Dwalin awoke the next morning badly rested but certain what he needed to do. He was a warrior, and he would attack the problem head-on. It was a relief to have a plan of action.

This time, though, he knocked on the door between their rooms.

It gave him an unexpected tactical advantage, being fully dressed when Bofur wore only a shirt of Elven make. Bofur's hair was a mess, and Dwalin clamped down an unreasonable desire to help Bofur with his braids.

He offered up the hat wordlessly. With a grateful look, Bofur clapped it on his head.

"I need to decide whether to take the Elf up on his offer," Dwalin blurted, "and I can't make that decision until I know that we can be right again." He frowned at the awkward words, but plunged on. "I will do whatever you need to earn your trust again."

Bofur looked terrible. It wasn't just the hair; he looked tired and bruised. But when Dwalin met his eyes, Bofur's weren't flat anymore. They still weren't quite right, but Bofur was here, not far away. Dwalin released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.

"Even if it takes years," he said. "Please, tell me I haven't broken something that can't be mended."

Bofur blinked up at him, still bleary. Dwalin remembered that he probably hadn't slept well, either. He really wasn't very good at this, he realized.

Perhaps if Bofur had been more awake, Dwalin wouldn't have seen the procession of emotions across Bofur's face: relief, doubt, sadness, fear, and that soft look he sometimes had when it was just the two of them keeping each other's company. Something deep in Dwalin's chest unclenched.

"Aye," his friend said finally, though the look on his face was more like one of defeat. "If it can be done, we'll do it. I've never been any good at trust, but we'll both do our best."

Dwalin wasn't quite sure what the words meant, but words were Bofur's realm, not his. What mattered for now was the answer. He let the knot around his heart slowly unravel. He could tell Bofur didn't quite believe him; had no reason to believe him. But Bofur was willing, and Dwalin would show him he was trustworthy if it took a century. "Thank you."

Bofur rubbed his eyes. "What time is it?"

Dwalin looked at the window guiltily. Only the first hint of morning was lightening the sky. "You should go back to bed," he said gruffly. "I'm sorry to have woken you." He began to retreat.

Bofur rolled his eyes. "I'm awake, aren't I?" He looked around for his clothing. "We'll go to breakfast." In a smooth motion, he pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it in the direction of the bed. Dwalin's breathing stuttered at the sight of Bofur in the nude. He watched his friend searching for his trousers and tunic.

He'd never seen Bofur naked – a fact which had never bothered him until this moment, when he realized that most of Erebor had, because most of Erebor could pass the evening in the communal baths. Dwalin had seen naked dwarves before, but only in glimpses: changing clothes while on campaign or patients stripped in the medical tents. He'd taken no lovers, so he'd had no opportunity to see a male body up close since he was a dwarfling, and then only family. Suddenly, given how strongly he craved such a body of his own, he wished he had found a way to become acquainted with one earlier.

Aulë above, Bofur was beautiful. Perfectly at home in his own skin, paying no heed to Dwalin panicking in the doorway. Not stout enough for dwarven critics, perhaps, but Bofur's wiry strength could be seen in every line of his body. His skin was golden in the lamplight.

"Are you well?" Dwalin came back to himself to find Bofur gazing at him with a confused look on his face. "You were a hundred miles away."

Dwalin shuddered. He shouldn't be looking at Bofur like that. "Breakfast," he managed, and followed Bofur up to the dining hall.