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Sick in Laketown

For @acorn-and-oakleaves missing scene event. #Bagginshield.

(I wasn't sure if this was a July only event, but technically I made the deadline anyways just in case.)

Technically a snippet from a longer story, so this isn't the final, edited version but I hope you enjoy nonetheless. There is an OC in the first half, but for the most part it's pure Bagginshield.

#️⃣ Caring/Handfeeding/That one friend who ships you with your crush.

🍂🏞️🛏️

———

– Laketown/Esgaroth

It is on their third morning in Laketown, as the dwarrow's moods improve with the aid of clean clothes, food and plenty of ale, that Bilbo comes down with a vicious cold. He spends the consecutive three days mostly abed, coughing and sneezing while the rest of the company trickle in and out of his room, bringing him meals and making a fuss in their rough, friendly fashion.

The second evening of illness finds Bilbo firmly in his room after suffering the first nights festivities, where the dwarves had repeatedly clapped the hobbit on the back and toasted to his good health in loud, headache-inducing cheers. He'd done his best to uphold his manners and thank the company through his stuffed nose but decided it might be better to sit out the dining room carousing this time.

While the hobbits absence is missed by everyone, it is the dwarf king who finds himself leaving the boisterous dining hall early to snag an extra bowl of Bomber's fish soup from the kitchen.

Thorin slows to a stop outside of Bilbo's chamber at the sound of voices coming from inside the room. It seems he's not the only one concerned for their hobbit. Though that's hardly a surprise, Bilbo has become an important member of the group. The king smiles a little at the thought of how well accepted Bilbo has become by the company as he reaches for the door.

“—Thorin Oakenshield! Right after scolding me too. It was quite the shock.”

Thorin's hand freezes on the iron latch at the sound of his name. He goes completely still, his whole focus suddenly caught on Bilbo's voice, nasally with illness but still clear enough to be heard through the wood of the door.

“He quite disliked me before that, you know, didn't want me on the quest at all. He was terribly rude about it honestly.”

Bilbo continues, the nonchalant way he says the words twisting into something guilty and queasy in Thorin's gut.

There's a curious, disbelieving sound.

“Really? Thorin didn't like you?”

Comes the smooth lyrical voice of the group's other missing member.

Thorin had been wondering at Lokhirs whereabouts the last few days. The dragon shifter seemed to drift in and out of rooms like a haunting spirit, always showing up in the corner of his eye before disappearing into some shadowy alcove the next minute. Thorin should pin the dragon down for a proper conversation soon. For now he's barely breathing in anticipation of the hobbits response.

“Not at all.” Is Bilbo's decisive reply. “In fact, not a day before he told me that I had no place in the company and that I never should have come. Though he had just saved my life. I suppose he was tired of having to do so.”

Thorin's fingers tighten on the door latch. This is torture. Should he just go in? But there would be no way for him to hide that he'd heard their words, and that would probably make Bilbo uncomfortable. He doesn't want things to be awkward between them. But he can't find it in himself to leave either. Maybe if he sneaks down the hallway and walks back loudly?

Lokhir makes a sighing, humming sound.

“Perhaps he was worried for you. Not to excuse his earlier behavior, but it is a heavy burden to be responsible for the lives of his own people in danger, let alone someone not of his kind, who is unaccustomed to such hardship.”

The dragon reasons.

There's the almost cute, high sound of Bilbo blowing his nose. His voice is thick but softer when he replies.

“True, I almost turned around and went back to Rivendell that night, maybe he wanted me to.”

There's a quiet sigh and Thorin wishes he could see Bilbo's face. Then again, perhaps it's better this way, that he doesn't have to look at the disappointment in those gentle eyes.

“Either way, it's different now. Ever since Beorn's house he's been strangely sweet.”

The hobbit's bright giggle has Thorin's head twitching up from where it had nearly bowed to touch the rough wood of the door.

Wait, what?

