Chapter Text
They're running out of time, and fast. He's used to tightly packed schedules, he's used to the stress, he's used to a whole lot of things thanks to everything that's been happening lately, but hurrying through the hallways, firmly ignoring everyone who even attempts to look at him curiously, Fili wonders if he hasn't... how does that favorite saying of Bilbo's go? Bitten off more than he can chew? Yes, that's it.
But no. No, he can do this. He'd promised he'd do this, and they're so close, so damn close. They've gone through too much trouble to give up now.
“Fili! Wa-ait!”
He spins on his heel, his entourage of bodyguards somehow managing not to collide with each other as they do the same, and groans half in exasperation, half in relief, when he sees his brother sprinting down the hallway to him, his security detail barely keeping up.
“Finally!” Fili cries, “where have you been?!”
“I was with Indâd!” Kili defends himself breathlessly, “but then I forgot my tie! So I had to run to my room, and they thought I'd gotten lost, and they were searching for me everywhere, and by the time I got back, Indâd was gone, and I thought it was too late, and so I came running to find you, and...”
“Well, it's almost too late!” Fili exclaims, grabbing his little brother by the hand, “come on, we have to hurry now!”
They resume their dash, paying no mind to their bodyguards pleading with them to slow down. Too much is at stake. With his free hand, that is the one that's not assisting in keeping Kili from tripping over himself, Fili taps his earpiece, barking the second the other end of the line responds: “What's your status? Where is the King?!”
“He's on his way, Your Highness, not to worry,” replies Balin, whose voice is far too calm considering the severity of the situation, as far as Fili's concerned.
“Not good enough! I need to know he'll be in position on time!”
“Everything is under control,” Balin assures him, “as long as your end is, as well.”
“We're fine,” Fili snaps, “we're on our way to pick up Bilbo right now.”
“You're not with him yet? Your Highness, if you would like me to-”
“No! We will proceed as planned! Meet you downstairs in ten minutes!”
And with that, he turns a particularly sharp corner, Kili half squealing half giggling as he is swung around, almost losing solid ground under his feet, and then they stomp up the seemingly endless flight of stairs, their bodyguards clearing the path, sending a stray guest or two on their way, and then it's just down the hallway to the left, yes, past the library... They barge into the room that is their final destination all out of breath and definitely out of time, but settle down the second they lay their eyes on its sole inhabitant.
He stands in front of the mirror, fiddling with his cuffs, his shoulders squared in an anxiousness Fili recognizes far too well, but when he sees them in the reflection, a broad smile lights up his face.
“How do I look?” he asks almost playfully, Kili already hurrying to him and grabbing his hand.
Fili sizes him up and down, finally reaching out to adjust the pin on his lapel even though it doesn't really need adjusting.
“Good enough,” he says thoughtfully.
“Good enough?! Oh my god, that's not very reassuring.”
“You look awesome!” Kili exclaims, and Fili snickers, “you do, you really do, I'm sorry, that was mean. We really have to go now, though. You ready?”
Taking one last scrutinizing look in the mirror, and a deep breath which he then lets out in one determined huff, Bilbo smooths down the front of his sharp, elegant suit, and declares firmly: “I'm ready.”
Sixteen Months Earlier
The thing they don't tell you about Happily Ever After endings, the thing they don't mention in books, is exactly that – what follows. What Happily Ever After actually means. That life actually does go on after the big final act, that one last heroism or one last pathetic sentence sealing the story shut. Or, in their case, a knock on the door followed by a kiss in the rain, which sounds overwhelmingly romantic in theory, but actually turns out to be highly impractical in real life. Not that Bilbo cares – he feels so lightheaded right now, so confused and so incredibly happy, that he'd probably have a difficult time caring about problems of much greater magnitude than getting sodden in late-night rain and probably contracting at least a cold.
“You are soaking wet! And you were away for like a hundred years!”
Others have a more practical point of view, of course.
“Sorry, we... lost track of time?” Bilbo offers unsteadily, exchanging a glance with Thorin – once the rain got a bit too much, they did manage to move inside, but they were too busy... well, kissing the breath out of each other, there really is no better term for it, to pay much attention to their surroundings, and only heard the impatient shouting of the boys what indeed might have been a hundred years later, the two still waiting on the other end of that fortunate Skype call.
“Yeah, right,” Fili rolls his eyes, far too knowingly for Bilbo's liking, but grins when Kili asks: “So you're coming back? Can we stop pretending now?”
“What – is that why you came here?!” Bilbo turns to Thorin in mock-horror, “I thought you were just stopping by on your way to see the Queen!”
