new morning

by vtforpedro

In which Bilbo doesn't like living in a world where soulmates exist. Maybe it's because his own seemingly doesn't want to be found after a long while spent looking for them, but it turns out his soulmate is not all that far away, and his search for Bilbo is immortalized in stone.

Bilbo has never been particularly fond of soulmate nonsense.

Oh yes, the idea is romantic and usually results in lifelong happiness with someone that pairs perfectly with you, but that's the part that Bilbo dislikes the most.

Being tied to someone, not of his choosing, but whatever old magic that does the choosing feels uncomfortable and downright unfair. And saying as much to anyone will usually earn him scandalized gasps and looks of outrage, so Bilbo doesn't say it.

Not to just anyone, anyway, not the way he did when he was younger, though the people he's closest to know how he feels about it. His mother did, but she only ever seemed amused about it while supporting his less than charitable views toward soulmates.

Belladonna was a romantic at heart, and finding Bungo was her second favorite moment in life, she'd tell Bilbo. Holding Bilbo in her arms after he was born was her first favorite, she'd say, mostly when he needed cheering up or was feeling a certain way about soulmates.

It's a modern world and there isn't much magic in it beyond whatever ties people together. Something left from a bygone world, that's what Gandalf says, whenever he's twinkling at Bilbo and chuckling merrily at his annoyance about it all.

Perhaps Bilbo wouldn't be so annoyed if he were one of the lucky few that didn't have a soulmate. Because he bloody well does and Bilbo's known that for most of his life.

It comes on when you least expect it, whether you're a child or a bit older, and it's nothing more than a feeling. But it's a distinct feeling, and everyone describes it the same way, except for the little flair that makes them unique.

The warmth that takes over, from head to toes, but mainly at the center. A warmth not unlike sitting in front of the fire under a favorite blanket with a mug of tea or hot cocoa. Something that oozes comfort and safety and something that never entirely goes away, always able to be tapped into when needed.

The warmth of true love.

Bilbo's came when he was eleven years old. He was delayed - or at least delayed compared to all of the Baggins and Took families combined - and thought it would never happen for him. It made him depressed after hearing so many stories from his mother, but always chasing the warmth that never seemed to find him.

But it had one day while he was outside playing in the sticks and mud by himself because he was running out of friends. The warmth and life and comfort settled over him, knocking the breath from his lungs, and Bilbo sat for a good long while with it.

Old enough to know he wanted privacy, but young enough to feel the joy and excitement, to want to run off to tell everyone he saw that it finally happened.

Everyone said that it felt the same but with that flair of uniqueness, something that Bilbo never really understood because the way it was described was so different.

Marigolds in the summer, grey skies after a storm, coffee with caramel, a good mystery novel, a wool blanket, the swishing of wind through pine needles.

Something to do with your soulmate, but Bilbo didn't understand then how those things could be known or felt or smelled, not until he felt the warmth that was all his own.

Steel and fire smoke, the peacefulness of dawn in the mountains, weather and labor-worn hands.

It was what Bilbo felt, what he smelled, what he simply knew. And Bilbo loved it, as most people do, for a very long time.

Then he turned thirty-six years old, buried his mother next to his father, and became bitter. Resentful that he was alone in all senses of the word. Hardly any friends or remaining family that meant it when they said I'm here for you.

No soulmate, delayed in life yet again, and not likely to ever find what he was supposedly destined for.

It's a modern world, after all, and finding a soulmate isn't all that hard to do - there are a billion bloody ways to do it with a smartphone alone, and Bilbo tried for a long time, but he never could find them and eventually stopped trying at all.

He could only think they didn't want to be found.

Bilbo's never known love. Not in the real sense, and knowing he wasted years of his life saving himself for his one true love makes him bitter at best. Intimacy and relationships were fleeting and nothing to hold on to, but Bilbo hadn't experienced either of those things until his mid-twenties when he started to wonder why he hadn't found them. When he started to think they didn't want to be found.

Years of not knowing a deeper intimacy, a more meaningful connection, seemed to make Bilbo incapable of them at all.

Oh yes, bitter is the best it can be described.

So, Bilbo is not at all fond of this soulmate business and wishes that it had stayed in that bygone world.

He's forty years old today. Bilbo doesn't feel any particular way about it, though his friends and what family he has kept in contact with seem to think he should.

Birthdays aren't all they're cracked up to be anymore, not for Bilbo, and he'd much rather stay home with a cup of tea and a good book than go out on the town.

Getting to do what he wants on his own birthday seems to be too much to ask - for the Baggins family, that is - because his cousin Drogo and Drogo's wife Primula have coerced Bilbo into leaving his cozy flat and out into a dreary day in London.

The skies are grey, and it keeps drizzling on and off, but that means adventure to the Baggins' that drag him around the streets of London. A perfect excuse to pop into a shop they've never thought to before when it starts to rain or to stop at a third cafe and enjoy more pastries.

Bilbo may or may not be enjoying himself; he won't tell them, and being around people more than ten years younger than him would usually be out of the question, but they're about the only Bagginses with their heads screwed on right. Primula reminds him of his mother, too, and Drogo of his father.

It's impossible not to be fond of them.

Well, most days.

When they drag him into a well-known, beautiful square, Bilbo tries to dig his heels in. It's a lovely place to be, especially in spring and autumn, while the trees change and fresh, floral flowers spring up from the soil.

It's not raining, and there are a few rays of sunlight shining on the park, but it's called Timeless Square for a reason, and Bilbo usually avoids it.

However, Prim and Drogo don't mean him any harm, so Bilbo grudgingly walks into the park with them. There's a large pond in the middle with some waterfowl lazily floating along the dark water, and the pathways and grass are covered in splashes of oranges, yellows and reds, all the more bright with everything around them dampened by rain.

Oak trees are aplenty here, towering and old, a perfect place to take advantage of the shade and sit under one with a book. Bilbo used to do that sort of thing, but the tourists became too numerous, and, well, he does have strong feelings when it comes to this nonsense.

It's relatively easy to avoid soulmate business as it's not always found in conversation. It's merely a part of life like anything is, and it's so personal and sacred to most people that it's best kept that way. Something pure cannot be capitalized on or something similar. Though, of course, some do.

Half off luxurious vacations and jewelry or other costly things are offered, but most people don't buy into it even then.

They're too busy getting to know their other half to care about anything so shallow.

Timeless Square is a popular area for tourists not because of its beauty and peaceful nature but because there is a particular statue in one corner of the square.

A marble statue of a tall man on a low podium, beautifully chiseled and shaped, and a popular place to take selfies. It wouldn't be looked at twice, not unless someone appreciated the art, if not for the myth surrounding it.

It's been here for ages and no one knows who created it. But the story has been passed down from generation to generation, and Bilbo supposes that's why no one has bothered to move it into a museum or take it down altogether.

They say that one night the statue had simply appeared. No one saw who placed it here, and no one knew the artist's work to ever give them credit. But something about the statue drew people in, and a story began to form about the man.

Some claimed to know the man then, so many years ago, which fueled the fire of the myth.

