Summary: Thorin Oakenshield saved Bilbo Baggin's life when he was a child, and Bilbo has been under the impression that they've been engaged all these long, lonely years. But when Thorin returns, he doesn't seem to have the slightest memory of Bilbo, let alone their engagement. Bilbo is sad and confused, but determined to win Thorin's favour on the dark, winding roads ahead. Based upon a lovely meme prompt. This can also be found on AO3. xoxo
Pairing: Thorin/Bilbo
Warnings: Violence, some language, eventual smut, angst, canon-divergence!
A/N: Sorry for the delay! Family stuff came up! :S
Chapter Three
It was a rare occurrence for Bilbo to experience feelings of such profound unrest and anger that he felt an acute yearning to tear free from his own skin. As he fell back and allowed a horde of ravenous dwarves (led by the infernal wizard Gandalf) to attack his food stores and eat from his his best china, he concluded that he would have loved to do nothing less at that very moment.
His appetite fled rather swiftly after several minutes of watching the vulgar, impetuous creatures scarf his food and down his quality ale like it was goblin drivel, goaded by Gandalf's obvious merriment. Their shouts and laughter left him internally cringing, choler rising quick as lightening until it was a battle not to scream at them, to force them to hear his complaints.
The last time he'd been this incensed was very shortly after his mother died, when the Sacksvlle-Baggins' had come round to Bag End, veiled in black and false sympathy. Lobelia had carried a dish filled with an unappetising-looking casserole whilst her children bobbed behind her skirt, leaning around her audaciously every few seconds to make faces at him. Otho had stood impassively by her side, thumbs tucked behind his suspenders, face artfully blank as his wife professed her deepest sorrow for Bilbo's loss and promptly followed the sentiment by offering him a truly heinous bargain for the acquisition of Bag End. He'd slammed the door in her face and spent entirely too many hours afterwards seething. He hadn't bothered finding a way to channel his anger back then, and he couldn't now, choosing simply to wallow in it.
If it wasn't for Gandalf's presence, ho ho, he'd have had truly discourteous things to spew at these dwarves!
The situation being what it was, Bilbo just fell into dour stuttering, trying to feel less invisible. The saddest part of the entire affair, was that he couldn't decide if he was angry because of the intrusion into his cosy routine or because he secretly wanted to join in their mirth.
At one point, while attempting to tell off a dwarf for using his great grandfather's letter opener to carve up a large slice of ham, Gandalf shoved a buttered roll into his hand and said: "You must be starving, Bilbo. Do eat a little, at least. We shall be up rather late, I fear."
Gandalf patted him on the shoulder and strode off before Bilbo had a chance to voice his protestations, so he took a half-hearted nibble. When one of the younger dwarves asked if he was going to eat it, Bilbo handed it over wordlessly.
His bad mood was only exacerbated by the state in which his guests had left the kitchen and (most particularly) the bathroom - then transformed to full-fledged panic when the youngest dwarf approached him somewhat shyly and inquired politely about what to do with his plate. Bilbo hardly had a chance to open his mouth before the dwarves began tossing his mother's china around and singing boisterously about smashing plates and blunting knives, completely ignoring his frantic objections.
When he managed to shove his way into the kitchen, it was to see the dishes stack haphazardly on the table, but clean and quite unbroken. An unwitting smile flickered across his face, before three, heavy knocks were delivered upon the front door. He froze in horrified disbelief and all the dwarves fell mum.
No more. Oh, Elbereth, please no more dwarves, Bilbo begged silently.
He noted, with a generous amount of apprehension, that expressions of anticipation had spread collectively over every dwarf's hairy face.
"He is here," Gandalf intoned with a strange solemn, excitement. "Bilbo, answer the door, if you will."
"W-who is here?" Bilbo asked in a reticent undertone.
There was an unmistakable sparkle in Gandalf's eyes that Bilbo disliked. "You will see. Now, go on then. It's rude to keep him waiting upon the doorstep."
Bilbo bristled at Gandlaf's interpretation of 'rude', but he muttered "all right" just the same. He stalked to the foyer, the pack of dwarves and Gandalf's looming form trailing behind. Bilbo found the abrupt quiet after such relentless commotion to be quite eerie. Feeling prickly, he made a motion to roll up his sleeves (a common nervous gesture of his) only to find that he'd already done so.
His home looked strange to him as he traversed it now, messy and dangerous – a nameless menace. His own, round front door seemed to resemble the maw of some abnormal beast.
