remember to pack his handkerchiefs this time around.

All he must do, Bilbo thinks as he swallows back tears for the thirteenth time and dons his most well-mannered smile, is calmly introduce himself and try not to envision how very pale and dead that face looked the last time he saw it.

"Indeed, I am. Though I prefer to be called Bilbo Baggins, if it's all the same to you. At your service."

Thorin says nothing, just stands there and looks him over with guarded, scrutinizing, familiar eyes. Bilbo folds his hands behind his back, bounces on the balls of his feet and waits with his smile fixed in place. He doesn't quite remember every detail from last time, he's sorry to say. He recalls that Thorin scoffed and insulted him, called him a grocer or something to that effect. At the time it flustered and annoyed him, left him quite appalled and frozen on the spot as Thorin stalked away. Part of Bilbo wanted to march right after that rude dwarf and demand what on earth he meant by it, while the other part wanted to hide in his gutted pantry and wait for them all to leave.

All in all, it was a rather terrible first impression on both their parts. It took many weeks and many adventures before that changed, before Bilbo stopped disliking Thorin and began to yearn for his trust and approval. Hopelessly, pathetically, Bilbo trailed in his shadow and strived to prove his worth and soaked up every kind word and touch along the way. Sometimes he wonders if it was sheer persistence that paid him off in the end, Baggins stubbornness combined with a Tookish knack for making a general nuisance of himself. Sometimes he wonders if Thorin truly cared at all or if that's just his own aching heart casting a rosy lens over the memories. Even the painful ones, the ones that have Thorin dying on Ravenhill with a tender smile and wistful, faraway eyes…

…but it won't end like that again. Bilbo has decided that already, with every ounce of mad courage he possesses. He etched that vow into his heart from the moment he found himself once more sitting on his bench and listening to Gandalf rant about good mornings and realized he has been granted a second chance. An opportunity to change the ending of his book and prevent a great deal of loss and pain. Not just for himself, but for his dearest friends and companions, for young Fili and Kili who both deserved so much better. And for Frodo as well, who suffered so much for Bilbo's folly and that blasted ring.

For their sake… and for Thorin's sake as well. Selfish as it is, greedy as it is, Bilbo will not deny that Thorin is the true reason he is willing to face it all again, both the good and the bad. He will riddle with Gollum and burgle from Smaug and throw himself before Azog a hundred times over, if it means Thorin will live at the end of it all.

But first, he must suffer through being called a grocer again.

Thorin crosses his arms, apparently finished with his appraisal of the hobbit. "Hmm," he rumbles.

Bilbo braces himself.

"…he'll do."

And he turns and walks away, taking Fili and Kili by the shoulders as he goes, quietly asking that they sit beside him at the head of the table.

Bilbo blinks.

"Ah, well," Gandalf says with a queer twinkle in his eyes. "That went better than expected."

And indeed, it does. Bilbo squeezes another chair in the corner of his dining room and pretends to pay close attention as the discussion goes around about portents and distant mountains, about hidden doors and sleeping dragons. When the mention of a burglar comes up, Bilbo crosses his arms and feigns competence and professionalism while he and Balin discuss terms and conditions and payment for services rendered. Some of the dwarves, Dwalin and Gloin most notably, express doubt of his skills, which has Bilbo biting his tongue and wishing he can tell them-or remind them-about the trolls and the spiders and the barrels. And the dragon, which is still very much alive, along with Azog who must even now be gathering his legions to take the mountain and hunt down Thorin, and oh dear, this is going to be much, much harder than he ever imagined…

"You alright, laddie?"

"Feel a bit faint," Bilbo says, the painful nostalgia of those words bringing a vile taste to his mouth.

"Think furnace with wings—"

He waves Bofur off. "Yes, I know what a dragon is, thank you! Teeth like swords, claws like spears, wings like a hurricane, etcetera, etcetera. And have you a plan to actually deal with this dragon, just in case it happens to be alive and awake and hungry for hobbits? Or do you lot intend to sit on the doorstep and hope for the best while I scrounge around looking for the Arkenstone?"

"How do you know about the Arkenstone?" Kili blurts out, then winces when Fili kicks him.

