Prize Enough for Me

A/N- This follows a strange amalgamation of the PJ movies and the book and a bit of AU.

Months.

That's how long it had taken Bilbo to finally track down the pale orc. They were high in the Grey Mountains to the North, half buried by snow and alone.

Something in him had snapped when he watched Azog's blade pierce through Thorin's chest. The giant orc had wrenched the blade out and retreated. Bilbo had not waited, he had not stopped to check on the King. Surely dead, he had known that. Stabbed. Impaled. Surely dead, and he could not have withstood the heartbreak of seeing his dwarf cold and still. As dead as Fili's body behind him. The crown prince had been thrown from the tower when Azog had noticed the Hobbit. Bilbo had stood there, guilt wracked that he could not have moved faster, reached the hill sooner, could not have prevented that death.

There were cries behind him as he ran back onto the ice and into pursuit of the murderer; he ignored them. There would be cries and weeping aplenty as the battle concluded. Tears beyond measure when the company found Thorin and his nephew's dead. He had seen the eagles approaching, screaming fury from above and decimating the legions of orcs and goblins that had, only minutes earlier, had victory in reach. The battle was over, but the price was too steep.

The ring slipped onto his finger as his grasp on Sting shifted. He had gone on his hunt.

Bolg had been killed during the battle, but there were others. A few dozen, no more, were following Azog as they fled North. Bilbo followed, quiet and quick, picking them off one at a time, the bodies left to rot where they fell. They kept him on the right path. The orcs followed a trail he could not fathom. He followed them. He was never seen, and he was largely uninjured. The gashes and bruises were left untended, inconsequential to his final aim. Betimes he believed he was being followed, but his only proof was a slight tingling on his neck.

Sometimes it was days before he could catch them again. They ran faster, and were less scrupulous in obtaining their meals. Eventually they would halt though, and Bilbo always found them. His only guess of destination was Angmar. If the Defiler reached those gates, Bilbo would lose his quarry. Likely forever.

But that was not his fate.

Now, finally, finally, he was standing on the edge of a clearing, the bodies of two sentries cooling in the snowy dark behind him, and he was staring at Thorin's killer. The orc snarled and stared, knew he was there but unable to see him. Bilbo's mouth moved, something between a grin and a grimace was twisting at his lips.

The snow beneath his feet was solid, if he was careful he left no imprint.

The clearing was silent except for the Orc's snarls and growls. Waiting for the final opportunity, the fear of being followed was revived, pushing him to move before he could be caught. Bilbo snuck closer, heart thundering at the prospect of his long anticipated vengeance. All at once he crossed the last distance and rammed Sting through the fell creature's throat. Limbs twitching, the vile thing collapsed, and Bilbo slipped off his ring.

He wanted the orc to know he had been slain by nothing more than a halfling, more a grocer than a warrior.

Stupid.

Even dying, gasping for breath, Azog was enormously strong, and a killer. The claw-like appendage caught him in the side as the orc lashed out at him. Bilbo ripped Sting from his throat, twisting it and opening a chasm in the pale throat. Both crumpled.

He grinned again as the blue glow of Sting flickered and ended.

Azog was dead.

Bilbo was dying.

Blood leaked sluggishly from his side, staining the snow, and his will went with it. He had his justice. He had taken his revenge for the death of Thorin Oakenshield. "Forgive me." He asked, knowing and not caring any longer that the only ears he wanted to hear him never would.

Darkness and cold crept nearer.

Bilbo stared up at the star speckled sky, bright points winking down at him between the flakes of falling snow. A small smile curved his lips for the first time since he had stolen the Arkenstone. His dwarf-king was buried by now, his heirs with him. If he had stayed he could have seen them laid to rest in honor beneath the halls of Erebor. He could have taken his life in hand and returned to his quiet house under the hill. "No. This is prize enough for me, Thorin." he said sadly, recalling their long past conversation, "It should have been you to kill him, but at least he is dead at last." He felt inside his pocket, finding his acorn there. What little sound there was grew distant and hollow.

His eyelids grew heavy, and he dragged Sting up to lay on his chest. It was far more likely he would be found by scavengers or beasts or orcs than by some compassionate soul, but if he was, he would keep what dignity he could.

Far away he heard voices calling to him. His fingers tightened around the acorn, remembering the smile and happiness he had lit in the king's eyes, and trying to hold off the echoes of Thorin's rage. It had all been in vain, but Bilbo knew it had been the only course to take. As much as it pained him then to betray the company, as much as it pained him now to recall the pain in Thorin's eyes, it had been the only course to take. If the threads of their lives had been woven as something other than they were, he could not say what he and Thorin would have become. Maybe in many lives they never knew each other at all. But in this life, what was left of it, he wished that either of them had given voice to the ember of attachment and affection that had grown between them.