The man carved in marble is done with stunning detail, from the shape of his sharp nose to his thin lips, his heavy brow, the soulfulness of his eyes. The details of his clothes, sturdy but refined, and the few items carved into the base are just as intricate.

An anvil, a hammer, a sword perfectly shaped in the smooth marble. These things don't seem important but are instead left behind because what stands out most about the man is his outstretched hand.

The longing in his eyes and the way he's reaching for something, someone, tells the tale of a man in search of his soulmate. That's what was said by those who claimed to know him; a man that had a soulmate but never found them, destined to die alone, but his heartbreak and despair forever immortalized in stone.

His trade forgotten at his feet as the longing grew more important to him.

Bilbo's mother told him the tale and brought him to Timeless Square numerous times when he was a child. He was as fascinated as everyone by it until he grew old enough to know it was hogwash and nothing but a tourist trap.

That's why the city keeps it up. Tourists come to London just to see the statue, to touch his hand in hopes they're his long-lost soulmate and to get a good selfie to post on Instagram while they do. People come all year long, and even if they're everyday tourists in London, it's a stop everyone makes.

Nearly everyone Bilbo knows has touched the man's hand, mainly for the excellent photo opportunity, but Bilbo never has. It's a lovely, tragic story, but only that, and Bilbo merely walks by the square these days because of the tourists.

Not worth trying to find some peace when they scare even the waterfowl away.

But today, perhaps because of the rain, it isn't busy. Not too busy, anyway, and it is nice to see the beginnings of autumn in the trees, the flowers and the crisp coolness of a stormy day.

Bilbo gets lost chatting with Prim and Drogo as they make their way around the square, talking about anything and everything, as they've been doing all day so far.

They stop to get a cup of hot cider from a vendor, though Bilbo isn't sure his stomach can handle many more hot beverages or food for a few more hours yet.

The cider is good, at least, Bilbo thinks as they stand at the edge of the pond. He watches Prim toss pellets out for the eager waterfowl. She laughs after and touches Drogo's arm, and it reminds Bilbo so suddenly and painfully of his parents that he looks away.

He's nothing but happy for them, of course, but Prim does carry so much of his mother's spirit. Belladonna was very fond of her as she's been on Drogo's arm since they were quite young, and he was one of the few Bagginses that Mum didn't mind inviting in.

"You've got tomorrow off, haven't you, Bilbo?"

"Hmm?" Bilbo hums and looks at Drogo. "Oh, yes. Tomorrow and the next."

"How about a movie on Friday?" Drogo asks. "There are a few good ones out right now."

Bilbo chuckles and takes a sip of cider. He shrugs. "You know I like to have these days to myself," he says. "Maybe on Saturday or Sunday, though."

"Right," Drogo says with a grin. "I'll try to remember your no-texting, no-calling rule."

"I'll help him," Prim laughs and shakes her head. "Reflecting is important, after all."

Bilbo calls it reflecting, though he's sure no one else honestly would, and it's not really what it is, in the end.

He's often bothered on his birthday, so Bilbo can't always claim it for himself, but he does make it firmly known that the following two or three days are for him and him alone.

Birthdays don't mean much to him anymore, but it gives him the excuse to take a few days off. To do whatever he'd like with no one pestering him. No student emails, no calls from his friends or family, nothing at all.

Only Bilbo, his cozy flat and squishy armchair, and his numerous books and journals. Time to reflect on the previous year, indeed, and Bilbo does in some ways, but only the best bits.

He stopped feeling sorry for himself a while ago, and though some people may think he's moping and doing just that, Bilbo actually isn't. Destined to be alone forever, maybe, but getting used to and enjoying his own company is a good way to not feel bad about it. To keep the loneliness at bay, as well.

They continue on around the pond. Prim asks Bilbo how the start of term has been going, and he tells them a few stories about his new students and the baffling ways they do things. Poorly, as always at the beginning of the year, and unlikely to get better for another month or two, but Bilbo is prepared.

He's a literary professor at a large university and has been for nearly fifteen years. Bilbo always thinks they can't surprise him anymore and yet they manage to year after year. In fact, it may be getting worse now that they're in the age of the internet and smartphones, but Bilbo is still… mostly prepared.

Doesn't particularly like it when a student quotes a meme at him (especially one he doesn't recognize), but what can he do about it?

There's no avoiding the corner of the square where the statue resides, but Bilbo feels oddly compelled to not even look at it this time around.

It sits on cobblestones, large rose bushes and other shrubs as its backdrop, with numerous towering oak trees behind them. Without myth and romanticism, it is beautiful, and there are multiple benches around to sit and enjoy the area.

Bilbo would rather move on as quickly as possible, but it doesn't particularly surprise him that Prim and Drogo want to get pictures with the statue. They ask Bilbo to take a few of them together, and he does so while feeling strangely on edge.

Perhaps it's the reminder - there must be something to ruminate about sharing the same fate as the marble statue - of his lot in romance and life in general, or maybe Bilbo just wants to leave before more tourists come.

There aren't any others at the moment, which is strange enough. But they are slowly coming from both directions, and Bilbo tries to usher Prim and Drogo along.

"Oh, just one, Bilbo? At least to remember this birthday by," Prim says.

Bilbo sighs. He supposes he expected to be asked, too, which might be another reason his shoulders are arched close to his ears.

"I'd rather not, thank you very much."

"You don't have to touch his hand," Drogo says. "Maybe his foot."

"His anvil."

"Sword!"

"Which one?"

"Prim," Drogo says and laughs. "The only visible sword, maybe? Or nothing at all! Come on, Bilbo, just a picture."

Bilbo groans. "Please don't make me a part of the rampant, horrid tourism that plagues this city," he says. "No, no, nope, no, thank you," he adds when they cajole him more, holding up his hands. "Never. You can take a picture of me walking away from the statue if you'd like."

He tries to do that, but Bilbo finds himself standing in front of it, anyway, and staring flatly at the phone Prim is holding. He crosses his arms for good measure, but he is amused when they still ask him to touch the statue.

They laugh when he presses the heel of his shoe against the podium, and thankfully it pleases them enough to move on.

More people are coming, after all, and they head off toward the exit out of the square. A rumble of thunder overhead makes them look at the sky, and Bilbo dearly hopes it won't rain again, so he doesn't have to shovel more pastries and coffee or tea down his throat.

Dinner is only a couple of hours away and not having an appetite for it has always seemed sacrilegious to Bilbo.

He doesn't know why, but he feels a peculiar desire to look back at the statue now that he's passed it.

Bilbo glances back and sees the statue from thigh-up, flowering rose bushes in front of it, a compliment of red to the golds on the oak trees and to the white marble of the man, his outstretched hand just visible. Bilbo looks away when a tourist takes it for their perfect photo-op.

It's easy to get distracted after that, traveling London's streets back toward home, getting swept away by Prim into some shop or another. But in the quiet moments, Bilbo still thinks of the statue and the longing not only in the man's eyes but in every soft curve of marble.

He doesn't get back home until nearly six and he's almost too exhausted for cooking. It's tempting to eat the cake he baked last night, just for himself, but Bilbo's still a big proponent of having a sit-down, savory meal for dinner.

