Disclaimer: I do not own or claim ownership to any content related to or included in the Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien.
A/N: A random one-shot - enjoy!
Storm - Their eyes lock in an abrupt flash of thunder and lightning that sends all of his exasperated intuitions of the dwarves scuttling to an insignificant crevice of his mind. The hobbit is distantly aware of Gandalf introducing the dwarf as he flounders within the regal dwarf's eyes, which are overshadowed by thick, dark lashes, like a serene forest pool guarded by shade of ancient oaks. He scarcely dares to breathe as the leader of their company prowls around him appraisingly, his steely gaze striking the delicate hobbit like a hammer, nailing him to the spot. The hobbit dares a peek up at the dwarf looming above him, his cerulean puddles solidified into chips of arctic ice; smooth and impassive, yet sharp and passionate as they keenly observed the nervous twitches of the halfling. The King under the Mountain wound a full circuit around the company's future burglar, bound to the orbit around the hobbit by their instantaneous connection. Their eyes fasten on each other once more and it's beautiful, unique, like a gentle mist of subtle rain on a gloriously sunny day.
Question - He scrambles to answer the blunt question directed towards him. Well I do have some skill with conkers if you must know, but I fail to see why that's relevant. Mentally berating his treacherous tongue, the hobbit withers slightly at the king's disdainful response, "Thought as much. Looks more like a grocer than a burglar." And yet, he is still somehow entranced by the rumbling gravelly voice that just insulted him.
Blooming - Thorin's only addressed him once, but in that hour and twenty-two minutes, the hobbit caught the king eyeing him fourteen times and made his heart skip seven beats.
Quiet - Bilbo's gentle breathing in the night keeps him sane. He doesn't want to care about the halfling, and most of the time he pretends not to. But having someone next to him - having the hobbit curled up beside him - makes everything about the dead of night peaceful. Even when the hobbit is not awake, the satisfied smile plastered over his ample cheeks is enough for him to breathe steadily, the soft in-and-out as he dreams to his right is enough to lull him to sleep, and the way the halfling is burrowed within his bedroll is enough to make him want to freeze the moment and stay in it forever.
Confidence - Am I good enough?
Silence - I love you.
Fire - For someone so numb, Thorin's touch is like smoldering flames, hungrily licking at his body. Blazing tendrils snaking their way up his spine, stinging his ribs, and flaring wherever his hands come in contact with Bilbo's skin. It scorches, it burns, it leaves him breathless - as though his lungs were coated with smoke from his pipe. It drives Bilbo insane … and he loves every second of it.
Ice - The hobbit's skin is always cold. So cold and frozen that he barely represses a shiver whenever they brush past each other. But when his temper reaches breaking point, when his blood is boiling with frustration, all it takes is the freezing presence of the stout hobbit. He'll never tell a soul that Bilbo has that soothing effect on him, and he'll never tell a soul that all it takes is the frigid aura radiating from the halfling to envelope his own heated body. He'll especially never tell a soul that he thinks he might enjoy it.
Adorable - Everything about the halfling is adorable - the well-mannered way Bilbo handles everything, how easily embarrassed he is (much to the delight of his bothersome sister-sons), even the way he toys with his suspenders and the awkward way he rides his pony.
Pretty - His eyes are pretty, but nothing else. Thorin doesn't believe pretty is strong enough to describe the rest of the delicate hobbit. But the eyes? They're real and honest, and so damn pretty that he has to scowl at them for fear of drowning in those cognac* doe eyes.
Safe - Only when Thorin is beside him.
Aulë - He's never really been a believer, especially after the destruction of Erebor, but when he turns to see Bilbo chasing after the company, panting, winded, the contract fluttering behind him like a flag; he thinks it might be possible.
Pony - Everyone else is sleeping. Fíli and Kíli lounge beside each other in companionable silence, observing the flickering shadows waltzing above the crackling flame. Thorin cracks open an eye, just wide enough to catch the hobbit gingerly picking his way towards the ponies. He still can't believe he allowed the wizard to string along the blundering hobbit. He'll be the death of us all, the king thought bitterly, watching as the halfling stumbled over the jagged terrain. But seeing the hobbit slipping an apple from his pocket and into his pony's eager jaws, rubbing his nose and whispering words too soft for Thorin's ears; Bilbo looks so content it takes all of the king's willpower to restrain a smile of his own.