It was as pleasant a thought as any he could find to have echoing in his mind as he drifted into the void.

It had been during the perilous trek down the Carrock that he had first begun to wonder at the hidden side of Thorin Oakenshield. Still bruised and bleeding, aching from fresh wounds and trembling from the harrowing battle and near miraculous escape into the air, all of them were at least a little bit off kilter. Still able to feel the crushing embrace of their leader, Bilbo was shaking, and had retreated to the tail of the party to hide it from the others.

What had possessed him to do something so foolish, he could not guess. He was a sensible, practical hobbit, not inclined to foolish bravery like his Took brethren. He was a rational little fellow. He was.

He was also the first of the company to climb off of the tree and place himself between their fallen leader and the drooling beast set on finishing him.

That was the piece of recent history he picked at as he carefully stepped down the steep stone path. The subsequent apology and embrace from the dwarf in question had similarly thrown him, but his primary concern was the mad dash to the prince's aid. The closest he had got to an explanation involved a combined impact of Thorin saving him from the cliff side and his frankly grandiloquent declaration to help them retake their home. Nothing could rationally explain away his vow to the dwarven prince, and he had reluctantly determined that his mind and his heart had spoken without consulting his head.

Half an explanation, but he had found nothing better.

The sun was at its peak and his legs were moving stably again when Thorin fell back from the group to walk beside him.

Silently.

More concerned with masking the on-going shaking of his hands, he did not try to fill the increasingly uncomfortable quiet. They travelled on for some time, and Bilbo saw the dwarf-king start and abort several times before successfully speaking.

"I would prefer you not be killed due to a conflated sense of bravery." It shocked him so much he stopped walking entirely. Thorin turned back to look at him, utterly sincere, utterly unaware of the ludicrousness of his pronouncement. Try as he did not to, Bilbo smiled, chuckled, and then laughed aloud.

"A-a-apologies, Master Oakenshield." he stammered at the puzzled dwarf, "I'm glad to hear you have come around to my way of thinking." Thorin's eyes undertook an odd sequence of twitches that Bilbo attributed to the less than respectful tone he had used.

They walked onward.

He was still pondering the previous riddle of the dwarf-prince when it was complicated further.

Bilbo cut free the last of the dwarves from the spiderwebs and began herding them out of the nest. The dwarves were slow moving and largely defenseless as they dragged their feet and fought off the drowsiness of spider poison. Bilbo saw that they needed a greater distraction. He gave them sharp orders to keep moving and warned them he was going to slip away and divert the spiders that were fast approaching. Sting in hand, and the ring in his pocket calling to him, he was about to run when Thorin caught his wrist.

Neither spoke. The dwarf angled his head and gave him a substantial look. It was an order and a threat and plea all rolled into a single glare. Bilbo nodded once, trying to signal back a promise and all the concern he felt for their safety.

Maybe if there had not been a bevy of outsized arachnids bearing down on the company one or both of them would have spoken. Attempted to at least.

Instead, Bilbo ran, vanishing as he passed behind a tree, and leading the spiders away from his friends.

In Thranduil's cells, Bilbo found himself visiting Thorin far more than the others. Ostensibly it was to update him on the escape. That pretense, combined with his isolation from the others, had Bilbo spending long stretches sitting on the floor outside of Thorin's cell.

They still spoke little.

There were guards nearby, and any hint of a guard approaching-already a soft sound due to delicate elvish footfalls-sent Bilbo flitting away.

When they did speak, it was about the cells of the others, about the locations of the exits, about the rotation of the guards, and about the approaching feast. Only once did they converse on something other than the immediate dilemma.

"You are a rare gift to have on our quest, Master Burglar. It seems that Gandalf's judgement was greater than I expected."

"Don't say that yet, you are still imprisoned. So are the others. I've not found a way out. And we are running out of time before Durin's Day." Bilbo shook his head guiltily.

"And I'd be dead thrice over you were not on this quest with us." Thorin said lightly.

Bilbo's stomach twisted, "Dying isn't a joke. You've a kingdom to rebuild."