Thorin's mouth hangs open, face a grimace of some amusement, some helplessness, and Bilbo can't really help it, he reaches out for the damp lapels of his coat and pulls him down for another kiss, both of them grinning too hard to actually make it work properly, but Kili still comments with a very loud: “Eww!” and Fili says, much more sternly: “Oh, save it, not now!”
“Apologies,” Thorin mumbles, never taking his eyes off Bilbo's face and his hands off his waist.
“So I guess this means you are coming back,” Fili says with much satisfaction.
Thorin's arms around him are like a life jacket, making him feel safe and sound, and warmer than he's felt in in a long, long time, and Bilbo needs only glance at him to confirm what they both already know.
“I guess I am.”
“Yay! We'll stay up and wait for you!” Kili shrieks, all but toppling off his chair in sheer excitement.
“Now, hold on, I'm not coming back that soon,” Bilbo tempers his joy.
“Then when?”
“Indad, you flew there! Just get back on the plane and come home!”
“It's not as simple as all that, I'm afraid,” Thorin chuckles, “we can't be back in Erebor in a couple of hours, not even if we tried. Definitely not before your bedtime, which is right now.”
“No-o, come on!” both boys whine.
“Not up for discussion,” Thorin says firmly, but kindly, “you both have school tomorrow. I'm taking Bilbo back with me, I promise-” his grip tightens, and Bilbo rests his head against his chest, “but later. I'll keep you posted via Balin, alright?”
They both sigh deeply, theatrically, almost in unison.
“Fine,” Fili declares, “we'll be waiting, Bilbo!”
“I'll be there soon,” he replies.
That seems to appease them, because they watch them scurry off, and before the call shuts off, they are treated to the face of Balin of all people checking up on them – Bilbo gets a bit huffy and nervous, but Thorin never lets go of him throughout talking to his assistant, and even that ends soon enough, and they are blissfully alone again.
“So,” Bilbo murmurs, his hands already sneaking up Thorin's chest, “you flew here on a plane.”
“Well, yes,” Thorin chuckles, “how else did you think I was going to get here in the middle of the night...?”
“Not my point. I'm still amazed that you got here at all, you know.”
“I took the day off,” Thorin explains quietly, their faces so close now that they're the only thing the other one can see, noses brushing gently, hearts beating as one, “probably managed to declare war on at least two different countries as a result of that, but eh.”
“Eh?” Bilbo giggles, fingers tangling in the curls on Thorin's neck, thumbs drawing circles on the sensitive skin there, “that's it? You just... decided to let the country handle itself, jumped on a plane and came to soggy London, just like that?”
“Yes. For you.”
Bilbo angles his head away just enough so that he can look into his eyes, and meets with nothing but breathtaking honesty, and adoration.
“What if... what if I hadn't been at home?” he peeps, and Thorin shrugs, his face devoid of any sign of joking when he says: “Then I would have scoured this whole country until I found you.”
Bilbo's heart flutters in his chest, and his throat tightens. He hangs his head, patting Thorin's chest feebly, and his voice comes out a little rough when he mutters: “Ridiculous. You're ridiculous.”
“I told you I couldn't wait any longer.”
“And I told you I would have always returned to you.”
“I couldn't take that chance, could I.”
There's no more room for words after that, and as Bilbo's hands travel under the hem of Thorin's coat, slowly but steadily helping him shrug the heavy soaked thing off, he wonders if it will ever really hit home. He thinks they've kissed more intensely in the past twenty minutes than they'd had in the entirety of their time together before that, and there's something frightening in that, really. Exciting, but worrying. It's his nature to doubt the good things, and frankly, he's afraid that he'll open his eyes any second now and discover that it's all been just a very good dream.
His kisses grow deeper, hungrier as a result – he needs to feel the closeness with every inch of his body, make sure that's it's really there, time and time again, and fortunately, Thorin doesn't seem to be in any kind of objecting mood.
“I'm here,” he whispers, his lips searing the words into Bilbo's neck, because of course he knows that they're exactly what he needs to hear, “I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, I'm never letting you go again...”
Bilbo's muffled moan surprises them both, but never interrupts their rhythm. Thorin simply brings him closer, closer still – Bilbo isn't used to this in the slightest, and he suspects neither is Thorin, but there he is, there they are, stumbling backwards with one very clear goal in mind, and there really is no coming back from that.
Except, maybe, for a knock on the door.
Their discontented groan is almost unanimous, as is their decision to ignore the interruption, but the second knock is much louder, followed by a loud familiar call of 'Uzbad!'.
