all i really want to do

by vtforpedro

In which Thorin underestimates, overestimates, and makes many mistakes along the journey to Erebor. It's a good thing Bilbo is always there to save the day.

Thorin rubs his temples as he sits at a dining table crammed with dwarves. An achingly familiar sight, something everyone has had before, yet he knows frivolity ended when he knocked on the door.

Still, Thorin would rather sit outside, listen to crickets, and feel the cool breeze while filling his lungs with smoke. It's better than this.

"Mister Boggins," Kili says. There's a light slapping sound. "Mister Boggins, can you hear us?"

"Harmless," Gandalf grumbles, still eyeing Bofur's back. "I've told you he's harmless."

Thorin raises an eyebrow as he glances at Gandalf, whom he trusts less and less by the moment. "Harmless is not a virtue for a burglar, nor anyone on this quest," he says. "He'll be killed before we've left the Shire."

"Aye," Balin says as he watches Fili and Kili attempt to wake Baggins. "It's as you said, brother. The wilds aren't a place for him." He looks at Dwalin, who is shaking his head and hasn't stopped since Baggins fainted. "We need a burglar to survive a potentially living dragon."

Dwalin snorts. "He'd faint at the sight of his own reflection."

"You underestimate Bilbo," Gandalf says irritably. "He's quite skilled. Harmless toward you is a quality you should know is hard to come by."

Thorin sighs and grabs his mug of ale. "Perhaps Master Baggins wouldn't join the quest to rob us. I doubt he can rally the Shire for any battle," he adds with wry amusement. "But I believe I've overestimated you, Gandalf."

"Do you? How unfortunate I should offer my aid on a quest that may involve danger if you overestimate my ability to save dwarven stubbornness from it."

"You think we need to be saved by a wizard?" Dwalin asks. "You think we're unable to fend off danger?"

"Oh, no," Gandalf says with a gleam in his eye. "I do believe you're perfectly capable of that. You've had many years of fending off the danger of your own making."

"Leave it, laddies," Balin says as Thorin and Dwalin open their mouths. "We are but seasoned warriors these days. Old warriors," he amends with a smile. "Perhaps Master Baggins may surprise us yet."

"Consider me surprised if he lasts the night," Thorin says to Dwalin, smirking.

Baggins groans. "If you slap me one more time, Master Dwarf, you'll lose the blasted hand."

The Company laughs and cheers.

Dwalin looks at Thorin and they shake their heads commiseratingly.

—

The pony business cements it.

Master Baggins is not fit for the wilds and he's more trouble than he's worth. They may have gotten to stretch their arms and tasted the fight that every warrior thrives off of, whether they speak the truth or not, but the loss of dignity isn't worth it.

He might have delayed the trolls' feast, but it was Gandalf who saved them. Thorin thinks it may sting for the rest of his life, however long that may be. But it was Baggins' carelessness that put them there, and after hearty, seemingly endless complaining from the halfling, Thorin feels less than charitable.

"A quick mind, eh?" Fili asks as he tucks a small dagger up his sleeve. "A problem solver. Good qualities for a burglar."

"Trolls," Thorin says, "are mindless creatures. We still don't know what brought them so far south. But going up against mindless creatures cannot be compared to a potentially live dragon."

Kili clears his throat. "Potentially unalive dragon," he says. "We hope, anyway. And the whole point is to burglarize Smaug, not to have a chat."

Thorin glances at his nephew and sees Kili swiftly look away. His hands are balled at his sides, shifting his weight from side to side. Thorin looks at Fili, who looks up at the tops of the trees with a familiar grimace.

They could be thirty again, and while Thorin won't like whatever they have to say, his heart twinges. They're still so young and easily younger in Thorin's eyes—after their father died before he could become a memory, Thorin helped Dis raise them. Rambunctious boys that reminded him of himself and Frerin, but they were forced to grow up quicker than they would have in Erebor.

Kili has barely reached his majority, and it would do Thorin well to remember how young they are, no matter how fiercely proud he is of the warriors they are today.

"What is it?" Thorin asks. "I've no patience for games today."

"When do you ever have patience for games?" Kili asks. He coughs a little after Thorin raises his eyebrows. "Well, it's Bilbo. Quick mind and all. Not… entirely his fault that the troll business happened."

Thorin sighs. "And who shares that fault?"

"Oh," Kili says airily, "we do. You ordered us to watch the ponies and Bilbo brought us our share of supper."

"Still a host even in the wilds," Fili adds with a smile. "We weren't watching the ponies, Uncle," he adds in a mutter.

Thorin looks between them. "You let trolls take them?" he asks. "What were you doing?"

"Scouting. We saw damaged trees and went west rather than south," Kili says. "Realized we were following cold tracks and that we'd left the ponies without a guard. We followed the trolls' tracks, but they'd already taken them. Bilbo is our burglar, so we sent him ahead."

"You sent him ahead," Thorin repeats. "Master Baggins."

"Aye. Him," Fili says. "We needed to tell you. Only we forgot that Master Baggins should've had a guard as well. He did well enough, but we never should have left him with such little instruction."