“I never would have expected it, certainly I wasn't prepared for how charming he can be when he's not glaring at me all the time.” The hobbit continues, momentarily interrupted by Lokhir's huff of amusement.

“The blackberries certainly seemed to win you some points.” The dragon says, light with humor.

“Oh, yes.” Bilbo clears his throat bashfully.

“Do you think that was too forward of me?” He wonders, voice turning almost shy.

“I don't think dwarves offer each other food with the same meaning, but for a hobbit I was being rather daring, but he did seem pleased with them.”

“And then there was the flower crown.” Lokhir drolls, sounding oddly smug.

“That was your idea!” Is Bilbo's laughing counter, only to immediately subside into something coy.

“Though, of course I picked out the flowers and handled the weaving, as is proper. And Thorin did look lovely in it, didn't he?”

Thorin can feel the blood slowly flushing his cheeks as he looks hard at the door. Staring as if to burn a hole through the wood with the heat of his eyes so that he might glimpse his hobbits face.

Bilbo thinks he looked lovely.

And what is proper? Was there some deeper meaning behind the hobbits actions that Thorin had missed?

The king rests his head softly against the coarse grain of the wooden planks. Not bowed in shame this time, but braced against the power Bilbo's words have over the stability of his legs and a desire to be closer to the voice beyond the door.

“He did.” Lokhir agrees. “The blue thistles were particularly inspired.”

“I really did choose them for meaning perseverance.”

Bilbo exclaims defensively, only for his voice to drop, as if whispering a secret, causing Thorin to turn his ear to the door so as to catch the hobbits words.

“But, -and you mustn't tell him-, it was also because they brought out the blue of his eyes.”

The hobbit admits, voice sweet with sentiment.

There is a moment of silence after the confession and Thorin gratefully takes the time to try and wrestle down the warm feeling bubbling up in his chest. He has to bite his lip to keep what would no doubt be a ridiculous looking smile from spreading across his face.

“Do you think I'm being presumptuous?” Bilbo's voice slips into the quiet, suddenly low with uncertainty instead of secrecy.

“A hobbit, offering such affection to a dwarven king. Do you think I'm asking for too much?”

Thorin's brows crease with confusion. Bright, polite, attentive Bilbo, being presumptuous. Whatever could he mean by that? Thorin wonders, his hand once more tightening on the door latch with the desire to walk in and assure Bilbo that any affection he wishes to give would be welcomed.

“Bilbo.” Lokhir's voice answers instead.

“Has Thorin ever shown himself to be anything but straightforward?” He asks, in the voice of one reasoning with another's absurdity.

“If you ever do something he dislikes, I'm sure he will let you know quite clearly. As for now, he has shown no signs of spurning your affections, and indeed, has been rather forward with his own.”

A swoop of embarrassment goes through Thorin at Lokhir's words.

Damn that serpent. What right does he have to go around stating Thorin's feelings to Bilbo? Even if he's right, it's hardly his place.

There is a small creak and a rustling sound indicating some sort of action beyond the door, causing Thorin to glare suspiciously.

“I would not worry so much about what is proper.” Lokhir continues.

“Focus on what will make you happy, your closeness with the company is a gift, and Thorin's care for you is well earned.”

“I suppose you are right,’ Bilbo says, sounding much surer than before; ‘there’s nothing wrong with caring about someone.”

“Mhh, I am often right.” Lokhir agrees with a smooth, playful air of haughtiness.

The tone causes Bilbo to laugh, only for the sweet sound to tumble into a bout of high-pitched kitten sneezes.

“For now I should leave you to rest. I'm sure the others will be coming along to check on you soon enough.” Lokhir says after Bilbo has finished blowing his nose again. The floorboards creak gently as the dragon gets to his feet.