"The wizard told me," Bilbo says, not even batting an eye when Gandalf gapes at him for the bold-faced lie. And while the dining room erupts in pandemonium, everybody bellowing and cursing the wizard for revealing such clandestine information, Bilbo quietly signs the contract and passes it to Balin.

Packing is at once easier and harder than he anticipated. Easier, for having an inkling of what to expect with the weather and road conditions and other such niceties. But it's harder as well, for knowing that his careful preparations might all be for naught. Bilbo cannot secure their safety or their success with a handful of handkerchiefs. The most useful things—the elven sword, the magic ring, the mithril shirt—are things that must be found along the way. Or not, if they somehow avoid all the hazards from the last go around.

He pauses in the act of rolling up a third extra change of clothes, spine tingling as voices drift into his bedroom from the other side of Bag End. "Far over the Misty Mountains cold… to dungeons deep and caverns old…"

"We must away, 'ere break of day," Bilbo hums to himself and sniffs hard. He stuffs the clothes into his pack and set it against the wall, right beside his favorite walking stick and his sturdiest kitchen knives. He will try to wake early tomorrow and have a hearty breakfast ready for his dwarves, along with some snacks and sandwiches for the road. And he should also pen a letter for Hamfast to deliver to the Thain on his behalf. The last thing he wants is to return from his adventure a year hence and find all his possessions pawned off to his neighbors again.

…will he come back this time?

Can you promise that I will come back?

No. And if you do, you'll not be the same.

That's what I thought.

It doesn't matter, Bilbo thinks with his heart shriveling in his chest. It's not his fate that he's trying to change. Thorin and Fili and Kili… the entire Company, really. They come first, and he will worry about himself only as an afterthought. It's not as if Bilbo Baggins will be missed, not in the grand scheme of things. A funeral and an auction and some distant relations living in Bag End, and the world will keep turning as usual. This quest was the one great accomplishment in his life, aside from his book, and he's not about to botch it up again.

He has just dressed for bed and is about to blow out the candles when there comes a knock at his door. "Master Baggins? Have you a moment?"

Bilbo frowns. "Coming," he answers and reaches for his dressing gown.

This did not happen last time.

He opens his door and invites Thorin into his bedroom, then carefully shuts the door behind him and squares his shoulders. If Thorin has chosen to save his doubts and insults for private, Bilbo will at least save him the embarrassment of having the others overhear their king being scolded by a snippy hobbit.

"May I help you, Mister Thorin? Only, it's late and I shouldn't like to keep you from sleep. Long journey tomorrow and all that."

It's decidedly odd to see Thorin standing in his bedroom. The master suite of Bag End is very large by hobbit standards, clean and uncluttered and perfectly presentable. But Bilbo still writhes a bit as he watches Thorin linger over the bookshelves and the quilt and the rug, the few cherished possessions in plain sight. He looks so out of place, a regal and otherworldly figure thrown into mundane surroundings. The dichotomy is almost dreamlike, and it occurs to Bilbo for the first time to wonder if this is real at all or if he has actually gone completely bonkers in his old age.

"I…" Thorin begins. But he hesitates at the sight of the bulging pack against the wall. His shoulders rise and fall, slowly, and he turns to face Bilbo with that same impassive look as before. "I wished to ask if you are still certain about accompanying us. But I can see you've made up your mind."

"Well yes, I did sign the contract," Bilbo says, arms folded against an imagined chill. He desperately wishes Thorin would just leave and let him fret in peace. "It would be a poor reflection on my character to back out at the last possible moment."

"You still can, if you wish," Thorin says, which isn't at all what Bilbo expected to hear. "What we are asking of you… it is something not even the staunchest of dwarves would dare to attempt. There is a reason we number so few. No one here would think any less of you for choosing to remain in your Shire."

Bilbo chuckles bitterly. "Oh yes, just stay here in my cozy little hobbit hole until I'm old and senile and of no use to anyone. Until all that's left is to wait for the end, and all the while cursing my younger self for being so foolish and timid of letting a little adventure into my life."

"…this quest is no adventure. Not for me."