Name - Everyone knows the story. He listened attentively as Balin described the brave leadership of the young dwarven prince, thus earning him the epithet Oakenshield. That had been a subject of curiosity for the hobbit for a while before that night, and despite finally discovering how he had earned it, there were still millions of questions whizzing through his mind. Bilbo subtly managed to learn everything he could about the aloof leader; it didn't take much. All someone - usually him - had to do was mention him and the stories would flow.
Young - When he's frustrated, brutal words are hurled at the hobbit. When Bilbo's in danger, his grip on Orcrist is so tense that he can barely unclench his hands after the adrenaline rush, glaring at the imprint of his hands on the cushioned leather grip. When things are just right, his feelings are so deep he can scarcely breathe. Even after 195 years, he's just too young for it all.
Stay - Stretched out beside the hobbit, Thorin knows that he hasn't slept for days after his nephews' foolish joke about orcs, and he knows that he needs to. Bilbo rolls over to face Thorin, who decides it's best to leave the hobbit alone and makes a move to turn his back on him. But the halfling's eyes fasten on his, binding him to place, silently telling him, asking him, begging him, please, please don't go.
Rain - The hobbit thinks he resembles a drowned rat, what with the limp curls plastered over his sopping forehead. All the dwarf sees as is an angel amongst the bedraggled company, framed by a glorious halo of mist.
Ugly - He's had so many injuries that he's lost count. From the crude weapons of orcs, from fights with friends, from pointy-eared scum. He's got a strong stomach: blood, bruises, breaks, even death has never been a problem before. But when he catches the slight bruising disappearing beneath the hobbit's jacket sleeve from their encounter with the trolls and the way he attempts to hide it by nervously tugging at the fraying edge, he feels as though he might relinquish their meager meal of stew. The hobbit is still beautiful, but he's never seen anything so ugly in his life.
Smile - Sometimes he smiles when he sleeps. It's a little unnerving to see the hobbit grinning like an idiot, but then, so is watching him sleep. That awkward but content half-smile is always the same, whenever and wherever, except with Thorin. Only he can make the hobbit's face light up.
Lies - He'll be alright. Don't worry. I'm fine. Thorin's no fool - he knows Bilbo isn't as sturdy as the dwarves, and he wants to hate the stubborn hobbit and everyone else for pretending this journey hasn't taken its toll on the halfling.
Eyes - Thorin's favorite color is amber. Like his eyes.
Tears - He doesn't know what to do the first time the hobbit cries. He jolts awake at the soft sniffles of the halfling as he recuperates from the nightmares plaguing his sleep. Thorin remains frozen on his side, listening tensely to the whimpers emitted from the terrified hobbit. He doesn't know what was so traumatic that he can't stop weeping, he doesn't know what to say, he doesn't know how to comfort her. Part of him wants to smack the sniveling hobbit to shut him up, he can't stand hearing those muffled heartbroken sobs. But when he sits up and whirls around, only to be met with the hobbit's timid doe eyes, something tugs at his chest. Relaxing his face, he hesitantly inches closer, yanks the sleeves of his royal blue tunic over his thumbs and dries the hobbit's round, tear-stained cheeks. And then, with a gentleness that surprises even himself, the King under the Mountain wraps his fur-lined cloak snugly around the narrow shoulders of the trembling hobbit.
Jealousy - The envy that courses through the dwarf's veins and threatens to overwhelm him catches him off-guard. Why should he care that the rest of the dwarves, even Dwalin, have warmed up to the hobbit? He breathes deeply in an attempt to calm his burning desire and restrain himself from smacking his traitorous nephews for making the hobbit flush such an adorable shade of crimson, from the tempting flash of skin disappearing into his collar all the way to the delicate points of his ears.
Kiss - Angry, bitter, frustrated. Full of burning desire, fierce passion, fervent craving. Sensitive, tender, affectionate. Bursting with heat, spirit and love. Indignant, erratic, frenzied. But good. Always, always good.
Love - The hobbit wishes he didn't. The dwarf thinks he might.
