Chapter Text
After about 15 seconds of watching the pathetic little car spin its tires uselessly in a snow bank, blocking off the slightly inclined driveway to the pub parking lot that it had clearly failed to ascend correctly, Thorin slapped the dash light to turn his hazards on and threw the truck into park. “Come on, Dwalin, let's go.” Even as he unbuckled his seatbelt, the big man scoffed in disbelief.
“You're joking! Just let the poor bastard call a tow truck and drive around him!”
“Come ON, Dwalin!” Thorin repeated, not even bothering to explain how having a car stalled out in front of the pub would be bad for business and just climbing out of the truck and slamming the door behind him. He could hear the grumbling even from outside and knew his best friend would be following shortly. In the meantime, Thorin trudged through the snow and slush to approach the other vehicle's driver side window. Knocking on it, he heard a yelp from inside before the window rolled down.
“I'm so sorry!” The driver immediately said. A man maybe a little younger than Thorin, sporting a curly mop of light brown hair and looking positively harried. The available streetlights were at a bad angle to see much more than that. “I know I'm blocking the drive, I just skidded out and can't seem to move a bloody inch-!”
“Calm down, we’ll help push you out,” Thorin cut him off impatiently. He had no desire to spend any longer out in the miserable weather than he absolutely had to. The snow was still falling, after all. He barely allowed himself time to take note of the size of the driver and, yeah, this little man had no chance at all of being able to push himself out.
“What's the plan, then?” Dwalin asked, even more impatient than Thorin.
“First, we need you to throw it into reverse and we’ll push you back out onto the road for a bit,” he explained to the driver but loud enough that Dwalin could also hear the explanation. “Were you actually trying to go into this driveway?” he asked.
“Yes,” the driver grumbled. “All I wanted was to go to the bloody pub and here we are.”
“Well, that's as far as we were going to push you, anyway,” Thorin groused right back. “Once we get you backed up far enough, then we're going to move around to the back and give you a push so you can make it past the gutter, here, and then up. Understand?”
“Yes, yes, I understand, thank you very much!”
If Thorin were less cold he might have taken issue with the stranger's tone, but cold he was and also, well, that was certainly not the worst attitude he'd ever gotten from a perfect stranger.
He and Dwalin positioned themselves at the hood of the car, bracing their hands on the front bumper. It was practically a toy car of a vehicle, tiny and light and only two wheel drive. So low that even though he and Dwalin were not so great in stature, they both had to brace their legs wide enough apart to have a good center of gravity to push.
“On three,” Thorin said and Dwalin grunted in acknowledgment. He counted down and then they began to push in a rocking motion without having to communicate it. For all the winters they had lived through, it was just standard operating procedure for getting a car unstuck. At first, the driver put his foot on the gas and held it there, which really wasn't going to do much at all. But it only took a few seconds for him to get the gist of what they were doing and he timed hitting the gas with the rocking motion. Small mercies that he was clever enough to catch on because Thorin had failed to actually explain that to him. Driving this kind of car in the middle of January in the north of England? Clearly not a local and didn't get the memo on how to drive in the bloody snow.
With the actual vehicle working with them, it barely took any effort at all to push the car out of the drift it had slid into. Thorin was almost convinced they would only need one more person to help lift the car entirely. Maybe if he could get his brother to come out of the pub and join them outside, though Frerin would probably laugh his head off at the very suggestion and would rather take pictures of their impersonation of the good samaritan than actually help. Still, phase one of the plan, success! Once the driver was backed up enough, Thorin waved at him through the windshield and walked around to the window again. “We’ll give you a push to make sure you have enough momentum to get up the drive, but once you are, don't hesitate and just keep going until you crest the top. Slowing down is what will get you stuck again.”
“Just don’t drive through the front wall!” Dwalin shouted helpfully.
“That’s very helpful, thank you!” the driver shouted back, voice heavy with sarcasm.
“Let’s just get on with it!” Thorin interrupted the potential squabble. “Straighten out your wheels; this one will just be one big push.”
“Yes, yes,” the driver agreed, already spinning the wheel around into position while Thorin moved to the back of the car.
“Cheeky little shit, inn’e?” Dwalin grouched, though it was with a fierce grin that proved he liked the fire of it.
“Aye,” Thorin agreed, then lifted his voice to be loud enough for the driver. “IN THREE! TWO! ONE!” With a mighty heave, he and Dwalin forced the car forward just as the driver hit the gas, and between all their efforts, it got going quick enough to make it up the driveway and into the parking lot. Despite their triumph, Dwalin immediately began to swear profusely and Thorin looked over to see one foot had slipped and forced him to go down on one knee in the filthy slush, soaking the front of his trousers up to the knee. “Come on, quit your bitchin’,” he said with no sympathy and trudged back to the truck.
