Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

One thing about hobbit hair is that it grows inconveniently fast. Apart from the hair on their feet, hair in general is just seen as a nuisance as it’s just better to keep it cut short or tied back unless it’s a special occasion. Foot hair on the other hand must always be groomed carefully, it is rather uncouth not to.

By the time the company had reached Beorn’s rather battered and bruised, some more so than others, Bilbo’s hair was somewhere around mid-back. A rather beautiful set of riotous chestnut curls, or it would’ve been had it not been tangled, dirty and he was sure he heard chirping somewhere in that mess. Their gracious host had an unfortunate habit of just plucking Bilbo off the ground into his arms which while Bilbo did not appreciate, he did however enjoy the large spread of milk, cheeses, honey, bread and other assorted platters. Once their bellies were full, they filled their hearts with laughter and music. Beorn excused himself to verify their story, saying he’d be back by the time they woke and Gandalf had dozed off in the corner under his hat.

Bilbo was readying himself for bed, his body felt ready for bed about three weeks ago but his hobbit sensibilities demanded that he sort himself out. There was a small mirror in the bathroom Beorn had shown them to and Bilbo winced at the sight of his hair; matted, one side caked in fluids he had no business thinking about and not to mention how unrespectable it was. He was well aware that the quest did not have room nor the facilities for all his particular habits and the need to retain his reputation and manners but all the same, it was nice to have some comfort in the familiarity. Bilbo twirls a curl around his finger and sighs. Had he known what the 80s were, he might’ve been pleased but as it was, he didn’t and wasn’t happy at all. The little wooden comb he has brought within him from the Shire almost immediately snapped in the mess of hair, not to mention how much it hurt. The prospect of using his other comb, his mother’s which she brought back from her time in Rivendell was out of the question.

“Should cut the bloody stuff off.” He huffs quietly, trying the untangle some of his with his fingers to no avail. Plan in place, Bilbo comes back out the the larger room and starts rifling through what’s left of the contents of his pack.

“What are you looking for Bilbo?” Calls Bofur from where he sat across the room, pipe in hand.

“Scissors.” Replies a frustrated-looking Bilbo. “Bugger, must’ve not brought any with me.”

“Here you are.” Dori fishes a pair of sewing scissors from a little case in his pack.

“Thank you Dori.” Bilbo walks over to take them from him. “I suppose it might take a while as they’re quite little but I’ll sharpen them and give them back to you.”

“Ye can borrow my wet stone.” Dwalin supplies from his spot next to Gloin. “What’re ye using them for anyway?”

“Oh, thank you. Well, I thought I’d cut my hair.” Bilbo says inspecting the scissors. The room stills, silent and tense. Bilbo looks up at the abrupt, eerie quiet, startled when Dori lunges and pulls the scissors from his hand, clutching them to his chest with a horrified expression. Kili and Ori have tears in their eyes and everyone else isn’t far behind.

“Cut your hair?” Asks Balin hoarsely. “Why lad?” Bilbo’s brow creases with confusion.

“Well, it’s simply too long and getting in the way. It’s in a terrible state and I just need to cut most of it off.”

Horrified gasps ripple across the room. A very solemn Thorin crosses to Bilbo and drops to a knee in front of him.

“Master Baggins.” Thorin begins, his voice shaking a little. “I sincerely apologise for any grievous offence my behaviour or any member of my company has caused you. Please, tell us how we have wronged you so that we may fix it. I beg of you do not cut your hair.”

Thorin pulls a small blade from his boot and brings it to the braid on his right temple.

“I take sole responsibility and offer you my braid and the bead that signal me as king until we have offered sufficient reparations and you have forgiven me.”

Before Thorin can move his wrist to remove the braid, Bilbo moves, catching Thorin’s hand in a tight grip.

“Stop, stop!” Bilbo’s eyes are wide with panic. “Don’t cut your hair. No one has offended me. I simply want to cut my hair, it is too long and it bothers me.”

Thorin’s hand falters.

“But why would you cut it? Why not braid it?”

“I never learnt to braid hair, it just seems easier.” But Thorin looks absolutely heartbroken, eyes glassy with tears. There is such an aura of sadness around him, around all of them that Bilbo feels he would be cruel to cut it, even if hair holds no significance to him personally.

“What do you suggest then?” Bilbo carefully guides the dagger away from Thorin’s braids.

“Braid it, obviously,” Dwalin says like Bilbo is the thickest creature in Middle-earth. Bilbo rolls his eyes and gives Dwalin a hard stare, just like his grandmother used to when he was being rude as a faunt.

