Chapter Text
Once upon a time (because it's a classic beginning to many a story, so why not?) Bilbo Baggins woke up three months before a tribe of dwarves was to arrive at his door approximately seventy-nine years ago.
Suffice to say, when he woke up, he was somewhat confused. And a little miffed, for he had told Elrond that the weed he had pulled from his magical pouch of miraculous healing doodads and whatsits was certainly not dandelion and that the tea made from said weed smelt oddly like smoked bacon and camphor, but the stuffy sod had made him drink it anyway and then sent him to bed like a child (just because Bilbo had thrown a carrot at his head and called him Madam Fussy. Honestly, his dearest friend could be such a sulk). And now he was hallucinating, confound that elf.
It took Bilbo four days to accept this new, completely impossible reality. He, somehow, was reliving his past. Accepting this took a whole day of talking to his parlour wall, an hour of being chased up and down Brandybuck Lane by a very upset Cotton lass (there was absolutely a very good reason he was hiding behind that hedgerow with Mrs Chubb's second favourite blouse, three turnips and a fishing net) some times spent curled up and rocking himself in the garden shed and an awful lot of time pacing his study adamantly proclaiming to the pretty glass figurine of a duck his da had named Macy that "This is not HAPPENING". Macy's only reply was a distinctly unimpressed stare over a bill full of pale pink glass fish.
Four days. His ultimate assessment of the situation was that this was perhaps, maybe, possibly, conceivably, not a hallucination. Real then. And seventy-nine years (approximately) was gone without seemingly having happened at all, except in his head.
Bilbo went to bed.
The next day or so was spent alternating between fits of explosive anger (later he would regret this- last time round his mother’s West Farthing dishes had survived an invasion of Dwarrows, Sackville-Bagginses and that one incident post-Frodo adoption with the piglet and that barrel of Noakes’ Finest That We Do Not Speak Of. Belladonna would have tanned his hide over his temper-tantrum) and broken sobbing into cold cups of liberally doctored tea. Bilbo felt entirely justified in this behaviour, however, as he felt that one Epic Adventure that was mostly a blur of exhaustion, running, mind-numbing fear and the greatest freedom and love he had ever known, followed by watching his husband of, oh, TWO MINUTES, die in his arms, capped off by eighty years (or seventy nine. Approximately) of pining and watching one's nephew-come-beloved-son walk off on his own Epic Adventure Of Exhaustion And Fear, and seeing him come back broken and a shade of the bright brilliant boy of before...
He had a lot of mourning to redo. So many regrets, and he was the only one to remember it all. So, much anger and tears to be indulged in, thankyou very much and the sign outside does, in fact, say 'No Visitors Please' and is not an invitation to be nosy Atho Bolger, and kindly get out of my roses and stop gawping through the window at the puffy Hobbit wailing in his kitchen.
Another day to finally hit the realisation of: oh. OH, oh, second chance! and the resulting panic and exhilaration and nearly wasting the chance by choking to death on his own smoke ring.
That was followed by a few days of sitting quietly with endless cups of tea and his pipe, and with the imaginings of Gandalf's mild admonishments at his inaction whispering quietly through his head. But if was to do as he was planning, this would take a few days to consider. There was so much to do, to try, and he was oh, so little. One hundred and thirty years of experience and a refined cunning had not even prepared him for this and every five minutes of thinking left him feeling overwhelmed and entirely too tired for a Hobbit of his age- physically speaking.
Eight days after something very strange happened to Bilbo Baggins and he woke up approximately seventy-nine years ago, he abandoned thinking and planning, as he found the decision making process to be too tricky a thing on a scale of this magnitude. Instead, he packed a bag, left a key with Hamfast and Bell Gamgee, and headed west out of the Shire in the cold light of dawn.
****
When Bilbo had first left the shire, approximately seventy-nine years ago but not, he got along with his past-future-husband about as well as a pony got along with a Warg.