"Our mistake," Kili says. "He did well. Better than us. Not a faint in sight."

Thorin rubs the bridge of his nose before he pinches it. Mahal save him from his nephews and their foolery. They're hardly as young as he only just thought—they're the grown dwarves that stand before Thorin.

"Uncle?"

"I would send you back to Ered Luin," Thorin says and looks at his nephews, who cringe, "if I thought you'd fare any better on your own. Go on. Pick up duties that aren't your own, and if you cannot take this quest seriously, turn back on your own."

They grimace, nod quickly, and shuffle off.

Thorin watches them go, briefly pausing as he sees Bofur and Bifur attempting to help Bombur back into his clothes.

A sorry company they make, but it would wound him greatly if they turned back.

He looks at Master Baggins as he stands at Gandalf's side. His shoulders are slumped, and he's pale—as exhausted as the rest of them. Gandalf gestures at the dwarves, and Baggins looks at him with such a full-bodied amount of disdain and annoyance that it's impressive it lasts only a second before his shoulders slump again.

Aye, maybe a quick mind. Perhaps a spine made of something sterner than Thorin initially thought. Baggins' annoyance with Gandalf is something that Thorin understands to the depths of Khazad-dûm itself.

The troll cave hides some wonders Thorin won't admit to, but he'll take all the same. He looks at Baggins and his letter opener and shares a glance with Dwalin, but perhaps he'll swing it.

They'll find out quickly enough, much to Thorin's chagrin.

—

Master Baggins' awe of Rivendell loses any charitable mood Thorin might have developed.

He looks at the elvish architecture with wonder. A grin that Thorin has yet to see from him and he disapproves of it. Bilbo has long been stuck in the Shire, a place that is not shy on architectural skill if Thoin is honest with himself, but he hasn't seen the world's wonders.

An elven city isn't one of them.

Bilbo looks at the elves with awe and respect that was heavily missing the night he met the Company. Unfortunately, it chafes, and Thorin doesn't know why because Bilbo is a hobbit and not one worthy enough to seek approval from.

Thorin seeks approval from no one. He has no desire to impress Bilbo with what dwarves are capable of because he still doubts he'll survive the long journey to Erebor.

He appreciates Balin's unspoken agreement about the letter opener. Still, Thorin can't stand to dine with elves, and he thinks seeing Bilbo's admiration of them for a moment longer might make him sick.

Suffering indignity is something Thorin is intimately familiar with. The loss of his home, the long trek to find a new one while being helpless to offer something better than the wild, and Ered Luin, nothing more than a frozen landscape of coal. The loss of his grandfather, father and brother to madness, greed and recklessness.

The inability to save them but the duty to take up the crown and provide better while the name of Durin was caked with the spilt blood of dwarves so needlessly.

Yet, Thorin and Dis made something of Ered Luin. Nothing rich in jewels and fine clothes, but something to be proud of, and Dis bore two sons. The line of Durin will continue with them, and if they win Erebor back, it will be a life they deserve.

The quest, however, has been suffering indignity repeatedly. And, somehow, Bilbo Baggins is always the audience.

Thorin listens to Lord Elrond speak of his family and feels boiling shame and humiliation. He tells the truth of the line of Durin, but Thorin stands by the quest, and despite Bilbo hearing every word, he hopes that he will too.

They find a bench nearby and sit quietly beside each other.

He lights his pipe and offers it to Bilbo, who takes it with a confused but grateful smile. They pass it back and forth and watch fireflies bob around them, their soft green glow lighting the grey stone and the tree branches above them.

"I was born in a cave."

Bilbo abruptly coughs as he pulls the pipe away from his mouth. "Sorry?" he asks and looks at Thorin.

Thorin grimaces. "Forgive me," he says. "Dwarves believe in welcoming infants deep under the mountain at the heart of it. Stones are at our centers, and the closer we are brought into this world at the heart of our home, the more blessings we will have in life. The royal family has caves for this purpose."

He's said far too much, and not only because Thorn is divulging something best left to his own kind, but Bilbo is gaping at him as if he's sprouted another head.

"Oh," Bilbo finally says. "Well. That's quite… well, that's quite interesting, isn't it?"

Thorin squints at Bilbo and thinks he isn't humoring him. "Sacred is how we might define it," he adds, unable to help the amusement he feels.

"Well, yes! That, too. Only, I'm a hobbit, aren't I? So, I'd say it's a bit of both," Bilbo says. "Stone is at the center of dwarves. What else?" He chuckles. "What do royal caves look like?"

"Much like any other cave. Though Erebor was blessed to be home to glow worms," Thorin says and looks up at the fireflies. "And fireflies. They both glow green and fill the caverns with natural light that never goes out."

"Really? That sounds quite lovely," Bilbo says and hands Thorin the pipe. "Glow… worms. Glow worms. From what I know of birthing a babe—which is rather too much, dare I say, but I've got cousins in droves—it's a rather, ah, messy and painful business."

Thorin laughs. "Aye. That it is," he says. "It's also dangerous for dwarven women. Two children in one family can be rare outside of royal families. But there is healing at the heart of the mountain. Comfort in the uneven stone and soft soil. My sister would still say it was a messy and painful business."

