Archive of Our Own

Not for the first time, Bilbo Baggins found himself wishing he had never stepped out of his front door that fateful day not one month ago.

He would admit that it was rougher going than any well-respected hobbit should ever have to put up with, and that he missed Bag End something fiercely. He missed his armchair, his comfortable bed, his well-stocked kitchen (though it was not quite as well-stocked anymore, not after what those raucous dwarves had put his poor home through), his bountiful garden, his comfortable clothes. He wished he had followed his instinct and stayed locked behind his doors, far away from these tales of orcs and endless days of ponyback riding and rude dwarves. He wished he was able to just turn back around and have nothing amiss but his pride, traipsing all the way back home to where he could unlock his door and slide right back into his comfortable way of life. He wished that this was all a bad dream, and that one bright morning, he would awake to find himself in his bed, perhaps after the nasty bump on the head he had received when his strength gave out the night before his brain had given him the most confusing dream.

But most of all, Bilbo Baggins found himself wishing that he could have at least taken a warmer coat.

Oh, curse the fact that he had not the foresight to take along his traveling coat in favor of this lovely but quite impractical maroon velvet dinner jacket, which was sure to be regrettably in tatters once this was all good and over with. In fact, Bilbo cursed a great many things that night, which included, but was not limited to: wizards and their propensity for unexpected parties, his own propensity for fainting when things got too much for his poor little heart to handle, the fact that he was scraping by at three (three!) measly meals a day that left his stomach wanting night after night, his bladder for waking him up just after he spent a good hour or two trying to fall asleep, and above all else he cursed the arrogant, stubborn, stupid arse of a dwarf whose rough voice and piercing eyes had convinced him to fly from his comfortable home with no forethought to the future.

Resigning himself to the fact that he was not able to easily fall back into that fitful rest he would have been hesitant to call sleep a month earlier, he sighed, pushing aside the cocoon of barely-warmth he had worked on achieving all night and rising to find a spot where he could relive his aching bladder.

It was not a difficult task, as he had always bedded farther away from the others than most of his companions, sensing they would be rather averse to his close presence, being such the secretive race they were. Picking his way through the dense shrubbery that lay along the floor of the forest as silently as can be and coming upon a large tree just far enough away to be out of earshot from the others back at camp, he addressed the needs of his body.

Not even before he finished had the tremors come back, racing up and down his spine as the sudden exposure to the frigid night air of the spring to places most often covered by cloth began to sap at his strength, warning him that if he did not make it back to camp soon he would certainly die of hypothermia. Of course, this was an overstatement for the situation, but Bilbo had not had enough experience to tell the difference between cold, and cold. Still, it was an unpleasant situation all the same.

His bladder feeling much, much better, he hoisted his trousers back up and began to make his way back to his thin, cold bedroll that awaited on that hard, cold ground he had come to expect from these rough nights away from home when something stopped him in his tracks.

A silhouette against the dying embers of the fire that had not been there when he had risen, and a quick look around the forest floor revealed to him that it was indeed a member of the Company, since one previously occupied bedroll now lay empty. For one blissful, shameful moment, Bilbo considered sneaking over and stealing it for himself since it was much more practical than his own, as much about the dwarves were, but caught himself before he could even take a step, chastising himself that he would even allow that thought to take route. Valar, this chill was going to be the death of his propriety, if not himself.

Another look at the hulking shadow by the firepit revealed the owner to be puffing a pipe, if the rather excellent smoke rings were any indication. Not Gandalf, as the height was far too lacking for it to be the wizard. In fact, Bilbo was not sure if he had ever even seen the wizard sleep, and wondered if the tall magician just up and disappeared once the night fell only to reappear as the dawn began. It would not be out of character for the wizened old coot, he supposed.

Shaking his head and laughing at himself for such juvenile thoughts, and not wishing to bother whoever had had a similarly restless night, he turned back to his own bedding, dejectedly eyeing the threadbare excuse for a blanket that would certainly not provide any comfort now that he had vacated it for a few minutes. Oh, how he wished for one of those thick woolen garments or warm furs the dwarves cavoted about in, but his pride held him back from even asking about such a favor.

Wriggling his quickly numbing toes so as to not lose all sense of feeling in them, he climbed onto the mat and attempted to recreate the nest he had left once the ache in his bladder had become too much to bear, but unfortunately it proved impossible as the chill had seeped through the sheet in his minutes of absence, and he was not sure he had the body heat left to return it to a satisfactory state. For he was a small creature, he knew that, made even more obvious by his companions, who were about as wide as they were tall and ran about as hot as the forges they so typically worked, and unused to extreme temperatures of any kind, never mind on an increasingly empty stomach.

And so he settled down and tried desperately to ignore the frigid air biting at his exposed ears, shivers racing through him as he was reduced to a vibrating ball of blanket and hobbit, breath coming in pathetically audible puffs through his violently chattering teeth.

It was a miserable way to die, Bilbo thought. If anyone at home caught wind of this, he would be used as an example for parents to frighten fauntlings from running away from home. ‘Don’t run too far, or you’ll end up like that old Frozen Baggins!’ He could hear it even now. All alone, on a foolish journey with foolish dwarves, curled up in a foolish ball in his foolish dinner jacket, frozen into a hobbit-icicle for some horrid creature to come up and munch on. And he wasn’t even that well-endowed anymore (not that he had ever been remarkably so, for a hobbit), if the scant meals he had been living off of was of any consequence, so he would likely barely make it as an appetizer to a wolf of some kind. Oh, he was going to freeze to death, and it was all that stupid Thorin Oakenshield’s fault. Him and his horrible, terrible, wonderful voice, that annoyingly luscious hair that Bilbo longed to run his fingers through (if he had any fingers left, barring his death by cold), those icy, beautiful eyes that had pulled him out his front door and onto the road which would inevitably lead to his death on this night.