A quick chicken and rice soup with plenty of seasonings and cheese scones on the side hit the spot just right.

Sméagol, his cat, cries mournfully next to Bilbo's armchair. He's always keen to let Bilbo know he's been out of the flat entirely too long and Bilbo can't help but agree with him.

Bilbo sits down, and once Sméagol, his darling eighteen-year-old cat with a massive underbite and eyes that don't quite go in the same direction, has gotten himself settled, Bilbo grabs his book.

A peal of thunder rumbles overhead and Bilbo looks outside. There aren't many cars on the street below, and Bilbo stares at the corner. Lightning flashes against dark asphalt and concrete, and Bilbo could swear he sees a statue reflected against them.

That's all in his head, of course, but Bilbo imagines it there anyway.

Something he never bought into, something he's never cared to seek out himself, and certainly not something he ever bothered with, and yet Bilbo can see it perfectly.

Every curve and etching, the worn hand reaching for someone, the chips in the anvil and hammer, well-used but forgotten in favor of a lost soulmate…

"Oh, bollocks," Bilbo mutters and pointedly turns the page.

Sméagol flicks his tail in agreement, or perhaps agitation, but Bilbo will take it either way.

Still, the thought of the statue lingers. It follows Bilbo through dessert, two slices of cake, and his nightly cup of tea before bed. Sleep eludes him, and Bilbo grows more frustrated because he's not sure what's wrong and why he can't quite get the image of white marble out of his head.

He's never liked it, not since he was a child, yet Bilbo feels as on edge and restless as he had at the square. Bilbo can see the statue's hand, skin cracked and worn, reaching.

Reaching, reaching, reaching.

Bilbo jerks awake with a gasp and clutches at his chest. It's still dark out, still raining, and Bilbo squints at his phone, his heart racing.

Not even twelve-thirty, for pity's sake.

He does try to fall back asleep, firmly telling himself the bloody statue will be forgotten by morning, but Bilbo's agitated. He's agitated enough that his tossing and turning irritates Sméagol in return, who hisses at Bilbo and jumps off the bed to hide under the armoire.

After an hour of this, Bilbo decides another cup of tea certainly never caused anyone harm and trudges into his kitchen to make it.

Rain pitter-patters against the windows, not as strong as before, and Bilbo stares blearily down at the street corner.

A busy day, a busy birthday that happened to be rather pleasant, should have him sleeping through the whole night. But there's a strange itch under Bilbo's skin, and he frowns as he watches a car drive by, splashing water onto the sidewalk.

The itch. That's what Bilbo's father always called it. The itch in their blood - Belladonna and Bilbo's, that is - made them restless and yearn for something beyond their front door.

For Bilbo's mother, that was always true, but Bilbo finds that wandering the streets of London once a year is adventurous enough these days. Of course, Gandalf is always trying to lure him to the Netherlands or Bora Bora or somewhere equally exciting during the summer months, but Bilbo is perfectly happy in London and in his flat.

The itch comes from the Took side of the family. Belladonna Took was even more Tookish than the rest of them, and though she married a Baggins, she never lost her spirit. Bungo wouldn't have let her, yet he tried to instill a sense of propriety, and a don't ask for more than what you need mindset into Bilbo.

Mum always made Bilbo promise he'd ask for what he wanted instead, regardless if it was something he needed.

Bilbo purses his lips as he inhales the steam from his tea, still staring at the street corner outside, the yellow streetlamp bouncing eerily off of the dark, wet road.

"Forty is a rather large number," Bilbo mutters and squints through the glass.

Another thing his father used to say when he and Belladonna were close to celebrating their fortieth birthdays. Bilbo was in his mid-teens and remembers it well because his mother always made sure to whisper in his ear, forty is also a number of whimsy.

Bilbo never quite understood that when he was younger. He's not entirely sure he understands it now, and he suspects he's become too much like his father since his mother's passing.

A shame, Bilbo thinks, that he should forget what made his mother who she was.

After cursing and yanking off his robe in favor of a coat and trousers, Bilbo leaves his warm bed and cup of tea behind.

The main road a block down the way is just busy enough to get him a taxi, and the driver doesn't blink when Bilbo tells him Timeless Square.

It's not too far, ten minutes or so, and Bilbo stares out of the window and tries not to think of himself as mad.

Mad Baggins, unable to get the picture of a marble statue someone left behind one day so very long ago out of his mind, a fire lit under his feet to see it again.

Maybe it isn't so unusual to feel like forty is a very large number with a bit of whimsy to go along with it. Not that Bilbo will be telling anyone about his middle-of-the-night jaunt to Timeless Square with a bizarre sensation sitting in the center of him.

When the taxi stops at the square, Bilbo pays, gets out, and stares at the entrance. It's a bit more dark and foreboding, but the lamps are lit further in, and waterfowl still float sleepily along the pond.

He's forgotten his umbrella, of course, and it's nearly enough to make Bilbo forget the entire thing. It's only sprinkling, but it'll come down harder on and off, according to the forecast, and it would be just his luck to run out of his door unprepared and off to do foolish things.

Bilbo sighs and walks inside the square anyway, his hands stuffed in his pockets, and doesn't take the long way around. He wants to, but there might be other people here, late-night lovers or ruffians up to no good, even in a supposedly sacred place like this.

No, Bilbo walks directly to the corner where the statue stands. Tall and proud the man might have been, whoever he was if he even existed, and wasn't simply from the imagination of the artist who created him.

There's no pride on the man's face, only that deep longing, but Bilbo suspects before he'd left his work behind in search of his soulmate, he was proud.

Proud of his work and proud in bearing, too.

Bilbo sighs as he stands before the statue, hunched over a bit in the light rain, annoyed with himself that he's out of bed at nearly two in the morning.

He watches raindrops glide smoothly down the marble, only pooling between a few grooves on the podium and in the man's outstretched hand.

"Ridiculous," Bilbo mumbles and shakes his head. "Mad Baggins, indeed. Imagine if you ran into one of your students. That'd follow you, wouldn't it?"

Thunder rumbles above, and Bilbo breathes in deeply, smelling the sharpness of steel and the sweeter scent of fire smoke. Such familiar things, things Bilbo pretends he doesn't remember, and he shakes himself.

He's a bit disappointed he gave in to the urge to see the statue. After all, soulmate business isn't business he cares for, and romantic notions are best left to the younger generations or those who were lucky enough to find their other half.

Bilbo sighs and turns on his heel, walking past the statue and the rose bushes.

He's nearly ten feet away before Bilbo turns back around, stomps to the statue, and reaches for his hand.

It's icy and wet. Bilbo squeezes his eyes shut as he holds it, the marble smooth underneath his own frigid hand. Eventually, Bilbo cracks an eye open and looks up at the man's face.

Still only marble.

Not that Bilbo was honestly expecting anything else, and yet he finds himself disappointed, anyway. And a bit peeved that he is.

Bilbo flicks the water out of the man's hand and touches his stone wrist. "Nothing but stone, aren't you," he says and slides his hand to the man's own. He grips it more tightly and knows no one is around to see. "Two peas in a pod, you and I."