"Would she?" Bilbo laughs. "Well, I oughtn't to blame her, especially having done it twice herself. May I ask why having more than one child is dangerous?"

"The toll it takes physically is greater than other races," Thorin says. "There are many reasons why."

"I see. Well, I hope Fili and Kili were worth it."

Thorin barks a laugh. "Most days, perhaps," he says and looks at Bilbo, who hides a grin. "My mother suffered three."

"Three?" Bilbo asks, raising his eyebrows. "I'd toast her if I had a mug of ale. What's the third one's name?"

"Frerin," Thorin says. He doesn't know why he's saying anything, yet he keeps opening his mouth. "He has long passed, or he might be at my side."

Bilbo peers at Thorin before he smiles faintly. "I imagine he would be," he says. "What was he like?"

"Kili's mischief combined with Fili's cunning," Thorin says. "My mother likely questioned if we were worth it."

"Oh, goodness," Bilbo laughs. "Most days, perhaps. Were you the very serious eldest? Stopped smiling as soon as you could help it?"

Thorin glances sidelong at Bilbo as he blows smoke from his lungs and hands the pipe to him. "It might surprise you, Master Burglar," he says, "that I was why my mother greyed prematurely."

Bilbo puffs on the pipe, narrowing his eyes. "It doesn't surprise me more than I must call hogwash," he says. "You, a mischief maker. Ha! As much as I'm an elf."

"Your ears are similar enough and you've been more content here than anywhere else."

"Say it with any more disdain and I might think you dislike them," Bilbo says dryly. "Do you know why I like it here more than anywhere else, Thorin? The odds of being eaten here seem lower. Quite a bit lower, I must say, to where the chance simply doesn't exist. We were nearly eaten, oh, today. Goodness, it was today, wasn't it?"

"Today," Thorin mutters. "Aye. Still."

"Still? Still what?" Bilbo asks, gesturing with the pipe. "Yes, I like it here. Do you know what? I might even like it more when I come back 'round. I'll feel your glare all the way from Erebor on that day, I'm sure."

Thorin chuckles. "You may, Master Baggins. Your share of the treasure might yet sway you," he says. "In a grand dwarven city's favor."

"I've never even seen a blasted dwarven city, you know. So, this is the best as of yet. I expect Erebor to be quite cold and dusty. Cobwebs everywhere."

"Unlike anywhere else, even so," Thorin says. "The Lonely Mountain will impress you."

"Mmm. Only if the dragon is nothing but bones."

"A mere handful of dragon scales and teeth would drown you in riches."

"Oh? Is that my share?" Bilbo asks with good humor. "How big are those things, by the by?"

Thorin hums. "The scales depend on which part of the beast they come from," he says. "You could handle two of each, Master Baggins."

"And they'd drown me in riches, eh?" Bilbo asks. "Incredibly tempting. Except that no one would believe they were real. Not in Bree, certainly not in the Shire, and anywhere else, they'd rob me blind. So, they'd be locked in a trunk or lost in a closet somewhere."

"Pity. They might be good for a story or two hung on the walls of Bag End."

Bilbo laughs. "Well," he says, shrugging. "Well, yes. I must concede that point. I suppose we ought to hope he's dead then. We certainly can't kill him ourselves."

Thorin takes the pipe and raises his eyebrows. "You think not?"

Bilbo raises his eyebrows in return. "You were on a troll's spit. I recall this with vivid clarity, Thorin," he says. "A troll's spit. Roasting."

"I was set aside for later," Thorin says. "I was saved the spit."

"Bloody semantics, that's what that is," Bilbo laughs. He laughs more after Thorin does and shakes his head. "Oh, Yavanna's leaves. We're never going to make it."

"We must. We have stories to tell."

"Hmm. Well, alright. If we must."

They lapse into silence and Thorin is surprised it's comfortable. Comfortable, indeed, and more than that. He's not sure where he lost control of this conversation or if he ever had it, but Bilbo is good for one.

A conversation, if nothing else.

—

It's possible Thorin made a mistake.

He's not as infallible as he would like to believe, as Dis has told him many times.

Thorin may have underestimated Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf's choice of a burglar. He had the thought when it came to the goblin tunnels and of Azog. He thinks of it now as he hears the letter opener swishing gracefully through the air, followed by the dull thuds of his companions as they fall in their silk cocoons to the forest floor.

Bilbo slaughtered spiders and saved them, Mahal knows how. Thorin knows he's been of blessed little humor or patience, and he might be the reason they got turned around, but Bilbo is, once again, saving the day.

Wretched, enchanted elvish forests thick and ripe with foul creatures that shouldn't be here. That were never here before and Thorin might remember to be concerned about that later.

Bilbo disappears shortly after and Thorin does worry as they're captured by elves. But then, Bilbo has a way of surprising them, and Thorin doesn't believe he rescued them, only to fall a moment later like Kili attempted to.

No, their burglar will surprise them yet.

Bilbo does, perhaps not in any satisfactory way beyond the freedom they breathe afterward, but one scolding on the bank of the river is enough for them to remember to be grateful.

