Orodruin, Bilbo knows from his studies of the maps, is nowhere close to Erebor. As the Quest starts, Bilbo considers parting with the Company early, perhaps, at Beorn's. But as time goes on, the excitement of having a solid plan, however hard it is in execution, wins out over his fatigue. He starts to interact with the dwarves freely. He grows fond of them anew, this ragtag Company — the joyful, playful princes, humorous Bofur, inquisitive Ori... Once more, they win over Bilbo's heart. And then, there's Thorin.

Thorin and his ever-present gaze that never leaves him. Bilbo feels it when he cooks dinner with Bombur, trading recipes and offering tips on the best places to forage as they travel. It follows him when Bilbo spars with Dwalin and bests him in combat, slipping under the large dwarf's guard and holding a sword to his throat. It's there when he talks with Dori, discussing tea blends and wines, and when he teaches Shire history to Ori. At times, it seems there's nowhere he can hide where Thorin's attention would not go.

A day away from the Trollshaws, howls rend the air as they are settling for the night.

"Oh, it must be wargs! Orcs' raiding parties are prowling these lands," Kíli says in what he clearly believes is an ominous whisper. "I heard stories..."

"They will creep into camps like our is, on nights like this, carrying filthy and gruesome riders," Fíli picks up the thread.

"The wargs and orcs are not enemies to take lightly." Bilbo glances up from his sword — a dagger in a Man's hands, it is indeed a proper sword for a hobbit. The edge is sharp; Bilbo has seen to that, but nothing worth comparing with his Sting. Soon, he will get his favoured weapon back. He puts away the whetstone, takes up an oiled cloth. "You've never fought in a real battle, have you?"

The princes shake their heads.

"You will, of course. This Quest is dangerous. And when you do, when enemies too numerous to take on chase after you and corner you like rabbits, and you have no way out but to fight against an overwhelming force, say four or five to one—and orcs have wargs, remember? These slavering beasts they beat and disfigure, starve until they are rabid with pain and hunger, and only then they sic them on their prey. Now, imagine that and how you will feel."

The princes pale. Eyes round like brass buttons of a faunt's doll, they stare at Bilbo with their mouths falling open.

"You will be terrified, sure, and not just for your own life. And brave, because you are brave boys, I see it. You will fight. Imagine even that you win. Perhaps, not all of your companions and kin are so lucky, but you are. You live. And now, I want you to imagine, to think of what it takes to kill. What killing takes from you and what surviving does." He stands then, puts his sword away. And all is silent save for the fire, the chirping of the crickets, and the wargs. He nods and steps into the shadows.

"What happened, Bilbo?" Gandalf asks, finding him later. The night has come in full, but the ponies' warmth is enough to stave off the chill, huddled close as they are.

Bilbo feeds Myrtle the last piece of carrot, pats her neck and sneezes. He wipes his nose with his favourite handkerchief — embroidered with Belladonna blooms. And looking up, he meets the wizard's saddened eyes head-on.

"A lot. Too many things to count. In short, life happened, Gandalf. Good night." He walks away, returning to the camp and under Thorin's watchful gaze.

The journey goes on. The trolls they can't entirely avoid, but Bilbo urges the Company to move past them.

"I've heard distressing rumours while in Bree, and this—" he gestures at the burned down house "—this is bad news. A family lived here just last month."

And Thorin nods, demeanour serious and thoughtful. "We must press on. Whoever did it, they might be near. Be on your guard."

They pass the danger, but Bilbo catches Gandalf's sleeve and murmurs, "It's trolls. I overheard the Rangers talking."

"This is troubling," the wizard says. "Let us hope we are far enough." He strokes his beard and hums. "I must investigate another matter. Try not to get eaten in the meantime."

"Where are you going?" Thorin demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

"To look ahead."

"And how soon will you be back?"

"Whenever I will look behind. I'm not a youngling with a curfew. I will return when I decide and not a moment sooner." With that, the wizard strides away, his long legs carrying him swiftly.