A week of being the skittering, stuttering, overly-timid pony to Thorin's snarling, intimidating orc-mount, Bilbo had been thoroughly fed-up and had snarled back. The various expressions of startlement, confusion and frustration on the other's face had been surprisingly hilarious and oh so satisfying, and only spurred Bilbo on to being the most irritating, back-talking nuisance he could to Mr Thorin Stick-Up-My-Entirely-Too-Sexy-Arse Oakenshield. It had at least distracted him from the cold, the hard sleeping surfaces and the lack of enough meals for his poor Hobbitly tum-tum to feel entirely satisfied. His days eventually descended into struggles for victory in Epic Battles of Snark, since as time went on, Thorin seemed less and less able to just ignore him, and became more and more infuriated at his back chat. It was the most entertainment he'd had in a long time, and seemed to place him on a pedestal with certain members of the company, though, equally, others seemed to bear permanent expressions of outraged horror. The younguns at least had thought him the bravest creature to grace all of Arda for his cheek aimed at their god-like leader. And Bifur certainly seemed to spend most of his times sniggering and making low, incomprehensible comments to Gandalf, who took to riding a ways back with hat pulled low and a smug expression on his face.
Things had actually come to a head in Rivendell. Barely a few hours into their stay in Rivendell, actually, the company huddled on a balcony connecting their allocated rooms, cooking up what they deemed a more 'edible' dinner. Bilbo already knew he found the leader of their merry little troop ridiculously attractive. Ridiculously attractive. Damn him. Especially when he was all riled up and bristling. Which may or may not be the impetus for half of his smartassery. There really was nothing sexier than Thorin with some fire in his eyes and an expression other than 'grim' on his face.
So, Bilbo may have been antagonising their leader again. And Fíli may have decided that the best thing for him to do while Bilbo was up in his Uncle's face having a nice little go at Thorin -disguised as polite concern for one of Thorin's latest decisions, of course- to the amusement of the assembled company, was to give him an encouraging pat on the back. An overenthusiastic pat that had been more like a shove, especially Bilbo being a much more slight creature than the big bricks that were dwarves. And so Bilbo had tripped. Forward. Right into the arms of his verbal opponent. And Bilbo's lips may have accidentally landed on, well. Lips. Thorin's. Thorin's lips. Much to Bilbo's complete and utter mortification. And delight. Because, by Aule, those lips were so soft and pliant and felt utterly amazing, even if it was completely accidental touching. And his chest was firm and muscular under his hands where he had tried to stop his forward pitch into the dwarf, and the big warm hands on his arms were gentle and strong, and he smelt so good...
Bilbo may have melted forward into the hold a little. Pushed his lips a touch more firmly to the ones against his. Spread his fingers wide on that chest and pet it a bit. Breathed his scent in and moaned a tad. Just for a moment. Until the utter mortification bit had kicked in and he had wrenched himself backwards with a squawk, spun himself around and kicked a gaping Fíli firmly in the shin, because now Thorin was going to murder him.
He'd expected a bellowing admonishment for daring to take liberties. What he'd gotten instead was one of those big capable hands grabbing his arm and dragging him from the room, the ragtag bunch of dwarves bellowing lewd suggestions and jeering in encouragement behind him as Thorin hustled him into a private room and slammed him against the wall, plastered himself against Bilbo's front and proceeded to devour his mouth like a starving hobbitling at a twelve course buffet.
Of course, Bilbo had responded favourably. If favourably meant collapsing into Thorin's hold with some truly pathetic wanton whimpers, and rutting onto his leg like a cheap three-copper whore.
Thorin did not seem to mind.
From then on, their relationship had shifted only slightly, yet was absolutely nothing like before. Bilbo had continued to snark and antagonise at any opportunity, the only difference being that occasionally the response was amusement rather than the desire to wring a Hobbit neck, and later, after the evening meal had been consumed by fire-light and the camp settled, Thorin would haul him away into the dark for another truly inspiring snog session, his mouth taken wet and deep until he was a mewling mess of willing flesh. And then back to the camp for the night to sleep tucked into Thorin's side, his heat and gentle touch making the evenings not only endurable, but damn-near blissful.