Comfort - When the halfling is forced awake by the fifth nightmare in a row, he doesn't say a word. No don't worry, no it'll be fine, and definitely no it's okay. He says nothing, all the while breathing steadily next to the tiny hobbit - and he says nothing, squeezing back tears as he rubs at his forehead. But the weight of Thorin's royal blue cloak draped around shoulders is enough to keep the panic away.
Melody - Sometime's he's more than the hobbit could have ever asked for. Sometimes they'll end up alone together; sometimes he'll invent an excuse to hover near the hobbit; sometimes, sometimes they'll sneak away during a brief moment of peace and spend time together, hidden away from the prying eyes of the company. Most of the time, they'll quickly wander away from each other to dissuade the others' assumptions, but sometimes ... sometimes they just bask in each other's presence in an enjoyable silence.
Defeat - He doesn't like being right about the dwarf's opinion and he hates that everyone else is at a loss for words. Bilbo's always known, deep in his heart, that Thorin never wanted him here, but hearing it now crushes his heart. The Baggins side is screaming for him to heed the angry king's words and set course for Bag-End. But instead, he squares his shoulders and steps out from behind the tree to face the company.
Fool - All he can do is stare in horror as the king untangles his limbs from the spindly arms of the uprooted tree and bears down upon the pale orc, the company's screams falling to deaf ears. He can only watch, terrified, as the massive white warg, sinks its fangs into Thorin's side and tosses him aside like a rag doll. But he doesn't just watch the sick smile spreading across the scarred face of Azog as Thorin crumples to the earth. Instead, he reinforces his grip on his faithful elvish blade, licks his lips, and tearing towards the henchman threatening the love of his life, as fast as his stout legs allow him to.
Hollow - Thorin's unconscious and Bilbo's nothing without him. Fili and Kili are biting their nails and fidgeting in the back of the huddle, the rest of the company are haggard and at the brink of collapsing from exhaustion, but the hobbit just feels empty. As callous as the dwarf is, he fills Bilbo, and he needs Thorin.
Victory - The miffed halfling sure is giving him an interesting look. If he didn't know any better, he would say it was frustration; instead it's confusion, guilt and maybe even a dash of irritation. Of course, the confusion and guilt and irritation is caused by the frustration the hobbit refuses to show. And then Thorin engulfs him in a massive bear-hug, his arms clasped so tightly around Bilbo that he's afraid it might hurt him. After a moment, the king draws away from the hobbit, afraid this might not be enough to appease his thoughtless actions, only to be met with a dazzling smile brighter than all the jewels waiting in Erebor. He can't believe how forgiving the hobbit is and briefly he wonders if Bilbo has really pardoned him or if he just went with the unexpected apology for the sake of the others, but Thorin grins at his success anyway.
Laugh - They is still a slightly awkward air to their confusing relationship. In fact, the hobbit's still trying to impress him, much to the amusement of the dwarf king. Stumbling over an unseen root poking from forest floor and into the low-swung branches of a tree won't help, but as he rights himself, brushing at invisible specks of dust and fidgeting his jacket, he already knows that hearing that rumbling laugh is one of those things he won't take for granted.
Sun - His eyes are closed, hands folded over his stomach (which had shrunk considerably since their first encounter), a pleasant smile aglow on his contented face and a soft hum issuing from his throat. After a not-so-subtle prod from Balin, Thorin hesitantly lumbers over and slowly, so slowly he hopes the hobbit won't notice, settles beside the resting hobbit leaning against the slight hill. A tiny smile graces his face and he knows the halfling is aware of his presence. He is glad for this window of peace, away from the prying eyes of the company, who are obliviously splashing away in the river beyond the hill. The dwarf awkwardly scoots closer, pleasantly surprised to feel heat radiating from the peaceful hobbit. Usually it's the cloak, or even Thorin's own presence that warms him, but as he inhales deeply and settles back against the ridge, the king swears he can smell the sun radiating from Bilbo.
Share - The hobbit asks for a sip of water, and he can't help but stare at his plush lips as he speaks. And every time he hands the halfling the water skin and every time he daintily sips away, shoulders hunched slightly and eyes not quite meeting his, he knows he's a goner.
Rampaging & Retreating - Every time they fight, Thorin stalks around the camp and threatens anything in sight, usually one of his unfortunate sister-sons. Every time they fight, Bilbo withdraws into the minimal comfort provided by the shell of his bedroll to wallow in despair.