Crack.

A crack loud enough to deafen him, bright light bursting in front of his vision sufficient to blind him, and Bilbo feels static electricity from his toes to his head before his world is upended.

With another boom, Bilbo falls onto the cobblestones below, shouting in pain and alarm. There's a great weight lying on his back, enough to make it difficult to breathe, and spots are dancing in his eyes.

Lightning.

"Lightning!" Bilbo shouts, but he can't say to who, and his ears are still ringing.

He's disoriented and everything hurts.

A man groans. A man that, after a brief moment of wondering, is not Bilbo.

Bilbo's cheek is pressed against the cold, dirty cobblestone ground, and he grunts when the heavy weight on his back… moves. And groans again.

"What on earth," Bilbo wheezes. "Who on earth? Please, kindly, get off!"

The man goes very still, precisely the opposite of what Bilbo wants before his weight suddenly disappears.

Bilbo gasps for breath and rolls carefully onto his back. His ears are still buzzing and white spots are there even when he closes his eyes. He feels like he's been hit by a train and thinks he may have actually been struck by lightning.

"What happened here?"

But none of that explains the other man.

Bilbo tentatively scrubs at his eyes and looks around. The man is kneeling next to him, holding his head in his hands, and there's something very unusual about him, though Bilbo can't see his face.

"Where did you even come from?" Bilbo asks and gingerly pushes himself to sit up. "Were we struck by lightning?"

"Lightning?" the man barks and lowers his hands to look at Bilbo.

He's squinting like it's hard to see, or maybe he has a head injury.

"Who are you?" he demands, his voice deep and as rumbly as the thunder above.

"Who am I?" Bilbo squawks. "I was— I was just— and no one was around! I was minding my business, thank you very much, and I think you fell on me."

"I didn't fall on you," the man says with affront. But he doesn't look entirely sure and looks around, his long, dark hair sticking wetly to his cheeks and neck.

Bilbo stares at him. Now that the spots are fading and he can see him better, Bilbo's sure he's seen him before. His profile, just like this, with a sharp nose, thin lips, a well-groomed beard over a cutting jaw.

"The square," the man says as Bilbo gapes at him. "I haven't seen the square in…" he trails off and looks at Bilbo, frowning, his heavy brow wrinkled in the middle. "Tell me, what year is it?"

"W—What year is it?" Bilbo asks, his voice high-pitched. "What do you mean, what year is it?"

It can't be. It can't be what Bilbo's thinking, and yet as he looks at the man's clothes, sturdy but refined and his eyes deep and intense, though Bilbo can't see their color.

The man looks up, and Bilbo's been afraid to do that, but he does too. He looks at where the statue should be standing tall above them, but there's nothing but an empty marble podium. The anvil is still there and the hammer, but where the marble met the man that once was carved into it, is nothing but smooth, flat stone.

No man stands on the podium anymore.

Bilbo's heart is thundering so hard it hurts nearly as much as the rest of him. He looks at the man, still gaping, and sees that he's staring back at Bilbo.

He doesn't look quite as shocked as Bilbo feels, but he's staring with a frankly disturbing intensity.

"Oh, no, no, no," Bilbo says and waves his hands. He tries to stand - a few times - but his knees are screaming, and his back hurts quite a lot. He feels like a turtle on its shell, but Bilbo finds his strength when the man reaches for him simply because he doesn't want to be touched.

He stands, wincing and hunched over, holding his back. "No, no, no," Bilbo says when he glimpses the empty podium and turns away. "Oh, certainly not. Not today, not ever, only in your dreams, and they're more like nightmares, aren't they? We aren't going to think of this—"

"Who are you speaking to?"

"Myself, if you really must know!" Bilbo snaps and turns to look at the man. He's standing now, holding his head with one hand and peering at Bilbo with a frown. He's bloody tall and broad. "What sort of trick is this, hmm? You were there… and now you're there," Bilbo says as he gestures at the podium and the man. "Who's putting this on?"

"I think you may have injured yourself worse than I did," the man says quietly.

"Oh— ha, ha, ha," Bilbo gripes. "I mean it, you know. What sort of trick is this?"

"No trick," the man says and moves a bit closer. Closer to the nearest lamp, as well. "You touched my hand."

Bilbo raises his eyebrows as he stares at the man. His hair is very dark, falling over his shoulders in waves, but his features are all the same. His eyes are light-colored, Bilbo thinks, a light blue. His beard is full but finely trimmed, and he's… well, tall and proud in bearing, and his clothes are from another era.

It can't be. It simply can't be. Bilbo refuses to believe it, refuses to pay any attention to the way his heart is beating, to how he can feel the peace of dawn in the mountains and smell fire smoke, nothing he should be sensing in the heart of London on a rainy night.

"I… touched the statue's hand," Bilbo says slowly. "You, sir, are not a statue."

"Thorin," the man says. "My name," he adds after Bilbo frowns. "Thorin of the line of Durin. It was my hand you touched. We're in the square." Thorin gazes around and shakes his head with a slight chuckle of disbelief. "The world as I knew it is a bygone one now, perhaps."

Bilbo gapes at Thorin for a while and tries not to focus on that. "Oh, no, no, no," he says and waves his hands. "We aren't going to… this is a trick. It must be! A trick. A— a joke or a prank, maybe, but… oh, good gracious…."

He's feeling a bit faint and flaps his hands. Nearly jumps out of his skin when Thorin is suddenly much closer and reaching for one of them. Bilbo steps quickly away from him, and Thorin frowns again.

"You're pale," he says. "Are you so afraid?"

"Am I so afraid? Well, of course I am! It's nearly two in the bloody morning, and I haven't got a clue what I'm even doing here. And there's no one else around," Bilbo says as he looks across the square. "And you were a statue only minutes ago, so, yes, actually, yes, I am very afraid. I'm afraid this is a joke, you see, or that I'll wake up in my bed from yet another nightmare—"

"Take my hand," Thorin interrupts. He holds his hand out, fingers curved just as they were when they were marble. "Take my hand and perhaps you won't fear it so much anymore."

Bilbo's heart is in his throat, pounding painfully, as he looks between Thorin and his outstretched hand. Weather and labor-worn, reaching for him, reaching, reaching, reaching, everything else forgotten. Thorin doesn't look afraid, but there's some urgency about him, a desperate sort of longing in his gaze.

It may be the hardest thing Bilbo has ever done, simply reaching out and taking someone's hand. But he is afraid, and he's afraid that something worse might happen if he touches Thorin's hand.

But Bilbo does, and no more cracks shatter the air. Thorin's hand is warm and rough with callouses and wet from the rain. He feels nothing but human, and yet there's a powerful warmth that surges through Bilbo that isn't quite so usual.

That's magical instead. The way the warmth of soulmates is.

"Oh dear," Bilbo whispers, feeling faint still, but Thorin's hand tightens securely around his own. "Oh, it can't be. I've… you've… you've been here for so long."

"How long?" Thorin asks.

He doesn't sound upset about a significant passage of time - in fact, he's smiling. Not a large smile or a particularly joyful one, but there's still kindness in it, and Bilbo finds his heart isn't racing so painfully anymore.