"We can't swim, you know," Bilbo says. He's been ranting for some time. "We cannot swim. At least, I can't. I hung on to the side of the barrel and I know you saw," he adds with a particular venom, jabbing his finger toward Thorin, "because you thought I drowned. Which I very well may have."

"Sounds like you might need to learn to swim, laddie," Balin says tiredly. "Must we still be lectured? We're nothing but scrapes and bruises."

"I got an arrow," Kili says, grimacing in pain, far too pale. "An arrow in my thigh. D'you remember? I'm in enough pain."

"Then consider yourself not part of the lecture!" Bilbo says, throwing up his arms. He sticks his hands under his armpits swiftly after. "And I'm terribly sorry for that, Kili. I've been hiding in dark corners for days and stealing food from the kitchens like a blasted rat. So excuse me for not being in the best of moods."

"You're excused," Dwalin says. "That's enough, laddie."

Thorin sighs as he listens to Dwalin's latest mistake and looks at Bilbo puffing up and readying himself to blow steam.

"All of you," Thorin barks. "Enough. We've no weapons and we're still in the wilds. We need to put our heads together."

"Bash them together if you'd like," Bilbo says. "You lot love to do that."

Bofur chuckles. "Aye. A nice bashing might do one or two of us some good. Maybe a bit of a clash. A dash of a smash."

Bifur gestures shortly and the Company howls with laughter.

"What does that mean?" Bilbo asks. He sounds irritated and curious. He repeats the gesture. "That?"

"Quiet," Thorin says after more laughter erupts. He looks skyward and begs for patience. "We must move on."

"Aye," Balin says with sudden interest, hopping up and peering down the river. "I believe I've found our way."

Thorin doesn't trust the man they make a deal with, but Bilbo's eye twitches repeatedly, and he decides to keep his mistrust to himself. To himself, Dwalin, Balin, and Gloin.

It doesn't go their way, as nothing seems to, but trust Bilbo Baggins to step in unexpectedly. To speak up whether they'd like him to or not, or, for Thorin, when he least expects Bilbo to. What he's done to deserve it, he doesn't know.

Whether it helps or not doesn't matter.

Bilbo is a part of the Company and he believes in the quest. He believes in Thorin when Thorin has given him every reason not to. Perhaps they've been on better terms for some time, but Thorin still grimaces when he thinks of the beginning.

He might have fainted at the idea of being killed by a dragon, but Gandalf's hunch was correct—Bilbo simply needed a little nudge out of the door.

What a companion he's become.

"Thag you very buch."

"Put it in your nostrils, laddie."

"Inm themb?"

"Aye, for the twentieth time."

Thorin sits next to Bilbo at the party. They're in a quiet corner, and Bilbo is wrapped in a blanket, suffering a cold. Oin disappeared for a short while before he returned with a jar, and Thorin recognizes the concoction he keeps trying to get Bilbo to take.

He may be suffering a cold, but there are three empty plates around him and a full mug of ale on the table near Bilbo's elbow.

Bilbo sighs, takes the jar of thick, white paste, and smears some in his nostrils. His eyes water, and he gasps and smacks the table.

Thorin pats Bilbo's back. "Better to breathe than not."

"Better to… breathe," Bilbo wheezes, shoving the jar back at Oin. "What in… who… what's in that?!"

Oin looks between the paste and Bilbo. "Best not to ask questions you don't want the answer to, Bilbo," he says and squeezes Bilbo's shoulder. "There you go, laddie."

Bilbo watches Oin lumber away before he looks at Thorin, his eyes squinted and damp. "I'll never have another clogged nose in my life," he says. "Oh, it burns. How long does it burn?"

Thorin smiles and pushes Bilbo's mug of ale closer. "Eat another plateful and drink your ale, Bilbo. You might taste them this time and forget the burn," he says. He chuckles after Bilbo elbows him. "You sound like yourself again already. Should've had Oin hold off a bit more."

"Oh, ha ha," Bilbo says. "Dwarves. Trust dwarves to chase away clogged noses at all costs."

"We wouldn't be worth much on the battlefield if we couldn't breathe."

"Always the battlefield," Bilbo mutters, grabbing his ale. "There's never a moment of peace. Everything's done with the battlefield in mind."

"Aye," Thorin says dryly. "We've reason to keep it in mind over our long history. The battlefield includes the one at the council. Politics are more challenging."

Bilbo snorts, then winces. He gingerly touches the side of his nose. "Yes, well. I disrespectfully disagree," he says. "Politics are rather easy."

"Are you familiar with dwarven politics?"

"Once you've sat in important gatherings and played the politics of everyday life in the Shire, I'm afraid any sort of royal politics looks like codswallop."

"Hmm," Thorin hums. "I might respectfully agree with you. You should sit on my council for a few months."

"I'll have the place running smoothly in hardly any time at all," Bilbo says. "You lot are easily cowed."

Thorin laughs and looks at Bilbo. "Is that what we are?" he asks. "Have we not shown you differently?"