“I already said I don’t know how.” The silence hangs in the air for a few seconds before Bilbo huffs.
“Any other suggestions?” The dwarves look at each other, exchanging glances and meaningful looks.
“Right, well, hair doesn’t mean anything to hobbits, other than the hair on your feet, you can do what you like with it. So if there’s no further objection, I would like those scissors back Dori.”

“I will braid it!” Shouts Thorin in a panic. All eyes turn to him, a mixture of surprise, delight and some…disappointment? Bilbo just nods slowly.

“Alright then…do you want to wash it too?” A second round of gasping, Bilbo’s honestly getting fed up with it now. Thorin is bright red and stammering, clearly taken aback.

“I-I’m flattered by I think I better leave that to you for now.”

Coin purses are being thrown across the room, Khudzul flying about, Bofur and Nori look strangely upset. Bilbo simply rolls his eyes and plonks himself down next to the fire.

“You’ll have to use your comb Thorin, mine’s broken.” Thorin’s eyes look like they’re going to bug out of his head and did Gloin just coo at them? This is getting stranger by the minute.

“Here? In front of everyone?” Thorin stammers, Bilbo briefly wonders if Thorin’s having an attack of some kind, and dwarves should not be that shade of red.

“Yes? Should we not?” A shy smile that not once in a million years did Bilbo think he would ever see creeps across Thorin’s cheeks.

“Not at all. Here is perfect.” Honestly, at this point Bilbo is a little creeped out but Thorin is rummaging through his pack, producing a comb and some oil. He gestures for Bilbo to sit on the ground in between his knees in front of him. The touch to his hair is almost reverent, the comb barely pulling as Thorin gently works methodically through the knots. At the particularly matted section, Thorin unstoppers the little vial and pours some fragrant oil into his hands, which smells of pine and bergamot. Dear Yavanna his hands are absolutely divine! Thorin works the oil into Bilbo’s hair and scalp, working it in small circles with his hands from his temples to his pressure points by his ears. Lost in the bliss, Bilbo makes a soft noise of pleasure and lets his head hang heavier in Thorin’s hands.

Unbeknownst to Bilbo, Thorin grins rather triumphantly and with no small amount of smugness at Bofur and Nori, Nori makes a rather rude gesture in Iglishmêk which Dori swats at him for. All too soon in Bilbo’s opinion, Thorin’s voice is gently coaxing him back to reality.

“Hmm?” Bilbo says, blinking slowly, a soft sleepy smile on his face.
“I said you need to wash your hair before I can braid it.” Thorin returns the smile and Bilbo thinks briefly how much younger it makes him look, how sweetly the skin around his eyes crinkle.

“Oh yes. Back in a jiffy.” Bilbo has never washed his hair faster in his life, but he does take a moment to scold himself for behaving like a faunt with their first crush.
“He is doing you a favour, nothing more,” Bilbo says under his breath, scrubbing the honey scented soap into his hair.

Smelling of honey and feeling much more refreshed, Bilbo retakes his position back between Thorin’s knees. There’s tension in the room but Thorin waves it away when Bilbo enquires with a
“Nothing important, just minor disagreements.” And sets about braiding Bilbo’s damp curls into a tight but comfortable braid, leaving a small section at the front. He ties it off with a strap of leather before clearing his throat.

“Bur- Bilbo. I had no time to prepare a suitable bead for this occasion, but when we reach Erebor I shall craft one for you out of gold and sapphires to indicate your status better. In its place, temporarily, will you accept one of my own beads?” Bilbo twists to look at Thorin, his hands fiddling with a bead, the braid at his left temple unravelled.

“That would be lovely, thank you Thorin.” Bilbo gives him a gentle smile, a little confused but he’s got the spirit.

The look that Thorin gives him as he carefully weaves the braid into his curls, makes his stomach flip. There’s a vulnerability and softness in his eyes which a whispered part of Bilbo longs for to be romantic. Thorin clips the bead in place and secures the braid, the air between the two of them seems to crackle with an unspoken emotion.

A great cheer goes up from the rest of the dwarves which startles the both of them, he hadn’t noticed how close he had been to Thorin’s lips. He reaches up to feel the back of his head, neatly tied into an intricate braid that he could never hope to replicate, the little bead on the front braid resting cool against his burning cheeks. Bilbo has a very strong feeling that something rather significant had just happened and he’s not got a bloody clue about it.

Chapter Text

Surprisingly Bilbo’s braids hold steady through most of Mirkwood but the impromptu river ride in the rapids down to Laketown does leave Bilbo’s curls completely sodden and stuck to his face and neck. He drags himself out of the river, his whole body feels sluggish and uncoordinated. Behind him, the dwarves pull and push their way out of their respective barrels. Fili is gagging, bent over with his hands on his knees moaning about how he never wants to look at an apple ever again. Poor Bifur is being helped by his cousins because his axe had gotten stuck in the side of his barrel after a particularly rough turn.

