Bilbo Baggins had always been and always would be a creature of habit. Such was the business of being a hobbit. He had seven meals a day. He spent the rest of the day puttering about his hobbit hole, preparing each meal and cleaning up from it, and all things considered, he was pleased with a return to this lifestyle.

As he'd told Frodo during one of his daily visits—Frodo visited more often than ever before now that Bilbo had returned—you could take a hobbit out of the Shire, but you couldn't take the Shire out of the hobbit.

Still, he found himself missing… something. He missed the stretch and ache of a long day of walking; he missed the feeling of working towards something rather than just working. At times, he even missed the feeling of being slightly hungry—though, perhaps, not the feeling so much as the novelty of it. It made him feel important, being hungry, because for once, he was doing something that was more important than eating regular meals. Things more important than regular meals were rare indeed.

So when Thorin Oakenshield showed up on Bilbo's doorstep, he found the occurrence just as welcome as he found it baffling.

Thorin was, of course, what he had missed the most—more than Gandalf's confusing riddles and more than feeling the wind and rain on his face and more than the extraordinary views from the mountaintops. Bilbo had missed Thorin the way one misses a limb lost in war: not only that he was used to it and kept forgetting it wasn't there, but that he felt he had to restructure his life around its absence.

And there was Thorin Oakenshield, standing in the circle of Bilbo's doorway. He had the same long dark hair, streaked with distinctive grey, the same long beard, the same sullen glower. He still had what looked like ten layers of clothing, even in the everpresent sunshine of the Shire, the fabric worn soft and the fur lining it luxuriously full. He shone slightly with sweat. Bilbo wondered why he did not remove the coat. To Bilbo's relief, he appeared healthy—healthy enough to stand, at least, and to have traveled all the way to Bilbo's hobbit hole. Though for what reason, Bilbo couldn't possibly imagine.

"Bilbo," Thorin said. Same deep, gravelly voice, ever serious.

"Thorin?" Bilbo swung the round wooden door open wider. "Um. Would you like to come in?"

Thorin's eyes flicked over Bilbo's face, as if assessing if the invitation was sincere, frowning. He was always frowning, Bilbo reminded himself—his frown didn't necessarily mean he was angry. "If it is not too much trouble," Thorin rumbled. He fixed Bilbo with those piercing blue eyes, something unreadable in them, something akin to regret. "After everything I have said and done, I have no place asking a place in your home."

Bilbo's heart lodged in his throat. Thorin's remorse made him feel off-kilter, as if someone had turned the surface of Middle Earth ninety degrees. Thorin was a king, now, and a decisive, brilliant leader besides; it didn't make sense for Thorin to be bowing his head on Bilbo's doorstep. Besides, Bilbo had spent what felt like half the adventure trying to win Thorin's high regard—and, perhaps, something more—and having it was something he hadn't gotten used to. He wasn't sure it was possible to get used to being so esteemed in the eyes of someone as majestic and commanding as Thorin. It didn't seem possible.

"Nonsense," Bilbo said firmly, "I'd be honored to have you stay—I assume you'll want to be sleeping here, after having come all this way?"

Thorin's eyes lit, though his frown didn't disappear. "If it pleases you."

Bilbo blinked at him. "I'll fix something up for you."

He stepped aside to allow Thorin in, considering different ways to approach asking why Thorin was here. What are you doing here? Seemed to him too rude, as if he was truly saying please leave. He thought of Why are you here? But that had the same effect. In some ways, it even seemed foolish to ask what Thorin was doing here at all. Surely to see Bilbo. There was no one else in the Shire Thorin knew, as far as Bilbo was aware, and the Shire was not somewhere dwarves usually came to vacation. Well, dwarves didn't vacation much at all, but it didn't seem the sort of place a dwarf would like to vacation. It was warm and bright, the complete opposite of the dark, cold stone mines and castles dwarves seemed partial to. There was hardly any gold or jewels about, no honorable families and daring quests. There was nothing here for Thorin except for Bilbo.

And besides, Thorin was in Bilbo's hobbit hole. Clearly he'd come to Bilbo's house to see Bilbo. Asking why he was here would be very embarrassing, when Thorin gave the obvious answer.