"No. Not really," Bilbo says and points his finger at Thorin's nose. "A firm word or two, and you all kick your feet like a bunch of faunts caught with their hands in the cookie jar."

"I disrespectfully disagree for all situations that do not include an angry hobbit," Thorin says. "The Shire must hold magic we knew nothing of. You carry it well."

Bilbo coughs a little and his cheeks look pink in the low light of the hall. "Oh, well. I don't know about that," he mutters, looking at the table. "The ability to keep big folk out of our hair, maybe."

"Aye. There is magic in that," Thorin says. "No one else has mastered it. It may well be why we are cowed so easily under your finger. What exists outside the Shire is bigger than it by league and severity. I thought this might be what would hinder you on our quest, but I believe the opposite happened. What exists outside of the Shire must seem complicated for the sake of only that."

He's quiet for some time, gently picking at the table's edge. "You know," Bilbo sighs. "I do believe you're entirely right, Thorin, and I may have had the thought once or a dozen times myself. Living a quiet, easy life is, well… it's easy. Royalty and politics… they've only ever been in books! It does seem excessive, but if everyone minded their own business and simply enjoyed a peaceful life, well. I suppose it'd get too quiet for some."

Thorin chuckles. "Aye," he says. "Too quiet and with not enough bloodshed. I underestimated a peaceful life and disparaged it unfairly. Forgive me. You've earned your place many times over. Far more than we… far more than I deserve."

Bilbo looks at Thorin and smiles. It's the same sort of confused, grateful smile that Thorin remembers well from Rivendell, but there's a fondness in Bilbo's eyes. Fondness Thorin doesn't deserve, either, yet he wishes to keep seeing it.

"You are very pigheaded," Bilbo says. He grins after Thorin scoffs. "And stubborn. Goodness, the nerve of you. You're unpleasant and far grumpier than I am, and that's saying something. You look down your nose with a glare and sharpen your tongue on a whetstone. But, do you know what, Thorin?"

He leans closer as if to share a secret and Thorin meets him halfway there.

"You've rather made up for all of it," Bilbo says. "You're kind and compassionate. Passionate! Good gracious. You want the best for each and every one of us, including our continued survival. Maybe you're pigheaded and stubborn, but so am I. I think the nature of the wilds has put us all on equal ground and laid us bare, don't you? So, it's not more than you deserve. I'd say we were simply getting to know each other."

"You say it because you're forgiving, Bilbo," Thorin says as he gazes at Bilbo with a soft smile. "Kind and compassionate. But too forgiving."

Bilbo smiles. "I do believe that's my place to decide, thank you very much," he says. "Stubborn to a fault, you and I. Besides," he adds, "you've never seen my bad side. I am simply polite enough not to share it with you."

Thorin laughs. "You underestimate my ability to observe my company," he says. "I've seen the way you look at Gandalf."

"Ah," Bilbo says, grinning. "Well, then. Perhaps you've seen my ugly side."

"He tends to bring out the worst in us."

"Murderous tendencies."

"Is the wizard to blame?"

"Do you know what? I think he is," Bilbo says and lifts his mug in cheers. "To Gandalf, bringing people together through their sheer annoyance with him."

"Aye, Master Baggins. I'll raise my mug to that."

The unfortunate thing is Thorin doesn't have a mug to raise, and Bilbo flies off the bench to find him one.

Truthfully, Thorin thinks of moving elsewhere. Bilbo will no doubt join them now that his cold has been stopped in its tracks and he isn't huddling moodily under a blanket by the hearth. Thorin wants to ensure he's well, but these conversations with Bilbo, many there have been, are strange.

They warm Thorin more than the hearth. He enjoys Bilbo's humor, good-natured teasing, charming wit, and brutal candor. Thorin's patience is stretched thin, but Bilbo seems to make his ill moods forgotten with a mere few words or a wry twist to his lips.

Something that says how he feels about the situation at hand because Bilbo is expressive about everything, but Thorin finds that he glances at his burglar as often as his brothers-in-arms for shared commiserating.

It isn't what Thorin wants, yet he's drawn to Bilbo anyway. He sees how Bilbo looks at him sometimes—not with thinning patience of his own or annoyance or the apparent thought that Thorin was born and remains an imbecile. No, Bilbo looks at Thorin, and it's a reflection of how Thorin feels.

It may yet be the most perilous and foolhardy part of their journey.

But Thorin doesn't leave after Bilbo returns with ale and a plate so large it must only be a platter, filled to the brim with food. So they share it, pressed shoulder to shoulder, drink, and make merry.

Thorin teases Bilbo for the shine on his nose and regrets it shortly after. Sharpened tongues on whetstones, indeed.

He makes Thorin laugh and leaves him feeling anything but a king.

Together, they're friends and nothing more or less.

Watching Bilbo walk into a room with Bofur and Bombur to retire late that evening, Thorin longs for more. But what is he, and what does he have to give? They may not live beyond tomorrow; if they do, it's a barren wasteland that will take months to return to its former glory.

Aye, Thorin thinks Bilbo will be impressed by Erebor, but that doesn't mean he'll find anything in the mountain worth staying for.