"Some few hundred years, I'm afraid," Bilbo says. "How on earth were you made into a statue?"

Thorin chuckles and his smile widens. "I wasn't a statue," he says. "I carved it in my likeness."

"You?" Bilbo asks. "You're the artist?"

"Yes," Thorin says. "All my life, I've worked with stone and steel. I made it and brought it here when the square was being built."

"Why?" Bilbo asks, fascinated and terrified all over again. He's still holding Thorin's hand but doesn't have the thought to let it go.

Thorin hums and looks at the podium before glancing at Bilbo. "I'll tell you why," he says. "After you've given me your name and we find a place warmer than this."

Bilbo is trembling all over, he realizes. He nearly yanks his hand back, embarrassed by it because it's not just the cold. Of course, it's a lot of the cold, but he's also frightfully nervous and worried and forcing himself not to jump to conclusions.

Not to look at this as something that's carried over from so long ago, the way the magic of soulmates has.

Not to look at this as something that he wanted all his life until the bitter sting of loss and mourning settled in.

"Bilbo," he manages to croak. "Bilbo Baggins. Yes, I suppose we ought to get out of the rain. We'll, ah… we'll need to take a cab. Oh, goodness, you've no idea what a car is."

Thorin looks around the square and out toward the buildings that surround it. He doesn't look afraid or overwhelmed by a more modern view, though they're still in the square, and it hasn't changed much, most likely.

"I imagine there's much I don't know," Thorin says and looks at Bilbo. "That'll be new to me."

Bilbo blinks at Thorin before he laughs, unable to help it, and Thorin's broad smile is nearly too much to handle.

It's Bilbo who's overwhelmed.

"Yes, well," Bilbo sighs. "The world has become a vastly different one just in the last twenty years, so I suppose I'm right there with you in some ways. Come along then."

They walk slowly out of the square, and Bilbo can't entirely help himself as he glances back where the statue used to stand. Where Thorin used to be, though god knows how, and he's glad no one else seems to be around.

Thorin is still holding Bilbo's hand and doesn't seem to have the thought to let it go, though Bilbo wishes he did now. It's too much, and too soon, he was just a blasted statue, and Bilbo can't remember the last time someone held his hand.

Certainly no one that was ever his soulmate.

It's a thought that fills Bilbo with dread and anxiety more than anything pleasant. Maybe one day it'll be, though he's still trying not to jump to conclusions and believe this entirely, but at the moment, he'd like a cup of tea and silence.

But if it is true, the man next to him will have to acclimate. And how on earth do you help acclimate someone who lived over three hundred years ago to the current times? There are cars and smartphones and televisions. Apartment buildings, vastly different from what Thorin would have known.

Electricity.

They're standing on the sidewalk before Bilbo knows it and he stares dazedly at the street. He looks at Thorin after a while and sees him looking around.

At lamp posts and the street and the buildings. Back at the square. Thorin looks at Bilbo, and though Bilbo can't tell what he's feeling, not all the way, he does look a bit concerned. For the way he feels, not the way Thorin feels, and that embarrasses Bilbo enough to straighten his spine.

He clears his throat and looks at the street as a car rounds the corner near the end. It's not a cab, but it's still a car, and they watch as it passes. Bilbo looks at Thorin with a grimace.

"Not many horse-drawn carriages anymore," Bilbo says. "Runs on petrol. It's a, erm, gas and a combustible… oh, we'll save it," he mutters and gestures. "We'll find a cab that way. Are you alright?"

"Yes," Thorin says as he gazes at Bilbo. "It is strange. Not only London and… a car. I remember my life and I remember my death. An old man, filled with regrets. I don't know what happened after. But I awake again, a younger man, and it's because you touched my hand."

Bilbo stares at Thorin as he speaks. His voice is low and mesmerizing to listen to, but it's the mild confusion, soft wonder, and relief in it that Bilbo hears most.

His heart is pounding away again and his chest feels a bit tight. But it's still sprinkling, and they're both soaked and, well, they need tea. Tea and a moment to not think on it, though that'll be impossible.

Thorin seems to agree with this and smiles faintly, gesturing out at the street.

They walk down it, and Bilbo thanks his lucky stars that it's the middle of the night. Thorin's clothes are just dark enough to avoid suspicion from people passing, but the looks they'd get if it were the middle of the day…

The cab driver does still glance at Thorin a bit longer than usual. It might be because it takes him a moment to get in and he bumps his head when he does.

He's already got a bump on the head, and Bilbo wonders how Thorin might take it when he hands him some over-the-counter relief.

Bilbo could cry. He really could and he might before the night's done. He's entirely sure he will, in fact, but hopefully, it'll be in private. Either way, Bilbo's relieved that Thorin doesn't take his hand again while they're in the cab, but he watches him as he stares out of the window and occasionally points at something.

He doesn't ask questions, only looks curiously at Bilbo now and then, but Thorin seems to know that asking certain things might get him more than glanced at by the cab driver.

Thorin expected this might happen one day, Bilbo realizes. He predicted that when he shaped the statue into his likeness and placed it in the square, someday the right person might take his hand.

Perhaps there was more magic or superstition, even, back when Thorin first lived.

Or maybe he was desperate. But Bilbo still gets the feeling he knew it might happen and he knew it might not be immediately after his death. It must be the most bizarre thing to see a familiar yet different world and to, well… to see Bilbo.

What a consolation prize he must be after a few hundred years, Bilbo thinks irritably. A fussy professor bitter about soulmates, not of any famous line, but someone who would rather stay in his cozy flat with his cat and ignore and be ignored by the outside world.

Thorin died with the regret of not meeting Bilbo in his lifetime. He died with a name and with labor-worn hands from working tirelessly. He created beautiful works of art and more practical things as a blacksmith, most likely. Steel, he said, steel like a sword, and Thorin was probably well known. Respected and liked just for being who he is, and he's gotten Bilbo in return.

It might make him laugh if he wasn't feeling so bitter about this too.

"Bilbo," Thorin says, and Bilbo looks at him. "Bilbo," Thorin says again with a small smile. As if testing his name and how it falls off his lips and liking it. "It'll be alright."

Bilbo's cheeks feel warm, and he clears his throat, looking at his hands in his lap. "I feel like I should be saying that to you," he says and looks at Thorin. "But you do seem alright."

"My greatest wish came true tonight," Thorin says. "It's hard to be anything but."

Of course, that doesn't stop Thorin from flailing for something to hold on to when the taxi comes to an abrupt stop. Bilbo coughs a little and pays before getting out. He ensures Thorin hasn't bumped his head again before he gestures at the building.

"I don't know if this will be all you expected it to be, but, well," Bilbo says. "It's home."

"All of it is yours?" Thorin asks curiously and sounds impressed.

Bilbo laughs. "No, no," he says. "Just one of the flats. Many people live in this building, though most are happy not to speak to their neighbors. My father was a landlord, but that's… oh, that's a story for later."

Thorin is gazing at him with interest and a gentle smile and Bilbo wishes he'd stop doing that because it's flustering him.

