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Assistant: Title: Fate to Fate
        Author: adrift_me adrift_me 
        Chapter: 1/1 
        Summary: And Bilbo plans for his leave. There is much to be done in Erebor, but it is up to its people now to restore it. Yet the hobbit’s heart thrashes about from one thing to the other, from thoughts of cozy home and plentiful food and solitude to loud company and being helpful and being near someone who makes him feel safe. Safety of home or safety of affections, Bilbo hasn’t quite decided which suits him best.But Thorin decides it for him.
        Contents: Summary:
            
              And Bilbo plans for his leave. There is much to be done in Erebor, but it is up to its people now to restore it. Yet the hobbit’s heart thrashes about from one thing to the other, from thoughts of cozy home and plentiful food and solitude to loud company and being helpful and being near someone who makes him feel safe. Safety of home or safety of affections, Bilbo hasn’t quite decided which suits him best.But Thorin decides it for him.
            
        

        
  Notes:





    
      Hello everyone, thank you for reading my first Hobbit ficlet <3I am new to the fandom and excited to join! I have some bagginshield fics in the works, so expect to see more from me. This ship decided to give me feels, how dare? :D   Come chat with me on tumblr :) (Those who came here or know me from Dishonored fandom, no worries, I'm still writing that too!)
    




  





    
        
          
  When the days of great danger pass, Bilbo finds the company of the dwarves even more agreeable when nothing threatens their lives every other night. And after what they have gone through, the hobbit feels a particular connection to his new found brothers, one of respect, of deeper understanding. A bond he could not hope to find with anyone because it is not in the hobbits’ nature to traverse the world to seek adventures.

  Thus he finds it both a little odd and amusing. But not with Thorin, no. That connection lies elsewhere, deeper in his heart.

  Thorin recovers from his wounds for a long while, even longer so from his gold sickness. When he is asked questions, the King under the Mountain refuses any answer but that which he always offers - his friends being in danger broke any hold the gold had on him.

  No one is satisfied, but no one argues with the King, either. At least, dwarves don’t, and Bilbo, though may he be a part of the company, is no dwarf.

  “Something must have happened,” he insists softly once, visiting Thorin at his bedside. The dwarf’s eyes are heavy and his gaze is elusive, but not until he looks up to give Bilbo a particularly gentle gaze which he reserves for his best moods. How lucky they happen in Bilbo’s presence.

  “I think some secrets may have been buried together with all that gold,” Thorin says slowly, smoothing out the folds of his blanket. “And there they will rest forever.”

  Bilbo laughs, incredulous at the King’s stubbornness, but not at all surprised. Without that stubbornness they wouldn’t have gotten to Erebor. Or anywhere at all, really, had the King been not that persistent.

  “Everyone has a secret, dear Bilbo,” he says, looking up at the hobbit again. Bilbo smiles warmly, but his body feels the cold sweat on his spine. There is a secret he’d rather not spill to anyone, but keep it safely in a pocket of his warm coat. And Thorin is right. Some secrets are best be left buried.

  They speak a little longer about the matters of the kingdom in its recovery as much as its king, and Bilbo leaves to rejoin the Company.

  And like that his days go from morning to dusk, full of merry conversations, hard work and hearty food, although bland. While the city of Lake-town and Erebor are rebuilding, resources are scarce, yet they make the best of it. At least, that way they have something good to deliver to Thorin who returns to his strength in a matter of weeks.

  And Bilbo plans for his leave. There is much to be done in Erebor, but it is up to its people now to restore it. Yet the hobbit’s heart thrashes about from one thing to the other, from thoughts of cozy home and plentiful food and solitude to loud company and being helpful and being near someone who makes him feel safe. Safety of home or safety of affections, Bilbo hasn’t quite decided which suits him best.

  Must be that Took blood boiling.

  Bilbo finds himself on a balcony overlooking the valley of the mountain ridge when Thorin finds him there.

  “The great valley… there shall be much farming. I have received word from the city that there has been some help sent from Lord Elrond,” he says calmly, putting his hands on the stone carved edge of the balcony, where Bilbo rests his elbows.

  “I am surprised you accept elven help so easily.”

  “Lord Elrond is no peacock like Thranduil. And I have learnt now where to put my trust and how to do it. I have lived many years wandering, Bilbo, and trust has been hard to come by. So was loyalty.”

  “Was?”

  Bilbo looks to the side where Thorin looks at him, his face chiseled against the sunlit sky. His hair move with the wind, and his eyes gleam with tiredness of being idle due to sickness.

  “You have taught me to trust even those who seem… precarious.”

  Bilbo gives Thorin a one sided smile and steps away from the balcony as a bird swoops down and flies away into the valley. They watch it, its wings spread wide and free.

