Chapter Text
Present
Bilbo woke from the clear hum of the morning bells vibrating through the stone of the mountain. Trapped in the drowsy in-between of sleep and wakefulness she slowly became aware of her body and her surroundings. A yawn floated from her mouth in semiconsciousness, and she smacked her lips.
No, she didn’t want to wake, it was too comfortable. Bilbo squeezed her eyes shut and snuggled deeper into the cocoon of warmth and comfort that enveloped her and relished feeling relaxed and safe.
There were too many years where her sleep hadn’t been restful at all, but now all her nights were like this, thanks to the furnacelike dwarf that had completely wrapped himself around her, with her back curved against his chest and held in place by a muscly arm circling her waist and a strong leg thrown over her hip under the warm blankets. The fire in the hearth had died down during the night but with him curled around her and completely wrapped in his heat, the autumn night chills in the mountain never stood a chance.
After a long while Bilbo wriggled a bit and stretched a little, sighing when her feet twinged with a dull ache. She moved her hand to cover the big, calloused paw which lay splayed just over her abdomen, the warmth of the hand seeping through her night shift into her very skin.
“Morn’,” Dwalin sleepily mumbled into the curls in her neck, giving her middle a gentle squeeze.
Bilbo felt herself smile and wriggled some more in his arms, turning to face him. He was completely relaxed and pliant, his gruff features at ease, looking utterly content and ... happy.
It was still a surprise to see the fierce warrior like this, but one that continuously filled her heart with exquisite delight and her stomach with butterflies.
That he would look like this because of her!
Because she was in his arms.
His deep grey eyes, still heavy with sleep, looked at her softly from under his bushy eyebrows, roaming over her face for a long time before they crinkled in the corner and his mouth curled into a crooked smile in his bushy, morning-wild beard. Bilbo returned the smile and tried to comb his bristles from how she made them all messy with her fists clenched in them for half the night.
Dwalin’s eyes brightened at her efforts, and his big hand stroked up her back to gently smooth some wayward curls away from her face before he buried it in the thick hair at the back of her head and pulled her close for a kiss.
Bilbo followed eagerly and sighed contently against his lips.
That’s how it had started.
With a kiss.
Dwalin gave her a lot of attention immediately after the Battle of Five Armies. So did the others of the Company and even Thorin - but Dwalin went the extra mile, especially when the first dwarrow arrived in spring once the Great Gate opened after being shut for the long, dark winter: he was the one to set several smart mouthed Iron Hills dwarrow right and left them with bloody noses for their callous comments and blatant disbelief that the shy little hobbit lass was indeed a valued member of Thorin Oakenshield’s company and the one the King named Hero of Erebor for saving him, his kin and his mountain.
Dwalin also was the one who came after her when she fled, ashamed and in tears over comments about her beardless chin and furry feet. She knew, of course, that most dwarrow had never seen a hobbit, that her appearance would seem strange to them, but knowing it didn’t lessen the hurt about their disrespect. After everything, after how the quest had started, where Thorin showed himself to be a foul-tempered, stubborn, grumpy, brooding fellow who hated bright sunshine, smiles, laughter, friendly words, manners, common sense, and most of all Bilbo Baggins, her skin was worn thin. It had taken a long while for Bilbo to see that Thorin was also brave and loyal, in the same stubborn and stupid way the dwarf employed in all manners of life. He was entirely devoted to his nephews and passionate when it came to his kin and those he deemed loyal. Bilbo could appreciate that, admire it even, and envy all who fell under his devotion. Bad things had happened, but they were forgiven now. Still, after everything, the first difficult months with the Company, goblins, spiders, dungeons, gold sickness, a battle and Azog, Bilbo felt that her soul was still a little raw.
Too raw to cope with callous words.