Of course, things weren't perfect. They had managed to have a few spectacular fights, one right before that utter cluster-fuck that was traversing a dangerous mountain trail in the middle of a thunderstorm that turned into a battle between a few bizarrely massive Stone Giants. The words Thorin had spoken after hauling him up off the edge of the rock face had been a bit like a kick in the teeth, and Bilbo had been entirely prepared to leave and head back to Rivendell, though in hindsight, it had mostly been a little bit of a lovers’ tantrum, and he was half-waiting for Thorin to get up and come after him and damn-well apologise like a normal being, when his sword had glowed blue and he was falling. And then there was the whole debacle with Gollum in the caves and running and terror and fire and jumping at an orc with a tiny sword to defend the dwarf that he realised too late he was completely and totally in love with, and more terror as he worried that Thorin was dead and he could never tell him how he felt.
Apparently, though, Thorin felt exactly the same way, because the night spent at the base of the Carrock was one he would never forget. Whispered declarations of adoration, entwined limbs and the realisation of never being able to live without the feeling of this magnificent dwarf wanting him ever again.
The next few weeks had been amazing. No matter how terrible their circumstances were, they had each other, and the love between them just seemed to grow and grow, Bilbo hadn't even known he was capable of that depth of feeling before. The rest of the company embraced their relationship with enthusiasm and he had felt like he was part of their massive extended family, kin to these amazing Dwarrows himself, achieving a sense of belonging and rightness he hadn't even realised he felt a vague lack of in his life since his parents had departed. And then Thorin had stumbled out of a barrel and fished him out of a lake and asked him to be by his side forever, slipping a thong of leather over his head with one perfect bead on it, Thorin's mother's betrothal bead, a promise. He'd stupidly thought it would actually last for that 'forever'.
He'd screwed up with the Arkenstone. For a long time, he had told himself that what he had done was right for the circumstances, just not for him and Thorin, and it had haunted him for most of his life, the different choices he could have made. Whether it would have mattered. He'd told himself in the days after, over and over, that it was the gold sickness his Dwarves suffered from that had caused all that mess, but Bilbo had eventually had to accept that they were not the only ones affected. Why else would he have hidden that terrible, beautiful stone from his betrothed long before the Elves and Men had come? He hadn't been so far gone that he hadn't been able to part with it later for the good of everyone, but when he had first found it, placing it in his pocket, he had called it his share, his fourteenth. What he had earned with Trolls and Goblins and Giants and Spiders and Elvish prisons.
Once it all began though, events seemed to just accelerate, spiralling out of his control and into terrible words spoken, war coming to the mountain, to his dwarves, tumbling towards an inevitable outcome that Bilbo was helpless to prevent. In the end, there was nothing left to do but exchange sobbed apologies and hasty wedding vows before it was too late. But he had never allowed himself to forget a single moment with his dwarf, with his family, and somehow, despite all he had lost, he had pulled himself together and lived on. Approximately seventy-nine years of quiet pining while getting on with things, always almost reaching for a presence that wasn't there, but refusing to be so weak willed and allow himself to fade. Thorin has asked him not to. No matter how much he had pleaded to follow, Thorin had made him promise not to, a gasped out request with bloodied smile.
"I think you still have a few adventures left in you. Fill this life up for us, with tall tales to tell me when we meet again. I'll always be waiting for you, my heart."
It had been a struggle at first, but he'd done as his beloved asked. He'd lived for him, kept going for as long as he could, lived and experienced on behalf of his poor departed husband, and for the dwarves left behind, and then for Frodo. He'd lived and had a fairly good life, all said and done. But his end had been coming, and Bilbo had been looking forward to finally reuniting with Thorin, and relating all those experiences, of finally finding his peace. That chance had been stolen. Here he was, approximately seventy-nine years ago, and trying to protect the dwarf he loved all over again. And as far as he knew, no chance now of ever being reunited in the Great Halls of Mahal with the husband who loved him.
****
Sixty-seven days after leaving the Shire this time, Bilbo stumbled off the little hinny he had named Thistle -on account of his prickly disposition- handed the reins to the youngest Rumble lad (gaping and stuttering at his appearance the whole time, and there, for a second time, went Bilbo's reputation and the respectable name of Baggins), as well as a few coins to unload the pack-donkey he had led back and to bring the load to Bag End, before staggering up the hill, cutting through the Proudfoot's private orchard to tumble over the rail into the Gamgee's back yard and through to his own, clumsily stomping through his nasturtiums and half breaking down his back door in desperation to be home, and on the way to clean, fed and sleeping.