So Bilbo just let Thorin duck his head and step into his hobbit hole and, instead of asking why Thorin was here, he asked, "Would you like anything to eat? It's nearly time for afternoon tea."

— — —

Thorin seemed so out of place in Bag End, and yet, he slipped into Bilbo's life nearly seamlessly, as if he belonged there. He shed his layers of clothing, he carried heavy loads, and he—for lack of a better phrase—stayed out of Bilbo's way. He didn't comment on the way Bilbo busied himself about the house, preparing meal after meal, and he didn't put things back in the wrong places, and he remained polite but distant with everyone they ran into, leaving Bilbo to choose what to say and what to do, and when.

Bilbo appreciated it more and more each day, the way Thorin simply sat himself down in a chair and glowered at the floor, clearly trying to remain unobtrusive.

"Thorin," Bilbo said one day, approaching Thorin's glowering chair, "Thank you for organizing my books."

Bilbo did not have a proper bookshelf, just several stacks of old, dusty books that he didn't read sitting in a corner. Every now and again, he might accidentally knock one stack down and they'd all topple like dominoes, spilling across the floor, releasing dust motes into the air and making Bilbo sneeze. On one of those occasions, Bilbo had mentioned how he always meant to line them up nicely on the shelf that his many unused pots and pans currently sat on. He had better pots and pans, and those were only there because they were heavy and loud, and it always seemed altogether too much trouble to move down to the back rooms.

And then, the next day, he'd come back from gardening and found Thorin glowering at the floor and the books lined up neatly on the shelf, not a pot or pan in sight.

Thorin looked up at him and something about his expression softened. "Good afternoon," he said, and nothing else.

Bilbo added, though he was sure Thorin had heard the thanks the first time, "The bookshelf is quite lovely."

Thorin grunted, but he looked gratified. Bilbo was getting better at reading the nuances in Thorin's persistent frown every day. "I hoped you would like it."

Bilbo chewed the inside of his cheek, sure there was something more charming and engaging he could say other than: "I do."

The orange tones of the sunset spilling through the window gave Thorin's cheeks a reddish tinge, as if he'd flushed slightly. Bilbo tapped his fingers together restlessly and tried not to stare at the way the light glinted on Thorin's dark waves, but it was rather difficult when Thorin was staring at him so. Thorin did that a lot, the staring. Every look Thorin gave was a stare; he didn't look at things any other way. It still felt like Bilbo was burning up from the inside out whenever Thorin looked at him like that, and he thought that if he were to actually meet Thorin's eye, he might combust like one of Gandalf's fireworks.

"Good," Thorin said.

Bilbo once again cast about for something to say. He thought about mentioning that he knew how much trouble it must've taken to get all the pots and pans into the back rooms, or how helpful it was that Thorin could reach shelves that Bilbo couldn't, but he had a suspicion that Thorin would simply grunt at him some more and mutter things like, It pleases me to help you or it was hardly any trouble. He almost mentioned that dinner was from the garden, but he didn't think that would be very interesting to Thorin, who had dined as a king many times as he healed from their battle.

He wondered if perhaps he should ask what Thorin was doing here, but he couldn't think of a way to do so without an awkward jump in the conversation.

He settled on, "I appreciate your help. And your time. It was kind of you to do that for me; I'm sure there are better things for you to have been doing than cleaning up my clutter."

The clock chimed six.

Thorin stood up from his glowering chair and looked down at Bilbo with a gentle frown. "Can I help prepare the table for dinner?"

The table was hobbit sized and perhaps a little short for a dwarf, but Thorin hadn't complained once so far. He'd joined Bilbo for every meal and always insisted on carrying things back and forth, setting out plates and platters and then staring at Bilbo until Bilbo started eating. It was unsettling and, strange as it was to think the word, sweet.

"Yes, please." Bilbo set out napkins, cutlery, glasses of water and very respectable amounts of ale for each of them, watching Thorin move around his hobbit hole with a warm feeling spreading in his chest.

Dinner was bread—Thorin had kneaded the bread dough—cheese, vegetables and potatoes from the garden, and a side of beef that Frodo had brought half a week ago, which Bilbo thought they had better eat before it went bad. Thorin served himself a bit of everything and then watched Bilbo quietly, forearms resting politely against the edge of the table. Bilbo had found himself quite impressed with Thorin's table manners, which he had certainly never exhibited before, and had told Thorin so a handful of days ago. Thorin, red-cheeked and almost smiling, had made some sort of aborted shrug, and since then, he appeared to have made an even more serious attempt at polite table manners. It was as confusing as it was endearing. Thorin always had a way of being a mixed bag of emotions.