"I wasn't-"

"No, you can't make light of dying Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. You can't leave this task to Fili." He found he had gone tense and angry, turning to stare at the dwarf behind the door and hissing as loud as he dared. He did not think about appropriate manners, or about how angry the dwarf-king would be once he realized the hobbit was upbraiding him. "He's not old enough. There is a dragon still sleeping atop the wealth of Erebor. Your people are scattered and the only dwarf that can reunite them is you. You are irreplaceable Thorin Oakenshield, so just-just stop being-being flippant. You can't die."

Whatever retort the dwarf had prepared was cut short when they both heard the approaching elves. Blibo was gone without a backwards glance.

Erebor. The secret door. Thorin grabbed Bilbo's elbow as the stone moved and the door opened on their lost homeland. His fingers tightened. The hobbit stared at the dwarf's hand, baffled and fixated. His eyes tracked up and his eyebrows rose until they felt fit to fall off his face.

Thorin nodded, "Thank you, Mr Baggins."

The brief hint of softness around his eyes swept Bilbo's feet from beneath him as surely as any blow. It dropped him into a confrontation with his suppressed emotion, and stole his breath with the sudden knowledge.

When he stole the Arkenstone and hid it in his jacket, that softness was the memory that prompted him.

Dragon slain and Erebor reclaimed, Bilbo found himself watching Thorin more than ever. He prowled through the treasure horde, sharp-tongued and dangerous. As the obsession grew, the hobbit kept putting himself in the king's path, prodding and provoking until the dwarf would smile and soften, even if it was only for a few seconds. The question of the Arkenstone hidden in his bedroll plagued both of them. Had he believed it would benefit anyone, he would have climbed to the highest point and pitched it into the mines, or dumped it into one of the colossal melting pots, but Thorin's stories made it seem nearly indestructible.

If it was, if it did not vanish entirely, and his actions were discovered… Bilbo did not like to follow that line of thought.

The arrival of the others did little to help.

Thorin's mistrust grew. The dragon-sickness increasingly overwhelmed the generous and rational mind of the king. Bilbo stayed close by and interrupted with nonsense whenever he saw a burst of temper flaring. He tried to think that Thorin's smiles for him were a matter of his lack of obeisance, his lack of proper treatment toward the King Under the Mountain. It did Bilbo's fragile, barely masked state no favors to think he was being subjected to special treatment due to a fondness from the dwarf.

He thought when Thorin found him with the acorn from Beorn's garden that the king had lost himself entirely. The violence he kept restrained had nearly gotten loose. Then a smile like a new dawn rising had brightened the room, and Bilbo had smiled back, all the troubles forgotten for a moment. The glow had been almost unbearable for Bilbo. He wanted to grab the dwarf and beg him to listen to reason. He wanted to shout until he saw how sick he was getting. He wanted to, but the joy in the King's face froze his tongue. By the time he had reclaimed his wits, a shadow had clouded the dawn he had seen, and he feared the reaction that this jealous and angry version of Thorin would have to Bilbo's blunt words.

The sickness deepened, and Bilbo thought in a bleak moment that Thorin would never be himself again. No tears fell. Terror kept them at bay. Thorin was losing himself.

The mithril shirt proved all was not lost. On the tail of a speech of darkness and possessiveness that chilled his very bones, Bilbo was gifted an extraordinary piece of armor. He made a joke, and the sunlight returned to Thorin's eyes. The pair stood there, smiling as the dwarves crossed between, and it took all of Bilbo's strength to stay calm as he saw it fade again. It corrupted and died as he watched, turning from generosity and trust to a wary scowl directed at his kin.

Bilbo stood on the rampart, Arkenstone wrapped in cloth, and contemplated once more the great pits of the mines. It would be easier to achieve, surely. It would be safer for him. Thorin would think it had been accidentally lost when they inevitably found it in the future. Maybe by then the taint of the dragon would have faded, and the king would be strong enough, confident enough to resist it. Bilbo agonized over the possibility. If it had only been a question of Thorin, of the stone, the decision would have been simple, and he would have been rid of it days ago.

Too much else was at stake.

A battle the company could not win was on the horizon. A winter they could not survive alone sat beyond the next hill. Without the elves and men to support them, it would all crumble in weeks.

Standing in the moonlight, Bilbo recalled the last true smile he had coaxed from Thorin. He had caught him on his way to the horde, determined and drake-like, spitting out a biting retort when Bilbo asked him to wait. They had talked about the ridiculous and extravagant tent the Elf-king had brought along from Mirkwood. Somewhere, the hobbit found the words to break the shell of obsession for another moment, and basked in the smile he had received.