“Some reward for helping out!” Dwalin did not, in fact, quit his bitching as he climbed back into his seat and didn’t bother with the seatbelt.
“We can put your trousers in the dryer, but if you don’t shut up about it, I won’t give you anything to wear in the meantime,” Thorin threatened, taking the driveway without any issue at all; he had made sure his tires were good well before the bad weather had set in, and all-wheel drive just made sense in their part of the country.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” the bald man waggled his eyebrows, not at all cowed.
“Until Dis stabs your bollocks for being on display,” he retorted, which DID have the satisfaction of making Dwalin choke. Pulling in around the back of the pub, Thorin parked in his private spot, but once he got out and saw the way the snow was piled up against the back door, he decided to just deal with that later and walked around to the front instead. Pushing through the front door, he stamped his snow-crusted feet on the mat and lifted a hand to wave at the one regular in the corner that gave him a holler.
“Thorin!!” Frerin shouted from behind the bar where he was bussing empty glasses. “About time! What took ya?”
Just as Thorin opened his mouth to reply, a semi-familiar voice piped up from the side, “Ah, that would be my fault, actually.” When he turned to look, he was a little surprised by how far he had to look down, but recognized the curly-haired driver of the pathetic little car. He was a much smaller package than Thorin had realized; nearly a head shorter than himself, and though his physique wasn’t as broad (which was an unfair comparison; he’d been called a gym rat often enough by his closest friends to know all too well that the standards to which he held himself applied to no one else) he was filled out in other perfectly delightful ways. Thorin couldn’t help the way his eyes did an up-and-down sweep. In the warm light of the pub, it was easier to see things about him that he’d missed before. Like the fact that his hair was more honey-colored than brown, his big eyes were hazel, and his rounded cheeks were rosy from the biting cold. All in all, he painted a picture that was almost impossibly cute; Thorin would almost believe he was being set up. “I didn't get a chance to thank you properly,” said the man while fidgeting with his scarf. “Can I buy you both a drink?”
Dwalin barked a laugh and declared, “Won't say no to that! Huh, Thorin?” He punched Thorin in the shoulder (somewhat lightly) but Thorin just shoved him back and moved around the little driver towards the bar.
“Don't worry about it,” he said in response, though it came out more gruff than he’d intended.
That seemed to fluster the stranger and he stammered out, “Well! I-I just wanted to offer a little bit of gratitude…” he trailed off, though, when he saw the way Thorin strode purposefully to the bar and lifted up the divider to let himself in. When he stepped through the door to the back, it was to the sound of Frerin's uproarious laughter. Presumably, the driver had made something of an entertaining expression when he realized he had just offered to buy a drink for, at the very least, an employee of the pub. Thorin finished hanging up his coat and went back out to the front of the bar where the driver was just then sliding up onto a stool. He whipped his head around, curls bouncing, when Thorin came back through the door.
“Considering I buy all the beer around here in the first place, buying one off of me just to give it back doesn't mean much,” he said with a wry kind of smile. Something in the dejected expression (Thorin would deny to his dying day that he was weak to a cute pouting face) compelled Thorin to also say, “I appreciate the gesture, however.” While he stood there, Frerin sidled up beside him to bump shoulders in greeting, then the blond got called to the other end of the bar for a refill.
“You own this pub?” The driver asked.
“Aye, with my brother right here and also our sister.” It was a little more information than he might have normally given to a perfect stranger, and he wasn't sure why. Shaking it off, he said to Dwalin, “Let's go get you sorted, then.” Frerin had only just handed Dwalin a mug of beer, but the big man just shrugged and carried it with him through the back to follow Thorin past the cardboard boxes of soda syrups and up the stairs to the flat located above the pub. Pushing open the door, they saw Dis sitting at the kitchen table with the laptop open in front of her and several printouts spread around. She was busy doing the books for the pub (of the three siblings, she had the best head for numbers), and chose to come and visit to do so since they had more reliable Wi-Fi than the little cottage she lived in out on the edge of town.
“Does the word ‘itemized’ mean anything to you, Thorin?” she groused without even looking up.
“You know it doesn’t,” he replied, not getting taken in by an age-old argument. Stepping up, he kissed the top of her dark curls. “Hello, Dis, thank you for coming over.”
“You would lose this place without me,” she grumbled, reaching up to blindly pat his hair and ending up lightly smacking his face instead, “Oops.” And then immediately continued what she was doing, tapping something into a calculator.
“Probably,” he agreed. “Dwalin needs to throw his jeans in the dryer; we had an incident out in the snow. Feel free to castrate him if he comes out in just his pants.”