Bilbo started eating so that Thorin would start, too. He did.

"Thorin," Bilbo said, "you don't have to wait for me to start."

Thorin frowned. "You are my host. Why should I not wait for you to begin your meal before I begin my own?"

"You're not my guest, you are my friend," Bilbo told him earnestly, "and a king besides."

Thorin's frown deepened. "I am not king over you. My title holds no weight here, and I would have you disregard it." Once again, he gazed at Bilbo with such intensity, Bilbo had to look away. "You are gracious enough to serve me in your home, and I will show you respect accordingly."

Bilbo huffed, feeling almost cross. Thorin had done some things that perhaps someone might feel hurt over, but the remorse he demonstrated over it was several times out of proportion, and Bilbo wished they could go back to how they used to be—friendly allies, or something like it. "Really, Thorin. There's no need for all that. I'm glad to have you here and you more than earn your keep."

Thorin looked sullenly down at his plate and took a normal-sized bite of the beef. Bilbo had seen the way he ate in the company of his dwarves—like a starving man—and couldn't help finding this endearing, too. Thorin seemed almost pleased. "I am happy to be of service in any way I can," he told his plate, "But I remain your guest."

Bilbo frowned. Why are you my guest? He said instead, "Haven't you responsibilities as a king? It is not a title you can simply retire." It was the closest he could get to really asking.

"I am fulfilling my duties, here," Thorin answered slowly, choosing his words even more carefully than he usually did. "In a way."

This answered no questions and created so many more—what could organizing Bilbo's bookshelf and carrying large buckets of water have anything to do with serving Erebor as King under the Mountain? Was Thorin achieving something simply by being here?

Thorin, catching sight of his expression, said, "Let's speak of it no more."

Oh, Bilbo was going to bring it up again. But for now, he supposed, he could leave it alone, if only to stop Thorin from frowning like that.

What in Middle Earth are you doing here?

He didn't ask.

— — —

The trouble with not knowing why exactly Thorin had shown up in the Shire and was now settling very neatly into Bilbo's life was that it was impossible to know when he was going to leave.

After nearly a month, Bilbo was getting very used to Thorin. He wasn't sure he could knead bread dough properly anymore and he felt very out of practice carting wood and garden scraps around. More importantly, he would miss Thorin more than ever—and not just his glower and his quiet, stoic consideration. He'd miss the way Thorin flushed and almost smiled when Bilbo thanked him for his help; he'd miss the feeling of fond triumph when he finally got Thorin to start eating without waiting, and even to start making requests about food. He'd miss the warmth of Thorin's eyes on him and the low, rumbling laugh that he dedicated himself to bringing out.

And anyway, Frodo had taken a liking to Thorin. Frodo was young and bubbly, and Thorin spoiled him rotten, fetching anything he asked for, even sweets when it wasn't mealtime; carrying him to visit Bilbo when he twisted his ankle or felt very tired or simply wanted to be carried around for the fun of it. Seeing the two of them—Thorin solemn and indulgent, Frodo bright-eyed and giggling—gave Bilbo such a feeling of contentment that he felt he couldn't breathe around it.

"Bilbo!" Frodo yelled from Thorin's back, throwing up his arms and waving them excitedly, as if he had not seen Bilbo for tea just the other day, "It's teatime!"

Thorin stumbled slightly at the sudden shift of Frodo's weight, and Bilbo caught his eye, smiling widely. Thorin's frown wobbled for a moment, and turned upwards the slightest bit, sheepish and pleased. Bilbo felt as if he had won a war.

"You're absolutely right," Bilbo agreed. He already had a basket of washed berries in one hand and a kettle going on the stove. "Why don't you sit yourself down and I'll bring you a cup and a saucer? You can help yourself to these."

He held out the basket of berries. Thorin knelt slightly, letting Frodo off his back, straightened, and followed Bilbo into the kitchen without Bilbo having to say a thing. There was a sense of harmony and ritual between them that made Bilbo ache.