“Dwalin is here?” Bilbo peeps, and Thorin utters a curse under his breath, too flowery for Bilbo to translate, probably.
“He's... yes. Well,” Thorin mumbles, still highly reluctant to be parted but an inch from Bilbo, “if I don't respond soon, he might in fact knock the door in.”
Bilbo lets out a shuddering sigh, putting some distance between them, but Thorin doesn't move, simply gazes at him with an intensity that makes him question that decision, eyes dark and gleaming in the dim glow of Bilbo's weak light bulbs, and the fact that he's standing there, really there, in his apartment, catches up with Bilbo fully. He makes to get closer again, and Thorin doesn't seem to want to protest...
The third knock makes them both wince and hasten to answer the door side by side, if only to just get a bit of peace.
Dwalin stands there all stern, his jaw set tight and his entire posture a beacon of impatience.
“Yes, how can we help you?” Thorin asks entirely too giddily, and Dwalin looks at him with a surprise and disbelief that are nothing short of comical – Bilbo can't help it, he bursts into laughter, quickly muffling it with his hand when the Head of Security shoots him a much sharper glance.
“Hello,” Bilbo peeps, and Dwalin's response is a grumpy rumble, nothing more.
“Can't be in the open like this,” he reminds Thorin curtly, “we should move you to the hotel.”
“You're going to a hotel?” Bilbo asks meekly, and Thorin hisses as if he's just remembered.
“Right, yes, we should, uh...” he assesses the situation with an epic lack of eloquence, staring at Bilbo as if he can help him figure it out – as it is, the only thing Bilbo knows with absolute certainty is that being parted from him right now is a horrendously displeasing notion to say the least.
“Can't I stay here?” Thorin asks almost like a kid begging for a treat, and Dwalin rolls his eyes and launches into quick Khuzdul full of security risks and too much dangers, maneuvering all of them back inside, presumably because it's safer, and by the time they're all crammed in Bilbo's tiny living room, Thorin and him have started bickering, and as... oversensitized as Bilbo still is, he decides that it would be best to steer clear for now.
Thorin's eyes still follow him across the room as he moves to put the kettle on and fish out three mismatched mugs, and Bilbo smiles throughout it for his benefit, and his brain slowly, slowly starts to calm down and cope with the magnitude of the situation.
This is what you get, then, after Happily Ever After – a monarch and his bodyguard in your tiny apartment, and tea. Bilbo quite likes it.
“Ghelekh, ghelekh,” Dwalin exclaims at last, and Bilbo pretends not to perk up and listen more closely, “fine. You do not leave this apartment, either of you.”
“Shouldn't be a problem,” Thorin utters casually, and Bilbo snorts an entirely undignified laugh, masking it as a cough.
“I'll have men stationed outside at all times, and I'll come pick you up in the morning, 8AM sharp, and we'll be on our way back to Erebor. Are we understood?”
That is clearly aimed at Bilbo, and he nods fervently.
“Absolutely. Yes. 8AM. Tea?”
Dwalin glares at the steaming cup being offered to him as if he's trying to make the liquid start boiling again, and Bilbo retracts his arm slowly.
“Are you coming?”
“Am I – huh?” Bilbo stammers.
“Are you coming with us?” Dwalin repeats slowly, as if talking to a child.
“Am I coming – well, I should think so, I mean...” Bilbo babbles, looking from him to Thorin, something slightly uneasy uncurling in his chest.
“What Dwalin is trying to ask so charmingly,” Thorin interjects, “is... can you? I don't suppose you can't just... pack up and leave overnight?”
“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, then as the realization dawns on him, “oh.”
Also an interesting aspect of what happens after Happily Ever After.
“Well, I, I... There's this place, I'd have to call my landlord, and, and all my things of course, and, ah...”
His voice dies off on its own, and he gapes at Thorin somewhat helplessly – he hasn't had a coherent thought since he found him on his doorstep, and now that his brain is starting to process things somewhat normally again, it turns out to be a highly troublesome undertaking.
“I want a decision by the morning,” Dwalin declares simply, and before Bilbo can say any more,
Thorin comes up to him, and he utters something in quiet Khuzdul that Bilbo neither catches nor translates, and Dwalin's shoulders sag, in what's equal parts resignation and relief, and he rolls his eyes, nodding to Thorin curtly, before spinning on his heel and striding right out of the apartment again.
Propelled by some strange need to watch, Bilbo hurries to the window and sees him already on the phone, issuing orders no doubt, and something within him constricts a little bit, something worried.
“Is this more trouble than it is worth?” he asks somewhat unsteadily.
“Absolutely not,” Thorin replies quietly, and almost startles Bilbo by how close behind him he's standing.