"No, I understand that," Bilbo mutters and curses his foolish tongue. "It's your home, and it was taken from you unjustly. If Bag End was taken from me in such a manner, I might do just the same. And… I would help you if I can. If you'll let me. I would help you take it back…"

He knows the words are a mistake even as they are spoken. They leave his throat raw and his heart throbbing with renewed anguish, an echo of a memory best left far behind. Bilbo doesn't realize he's staring down at the rug until he hears a rustle and looks up to see Thorin turned abruptly away from him, turned toward the window, standing so taut and rigid that he looked a beat away from snapping right in half.

"Thorin?"

Thorin faces him once more, one fist clenched tight and held against his chest. Bilbo watches him swallow hard, watches him fumble over unspoken words, before he ducks his head and stares resolutely at his own hand.

"…this will likely mean nothing to you. And if this is so, Bilbo Baggins, then I would ask that you not speak of it to anyone. But I must know. I must know. I can only hope… I can only trust that… we had shared so much in that time, and I've thought and thought on what I might say in this moment. But I could not find the words. I could not bear the thought that you might not… that I alone must bear the burden of…"

"What… Thorin, what…?"

"Tell me you know what this means," Thorin pleads in hushed tones. He steps closer, much closer than propriety should allow for strangers, and holds out his closed fist as an offering between them. "My burglar," he breathes, and Bilbo stiffens. "Only you could know what this means."

His hand opens. And in the center of his palm is a single acorn.

You've carried it all this way?

I'm going to plant it in my garden. In Bag End.

It's a poor prize to take back to the Shire.

One day it will grow. And every time I look at it, I'll remember. Remember everything that happened, the good, the bad. And how lucky I am that I made it home.

"Bilbo?"

He makes a noise, something tight and strangled and ugly, not even close to actual words, and Bilbo claps both hands over his mouth to keep from wailing like a dying creature. Hot tears flood his eyes and spill over, broken sobs choked back until his entire body is quaking and shivering with them. Then he sways closer to Thorin, grabbing for him, clinging to him, and Thorin drops the acorn to enfold Bilbo in his arms.

Then Thorin makes a noise too, wretched and keening and buried in his hair, and Bilbo knows beyond a doubt that this is real.

"…you died," Bilbo cries and can't for the life of him be more eloquent than that. "On the hill… on the ice…"

Thorin nods against his curls and clutches him so tight that Bilbo can scarcely breathe.

"How? How?"

"I do not know," Thorin says, and he is weeping openly when Bilbo looks up, tears seeping into his beard. "I do not care," he adds with more conviction.

Bilbo snags his tunic in a death grip and gives him a feeble shake. "No, no, don't you dare, you don't just… just come back from being dead and… and… and shrug it off like it's hardly anything! A-And then show up at my door with our friends and your d-dead nephews and an acorn of all things… goodness, where did you even find an acorn in the spring? Did you climb a tree and raid some poor squirrel's hidden cache for it? You might have saved yourself the trouble, I'd have known what you meant from the word alone! You only had to say acorn… or barrels or parasites or fireflies or any number of… or how about just, do you recall that lovely kiss we shared in Laketown, that would've done the trick…"

"…by Mahal, this is real."

"Sorry, what?"

Thorin kisses him, fierce and hard, like this is their very last time and he's trying to memorize the exact shape and feel of his lips. Bilbo shuts his eyes and loses himself in the taste of salt and pipesmoke. He pours a lifetime of grief and loneliness and passionate love into it, ravenously bites and nips and licks until Thorin gives way and lets his mouth be plundered. He's determined to put the chasteness and restraint of that Laketown kiss to shame.

Unfortunately, he has to come up for air at some point, and it only takes one look at Thorin's face—flushed and gasping, beautiful and alive—for Bilbo to start blubbering all over again. But at least he's not the only one. For a very long time after that, he and Thorin simply hold each other and let the tears fall freely.

"The thunder battle?"

"Easily avoided, if we keep a closer eye on the weather. And if we must take shelter, we check every single cave for traps, no exceptions. The trolls?"

Bilbo twitches his nose. "I suppose… when we get to that farmhouse, I'll volunteer to watch the ponies. I can say I spotted their fire from a distance, then we wait for morning to ambush the cave and have Gandalf deal with the lot of them. We'll get your Orcrist and my Sting. Now… what about Thranduil?"

Thorin grimaces. "I'll accept his deal from the start, though I make no promises about withholding my insults. Provided Thranduil doesn't betray us, we can secure safe passage to Laketown and avoid the barrel debacle."