Dwalin smacks Thorin heavily on the back and squeezes his shoulder. "I think our wee burglar is becoming a problem," he says dryly. "A problem as towering as the mountain stands tall."

"When did you become a poet?" Thorin grouses. But he sighs and nods because Dwalin is right and what is Thorin if not honest with his brother-in-arms?

"What do you plan to do about it?"

Thorin breathes in deeply. "Nothing," he sighs. "We leave at dawn. There are more pressing concerns in the coming days."

"Oh, aye. Sending him to the depths of the treasury Smaug might or might not be guarding to find the Arkenstone."

"That is one of them," Thorin growls, shaking Dwalin off his shoulder and stomping down the hallway to his rooms.

A problem as towering as the mountain stands tall.

—

Thorin has made many dear mistakes.

They've cost him much, but to the extent, he doesn't know yet. He thinks of it as scents, sounds, and the utter familiarity of battlegrounds made into healing grounds sink deep into him.

Armor clanking together, boots thudding on the damp earth outside, voices, neverending voices shouting commands. Khuzdul, Westron, and Elvish voices mingle as the scent of blood, ointments, pastes, and wound wrappings fills his nose.

Lanterns are shining brightly around a large tent and Thorin recognizes rich furs against his skin. Such a strange thing and he isn't sure why they bothered because he is no king. He is no royalty that deserves fineries, and Thorin knows, with a burning self-hatred, that they should have left him on the ice.

He achieved clarity after a broken heart, but Thorin broke his own heart. Bilbo betrayed him, yes, but only in madness. He saved them, as he always has, and Thorin thinks of what he did to repay his selfless kindness.

And Bilbo shed tears over him. Tears Thorin knows he doesn't deserve.

The pain is something he's earned. His foolishness has cost many lives, likely his own, and who knows of his kin? Of his Company? Thorin hopes Mahal spares any injured from further harm and welcomes the pain as his own. It's deep within his chest, and they've tried to save him, but Thorin doesn't think they have.

He glances to the left, then the right, and blinks.

Two Bilbos.

Thorin blinks again.

One Bilbo.

He's asleep in a chair at Thorin's bedside, his chin on his chest, neck at an awkward angle, dressed as he was the last time Thorin saw him. Bilbo is cleaner, but dried black and red blood is splattered on the blue jacket he wears, making bile rise in Thorin's throat. He clears it and is thankful he's weak, and they've clearly given him poppy milk or how badly Bilbo flinches might startle him in return.

"Thorin!" Bilbo says, grasping the side of Thorin's bed. He stands up and leans over Thorin. "Oh, good gracious. I thought… oh, I never thought I'd see… and it's your fault… oh, goodness, let me get Gandalf or—"

"Bilbo," Thorin rasps.

Bilbo falls silent, his lips pursed tight. His eyes are dry, but they're puffy and red-rimmed. He takes Thorin's hand, which feels so warm when it usually feels cold. Thorin holds onto that warmth as he looks at the face of his hobbit and knows that Bilbo isn't his.

He might've been in a dream.

"Bilbo. I am sorry," Thorin says. "I am so sorry, Bilbo. For all that I've done to you."

"Thorin," Bilbo says. "We've had this conversation and I shan't repeat it if you don't mind. Yes, yes, you're very sorry, and you know I was right about everything because I always am. But you said those things with death clearly on your mind and that didn't work out well for you, did it? So, we aren't having it again. When you're well and up and walking and yourself, you may prostrate all you want. For now, please, I would like you to just… just be quiet. Not be quiet! But, well. I should get a healer."

Thorin smiles as he gazes at Bilbo and squeezes his hand with what little strength he has. "Please don't leave," he whispers. "Stay with me and lecture me a moment more."

Bilbo laughs and leans down, lifting Thorin's hand. He presses their joined hands gently against his forehead and there are tears in his eyes.

"Well," Bilbo sighs. "We know I'm perfectly capable of that. But I think that I ought to say something else because you passed out at a rather terrible moment. Not only did I think you died, but you missed the eagles, and they were truly something. I'll tell you the story later. But, for now, I think I'd like to tell you how much you… your friendship has meant to me."

"I do not deserve it, Bilbo."

"Ah, well. I'm going to decide that, shall I?" Bilbo says, sniffling. "You mean quite a lot to me, Thorin Oakenshield. Clothead that you are, but a very fine one, indeed, and one I'm extraordinarily fond of. We'll discuss things later. But those things haven't changed how I feel, whether you think they should have or not. My dear, I've gone to the ends of the world for you. Stalled trolls, cut down spiders, riddled with dragons. And, yes, yes, I did steal from you. So, I'm not innocent either. But the deal I made was with good intentions because of how fond I am of your pigheaded arse. I only wish it hadn't all been so complicated."

Thorin watches Bilbo speak and feels a love far more potent than any he's felt in his long life. "If only we had all minded our own business and chosen peaceful lives," he whispers. "We may have gotten through without bloodshed."

Bilbo chuckles. "At least for a while," he says. He wipes his nose on his shoulder. "But, you know. We won, so that's saying something. Everyone is alive. Oin lost a finger and he's very upset about it. Fili and Kili are in slightly better shape than you, but not by much. They'll live," he adds hurriedly. "They'll just be layabouts for a while. Kili is enjoying the attention of Miss Tauriel."