Most importantly, he's warm, and tall, and there, and his, and Bilbo needs every ounce of that comfort. He sets the still steaming mug of tea down on the windowsill behind them and proceeds to wrap his arms around Thorin's waist, seeking his own personal anchor in his steady gaze.
“I want nothing more than to leave with you right now,” he murmurs somewhat feebly, “or... the morning, whenever.”
“I want nothing more than for you to come,” Thorin says softly, “but I did spring this on you really quite... quite suddenly, and I'd rather have you deal with everything properly before coming back to Erebor.”
“Oh, dealing with things,” Bilbo whines, hugging Thorin tighter and resting his cheek against his chest, “I hate dealing with things.”
Thorin chuckles quietly, pressing a quick peck on the top of Bilbo's head.
“So do I. I'd say 'let's leave it until the morning', but...”
Laughter comes so easily to him, it's refreshing. He looks up at Thorin again, just to watch, just to see, and the idea of not following him absolutely anywhere he goes from now on is simply out of the question. Everything happens so fast in Erebor, Bilbo is reminded. And Thorin brings Erebor with him, of course.
But this is real. This is it. Bilbo doesn't want to spend another minute in this apartment alone, knowing that he could be by Thorin's side, and yet... We have all the time in the world, he wants to tell him. Or at least that's what I'm planning on giving you. And if I can't in fact leave in the span of a couple of hours because real life simply doesn't allow for that, then that's alright, because... because no matter what, I'm always headed your way. Always.
“I need a couple of days, I think,” he murmurs, and even though he feels Thorin tense up under his touch, he continues steadfastly, “to, you know... pack? Talk to the bank again, oh, they're going to hate me there, and so will my landlord, poor sod, I'll have to give him an advance or something. The last time I left, it took me the night to pack, but then I wasn't really thinking straight, you know. Is there a flight to Erebor on Friday, do you think? Wait, where will I stay? ...Thorin?”
The unceasing gentle rapping of rain is the only sound filling the space around them for the next couple of seconds, as Bilbo re-learns how to withstand Thorin's piercing gaze, on the breathtaking side of besotted, if Bilbo is any judge of that.
“Hey,” he pats his chest softly, “do I have to look for a hotel? You know, I can't just traipse back into the Palace like that, can I?”
“Why not?”
“Why n- well. I mean...”
“If you're under the impression that I'm letting you stay in a hotel, then I suggest you think again.”
“Thorin,” Bilbo gulps, half amused and half a tad uneasy still, “I can't just... This is not how it works. What would I do there? I mean...”
“Your job, of course.”
“My – my job,” Bilbo repeats feebly, and Thorin simply quirks an eyebrow, as if he can't quite understand what the big issue is, as if it's all just so simple.
“Yes, your job,” he says perfectly calmly, “we just told the boys you're coming back, how exactly did you think that was going to happen?”
He's smiling still, and Bilbo wonders where that part of him that always has to doubt everything even comes from. Maybe this is just too much happiness at once, and his brain is overloaded. Yes, that sounds like a sensible explanation.
“So, uh,” he clears his throat, his hands still on Thorin's chest, lifelines making sure he is in fact still there, “I go back, I get my old job back, nobody kicks up a fuss, and we're... you and me, that is...”
Thorin gazes at him expectantly, and Bilbo knows, is absolutely certain that nothing, nothing is ever that simple, but perhaps, for once in his life, he's willing to believe the opposite for just one night.
“One, um... one question,” he manages weakly, Thorin's breath already hot on his cheek, his hands on the small of his back successfully steering the conversation elsewhere.
“Yes?”
“Will I have to read through another one of your contracts?”
And with that, Bilbo has a laughing monarch in his living room and his arms alike, and all earthly worries pale in comparison with that, really.
“We'll see. Now,” Thorin exhales against his neck, “let's leave the rest until the morning.”
A line like that, straight out of a seedy paperback romance novella, should for all intents and purposes lead to... well, pretty much anything but Thorin nodding off on the couch twenty minutes later when Bilbo prepares them a late-night snack. Bilbo watches him fondly, leaning on the kitchen counter and munching on his sandwich, and he would laugh if it weren't the sweetest possible outcome of all this. When was the last time Thorin slept, anyway, what with everything that's happened? When was the last time he got a second's rest? He traveled to Bilbo's doorstep in the middle of the night, for crying out loud, probably ran straight out of a meeting or something, and he looks so inherently peaceful for once, so normal – Bilbo commits that sight to memory, his head drooping off to the side, his hair still damp, his lips apart a tad, his even breathing, and thinks of all the times he's watched him on TV in these past couple of weeks, how distant he'd always seemed, how unreachable and unreal.