“Oi!” his friend protested. “No need to go givin’ her permission!”
“You think NOT having permission would stop her?” Thorin asked with a laugh. Meanwhile, he ducked into his bedroom to fish a clean pair of sweatpants out of a drawer. When he stepped out, he threw them at Dwalin's head, but unfortunately he saw it coming and caught them. “Get yourself sorted, I need to go back downstairs.”
“Gotta see to your damsel in distress, do ye?”
“No, I have a business to run,” he retorted.
“What's this?” Dis asked.
“Nothing!” Thorin growled. “We pushed a stalled car into the parking lot, is all.”
“And the little man is just Thorin’s type,” Dwalin added on, voice heavy with suggestion.
“Shut up!” Thorin was glad he already had his back to the room so they couldn’t see the way his cheeks flushed.
“All small and soft and I’m sure he begs like-”
“You keep talking about my brother's sex life in front of me and I won't wait to see your pants before I castrate you,” Dis threatened, waving her pen warningly at Dwalin’s tender region.
At that point, he decided retreat was the better part of valor and scuttled into the bathroom to change out of his wet jeans. The door shut just as Thorin was about to go downstairs, but Dis called out, “So he’s cute?”
Thorin yanked the door open and stomped down the stairs, slamming it shut behind him without deigning to answer the question. All his stomping didn’t quite cover up the sound of his sister’s laughter, though. Pushing through the door to the bar, Thorin registered a conversation going on between Frerin and the curly-haired man.
“-mean it’s going to get worse?” he was saying in a tone of distress. “That silly rental barely made it here from the hotel!”
Frerin only shrugged, “Seems like. You didn’t check the weather before you left, did you?”
The man flopped forward, throwing his head down on his crossed arms on the bartop and groaning miserably. “After the meeting I just got out of, I wasn’t thinking of anything except for how badly I needed a pint.”
Frerin let out a laugh and while they talked, Thorin went to the cabinet under the till to pull out the inventory checklist and start his normal evening routine. From the door, the voice of the corner-booth regular called out a farewell.
“‘Night, Bofur!” Thorin called back without either turning around or looking up from the checklist. Frerin had actually gone through the procedure like he was supposed to as part of the opening tasks. Must be a miracle. He turned to say something to his brother about it, but caught the way Frerin was looking out the door of the pub, which was just swinging shut on a denser flurry of snow than even when Thorin had walked in. “It’s coming down harder,” he remarked. It didn’t upset his plans any; he was home and didn’t have anywhere else to be, but he wondered if they might have to close early that night if everyone left to beat the weather.
Frerin seemed to have the same idea and looked at his phone to check the forecast. He lived in a flat a few miles away, so while Thorin wasn’t worried about him being able to get home, he might have to leave early to do so. Which would be a shame; Frerin was more personable and tended to keep customers happier and make more sales than Thorin.
Speaking of customers…
He raised his eyes from the clipboard to the man sitting at the bar with his (apparently) much-needed pint in hand.
“Where are you from?” Thorin asked, surprising even himself that he’d initiated conversation. Frerin, who had been moving to serve someone at the other end of the bar, actually stopped to stare at his older brother. Fortunately, he didn’t actually SAY anything so Thorin could safely ignore him to continue, “Because I’m guessing London.”
The driver scowled, but there was definitely a petulant edge to it, as if resenting being caught out. “Not everyone from the south is from London, you know,” he protested. Thorin simply waited silently with one eyebrow raised. After a few seconds of a staring match, he threw up one hand and gave in, “Okay, fine, yes, I’m from London. But I didn’t grow up there, mind.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I grew up in a little village in Hampshire that you’ve probably not heard of called Hobbiton.”
It sounded quaint if nothing else, and Thorin had to smile and admit, “You’re right, I’m afraid. Haven’t heard of it. But then, I don’t get down there very often.”
“That’s a shame, there’s a lot of beautiful sights to see. You should come visit!”
“Are you inviting me to visit you personally?” He asked with a smirk. As the man sputtered a bit (and colored with a very becoming flush), Thorin continued, “The same could be said for up here. There’s more to recommend us than a snowstorm in the middle of January.”
Just then Frerin’s phone chimed with a text. Thorin was about to tell him off for not muting it, but then his little brother looked up suddenly at Thorin, eyes wide, then glanced at the man sitting at the bar, and back again. Thorin had the sudden suspicion that text had been from Dis, and he was all but proved right when Frerin got an absurdly huge grin on his face before turning back to the patron nervously checking the forecast on his own phone.
The instant his little brother opened his big damn mouth, Thorin KNEW he was going to have to run interference.