Desperation made him brave and he caught the king's fur lined coat. He wanted to prolong the moment. He wanted to banish the madness permanently from Thorin's normally bright clear eyes. If he had truly thought it could have undone the damage the Arkenstone had wrought upon his dwarf, he would have confessed every thought he had. He would have flayed himself open and left his heart as a gift for the heir to Durin's line whether it was taken or not. Even if it had been spurned, spat upon; even if the little ember of hope he clung to was extinguished before his eyes, he would have done it gladly if it meant a chance to save him.

The hobbit was honest with himself.

It would not have helped a pinch.

So that night he betrayed the company, his friends, and Thorin Oakenshield.

When he returned, his chest ached and his stomach knotted and writhed. He got no sleep. He wanted to retch and weep or run and hide. He wanted to go back to the camp and retrieve the gem, present it to Thorin and stay by his side, coaxing out smiles when he could, holding the dragon sickness at bay as long as he was able.

But the die was cast. He stayed where he was and tried to brace himself for the dawn.

He did not need to be a seer to know what the next day would bring.

Knowing did not dull the keening pain in his heart as Thorin's eyes flushed with madness and found his. His voice had barely shaken when he admitted his guilt. The torrent of righteous violence washed over him. Bilbo accepted it, defended his actions with pre-planned words, and tried not to memorize the hatred unleashed on him.

He did though. That image of this twisted Thorin burned into his mind. He would always be able to see him, inches away, holding him over the ledge, ready to kill him for his betrayal. The misery and regret attached to the vision would never fade either.

The mutterings and reassurances of the dwarves as he was shepherded to the rope did nothing to ease the pain or dampen the certainty that he would not see his dwarf-king again.

The revelation of the approaching army from Gundabad and the implication it carried for the safety of his dwarf lanced through him.

"I am not asking you to allow it, Gandalf." He declared to the wizard who watched him for a moment thinking him mad. Nothing would stop him though.

He ran and tried not to imagine what would happen if he was not fast enough. His mind provided ample imagery of Thorin lying crumpled in a pool of red. Images of him impaled on a twisted black spear sped his steps. The knowledge that eternally happy Fili and Kili would be killed just as certainly kept him moving when he fell into the filth of the battlefield, tripped by an elf corpse. They were the ones who had whispered loudest to him as he fled Erebor and Thorin's wrath that all would be well. Images of Azog beheading his beloved king drove him up Raven Hill faster than he had known he could move.

He found him safe. He found Thorin with a smile on his face, sanity in his eyes and Bilbo's name spilling happily over his lips.

Bilbo could have died then, and counted himself blessed to have seen the king returned to himself. He passed on Gandalf's message. They were about to move, to retrieve the princes. For just a moment Bilbo's hand caught on Thorin's arm bracer, holding him in place long enough to make eye contact. He would have given some speech, tried for eloquence, but there was no time. Instead he poured everything into the look he gave the king, hoping a fragment of it would be understood. The two had always done unusually well with non-verbal communication. Dwarvish eyes narrowed, then blew wide, his mouth parted to speak. Bilbo spoke first. "Go. Get back to Erebor. You can't die."

It sounded as ridiculous as when he had said so in Thranduil's prison. It sounded pleading and pathetic, and Bilbo did not care anymore. Thorin inhaled, restraining something enormous and nodded.

Bilbo was sure he could find Fili and Kili in an empty tower. He would get them to safety.

Instead they heard Azog's roar and saw Fili on the tower's ledge. They ran. Without thinking, Bilbo stepped forward and shouted. It should not have had any impact. He was a lone halfling in a vast battle. Yet, somehow, Azog saw, and knew. He heard shouts of black speech from the tower and answering calls from behind him. The halfling that had stopped the destruction of Durin's heir once before, that had taunted and thwarted him, caught the pale orc's gaze and became the object of attention.

Thorin had run forward. Bilbo had frozen under the eye of the orc.

The attack split them farther apart. He tried to reach Thorin, but he was no swordsman, no true fighter. He barely avoided blows from the orcs surrounding him. He shouted and brandished Sting and did little more than stall the inevitable. In the grey waste atop the hill, he thought he saw two flashes of color moving behind the forms of the orcs. His eyes followed the path they were on, and looked back to the dwarf heir.

Bilbo saw Fili shoved from the tower platform, alive or dead, he did not know. But there was a crack across his head, and his world went dark before the prince's body hit the ground.

This time he was too late.

