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‘Heel, toe, heel toe,’ Bilbo softly muttered to himself, hazel eyes wide, his hold on the sawed-off shotgun tight, knuckles paled from the death grip he had on it. Soon he spotted a large fire, the oranges and yellows wavering and dancing in the cold night air. The man's breathing hitched, stifling a whimper. Thorin. His Thorin, bound and gagged, slumped in a chair dangerously close to the fire. His nephews, Fili and Kili, were tied and gagged as well, instead they were piled onto a table a few feet away from Thorin. They looked like pigs made for slaughter and the sight made Bilbo all the more furious, the fires of anger threatening to consume his fear. But something reminded him, this fear was logical. There were more than ten men of the Orcish gang present, and the smaller male knew he couldn’t go in there alone. But he couldn’t leave, they would certainly kill or gut Thorin, Fili and Kili. Bilbo sighed through his nose, the respirator within his mask rattling gently. The smaller male then nodded firmly. He knew just what to do.
Before he could set his plan into motion, a hand on his shoulder startled him. Upon turning he did not see a pale, marred face of an Orcish gang member, instead he saw a very familiar face. Balin was here! So was Dwalin, Bifur, Bofur, Bombur… Hell, all ten other men of Thorin’s group had seemed to come to help Thorin and his nephews. This lot was always willing to run headlong into danger for Thorin, which they’d shown many times along this journey.
When he’d first met them it was a more than unexpected meeting. An old friend of his, Gandalf Greystari, had introduced Thorin, Fili and Kili one night. The sky was inky black, the sticky heat lingering in the air as always. Thorin cut an impressive figure; dark, close-cropped hair and sporting a scuffed leather jacket pulled over dark green fatigues. Multiple belts, bags and holsters seemed to decorate his hips and torso. Fili, on the other hand, didn’t really look like Thorin. All golden hair and baggy clothes with just as many belts and holsters and pouches decorating his lower body - like an adventurer out of a children’s book. Kili very much looked like Thorin though, with his dark hair and eyes, a mischievous smile pulling at the corners of his lips.
Bilbo had reluctantly let them enter, and it only went downhill from there. Ten more men arrived as the night went on, introducing themselves as they entered. They all seemed to belong to Thorin’s troop of apocalyptic adventurers. It was very hard to keep the noise to a minimum as these thirteen were quite a rowdy bunch. Well, all but Thorin. He simply sat at the head of the long table in the dining room, bearded chin resting on his knuckles. After awkwardly scrambling to salvage his dishes, food and furniture, Bilbo finally settled in the doorway to the dining room, watching the group scarf down most of his provisions. It wasn’t too big of a problem as he received rations every Tuesday and Thursday.
Once the group of men had managed to clean his house and make it pristine once more, they called him over and began to discuss the task at hand: needing to reclaim what was taken from them. Far over the vast stretch of wasteland, there was an eastern encampment called Erebor. Apparently it belonged to Thorin and his group once, but it was taken by a violent party, with nasty cannibalistic tendencies, who called themselves the Orcish Legion. They were lead by Smaug, an infamous man decorated with scars and burns and piercing amber eyes that almost seemed gold. Rumors and gossip weren’t really a thing in the apocalypse, but Bilbo had heard of this man. He’d heard hushed mutterings that he burned parts of his victims but kept the rest of them alive for later meals. The russet haired man can only imagine the slaughter that took place at the Ereborean encampment and his heart reached out for Thorin and his men.
But he could not just go running off into the blue. He was a Baggins of his little shelter he called BagEnd, and god knows what may come of it should he leave. But leave he did, off into the vast wastelands of what was left. The thought of his little shelter never left his mind when all there was to see was ash clouds, bodies and miles of brown rotted debris. But he grew to love the company. Some more than others.
That’s what lead to this moment. Biomask secured to his face, shotgun in hand, and 10 other men standing behind him as they waited for the signal to attack. Half of the dwarves moved to the left and the other to right, surrounding the encampment. It was Bilbo who had taken charge in this campaign, which surprised the dwarves, but Bilbo was determined to have this go a very specific way. With a simple hand movement the dwarves descended upon the gang. Leaping from behind rusted tables and scraggly bushes, the ambush was brutal. Shots rang out through the camp. Bilbo shattered an Orcish man’s body armor from his chest, barely hearing the empty shell clatter to the ground as he loaded in another round with a quick jerk of the pump. The second shot burst a hole through his opponents chest. Blood was splattered across his face and chest by the time he reached Thorin. He trusted the others to handle the situation while he released Thorin from his ties.
Suddenly he was yanked from his task, a force snatching him by the hair and throwing him down. Bilbo yelped and rolled, aiming at the figure above him. He fired two rounds into the man’s chest. It stumbled and fell into the large fire, the flames reaching further up into the grimy night sky. Standing once more he pulled the larger man away from his seat in front of the bonfire, his unconscious body heavy in the smaller man's arms. It would’ve been odd to see the smaller man cradling his larger companion, like he was just a child.
Bilbo cast a look behind himself, seeing Dwalin and Bofur attending to Fili and Kili. Nori was poised at one end of the open shed, whilst Bifur stood at the other. He trusted that the others were holding their own in a fight somewhere within the encampment. The russet haired male turned his gaze back to Thorin. He saw the dried blood caking his temple and cheek, shorn beard matted with grime. A rumbling cough emitted from Thorin’s chest and Bilbo nearly shouted with relief.