"That is an Elvish name," Thorin mutters.

"I have Elvish ears, yet here I stand," Bilbo says. "She's saved his life twice, Fili's and yours once, and many, many other dwarves. So I think we owe her some thanks. Perhaps later."

"Later," Thorin repeats. "I do not wish for a later."

Bilbo squints at Thorin. "Because of Tauriel or disbelief that you should live another day?"

Thorin raises his eyebrows and Bilbo sighs.

"I ought to stick my finger in there," Bilbo says, gesturing broadly at Thorin's chest. "Oh, goodness, don't do that."

He doesn't need Bilbo to tell him not to laugh, as Thorin quickly realizes the mistake and with some detriment. Bilbo flies into a fretting mess and abandons him to find a healer, but Thorin forgives him.

Thorin does not forgive Bilbo for returning with a red-haired elf maid; he likes it less after Bilbo and Tauriel share a commiserating look. But Tauriel is gentle and thorough, and she speaks to Thorin of his nephews with humor and sensitivity.

He doesn't like the elf, but he'll tolerate her.

"So, he'll live another day?" Bilbo asks solemnly as Tauriel washes her hands.

She laughs. "He will," Tauriel says with a mischievous glance at Thorin. "And many more after. If you let him."

"Blast," Bilbo says. "If I poison him, will you provide an alibi?"

"Of course," Tauriel says. "What more are friendships for?" She smiles at Thorin, bowing briefly before she turns with a whirl of red hair and leaves the tent.

"You see?" Bilbo says. "She's a good sort."

"Give me poppy milk and be done with it."

Bilbo laughs and stands at Thorin's side, taking his hand. "Only for the pain, my dear," he says. "And to chase away that frown, perhaps."

Thorin sighs. "Please," he says. The pain is becoming severe, but it's not only the clean stab wound. He doesn't know what he's done right to earn Bilbo by his side with good-natured humor and the fondness he only shows Thorin. "You've no idea, Bilbo."

"Hmm?" Bilbo hums and seems concerned. "What do you mean?"

"The power you hold over me," Thorin says. He blinks quickly, but it's not pain that blurs his vision. "Yet I trust you with it every moment of my life."

Bilbo clears his throat. "Oh, well," he mumbles. He gently dabs Thorin's cheeks with a clean handkerchief. "What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Whatever you please. I'm at your mercy."

"I suppose if I were to do anything I please," Bilbo says slowly, "we would need clean mouths for it."

Thorin grins. "Would we?"

Bilbo kisses the back of Thorin's hand. "I've never met a bigger clothead in my life, yet I suppose I'd like to call you mine. If you'd like that, too, of course. I don't actually know how any of this works."

"It works as I say it works."

"Hmm. Well, I'll ask Balin to tell me the truth later," Bilbo says with a teasing smile. "Let me see how much of this to give you before I really do poison you. You won't leave, will you?"

Thorin squeezes Bilbo's hand and shakes his head slightly. "If you'll have me… never, Bilbo," he says. "I shall stay."

Bilbo smiles. "Good, then," he sighs, and it's a bit shaky. "Very good. Give me a moment, please. You'll be good as new before you know it!"

He watches Bilbo hurry out of the tent, and despite the horrific pain that is surging through him, Thorin thinks that something else has slotted into place. Something that has always been out of place and waiting for the perfect moment.

He wishes he could enjoy it, but Thorin only groans in pain until Oin storms in, red-faced and ranting about his lost finger but otherwise gentle.

The last thing Thorin sees is Bilbo peering at him with concern, and that's the second time—he hopes it doesn't happen again.

—

Mistakes can be righted in some cases. In others, apologies suffice. Some mistakes can never truly be fixed or mended, but they can be learned from.

Sometimes the lesson is far more valuable.

Good as new before you know it was pig shit, and Thorin knew it, but the time it takes to recover from his injuries is obscene. He has little patience and a bad temper, and the feeling of inadequacy hangs over Thorin daily.

Bilbo is patient, kind, firm when he needs to be, and angry when he should be. Only because Thorin is making life unnecessarily complicated, and the burst of anger sets Thorin's head on straight.

It wasn't how he pictured winning Erebor from the dragon, but it is precisely as Bilbo asked; how the bloody hell did you think it would go? As well as the rest?

Thorin does paperwork, suffers Oin, and becomes stronger.

Dis and the caravan from Ered Luin arrive in March. Dain's soldiers have been coming and going from the Iron Hills to keep Erebor alive and well, but they can finally go home and remain with their families.

These are Thorin's people. Whether they're generations descended from those who lived in Erebor or those who made the journey west with Thorin long ago, they are Ereboreans, and it's good to have them home.

It all works faster from there.

Soon, Thorin's scar is pink and ugly but closed and healed. It'll turn white soon enough, but it means he can handle long days walking through Erebor or sitting at the council.