His eyes opened reluctantly. He could hear Thorin fighting. He heard a cry of pain and a tremendous crash. Half on his knees, half blinded with pain, half lost in panic, Bilbo turned in time to see Azog press the wickedly curved blade into Thorin's chest.

A mangled sound of protest ripped from his throat in answer to the scream of pain that tore from Thorin's. It was unlike anything he had heard before. Anguish and anger and imminent death wrapped around each other to create a tone that gutted the hobbit. The pale orc wrenched the blade back out to deliver another blow, but stopped at the sound of a fell horn blowing. Bilbo watched the beast survey the motionless form of Thorin Oakenshield, then saw him stride away, joining the black forces that were retreating under the arrival of the eagles.

The screaming and bellowing of the battlefield went silent in Bilbo's mind, and the silence devoured every thought and injury and emotion in his heart leaving behind only the vision of Azog dead by his hand.

Fili had fallen. Kili had been with him, he always was. Bilbo had watched as Thorin died.

He could not go back. He could not undo. He could only avenge.

Dead inside, he began his hunt.

Ready as he had been for his end, Bilbo was bewildered when his eyes fluttered open to see the blue-green of the stone of the Kingdom of Erebor above him. He felt hollow, weaker than a breath of wind, and no heavier.

"How?" He asked the ceiling, his breath scarcely loud enough for he himself to hear.

There was a quick shocked sound and a flurry of movement near him. A face appeared above his, dark hair and bright eyes that seemed familiar, but it vanished again before his blurred vision allowed him a chance to identify it. A door opened sharply and orders were shouted to someone in the hall. Bilbo listened to feet beating a fast retreat against the stone and distant echoes of shouts and cheers.

He was left alone, listening to the activity in the hall and wondering how he had come to be here once more. He did not know how long he was alone, but he was drifting back to sleep before he felt a brush against his wrist. A warm hand placed something in his palm and closed his fingers over it. The hand lingered long enough to squeeze his fist once, then retreated.

With effort Bilbo raised his arm and examined the object: the acorn that he had clutched in the snow, awaiting his end.

Bilbo smiled, recalling his intent to plant it at Bag End as a remembrance of his journey, recalling his conversation with Thorin, recalling the smile that had lit the room. When his eyes grew wet, fixed on the token, he dashed away tears before they fell, wiggling his nose and nodding.

Clutching at the acorn, he fought against the memory of Thorin's wrath. He knew he had failed the dwarven king in the end. The vengeance he exacted had been for him as much as for Durin's line. He had not been the warrior Thorin needed. He was a simple hobbit, lost amongst heroes and legends.

He wanted to go home be rid of this place and its grating memories.

Ignoring his body's protests as he had during his long hunt, Bilbo pushed himself upright and moved to stand. He raised his hand to to head, waiting for his vision to clear, and ran puzzled fingers over his hair. Grown long during the quest, someone had braided it away from his face. Four braids were clasped with small silver beads. The vision of one of the dwarves-and it could be no one else-braiding his hair raised a new smile.

His faltering effort to stand and subsequent collapse back onto the bed drew a sound of alarm from his watcher. "I'm fine. Er, I will be." Bilbo said, unconcerned with the lie. He had hardly been well fed when the battle began, and the months of running and foraging for food from snow blanketed bushes had done nothing to help. Not even his own mother could have recognized him. The familiar paunch of his stomach, already too small by hobbit standards, was gone entirely. His watcher stayed quiet behind him as Bilbo planted his feet and stood through force of will.

He was sick, tired, scarcely half recovered. He was lost and confused, with no notion how he had been brought back to Erebor when his last memory was of snow falling on his cheeks as his lifeblood slipped away. He wanted desperately to curl into himself and weep for the dwarves he had lost and the suffering he had witnessed.

He would not allow it.

He wanted to go home. As soon as he could. Instantly.

If Thorin's enraged dismissal still held, he would beg a pack and a pony from the men of Esgaroth, and he would be on his way. He would carry back his acorn and watch it grow into a tree in memorial for his lost dwarves and their great quest. He needed to find warmer clothing if he was going to take a journey, but his body could not manage. When he tried to walk, his legs half collapsed, but he did not fall.

Strong hands had locked onto his shoulders and held him upright. He saw the fingers on his shirt and muttered, "My thanks, Master dwarf. It seems I am not so strong as I once was." He turned as he spoke, half guided by the dwarf, expecting to see one of Dain's people. Surely none of the company would insult Thorin's memory by consorting with the traitorous hobbit.

The broad expanse of the dwarf's chest was decked in worked leather and embroidered wool. It was draped in a warm fur.