“You said your name was Bilbo, right?” Frerin asked, apropos of nothing.
Bilbo, Thorin repeated to himself, filing the name away reflexively, even as he tried to come up with something to divert what was sure to be an impending disaster.
Oblivious, Frerin blithely continued without waiting for an answer, since he was apparently confident in his assumption. “So, are you single, mate?”
Distracted, the man, Bilbo, seemed to answer without thinking, “Well, yes, but- Wait!” His head shot up, brow suddenly furrowed in indignation. “I-I beg your pardon?!” Then his eyes seemed to cut to Thorin for a brief instant, and even though he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined it, enough was enough.
“Frerin,” Thorin suddenly cut in. “There’s snow blocking the back door, you were supposed to shovel that!”
The blond whipped his head around to protest. “Well yeah, but not ‘til tomor-”
“Get to it!”
Frerin gave him a spectacularly juvenile glaring pout, which looked particularly absurd on his grizzled, bearded face, but still moved off to do as he was bid. He knocked hard into Thorin’s shoulder on the way, of course, but the instant his back was to the bar, his face transformed into a smirk and a wink.
It took every ounce of Thorin’s self-control not to roll his eyes. Instead, he addressed the driver sitting at the bar, his eyes squinting a bit with suspicion at the door Frerin had disappeared through. “Sorry about my brother.”
“Is he really so desperate for a shag as that?” The man- Bilbo! His name is Bilbo! -asked, his voice laden with incredulity.
Thorin couldn’t help but bark a laugh. “What? No, he was trying to-” he barely cut himself off in time with a cough. “...well, nevermind.” Turning away, he suddenly remembered the clipboard in his hand and seized upon the task to keep him busy and not staring at a customer like a fool. He methodically checked all the open bottles in the bar well, making notes in the mid-shift column as necessary. He had almost managed to convince himself that he could function like a normal human being when Bilbo spoke up again.
“Well, I can’t say that he’s my type anyway.”
Thorin felt the disappointment open a hole in his gut. Not a big one, mind, it’s not as though he’d ACTUALLY gotten his hopes up very high, definitely not, but it was a shame, nonetheless. “Not into men?” he asked casually as he could, still wanting to confirm, but trying not to seem too invested in the answer as he counted the unopened bottles of rum on the shelf.
“Oh, that’s definitely not the problem,” the stranger denied immediately, and Thorin turned to look at him (a bit too quickly) as he cautiously let his hope perk back up. At least a little. Then Bilbo met Thorin’s eyes and said with deliberate intent, “It’s blonds that aren’t my thing.”
Thorin’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, then his expression melted into something a little more self-satisfied. I guess that answers that, he mused. Dropping his voice a little lower, Thorin replied, “He’ll be devastated, then,” tone making it clear he was not at ALL worried about it.
Before he could say anything else, maybe flirt a little more, another patron stepped up to the bar next to Bilbo.
“I just need to close my tab,” he said.
“Aye,” Thorin grunted and went to the till to close it out. “What’s the name?”
“Dori.”
With a few taps at the computer, Thorin had a receipt printed that the man signed before wishing a good night. When he left, two other men went with him, and Bilbo looked out the door after them to see the snow still falling. Thorin looked at the way his brow was furrowed in concern and asked, “You’re really that worried about the weather?”
“Well, I haven’t made a great showing of being able to handle myself out in it, now have I?” Bilbo asked with a bitter slant to his mouth. “I’m beginning to think if I try to leave now, I’ll just slide right down the drive and off into the ditch on the other side of the road!”
Thorin couldn’t help but grimace a bit at the thought; he really WOULD need a tow truck to get out of that situation. Glancing around the pub, he was a little startled to realize how quickly the patrons had cleared out. All because of the storm?
Suddenly, the door to the back burst open and Dis bustled out, her leather satchel with laptop and paperwork already slung on over her coat. “Sorry Thorin, but I ought to go,” she said when she spotted him after scanning the bar, lingering on Bilbo for just a moment too long. “I need to head home while I can still make it up the drive. I’ll finish all this soon as I can.” Then she stepped over to give Thorin a quick kiss on the cheek in farewell.
“No worries,” he assured her, leaning down a bit to allow it.
“He really is cute,” she whispered in his ear, almost too low and quick for him to catch. Then she was darting away before he could do anything but mentally sputter and try to keep that from showing on his face. “Make sure Dwalin gets home, too, so he’s not sleeping on your couch again!” she called from the door, winking at him from behind Bilbo’s back.
“Drive safe, Dis!” Thorin all but growled at her laughing retreat. Bilbo, he noticed, was trying to hide his chuckles behind a hand, but failed spectacularly. It was annoyingly endearing. “My sister,” he said in a brief, ungracious explanation.
