Warning: This IS a slash story (albeit very mild), but if that is not your cup of tea then please don't read this. You have been warned. :)

General Note: I imagine this to take place before the Trolls, but apart from that I have no specific time or place in mind. Also Gandalf is not present, so let's just say that he was off doing wizardy stuff somewhere, yes? :)

THIS IS DEDICATED TO HermioneSpencer, who gave me the wonderful idea of an unconscious Bilbo... and caring Thorin.

A Successful Burglary

BILBO

Thorin has been grumpy all day – well, grumpier than normal. Fíli and Kíli have been being their usual selves, teasing and laughing at the other dwarves. Bifur and Bofur have spent the day trying to stop Bombur eating all the provisions; Óin and Glóin have been arguing over the value of the treasure they might find; Dori has been having trouble stopping Nori from filling Ori's head with fantastical nonsense and Dwalin and Balin are discussing the best way to defeat a dragon.

Of course, among all the chaos, no one really notices Bilbo.

The hobbit trudges along behind the others, his pack heavy and feet muddy, feeling lonesome and wishing not for the first time for his warm hearth, comfy armchair and fully-stocked pantry. Oh, his pantry! It had been anything but full after that confounded tea-party, as the dwarves fondly refer to it. 'Enforced Entry by Intimidation and Ruthless Plundering of Food', Bilbo prefers. He sighs dejectedly.

The sun begins to set, and Bilbo is thinking wistfully of stopping and having dinner, when suddenly the heavens open and Bilbo sees Thorin's mood turn even blacker as hair, beard and clothes become sodden. Even Fíli and Kíli stop messing around under the force of their uncle's glare. The Company hurries faster through the forest, fat raindrops splashing around them and puddles soaking the unwary even further, until they reach an area of closely-packed trees where the rain cannot penetrate. Bilbo is desperately thankful; he is cold, wet and foot-sore, and dealing with the dwarves' antics wears him out.

He sits on a protruding tree root while the others sort out fires and food, listening to the clamour of thirteen dwarves set about making camp. Well, twelve: Thorin sits on an overturned log, watching the others.

'Bofur, where's your flint? Nori's lost mine…'

'Fíli, I am trying to cook that! Mitts off!'

'Ori, did you have to sit there?'

And so on. Bilbo would offer to help, but the dwarves see him mostly as too small to be of any use, and they just pat him on the head and decline his offer. So Bilbo sits out, shivering in his damp clothes and wishing the food would hurry up.

Over on his upturned log, Thorin seems to watch the proceedings with almost a sense of detachment – like he's not really seeing what's in front of him. Like when he looks at Bilbo.

Of all the dwarves, Thorin is the one who has not yet really accepted that Bilbo is, technically, part of the company. While the others have seemed to embrace Gandalf's choice of burglar, Thorin seems determined not to. Bilbo knows he will have to find a way to convince him, somehow; respect is important for a hobbit.

The sound of raindrops falling on the leaves above his head soothes Bilbo, and makes him think of evenings spent in his study, curled up in his chair by the fire with a good book, even as he sits in his waterlogged clothes in the chill night air. Speaking of fires, their fire is now burning merrily, snapping and cracking as it devours the logs. Bombur is preparing something; Bilbo can smell it even now and it makes his mouth water.

Now that there is only waiting to do, the dwarves begin to disperse – although they mainly huddle around the fire to dry off. Bilbo joins them, and finds himself next to Ori, who is writing in his journal.

Bilbo watches over his shoulder at the long, straight lines of Dwarvish script, all sharp angles and straight lines. The language is completely unintelligible to him, but Bilbo's quick mind wishes to know more about what those strokes Ori is making on the page mean, so he asks, 'What does it say?'

Ori is happy to translate what he has written, and he and Bilbo spend the next fifteen minutes discussing the contents of the journal, and Ori teaches Bilbo many new words – 'forest', 'dragon', 'fire'… A little shiver travels up Bilbo's spine as he sees Thorin's name, written in Khuzdûl. As if Thorin knows what he is thinking, Bilbo looks up to see the dwarf leader's black eyes watching him. He shivers at the intensity in that gaze.

Suddenly joyful shouts break the relative quiet Bilbo has been enjoying, as Bombur calls the others to the meal – at last, the meal is ready! Bilbo accepts his wooden bowl in anticipation; Bombur is certainly a gifted cook, managing to create quite delightful meals out of limited resources. Tonight, it looks like a squirrel has found its way into Bombur's cooking pot.

The stew is hot and tasty, and it chases away all the last vestiges of chill from Bilbo's body. It is unusually quiet as the dwarves all sit, devouring their meal; the calm doesn't last, though, and soon burps and exclamations of satisfaction sound as the dwarves set down their now-empty bowls. Bilbo feels quite content, sitting there in the warmth of the fire with a full belly and dry clothes listening to the hum of the other dwarves' chatter. Now all he wants to do is find a little patch of ground, curl up in his thick blanket and…

Thorin's commanding voice rings out, cutting the others off mid-sentence. 'Who will take first watch?'

Bilbo snaps back to full alertness, all thoughts of sleep gone from his mind.

None of the rest of the company is volunteering; they all look half asleep. Indeed, Óin seems to actually be asleep, Bilbo thinks, if the way his head lolling onto Glóin's shoulder is any indication. Thorin's gaze wanders around the circle, drifting from dwarf to dwarf as if to guilt-trip them into volunteering. His gaze slides over Bilbo, however, as it has done many times before; skipping from Bofur on Bilbo's right to Ori on his left.

Suddenly, the Tookish streak that sent him running out of his door kicks in again and Bilbo stands, his head not reaching much higher than the top of Bofur's hat. He doesn't know why he does it, except perhaps that he wants to see recognition in those dark eyes of Thorin's.

'I'll take first watch,' he offers.

A/N: I didn't use to ship Thorin/Bilbo. But then I read a fic about a "pocket-sized" Bilbo - "Larkspur Magic" by littleblackdog (SO cute :3 ) - and I just fell in love. Now I ship Thilbo. :D

I hope you enjoyed this first chapter! The next one will be posted in a couple of days, I expect. Please do let me know what you thought of this :)