Dwalin found her in the dark storage room she had been hiding in on that day, and his strong arms pulled her against his chest in a protective embrace. He held her gently and his big, calloused hands wiped the tears off her cheeks and her wild curls from her face and that was when he had brushed the barest of kisses against her lips for the very first time. His gentleness and care in that moment had shaken her to the core. Shock and pleasure had mingled, but Bilbo couldn’t quite clearly tell which was stronger. In any case, her reaction was disproportionate to this small caress by the impressive dwarf.
She was no longer used to such gentleness, nor care, but especially this kind of affection.
From no one. But especially not from a male.
Her chest had quaked, and her lungs had shrunk yet she had felt oddly refreshed, like the door to a new world had opened, letting a fresh spring breeze into a stuffy room. Dwalin had pulled back enough to be able to search her eyes for any sign of discomfort or protest and when he found none his lips slanted over hers and he kissed her in the sweetest slow motion that had her floating.
And as Bilbo tasted him, she realized she had been starving for years.
It was a pivotal moment.
There had been many kisses after that. Dwalin was a master of making time slow right down by just holding her, kissing her, running his hands down her spine. The unrushed intimacies were a perpetual bliss and made her forget to breathe but filled her like a dried up well after heavy summer rains.
Regardless, Bilbo didn’t think she deserved his attention and during a heart wrenchingly difficult confession she told Dwalin all the reasons why she was unsuitable, from a dwarrow kind of view - he was of noble birth and a Durin after all - but especially from a hobbit’s kind of view. Dwalin had listened to every word with a deep frown on his face, his attention undivided throughout her breathless and teary ramblings.
Then his eyes had travelled down her body before returning to her face. Bilbo had shuddered, letting him look, waiting for the revulsion that would no doubt come, just like with everyone else. She waited and waited but there was no disgust. No pity either. Her eyes had widened in surprise, before they filled with tears when he wrapped her in his arms and told her he didn’t much care about other people’s opinions, hobbit, or dwarf, and was well used to making up his own mind, by Mahal. And that the only one thing that mattered to him was whether she wanted him to be close to her or not.
Bilbo could only sniffle her tears away and stare at this big, gruff dwarf, who was so sweet and good and made her feel safe and cared for. She’d moulded herself against his broad chest then and didn’t refuse him when he stayed in her room that night, where he leaned over her in the soft pillows of her bed and kissed her.
Thoroughly.
And real slow.
And down below.
And everywhere else.
He made every moment matter, coaxing the most delicious sensations out of her and opening her body up to him easily, until she was quivering wildly in his arms.
She had a bead carved from a red ruby in her hair the day after, and while she was pretty sure that it didn’t mean that they were married - dwarrow liked their ceremonies after all and a wedding surely was worthy of a ceremony - it was clear that they were considered an item by all and sundry in the mountain. There was no fanfare, no weird or disgusted looks, no cheesy smiles or even outright argument. Just the respectful acceptance of a fact.
Considering how melodramatic dwarrow could be on occasion it was rather anticlimactic.
The Company treated her no different than before either, and Bilbo was included in the circle of dams that had arrived from Ered Luin, with Dís at their forefront, who began dragging the hobbit along to ladies’ circles and tea groups. Bilbo formed tentative friendships, continued to wear her Mithril shirt and Sting, and happily lived on three meals a day.
All of it suited Bilbo just fine and she couldn’t help but feel that after over a year of being surrounded almost exclusively by dwarrow and their ways, the Shire and all its set customs were indeed half a world away, in far more than just the geographical sense. When the King, his family and the Company moved into the finished Royal Wing just at the end of summer, Bilbo and Dwalin moved into their very own generous set of light filled rooms with access to the former Queen’s terrace, where Bilbo managed to established a little garden.
For the first time in a very long time Bilbo felt complete and truly happy, slowly daring to come out of her shell in this new home of hers, her confusion and hurt feelings slowly forgotten.
Almost forgotten.
“How are your feet?” her dwarf inquired now, breaking their kiss with a content hum, and leaned back a little to be able to look into her eyes.