“Yes, I did gather that much,” Bilbo said with a knowing smile. “Families are the same everywhere.”
“You have a sister?” Thorin asked. “Or siblings?”
But he was already shaking his head (the tousled curls managed to catch the low lighting in hints of honey-gold) in denial. “Only child, me. But plenty of cousins who’d do the same, that’s for sure.”
“Excuse me?” a voice drew Thorin’s attention away from Bilbo to another patron standing at the bar. “Can I close my tab? I should probably go, too.”
Thorin felt a brief pang of regret that Dis’ dramatic exit seemed to be leading the last of his customers away, but he waved that aside; he didn’t actually want anyone stranded, either out in the cold or at the pub. Finalizing one more check and watching them leave, Thorin looked around and realized there wasn’t anyone else seated in the bar. Frowning, he went to the loo and checked the door, finding it unlocked and unoccupied. When he came back, it was to see Bilbo looking more nervous than ever. He’d gotten up and gone to the door to peek out at the storm, only to shut it again with a shiver. Before Thorin could say anything to him, though, the door to the back opened yet again, admitting a distinctly soggy Frerin, who had snow piled up on his head and shoulders and caught up in his beard.
“You,” the blond said, pointing a thick, gloved finger at his brother, “Are a right arse.”
Thorin wasn’t ABOUT to let himself be cowed by his younger brother, much less when the little shit knew exactly what he’d done to force Thorin’s hand into retaliating the way he had. “Don’t even start,” he snapped back. “If you hadn’t-”
“I don’t wanna hear it!” Frerin shouted over him, throwing up his hands like their mother when she got tired of hearing who blamed who for something getting broken. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go; this is going to be a slog.”
“Oi,” Thorin caught him by the shoulder before he could walk back out. “Call me if you need anything, yeah?”
“Of course,” Frerin promised, slapping Thorin on the shoulder back, then he left again.
Only once Thorin turned back to the bar, though, and saw Bilbo standing there looking decidedly lost did Thorin mentally slap his forehead. He spun to the back door, shouting, “Frerin, wait!” but it was already slammed shut behind him. “Dammit.” He looked back to the man sitting at the bar and said, “I’ll try to get a ride for you; just sit tight.” With that, Thorin stepped into the back and walked to the base of the stairs. “DWALIN!” he bellowed up.
“AYE?” His voice came back muffled through the door at the top, but plenty clear enough.
“ARE YOU DONE YET?”
“GIMME A SECOND!”
Nodding to himself, Thorin went back to the bar. Might as well start closing everything down, he mused to himself. It was a shit day for business, but there was no controlling the weather. He couldn’t help it when his eyes automatically went to where Bilbo sat, taking in the distressed crease of his forehead and the funny way his nose twitched at something he was reading on his phone. Forcibly dragging his gaze away, Thorin said gruffly, “He’ll be down in a moment.”
“Yes, I did gather,” Bilbo replied with a little smirk in his tone. “Your voice is...resonant.”
“You are a cheeky little shit,” Thorin accused even as he took a moment to roll the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows (not noticing the way the other man’s eyes lingered on his forearms.) Then he picked up a cleaning rag and the sani-bucket to start wiping down tables, though first he stepped over to the window in order to switch off the neon “OPEN” sign.
“Yes, so I’ve been told a time or two,” he agreed with a shrug, unapologetic. “I don’t suppose you mind?” he asked with a bit of a leading tone.
Thorin thought about his reply for a second. The smaller man had been flirting with him quite unashamedly, and it wasn’t as though Thorin had shut down his interest. But given they were about to part ways (for the night, forever, who knew?) flirting back seemed to carry the same amount of weight on the questions of “what’s the harm” and “what’s the point?” Slanting a look back at Bilbo, Thorin gauged it a bit, and he definitely saw intelligence in his face, so it wasn’t as if the other man was ignorant of their impending situation, and yet continued as he was.
“What’s the harm?” won out.
Allowing a bit of a sultry tone to slip into his own voice, Thorin answered, “I don’t mind so long as you can take it as well as you give.”
Thorin could swear he could feel the heat of Bilbo’s stare on him, even with the entire bar between them.
“Oh, I can definitely take it.”
Certainly promising.
Distantly, Thorin heard heavy footsteps coming down the stairs and he felt a surprisingly strong lance of regret that the game he was playing with the man at his bar (that was becoming less and less of a stranger) was nearing an end. When Dwalin burst through the door behind the bar, he demanded, “What's got you so impatient, for?” He didn't even wait for a reply before continuing, “I left your joggers up there for you.”