Oh, what a way to go, Bilbo thought.

From somewhere beyond the haze of cold that gripped the poor hobbit’s body, Bilbo made out from the shadow by the fire that thrice-cursed voice, as low and soothing as it had been that first night, no matter how enraging its words may be.

“For Mahal’s sake, halfling, cease your incessant chattering, some of us are trying to sleep. It’s pathetic.”

Speak of the devil.

“It’s n-not my fault you’re all t-twice my size and three times as p-prepared for this wretched j-journey.” There came a snort from that beautiful shadow, and Bilbo thought that maybe the way the dwarf’s cold indifference made his blood boil would warm him up a bit. “W-well, I suppose that last one’s n-not quite t-true, as I really should have thought t-this all out and not even c-come, or at least p-packed a decent c-coat for this whole debacle.”

The voice hummed. “Yes, you should have.”

Underneath his desperate attempt at warmth, Bilbo wrinkled his nose in annoyance. Valar, he hated this wonderful dwarf. “Y-yes to which?”

“You decide.”

“Oh, that’s r-rich. Yes, I’ll j-just leave you all to d-do all your stupid burglaring yourselves, w-whatever that entails. I c-can’t even believe that I agreed to such a t-thing, I mean- incineration? I d-don’t even know who you people are and here I am, o-off and out the door before I e-even have a m-moment to think, sleeping on the g-ground in a bedroll that b-barely keeps out the chill on the b-best of nights-”

“Burglar,” came a warning from the silhouette, voice dangerously close to something between annoyance and amusement. It broke something within him, that word coupled with the tone that felt like honey to his ears, and his mouth moved vindictively against his brain and all the common sense left in him, not that there was a lot.

“And d-don’t even get me started on t-that. What a-am I even going to be b-burglaring? I’m not a good thief, I’m b-barely a passable adventurer as it g-goes, so why d-drag me on this h-horrid journey? Y-you all are strong and tough and h-handsome and used to t-this kind of life and l-laugh at me when I fumble and it's, it’s g-getting on my nerves! I s-swear, I’ve never met such a r-rude, horrible b-bunch in all my life, and if I was in m-my right mind at all I’d t-turn back soonest chance I get and r-return to my n-nice warm b-bed sleep for days to m-make up for all the r-rest I’ve lost on this Valar-forsaken trip! You’re all lucky I haven’t abandoned y-you the first chance I g-got, with how you’ve been t-treating me, and-”

In the midst of his frozen tirade, he had been oblivious to the surprisingly quiet shuffling of boots on earthen ground as the shadow moved, extinguishing its pipe and returning to its bedroll lain empty on the forest floor only to gather up the furs and woollen blankets that lay huddled there in big, strong arms. Big, strong arms that were now around Bilbo, hefting him up as if he weighed nothing, placing a much more comfortable padding underneath his stunned body and setting him back down roughly.

“Cease your complaining, halfling, for I fear it shall soon make my ears bleed.”

“W-what are you-?”

“Silence, Master Baggins, and shut your mouth for once in your pathetic lifetime.”

And with that, Bilbo was warm again.

His shaking body was now covered not only by his poor excuse for a blanket, but soft fur and the telltale comforting weight of wool. It smelled like campfire smoke, something that every member of their merry little band of travelers smelled like as an unavoidable side effect of camping, but also of something richer. It smelled like earth, like good soil and deep stone, and like the forest, of greens and pine trees. It smelled like something a bit nutty, a scent Bilbo had sometimes caught on a passing breeze this past month. It smelled like the journey itself- dirt, blood, and sweat.

It smelled like Thorin.

Barring all that, there was a forge running beside him that provided him all the warmth he needed.

The weight from Thorin’s arm under his, thick fingers massaging his rapidly stuttering chest so gently he was unsure if they even belonged to the dwarf behind him, oh, this wasn’t happening, this wasn’t, it couldn’t-

“Halfling. Rest.”

Bilbo felt that low voice more so than he heard it, resonating in the thick chest that lay beside him, pressed so close that he could feel the heat radiating off of the dwarf’s body. There was so much of him, against every inch of Bilbo’s smaller body, his hot breaths against Bilbo’s ears, long, dark hair falling over his eyes from the head bowed above his own, that it was almost impossible not to relax instantly into the embrace. Almost.

“Thorin, I don’t-”

“Rest. I pray to Mahal your complaining will not be so great come the morrow.”

“But-”

“Rest.”

“Fine. But if you wake up with a sore back tomorrow, that’s your fault.”

A huff that could have been mistaken for a chuckle had it come from anyone else (see: anyone with actual decency and consideration for others) rushed past his ear and sighing, Bilbo relented.

Against his better judgement, he wriggled about so that he was pressed even closer to the fire that blazed under the blankets next to him, straightening out a bit so that even his legs were against the rough fabrics of Thorin’s tunics and placed his head atop another warm arm, turning into the haven of heat that lay there. After a few moments of this, he finally settled, warmer than he had ever been and about as mortified, but he could not bring himself to care.

He could sleep now.

“Thank you.”

It was so quiet that Bilbo himself wasn’t sure that the words had even passed his lips, but a small, gentle squeeze on the front of his shirt told him that it had not gone unnoticed.

“Be quiet.”

As Bilbo finally let himself fall into the deepest sleep he had managed since setting foot out of Bag End those few weeks ago, he replayed those two words over and over in his mind, the meaning of them much less consequential than the smile that he had heard in them.

And when he woke, he was surprised to find himself disappointed that the space beside him was empty save a warm, thick woollen blanket.