He leads Thorin inside and up to his flat. His hands are shaking badly and it takes a moment to unlock his door. They step inside and Bilbo turns on the lights before kicking off his shoes.

He'd ask Thorin to do the same, but Thorin has only walked a few paces inside and is stopped, looking around the flat.

Bilbo's breath hitches as he moves around to look at Thorin.

Now he looks overwhelmed. Or, at least, shocked. His lips are parted as he looks at the living room to their right and the kitchen to their left. He looks at the ceiling and the lights and the tiled and carpeted floors, the furniture.

Thorin moves like a man possessed, touches the walls, and runs his hand along the kitchen table over the polished wood and chairs pushed close to it.

He moves into the kitchen, and Bilbo follows him without thinking about the water or dirt trod into the carpet and over the light-colored tiles.

Bilbo watches Thorin as he touches the countertops and stops at the sink. He figures it out quickly enough and chuckles at the running water. He turns it off and moves to the refrigerator, stainless steel like the sink.

When he opens it, Thorin stares inside for a long while and eventually does the same with the freezer. He shakes his head and doesn't ask questions, not yet. The stove seems to captivate him just as much, and Bilbo helps Thorin turn it on and off, all while in silence.

Thorin looks at Bilbo after the heat on the stove dies down, and Bilbo finds himself breathless once more. His blue eyes, blue as the sky, are brightened by tears. But he's not afraid, not nearly as afraid as Bilbo, though Bilbo finds it hard to be fearful at this moment.

A moment that'll never come again but will be a powerful memory for all the years to come.

Bilbo doesn't expect Thorin to engulf him in a hug. A strong hug, pulling him to the tips of his toes, and he does squawk a little, wrapping his arms around Thorin merely to feel like he won't fall over.

Though he doubts Thorin would let that happen.

Bilbo blinks up at the ceiling as Thorin holds him and smells fire smoke and steel, feels his cool and damp hair against his cheek and chin, and closes his eyes.

"Oh, goodness," Bilbo mutters. "Oh, you dratted man. I have a mind to think I'm still dreaming, but if I'm not, am I supposed to believe you've been a ten-minute drive away from me for all this time?"

Thorin doesn't seem to want to let go anytime soon. "You've lived here all your life?" he asks, and his voice is thick and trembles at the end.

Maybe that's why he doesn't want to let go.

"Well, no," Bilbo chuckles. "Not in this flat. But in London for a long time and just outside of it before. You've been in the same place all my life, though."

Thorin does pull back a bit to look at Bilbo, but he keeps a hold of his arms, and his eyes are red-rimmed. "I made the statue with the sorrow I felt and the loss I mourned every day when I realized no one was coming. There is magic unknown to us, and I asked for a second chance, and I felt in my heart I would get it. But you can't have known, and I imagine you never thought to touch my hand," he says and smiles, only a bit wobbly.

Bilbo opens his mouth, then closes it, blinking quickly. "Mmm," he hums. "Yes, I couldn't have. But, well… you've probably had some tens of thousands of people touch your hand." He clears his throat when Thorin raises his eyebrows high on his forehead. "You became quite the tourist attraction."

He's got a mighty frown that makes him look stern, and Thorin doesn't seem to know what to do with that information. He stares at Bilbo before he shakes his head with a slight huff.

"I imagine the more you tell me, the more time it'll take for me to understand," Thorin says. "I don't want to impose."

"It's not an imposition," Bilbo says, his cheeks hot. "I mean… how can it be? As long as I'm not dreaming."

Thorin chuckles. "Pray not," he says. "Why didn't you, Bilbo?"

"Why didn't I what?" Bilbo asks. He starts when he realizes what Thorin is asking and bites his lip for a moment. "I… well. My fortieth birthday ended only a few hours ago, you know. These days, erm, these modern days with… with smartphones and computers, which I'll show you… they make it easy. You can speak with someone across the world within seconds and that's not exactly a wonder anymore. It isn't hard to find them. Your soulmate. Quite easy, in fact. I tried, and I tried for a long while, but I couldn't find you. I'm afraid that I became tired of it all, and it seemed to only be a way to bring revenue into the city, touching the marble statue's hand. I never did because I gave up on it, and I'm sorry for that now. Sorrier than I can say."

He thinks he's rambled too much and probably confused Thorin, but Thorin doesn't look confused at all. Instead, he's looking at Bilbo, and his eyes are warm, and his smile is gentle, with only a bit of melancholy.

"Perhaps a pity," Thorin says quietly. "And perhaps not. Pity should you have touched my hand when you were a child and pity if you might not have until you were an old man. But perhaps not such a pity that we should meet in the middle."

Bilbo laughs, unable to help it, and squeezes his eyes shut when Thorin's hand rests over his cheek. Warm and dry now, but still a bit rough, and Bilbo finds more comfort in the touch than he's ever felt before.

He looks at Thorin, and his own eyes sting, but he bites his tongue because Bilbo's still not a fan of crying in front of anyone.

"Yes," Bilbo says. "I suppose you make an excellent point. An old professor of mine is always telling me to keep my eyes sharp and my heart open. I tell him to piss off most of the time, but it only makes him laugh. He's always believed in magic. The magic of soulmates. Quite eccentric, Gandalf, but I suppose I'm in for an I told you so."

Thorin chuckles. "Should your pride handle it," he says with a mischievous gleam in his eyes that makes Bilbo's knees feel weak, "I hope that the trade is worth it."

"Oh," Bilbo sighs and feels faint again, "yes, I do believe it will be."

Bilbo's certain he's about to be kissed. Maybe Thorin doesn't care all that much about wet hair and clothes and looking like a sodding mess. Maybe he likes the way Bilbo looks or was destined to, anyway, and Bilbo does feel like he's won the lottery.

How can he not? Thorin is handsome and in a sort of old-fashioned way. His blue eyes and tender smile, just as good as the broad one, his beard and his hair and his everything, really.

But he isn't just that. If Bilbo isn't dreaming, and the statue came to life at the touch of his soulmate, well, that means he's Bilbo's soulmate, doesn't it?

It means Thorin is real, that he was actually out there all this time, and he's Bilbo's, as much as Bilbo is Thorin's.

And he's certain he's about to be kissed, especially when Thorin's eyes fall to his lips.

Gollum, gollum.

Thorin and Bilbo flinch, and Thorin's hand falls from Bilbo's cheek as they look at the floor.

"Mercy!" Thorin says and sounds more shocked by Sméagol than anything.

Bilbo is immensely disappointed, yet he can't help but laugh when Thorin backs a step away. "Ah," he says. "Yes, that's… I'm afraid he was born that way. Bit of a grumpy fellow, but he's my cat, and I'm quite fond of him."

"We would have drowned him as a kit," Thorin says as he stares at Sméagol, who hisses at him. Thorin frowns as he watches Sméagol flick his tail and trot into the living room.

"Oh," Bilbo says, a bit taken aback and horrified, but Thorin lived a good long while ago, he supposes. "We... don't usually do that anymore. The unique ones are the popular ones these days. And cats are excellent pets, you know, to love and care for."