Bilbo began to get together three cups and three saucers, fetching milk and honey from his wooden shelves; Thorin pulled open the cupboards and brought out a cutting board, a knife, and a soft-crusted loaf of bread and began to slice it neatly.

"Frodo adores you, you know," Bilbo said after a few moments of working in silence side by side, taking care to keep his voice low so that Frodo couldn't hear from down the hall. "Sometimes I wonder which one of us he's coming to visit."

This earned a quiet laugh from Thorin. "It is only because he is too fond of being carried."

The rush that Thorin used to bring him—a wonderful, tumbling sense of nervousness, not unlike the feeling of adventure—had begun to simmer down into something more comfortable and soft. It was a steady, long-held note of deep affection that never ceased. Bilbo thought perhaps this was what falling in love felt like; he'd never fallen in love before, but this feeling, this might be it.

And to not know when it might all be taken away, when Thorin might leave, was agonizing. It was like a chronic illness—always lingering in the background, no matter how happy Bilbo found himself in the moment.

But Bilbo had run into a very simple, very significant problem: Thorin had been here too long, and there was no natural way to ask him what in the world he was doing in the Shire, doing chores in Bilbo's hobbit hole.

Instead, Bilbo said, "He's bound to miss you terribly, when you leave." There was plenty of the question he truly wanted to ask underneath his words.

Thorin only said, "I shall miss him as well."

"Oh?" Bilbo's heart sunk. "Uh—Thorin, when is it you're leaving?"

It appeared Thorin did not have an answer prepared, which only served to baffle Bilbo more—what could he be here for that he could be waiting for? For he must be waiting for something; he certainly isn't going about getting anything done for himself. Nothing but Bilbo's household chores, anyway.

"I have not yet set the date," Thorin replied eventually, frowning more severely than usual. "If you wish for me to leave, I—"

"Absolutely not," Bilbo interrupted, much more vehemently than he meant to. "I—that is, I didn't mean that you're not welcome here—not at all…"

Thorin glowered at the bread in his hands, a lovely soft loaf that had done nothing to deserve such a look. "I expect I shall be leaving soon."

"Ah," said Bilbo.

That answered one small question: was Thorin just going to stay here forever? Bilbo immediately felt silly for even hoping.

— — —

Things really began to get ridiculous when Bilbo received a letter from Kíli addressed to Thorin. At his home, his little hobbit hole in the Shire.

"Thorin." Bilbo found him kneeling in the garden, weeding, the knees of his trousers dirty and his long hair falling around his face. Bilbo had suggested lightly that Thorin tie it back when he was working outside in the sun, but Thorin had stared at him as if Bilbo had suggested he chop it off altogether, so Bilbo had not suggested it again. Perhaps it was a dwarf thing. "Would you believe this—there's a letter for you."

Thorin did not appear surprised. In fact, the way he grunted an acknowledgement suggested he may have been expecting a letter. At Bilbo's house. "Thank you," he said when Bilbo picked his way through the garden to hand him the letter. He wiped his hands on his trousers, leaving them streaked with dirt, and accepted the letter and began to open it right there.

"You don't—" Bilbo drummed his foot on the ground uncertainly. "Uh. Would you rather wash your hands before you—"

Thorin pulled out the letter.

"Well," said Bilbo. He watched Thorin read for a moment but couldn't gather much from Thorin's expression other than nothing in it was a surprise.

He set to gathering up the weeds Thorin had uprooted and piling them neatly with the rest of the garden scraps, wondering what Kíli had to say that was important enough to carry a letter all this way but also not important enough to warrant a change in Thorin's continual frown. And why was it addressed here? It made sense that Thorin would tell his company that he was coming here for a visit, but the whole thing just seemed so strange. Didn't they need him back in Erebor? Did they not object to such a long visit when the country was still trying to get back on its feet?

"Are they well?" Bilbo asked when Thorin joined him for tea, unable to stop himself from prying. "Your family, I mean."

Thorin considered Bilbo solemnly. "They are well. Fíli and Kíli are up to no good, as always. Dis has her hands full keeping them from running the country into the ground on their own." Bilbo laughed quietly at this, and Thorin smiled slightly at him before sobering again. "They… they need a king."