Bilbo glances around, definitely not looking for Thorin and attributes the blurriness at the edges of his vision to exhaustion and water clinging to his eyelashes. Thorin is helping Kili out of his barrel, blood flowing freely down his leg, the arrowhead still lodged in his knee. Thorin’s brow is creased with concern although he’s trying not to show it, to be the strong uncle Kili needs right now. Kili clings to him with a white knuckled grip, soft noises of pain escaping him, suddenly seeming like a small child, scared and in pain in the arms of his uncle. Bilbo takes one step towards them and nearly lands headfirst in the river.

“Blasted hobbit!” Dwalin curses loudly enough for all to hear. Bilbo whips round and glares at Dwalin.
“And what was your plan then? None of you helped at all! You sat on your arses in that dungeon and practically got a lovely holiday out of that.” Bilbo spits. He takes a step towards Dwalin, wobbling slightly. Despite coming out of an ice-cold river, it’s awfully warm, in fact, he’s sweating.
“You had regular food and beds while you waited for me to do all the leg work and yet you have the nerve- the absolute nerve to stand there and criticise me! Not one of you, not one of you has thanked me! For anything I’ve done for the last couple of weeks! So don’t you dare stand there and curse my name when you were content to sit idle!” Bilbo’s chest is heaving when he’s finished and Dwalin’s mouth is agape. He’s trembling slightly with rage…no, no this isn’t rage, these are tremors. All of a sudden, Bilbo doesn’t feel very well. He makes a strange sort of noise before his knees buckle and he drops like a sack of potatoes face-first into the water. He deliriously notes that he can’t breathe, probably because he’s lying face down in the river. The few seconds feel like an eternity before strong hands are pulling him from the river and sweet, sweet oxygen fills his lungs in a great gasp.

Thorin’s face swims into view, his mouth is moving and there’s sound coming out but it’s beyond Bilbo whatever he’s saying. Bilbo gives him a gentle smile and reaches up to pat Thorin’s cheek. Thorin’s eyes look very blue from this angle, a piercing blue and watery like the sea. Oh he’s crying, why is he crying? Bilbo frowns, he likes Thorin a lot, something in his chest hurts at the sight and he doesn’t want Thorin to cry, why is he sad? Thorin’s hand feels lovely and cool against Bilbo’s far too warm cheek and he closes his eyes, savouring the feeling. He can almost pretend the tenderness in the gesture is love.

Bilbo’s mouth tastes like shit. It’s also uncomfortably dry, as if he’d ordered a tankard of sand instead of ale. There’s a warm weight against his hand, slightly damp too. Bilbo manages to crack his eyes open with what feels like a monumental amount of effort. Thorin, bless his heart, is asleep with his head resting on Bilbo’s hand. He looks like he’s been to a Took birthday party to put it lightly, his hair in disarray, dark circles that almost look like bruises, dried tear tracks on his cheeks.
“Thorin?” This is what Bilbo tries to say but instead what comes out is a lung-wrenching coughing fit. The dwarf in question’s head snaps up and is pushing a glass of water into Bilbo’s hand with one hand and leaning over to support Bilbo’s head with the other, his fingers splaying across his skull, trembling slightly with relief.

“Oin!” Thorin roars, his voice rough with sleep and emotion as he helps Bilbo to drink the water without choking on it. The room becomes a flurry of activity as the rest of the company comes flooding in. Oin is checking his temperature whilst Fili and Kili sit on the other side of the bed trying to get a close as they can to him, chattering at a million miles an hour.

“Thought we’d lost our new Irak'Adad,” Fili says with a relieved smile. Bilbo wants to ask what it means but he was told at the beginning of the quest not to ask the meanings of Khudzul words as it was sacred to dwarrow culture, instead he settles for a gentle smile.

“How are you Kili? How’s the knee?” Kili grins back at him.
“Be right as rain sooner than you know it.”

Oin pulls a stethoscope from his bag.
“Need ye to breathe in laddie, need to check yer breathin’.”

Bilbo inhales as deeply as he can before choking slightly as his breath catches and he winds himself with the resultant coughing fit. Thorin rubs soothing circles on his back and hands the empty glass to Fili to refill. Oin nods his head, looks satisfied.
“Much better, a few more days of bed rest and yer’ll be back on yer feet.”

“W-what? No, you can’t leave me behind. I signed a contract.” Bilbo says, absolutely horrified.
“We’re not leaving you here,” Thorin reassures him, lightly running his hand across Bilbo’s shoulders, his eyes full of sincerity.
“We have another week before Durin’s day, we will wait.” Bilbo nods and slumps back against the pillows behind him.