Bilbo gave it another little stretch and wriggled her toes, rubbing the fur on top of her feet against Dwalin’s hairy shins. “Sore,” she said with a grimace. “Yours?” She shot back cheekily, knowing the answer.
Dwalin chuckled, the gentle heartbeat under her hand interrupted by the sound of his laughter rumbling through his bare-chested body.
“They didn’t get stepped on on that overcrowded dance floor.”
“Even if they did you wouldn’t have noticed, boots and all,” she countered, wriggling her nose.
Dancing had been rather wild towards the end of last night’s ball, even though Dwalin had made sure she stayed in his arms, and once the ale had flown aplenty, he didn’t even let her go when others from the Company wanted to take her for a spin. She hadn’t been sure she would enjoy the merriment, being in the midst of big crowds still not necessarily her preference, but Dwalin was ever generous with his affections and had been set on her having a good time.
During the ball and after, when they were back in the privacy of their rooms. And bed.
And yes, she did have a good time.
A very good time indeed.
No expenses had been spared to celebrate the first Durin’s Day in style. Days of mourning and remembrance were followed by celebration, with festivities spreading from Erebor to Dale. Merchant’s stalls, food vendors, acrobats and a tournament had entertained the masses of guests from near and far and from all races. Last night’s very elegant ball had been the final official event before many would travel back home and equally as many would turn their focus back on business, with the more serious discussions and negotiations regarding politics and trade taking place in the various council rooms of the mountain and King Bard’s Hall.
After breakfast Bilbo had planned to be spending the rest of the day going over preliminary trade agreements, before leading a delegation from Erebor to meet with Thranduil and Bard in Dale on the morrow, Thorin having given her his complete trust in the matter, something that still baffled her.
Dwalin and all the other male dwarrow would be spending their morning in the hot springs of the mountain, for a gathering called basuki’gêl. Bilbo’s knowledge of Khuzdul improved steadily, so she had figured out it had something to do with bath and talking before it had been explained to her: they hadn’t happened in Erebor since Thror’s time as King and were a deeply traditional affair. Dwarves would go there in their tunics and breeches only, no weapons were allowed, even in the dressing rooms. Then they would indulge in several hours of male nakedness and talks, all while sitting in hot baths and grooming their hairs and beards.
It was a chance to address topics outside the negotiation rooms, and to sit next to the King and his kin in nothing more than their birthing suit, Dwalin had explained. It was also a chance to discuss things that might get tempers to flare. Things could be said without fearing someone would pull their weapon. Sure, fists could still fly, and were pretty much expected to - dwarrow were hot headed after all - but as the cool pools would cool the heated bodies before everyone would leave the baths at the conclusion of the basuki’gêl, they would also help to cool heated tempers.
Bilbo understood the general sentiment: it was the first time delegations from all Khazad clans were together in Erebor since before Smaug had destroyed the Kingdom Under the Mountain, and the majority of dwarrow were male. But she wasn’t very convinced about the whole weaponless business, knowing how many knives Nori could hide in his hair. And dwarves from some of the other clans, especially the Stiffbeards and the Blacklocks, had exceptionally thick hair and beards. She couldn’t help but worry, but firmly kept telling herself, that - should there be a kerfuffle of sorts - Dwalin could well hold his own, and the Company would keep each other and the King safe.
She couldn’t help but wonder whether the meal hall would be all but deserted, what with all dwarrow in the mountain invited to the basuki’gêl, even if not all might wish to partake.
“Thorin has invited the hobbits to join us in the baths,” Dwalin said calmly, as if reading her mind.
Ah, the hobbits.
Bilbo felt herself tense and avoided his gaze by twirling her fingers through his beard.
She did want to talk about it.
But she did not know what to say. It was a touchy subject.
How could she explain the reason why all her nearly forgotten anxiousness and worry had returned tenfold for the past few weeks, and her defences were up at all times?
Why she felt so very wary.