"Uh," Bilbo tapped his fingers together. "That would be you."

"Yes."

"So you'll be leaving soon, then?"

"Yes." Thorin looked unhappy, but he didn't volunteer why. He took a large gulp of tea—however his tablemanners had improved, Thorin still did not sip—and set his teacup down, empty. "I should set off within the week."

"Oh." Bilbo's shoulders dropped. He considered the biscuits he'd laid out and found his appetite utterly absent. "So soon?"

"I am king." Thorin frowned. "And I have been here as long as I needed to."

What did that mean? "Yes, well. I suppose I had wondered when you'd have to return to your, you know." Bilbo busied himself with fixing his napkin. Thorin was leaving—he'd known Thorin would leave, but here it was, actually happening, and he found himself caught off guard inspite of it all. "Everybody."

Thorin gave a small nod, but his brow furrowed deeper. "Except for you," he rumbled.

"Pardon?"

Thorin stared at his plate. "You won't be there. In Erebor."

"No," said Bilbo, pleased and unhappy at once. It was nice to think he would be missed, but so paijnful to think Thorin would soon be gone that it made him ache. The missing would be mutual.

"I'm sure they all miss you," Bilbo told him, "You've been here nearly two months."

Thorin gave a low laugh. "I'm sure they're enjoying themselves in my absence. And I am enjoying myself in your presence."

Bilbo felt himself flush. "That's good," he managed. "I've enjoyed yours as well. I felt rather lonely before you turned up, if I'm honest."

Thorin frowned, pinning Bilbo with another one of those looks. "Were you?"

"Did… did they send you here, your family?" Bilbo asked, hoping to lead the conversation towards safer territory.

Thorin's expression flickered, but he answered only, "Yes."

"Oh," Bilbo said when Thorin didn't say anything further, and began to clean up the tea.

— — —

Bilbo found Thorin in the garden again the next day, sitting on the bench and staring out pensively at the quiet bustle of Bag End.

Bilbo hovered for a moment, wondering if he had better leave Thorin be, but Thorin looked up and his thoughtful frown eased slightly, so Bilbo joined him on the bench and together they watched Bilbo's neighbors go about their morning. Some were strolling along the dirt road, baskets of sweets in their hands, others were watering plants and picking fruit. It was, Bilbo couldn't help thinking, so quiet. Oh, he did love Bag End, and he might get used to it in time. But gazing out at the town, watching people do the same thing every day, over and over, it struck him once again how much he was going to miss the way Thorin managed to alleviate the repetition of it all. When Thorin left, he wasn't sure what he was going to do with himself.

Beside him, Thorin shifted, the old wood creaking beneath him. "I will miss the sun," he said, and Bilbo understood well enough that what he really meant was he was sorry to go.

"It's nice," Bilbo agreed, thinking of the majestic greys of Erebor's stone halls. "It's unchanging."

Thorin turned his gaze to Bilbo, a hint of a smile on his lips. "You cannot be unhappy about good weather that doesn't change."

Bilbo shrugged. "And yet."

"I have veen here for so many weeks and I do not tire of it." Something in Thorin's gaze made it hard to speak.

Then stay, bilbo wanted to say, completely irrationally. Thorin was needed elsewhere, and whatever Thorin said, the Shire wouldn't suit him. It was too small, it was too simple, and yes, it was too sunny. Besides, Thorin's family surely missed him, and Bilbo knew what it was to miss Thorin. He wouldn't wish it on anybody.

"Why—" Bilbo tried again, but couldn't bring himself to ask—Thorin was leaving anyway. Why he'd come no longer mattered. "Why do they call you home? That is, how long can you stay?"

"They call me home because they believe I have accomplished what they sent me here to do," Thorin replied vaguely. "I will have to leave in a few days."

The first part caught Bilbo's attention—a reminder that Thorin's family sent Thorin here with a specific goal in mind. It was evident now that Thorin was being deliberately ambiguous, but Bilbo couldn't help pushing: "Have you not achieved—whatever it is you were meant to?"

This simple yes or no question seemed to stump Thorin. "I have achieved what I meant to do here," he answered, frowning.

Bilbo, at this point, knew better than to wait for more; he wasn't going to get more. He changed the subject instead. "A few days, you said." He sounded unmistakably disappointed, even to his own ears.