"At dawn, Eru willing," Bilbo mutters, and Thorin looks at him with questions in his eyes but sighs and leaves in silence.

The night is quiet, if not restful, and in the morning, Gandalf leads them to the cave with hidden treasures. The younger dwarves marvel at the stone trolls, but wisely, though Bilbo half-expects it, no one comments on how they would have liked to test their strength against such foes.

"Here, I think, is the perfect sword for you," Gandalf says, distracting Bilbo from contemplating Bert's surprised face. The wizard presses the elven dagger into Bilbo's hands, and Bilbo thanks him, hangs the scabbard on his belt.

He puts away his simple sword and hesitates. "Hm."

"Something the matter?" Thorin asks, his sharp regard a constant Bilbo doesn't even notice. That is a lie. He tracks their leader always. Not outright, of course, but from the corners of his eyes. He tells himself he doesn't.

"No, no. Just thought of something new." He puts his Mannish sword into his pack at last, but just for now.

"I've never tried dual wielding, that is all."

The oddest look crosses Thorin's face. Before Bilbo can begin deciphering it, the racket of the rabbit-pulled sledge puts the Company on high alert.

The wizards talk, the warg attacks, the Company jumps on their ponies and spur them into a gallop.

This cycle is of the luckier ones. Even as part of the orcs' party chases the Company instead of the brown wizard, the elves meet them halfway and lend a hand dispatching their enemies.

"Thank you for your assistance," Thorin mutters under Balin's and Gandalf's pointed looks. "We must be off, however."

But Gandalf takes him aside, and after some debate and expressive gesticulation, Thorin announces their next stop with visible reluctance. To Rivendell, they go.

Lord Elrond greets them, and without a second's thought, Bilbo steps forth to talk with him.

"Your mother was Belladonna Took? Was she the one who taught you? I commend you — your Sindarin is perfect," Lord Elrond says, and only then Bilbo notices the silence of the Company, the stares.

"Oh." He clears his throat. "How rude of me. I was just thanking Lord Elrond for his hospitality," he explains for the dwarves, and for their host, he adds, "My parents left a vast collection of books." He shrugs. "It helped."

That doesn't explain his flawless pronunciation, but nobody questions him on it.

Some minutes later, they are escorted to their accommodations. Thorin insists on staying in one room, and so their elven guide shows the Company to a suitable chamber. The dwarves go inside, but Bilbo doesn't.

"You aren't coming?" Thorin asks, staying just inside the doorway.

"No. Lord Elrond offered my mother's old room. Apparently, they keep it just for hobbits." He chuckles. "I'm looking forward to a proper-sized bed."

Thorin's gaze darts to their escort. The elf is waiting at a respectable distance, allowing them to keep an illusion of privacy. There's no telling how sharp his hearing is; his placid expression never changes.

"Your mother visited the elves?" Thorin asks.

"Oh, yes! She was quite the adventurous sort in her youth, used to travel with Gandalf. No further than Rivendell, mind you, but for a hobbit lass, that is quite far and most scandalous besides." His smile is soft as he remembers his mother's stories heard so long ago. "It would be interesting to hear Lord Elrond's recollections. She passed away, oh, seven winters back?" he explains, preempting the question. "It feels much longer."

"I understand," Thorin says. He squeezes Bilbo's wrist briefly, and Bilbo shivers.

"Yes, well. I'm looking forward to a bath, don't you? It's been a while since I had a proper soak. I'm going to find a hot spring and not leave it till late evening. You should do so as well; it's quite relaxing. They are so lovely here, hot springs and evenings."

As Bilbo speaks, Thorin's eyebrows climb higher and higher, and belatedly, Bilbo realises how his words could be taken and blushes.

"Oh, that's not how I meant it. I mean, you do stink, so you should wash up too and do laundry while you are at it, but it was not an invitation to bath together." He nods, his skin so hot, he must be brighter than a beet soup. "Good day." And he is off, traversing corridors with the ease of familiarity.

