based on this imagine from @imaginethorin || originally started as a Flash Fiction Challenge || thank you @fortunatelyclevercandy + @fromthedeskoftheraven for the nudge to finish || Songspiration: “Help” by the Beatles
“What is that?”
The King rubbed a handkerchief across his nose as he sat up in the black canopy bed, the room’s enormous lanterns showing off the posts’ golden flecks.
“Cinnamon hibiscus tea.” You breathed in the lovely, soothing aroma of the hot drink as you climbed the final steps up the platform, trying to look as cheery and comforting as possible to your sick husband and King.
It was just a head cold - nothing that a bit of rest, liquids, and time in Erebor’s steaming springs couldn’t cure - but Thorin was out of sorts.
He frowned at you, the cup, and the name of the tea.
“Cinna…cinna…A-CHOO!”
Thorin didn’t quite capture the sneeze in the handkerchief in time, and through the white sun rays beaming in through the window overhead, you saw the spray of saliva and bits spew from his mouth. You winced but didn’t let your disgust show.
“Try the tea, my love,” you urged.
He shook his head, clamping shut his bloodshot eyes and holding the hankie to his red nose to blow it through his protest. He was like a little child refusing to eat his vegetables.
“I only like mint.”
“We don’t have mint,” you said.
He lowered the hankie and squinted, breathing hard through his mouth. “Of course we have mint! I have an entire crop of mint for this very purpose! To make me feel better when….A-CHOO!”
You shifted your weight, growing impatient with his complaints and roars but trying not to add fuel to the snotty fire.
“What I mean is,” you continued, watching him unsuccessfully trying to refold the handkerchief, “no mint tea was prepared. Cinnamon hibiscus was already steeping when I went to the kitchens.”
Thorin gave up on the folding, balled up the handkerchief and tried to pitch it down the platform stairs with all his might.
But the fabric was too light and flouncy. It just drifted down like a tender spring leaf.
Thorin looked at the hankie with red-hot hate.
“Idlig!”
“Eyyy! Watch your language.” You could cuss right alongside him, also in more than one tongue, but there seemed no good reason to tell the hankie to “f@*! off” just because his tantrum wasn’t going right.
“I was talking to the handkerchief! And my language is my business!”
You held back the temptation to toss the tea in his face.
“What are you even talking about?”
“I’m talking about my language and my mint tea!” He flipped and turned in the bed, his legs getting twisted in the covers, throwing him deeper into his fit.
“I can swear in my language as much as I wish and I can demand that mint leaves from the crop I ordered planted be prepared to make a soothing beverage as much as I wish. That is all!”
There was more to his tirade, but he started coughing and waved you off.
You rolled your eyes and sucked your teeth with a long, exaggerated “tith” sound and headed for the platform stairs. You had a meeting to attend that you were already late for. You couldn’t talk to him when he was like this, anyway.
“Wait,” he called in his gravelly voice.
You stopped but didn’t turn around.
“Yes?”
“Come here.”
“Come here, what?” You still didn’t turn around.
“Come here, please, Athane.”
When you stayed motionless even after he addressed you as Queen, he added, “katagilemul habanuh.“
You growled. ‘Sparkling gem’, my butt.
“Come here, please, halwul kuylê.”
“All right, all right,” you said, facing him again. “Stop trying to make love to me.”
“Is it working?”
Although you fixed a hard grimace to your face, you were, in fact, swooning. A pain in the butt or not, his darling name for you in Khuzdul - ‘honey of my life’ -made you weak in the knees, and he knew it.
You walked back over to him, and he looked up at you and smiled as best he could, considering he felt so miserable.
“Please accept my apologies,” he said. “I do not like sniffling.”
“I accept.” You kissed the top of his head. “Now, accept this.”
You handed him the tea, removed a clean handkerchief from your skirt pocket and placed it on his pillow.
He took a cautious sip, then pulled the cup back, raised his eyebrows and gave it a ‘that’s-not-bad’ tilted nod before drinking it up with more enthusiasm.
“So…???” You took a seat next to him on the bed and waited for his review.
“It is not mint,” he said, “but it is a fine tea.”
“You’re a fine ‘T,’ ” you said, reaching over and kissing his bearded cheek, making sure to steer clear of his mouth - at least until he brushed.
He grinned at you, took one last sip and gave you the empty cup.
“Thank you, patient nurse. I’m going to rest now,” he announced, settling back into the covers as you tucked him in and headed for the steps again, carefully picking up the thrown hankie between your fingertips.
“Will you check on my misery later?” he asked, then yawned loudly.
“That depends. What’s in it for me?” you asked.
“I promise to be less grumpy when you return. Especially if…”
You glared. Was he about to get back on that mint tea kick again?
“…you join me in the warm springs to clear my head, halwul kuylê.”
“Hm,” you said, giving him a sly smile. “Sure, I can do that.”
You told him you would meet him in the private Zirak Uul in an hour, have his nasty handkerchief laundered, and request his favorite tea be prepared, along with a couple of scones, and waiting for him by his bedside when he returned from his soak.
Thorin was already drifting off at that last promise, a happy smile on his tired face.
Summary: Thorin doesn’t want the others to see how awful he’s actually feeling, but Bilbo notices almost straight away. How does one make a sick king feel better? Body heat, of course.