In the bathroom he stripped to his skin while chomping on a stolen Proudfoot plum and grimly examined his shoulder in the mirror as the bath filled. Three of the gashes were clean cuts and healing well, but the fourth was jagged and wide and a little too red- it would surely scar. Sighing, he tipped a few dashes from a jar beneath the sink into his bath and slid in, hissing at the sting in the bruises and scrapes covering most of his body. His damn husband wouldn't even appreciate his efforts, not remembering any of it. But it was worth it. Sighing at the feel of finally being warm and clean, he propped his head on a few towels so he wouldn't drown, and settled in for a nap while the healing herbs worked their magic.
When he managed to shuffle from his home a few days later -those days mostly spent sleeping and blindly foraging for anything edible in his pantry before treating injuries and stumbling back to bed- still hobbling as the bruising caught up with him, he wandered into the market, bought eight of Mrs Chubb's best meat pies (apologising profusely about the mix-up with her blouse and distracting her with enquiries of his cousin Falco) a flagon of mead and a large basket of berries and ambled home again, sitting himself down to work his way through the pile of bounty and a new stash of pipeweed and contemplate his next move.
He knew that going off as he had would have consequences. He could have left things be, followed his beloved moronic husband on their foolhardy quest a second time, using what he knew to avoid the worst of it, and trusting in the fact that they had all survived the journey the last time. But he hadn't done that, had he, and it was too late to go back now. Perhaps the process of living again, living beyond what he should, and hadn't yet done, had made him as mad as the folk of the Shire had (and would soon) called him. 'Mad Baggins is at it again!' Bilbo chuckled to himself.
Mad though he may be, it had to be done. Oh, he was so foolish. Foolish and impulsive and selfish. Yes, he was ultimately a selfish being, Bilbo knew that. He had known that for most of his life, it just was what it was. He was a Hobbit, for goodness sake, and they all tended towards a degree of selfishness. But he was also a Baggins and most importantly, a Took, with roots firmly of the old Fallohides. 'Free and wild are those of the Fallohide', his mother used to sing. Stubborn and reckless were more like it. His dear old ma, a Took to the core, she was the definition of the free and wild variety of their descendants. She, perhaps, might agree with what he had done. Maybe even be proud of him. Though, on second thought, she was a selfish being herself. Pa, on the other hand, was the most unselfish being in the world, but he shared a similar selfishness in regards to family, and it was quite possible they may heartily disapprove of what he had sacrificed. "Remember that your family is your treasure, my dear son. Hoard and guard them as a dragon would a pile of gold, jealously and miserly, for they are your joy and your inspiration and no greater wealth will you know in this life."
Bilbo did truly want to be selfish, use everything within his power to see things through again, allow the hardships they had encountered the first time to force them into the tightknit family unit they had become, use the knowledge he had to keep his Durin men alive, and have the life he jolly well deserved after all that mad adventuring and involving himself with all the woes of the world, the life he could have with his family, his love. But it was too risky, leaving things as they were, a wrong step here or there made in the best of intentions and the whole lot would fall apart on him and he could lose one of his precious thirteen dwarves, lose them all, lose a future for their people.
Lose the ring. Lose all of Arda to Evil.
He had to sacrifice. He had to plan. The things that might have been, that may have made him worthy in the eyes of his dwarves, of his dear husband, they had to be sacrificed for the simple matter of keeping them safe. So it had to be, so it was done. How things went now, well, the knowledge of before had been sacrificed as well, with what he had changed. A consequence he hoped he could live with.
There was Frodo to think of, too. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing in regard to that whole mess. His cousin, 'nephew' as he called him, yet in his heart, his dearest boy that was as near to a son as any could be, beside the two younger Durins lost on a bloody battlefield. He wanted, he so desperately wanted to have Frodo for his own again, to be that selfish, but the memories of the little boy that cried for his mam in the night for weeks on end were still as fresh as the nights they occurred, the memory of wishing so hard to heal the heartbreak in the tiny fauntling that was becoming so dear to him, and he just couldn't bring himself to knowingly allow that future to occur. Though Frodo, in his care, had grown to be fine young man, the finest, really, when you considered all that he had been through, -or would, or, really, wouldn't, if Bilbo had any say in the matter- a side of Bilbo cried out to protect his precious boy from any harm, to keep him safe and happy. Safe and happy meant tucked away in a hobbit hole near the Bridge of Stonebows with his parents who loved him. Far away from cursed magic rings and orcs and wars and quests to save all of Arda from evil. Away from Bilbo.