"Oh, I don't know, I thought that was rather clever of me at the time."

"You're confusing cleverness with lunacy," Thorin snorts. He scans over the scribbled lists and notes scattered all over Bilbo's desk, the quill in his hand tapping the wood. "What else, what else…?"

"I'm sure we'll remember more as we go along," Bilbo assures him. "Most of our troubles from before were caused by either bad luck or poor decisions. If we can't fix the former, we can at last improve the latter. We won't make the same mistakes."

"…no, we will not," Thorin mutters with steely resolve. Oh, Thorin. He does not question their miracle, as Bilbo thought he might. He is fully convinced that he has been granted a blessing, a boon from Mahal. A chance to save Fili and Kili and ensure the continuation of the line of Durin. And though it rips him up inside to say nothing, Bilbo cannot bring himself to spoil it for him yet. He cannot tell Thorin that the quest for his homeland, that the lives of his sister-sons, are but insignificant pieces in the grand whole. He cannot speak of the ring or the war or the rise of evil in coming days.

He cannot speak of the final moments of his previous life. Lying in a bed in Rivendell, frail and weakened by age and sickness, with Elrond at his side. The grim elven lord speaking to him, saying it has been an honor to call him friend, before he drew his sword and rushed out to make his last stand against the forces of Mordor marching on the valley. Bilbo only vaguely recalls his despair and his thoughts of, it is over, it has failed, Frodo is surely dead, before an orc shattered the door and a sword flashed down…

A warm hand grasps his own—gently, so gently—and draws him from bleak memories. "What are you thinking of?"

"The dragon," Bilbo says, and it's believable enough that he doesn't need to explain the tremor in his words. "If… if we can convince Bard to come with us to the mountain? Perhaps with his aid, with the black arrow…"

"Smaug might be slain without Laketown being destroyed," Thorin finishes. Bilbo can tell he is seriously considering it, but his brow remains marred by deep lines. "Bilbo. If the time comes and I should fall to the sickness again…"

"You won't."

"I cannot take the risk. If it happens again, I must be stopped. Even if it means my life is forfeit."

"It won't come to that!" Bilbo says and will not hear of any other possibility. But he wilts beneath Thorin's glare and reminds himself that not all fates can be controlled or averted. "But… alright, yes. Fine. If I think you're about to start another war, I'll find a rock and knock you over the head with it. Either that or I'll snog you into submission."

Thorin does not look sold on his plan, nor amused at his joke. Bilbo can tell it's a topic that will need to be revisited later. "We should have plenty of time to plan a more strategic assault on Smaug. We can bypass Rivendell entirely and perhaps reach Beorn's before Midsummer. And without the delay in Mirkwood, we might reach Laketown several weeks before Durin's Day…"

Bilbo makes a noise of protest. "Why should we bypass Rivendell?"

"Because we already know of the hidden door that the map indicates. And the more speed we can make in the beginning, the less chance there is of Azog catching up with us."

"That's all well and good, but how will we explain our foreknowledge about the hidden door?"

Thorin considers for a moment. "On Midsummers Eve, I'll make a point of studying the map out in the open and be 'pleasantly astonished' at the appearance of the moon runes."

"…can you do 'pleasantly astonished' in a way that is both convincing and not overly-dramatic?"

"…you wound me, my burglar."

Bilbo fully intends to make a smart remark, he truly does, but a massive yawn interrupts him. And it occurs to him how long they have been huddled here over his desk and how quiet his smial has become. The rest of the dwarves must be bedding down for the night, though Bilbo can still hear a few voices in the general direction of the kitchen. "Oh, goodness! It must be nearing midnight! We'll never be able to plan every little detail tonight. We should be up until dawn if we tried."

"Indeed, we should rest," Thorin agrees and helps him gather up the papers and stuff them into his pack. At some point Bilbo intends to parse it all down into a single list, which he will keep on his person at all times. There won't be much time or privacy for further planning on the road.

Bilbo heads to the door, but Thorin heads for the bed and has his outer tunic halfway off before Bilbo interrupts him. "What do you think you're doing?"

Thorin pauses. And really, he has no right to appear so confused. "I had intended… to sleep?"

"Not in here, you're not!"