When Bilbo reached the door he took a deep breath and grasped the burnished handle, feeling it slide a bit beneath his sweaty palm. Imagining in vivid detail an eight foot troll armed with a deadly spiked club lying in wait on the step, he turned the knob and swung the door open quickly, for what he desperately hoped was the final time that night.
Bilbo's hand became immovable stone around the doorknob and his mouth gaped stupidly as he stared his newest, uninvited guest in the face.
Thorin Oakenshield stood on the other side, looking almost exactly the same as Bilbo remembered, though his hair was now streaked with a liberal amount of grey, and his face appeared far more careworn. It was as if every ounce of oxygen had been sucked from his lungs and his legs had turned to slender reeds incapable of bearing his weight. He leaned heavily upon the door, mouth forming Thorin's name without a sound emerging.
Thorin's cerulean eyes lingered briefly on him, and he appeared slightly bemused by Bilbo's mute mouthing. Then his gaze drifted over Bilbo's shoulder and settled on someone standing behind him.
"Gandalf," Thorin intoned deeply, stepping forward. For an unbalanced moment, Bilbo thought Thorin was going to embrace him (he himself was possessed with an intense desire to do so), but he only sidestepped Bilbo as if he were an umbrella stand, passing so close that his hair tickled Bilbo's face.
Bilbo felt as if his imaginary troll has squashed him flat with that club after the blatant dismissal, shredding his thinning hopes like tissue paper. He closed the door and hovered there awkwardly while Thorin greeted Gandalf and his fellow dwarves, divesting himself of his heavy travelling cloak. Bilbo was so lost in his growing bewilderment that he couldn't even muster a weak protestation at the fact that Gandalf had treated his newly painted door like a carving block.
"Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf began, startling him out of his abrupt decline into shock by clasping him him firmly on the shoulder when he saw how pale he'd grown. "Meet the leader of our company: Thorin Oakenshield."
Bilbo ducked out from under Gandalf's familiar touch and sent him a look of profound indignation for thinking he could he fail to recognise the latest addition to their dinner party. He was about to voice this aloud when Gandalf nudged him firmly between the shoulder blades until he was looking into Thorin's face.
"So..." Thorin said, advancing on Bilbo with arms held tightly across his chest and head tilted back in a breathtaking display of arrogance. He didn't halt until he and Bilbo were practically nose-to-nose. "This is the hobbit."
"It's me," Bilbo agreed quietly, not certain what else he was supposed to say. He wanted to look to Gandalf for help, but he couldn't avert his eyes from Thorin's, hundreds of shades of intersecting blues entrapping him mercilessly. Thorin smelled of leather, metal, fur and pine, and Bilbo inhaled sharply, head swimming. I'm not ready, a cowardly part of him wanted to confess. I've been waiting my whole life, and I'm still not ready to go with you!
Thorin began circling Bilbo slowly and a flush rose on his neck as he stood alone and helpless before Thorin's lazy scrutiny, heart beating at a hummingbird's pace.
"Tell me, Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?"
Bilbo – already quite taken aback both by Thorin's sudden reappearance and his haughty demeanour– struggled with the absurdity of the question and found no answer.
"Axe or sword? What is your weapon of choice?" Thorin insisted.
Bilbo rocked back slightly, eyes finally flitting away from the harsh, insolent stare as his mind flashed immediately to his old wooden sword which he'd used to batter numerous tress into submission... It seemed unseemly to mention that, however.
"Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know, but I don't know why you'd find that relevant." His tone was more cheeky than intended and his face warmed with embarrassment, knowing instinctively that it was the answer Thorin had expected and that he would think less of Bilbo because of it. All of which served only to leave him more flustered and confused than he'd been in recent memory.
"Thought as much," Thorin stated, coming to a halt in front of him again – looking down on Bilbo. "He looks more like a grocer than a burgler," he said to his companions, giving Bilbo a wry grin. It... wasn't a nice expression.
The dwarves chuckled in appreciative aggreemant at his words and Gandaf joined in their laughter unenthusiatically as Thorin shouldered his way past them to the kitchen. Bilbo felt quite bewildered by what had been clearly intended as an insult. Why should he wish to be seen as a burgler? Didn't Thorin remember him? Why was he mocking him so?
When he and Bilbo were the only ones left, Gandalf sagged against the doorframe and emitted a huff of relief. He smiled down at Bilbo a moment later. "We're off to a good start, I believe. Get some dinner into him and perhaps things will go more smoothly."
As Gandalf turned to follow the dwarves, Bilbo gripped the back of his robes to stop him. The sensation of the rough, travel-worn fabric bunching between his fingers grounded him.