How much it had made Bilbo ache, and how far from any sort of pain he is right now.
How he woke up this morning thinking about his future in grey, bleak tones, and how everything changed and his world gained color again with one knock on the door.
How Happily Ever After is coming his way, and he has absolutely no intention of letting it pass him by.
The bed is too small for the two of them, and Thorin apologizes and grumbles and doesn't fit under the blanket, but it takes mere minutes of Bilbo's mostly one-sided conversation whispered into the crook of his shoulder to lull him back to sleep, and perhaps the great stories are supposed to go a bit differently, but for Bilbo, this is pretty much as perfect as it gets.
He wakes up to a warmth that his bed hasn't known for years upon years, and Thorin and him are in the middle of reassuring each other that last night really was just the beginning of something rather wonderful when reality announces itself in the form of Dwalin, yet again, and neither of them are in the least willing to let go, but both of them know they must.
“I'll get you in touch with Balin,” Thorin rambles while getting dressed, entirely too tall and gangly for Bilbo's tiny bedroom, “he'll help with everything, get you a flight out, figure out the financial issues with your bank, whatever they are, but I don't think there should be much trouble beyond that. But if you do need anything, please don't hesitate to let me know and I'll... make sure...”
Even after all this time apart, it seems that Bilbo still possesses the knack for stealing his words away, and thank this or that willing deity for that.
“Stand still, will you,” he smiles softly, and goes about adjusting his tie, and everything is perfect, and familiar, and easy, and even the bitter taste of having to see him out of his door soon is mellowed somewhat by the fact that Bilbo will follow him shortly after.
“Come back to me,” Thorin orders him, or perhaps pleads with him, Bilbo doesn't know which he likes more, but he isn't given any time to figure it out, because those words are accompanied by a kiss, and, well, they haven't quite finished what they started last night or this morning, which makes the fact that Dwalin is waiting outside rather impatiently, rather inconvenient.
“Soon,” Bilbo breathes out against Thorin's lips, finding his forearms to stop both their fumbling before it gets really inconvenient and possibly hindering, “soon. It will have to... have to wait, I'm afraid.”
Thorin voices his immense displeasure with a low rumbling hum that sends a thoroughly disarming tingle up Bilbo's spine, but Dwalin intervenes once again, a sharp knock on the door, evidently forever destined to be a full stop to their desire. Oh well.
Their breathing takes a moment to calm down, but then it's the brisk morning breeze swelling Bilbo's chest and chilling his cheeks, and there are at least three massive cars nowhere near the general vicinity of inconspicuous waiting to whisk Thorin away, and far too many guards and far too much Dwalin to do anything but nod and smile at each other, and hope that that's reassurance enough for both sides.
Thorin looks back over his shoulder twice before he enters his car, and Bilbo stands on his doorstep and watches him leave, watches the little familiar flags fluttering on the bonnets of the cars all the way to the corner of the street, and he's freezing and barefoot, but also the happiest he's been in a very long time. Only when he notices the old woman across the street staring at him through her lacy curtains along with her cat does something within him click, and he realizes what a show he must have given his neighbors.
He flutters his fingers at her in a giddy greeting, and she frowns and shakes her head, and he walks back inside giggling to himself, rubbing some sense back into his cold arms.
Definitely time to get the hell out of here.
Which is apparently easier said than done. If it were up to him, he'd be packed and on the airport within the day, but there are... things to deal with, god. Salvaging at least some of the reputation he's built up with his landlord over the years, for example. Telling him 'no, I don't think I'm coming back at all this time' is probably not the way to go, and so he makes up something about an urgent matter or an emergency of some kind, and firmly ignores the man trying to press it further.
Balin does get in touch with him, incredibly fast, everything happens so fast in Erebor, and basically confirms what Thorin himself had told him – that Bilbo will be getting his job back at the Hurmulkezer, that yes, it is a bit unusual, but then again what about this is in any way ordinary, and that he's not to worry about much at all, everything will be explained to him in great detail once he gets there.
“Do you want me to inform the others that you're coming?” he asks as well, and sounds so business-like about it, but laughs the second Bilbo lets out and excited ooh, declaring, “the boys know, of course, simply because they won't stop bugging me about it. But I thought it might be a rather nice surprise for everyone else.”
“Oh, yes, I mean no, don't tell them,” Bilbo all but bounces up and down, maneuvering with his phone and an armful of his folded shirts between the stacks of the rest of his clothes on his bed and floor.