He is immediately stricken. "You have not forgiven me," Thorin says hoarsely.

"It's not that, you daft dwarf!" Bilbo says, exasperated. "We just agreed that we would not inform the Company of all this unless it was absolutely necessary, yes?"

"Yes…?"

"Which means, as far as they're concerned, we have only just met."

"Yes, and…?"

Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose and makes a sincere effort not to sound snide. "Oh, forgive me, do you make a habit of going to bed with your burglars while the ink on the contract is still wet? Is that a thing that kings do?"

Thorin scowls, then blanches. His eyes fly wide open. "You cannot mean…"

"We have to pretend we don't know each other," Bilbo says, kindly but reluctantly, and he wishes it didn't have to be so because Thorin looks crushed. "At least for now, but we can change that as time goes on. Let the others think we bonded over good pipeweed and mischievous nephews."

"You have nephews?"

"Just the one that I'm close to… oh drat! No, I suppose I don't, not yet. Frodo won't be born for another twenty or thirty years yet. His parents are not even courting, let alone…"

He trails off, the thought of Primula and Drogo staggering him and making him feel the weight of all those long years after the quest. They are out there somewhere in the Shire right now, both of them alive and safe, not drowned in a river with their only son left to grieve their loss. Bilbo is suddenly seized by the desperate wish to rush out his door and see them, to hold them close against the misfortune in their future.

Thorin clears his throat. "I am… I am glad," he says haltingly. "It… I'm grateful to know you were able to return home to your kin and live out your days in peace. It was the one thing which gave me comfort at the end."

Bilbo thought he was all out of tears, but he's proven wrong in that moment. "Yes, well… it gave me no comfort at all," he mutters. When Thorin stares, he scrubs at his eyes. "Do you know that Bag End was empty when I returned to it? And I don't just mean in the literal sense. My books, my armchair… all those dishes and doilies… do you think any of it meant a thing to me when you were entombed in stone on the other side of Middle Earth?"

"Bilbo…"

He steps closer, painfully aware of how still Thorin has become. "I forgave you for a lot of things, you know. But dying in my arms like that? And taking my heart with you? That, I haven't forgiven. I hope you know you'll be making that up to me for a very, very long time, Thorin Oakenshield. The rest if your life, if I have any say in it."

And damn his self-indulgent collection of romantic tales and poems, damn every elven song he has ever read about the light of the stars and everlasting love, because nothing on this good earth can prepare him for Thorin's solemn nod and his quiet vow of, "I will consider it time well spent."

His bedroom door opens, and Bilbo will never know how he and Thorin manage to spring away from each other so fast. Ori pokes his head in. "Is this the guest room…? Oh, h-hello. Sorry to intrude."

"Not at all, not at all!" Bilbo says, dredging up his polite smile from somewhere, and he ushers both dwarves back into the hallway. "You were nearly there, Ori. As I was just about to show Thorin, the guest rooms are around the corner there to the right."

"Ah, I see!"

"And if you go too far and wind up in the cold cellar or something, just give a holler and I'll come fetch you," Bilbo chuckles. "You dwarves seem to have a knack for losing your way, I must say."

"Indeed," Thorin murmurs with a slight bow. "I apologize for disturbing you."

Bilbo can only nod, awkwardly hovering in his doorway. Trying not to stare at Thorin and at the same time hoping his blatant Not Staring isn't obvious to Ori. "Well, then. I suppose I shall see you both in the morning. Good night."

"Good night, Master Baggins!"

"…good night, Bilbo."

"Good night," Bilbo repeats, needlessly, and finally gives in and let's his eyes linger on Thorin as he follows on Ori's heels. At the end of the hallway just before rounding the corner, Thorin pauses to look back at him and they might have stayed like that until sunrise, gazing at each other like pining tweens. Except Bilbo hears footsteps behind him and Thorin hastily continues on his way. Bilbo turns and nods at Bofur and Balin and Dwalin as they file past one by one, also in search of the guest rooms, though he is a tad unnerved by the dubious frown Dwalin shoots him. Bilbo recalls him being much more friendly the first time around and wonders what changed.

So much has changed, so much, Bilbo thinks as he shuts his door. And before he blows out the candles and climbs into bed, he takes a moment to find Thorin's acorn and tuck it into his pack.