"Gandalf," he whispered hoarsely. The words he wanted to say caught in his throat. His intended had finally returned to him and all he could feel was dread and trepidation. "Why is he here?" Bilbo was starting to suspect it wasn't for some dwarvish marriage ritual.
Gandalf's discomfitted expression at Bilbo's query as good as certified it.
"He doesn't know me, does he?" Bilbo asked at last, every syllable a burning ember as it rolled off his tongue. The accusation in his own voice surprised him with it's utter sincerity.
"I don't know," Gandalf said gently, sadness (and could that be guilt?) deepening the lines in his face. Bilbo felt like he'd been kicked in the diaphragm at the admission, and his limbs weighed him down, floor begging to swallow him whole. "But he's had a wearying journey, and there is much yet to be decided before the night is done. We should join them before they begin making decisions rashly."
Bilbo released Gandalf reluctantly and followed him, trying to keep his head up and bundling what courage he could find to his chest for safekeeping.
OOO
With trembling hands, Bilbo set a bowl of hardy lamb and barely soup in front of Thorin, along with a plate of freshly baked rolls. If Thorin noticed the quivering, he refrained from mentioning it. Or perhaps he was too ravenous to care. Bilbo drew back almost instantly and endeavoured to make himself smaller than the tiniest weevil as he settled against the wall behind Gandalf's chair, listening to the proceeding conversation with little interest, unable to tear his sight from Thorin's face for long. Bilbo eyed the swoop of his nose and the arch of his brows – eventually drifting further down to examine his ruddy cheeks and and the curve of his thin lips behind a neatly trimmed beard.
If Thorin noticed, he ignored that, as well, wholly engrossed in his dwarven business.
My betrothed, Bilbo pondered with wonder, hands curling into loose fists. He was a little different than Bilbo's overzealous imagination had recalled, but more handsome, he decided, a dangerous hope burgeoning in his chest. He must remember me. Somewhere in that thick, dwarvish skull.
Bilbo's thoughts were re-directed abruptly when the word "quest" passed Thorin's lips.
"You're going on a quest?" he inquired into the proceeding silence, insecurities quite forgotten for a minute, interest fully piqued at the word in connection with Thorin.
To his discontent, no one answered – they simply stared at him until Gandalf requested a candle. Bilbo obeyed promptly, eager for something to do other than standing there awkwardly.
When he returned, he saw that Gandalf had laid a map on the table in front of Thorin, and Bilbo couldn't resist leaning over to peer at it.
"The Lonely Mountain," he read aloud, eyes roving ardently over the beautifully drawn lines: drinking in the array of unfamiliar locations with strange names, and the cluster of foreign characters on the side.
His interest waned more speedily than it had surfaced, once a dragon (one that thrived outside of the written word) was brought into things and the dwarves all began shouting angrily amongst themselves. Bilbo stood a polite distance away, deeply unsettled, while Thorin rose to his feet and shouted intelligibly in dwarvish.
Against his will, Bilbo's interest was once again renewed by Thorin's fervent, rousing speech and Gandalf's unveiling of a large, tarnished, silver key which he bestowed upon Thorin, it's rightful owner. The stark wonder on Thorin's face made him look half a lad, and it did curious things to Bilbo's stomach.
"The task I have in mind will require a great deal of stealth and no small amount of courage," Gandalf told the table, looking pointedly at Bilbo. Thorin did too, though with an entirely different expression, causing Bilbo's chest to constrict painfully. "But if we are careful and clever, I believe that it can be done."
"That's what why we need a burgler!" the youngest dwarf exclaimed.
"And a good one too. An expert, I imagine," Bilbo informed them obliviously, glancing once more at the map.
"And are you?"one of the dwarves inquired.
"Am I what?" he asked blankly, looking up to see every eye trained on him.
"He said he's an expert!" Another dwarf proclaimed happily after a moment of tense silence.
"No, no! I'm not! I've never stolen a thing in my life!" he protested indignantly, bruised by the accusation.
"I'm afraid I have to have to agree with Mr. Baggins here. He's hardly burgaler material," the oldest dwarf said.
"No," Bilbo agreed weakly, confused as to why he was beginning to feel affronted in a different way.
"Aye," his brother responded darkly. "The wild is no place for gentle folk who can neither fight nor fend for themselves."
Bilbo opened his mouth angrily to protest to that too, then closed it as all the dwarves started grumbling again, another argument brewing.