A/N: Title taken from tinylilremus‘s song Dragons. You should all listen to it because it’s so unbelievably good and I’m obsessed.
Words: 1 031
Thorin knew he wasn’t being fair. The rain had been pouring down since early in the morning, leaving them all soaking wet, cold, and exhausted. Yet Thorin still insisted that they keep going, and it wasn’t until both Dwalin and Balin, who rarely complained too much, voiced their concerns for the tenth time in an hour that Thorin decided to let them all take cover in a cave. A fire was set up instantly, and they all just sat around for a while, too tired to do much else just yet.
However, they were all pretty used to living like this by now, so it didn’t take too long until everyone started on their individual tasks, such as cleaning and sharpening knives and other weapons, preparing dinner, as well as discussing the next day’s journey. Thorin let himself relax for the first time in probably years. His company had it all under control.
Hours later, after they had devoured their food and made plans for the coming days, Thorin realized that he hadn’t relaxed because he’d wanted to. He’d relaxed because he’d needed to. And with relaxed he meant that he’d been rooted to the spot, all but melting onto the hard ground because his energy had gone. He wasn’t just exhausted. He was sick.
He cursed everything he could think of, hoping that he’d feel better after some sleep. He didn’t want the others to worry, and knowing his fellow dwarves they probably wouldn’t say anything about it.
But hobbits were not dwarves.
“You look terrible.” Bilbo usually didn’t try to get on Thorin’s bad side on purpose, so him saying that must mean that Thorin did, indeed, look bad.
“I’m fine,” he insisted, inhaling sharply when his voice came out weaker than normally.
Bilbo frowned at him. “You don’t sound fine.”
Thorin had spent hours leaning against the cold stonewall in the cave, slightly far away from the company. Bilbo was sitting in front of the fire, his empty bowl next to him. He was the closest to Thorin, and therefore had a better view of him.
“Well, I am,” Thorin snapped back, feeling dizzy as he spoke.
Bilbo just looked at him for a few seconds, not cowering at the irritated glare he got in return. “At least come and sit closer to the fire.”
Thorin didn’t feel like arguing, so he did as Bilbo suggested, slowly dragging himself toward the hobbit and getting several funny looks from the others in return. He didn’t have the energy to walk.
“Do you want me to make you some soup? It won’t take long. I can just use some of my water and heat it up.”
Thorin closed his eyes, his head pounding. “You don’t have to waste your water on me.”
“I think I can manage.”
Thorin opened his eyes again. “I’m fine. I don’t need soup.” He paused, giving him a quick glance. “But thank you for the offer.”
Bilbo just gave him a small smile before turning his gaze to the fire.
They sat in silence as the rest of the company talked, all of them seemingly a lot more rested than before. Thorin started shivering, feeling as if he was still stuck in the storm instead of in a damp, yet warmer cave. He clenched his fists, trying to keep still. A true king wouldn’t let this show.
He felt a small hand on his own, his head snapping toward Bilbo who was looking at him with those big, concerned eyes.
“Body heat,” he mumbled. “I’ve heard it helps.”
Thorin unclenched his fist slowly and tentatively, and eventually Bilbo was able to slide his hand into Thorin’s, their fingers lacing together. Bilbo scooted closer to him so that their clothes hid their hands from view.
The feeling of Bilbo’s hand in his own, as well as their arms and thighs pressed together, made him feel slightly better immediately. He slumped where he was sitting, his body aching. Bilbo started rubbing his knuckles with his thumb.
“Thank you,” Thorin breathed out. He leaned into him, forgetting he was a lot smaller than he was.
“No problem,” Bilbo replied with a smile. “I figured everyone needs someone to lean on from time to time. Even you.”
Thorin snorted, but didn’t say anything in return. He just gave his hand a squeeze.
They did this as often as they could. They walked closer than people normally would, their arms always pressed together. They leaned into each other when they sat, their thighs and knees touching. Not to mention the occasional hand-holding whenever it got too cold and Thorin would start shivering again. Neither of them was quite sure if the others noticed anything or not, and frankly they didn’t really care. Thorin was sick and Bilbo was helping him.
Until one day Thorin felt a lot better, but the frequent touching didn’t stop. In fact, it continued for so long that they knew that they couldn’t really use the excuse of illness anymore, but neither of them commented on it. It was just easier to not talk about it.
But Bilbo, being Bilbo, brought it up eventually.
“Thorin?” His hushed voice in the silent forest made Thorin’s eyes fly open.
“Bilbo?”
It was almost pitch dark with the exception of the dying fire. It cast eerie shadows over the hobbit’s face, but Thorin could see his wide opened eyes clearly.
“What-” He cut himself off. The hand that Thorin was holding twitched slightly. “What are we?”
Thorin’s gaze landed on every single dwarf’s (and wizard’s) sleeping form before settling on Bilbo. “We’re a team,” he said quietly. “We’re an unusual pair. We’re...we’re just us.”
Bilbo didn’t seem to be satisfied with the answer. “But what is ‘us’?” he pressed.
Thorin, who had never been too good at expressing himself with words, let his mouth speak in a different language. He leaned in closer, giving Bilbo time to pull away if he wanted to, and pressed their lips together.
“Does that answer your question?” he asked once they’d pulled away.
Bilbo nodded breathlessly before going in for a second kiss.
How Bilbo hadn’t caught Thorin’s cold was a mystery.