Thorin acts on instinct, immediately slipping back into the shadows of the hall, heart jumping like a child caught sneaking into the kitchens at night. There's no time to make it far enough down the corridor that he could pretend he's just gotten here. Yet it would be unseemly for a king to be caught eavesdropping. Is there any explanation he can offer? Anything he can say? Need he say something? A king does not give excuses, nor must he explain his reasons for being places. Though, neither does a king loiter in the shadows and listen in on private conversations.

Lokhir steps out while Thorin is still caught up in indecision, and immediately locks eyes with him, reptilian pupils glinting in the torchlights.

The dwarf king stands straight-backed and imperious as the dragon steps up to him with silent feet and a grin.

“Worry not, Bilbo did not notice your presence.” He leans down to whisper conspiringly, before giving Thorin a sly wink and disappearing down the stairs, leaving the king standing in silent bewilderment.

Thorin begins to clench his fingers, only to realize he's still holding Bilbo's soup in one hand. He glances down to make sure he hasn't spilled any in his distraction.

Inside the room Bilbo makes a small sniffling sound.

Right, well, he'll just give it another moment before he goes in.

Thorin counts to ten before he finally opens the door.

“Oh, Thorin!” Bilbo looks up at the sound of the latch, immediately brightening at the sight of the dwarf coming through the door.

“Lokhir said someone might be coming up soon, did you see him?”

“Ah, yes. We passed each other on the stairs.” Thorin murmurs, eyes on the bowl of soup as he moves to stand by Bilbo's bedside. The half lie sitting awkwardly in his mouth.

“Are you alright? You're looking a bit flushed, you're not feeling sick as well are you?” Bilbo asks, brows crinkled in obvious concern as he studies Thorin's face.

Thorin startles at the question, glancing up into wide, earnest eyes before immediately looking away.

“No, I am well.” He assures.

Damn, he needs to redirect quickly, a worried Bilbo is a persistent Bilbo. When in doubt, flip the script.

“It's just that Lokhir winked at me, on the stairs. It was very strange. I don't suppose you know anything about that?”

Bilbo blinks back at him rapidly. Thorin barely keeps his face in check with long years of practice and a judicious dose of self control.

Why on Arda did he bring that up!?

Wails the voice of Thorin's conscience in the back of his head, as usual, it sounds disturbingly like his sister.

Thorin would wish the words back behind his teeth, except for how the hobbits' ears have gone red and his eyes drop bashfully at the question.

“Oh, no, certainly not. I'm afraid I have no idea why he might do such a thing.” Bilbo denies hastily, fiddling with the bedsheets before shifting the topic himself.

“Is that for me?” The hobbit asks, seizing upon the distraction provided by the gently steaming bowl in Thorin's hands.

“Yes…” Thorin says slowly as he hands the meal over, curious and distracted by the hobbits skittish reaction.

Only to quickly yank his offering back when Bilbo reaches out to take it and immediately recoils with a hiss of pain.

“Careful!” Thorin says, pulling the bowl away so fast that the soup sloshes dangerously close to the rim. He tucks it close to his chest, out of the way, as he reaches out with his empty hand to carefully cradle Bilbo's smaller ones.

“Is it too hot?” He wonders, gently checking the slight redness on the hobbits fingertips, even as he holds the searing crockery easily against his own skin.

Bilbo swallows tightly at how delicately Thorin's strong hands touch his own. Hands made hard and rough by the wielding of a sword and hammer, but Thorin touches him like he's stroking the delicate petals of a flower, tender and soft.

“I'm fine.” He whispers through the thickness of his throat as Thorin's thumb brushes featherlight over the middle of his palm.

The king looks up from his inspection, eyes widening as he suddenly realises how near he's come to Bilbo's face after his concerned lean had drawn him forward. Close enough that he might count the freckles on Bilbo's smooth cheeks.

“Right.” He says, clearing his throat awkwardly and pulling himself back out of the hobbits space. His fingers leave in a slow caress.