"Yes you are, Bilbo." Rich and softly sad, the baritone voice swept over him, much wished for and beyond hope. Staring suddenly up at the sharp lines of his face, Bilbo grappled with bewilderment and joy. There was a new scar on his cheek, pink skin interrupting the line of his beard. He wore less embellishment than during the days just after Smaug. He stood tall, un-maimed. Whole. Alive. How was inconsequential. He was alive. His hair was caught in tidy braids. His beard was a bit longer. And his eyes...

When Bilbo finally found the courage to look at Thorin's eyes, he forgot how to breathe. There was no trace of obsession there. No dragon-sickness. No malevolence. Just the clarion intensity of purpose he had met in his house in Hobbiton, softened by something he did not dare to name. There was an ember's glow housed there now that Bilbo cherished all the way to the depths of his heart.

Had he thought about it, he would have been mortified to have gazed so raptly, so unabashedly at his friend the king, but he was too busy drowning in the softness of the eyes that held his. Close enough to feel the warmth of his breath, Bilbo's mind accepted Thorin's survival and he thought he would have collapsed again but for the strength imparted by the hands on his arms. A smile and sound of uncomprehending delight bloomed together in Bilbo.

Even as the smile was mirrored in the King, guilt crashed down. Thorin had been alive on the ice, and in his blind rage, he had abandoned him.

"You thought me dead." Thorin said tightening his grip, "You thought me dead and you determined to find vengeance for me and my kin. You pursued a foe far beyond your strength and skill, and you succeeded where my line has failed. There is no cause for the guilt I see you harbor. I was injured and fading, I did not think to survive. I would not have had words to give you had you come to me. But I watched you follow Azog before the darkness swallowed me, and," The king brought his forehead down, resting it against Bilbo's, noses touching, and with effort, continued to speak. "when I awoke, I believed you dead, killed trying to complete a task that I could not. I did not like to think of you...gone.

"When they heard my tale, the wizards insisted you were not. Had I been fit to ride I would have travelled with them, I swear. I would have come to your aid as you have done for me and mine so often since we met in the Shire. But you were far afield, and they could not be delayed by an invalid. Had you been lost while I laid abed...… Master Baggins, you are owed a great boon for what you have done. You kept me from death and madness and dishonor, and whatever you crave, be it in my power, I will grant it to you."

Bilbo shook his head, overwhelmed. Thorin tried from a different angle, "If not for what you have done for me, than in honor of your actions towards my nephews." A low keen peeled out of him as he sunk forward to rest against the king's chest. He had not thought of them since seeing Thorin. His great light returning to his life had distracted him from the fate of the others. Fili tumbled in his memory. Kili was trapped. Rapidly, his mind saw images of each of the company in death's embrace. His fear translated, because soon Thorin spoke fervently, moving to embrace the hobbit firmly to his chest. "No. No, Bilbo. They live. All of them. Fili will bear a limp, but he will live. There are new scars and stories, but they all live."

His fingers reached up and clung to fur, hardly able to withstand the release of such potent fears and anxieties, images he had been haunted by day and night through his long hunt.

Thorin tried to return him to the comfort of the bed, but Bilbo dug in his feet and would not shift.

At last, he managed to force his voice back into action, and whispered, "Thank you, for living, for doing as I asked."

"When you appeared on Raven Hill, I discovered that -" Thorin cut off as the rest of the company bounded into the chamber. Bilbo was worried that if they embraced him any harder, he would be broken clean in half, but was so grateful to see them all once more that he did not speak of it.

It was a month gone before he and Thorin found themselves alone once more. Bilbo was recuperating the way he knew best, with all the good food and good company he could fit into a day. He was still too thin to be counted respectable by his kin, but he no longer felt about to shatter. Occasionally overwhelmed by his last year, he would slip away to a quiet corner of the city, and try to piece together the tales his companions told. They talked about Thorin mostly. He heard of his recovery, of the way had had grown withdrawn and cold when a month passed without word of the halfling's whereabouts. They told Bilbo about Dwalin and Balin strong-arming the king into submission when threatened to march north. They told him about the aftermath of the battle. They told him about the efforts to restore Erebor and Esgaroth and Dale. They told him about the Elf-maiden saving the princes and the dwarves vowing to never let it be forgotten. They told him about Beorn and Radagast and the eagles. They told him about Bard taking over leadership of the Lake Men. They told him about Thorin having the Arkenstone entombed in a vault deep below the city, a memorial for his grandfather, Thror, never to be touched.