Bilbo stays beside him. Thorin doesn't ask him to, and he's afraid if he asks how long it might be, Bilbo might take advantage and say he's off to the Shire soon. But Bilbo never says that and fights with the tailors and barbers instead as he has clothes made and grows his hair a bit longer, and makes himself at home in Thorin's chambers.

He always knows where Thorin's slippers are, even if he checked thrice before asking.

They've long since discussed their mistakes. Forgive and forget is what Bilbo says, but Thorin's mistakes still weigh heavily some days. Bilbo seems to know those days as much as he knows Thorin otherwise, and he oft leaves Thorin to his own thoughts until he knows it's safe to pull him out of them.

A team. They work as a team and do it well, whether in the council, over paperwork, or in their rooms late in the evening.

"Do you ever miss it?" Kili asks one evening as the Company shares supper. "Home?"

Thorin holds his breath as he looks at Bilbo.

Bilbo squints and scrunches up his nose. "Well, of course, I do. It was home for quite a while. But only enough to visit," he says. "And certainly not too often. Just long enough for Lobelia to think I've died or decided never to come back before I come 'round and knock on her door with a dwarf or two in tow."

There are many howls of laughter and mugs slammed against the table. Thorin sinks back against his chair with a sigh and grabs his mug of ale, downing a long gulp.

"Visiting home just for spite?" Nori roars. "Never heard of it!"

"My favorite side of you, Bilbo," Dis chuckles. "I think I would like to be one of those dwarves."

"I would strongly encourage it and consider myself deeply honored if you were," Bilbo laughs. "We must take a well-mannered fellow with us, so Hobbiton welcomes us back the next visit. How about it, Ori?"

Ori looks tiredly between his brothers as they gesture intimidatingly at each other. "I think it sounds rather fun," he says. "I wouldn't mind another visit to the Shire."

"Am I invited?" Thorin asks dryly.

"Well-mannered, nadad," Dis sighs. "There is an art to polite spite."

"Rather just show 'em spite," Dwalin says with a mouthful of chicken, seated next to Dis. "Why hide it?"

"This is why you guard the council chambers rather than sit inside them."

Thorin smiles as he watches Bilbo laugh. "I've mastered that art well enough under your tutelage, ghivashel," he says. "I'd like to see your home again."

Bilbo sighs and lifts his mug. "Oh, alright," he says. "But only because I trust I've taught you well enough."

More laughter, but Bilbo smiles at Thorin, and his heart warms.

They retire later in the evening than they're used to, but that's how suppers with the Company usually go. Thorin wouldn't change it, mainly because Balin always plans a late morning for them after.

After sinking into bed together, Thorin rests his head against Bilbo's shoulder and closes his eyes as Bilbo's fingers run through his hair.

"You've been so very worried I'll decide I've had enough of Erebor and run off to the Shire," Bilbo mutters with good humor. "I've been waiting for you to catch up."

Thorin blinks his eyes open and stares at the dying hearth across the room. "Have you?" he asks. "Instead of simply informing me?"

"Reassurances, my dear, don't always work on you. Goodness, sometimes the opposite," Bilbo sighs. "I hoped you would trust me by now, but I understand that's difficult."

"Countless mistakes make it so," Thorin says with a long sigh. "It's not a lack of trust in you, Bilbo. Merely believing what I deserve caught up to me."

"Hmm," Bilbo hums, lightly tugging Thorin's braid. "Alright. Well, it hasn't even been a year, so I suppose time ought to help. However, I have another idea in the meantime if you'd like to hear it."

"Please."

"Would you like to be born in a cave again?"

Thorin laughs and looks at Bilbo, raising an eyebrow. "What is it you have in mind, hobbit?"

"Exactly what I just asked, dwarf," Bilbo says. "We should find one of those sacred caves with the glow worms and fireflies. Maybe the one you were born in. Tell me the story again, and let's walk out with the painful, messy business left behind, shall we?"

He gazes at Bilbo and smiles faintly, wondering how he ever underestimated this remarkable person. "Aye," Thorin says, sliding his hand along Bilbo's arm, gently squeezing. "Aye. I'd like that."

Bilbo smiles. "I thought you just might," he says. "I rather like the idea of it too. We make quite a pair, you and I. Flaws and all, but… if we can ease the burden, I think we ought to."

Thorin leans up until Bilbo's forehead meets his. "I believe you're right, as you always are," he murmurs. "Âzyungel. Thank you, Bilbo. For everything."

"Posh," Bilbo says. "I can't wait for everything and more we've got left, my love."

He tugs Thorin into a warm kiss.

Thorin never should have underestimated Bilbo Baggins and never will again—with a bit of help. Of course, he'll give no credit to the wizard, but perhaps down below, deep in the heart of the mountain, they'll find a way to leave the pain behind.

Even if some remains, there's no saying they can't try again.

He's learned from his costly mistakes, and Thorin considers himself lucky to be alive, let alone have the love and support of his kin. Of his beloved, who so casually asks to marry him while they're in the Shire just to cause an uproar.

Thorin asks if it's merely for that, and Bilbo gives him a look, so he still needs a helping hand now and then.

Bilbo offers it so effortlessly time and time again.