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The first whisper was faint, but it fell heavily in the silence of Thorin's cell. Without light, he wasn't certain how long he had been down here, and he had been alone for almost all of it. The sound of his name being called cut through the quiet like a knife.
Thorin sat back, wondering if madness had come knocking at last on his door. So, he was to end like his father after all.
"Thorin," came the voice again, louder and more urgent. "Thorin, is that you?"
There was something familiar about that voice – something nagging at the back of Thorin's mind. "Bilbo?" he asked, his voice gruff from disuse.
There was a soft 'Oh!' and the sound of rustling fabric from the other side of the bars of Thorin's cell. He peered into the gloom, but there was no question about it: there was no one there.
"Yes, I'm here," said Bilbo – only not, because Bilbo was not there. Madness. His blood runs cold. He'd lived so long with the shame of his father's flight from the battlefield. Thráin's madness had been yet one more notch in a series of ignoble defeats to the house of Dúrin. And now he, under the thumb of the Elves, his friends abandoned, was to succumb to that same weakness.
"Thorin," said Bilbo (who wasn't there, wasn't there). "Are you injured?"
Thorin closed his eyes and willed his mind to quiet. Oh, how he had loathed the silence, that seemed to be so impossibly, contradictorily, loud – now he longed for it. For peace, at least, in his own mind, and comfort in his own ability to think.
"It's me," Bilbo said. "I know you can't see me – I'm invisible. But I'm here, I promise." There was another sound of rustling clothes, and Thorin glanced over. There was nothing but empty space.
"Come," Bilbo said. "Come towards the bars."
Then, like the flickering of shadows in torchlight, Bilbo was there one second – his face dirty and his clothes covered in cobwebs, but looking impossibly present and solid – and then he was gone, leaving nothing but empty space.
"No," said Thorin, his voice sounding drawn and ragged even to his own ears. "It cannot be." He moved forwards, grasping at the open air where Bilbo had stood. His hand caught nothing but empty air for a moment and then, suddenly, there was something solid. He grabbed hold, pulling it forwards. Bilbo let out a high-pitched 'oof!' of surprise, as Thorin ran his thumb over the worn fabric of Bilbo's coat, and crushed it between his fingers.
He felt Bilbo's hand close around his wrist, not squeezing, but it was enough to feel the warmth of his skin.
"It cannot be," he said, again. He ran his hand up Bilbo's jacket, following the line of the seam along the shoulder to his neck, and then up and up until he'd tangled his fingers in Bilbo's raggedy hair, pressing them against his scalp. He brushed along the line of Bilbo's cheekbone with this thumb. This skin there was warm, and soft – just like Bilbo himself.
"Turn back," said Thorin, desperately. "I want to see you."
Bilbo's fingers made an odd, caressing gesture on the inside of Thorin's wrist. "Best not," he said, with forced cheer. "I wouldn't want to risk it. Are you well?"
"Well enough," said Thorin – though he wasn't sure of that at all.
Bilbo let out a sigh, and Thorin felt his breath tickle the palm of his hand as it went by. It was so painfully real, Thorin was past caring whether he was mad or not. If he was to be mad, then there were worse waking-dreams to dog his steps than this.
"That's a relief. I thought you were lost – or worse." Bilbo's fingers tightened on his wrist, and, instinctively, Thorin's grip tightened in Bilbo's hair and he drew him closer. "The others are here too," Bilbo added. "We had a run-in with some spiders."
"They must say nothing of our quest," said Thorin fiercely. "Do you understand?"
He felt Bilbo nod. "I'll pass it on."
Thorin could feel Bilbo begin to rise, and he reached out with his free hand, almost in blind panic, and grabbed him by his coat, pulling him towards the bars. He couldn't see Bilbo, but he could hear him breathing, and he pressed himself as close to the bars as he could in front of where he thought Bilbo was. Bilbo was holding on to both his forearms now.
"Thorin," he said, in a soft voice. "Are you well?"
With great effort, Thorin forced his fingers to unclench, and he loosened his hold on Bilbo. Bilbo kept his hands steady, still resting on Thorin's forearms – warm, steady, solid.
"Yes," said Thorin. "I – I must apologize, Bilbo. I do not know what came over me."