Eyes falling, he watches how the heat of the soup draws hazy streamers of steam through the warm light cast by the flickering fireplace and the dying rays of the sunset which creeps its golden fingers over the window ledge.

Thorin feels his thoughts twist along with the pale vespers, back to when Fíli had fallen ill during that long winter in Ered Luin and Thorin had taken turns sitting by his bed with Dís, plying him with hot broth. Back, even, to vague, bittersweet memories of doing something similar for his brother Frerin, in the halcyon days of his childhood.

It would be an intimate thing, the showing of a hand that he holds ever close to his heart.

But Thorin glances up, studying the play of light over Bilbo's curls, the gentle curves of his face and the tired shadow of his eyes as the hobbit stares awkwardly at his own lap.

It would only be fair to spill a little of his own heart, after having heard more of Bilbo's own feelings than were meant for him to hear.

Thorin takes the vacant stool next to Bilbo's bed, drawing it forward. It's rickety and man-sized but low enough that he can sit level with the bedframe. His knees press into the rough spun quilt as he sits and scoops up a spoonful of soup, blowing on it gently before offering it up to Bilbo, the hot bowl held underneath to catch any drips

His hobbit looks up at the movement, eyes going round when he realises what Thorin is doing.

“Oh, you– you don't have to.” Bilbo stutters, a flush immediately jumping to his face.

“Do you not want me to?” Thorin asks carefully, drawing his hand back slightly.

“No!” Bilbo yelps, reaching out as if to hold Thorin there, only to pause uncertainly in the air.

“I mean, I don't wish to be a bother, I'm sure I could manage by myself.”

Thorin tracks the blush of colour rising in Bilbo's cheeks and how his small hands twitch and curl in the space between them.

“You are not a bother.” He corrects before taking a steadying breath and laying the truth out in the open.

“I would like to do it, if you would allow me.”

Thorin admits, his voice coming out low and gravely as he pushes it past the thickness of his throat.

Bilbo's face burns, feeling like some sort of fiery vine is trying to wind its way around his heart. Thorin wants to feed him.

Sure, a mother might feed her sick child, but there are also other reasons a hobbit might feed another. And Thorin doesn't feel anything like a mother.

But surely he can't mean it the other way? Can he? As if they were a couple.

Bilbo can only nod his acceptance in overwhelmed agreement, leaning in ever so slightly.

Thorin's face eases into something pleased as he brings the spoon back up.

Bilbo keeps his eyes cast down and does his best to focus on the taste of the soup and not the warmth of Thorin's skin, so tantalisingly close to his lips. It would be rude not to enjoy the food being offered after all.

The small pieces of fish are soft and pleasantly mild in flavour, freshened by a sprinkle of parsley, and the broth is hot, savoury and salty, warming Bilbo down to his core as he swallows. It's good.

After a couple of bites Bilbo's heart begins to slow, a feeling of comfort soothing the edges of his fervor. They continue, one spoonful at a time, until the soup is nearly gone, lulled into a pattern of care.

The need to cough comes on suddenly and Bilbo leans back, turning away to clear his throat into his handkerchief, feeling a little embarrassed about upsetting the quiet rhythm of their exchange.

Goodness, he'd gotten so caught up in the moment that he'd nearly forgotten he's sick. Bilbo glances away a little awkwardly as Thorin's brows furrow slightly, putting aside the half empty bowl to reach for the pitcher sitting on the bedside table instead. Bilbo takes the glass of water he's handed gratefully, sipping carefully to soothe his ticklish throat.

Thorin pauses for a moment as he sets the empty cup back down and Bilbo watches curiously as he rummages through the oversized pockets of his coat. The dwarf comes up with what is revealed to be a heel of bread wrapped in clean linen.

“I had almost forgotten. I wasn't sure if the soup would be enough.” Thorin says absently as he unwraps the loaf, tearing off a bite sized piece to dip in the dregs of the remaining soup. The gentle attention in blue eyes as the dwarf king offers up food directly from his own hands nearly knocks the air right out of Bilbo's lungs.