  “Are you returning home?” Thorin asks, his voice deeper than usual. Bilbo sighs, scrunches his nose and shrugs. The wind picks up a little, making him feel chilly and the coat seems to be no help. And his feet are cool against the stone.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” the hobbit confesses, looking up at Thorin. His eyes, bright and piercing, fill Bilbo with fondness in his heart and the song of it makes him feel deaf, so hard his heart is beating against the ribs.

  “We could use your help, Master Baggins,” Thorin says and, with a motion so swift and stunning that Bilbo does not manage to escape it, he swipes his short fur cloak off the great shoulders and places it on hobbit’s shoulders. It is heavier than a chainmail and warmer than fire itself, and to Bilbo’s ridiculous heartbeat, it smells of ash and slightly of sweat and just a hint of weeds that Thorin smokes.

  “Do not stay out long, Bilbo. Nights in Erebor are cold.”

  And without another word Thorin marches away, leaving Bilbo to guesses and a deafening heartbeat.

  He sleeps on the coat that night, and when he wakes up, the fur is gone and Thorin wears it again as if he has not given it away prior. Bilbo does not question it, as he doesn’t question many things Thorin says or does. Instead, he mulls them over and over in his head until he starts feeling too dizzy to think that the King under the Mountain could have affections for him.

  The thought is ridiculous, but plants itself firmly in Bilbo’s mind for many nights and days to come. Somehow, the Shire is so far, and the walk does not entire him any longer. He plans, he schedules, even pays a good pouch of coins to get a pony in Lake-town which he never retrieves.

  Winter passes into spring and spring flows into summer, and things in Erebor differ from the ruin it used to be months ago. There is trade being restored, caravans passing through. There is farming in the valley and there are ponies feeding off the juicy grass. There are dwarven babes born and there is a sign of happiness again, filling the stone-carved halls.

  Yet for Bilbo one thing never changes - the tremble of his every nerve when he and Thorin spend time together, which happens increasingly. They go on lengthy walks and speak of everything and nothing. Sometimes Bilbo recites poetry from the old dusty book he keeps on his mantelpiece at home and still remembers it by heart. And Thorin sings for him by nights as they watch the stars fall and draw lines to the pointy rocky horizon of the mountains. The King’s songs are solemn and mournful, but always sincere and admirable.

  On one such night when they are returning home, home?, and Thorin hums under his breath the Song of Durin, an odd tremble to his voice. Bilbo touches his elbow carefully, reaching out in empathy, making Thorin pause and turn around. He is more of a mountain now than any peak behind him in the distance.

  “Bilbo,” he says quietly, looking at the hobbit with a soft smile and a no less soft gaze.

  “You sing beautifully, Thorin. But you sound sad, is everything well?” Bilbo asks, concerned.

  “My ancestors’ history always makes me feel a great many things. From gratitude to sorrow. There are many things I could forget about the past, but I never do. I never forget, Bilbo.”

  Bilbo waits, patient, finding himself still holding onto Thorin’s sleeve, the rough fabric of it oddly warm to the touch.

  “I also do not forget the kindness of friends. Nor bravery. Nor loyalty.”

  “Thorin…”

  “I had plenty of time to think about it. Or to think of words I could express my feelings, but even months later I find none to prepare. Tonight I don’t wish to wait, instead I wish to say that you mean to me, Bilbo, a lot more than all the gold that we have buried ever could. Ever did.”

  By the time Thorin’s words cease, his voice shivers, and Bilbo’s hand kneads on the sleeve. He fears to look up, because he might not be able to hold himself back.

  But he does not have to, for Thorin kneels and slides his arms around the hobbit, pressing him close, to the furs, to the warmth, to the heart.

  “Stay, Master Baggins. There is little I can tempt you with in Erebor, for we have no green meadows or mighty oaks, no farming riches and no little homes in the ground. But--”

  “Thorin, Thorin,” Bilbo mutters, finding strength in his hands to place them on the King’s anguished face, to caress his cheeks and stroke his beard. Bilbo savours each touch, oh how he longed to stroke Thorin’s hair and to feel how his shoulders heave in deep sighs.

  And Bilbo Baggins stays. First, there, in the King’s arms, and their lips pressed together in a sealed promise. And then in Erebor, to see how stars fall richer in summer nights, how the dwarves celebrate their first year in the Kingdom, how soft the King’s bed is and how hearty meals can be when people are happier. He stays to see all of it and more. And by the grace of King, the hobbit has a small part of his home brought to him, a little acorn which he plants aside of Laketown, far in the valley. He might not see it grow into an oak, but he will certainly watch it sprout.

  And his King under the Mountain watches it with him, hand in hand, heart in heart, lips against lips, and fate to fate.'
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