“Very well. We shall see you on Saturday, then. I'll send someone who... isn't Bofur to pick you up at the airport, what do you say.”
Bilbo laughs out of sheer glee – realizing that going after Thorin comes with a side of reuniting with all his friends is something that's only ever hit him very recently, and it's making him impatient in all the good, exhilarating ways.
“Yes, that would be nice, thank you very much.”
“You are very welcome. And Bilbo?”
“Yes?”
“We are all very glad you're coming back.”
No one gladder than him, that's impossible. Except perhaps for Thorin, who calls him on the eve of his departure, when Bilbo's in the middle of packing his last suitcase, and he doesn't really have anything in mind, it turns out – they spend what might be minutes or an hour talking about nothing of particular importance, Thorin repeatedly dismissing him when Bilbo asks him if he should be somewhere else. Both of them are very simply glad to hear the other's voice, and so Bilbo talks to Thorin about his shirts, and his socks, and his travel documents and whatnot, and Thorin talks about the boys, and the plants that Bilbo had placed in his apartment all that time ago, and that have apparently survived and are waiting for him almost as eagerly as the King...
By the end of it, Bilbo is sitting on his bed grinning like an absolute dork, and he falls asleep that night saying goodbye to all the dark empty corners of his teeny tiny place, and dreams of mountains.
They are also the first thing he sees when the plane soars low over the country of Erebor, and he knows he isn't dreaming, but at the same time, the fact that this is how good his reality now is will take some getting used to, no doubt.
No doubt.
His heart tolls like a bell from the second he sees the board with his name, in the hands of a generic Hurmulkezer employee, and it never stops, and he spends the drive through the city practically plastered to the car window, taking everything in. Erebor is snowed in in an almost fairytale manner, everything white and pristine and dreamlike, but otherwise unchanged, and Bilbo's heart soars.
Welcome to Erebor, his phone pings with a belated message, and he resists the urge to thank it out loud.
In his overjoyed delirium, he half expects everyone to be waiting for him at the doorstep, much in the same way they saw him off last year, as if they haven't moved all that time, but in the end he's glad it isn't so – the gravel crunches under the soles of his shoes when he steps out of the car, and the freezing air fills his lungs, and he is overwhelmed for the very first time.
He simply stands there motionless for an inappropriately long amount of time, probably, and blinks against the sharp cut of the alpine breeze, and grins up at the splendid white mass of the Palace, deep breaths, deep breaths Bilbo Baggins, if you pass out now you might wake up and realize none of this is actually happening...
He turns around in a circle, says hello to the park, to the statues wearing heavy coats of snow, to the labyrinthine pathways, to the chestnut trees stripped bare but still imposing, breathes Erebor air in long thirsty gulps, and when he turns back to face the staircase, Balin is descending it, and Bilbo fights to overpower yet another entirely inappropriate urge, to run up to him like an excited kid.
“Welcome back,” the Chief of Staff greets him kindly and shakes his hand firmly with both of his, and Bilbo finds he is quite speechless, and so he only beams back at him.
Fortunately, it seems to be enough, because Balin summons people to take care of Bilbo's luggage, and proceeds to lead him inside and describe to him seemingly everything at once, and Bilbo can only stumble after him and try to take everything in.
The interior is still decked out in some remnants of festive decorations, apparently remaining in place on account of Fili's upcoming birthday, and crowds of people are hurrying here and there, some faces familiar, some less so, and it's like a whole big part of Bilbo's mind comes back to life – he'd worked so hard on repressing the ache that was leaving this place, plugging that gaping chasm of heartbreak and shame, but it all comes pouring back in. He could find his way through the hallways blindfolded, and he wants to go everywhere at once, see if his favorite armchair in the library is still there, if they finally managed to repair the floor down by the kitchens, if... if...
“Huh?” he mumbles, realizing they've stopped and that Balin was asking him something, but the man offers no explanation, simply winks at him, inclining his head toward the staircase, and if Bilbo didn't understand at first what's going on, then the familiar elated shriek makes things very clear.
“Bilbo!”
It's Kili – actually, it's both of them, but the younger Prince is the infinitely more animated one, throwing his hands up in the air and barreling down the stairs at the speed of light, leaving his confused guard and his older brother alike in his wake.
“Kili, hello – oof!”
The boy launches himself into Bilbo's arms and he doesn't protest in the slightest, the happiest laughter coming out of nowhere as the Prince babbles you're here's – Bilbo lifts him off his feet for a moment, making him squeal joyfully, and people are looking, but most of them are smiling as well, and really, appearances are the last thing Bilbo cares about right now.