“Hey,” He uttered, brushing a strand of hair from the other man’s forehead. It was an oddly tender moment amidst the gunfire and bloodshed. Thorin’s eyes were now open, gazing up at Bilbo. The depth of their blue sparking remembrance in Bilbo.
The beginning of their crazy escapade was a bumpy ride. Thorin seemed to want to find something to mock in anything that Bilbo did. Not in a foul or aggressive way, but in a way that seemed to say he wasn’t very happy about this “homebody” joining in on their expedition. Take the time they were almost roasted over a fire by a smaller group of man-eaters. A trio of large, stout and surly men had stolen away with Ori whilst they slept. It was now their mission to retrieve him. Naturally they sent Bilbo in first, being he was the smallest and lightest on his feet. Of course, nothing went according to plan, and Thorin seemed to blame Bilbo for getting them stuffed into burlap sacks and bound.
Yet, Gandalf's quick thinking and Bilbo’s distractions, saved them in the end. Gandalf crested the top of the hill, blinding the lot with the large headlights on their truck. It gave Bilbo time to wriggle free of his bindings; they’d really underestimated his small stature; and snatch his gun. He only had time to free the hand ties on some of his companions, but that was all they needed. With the three disoriented men half-blinded and now out-gunned, they freed the rest of the troop holding the trio at gunpoint before making a hasty retreat. Thorin had silently nodded in Bilbo’s direction afterwards. The russet-haired male seemed to take it as an odd way of showing appreciation. It was a subtle, but welcome change in the way the other man treated him.
There were other incidents in which Thorin became more than peeved with Bilbo. They’d almost been caught in a nasty acid rainstorm, no thanks to Bilbo losing his footing, almost slipping off a highway overpass. Stopping to pull him away from the crumbling ledge considerably slowed their dash for shelter. The rain advanced much too swiftly for their slowed pace. Thorin suffered minor burns on his hands. Bilbo had remembered watching Oin cradle his hands and rub aloe vera on the red and puckering skin. When Thorin found it difficult to pick objects up later, Bilbo attempted to make amends by helping the other male with his dinner. Although he could tell his pride was damaged, it would be something he’d have to suffer through because of Bilbo’s foolish clumsiness. Surprisingly though, the dark-haired man didn’t complain all that much save for his growlings and mutterings about being “coddled”.
In the end, Bilbo felt as if he’d appreciated the care while his hands were on the mend. There finally came a time where the russet-haired male felt as if him and the group's leader really clicked. Against the odds, Smaug’s lackeys tracked them down. They’d cornered them in an abandoned warehouse. Boxes and crates were alight, the flames dancing across the concrete walls. The gang laughed, the leading cohort, Azog, smiling wickedly. The oranges and reds of the flames were a stark contrast to the man's pale and scarred face. Thorin advanced towards the larger man, holding each other at gunpoint, when in reality they were heavily outmatched. To Bilbo’s horror the fight dissolved into a fist fight. Thorin was pummeled to the ground, Azog choosing the cowards way and made to let another lackey finish the job by executing Thorin. He wasn’t quite sure when he stood, when he’d flung his body at the larger male. He recalled slamming the butt of his gun into the man’s head, the larger male promptly stumbling back.
The fight that followed was brutal but swift. They’d tried to make a hasty retreat, away from the burning structure, but Thorin’s injuries were too numerous. It was an odd hobble to the nearest safe place; a rusted and crumbling bridge. Atop that bridge something changed between Thorin and Bilbo. Instead of scolding the smaller man, their leader embraced him. The taller male smelled of smoke and blood but it was a good, warm hug that brought on a relationship between the two they’d never have seen coming.
They certainly came to mean very much to each other, Bilbo thought, as he held Thorin. Thorin stuttered, voice gravelly and hoarse.
“Bilbo?! What the hell-” He coughed, “Are you doing here?” A calloused hand reached up to cradle Bilbo’s own face. The concern and worry laced in Thorin’s tone could’ve easily been mistaken for anger.
“Coming to rescue your arse, you idiot!” He uttered, smirking a bit. The darker haired man attempted to laugh, only managing to cough.
“I didn’t think my arse was worth saving…” He answered, looking away from Bilbo’s gaze. Instead the russet-haired male gripped his partners face gently, tilting his chin with a small jerk.
“Your group didn’t seem to think so,” Bilbo paused, “ThoriAn, I wouldn’t, even for a second, think of leaving you for dead.” The smaller male answered seriously. Thorin blinked and tilted his face again. Bilbo met him in the middle, lips pressing together. Thorin’s lips were chapped and dry, but they were warm and they were Thorin’s. They kissed slowly and gently, the chaos dissolving around them. It was a kiss full of promises and relief. When they pulled away, Bilbo pressed one more kiss to his partners angled nose. With a helping hand from Balin and Dwalin they propped Thorin on the edge of the tables. Fili and Kili were conscious and seemingly ready for another shoot-out, mere minutes after they’d come back into consciousness.
The gunfight was long and arduous, but they’d saved the three Durins; although Bofur, Gloin, Bifur, and Nori had suffered some gunshot wounds. In the wake of the apocalypse there was still hope. And hope blossomed in the Erebor Encampment.