"Aye," Thorin says. "We kept them as companions in the home as well. My nephews did. I'm sorry to upset you," he adds as he looks at Bilbo. "I suppose that might be considered cruel now."

Bilbo huffs. "It's a punishable crime to harm animals these days," he says. "Sméagol's rather popular on Instagram. We'll get to that," he adds with a grimace as Thorin frowns. "The first time he sits in your lap, you'll love him. Impossible not to. Would you like some tea?"

Thorin refuses pain relief, which is not so surprising to Bilbo, and looks concerned when Bilbo takes a couple of tablets. But his back still hurts, thank you very much.

But find themselves in the living room after making tea. Spilling a bit, too, because Bilbo's hands shook badly as Thorin watched his every movement.

He supposes he'll have to get used to that.

But they sit on towels on the sofa and drink tea, and Bilbo occasionally tells Thorin about some things when he catches him staring at them. The television and Bilbo's small stack of blu-rays. His record player and the laptop on the coffee table.

He's reluctant to show Thorin any technology because he doesn't know how on god's green earth to explain it, and it might do Thorin in for all he knows.

But Bilbo's inhibitions have all but abandoned him by four in the morning, and he finds himself showing Thorin his smartphone and rambling about the things it does.

Getting news from across the world in mere seconds seems to be the thing Thorin is most interested in and disturbed by, and Bilbo giggles a little because, well. He can only imagine.

Bilbo's exhaustion and lack of sleep, and the shock of his lifetime have taken a lot out of him. Thorin doesn't seem tired, but he tells Bilbo to lie down and get some rest. But Bilbo doesn't want to leave Thorin by himself, and he has a guest bedroom, technically, but it's his office, and there's no bed.

He doesn't have clothes in Thorin's size, either, Bilbo realizes with some despair as he mentions getting out of their stiff clothing.

There's that shirt that got shot at him out of a cannon when Gandalf made him visit New York and they'd gone to a baseball game for the novelty of it. It's about two sizes too big, but Bilbo fishes it out of his closet in his bedroom while Thorin inspects everything there is to see.

No trousers or pajamas for Thorin to wear, of course, and Bilbo will use one of those delivery apps in the morning to get some clothes, he thinks, because he can hardly take Thorin to the department store.

Thorin does seem better at handling things than Bilbo expected. If Bilbo were the one in his place, simply being alive again after knowing he died would've likely killed him.

He sends Thorin off to the bathroom to dry his hair and with the shirt and a pair of pajama pants that were always a little long.

Bilbo sits on the edge of his bed in a daze and listens to the sink turn on and off about a dozen times before Thorin finally comes back out.

"Bit tight on the thighs," Thorin declares as if Bilbo can't see that himself and everything that comes with it.

"Oh, good gracious," Bilbo says, his cheeks hot again, and he coughs.

Thorin chuckles, though, and Bilbo does too until they're both laughing. The kind of laughing staying up all night does to you, and it feels good if a little surreal. More surreal will probably hit in the morning, but Bilbo takes advantage of it now.

Of how bloody good it feels to look at Thorin in his bedroom and not be nervous or uncomfortable. Flabbergasted and in shock still, yes, but maybe this isn't a dream. A dream come true, instead, and Bilbo thinks he's alright with that.

Very alright with that.

The boxer shorts don't do much either, not for Bilbo's sense of propriety, and Thorin seems to have a good amount of it too, but there's only so much they can do.

"Rest," Thorin says, his hands on Bilbo's shoulders as they stand at the foot of the bed. "You need rest."

"I bloody well do," Bilbo mutters. "I imagine you do too."

"Aye," Thorin says. "We'll see if I'm capable of it. May I use the settee?"

Bilbo raises his eyebrows and smiles. "Of course," he says. "And, erm… if you need anything, I'm only right here. If you need water, it's in the refrigerator. Erm… icebox? Can't really call it a cellar, can we?"

He's aware he's rambling, and Thorin does look amused, but he also looks fond, so Bilbo supposes he'll take it.

"Refrigerator," Thorin says and shakes his head. "You will be teaching me until the day I die."

"Well," Bilbo says with a smile, "hopefully that's not anytime soon. But I think you'll learn much faster. Faster than my students, maybe. You've got an entire world to see, though, and now that you can, I think we ought to explore it. I should ring Gandalf."

Thorin laughs. "The man who whisks you off on far and wide adventures," he says. "I knew a Gandalf once. He wasn't well-liked in the city."

Bilbo raises his eyebrows. "No? Goodness, he must be immortal, then. Or people should stop naming their children Gandalf, anyway," he says with a smile. "I'll get you a blanket and a pillow."

He does that while Thorin leaves the bedroom. Bilbo stops for a moment at his closet and stares at the stack of extra pillows, his heart thumping. It hurts, but differently than before.

"Forty is a very large number," Bilbo murmurs. "And also a number of whimsy." He bites his lip as his eyes sting and smiles just a bit. "I suppose I ought to thank you both. And remember I'm a Took sometimes, too."

Bilbo sighs and takes the pillow and blanket into the living room. Thorin is sitting on the sofa and he smiles as he looks at Bilbo. That broad one, handsome and heartwarming and comforting all at once. Something that makes Bilbo's heart thunder even harder, and his palms are sweaty.

He doesn't feel particularly nervous, but it does feel like anticipation.

Getting Thorin settled on his sofa feels a bit strange, and Bilbo wants to offer his bed, but it's too soon, he thinks, too soon for both of them.

"Get a book if you'd like," Bilbo says and gestures at the bookshelves lining a wall. "Please, please, Thorin, let me know if you need anything else. It's a different world and I don't want you to be uncomfortable."

"All will be well, Bilbo," Thorin says. "I have you for any tribulations beyond those of an overactive mind."

Bilbo chuckles and thinks he'd like Thorin to speak this way forever. "You do. Still," he says. "I'm just down the hall."

Thorin smiles and holds out his hand. Bilbo takes it without hesitation and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he always will. Of course, Thorin won't always take it to kiss his knuckles, as he does now, and Bilbo's stomach swoops.

He'll probably feel that for a long while too.

It's difficult to say good night. Very difficult, in fact, but Bilbo does feel like he's stretched a bit thin, so he eventually goes to his bedroom. He leaves the door open a crack and collapses into bed after.

Bilbo stares at the ceiling and wonders what sort of magic flows through the earth. Through people, many tied together by magic and love, and he thinks that he was too hard on himself.

Maybe Thorin won't like some things about him, or maybe he'll love them. After all, Bilbo's father loved everything about his mother when that certainly wouldn't have been true if she weren't his soulmate.

It took Belladonna to get Bungo to be more adventurous and it took Bungo to get Belladonna to remember home can mean just as much as what's outside the door.

Bilbo's asleep before he can think any more about it.

—

When he wakes, it's with a jolt.

Bilbo inhales sharply and scrabbles for his phone, squinting at the time. The sun is up much higher than what he's used to, but it's only half-past nine. Not a lot of sleep, but Bilbo knows he won't be getting any more rest.

He's got a blasted soulmate in the living room.

The thought to check the news comes and what will surely be something of a breaking story, the statue gone missing, but Bilbo decides that's not for today.