Thorin caught sight of his expression and his frown softened. "Perhaps a week."

— — —

It was a week later, then, when Thorin stood in the circle of Bilbo's doorway, a heavy pack strapped to his back and another in his arms, both of which he carried as if they were nothing. Bilbo had offered to carry one of them to the stables for him, but Thorin had shaken his head and said it would be easier for him to carry both. Bilbo had to admit—he wasn't wrong.

"I'll walk with you to the stables anyway," Bilbo offered hopefully, and Thorin accepted with another one of those rare smiles.

Together, they set off along the path. They must've made an odd pair, a hobbit who'd let hishair get too long and a dwarf laden with enough provisions for weeks of travel, walking slowly down a small road in Bag End. Indeed, they earned a few looks from the few hobbits that had already woken and had started picking berries and filling buckets of water in the early morning light.

"I will miss you dearly, Master Baggins," Thorin said thickly, gazing unhappily at the stables in the distance.

I will miss you dearly.

Bilbo found that to be just a bit too much.

"Thorin," he asked abruptly, "Why did you come to the Shire?"

It was as if the question he had wanted to ask had been blocking up his throat this whole time and he could finally breathe and think again.

Thorin stayed silent for so long, Bilbo began to think he hadn't heard. He said finally, "Perhaps you do not wish to know."

Bilbo glanced at Thorin; Thorin was frowning deeply, his gaze fixed resolutely on the path before them. "I most certainly do."

The mere suggestion that he might not want to know rankled him; had Thorin just expected to sweep in, stay for two months, and leave without so much as an explanation? Nevermind that had nearly happened—one could not simply do that to a friend. Though, in fairness, Thorin did not fully understand how much Bilbo had missed him, and thus perhaps couldn't know that he was doing that to his friend. Of course Bilbo wanted to know why Thorin had come and why he was now leaving.

"Is it bad?" he asked, just as the thought occurred to him, "Has someone tried to kill you? Or take your throne?" As soon as he said it, he knew neither could be the case; if either had happened, Thorin would still be in Erebor, fighting for his place, stubborn to the last.

"I wouldn't—"

"No, I suppose you wouldn't."

"Am I close?" Bilbo asked, watching Thorin's expression.

A strange combination of amusment and embarrassment passed over Thorin's face. "Not at all." He cleared his throat. "They sent me here on… on a social call of sorts."

A social call. So far, nothing too surprising. "Of sorts?"

Thorin cleared his throat again, eyes fixed straight ahead and cheeks beginning to color. "Do not be offended."

Now this was a surprise. "Offended? Why should I be offended."

Thorin's jaw worked. "They sent me here to ask your hand in marriage."

Bilbo gaped. He thought first that he must've heard wrong, but Thorin's flushed complexion told him he'd heard quite right. "Marriage," he echoed stupidly.

Thorin gave a tight nod. "I was to court you first, of course."

"Of course," Bilbo echoed faintly, and then he had his second thought—Oh. So that was why Thorin had told him not to be offended. "But—you didn't ask. Or court, as far as I could tell."

Thorin nodded again. "No, I did not."

It wasn't offensive. It was far more of a surprise that anyone had even considered a match between the two of them than it was a surprise Thorin didn't want one—that wasn't a surprise at all. Being entirely unsurprised by this didn't help at all to take the sting away.

"I'm not offended," Bilbo tried to reassure Thorin, but it wasn't convincing, not to him and not to Thorin. "I find—" his voice wobbled. He took a deep breath and tried again, turning his gaze away from Thorin's profile. They were nearly at the stables, and soon Thorin would be on his way, and everything would be done. Bilbo would be able to return to his hobbit hole and process this privately, or at the very least eat his feelings. "I find it difficult to imagine why your family—you did say your family put you up to it, if I recall—would desire to marry you off to…" Another deep breath. "Well, to me. I have no title, I have hardly anything to my name beyond my fourteenth share, which I left with you, I'm not even a dwarf, and—"

"None of those things matter the least bit to me," Thorin interrupted, his tone startlingly fierce. "Nor should they. I have more gold than even a dwarf should want, and I find I've lost my taste for it."

Bilbo didn't know what to say to that. "For gold?"