A spoon was forward to begin with, but hand feeding?

Bilbo's breath stutters like a wheel stuck in a rut and he can only hope the blush he can feel overtaking his face is attributed to the flush of fever.

Oh, sweet lady of the hills, this dwarf is going to be the death of me. He really shouldn't.

Bilbo looks up from the offering into Thorin's bright, warm eyes; his heart rattling in his chest

He really shouldn't.

Bilbo swallows hard, keeping his eyes locked on The dwarfs face even as he opens his mouth to accept the offering.

Thorin, in turn, watches avidly as Bilbo leans in to take the proffered bite, eyes going hooded and dark as the hobbit wraps his mouth delicately around the morsel with a flash of white teeth.

The hobbits' soft lips brush enticingly against the tips of his fingers as he slips the bread over his tongue, setting Thorin's lashes fluttering as his own lips part on a stuttered breath, desire welling up in his chest like boiling water.

If he were to reach out now, Thorin wonders; would Bilbo reach back?

If he brushed that golden hair from Bilbo's brow, would the hobbit let him?

If Thorin were to present the first courting gift would Bilbo–

The burning in his chest suddenly cools, molten metal quenched in a sudden plunge.

What is he thinking? A courting gift? With what? He has nothing to offer. No gold, no kingdom, nothing worth crafting with. Nothing worthy of the hobbit before him.

Now is not the time. Erebor and its treasures are not yet within his grasp.

Thorin pulls himself back, a creaking ache echoing in his chest as the iron door of his heart is forced shut.

Now is not the time. First he must win back the mountain. Then he can shower his hobbit in all the riches he deserves, offer him the best and woo him as the true King Under the Mountain. But not yet.

Bilbo doesn't seem to notice Thorin's sudden withdrawal, and the king has to look away before he can be drawn back into those warm eyes.

Instead he busies himself with collecting the empty bowl and rewrapping the bread to leave at the hobbits bedside.

“I should leave you to rest, the night is nearing.” Thorin says, voice coming out rough, eyes on the precise, focused movements of his own hands as he tidies.

Bilbo blinks from where he's leaning back on his mound of pillows, still flushed and rather dazed.

“Oh, yes, it is getting rather late.”

The hobbit responds, the ingrained politeness of his upbringing filling in the answer for him.

Thorin lets himself look then, as he stands. Soaking in the glint of Bilbo's hair and how it curls enticingly against the round, apple pink loveliness of his cheeks. The shine of his delicate mouth and the fetching slope of his pert nose. His eyes, shifting tones lit with wit and determination. Eyes that seem to pull at the very marrow of Thorin's bones when the hobbit looks back at him, warm and sweet. A vision of comfort, so unfamiliar and tempting.

There's a long beat of heavy silence before Bilbo, falling back on habitual words that suddenly seem to hold far more weight, speaks up.

“Goodnight.”

The hobbit whispers as he reaches out a little hesitantly, smiling small and crooked. The dwarf king finds himself weak to do anything but reach back.

“Goodnight Bilbo.”

Thorin says, taking Bilbo's hand, careful and cautious; squeezing it gently, just once.

He lets go with the feeling of something growing in his heart, a seed taking root within a crack in the stone. It's beautiful and it hurts and it makes him want to dig his fingers into his own chest just to touch it.

Instead he clutches at the front of his man-made jacket, as if to guard against the cool air of the hallway as he steps out of Bilbo's rooms with a final, silent nod goodbye.

Bilbo watches as Thorin leaves with a last lingering glance, sapphire eyes strangely young and wanting.

The hobbit lays in bed long into the night, thinking about what it could all mean. The moon is sitting high in the sky and peering through the window slats into Bilbo's room by the time he finally falls asleep.

———

If you enjoyed this, the fic which this scene will eventually be included in can be found below.👇

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