Belatedly, Bilbo slows down and waits for the elf accompanying him to take the lead. It wouldn't do to show that he knows his way around here.

"Whatever was that?" Bilbo mutters once left alone and smacks his forehead in absolute embarrassment. "You stink? Who outside their tweens says that aloud?!" He groans, shakes his head. So Thorin thinks he is a loon and rude, at that. It doesn't matter. He has a task, which isn't forging close friendships.

He skips the dining hall in favour of the kitchens. Enquiring about the way beforehand, Bilbo arranges a light meal to eat in his room. And in the morning, he finds the training yard and watches elves practice. After a while, he asks to join and soon enough finds a willing teacher. The elves look upon him fondly — his diminutive stature, pointed ears and fluency in Sindarin are endearing to the Firstborn of Ilúvatar.

"May I look at your swords?" asks his new instructor, a fair-haired elf named Forgam.

Bilbo hands them over.

"This one" — Forgam holds Sting up — "was made in Gondolin, forged by the smiths of the First Age. A fine blade, it will serve you well. This one, however," this time he weighs the Mannish dagger and clucks his tongue. "This could be better."

"It was the best available in Bree," Bilbo murmurs, taking his weapons back. "They don't exactly have a high demand for hobbit appropriate swords there."

A dip of his chin, and the elf gestures to continue training and starts explaining how to disarm an opponent with crossed blades.

Bilbo deems the matter over, but on the next day, he receives a new dagger, lighter and shorter than Sting, with few adornments. It is a streamlined blade shaped like a leaf, perfectly balanced. He will miss it after this cycle ends.

"This will suit you better," Forgam says, nodding at his thanks, and shows him a new manoeuvre. Out of the corner of his eye, Bilbo sees a shade of red exactly matching Nori's hair, but when he finishes the move and turns to check, no one is in that direction.

Days pass. Bilbo doesn't quite avoid the dwarves. He isn't going out of his way to never meet them, but mealtimes are easy when you have an 'in' with the cooks. Bilbo enjoys what simple tasks they let him do, peeling and dicing vegetables to his heart's content. It is as soothing as it is uncomplicated.

It's not to last. Three days later, Thorin tracks him down.

The morning session in the yard ran long and hard but ultimately rewarding. Bilbo's limbs ache with the promise of strong muscles, and he is stretching his back, his thoughts at the hot spring, when Bilbo spots the dwarf leaning on the wall beside his room.

The way Thorin looks him up and down, taking in his rumpled state and sweat-dampened clothes, heats Bilbo's blood quicker than his training.

"You are a hard person to find."

"Hello, Master Oakenshield," Bilbo says, coming to a stop. "Did you need something?"

In contrast to Bilbo, Thorin's clothes are freshly laundered. His hair and beard are soft and shining. He even smells like softer herbal soaps, to Bilbo's mild surprise — too elven.

"Just checking if the elves did away with you and if we need to avenge your life. I haven't even glimpsed you once since our arrival. I'm glad my worries were unfounded."

"Yes, well." Bilbo flexes his toes. "I've been busy."

Thorin's gaze slides to the weapons hanging off his belt. "I can see that."

They lapse into silence. Despite Thorin's light tone, the conversation and the whole encounter feel so stilted and awkward that Bilbo frowns, thinking about who might have forced Thorin into fetching him. Gandalf? No, he would have come himself. As if on cue, Thorin asks,

"Will you join me in the dining hall, or are you going to be too preoccupied with other tasks to eat?"

"I've been eating."

Thorin waits, and Bilbo huffs.

"All right." When Thorin doesn't make a move, he adds, "Is that all? I'm not going to disappear, and I am in need of a good scrub." Despite his best efforts, Bilbo colours.

A sudden smirk, mischievous and boyish, pulls at Thorin's lips, highlighting the resemblance with his nephews. "I did find the bathing chambers."