Walking - His heart quickens as the door reopens and the wood-elf slams down a wooden tray laden with food. Did the hobbit make it? Had he been caught? The king wants to sob in relief when the hobbit materializes before him after the door snaps shut and ambles over, back to him, just like he promised he would. Instead, he restrains himself from launching himself from the wall and tackling the grinning hobbit in a bear-hug.
Innocence - He's never done this before. He wants Thorin, but he's so damn nervous it's almost enough to put the king on edge. Instead, he gently tilts the hobbit's head upwards, brushes those copper curls away from his forehead, and leans down, doing his best to will the halfling's fear away.
Forgotten - He's not used to the sudden swell of heat bursting to life in his chest. The perspiration veiling his palms, the butterflies nipping at his stomach, the hitch in his breath. It doesn't happen often and it certainly never happened before he met the hobbit. The effect of the hobbit agitates him; he's turning into a love-sick fool. Usually he reins in his impulses by engaging in a conversation with Dwalin, whose gruff words always bring him back down to earth. But sometimes, he'll allow it to happen because it's a nice reminder.
Temptation - It lingers in the gloomy corner of his mind, the silent fear that has haunted him the entire span of the journey. The knowledge of his kin's fatal flaw - the lust for gold. He sees the bountiful piles of gold, and barely restrains himself from diving into the sea of precious treasure. It's natural, he reassures himself, that he wants to wallow in the gold, it is his after all. Somewhere in the back of his head, he faintly recalls promising himself that he won't be consumed his desires and commit the same mistake that his grandfather Thror did. But he brushes the warning away, ignores the hobbit's worried gaze trained on his back, and eagerly strays away from the company, tunneling further into the ravaged halls of Erebor.
Worry - The hobbit observes Thorin as he leads the company into the lavish castle, overflowing with copious amounts of gold. He sees the gleam of lust swimming in the depths of those sapphire pools, the eager, jerky movements as the king breaks away from the cluster. And he fears that Thorin's greed will consume him.
Time - It stands still when Thorin finds out the hobbit handed over the Arkenstone to the enemy. He doesn't know why he feels so ... betrayed. He thought the hobbit would always be on his side. But he's not. What's worse is that the king knows it's his own damn fault for allowing himself to be blinded by lust for the gold, the very thing he promised never to do.
Never - He'll never take it back, all the cruel words he hurled at the hobbit. Not after what he's done. Voicing his opinion against Thorin's plans was one thing, but to aid the enemy, to give them the Arkenstone ... absolutely not.
Search - He needs to find him. He doesn't care that goblins are slashing at him left and right, that his limbs are screaming from exertion, that every movement sends pain rippling along his left side; he just needs to find the hobbit. Ironically, it's the haze of battle that jarred him from the sickness clouding his mind. He knows he's messed up and that their relationship may never be the same, but the king is determined not to give up.
Ache - His gaze fixates on the hobbit as soon as he enters the room and peeks out from behind Gandalf's towering form. This is it. He's going to apologize, he's going to make things right between the two of them before he passes to the Halls of Aulë. But everything he planned to say trickles from his mind as he sees the hesitant look swirling within the depths of the hobbit's caramel eyes. Guilt? Regret? With horror, the king realizes that it's fear, fear of him. And there's an unfamiliar ache in his chest that hurts more than the fatal injuries he's dying of.
Breathe - He's shivering, head pounding, hands shaking. It can't be true, it's not, the king's just asleep - but even as he weakly attempts to convince himself, he knows all the excuses in the world won't change anything. Thorin Oakenshield is dead, and he has to remind himself to continue breathing.
Remember - It's September 29, 3021 and Bilbo Baggins is sailing out towards the Undying Lands of Valinor with Gandalf, Elrond, Galadriel, and Frodo. And staring into the disappearing horizon of the Grey Havens, he remembers those stormy blue eyes framed by waves of silver-streaked raven locks and that rumbling laugh that still entrances him just like it did when they first met.
* Cognac - Dictionary Definition: A fine brandy. My perspective: A medium warm brown shot with golden (possibly orange) rays in the iris.
A/N: This is my first serious attempt at writing a one-shot (and Bagginshield). Feedback would be perfect :)