"Enough!" Gandalf proclaimed, standing to his full height and quieting the chatter. "If I say Mr. Baggins is a burglar, then a burglar he is!"
Bilbo nodded his head sharply in agreement, then, realizing with horror what he'd just done, attempted to backtrack as Gandalf listed Bilbo's supposed attributes.
"Well, I mean, no-"
"You asked me to find the fourteenth member of this company and I've chosen Mr. Baggins," Gandalf carried on, heedless of Bilbo's reluctance. "There's a lot more to him than appearances suggest. And he's got a great deal more to offer than any of you know. Including himself."
Bilbo's heart warmed at the somewhat backhanded compliment, then fear coalesced like an icy fist in the pit of his stomach at the thought of facing a dragon.
"You must trust me on this," Gandalf wheedled, leaning in close to Thorin.
The entire company waited with bated breath.
"Very well," Thorin said eventually, quietly. "We will do it your way. Give him the contract."
Bilbo wanted to refuse, but he was far too conscience of Thorin's presence to protest further, and accepted the document wordlessly. He carried it a few feet away to read in relative privacy. When unfolded, the paper slipped nearly to the floor.
Bilbo read through the document anxiously, feeling dwarvish eyes crawling over his hunched shoulders, judging every sound, every musculature twitch.
"Lacerations," Bilbo murmured softly to himself, "evisceration. Incineration?!" He pivoted around and regarded them all with candid disbelief.
"Aye. He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye," a dwarf confirmed jovially.
"Oh," Bilbo squeaked, looking everywhere except at the curious eyes.
"You all right, laddie?"
"Yes, yes. I'm fine," he panted, even as his palate flooded with saliva, vision blurring alarmingly at the edges. He bent over, puffing quick breaths, hands planted on his thighs as his stomach heaved.
"Think furnace with wings," that dwarf said, standing and leaning towards him.
Bilbo released what could only be described as a whimper.
"Flash of light, searing pain, then poof! You're nothing but a pile of ash."
Bilbo glanced over and caught sight of the dwarves staring at him with a predictable range of expressions: mostly amused, a few sneers, one of pity: then Thorin's gaze, steady and unreadable. Bilbo drew in a massive breath, held it, and released it slowly through his teeth – relinquished his panic to the soft cushions, polished wood, and homey smells of Bag End.
"I-I'm afraid I shall need an hour or so to reflect upon this," he gasped as confidently as he could manage, standing straight and brandishing the parchment to the table at large. Then he fled the room with quick, tottering steps to the sitting room, plonking himself in one of his favourite armchairs, next to the blazing fire. He rubbed the rough paper between his soft fingertips and tried not to hyperventilate as the others concluded their planning.
Gandalf entered a few minutes later, just as Bilbo was calming, bearing a mug of tea and what he must have deemed encouraging words, waxing poetic about Bilbo's younger, foolhardy days.
"I'm not that hobbit anymore," Bilbo interrupted him, clutching the mug tightly, burning his hands. Saying it out loud made him sad. "I'm a Baggins of Bag End. And I-" He took a deep breath, anger spilling out.
"Why would you put me in this position, Gandalf?" he demanded, his hurt embarrassingly palpable. "You know how I feel about..." he let the sentence drift, uncomfortable voicing his emotions concerning Thorin. "I thought that he was..."
"You thought what, exactly?" Gandalf asked.
Bilbo lowered his voice to the barest whisper. "I thought he was here to..." he trailed of again and hit the arm of the chair with frustration, causing searing droplets of tea to splatter his chest. "Why didn't you tell me he was coming? That he doesn't remember me at all?"
"Bilbo-"
"I wasn't made for the road," he interrupted again, louder, drowning the plea. "Just look at me." He gestured to his paunchy stomach with a sharp twitch of his wrist.
Gandalf took a deep breath, one that Bilbo was familiar with from years of listening to him tell stories. "Did I ever tell you the tale of old Bullroarer Took?"
"No," Bilbo answered wearily, dissatisfied with the sudden change in topic. "But I know the stories, well enough."
"It's good for you to be reminded," Gandalf pressed, launching into a ridiculous and mostly fabricated tale.
After some more unnecessary, attempted persuasion, Gandalf allowed Bilbo to get up and go to his room after he stridently expressed the desire for complete, Dwarf-free solitude. He left the contract on the chair, safely (and wisely) unsigned.
Comfortable as his bed was, Bilbo was unable to find rest, tossing and turning for hours. Thorin's judgemental gaze and mocking tone invaded his thoughts and waking dreams. He drifted to consciousness at one point, to the sounds of harmonious, baritone singing carrying down to him from the sitting room. He curled up in bed, clenching the blankets, still undecided.