“And the pint, too,” Thorin groused at him, seeing that he had come down empty- handed and making a mental note to make sure to retrieve it to bring back down to the bar.
Dwalin made a face like briefly swearing at himself, then mentally shrugging and moving on. “Where’d ya hide my keys?”
“Till drawer.”
Dwalin grunted in acknowledgment and went to go retrieve the keys that had been confiscated when he'd gotten too damn pissed the night before. “Why did you go caterwauling for me, anyway?”
“The storm is getting worse,” Thorin answered. “Can you give Bilbo here a ride back to his hotel on your way home?”
Dwalin stiffened a bit and then turned around, keys in hand, to look first at Thorin, then Bilbo, and back again. Narrowing his eyes, he said flat out, “No.” That certainly took them both by surprise, if Bilbo’s shocked little gasp was anything to go by, but Dwalin wasn’t finished. “If either of the two of you don't actually want the wee man to stay the night here, then YOU can give him a ride back to his hotel, Thorin. I'll not be used as a tool for your misplaced sense of propriety.”
“Dwalin,” Thorin growled, “don't be an ass. Just-”
“I don't want to hear it!” Dwalin barked, cutting him off, unintentionally parroting exactly what Frerin had already said. He may not have known it, but Bilbo had to cover his mouth with his hand to stifle the sudden laugh at the similarity. “I'll see you tomorrow, Thorin! If you don't do something daft like burn The Forge down.” With that, he marched right to the door and left without listening to any more of Thorin's protests and insults. Of which there were actually many, even after the door had slammed behind the big man and he’d stomped over to lock it.
Once he managed to grumble himself out, Thorin looked at Bilbo and heaved a great sigh. “Do you want to go now or do you mind waiting until after I've closed up?” Dwalin had made it sound like a foregone conclusion that Thorin would invite him to stay, but it was hardly as clear-cut as all that. Setting aside the fact that it had been a long damn time since he'd had a lay (something his friends and family were eager to point out, loudly and frequently) it wasn't as though Thorin made a habit of inviting strangers into his bed. Suggestive comments and heated looks aside, Thorin had no idea if Bilbo was actually interested in that kind of proposition, anyway. It was wrong for everyone to assume that he WOULD be and frankly, put the smaller man in a difficult position.
“O-oh, I don’t mind waiting!”
To Thorin's surprise, the tone of Bilbo's voice had gone from the playfully provocative tone he had been using earlier to something surprisingly meek. Squinting a bit at the man, trying to see what had caused the change, he noticed the body language was a little bit more drawn in; his feet propped on a higher rung of the stool and his elbows tucked in, as if he was curling in on himself. Was he just that uncomfortable because of what Dwalin had suggested? Thorin hoped not. If that were the case, he was going to have to beat his best friend's ass next time they were at the boxing gym together.
But he was giving Thorin time to close up shop properly, something that would otherwise drive him nuts until everything was cleaned to his exacting satisfaction. “All right,” he nodded. “I'll get this done as soon as I can, but you let me know if you want anything from the bar, right?” Bilbo hummed in agreement, and though it didn't sound entirely convincing, there wasn't much else Thorin could do. So he turned back to the tables and started wiping them down as quickly as possible, using the fury at both Dwalin and Frerin to fuel his speed.
Bilbo, meanwhile, felt like a right prat.
There he was, going goo-goo eyes over the incredibly attractive man who had displayed mouth-watering muscles in pushing his whole-ass car out of a snow bank, nevermind that he’d been sensibly bundled up from head to toe in that dreadful weather and Bilbo had of course not actually seen any actual muscles; it was the evidence of muscles, and that was the important part! And then they get inside and he's even more delicious than Bilbo had even realized, with long, silver-streaked dark hair and a dense but neatly-trimmed beard and the most STUNNING blue eyes since Paul Hollywood. And he owns a pub! What more could he possibly want? The man was practically a knight in shining armor. And so Bilbo decided ‘why the hell not?’ and started laying on the flirtations just about as thickly as he dared. It wasn't as though he was likely to see the man again; he was only in the area for a meeting with a potential new publisher. A meeting that had not actually gone very well, so what was the harm in flirting with the attractive barkeep tonight and leaving tomorrow?
And Bilbo was not a fool. He absolutely knew that everyone who worked in a bar the world over got hit on and, if they were of a mind, they flirted right on back! Because that was their JOB. He wasn't enough of an idiot to think that service professionals actually found a dumpy little middle-aged author like himself irresistible. They flirted back because that's how they got tips and that was all.