But that brought out the damnable thorny problem of predestination. What was it that Frodo had once told him that Gandalf had said? "I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker. In which case you were meant to have it. And that may be an encouraging thought." Bilbo was fated to find the ring – and was perhaps equally fated to pass it on to Frodo. No matter how often he wrestled with the idea, Bilbo singularly failed to find it ‘encouraging’. Terrifying maybe, petrifying, absolutely horrifying – but encouraging? Not so much. There was absolutely no WAY that Bilbo was prepared to watch Frodo have the very life and soul drained from him before he had the chance to live if he had any say in the matter. What was he supposed to do, hang onto the thing for another sixty years before handing it over with a 'good luck with that'? Fat chance. His little Hobbitling deserved better than that.
Though, Bilbo really should see about having a modest Smial built, far away from the Hole that Primula and Drogo would eventually inhabit after their marriage, on the Bucklands right near the Brandybuck. Perhaps some land of his could be found on the other side of Hobbiton, closer to the White Downs, a present from cousin Bilbo. Far away from the river and the water, and river life that naturally leant towards the temptation to build a boat that perhaps would spark a tendency towards weekly romantic boating picnics that could lead to Hobbits falling in the curse'd river and drowning and leaving their poor little youngling to be orphaned and sent to live with his mad cousin that could afford to keep him and would adore him as a son, so much so that he would eventually inherit an evil ring that would try to destroy his soul. A nice safe cosy Hobbit Hole towards the Downs, or further south into Tookland. Since he was a respectable member of the Baggins clan and all, and it was his sworn duty to be a responsible Hobbit and care for all members of his family, and Drogo was, or would be, one of his favourite cousins, after all, Prim too, for all that she was a blasted Brandybuck. Besides, Frodo would need his parents if Bilbo was to stay in Erebor with the dwarves, and especially if Thorin...
Bilbo started, fumbling his pipe and spilling ash and half burnt weed on his waistcoat. He brushed it away with trembling hands and took a few shaky breaths.
Thorin.
Bugger it. He had been avoiding thinking that name for weeks. Ever since the hours he had spent lying face down on his foyer floor, ignoring concerned neighbours and weeping and cursing and recalling with bitter clarity every moment, of wedding vows crossing bloodied smiling lips, weakly grasping fingers and pained eyes, regretful and wondering and then empty. His first married kiss pressed to flesh that did not feel or respond, his husband's soul already departed. Of laying his husband and his husband's sister sons -his dearest younglings!- to rest deep in the mountain, Dain of the Iron Hills and newly crowned king of Erebor leading the songs of mourning, deep dirges of death that echoed around the cavernous walls of the cold mountain, while the company crowded around him in silent support, helpless to ease his pain while they themselves mourned. Desolately weeping and barely able to stand on his shaky legs as he laid the Arkenstone on his husband’s chest before they sealed him away in the rock for the rest of time
A tear falling onto his arm jolted Bilbo out of belly-churning despair, and he gave himself a mental kick up the backside, loosening the painfully tight grip on his pipe and forcing his body to stop shaking. If this was truly a second chance, then there was no use crying. Not this time. He would change that; he would change all of it. There would be no mourning in the halls of the lonely mountain this time, only raucous feasts of victory and merry-making for the reclamation of home. Bilbo would see it done if it killed him. Even if this time, there would be no love for him from a beautiful majestic Dwarven king and all he was left with was a broken heart. Sacrifices had to be made.
Calling himself a maudlin fool with delusions of grandeur, Bilbo hauled himself to his feet and forced himself inside. He had a troll hoard to sort and he still had to find somewhere safe to hide that thrice-damned ring...
****
Not too far west of Bilbo at that very moment, deep in the caverns of Ered Luin, Thorin Oakenshield bolted upright out of sleep, still gasping on his last breath and groping for the warm touch of his beloved, almost comically astonished at his surroundings. "This was not what I was expecting of the Halls of Waiting," he murmured in confusion, and fell out of bed.