Bombur sets down a tray consisting of a bowl of light broth, a soft bread roll that has been buttered and an apple because of which Fili has to quickly excuse himself looking rather green around the gills. Bilbo could’ve kissed Bombur in that moment, he would not have all the gold in Erebor if it meant he could have something to eat. The soup is gone in the blink of an eye and he’s sat there devouring the bread roll like a sickly, feral hedgehog. Bilbo would’ve thought any chance of him and Thorin being together sat quite squarely with their chances of actually defeating the dragon after watching his nearly pornographic performance with his food; but strangely enough, Thorin is looking at him like he’s hung the moon and stars in the sky. Satiated, he nibbles at the apple slices and runs a hand through his hair which has fallen into his face. The sheer panic hits him like a wave when the little bead he’s become so used to doesn’t catch on his fingers.

“Oh Yavanna! The bead! I’ve lost the bead! Oh gods Thorin, I’m so sorry.” Bilbo scrambles to get out of bed to look for it even though he has no idea where it is. Thorin’s chuckle reverberates through his chest as he gently guides his hobbit back into bed.

“Peace Halwûn, I have it. I removed your braids during the time you were ill.” A bashful blush colours Thorin’s cheeks and ears.
“May I be permitted to rebraid them in again?”

“Oh yes, yes of course,” Bilbo says with no small amount of relief, scooting forward to allow Thorin to sit behind him. At some point, probably while he was downing his broth, everyone else had left the room, leaving the two of them alone together. Thorin settles behind him and starts combing Bilbo’s hair, humming a sweet little tune. It would’ve been very romantic if Bilbo could hold a tune but alas his musical skills start and end at drunken caterwauling.

“It is only because you are ill that I have managed to secure us time alone together. It would never be allowed otherwise.” Thorin murmurs into his ear, breath tickling the skin. Bilbo shivers slightly, he could blame it on still being ill and not the indecent thoughts running rampant through his mind.
“Oh? Are we not allowed to spend time together without a chaperone now?” He teases a little breathlessly. Thorin gives him an amused but fond look, clambering off the bed and settling in front of him to do the little braid at his temple.
“Well not really Amrâlimê, it would be seen as improper but considering the circumstances on the quest, we have not courted in a proper fashion to begin with.”

Bilbo nods along, listening to that lovely, smooth and rich baritone-…did he just say courting?
“Sorry, did you just say courted?” Bilbo’s voice little high-pitched and strangled.
Thorin looks a little puzzled at that.
“Yes. In Beorn’s house I offered to braid your hair, you accepted and I gave you one of my beads.”

Bilbo feels like the bottom has fallen out of his world.
“What?”

Thorin looks heartbroken, his voice hoarse as he says barely above a whisper.
“I thought you were happy. You even said I could wash your hair. Do you wish to break off the courtship?” Bilbo is still sitting there, mouth open.
“For over a month? We have been courting for over a month? How? I-…you never said.”
“Well, I assumed you knew.”
“You assumed? I told you hair held no significant meaning to hobbits. How would I assume that?” Bilbo folds his arms, giving Thorin The Disapproving look ™, while Thorin looks a conflicting mixture of sheepish and defensive.
“Well I always served you before myself-
“Only for about a week before you all got captured.”
“Well, I use terms of endearment for you all the time!”
“In Khudzul! I don’t speak Khudzul and before you ask why I didn’t ask what you were saying, Balin told me that Khudzul was a sacred part of dwarrow culture which isn’t shared with outsiders!”
Thorin deflates slightly at that.
“Why didn’t you just ask me?” Bilbo throws his hands in the air.
“Because I had no bloody clue that you were courting me for the last month! None at all! You could have said…at any point!”

The silence hangs in the air between them, Bilbo is panting slightly before coughing again and Thorin is pressing the refilled glass of water into his hands. He drinks deeply while Thorin fiddles with the ring on his hand. Thorin straightens himself, visibly building his walls up again.
“You wish to break off the courtship then?” His voice is cool and detached, preparing himself for the hurt.
“When did I say that?” Bilbo puts the glass of water down a little firmer than necessary.
“This is very new to me and don’t get me wrong, I am very cross that you didn’t have the common sense to think that hobbits and dwarves court differently and I would have no way of knowing but…”

He reaches out a tender hand and cups Thorin’s face, bringing those downcast blue eyes to meet his own. He smiles gently, full of affection and warmth.

“I accept your suit.”

The smile that Thorin gives him in return could rival the brightest dawn. Thorin leans forward to press their foreheads together, eyes fluttering shut.

“Thorin?”
“Yes, Lukhdel?”
“I swear if you ever want to get married, make sure I’m aware.”