Bilbo licks his lips, his heartbeat gaining speed. "I can see that."

"Well." "I shouldn't keep you." They say it at the same time.

"Right." Bilbo nods. "Until later."

"Later," Thorin echoes. "I look forward to it." He leaves as Bilbo enters his room.

"What was that?" Bilbo wonders aloud, staring at the closed door. He shakes himself. "Right. Clean clothes."

At dinner, Thorin saves a seat for him. He is entirely too courteous, asking after Bilbo's preferences. He offers Bilbo plates of cheeses and cold meats and keeps his goblet full even though Bilbo barely partakes the wine, refusing to lose the sharpness of his wits. He doesn't understand what's going on, why Thorin is behaving in such an uncharacteristic manner.

Perhaps, he suspects Bilbo of something and wants to catch him in a lie. Colluding with the elves? It is early enough into the Quest's timeline that such a thought isn't impossible. Bilbo has been absent a lot lately, and with his knowledge of Sindarin... That's it, Bilbo decides. Thorin's simply keeping an eye on me.

He does. As midsummer draws closer, Thorin meets Bilbo every single day—it just so happens—before the evening meal to walk the last few corridors to the dining hall and always asks about Bilbo's day. It's fine, as far as Bilbo is concerned. He doesn't mind the questions. It turns into a routine, and it is then when Thorin breaks it and seeks him out in the afternoon instead.

"Are you going somewhere in particular, Master Baggins?" Thorin says, intercepting Bilbo as he is about to leave the wide boulevard in favour of a narrow side path.

"Into the gardens," Bilbo says and wonders, why is Thorin here? He never, in all of Bilbo's countless lives, sought him out in Rivendell. Thorin's unreadable eyes deny him answers.

"Would you mind it if I join you?"

Ah, so he must suspect that Bilbo's meeting someone. "Not at all."

They stroll together, listening to the sounds of a waterfall. The flowers are blooming, and occasionally, Bilbo stops to enjoy their sweet smells.

"You like it here," Thorin says abruptly.

Bilbo looks up, but of course, Thorin's profile reveals nothing of his thoughts.

"Yes," Bilbo agrees. He has no reason to deny the obvious. "I think it's peaceful. And how do you find it?"

"Not as awful as expected."

"High praise, coming from a dwarf."

Thankfully, Thorin finds his remark humorous and not offensive. His lips twitch into a smile. "You, too, are not how I expected you to be."

"What do you mean?"

Thorin takes a slow breath, his gaze momentarily turned inwards. "When Gandalf said we were to meet a hobbit, I thought it would be someone soft, untempered, untried. But you, you are a warrior. You are like mithril weave — soft-looking, but strong and unyielding under pressure."

"Well. Thank you, I think. I will pretend it was a compliment."

"It was."

They walk some more. Even as Thorin fidgets with a strip of leather and lapses into silence at odd intervals, Bilbo doesn't mind his presence. Perhaps, it is the familiarity. By the time they make the final turn around the gardens, the sun has dipped behind the treetops, so slow is their pace.

As their newly-formed habit, Thorin escorts him to the dining hall. Not all dwarves are present. There's an opening between Bofur and Nori, and Bilbo moves to take that seat, it being a while since he talked to either dwarf, but stops as Thorin touches his arm.

"I was hoping you would sit with me," Thorin says when Bilbo looks at him.

Bewildered at the seemingly unceasing attention, Bilbo murmurs, "All right."

This sets a new pattern for their interactions: the mornings through middays, Bilbo trains, sharpening his skills. The afternoons and evenings he spends with Thorin. If being under scrutiny will dissuade whatever concerns the dwarves have, well, it is no hardship. At least, this time, he's watched openly.

As time marches on, their conversations lose the stiff formality, become effortless, their silences — comforting. Midsummer rolls around.

This night, Thorin is quieter than usual. He glances at the sun every so often, frowning, and hums in acknowledgement of a story he asked Bilbo for but does so in the wrong places. And when the time for the evening meal nears, and Thorin proposes they make another turn around the fountains, Bilbo stops.

