Its my birthday, and I have a little while, so I figured I'd write a little bit for this. It isn't much, but it fits and ends neatly so there.

Disclaimer: c'mon, we all know who really owns the hobbit.

Thorin wakes up parched.

Well, he has lost a lot of blood, it's to be expected.

So he rolls over, groans when something pulls sharply in his thigh, and comes face to face with a glass of water.

Face to glass. Whatever.

Quite pleased at this unexpected turn of events, he grabs it, props himself up on the mound of blankets and pillows, and drinks the entire thing in one go.

Then he tries to get up.

Twenty minutes or so later, lying on the floor swearing loudly in Kazdhül, he concludes this is not going well. But he is a king, albeit with no kingdom, so he tries again. And is promptly shoved back down the moment his shoulders leave the pillows.

"No." He is told sternly.

He frowns in consternation at the curly haired little creature standing over him. He is small.

Thorin estimates he would barely reach his shoulder.

"What?" He manages.

Dis would scold him for his lack of manners for that, but Dis isn't here, is she?

"No." Repeats the creature. "You'll rip your stitches."

That explains the tugging sensation.

"I'm a king." He tries.

"Would you rather be a dead king?" The creature asks. Then he proceeds to bustle around the room, tidying up rapidly. "Now. Lunch?"

"Lunch?"

"Yes, lunch. Traditionally the midday meal. Lunch. We're having fish." Then he leaves.

"What?" Says Thorin. His host doesn't return for another half an hour, according to the clock, which has clearly been moved so someone from the floor can see it. When he does come back, he is carrying two plates.

"Here." He passes Thorin one plate, with fish, potatoes, and vegetables. It's probably the best meal Thorin has even seen in months. Travelling hardly results in culinary prowess. Most of what he has eaten in recent time has been weak stew which he makes himself on the road side. He has finished before the curly haired creature has taken more than half a dozen bites.

He didn't realise he was so hungry.

"What's your name?" He asks.

"Bilbo Baggins."

"Thorin Oakenshield. Pleasure to meet you."

Bilbo laughs.

"You're a bad liar, for a king, Mr Oakenshield. I thought kings were supposed to be good at lying?" He gathers up the plates, leaves just as quietly as he entered.

"What?"

Thorin seems to be making a habit of saying that.