Only now the pub owner (Bilbo had heard several people call his name a few times; Thorin, he was pretty sure. Though no one had introduced him directly) had been put into a terribly awkward position by a combination of the hideous weather, Bilbo's own ineptitude at not being able to safely drive in the snow, and the machinations of his friends. While Bilbo would be not at all opposed to spending the night with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome (but really, though, when in his entire life had he ACTUALLY met someone who truly fit that description?) he also knew that it wasn't going to happen. So Bilbo made himself as unobstructive as possible, practically curled up on top of his bar stool, nursing the one pint because like HELL was he going to ask for another (or even something stronger, he could do with a good scotch now that he knew he wouldn't be driving) and just let the man be while he took care of his business in the place of actually serving customers. Only, he hoped Thorin wouldn't mind answering at least one question for him. He was still going around the room and wiping down tables with brisk efficiency (which occasionally presented some very lovely scenic views of broad shoulders and fit arse) when Bilbo got the nerve to ask, “What did your friend mean, about burning the forge down?”
Thorin looked up at him and though he didn't seem to change his expression very much, Bilbo got the distinct impression he was being laughed at. “Look just there,” the man answered, nodding his head towards a spot above Bilbo's head. He twisted around to look and there, above the shelves of liquor behind the bar, there was a neon sign he hadn't noticed earlier that said, simply ‘The Forge’ in bold, angular lettering. Bilbo wanted to slap a hand over his face. If he were already on a second pint, he definitely would have.
“Your pub is named The Forge,” he stated, not even bothering to make it a question.
“Aye,” Thorin confirmed, going back to wiping down the last table.
“Any particular reason?” Bilbo asked, his curiosity piqued, devilishly persistent thing that it was. “Seems like a rather unique name for a pub.” He didn't seem at all annoyed to continue talking, so Bilbo took that as a good sign.
“There is,” Thorin answered. “Part of this building is actually about 500 years old. It’s undergone additions and renovations of course, since before I even bought it, but originally, it was the village smithy. The stone forge is actually still attached to the outer wall,” he said, nodding his head in a particular direction. “Not in use, obviously, but it's an interesting bit of history and stone work and I thought there was a nice ring to the name.”
“Well, you weren't wrong,” Bilbo confirmed. “I always have a devil of a time coming up with names for things, so it's nice when something does the job for you.”
“Coming up with names?” Thorin asked, collecting his bucket and rag and coming back to the bar.
“Oh! I'm a writer,” Bilbo explained. “Not a terribly famous one, mind. I'm no Tolkien but I get by.”
The pub owner got to work with his cleaning bucket wiping down the bartop while still keeping his attention on Bilbo. “What kind of writing?”
And really, he should have expected that. Unless the person you are conversing with was either deeply uninterested in the conversation or books or both, most people almost always ask that question. If he had been any less flustered by the little gaff about the name of the pub, Bilbo might have been able to steer the question away before it was too late. But, there they were. “Well, some poetry,” he confessed. “I've been published in a few anthologies. And a nonfiction regarding the local history and lore of my home village. And, um...a romance. Series. Or five.”
His face was positively on FIRE at the confession, but while sharing his somewhat modest success at writing such an unexpected genre (Bilbo had been told many a time that he didn’t LOOK like a romance author) he didn’t get any of the reactions he usually dreaded.
Instead, Thorin was silent for a few seconds too long and Bilbo finally had to look up from his embarrassed contemplation of his empty pint, only to nearly squeak when he realized he was the subject of intense scrutiny by those gorgeous blue eyes. Thorin had stopped busily wiping down the bar and was instead simply standing across from Bilbo, arms spread wide as he leaned on the bar to nearly eye level. Once he was sure he had Bilbo's attention, Thorin asked quietly but bluntly, “Is it gay romance?” Feeling pinned in place, he could only nod. Thorin surprised him by offering a gentle, almost wistful smile and said, “I would have given a lot, when I was younger, to know those kinds of books were available.” Then he winked, ACTUALLY winked, Bilbo was going to die. “So I hope you do well, Mr. Romance Author.”
A soft little, “Oh,” left his mouth, touched and stunned and not quite sure what else to say.
Fortunately, Thorin didn't seem to be finished. “I feel I should apologize on behalf of my friend.” He said, bowing his head in a moment of contrition. When he looked back up, his eyes were sincere as he said, “I'm sorry Dwalin made you feel uncomfortable.”
Well that was certainly NOT what Bilbo had expected him to say. “Uncomfortable? Me? N-no! I mean, he didn't! I felt terribly bad for YOU! All you were doing was handling my clumsy attempts at pickup lines with grace and aplomb and all your friends seemed to think that meant you were interested when that's obviously not true.”
“Obviously?”