He listened to them all and asked for more.

Of his own story he spoke little. When pressed, all he would say of it was, "It was cold and long. But in the end I achieved my goal." When they asked for details he would outlast them in stubbornness. He did not know if Thorin and the wizard had told the others what he had done, but thought not. It was appreciated, had they known they would have hounded him without pause.

He saw Thorin regularly, though they rarely spoke. He was usually on the edge of the group, but leaned closer whenever someone spoke of Bilbo's private adventure. Eventually the king would ask him himself, and he did now know how he would keep quiet certain truths.

Whatever Thorin had discovered on the hill had never been spoken of again. Bilbo had waited, giving the dwarf opportunities to speak, to separate him from a group, but eventually forced his heart to accept that what feelings he harbored for his dwarven beloved were doomed to remain unspoken, unrequited.

But Thorin lived, so Bilbo smiled in the face of heartbreak. It could so easily have ended another way, Durin's line could so easily have disintegrated on the battlefield, that the hobbit stayed grateful and placated.

When the storms faded he would go West, back to the Shire and Bag End, back to his quiet life and whatever respectability he could muster amongst his sedate relatives. The acorn in his pocket reassured him. He had spent long enough waiting for Thorin to acknowledge what Bilbo had seen grow between them on the journey. No good would come of prolonging his suffering or his presence on the king.

He looked out a high window, one of the few that had been cleared so far, and glowed at the view. Fat heavy snow fell, twisting in the air, promising a blizzard to follow. He would not be leaving soon.

His decision was made, but he did not wish it nearer.

The voice behind him, welcome, resonant and quizzical broke him from his reverie. He quickly subsumed his real emotions in easy friendship and greeted the King. "I believe Oin asked that you avoid cold drafts, solitary places and long climbs. Was it your intent to break all of his edicts in one afternoon?" Thorin scolded.

"My apologies, oh King Under the Mountain," he sketched a bow as a jest, knowing that the return to formalities was still surreal for the dwarf that had been beggared for decades, "I'll not tempt the fury of our company's healer again." There were few people who were permitted to use such a tone with the King, and Bilbo cherished the right. Thorin smiled. It was one of the daylight smiles he had fought so hard to reclaim while battling the dragon-sickness, and they were just as precious to him now. In a flash, his resolve to depart on the heels of winter evaporated. It had been folly to think he could ever walk away while Thorin lived. Until he was banished or called to the void, he would stay, and he would wait for his beloved to see even a fraction of what Bilbo beheld each time their eyes met.

"I have heard you are asking about the winter. How long it will last, and when the passes over the mountains will clear."

"Idle curiosity." Bilbo said firmly.

"It seemed to Bofur that you were planning a journey."

"I'm not."

Thorin was beside him at the window now. He held the king's eyes as long as he could, revelling in it without shame. For all that the dwarf had never spoken a word of encouragement, Bilbo was certain that none of the others shared moments like this.

"I had thought you would be eager to return to the Shire."

"I had thought so too."

A hand, surprisingly hesitant, touched the bead at the end of one of Bilbo's short braids. The hobbit felt he was melting into the floor at the tenderness he saw. "Your hair has been rebraided."

"Yes, they'd become quite a mess."

A hint of displeasure and jealousy tainted Thorin's terse question. "Who?"

Understanding neither the tone nor the implication, Bilbo shrugged, ignoring the feathery battering in his chest that began when he speculated. "I did it myself. They're simple, like myself, and I do know how to plait a braid, Master Oakenshield, thank you." The jealousy vanished, and the battering amplified. He wanted to push, to provoke the dwarf into speaking, to ask about what had been discovered on the hill, but held quiet while Thorin nodded brusquely.

The king's hand fell away, and Bilbo leaned in, wanting to keep the contact a moment longer. Seeing the moment come unravelled, Bilbo gathered his resolve and his courage. Emboldened by what he hoped he had just read correctly, he took a risk. "You braided them before, didn't you?"

The dwarf froze, eyes fixed on the windowsill.

He swallowed, not expecting an answer, and forged onwards, "I think that you braided them while I slept, and I don't know what to make of that. I don't know what to make of you. We have talked many times about many things, but I don't think we have have ever completed a conversation so I just don't know what is inside your...head. But I plan to find out.

"So you listen to me, Thorin Oakenshield. If you want me to leave, to go back to the Shire, you'll have to throw me from rampart and properly banish me this time. You'll have to post guards. You'll have to truss me in a sack and deliver me to Bag End in the back of a cart. If you don't want me here then you're going to have to force me to go.

