They came upon Beorn's hall that afternoon, though Gandalf didn't manage to persuade the skinchanger to welcome the entire company until just before sundown. Four walls, a roof, and a generous meal did a great deal to improve Bilbo's humour, even if Thorin had very nearly managed to spill vegetable soup, a bowl of honey, and two separate mugs of mead all over him since they'd all tucked in.
Bilbo was more than willing to forgive the unusual clumsiness, even if he was invariably the unfortunate recipient; a bit of unsteadiness was likely to be expected after being gnawed by a warg, after all. Thorin's mounting annoyance with his own awkwardness was obvious, and it simply served to make Bilbo even more tolerant; the pride of a dwarf, and especially a dwarven king, was a touchy thing.
And if Bilbo made a point of refilling Thorin's mug for him, it could be explained away as a friendly overture between companions, rather than assistance. Thorin, doubtlessly, would not have responded well to anything approaching blatant coddling; Bilbo needed to be more subtle than that, even if his hands twitched to lay a soothing balm over the purpling bruises creeping up from Thorin's beard and across his nose, blackening around one steely blue eye.
Subtlety still earned him a searching look, not quite wary, but also the barest hint of a smile quirking at the edges of Thorin's mouth. It reminded Bilbo of the moment they'd shared atop the Carrock, standing together with Erebor standing proud and lonesome in the distance. It reminded him of Thorin's words, and the welcome strength of his unexpected embrace— his acceptance.
I have never been so wrong in all my life.
The feeling that had taken root in Bilbo's chest was warmer than Beorn's great hearth, and showed no signs of burning out anytime soon.
Balin very nearly buried his face in his hands as Thorin fumbled with another mug of sweet, heady mead, sloshing it over the tabletop but not managing to get more than a drop or two on the hobbit's wrist. Someone needed to do something before poor Bilbo ended up doused with an entire pitcher of cream.
Considering the average cleverness, or even basic good sense their company usually exhibited, Balin wasn't holding out a great deal of hope that someone would be anyone except himself.
When Bilbo began pouring drinks, filling Thorin's mug for him, it was quite obviously more self-preservation than anything else. And yet, the smile that lit up Thorin's eyes and lifted his mouth was enough to make Balin sigh, growing sentimental as he went deeper into his own cups.
This was not simple infatuation, that much was crystal clear.
It wasn't completely unheard of to find the voice of a Heartsong among other races, though he had never considered such an oddity might occur in the House of Durin. It was generally considered a sign of mixed blood somewhere in a family line, but Thorin's ancestry could be traced back generations, entirely dwarven.
Their Mr. Baggins was more than he appeared— Balin had known as much since the wee fellow had come dashing up upon their ponies, with a glint in his eyes and his contract flapping like a flag behind him.
It might be strange, but it was good, and Balin was confident that conclusion was not simply a product of strong mead and old memories.
And in these dark, difficult times, good things sometimes needed a bit of a push to get going.
"Thorin, come here a moment. Here, take this."
"Balin? Where did you— I was certain this was lost—"
"A few things made it out from Goblin Town, laddie. A spot battered, perhaps, but still in working order. Still whole."
"Still... aye. Aye, battered, but whole. Thank you, my dear Balin."
"Ah, you can thank me by putting it to good use."
AN: more to come, hopefully this weekend! Contents including but not limited to: harp playing, more awkward Thorin, and (as you might expect with a kink meme fill) some gratuitous but probably fairly fluffy dwarf/hobbit boning like whoa. 3