Fili descends the stairs in a much more dignified manner, but when Bilbo grins and offers him his hand, he scoffs at him fondly and goes for a hug as well, deriving much satisfaction from squeezing Bilbo's ribs until he grunts.
“You're back!” Kili says for about the hundredth time, shining like the sun, and he never lets go of Bilbo's hand, and Fili hooks their arms together and orders: “Come on!”
Bilbo shoots a look to Balin, who only nods kindly, and then he is being dragged away by his boys, and both of his hands are currently too occupied to wipe away the stray tear or two that have welled up in his eyes.
If there is a better way to spend the first couple of hours back in Erebor than listening to the Princes' excited and chaotic retelling of everything they've been through while Bilbo was gone, then he doesn't know of it (or, well, maybe he does, but Thorin isn't even in the building right now, as he's been discretely informed). The kids' quarters have been rearranged slightly, for Fili to have more privacy apparently, but it's touching that neither of them want to live entirely separated from the other just yet.
They haven't aged a day, and are just so incredibly happy to see him and tell him everything, and Bilbo sits at the carpet where he's sat hundreds of times before, and he just wants to close his eyes and inhale these moments forever. He used to be so desperate about it, wondering which one was going to be his last, wondering where and how it was all going to end, and the most miraculous thing about this all is, thinking back on those miserable couple of weeks before he left here last year doesn't make him anything worse than slightly embarrassed with himself. He's here now, he's home, and none of it is going away so far.
“Oh, wow, what time is it?!” he exclaims when he notices that it has somehow gone dark outside, at one point or another.
“It's not even five yet,” Fili waves dismissively, “it gets dark so soon, ugh.”
“Hmm,” Bilbo agrees, “still, I should probably... I don't know, see if I'm wanted anywhere? You know?”
“No-o,” Kili decides, curled up in his lap like a kitten, with the actual kitten, Muzmith, purring in his arms, and Fili sniggers and adds a very casual: “Uncle won't be back until later.”
Bilbo turns a shade of crimson, but then he rewards Fili with a mock-frown and a dry: “Yes, I know that, thank you. But there are still other people I'd like to say hi to, you see? I don't even know where my luggage is, either.”
“Thorin's quarters, probably,” Fili shrugs, inspecting his nails, and Bilbo glares at him until he relents and sticks out his tongue at him, giggling, making Bilbo chuckle.
“Right, well,” he declares, disentangling his and Kili's limbs and getting up with a huff, “I'll go see what's what, and I'll either meet you boys at dinner or sooner, agreed?”
“Agreed,” Kili moans, and Fili merely shows him a thumbs-up.
“You two behave. Fili, don't think I've forgotten about that writing assignment, we're still doing that. Kili, get changed already.”
They wave him off with a chorus of mildly appreciative grunts and mumbling, and go about their business swiftly, and Bilbo can't help it – he stops at the door and watches them, Kili looking for something in the mess of shelves under his bed, talking to the cat while he does it, and Fili booting up his computer, and he opens his mouth to tell them something, but then refrains. This is enough – this is evidently all that it takes, to come back. It's like he never left.
It's like he never left...
He walks through the cozy maze of the Hurmulkezer without any particular goal in mind, but his feet still carry him to the staff building, sure as day. The courtyard is quiet and surprisingly empty, and he lingers there for a while, looking up at the windows ahead, alight with a warm glow, shadows of people moving inside, and he has a moment of profound gratitude, to what or whom he does not know.
Snow starts to fall, large, heavy flakes of it slowly covering the ground in a whole new layer of pristine softness, hissing quietly as it settles, and Bilbo closes his eyes for a moment, and simply listens, hands shoved in his pockets, epically under-dressed and fantastically contented. Behind him, the massive warm heart of the Palace beats in unison with his own, and it is not a matter of believing he is actually back, not anymore – there is the excitement of visiting a place one's been to a couple of times before, recognizing visuals and sensations and people and buildings, and then there is the blissful calm and all-encompassing relief of homecoming; and Bilbo knows exactly which one he's experiencing.
“Mahal, it is you!”
He's jolted out of his pleasant reverie by yet another person incredibly eager to greet him – this time it's Bombur, carrying a massive box of groceries up to the kitchen, but setting it aside by the entrance and nearing Bilbo with an almost suspicious look to his eyes, but his grin betrays him.
“Bilbo!”
“Yes, yes it is me,” Bilbo huffs a laugh, suddenly very aware that he's getting rather chilly.
“I can't believe this! Well, I mean, I heard rumors, but...”