OOO
The pleasant, homely sitting room in Bag End made Thorin irritated and angry in ways he couldn't begin to pinpoint. He stared deeply into the hearth fire until it felt as if the flames would be forever superimposed over his retinas. A fiery veil shielding his sight from the hopelessness of their quest. Though it continued to blaze hot, only a thin sheen of sweat covered Thorin's brow. He was accustomed to working metal at forges, and even those were a bare whisper of flame compared to the great bellows of Erebor. Memories, stretched long and thin by overuse, returned to him, vague images that frustrated him more than anything else. He could no longer discern if they were real or simply dreams he'd had of Erebor.
The rest of his company had drifted off with Gandalf a short while ago to find places to sleep, leaving Thorin to his thoughts.
Now that he was alone, Thorin was finding it challenging to shake off the gloom that seemed intent upon weighing his shoulders down. So many doubts and worries. And constantly, more and more questions. Stacked one atop the other. He traced the heavy key in his breast pocket with firm fingers, pressing hard.
He was quite relieved when he heard the faint whisper of Gandalf's robes behind him, as the wizard meandered back to the sitting room, having returned from putting the dwarves to bed. Thorin leaned his forearm on the mantelpiece and waited until he heard Gandalf settle into a puffy armchair and adjust his grey robes.
"We cannot take the halfling," he said firmly, still glaring at the flames.
When Gandalf deigned not to reply, Thorin barrelled on. "I care not for your words or things spoken between us before. Your halfling is no burglar. If he comes with us he shall perish. And I – I do not want that on my conscience," he confessed, recalling how the hobbit had nearly fainted at Bofur's description of Smaug, just one of the many horrors they would likely be confronting. The worst one, assuredly, yet all the same...
Thorin most definitely did not want to dig into his discomfort at the way Baggins had been ogling him all through dinner, nor how his eyes had been round with awe and familiarity when he'd answered the door and discovered Thorin on the step. He wondered with exacerbation what sorts of tales Fíli and Kíli had been filling the hobbit's head with before he'd arrived.
Again, Gandalf said nothing, but Thorin could tell that the wizard was thinking. He could almost hear the cogs turning in the wizard's brain as Gandalf extracted his pipe and went through the motions of cleaning, filling and lighting it before he addressed a thoroughly impatient Thorin.
"You say you care not for my words, but heed this," he said sternly. "If you do not allow Bilbo Baggins to accompany you, this quest will surely fail." The doom and certainty of his words cast black wings of doubt over Thorin's heart.
Still, he tried to press his point. "Please, tell me what you mean by accompany," Thorin said with an over-abundance of disgust saturating his voice. All his frustrations with Gandalf poured out in the syllables as he rounded on the wizard. "He would only come with us if we gagged him and trussed him to a pony. At the first opportunity he would abandon us. Regardless of how distant we were from his homeland, he'd come sneaking back to his warm bed."
Gandalf's face had darkened considerably and he appeared not to have noticed that his pipe had gone out.
"Those things simply aren't true. You know not his heart, Thorin Oakenshield, and rely too much upon your first, cursory inspection to see the steel that lies beneath his gentle exterior," Gandalf insisted. He glanced down at his pipe and released a grumbled curse. He relit with a snap of his fingers and took a long pull.
"How could you possibly know this? Have you tested his worth before?" When Gandalf gave no answer except to avert his eyes, Thorin grinned humourlessly. "You speak in circles, leaving me no clear-cut answers, yet you expect me to acquiesce to your wishes."
"Have I lead you astray before?" Gandalf asked sharply, blowing a thin stream of smoke through his teeth. Too tense for colours and shapes, perhaps.
Thorin pursed his lips. They both knew the answer.
"A compromise then," Thorin said, locking his arms behind his back and facing Gandalf with his full height and authority.
"I'm listening," Gandalf huffed around the stem of his pipe.
"The hobbit can come... if he chooses to of his own accord. Without further cajoling from you and no further dissent from me or my company. Which means I don't want you urging him out of bed and throwing him onto a saddle."
Gandalf's brows drew so close together they formed a grey caterpillar over his deep-set eyes. "It will have to be agreeable to us both," he conceded eventually, pushing himself up from the armchair with some difficulty. "In the meantime, as it has grown quite late, we should rest before the morrow. Dawn is scant hours away."
Thorin nodded his approval and they made their way to the nice spare bedrooms set aside for their use, both confidant that they'd won.