Dwalin stands in the doorway watching as his Hobbit and his king sleep. Bilbo’s sleep speaks of exhaustion, working himself ragged during the day to distract himself, yet each night finding himself here. Thorin’s sleep is deep, his wound healing well, showing no signs of infection, yet weeks have passed and still he does not wake. Kili and Fili have both long since left the makeshift infirmary, but Oin says there is no need to worry, his sleep is healing, so they wait.
Crossing the room, Dwalin carefully lifts Bilbo into his lap, still always surprised by his slight weight. He smiles softly as Bilbo grumbles his discontent before he buries his face in the curve of Dwalin’s neck. Fingers weave through the length of Bilbo’s hair, Dwalin never tires of its silky texture, and lets himself imagine what he’d look like wearing their braids. His other hand curls around Thorin’s, pressing a kiss against scarred knuckles.
Swallowing thickly as eyes slide over the bandages wrapped around Thorin’s middle, Dwalin does not dwell on would haves or should haves, knowing that way leads to madness, and slowly he slides into sleep, lulled by the even breathing of his lovers.
A touch on his bare scalp wakes Dwalin with a start, his eyes darting to Bilbo who still sleeps. Sitting up suddenly, nearly unseating a grumbling Bilbo, Dwalin exclaims, “Thorin!”
Thorin blinks slowly, a smile stretching across his face as Dwalin and Bilbo take his hand before he drifts to sleep again.
Dwalin doesn’t realize he’s crying until Bilbo’s hand touches his cheek, until he wraps himself around the Dwarf. Dwalin squeezes back, probably harder than he should. For the first time in longer than he cares to admit, he lets himself truly imagine the future, and it’s a beautiful sight.