"If gardening is boring you," he says with some irony, "lettuce romaine calm and chives another topic."

"What? Oh. No." Thorin frowns harder and rubs his brow. "Forgive me, Master Baggins."

Bilbo sighs. "All will be fine. Lord Elrond will read the runes, and you will have your answers."

"I, yes. I suppose that did weigh on my mind, but that wasn't what kept me distracted." Thorin shifts his weight, inhales. "Master Baggins, I—"

"Thorin, Bilbo, here you are!" Gandalf strides from around a corner, and Thorin closes his mouth with a snap, his expression hardens.

"It's time," the wizard says. "Lord Elrond will see you now."

The reading of the map is tense, and their hurried departure in the predawn light is even more so. They release the ponies at the base of the Misty Mountains — the roads are too narrow to ride. It's for the best. Bilbo would have hated for them to die during the stone giants' battle. He sends Myrtle off with a fond pat and a slice of apple — he started keeping snacks for her lifetimes ago and hasn't noticed it becoming a habit for some cycles. He hopes that elves on patrol will find the ponies soon.

Of course, even a day ahead of schedule, the Company can't miss the thunderstorm, but they avoid the worst of it and shelter in a different cave to wait it out. As luck would have it, Bilbo doesn't need to sneak around: there's a trapdoor in the floor. It opens, and they fall into the underground town. Soon after, Bilbo tumbles off a bridge, cushioning his landing with a goblin. And finds the ring. He doesn't put it on, no matter how tempting. Creeping out of the caves is not too difficult when Gollum is distracted with his meal. He finds the Company and hears Gandalf ask,

"Where's Bilbo?"

"He fell." Thorin swallows, not looking at the wizard. "In Goblin-town, he fell into the depths of the mountain."

Bilbo rounds a tree without delay. "I found my way out."

Thorin's face changes. As if a thundercloud passes, the tight lines of his mouth relax, his eyes are wide and shocked. "I thought you lost," Thorin says, taking a step toward Bilbo.

Bilbo glances over his shoulder. "We must hurry. I heard baying." As if on cue, the wargs start howling.

"Run!" Gandalf shouts, and off they go.

The trees, the burning cones, the fighting. Bilbo would have liked very much to kill Azog right then and there, but going head to head with the massive orc in open battle... He needs a distraction, a chance to slip under Azog's guard. He does manage to cut the pale orc's ankle, but the wound is too shallow to hamper, more is the pity. An eagle snatches Bilbo up before the orc retaliates.

Beorn's house is a brief reprieve, just for one night. They come to the shapeshifter's house in groups of twos and threes. As always, Beorn finds Bilbo charming. Fleetingly, Bilbo thinks about parting with the Company here. They won't be able to escape Mirkwood in time for Durin's day without him unless Thorin agrees to Thrandruil's terms, but isn't disposing of the ring more important?

Across the table, Thorin puts a serving of potatoes on Bilbo's plate, a slight smile quirking his lips as he replies to Dwalin. The king is healing well, Óin said; the bandages over his chest just peak in the neckline of his tunic. No, I will see it through, Bilbo decides, before embarking on my own mission.

In the morning, Bilbo waits for the Company in Beorn's garden. It's plainer, wilder than beautiful, carefully refined gardens of Rivendell. Somehow, Bilbo likes it better. He wishes the flowers were in bloom, but it's too early for daffodils and too late for pansies.

Bilbo sits down under a cherry tree and closes his eyes, enjoying the sunlight on his face, the sounds of life not stifled with the encroaching darkness. He hears footsteps, a quick inhale.

"Here," Thorin says, offering a thin strip of leather; a pack is slung over his shoulder. "For your hair."

"Hm." Bilbo tugs on a lock and is surprised to find it reaching past his chin. "I suppose it's getting rather long." Not quite so long as to require a ribbon to keep it out of his face, but close to it. He takes the strip. The brown leather is soft and supple, with runes and vines etched in its length.

