Thorin paces back and forth in his living room, night's silent fingers draping across his face like waves an ocean shore. Somewhere, somewhere deep inside his house, he can hear his grandfather clock tolling, its ominous call reverberating through his chest. Stopping at the mouth of his stairwell, the dark space above the twisting steps weighing down on him, he listens to the melodic chanting, begging for it to stop. The silence, however, serves only to remind him that it's nearly midnight, and the pain of that realization stabs him like a stake to the heart.

Taking out his phone, Thorin dials his boyfriend's number, listening to the line ring insistently before it goes to voice-mail. He hesitates as the little recorded message plays, but the moment the beep comes he finds he has nothing to say, and just hangs up.

Twenty minutes later, he sends a text. Laugh, he writes, if you want, but I'm starting to get really worried. Call me.

As he waits in the darkness for a response, Thorin replays that morning in his head. Driving Bilbo to the train station, helping him get his luggage out of the trunk. "You'll let me know when you get in?" He had asked, refusing to let his smile waver at the sight of Bilbo heading off into the blue. "Just so I know?"

Bilbo had laughed, but the sound was bashful, almost embarrassed "I will. You know I will."

Like miniature ghosts, those words are now, haunting Thorin's every thought. Part of him hopes Bilbo has just forgotten, maybe gotten distracted by the family he's gone to stay with, and in the morning, when their daily check-ins are due, he will apologize with the lightest of chuckles, whispers of a thousand untold stories already on his lips. But the other part of Thorin, the part of him that demands he wait just a little bit longer, can feel the string pulled between their hearts growing taunt, teetering on the verge of snapping. What if Bilbo's in trouble somewhere? What if something's happened? The mere thought of harm coming to his dearest friend is enough to nearly cripple him.

Thorin calls again. And again and again and again. He begins to leave increasingly desperate voice-mails, inching slowly more and more towards a place he doesn't want to be. He sends another few texts, spacing them out between the passing hours, and then calls again.

Still, there is nothing.

Two hours pass. Three. Four. Morning is just about to break on the horizon, the first few rays already escaping from the grips of night. Thorin walks to his car, starts the ignition, gets out, gets back in, gets out, and then returns to his living room. Where would he even go? Where would he look? Where would he even begin?

Turning to fall back into his repetitive path, he's startled to see Fili still awake, watching television on the couch across the room. His dark eyes are out of focus, his fingers hardly even grasping the remote, but every now and again he re-positions the blanket over Kili's slightly smaller frame, most of which is draped across his legs. Thorin manages to catch his eye and gesture to the stairwell with his head, but Fili merely yawns and mumbles something Thorin doesn't catch. Coming up beside his nephew, he eases onto the cushions and gently takes the remote from his hand.

"I'm sorry I've kept you up," he whispers, his voice as quiet as he can make it. For a split second Fili is a teenager again, and Thorin has to bite down the urge to parent him and send him to bed.

"S'alright," Fili murmurs, smiling slightly as he shifts in place. "You worry too much, you know."

Thorin bows his head. "Better I worry at all."

As he rests for a few minutes, staring off into space, he watches as the room slowly begins to brighten. Following the feeble streams of light, Thorin's eyes are drawn to the collection of picture-frames that stand like sentinels on the walls all around him, displaying dozens of stolen moments from all the years of his life. The largest of them, though no bigger than a sheet of Bristol board, is one of him and his nephews at the beach, Kili no older than twelve.

"Uncle," he had asked Thorin, patting down his little fort in the sand with a plastic shovel. "Are you happy?"

Thorin doesn't remember his answer, but whatever it had been, it could hardly have been the truth. I was lonely, Thorin echoes through the head of his twenty-something year old self, and tired. Maybe even a little broken. But you needed me to be strong, so that was all I ever let you see.

Thorin returns to his pacing. The floor creaks underneath his feet as he walks, the carpet catches on his toes and bunches in odd places. He draws himself a glass of water, but it overflows at the corners of his lips and drips down his chin. His mortar skills are beginning to fail, and soon even the stairwell looks appealing, just to sit down for a moment, maybe even to rest his eyes…

Fili's voice floats in from the living room. "Just go to bed, dad. I'm sure Bilbo is fine."

Turning, Thorin studies his nephew's face, waiting for him to correct himself, waiting for him to realize his slip of tongue, but instead he merely nods off, closing his eyes as if the sight of him doing so would be enough to send Thorin to his room. In all honestly, it almost is, and Thorin makes it halfway between the floors before giving up and returning to the couch.

Despite his best effort, he must have fallen asleep, because suddenly he's being shaken awake by a very nervous Kili, who's waving at the tv with the remote.

"Uncle," he says. It's all he says. His eyes betray the rest.

Even in his sleep-impaired state, Thorin can make out enough of the images flashing across the news to understand there's been an accident. A man in a striped tie is talking loudly at the camera, turning every now and again back to the river, as if to put emphasis on his words.

Thorin only catches snit-bits. Paramedics. A boat. The Brandywine. Critical condition. He doesn't understand at first, can't connect the dots quite right, but when his phone rings he nearly flies to it, knowing even before the person speaks that his worry has not been without cause.

"Thorin Oakenshield," a female voice says, her words piercing into his mind as if she was speaking directly into his head. "There isn't much time." Thorin turns to the television, searching for what he can't have known to find, spotting a lady in the background of the shot, a Bluetooth in her ear.

"Bilbo," Thorin says.

The woman doesn't answer. Instead she says, "You must hurry." And then she's gone, and the line is dead.