“W-well, you didn't ask me if I wanted to stay, so I took that to mean you…didn't want me…to. Stay?” He trailed off, unsure, watching the way Thorin’s expression seemed to shift between a few unclear emotions.
Thorin heaved a sigh, laying out the situation as he saw it. “Your last available alternative to get you safely to your hotel left you in the presence of a man you don't know with unclear motives and the added pressure of sexual expectations.” He said it all impatiently, like he couldn’t believe Bilbo hadn’t figured that much out.
Well now. Bilbo was more than willing to be polite as the occasion called for it, that was only proper after all, but assuming he was so thick as to not understand the situation he’d quite happily placed himself in, that was where he drew the line. “I do believe that's enough of that!” Bilbo said quite tartly. Thorin's eyebrows went up in surprise for a moment, before his face settled into a kind of understanding resignation. Did he think he was right in his assumption, then? Bilbo had every intention of setting him straight. Or, well, not straight, not like that. Hopefully not, anyway. “I will have you know, you are quite possibly the most attractive man I've ever laid eyes on and every word I have spoken this evening indicating attraction and interest has been completely and utterly sincere. I fully respect your position as someone who surely has to deal with customers like me hitting on you all the time, so I had no expectations for sincere reciprocation. What I do apologize for is making you think I am helpless to get myself safely away and therefore have placed yourself in a position to further have to deal with me. To free you of this obligation, I will pay my tab-” he dug into his trousers, pulled out his wallet and slapped some bills on the bar top. “-absolve you of any obligations to me, and make my own way back to the hotel without your assistance. Surely driving in that mess can't be nearly so miserable as all this is apparently making you.”
Thorin was glaring now, but that was quite alright, Bilbo was feeling rather peeved himself, glaring right back. There was some disappointment, of course, but mostly he felt like a fool on top of being treated like he was ignorant.
Pushing himself back from the bar, Thorin wordlessly stood up straight and walked to the end where he lifted the divider and let himself out into the front. Bilbo watched him nervously, suddenly afraid he was about to be bodily removed-
(And he certainly didn’t appreciate his libido choosing to latch onto THAT image, of being effortlessly manhandled, to perk up with undue interest that was surely going to be disappointed.)
-from the premises for his impertinence. He did his best to straighten his spine and glower right back, but he almost immediately wilted with a squeak when the bigger man got close enough to cage him in with his arms, hands planted on either side of the bar edge. Bilbo leaned back as far as he could, feeling the wood of the counter digging in a line across his back, struck suddenly quite speechless.
Instead of blistering insults, though, that deliciously deep voice seemed to drop even lower to ask, “You think I'm attractive?”
Bilbo's brain did a complicated little jig trying to find his footing in the conversation again when that was not at ALL the response he was expecting to get. “W-what? Is that the only thing you took away from what I just said?” he asked dumbly.
Thorin didn't react. He simply repeated, “You think I'm attractive.” Only this time it seemed like more of a statement than a question. He continued, “And you weren't just flirting for the fun of it, you actually said all that shite about being able to take it like you were shooting your shot?”
Bilbo's face lit up in a bright red flush at the reminder of his most particularly forward comment. “I...well, yes?”
“Is that a question?” Thorin grilled him. “Are you not sure?”
“I'm quite sure that you are, indeed, handsome, though you are being particularly obnoxious about it right now,” Bilbo blustered.
Then, wonder of wonders, the expression on Thorin's face transformed into a rather devastatingly hot smirk. “Then let me share with you, Bilbo, some facts of the situation.” Oh no, the way he rumbled the name out in his deep voice was dangerously effective. “This is my place,” Thorin was saying. “We do well enough around here. Enough so that I have no need to flirt back for business if I don't want to. If I didn't like the way you were talking to me or anyone else here, I would have thrown you out myself.”
Now is not the TIME! Bilbo furiously thought to himself, in defiance of the little quiver of excitement he felt deep in the pit of his belly. The heat rising in him could not be quashed by any amount of self-reprimands, though.
“I'm also not in the habit of speaking anything but the truth of my mind. So you can rest assured in the sincerity of my reciprocation.” His final words held a little mocking note to them, in the way that he was parroting back Bilbo’s own words, but the look in his eyes, the smirk on his face, it didn't feel like mockery. It felt like…an inside joke. Bilbo was having to rapidly reevaluate everything they said to one another thus far in light of Thorin's proclaimed honesty. “Now, no more polite evasions,” Thorin insisted. “Tell me truly, and the only consequence of saying ‘no’ is that I drive you safely to your hotel for the night without any ill will or further discussion on the matter.” His blue eyes, already boring into Bilbo, dared him to speak an untruth. “Do you wish to spend this night in my bed?”