"After the dragonsickness, I… I found it very hard to reconcile how I acted towards the people I loved." Thorin's glower had returned; he was glowering at the stables.

They'd just reached the gate, one of the hobbits milling about came to open it for them, a bucket of feed in one hand. Thorin glared at her as if she had done him a great wrong, but Bilbo knew his glowers well enough to surmise Thorin was only displeased with himself.

"I'm Challan!" Her beam faltered under Thorin's look. "I—I work here… I'll just—tell me your names, and I'll bring you your horses?"

Bilbo swooped in before Thorin could say anything very rude or intimidating. "Just one—Thorin Oakenshield."

"Right away," Challan promised, and darted away, looking glad to be free of them.

As soon as she was gone, Thorin turned back to Bilbo, a determined look in his eyes. "Master Baggins, I did not ask you to not be offended because I did not wish to wed you. I hope that is clear."

That was the least clear thing he could have possibly said. Why else would Bilbo be offended? And the still-standing question—why did Thorin's company wish for him to wed Bilbo at all? "Pardon?" Bilbo asked, his voice becoming shrill.

Thorin's glower grew more intent than Bilbo had ever seen it get before; his face grew redder than Bilbo had ever seen it get before, and his voice grew rougher than Bilbo had ever heard it get before. He said, "My family sent me here to propose because it was incredibly evident to them that I am in love with you. I did not because I did not wish to offend you."

Bilbo stared unspeaking at Thorin for so long that Thorin began to speak again. He simply could not parse the words that had just come out of Thorin's mouth; he felt as if he might need several minutes to do so, and a place to sit down, perhaps a cup of tea. His heart hammered loudly in his ears.

"I had no desire to destroy whatever little was left between us after I… after I tried to throw you from the ramparts," Thorin was saying. "I enjoyed my time with you nonetheless and I am grateful for it."

"Shut up about the ramparts," Bilbo heard himself say faintly, "I never want to hear about them again. It's forgiven, do you hear? But what was that you said about being in love?"

Thorin cleared his throat uncomfortably. "The company. They could tell I was in love with you. I thought to simply tell them you had said no upon my return."

"So." Bilbo was beginning to find his footing, just a little bit. He could stand. He could almost think straight. "Would you like to marry me?"

Thorin looked quickly away from Bilbo when Bilbo finally tried to meet his eyes properly. "I have told you—I could not offend you by proposing—"

"I'm proposing," Bilbo interrupted loudly, stepping closer to Thorin and forcing him to meet his gaze, "Will you marry me, Thorin, or do I have to court you first?"

Thorin's glower dropped from his face as if someone had taken a cloth to his expression and wiped it clean of emotion. "What?" he said, "You—Bilbo—"

"Here's your horse, Mr. Oakenshield," came a voice, and there stood Challan, leading a horse nervously by the reins and shooting looks apprehensively in Thorin's direction. This time, it was Bilbo who glowered at her aggressively.

Thorin, as if in a daze, reached out and took the reins. "Thank you," he said with finality, fished out a bag of coins from a pocket, and threw the whole thing in Challan's direction without bothering to look.

Challan looked between them and coughed lightly. "Shall I count you your change?"

"No," said Thorin.

"Alright…" Challan began to edge away, as if expecting to be called back any moment. "I suppose I'll go, then."

"Yes," said Thorin.

Challan turned around and disappeared into the stables once more.

Thorin, who hadn't turned away from Bilbo for a moment, said, "But you love the Shire. You're happy in the Shire."

The horse nudged Thorin's shoulder impatiently, but Thorin appeared to take no notice.

"I'm happy in the Shire when you're here," Bilbo corrected. "I told you I was lonely before you showed up."

Thorin began to smile, a slow, unsure smile. "And Erebor?"

"Erebor needs you." Bilbo reached out and clasped one of Thorin's hands. "And I'm happy to follow as long as you are with me. But might I ask—if I may bring Frodo with me? He can't get enough of your stories or mine, and he's always wanted to travel beyond the Shire—"

"Whatever you wish," Thorin promised. "If it is in my power, you may have it."

"I wish to marry you," Bilbo said. There was no need for beating around the bush.

This time, Thorin truly smiled, real and uncontained. Bilbo had never seen something quite like it.

"Yes," he said, "I think we can make that happen."