After his morning business, he puts on his robe and quietly leaves his bedroom, walking down the hall and into the living room. Bilbo stops and stares at the sofa.

Thorin is there. He's real and alive and not a dream, but sleeping on Bilbo's sofa, lightly snoring. He doesn't fit quite all the way, but Thorin is still sprawled out, and so is Sméagol, in between Thorin's knees. Bilbo wonders if Sméagol deemed him worthy while he was still awake or if he's stealing warmth.

He walks closer and sees that Thorin has a book opened on his chest.

Ulysses.

"Oh, good lord," Bilbo mumbles.

He's loath to wake Thorin, but Bilbo is in dire need of tea and perhaps some toast, and the kitchen isn't all that far away. They won't be leaving the flat, most likely, so there's no saying they can't have a kip in the afternoon.

Making tea does wake Thorin, and Bilbo watches as he sits up on the sofa and looks at Sméagol in between his knees for a while. Sméagol is never thrilled to have to get up and coughs in agitation when Thorin turns more and looks into the kitchen.

Gollum, gollum.

Bilbo's taken him to his veterinarian numerous times for it, but the man says it's a behavior as bizarre as Sméagol looks, and there's nothing wrong with him.

"Good morning," Bilbo says, and he is nervous now. He doesn't know how this should go, but he thinks he might be the first person on earth to experience this, so rolling with it might do him some good. "Would you like a cup of tea? Some breakfast, too."

Thorin walks into the kitchen and smiles. His hair is mussed up and needs a good brushing, and Bilbo wonders what it might look like tied back.

Too good, probably.

"Good morning," Thorin says, his voice as deep as Bilbo dreamed. Deep as mountains go and as peaceful and comforting as the dawn. "I would. Did you sleep well?"

"I did, yes. Thank you," Bilbo says breathlessly and is glad he already poured the tea. "Did you?"

Thorin nods. "Aye," he says. "Your cat stared at me for some time, but we came to a truce, I believe. Or sleep took us first." He smiles after Bilbo laughs. "May I help?"

"Oh, erm. Well," Bilbo says and opens the refrigerator. "I suppose you could. Or you could… watch the first time, anyway. How about some eggs and bacon? And toast, of course, baked the bread yesterday, you know. Hmm? Thorin?"

Bilbo looks over the refrigerator door at Thorin, leaning on the corner of the counter, his arms crossed over his chest. He's doing it again, watching Bilbo with a particular fondness that no one has ever had before.

It's going to take some time to get used to, Bilbo suspects, and he's not sure the airiness in his stomach or the tingles in his fingertips will ever ease when Thorin looks at him like that.

It lights a fire under his feet, the same feeling that made him go to the square at two this morning, the same feeling that brought Thorin to life.

"You really must stop looking at me like that," Bilbo croaks. "Or I'll forget what I was going on about."

Thorin chuckles and moves closer. "Must I?" he asks. "Must I not look at you, the man I've been waiting for all my life and through my death and the long years gone since?"

"Oh, please stop," Bilbo says and closes the refrigerator door. "It's not even ten."

"We've lost enough time already," Thorin says. "I'd rather not lose more. So, must I not stare when it's you I've been blessed with?"

"Thorin," Bilbo says with some distress. "You'll only get poetics from me once in a while and I'm not sure I can handle them from you so often."

Thorin holds out his hands and Bilbo takes them because he always will. "Perhaps," he says with the mischievous gleam back in his eye, "we shouldn't worry about poetics anymore."

Bilbo swallows. "And what would you suggest in their place?"

Being kissed soundly in the middle of the kitchen and in the light of a Thursday morning doesn't seem like it should be particularly special. Many people have likely done so out there in the wide world.

And yet there is something extraordinary about it, and how could there not be? It's another moment to remember, another moment to cherish, that first surrender to what this means to them. To love.

To a soulmate, someone who is just as human and flawed as the other, filled with imperfections but made to be half of someone's heart.

September the 23rd at a quarter 'till ten in the morning, and Bilbo will never forget it.

There's quite a lot of kissing until Bilbo is reasonably sure he's going to lose his head and puts a stop to it. He has to make more tea after, but it's hard not to look at Thorin and his rosy lips and warm, pleased smile.

Hard not to kiss him again, though they do sneak in a few as Bilbo makes breakfast. Thorin watches and marvels at the stovetop, telling Bilbo how he's used to breakfast being made.

Bilbo realizes he has just as much to learn about the world as Thorin. Maybe it's an entirely different place for Thorin, tangible and confusing, and the ways of life he knew are mostly gone.

But Thorin has just as many stories and things to teach Bilbo. He lived an entire life in a world Bilbo can only imagine and is only familiar with by the literature he's read.

Thorin had a family, nephews and at least one sibling; he's of the line of Durin, a name vaguely familiar to Bilbo. He is a person with experiences and regrets, with an entire lifetime of memories and Bilbo's sure a good amount of wisdom.

Yes, he'll learn just as much as Thorin learns, and Bilbo is eager for it.

But today, over bacon, eggs, toast, and stolen kisses, Bilbo thinks it can wait. It can wait for one morning or one day, whatever they need to establish this bond, which was always destined to be.

Inevitable, Bilbo might say, but that seems too harsh.

Destiny is better, the destiny Bilbo thought he'd never experience, but he was only delayed. Soulmate business is not something he was fond of, but he looks at Thorin sitting at the table next to him and feels the bitterness wash away.

"Well?" Bilbo asks after a while. "What's the verdict?"

Thorin smiles as he holds a piece of bacon and looks at Bilbo. "Perfect," he declares. "As all here seems to be."

"I do know my way around a kitchen," Bilbo says with a laugh. "Perfection, though? Bit difficult to keep up."

"I don't want you to keep up with anything," Thorin says. "I want to know you, Bilbo Baggins, just as you are, whether meals are perfect or not. There is nothing that could be better than the chance to get to know you."

Bilbo gazes at Thorin, trying not to feel nervous or self-conscious. He chases away self-deprecation, too. He smiles instead, and when Thorin offers his hand on the table, Bilbo takes it.

"I suppose you're right," Bilbo says. "Because I feel rather the same way about you. This will certainly be a day to remember. I should mark it on my calendar."

Thorin laughs, and Bilbo does too and smiles as Thorin kisses his knuckles. His eyes are crinkled with age and laughter and warmth, and Bilbo thinks Thorin is right. Perfect is today. Maybe only today and maybe they'll celebrate perfect next year on this day too.

Here sits Bilbo's soulmate in a New York Yankees shirt, boxer shorts that are a bit too revealing, eating a simple breakfast. Not a marble statue anymore, not anything but a man who Bilbo is grateful to have found, even if it took quite a few years of walking right by Thorin before he did.

Magic from a bygone world and Bilbo supposes he ought to embrace it.

They mark it on the calendar Bilbo keeps in his office for more personal reminders than what he puts in his phone. Birthdays and anniversaries and the like.

September 22nd is scribbled hastily with birthday.

September 23rd is circled, and Thorin writes in beautiful, angular penmanship inside of it.

Beginnings.