"If-if-if you do want me here, if you do anything less than all that, then here is where I'll stay. When you run off on another madcap adventure I'll be beside you, and if you never speak to me after today I will still be there, because I'll not see you face death alone again. I know I'm just a burglar, just a hobbit, a halfling, I'm not a warrior or descended from an ancient line, but I am not going to leave, not unless you force me to. I laid in the snow and I was ready to die because you already had and the journey home no longer mattered. I was lost and broken. And I don't know what's in your head, and I don't know what's in your - in your heart, but I know what's in mine, and I think you braided my hair while I slept and I think these are your beads, and I don't understand what that means, I don't understand any of this, but I plan to stay here until I do."

Bilbo nodded uncomfortably and locked his eyes on the snow outside. He was abruptly aware of the rambling speech he had delivered and the stammering sound Thorin was making. Huge flakes of snow continued to drift outside, swirling almost inside and the hobbit was brought for a moment back to the clearing in the mountain. It settled his nerves. Knowing he had overcome his fears for this dwarf before buoyed his strength now and let him turn around.

Thorin's gaze was on the floor, but he raised it when Bilbo turned.

They caught there again, as they had done so many times since the quest began, and Bilbo's blood turned icy to think that moments like this would be the closest he would come to claiming the dwarf's heart as his own. But somewhere in his ramblings he had found a phrase that had broken through his dwarf's recalcitrance and fear.

Confident at long last, Thorin ducked his head and closed the distance, capturing the hobbit's parted mouth with his own and proving his heart mirrored Bilbo's.

One hand around his back was enough to lift him neatly off the ground and hold him there. It would not have mattered if it had been dropped, Bilbo had his hands fisted into the rich fur and held himself suspended, toes brushing the the dwarf's boots. The wall behind him was startling but far from unwelcome when he was pressed against it. The fluttering that had turned to a battering was now a cacophony in his heart. He had no experience to query on whether the sensation was appropriate, but flushed with the certainty that Thorin was as lost in it as he was.

If the smiles he had cherished and clung to before had been likened to the brightness of the dawn, then the smile he saw when they broke apart was as bright Gandalf's staff and more powerful. He was dizzy and breathless, lost in the blue eyes that pinned him in place and no longer whispered hints of an ember between them.

They were building a roaring blaze between them now, all caught between their eyes and unspoken. They could find the words for it later. Thorin's other hand returned to the braids hanging by his hobbit's face and Bilbo knew he had guessed right. What it implied was still unknown and now unimportant. He passed a thumb over the fresh scar on the king's cheek, pressing a soft kiss to it. Thier faces fell together again, softer now, gentler, not an act of claiming but of catharsis from long months of absence, pain, anxiety and sorrow.

A portion of the blaze settled into Bilbo's chest and for the first time since returning to Erebor, he did not feel hollow.

"You are still owed a boon for your deeds, my burglar, what would you claim?" Thorin said, brushing their noses together. His old title was transformed into something tender and personal in that moment. Feeling brave with his legs half wrapped around Thorin's waist, Bilbo moved deliberately; he pointed a finger and slowly moved. He pressed it over his love's heart and held it there. The dwarf's eyes closed for a moment as his grin widened and he nodded his head.

Bilbo just laughed, arms wrapped around his beloved. He was content and whole, his heart was revealed and cherished, and he knew he had found his prize.

Months. Thats how long it took for Bilbo to realize what he felt for the brash and wounded dwarven king. Months more for him to find the courage to admit it to himself. And when he saw his beloved taken from him, he had spent months in the single minded endeavour to avenge him.

Perhaps it was a necessity between them that such a realization unfold so delicately. Any faster and they could have crushed it still born. But having found such a rare treasure hiding between them, neither could ever resent its slow formation. The blaze they had ignited colored their entire world, leaving little traces of joy in even the most sorrowful moments and keeping them afloat amidst the dark years ahead of them.

But they were alive. And the rest of it they could withstand together.

AN- So this is the result of the BotFA release and my inevitable collapse into Bagginshield Hell. I sat down to write Protectors and kept typing Thorin instead, so I caved and just went looking for catharsis. This is unbetaed, a bit OOC and may have been a bit confusing for someone not in my brain while I wrote. Let me know if you have thoughts.

Many thanks to the good people of tumblr who voted unanimously for this to end happy not angsty. (Ps, I'm StrifingArtist there, and sometimes I post art) Ok, off to write about the detectives again. Love you all.