"May I braid it?" Thorin asks hesitantly.

"If you want."

His pack joins Bilbo's at their feet, and Thorin sits behind him. Gentle fingers slide through Bilbo's hair, and in no time at all, twin braids run from his temples to just behind his ears, joining in the middle.

"Thank you," Bilbo says, half-turning, and catches Thorin's burning gaze. He licks his lips.

A fat bumblebee cuts its path between them. Bilbo leans back. He hasn't realised he moved forward.

Loud voices announce Bofur and Bombur's arrival. The charged tension that has been building up between them dissipates just as the rest of the Company spills out of the house. All dwarves carry massive packs — Beorn sends them off with more provisions than they took from Rivendell.

The dwarves side-eye Bilbo's hairstyle, trade glances with Thorin. There are ill-hidden smirks and some nudges that leave Bilbo somewhat wrong-footed. What's all this about? No matter. Bilbo doesn't dwell on it for long. The shadow of Mirkwood is looming.

Mirkwood and its depressing darkness, the broken roads and the constant gloom, the promise of an enemy behind each twisted tree and every scraggly bush.

They huddle close for the nights, too unsettled for songs or stories.

Bilbo's tossing and turning in his bedroll, unable to fall asleep. A feeling has taken root in his heart, fragile and tender like the first shoot of a snowdrop nestled beneath the melting crust. He can't decide if he should squash it. It's pointless anyway; he should have given up on happiness by now. Why hasn't he? He knows better. Shivering, Bilbo sighs. The blasted forest does nothing to improve his mood.

"Cold?" Thorin murmurs, rising on his elbow on the bedroll next to Bilbo's. "Come here." He holds his arm up in invitation, and Bilbo doesn't hesitate. His head pillowed on Thorin's shoulder, and with the weight of Thorin's arm across his back, he thinks, This is nice. And probably exceeds the boundaries of friendship.

They sleep beside each other every night until the day an elven patrol comes upon them just as the giant spiders start attacking, and finally, Bilbo can't avoid the ring any longer. He puts it on and plummets into icy bleakness.

In the dungeons of Mirkwood, Thorin presses to the bars at first sight of Bilbo. He reaches out and touches Bilbo's cheek.

"I feared I lost you." His voice is barely a whisper. "When they rounded us up, and you weren't there." He stops, his thumb caressing Bilbo's skin, and swallows. "I thought the worst."

Bilbo takes hold of Thorin's wrist.

"I hid. I have a way to stay unnoticed."

"Good. I'm glad you were safe." They are so close, they breathe each other's air, and Thorin's gaze falls on his lips.

The urge to kiss the dwarf is overwhelming. If not the bars, he would have done it. Alas, or maybe, luckily, the bars are in the way. The sound of light footsteps interrupts the moment.

"Hide," Thorin whispers, and Bilbo does, their fingers catching as he steps back, reluctant to let go.

He whiles away the days until the elven feast in indecisive pondering of Thorin's situation. The shoulds and shouldn't are driving him to losing appetite and sleep.

"Don't be a fool. Don't get attached; it will not last," Bilbo mutters, pacing the length of a rarely used storage room, but it's too late for that, and really, why not? He could be happy if only for the moment. He'd been through much, so doesn't he deserve it? But then when it starts over... And on and on it goes, his thoughts are running in a circle.

He visits the Company and passes messages to Thorin, and—Bilbo can't help himself—can't stay away, he's gotten used to their walks in Rivendell, and really, he should have noticed earlier that their walks weren't information gathering. What kind of moron is he to miss that he was being courted? In hindsight, that was rather obvious.

"Thorin," he says, just to confirm, but can't get the words past his dry lips.

"What's wrong?" Instantly alert, Thorin takes hold of Bilbo's hands. He does it often.

"It's nothing, never mind. Just being silly." Bilbo shakes his head. He smiles. "I know a way out."