Bilbo was silent and unmoving, and it was only the warmth of his hands, and the feel of his hair and his coat against Thorin's, that let Thorin know he was still there. Then, slowly, Bilbo began to slide his hands up Thorin's arms. He stopped for a moment at his shoulders, resting them there, before he began to trail them down Thorin's chest – over his tunic. The elves had stripped him of his armour, and he felt strangely small and bare without it.
"I'm right here," said Bilbo, quietly. "I'll stay for a bit." His hands were resting just above Thorin's heart, and Thorin was sure Bilbo could feel his pulse under his palm. Thorin traced his thumb over Bilbo's cheek again, and swallowed.
Something intangible had shifted, like the world had changed its axis. There was something electric, expectant in the small space between them now. Bilbo's cheeks felt hot under his thumb.
This was a turning point. Thorin ought to push him away, to send him to the others with word of his presence, and orders. It was his responsibility, his duty to them. But he wanted this quiet, selfish moment for himself – to not be alone in the dark, and to take what great comfort the impossible Mr. Baggins could offer. Bilbo seemed to sense his mood, even without the need for words. His hands resumed their trail down Thorin's chest, tugging his tunic up and out of the way before unlacing his breeches.
Thorin reached down and caught Bilbo's wrist, his hand hovering over the ties of his breeches. He looked out into the darkness to where Bilbo sat, invisible.
"You do not have to do this," he said, tightly.
"I want to," said Bilbo. "Please."
That was more than enough for Thorin. He let go of Bilbo's hand, and grabbed hold of the bars, his eyes fluttering shut as Bilbo wrapped his hand around his cock and ran his thumb slowly but firmly up the underside.
"Come forwards," said Bilbo, tugging at his tunic. Thorin shuffled until his chest and his were pressed right up against the bars. Bilbo made a tight fist, and ran it up and down the length of Thorin's cock once, running his thumb over the head at the top in a movement that nearly made Thorin's knees buckle.
"You'll have to be quiet," Bilbo said, cheekily. That alone nearly made Thorin groan aloud, but he nodded and rested his forehead against the bars.
The only warning he got was a faint ghosting of cool air over the head of his cock before Bilbo took him deep into his mouth. He had to bite down hard to keep from crying out at the sensation – Bilbo’s mouth was warm and soft, and he could feel his tongue pressing against the underside of his shaft. Bilbo sucked in once, before opening his mouth wider and taking Thorin in deeper.
Thorin’s hand clenched in Bilbo’s hair as he tried to keep as still and as quiet as possible. He could hear the faint, wet sound of Bilbo’s lips around him in the quiet dungeon halls, and it sounded so impossibly, wonderfully filthy. Bilbo pulled back, circling around the head with his tongue, running it deftly over the glans.
He reached out and gently began to roll Thorin’s balls in his hand, kneading them gently.
“Bilbo,” Thorin said sharply, in warning.
He felt – oh, blessed Aulë’s hammer, he actually felt – Bilbo grin against him. And then, Bilbo covered him with his mouth once more, sucking and teasing with his tongue and his lips, seemingly everywhere at once. He felt Bilbo roll over the head with his tongue, and then come crashing back down, taking him in almost to the base – relentless and quick, all deft movements and teasing, and so, so wonderfully warm.
Thorin had just enough composure left to tug at Bilbo’s hair as a warning before he came. He felt Bilbo swallow, and he fell back onto his heels, shaking and spent.
With soft, deft touches, Bilbo gently tucked him away and laced his britches back up. Then, he reached through the bars, and cupped Thorin’s face with his hand.
“I should go tell the others that you are here,” said Bilbo, softly.
Thorin nodded, and reached out to mirror Bilbo’s gesture, cupping the Hobbit’s cheek gently. He traced the path of Bilbo’s invisible features, trailing his fingers along the line of his brows, down his nose, and then slowly over the soft curve of his lips. Bilbo smiled, the corners turning up under Thorin’s fingers.
“I will return. Tomorrow, if not earlier.”
Thorin nodded again, uncharacteristically incapable of speech. Bilbo clasped his hand, and pressed a faint kiss to his palm, and then was gone.
For the first night since Thorin had been captured, he slept without dreams.