“Rumors? What rumors have you heard? I wasn't aware that – oof! Oh, you people have got to stop doing that!” he dissolves into laughter proper when Bombur envelops him in a bear hug, knocking all air out of his lungs much more successfully than the Princes could have ever hoped to achieve.
“So you're what? Back on the payroll?” Bombur demands, sizing him up and down as if to determine the damage.
“Something like that, it's... well,” Bilbo stutters, and the chef's grin is blinding as he pats him on the shoulder, making him stagger a bit.
“No worries about gossip,” he says a bit mysteriously, but then booms, “well, you're here, that's all that matters! Come on, the others will be so excited to see you!”
Patience has always been one of his virtues, and between Bofur's comically befuddled grimace that doesn't go away for hours after Bilbo appears on the cafeteria's doorstep, and Bombur's Mirjam stuffing him full of her famous meatballs, and everyone else coming in and recognizing him and needing to know what he's doing here and how he got here and will he be staying now, it is easy to forget what he really wants, with an increasing intensity.
That is... of course he wants nothing more than to swap stories with his friends, and sit in the armchair he loves so much, and drink tea, and watch his very first Ereborean news broadcast of the year, but it is there, laying his eyes on Thorin on the telly, looking incredibly important and incredibly handsome, that Bilbo's yearning to be with him, right now, wherever, hits him in full.
The tea is delicious, and the people are merry and he's so infinitely comfortable right where he is, but no one will begrudge him his daydreaming, about one very specific room on the top floor of the palace, and creaking floorboards, and warm arms and a warm smile.
“I always knew you were going to come back,” Deidre tells him almost conspiratorially if it weren't for everyone else listening in, “I'm just sorry I didn't bet anyone on it.”
“I'm... flattered?” Bilbo frowns in confusion, and she laughs along with the rest.
“You should be! It was about time, too!”
Bilbo simply smiles, and doesn't really worry about explaining anything to them, or about how much they know, aside from Deidre herself, of course, who knows everything, always. The time for all of... that, for important decisions and for learning what being by Thorin's side really means, will all come later, he knows. Let's leave the rest until the morning. His heart tugs in one very obvious direction at that point, and there is only so much postponing it can take...
All the time in the world, Bilbo reminds himself. All the time in the world, and it will be wonderful, he concedes as the day slowly wraps up – he almost comes late for the boys' dinner, but eats utterly at peace with them, then helps them around a little bit, a routine he was once so used to and apparently still is, and then goes right back to his friends, because he still... doesn't really know where his luggage is, or what else to do, and it's very nice. He feels oddly privileged, to stroll around the Palace like this, without a schedule, without responsibilities.
The infamous number one Erebor show host Theo Gabilaz is on when he re-enters the staff building, and they have a grand time watching him – Thorin's New Year's coming out is an incredibly popular topic, will be for the next decade or something, Bilbo suspects, and the jokes about it are fortunately very tasteful and all in all admiring in their nature, and he ends up feeling... proud, of all things, but also like he needs see Thorin right. Now.
Which is why, after making one more detour to read a goodnight story to the Princes – the ancient copy of Tom Sawyer he'd given Fili is waiting for him on the boy's table like the most beautiful invitation – he doesn't waste any more time. Finding Balin isn't difficult at all this time, and he is very politely and secretively informed, without asking one might add, that yes, his luggage is in fact waiting for him in the King's quarters, as is the inhabitant himself.
He's home. He'd spent so much time back in England being desperate, and numb to everything, and always, always cold, and he thought that that was simply how things would be for him, for the rest of his life – but right now, he's the happiest, most alive, most secure he's felt in a lifetime, and that's how he knows. He's home. Finally.
The top floor of this wing of the Palace is quiet, peacefully so, and he meets almost no one on his way up, his feet carrying him swiftly to the one and only destination that really matters anymore. He does falter a bit when he meets with the wall of bodyguards between him and Thorin's quarters, but they let him in without a single word, and the door opens, and the floorboards creak under the soles of his shoes, and the plants are really there on the windowsill, very much alive, and soft music is coming from somewhere, and Bilbo takes a breath and closes the door behind him.
Thorin is in the bedroom, Bilbo can hear him, and wonders briefly where his father is – the only person he hasn't greeted yet today – but everything ceases to matter when Thorin strides out into the living area and sees him.
There is the blissful calm and all-encompassing relief of homecoming, and then there is the utter surety, the steady happiness and physical warmth, of seeing where your heart belongs.
“Hi,” Bilbo exhales, and there's no one coming to knock on the door to interrupt them, not today, and Thorin's arms are every bit as warm as he's dreamed them, and each kiss an affirmation – he's home.