#high stakes

Bilbo, being an odd hobbit himself, had once or twice felt anxiety when going to sleep as overly imaginative visions of his roof collapsing plague his mind when he knows his obnoxious cousins will be coming to visit the next day, but even he had not entertained the idea beyond such escapist ideations. Neither had he experienced or heard much of a real cave-in, being as he had never been in a cave before his sudden adventure, after all.

Within the Shire, you will find either the richest or the poorest of hobbits residing in Smials. These homes, often simplified to be called "hobbit holes", are dug into the sides of hills within the land and require much structural reinforcement to remain standing under the natural weight of the land above, which grows only heavier when it rains or snows. When the Shire Reckoning began and the first of the Smials were built, much trial and error underwent to ensure there were no cave-ins in the middle of the night. But once the method was perfected, no extra thought was put into the idea of such a collapse. Such is the nature of hobbits; when something is not broken yet, there is no need to worry about fixing it.

Erebor, as one could imagine, was really just an abundance of caves that had been inhabited or expanded by the residents and miners in its populace, and such a thing intrigued Bilbo to a high degree. The omega once rambled about the concept to Thorin when he first got to explore the winding hallways and tunnels of the Kingdom without any threat to his life, how Erebor could almost be compared to a massive Smial. Thorin disagreed, but still found himself glad to hear such a wild accusation. To him, that meant that the Kingdom under the Mountain could, in some way, be seen as home to Bilbo.

Anywho, the hobbit, who internally agreed with such a notion though was too headstrong to admit such a vulnerable thing so soon, had made it an intentional goal of his to map out the winding hallway, random rooms, and various mineshafts in his memory, much as he had his own home when he was a wee lad. The scale of the task now more appropriately matched his age, and was much more intimate, but was equally sacred in his mind.

A day had come when Bilbo had made it his goal to explore the tunnels of one of the wider, more expansive mineshafts, one most dwarves find themselves still weary of despite initial clearings of the area. They spoke of structural failings, odd creaking in the wood and stone that should not be there, yet conveniently in that language the hobbit didn't even have the right to inquire about. Dwarves and their secrecy annoyed him to the highest degree; they somehow only ever told him about the lines he could not cross rather than making an effort to let him in. However, unable to heed their warnings, the hobbit strolled like an utter fool into a collapse waiting to happen.

Conveniently, in tandem with Bilbo walking into a mouth of sudden doom he could not have for saw, Thorin and a majority of his company sat in a meeting. One of what felt like a hundred he must endure, as much as they irked him much like sharp nails against fresh cut granite. He barely spoke in these by now, his tail thumping against the side of his chair, positioned at the head of the table, broadcasting his growing irritation openly to the lords and ladies of the council he did not quite ask for.

At first, Thorin was stupidly relieved by the sudden interruption of the conference room bursting open. The lord who had been rambling about why he should most definitely be allowed twice his current property size for whatever reason he could come up with, which was not what "urgent meetings" are meant for whatsoever, found himself cut off mid sentence with actual urgency.

"My King, punish me for my interruption later, but there's been a cave-in. A big'n. That old, big one." The small dwarf spat out, chest heaving. He had ran with an importance that implied harm, that much was clear. "That describes just about all of them," Thorin grunted out as he stood. "Give me some specifics."

He followed behind the dwarf, who was likely a teenager if he had to guess. "'s the one we just started tapping in again, sir. Er, your highness. We all felt wrong about it, but some'n pushed some'n else, so a handful started mining again. It got cleared, so, I guess there wadn't any clear reason not to." Thorin huffed, before taking a clear sniff of the air. It took a few inhales for him to catch it; metallic and heavy, the unmistakable scent of pain. No death, yet, but there was agony, and as his tail swayed and ears laid flat, he began storming after it, leaving the rambling child in the dust of his path.

Among the scent of anguish, however, Thorin's keen nose picked up something floral, and his mind blanked. That smell had been haunting the man's every waking moment. He had smelled many an omega before, had met with a handful of maiden suiters when he was just a boy, but none had illicit as strong of a reaction in the Alpha's pheromones as Bilbo Baggins had. He was almost knocked on his feet as he had crossed the threshold into Bag-end, which was so heavily marked with the hobbits scent that it could have sent him into an early rut, were he not so addled with stress at the time. Along with feeling such a primal pull dragging him towards Bilbo, there was also something stronger. Ancient stories told of Mahal creating the dwarven lords to awaken with their One's. Durin woke up alone. Many interpreted this as the line of Durin to be destined to live and die without finding their One, but Thorin never truly believed that to be true. Rather, he believed, with such cursed luck his bloodline seemed to have inherited, his One was not to be a dwarf. For most of his life, he was convinced it was an elf, and he was better off dying alone. Bilbo, that cursed hobbit, with his unique tail and snarky attitude and courage much surpassing that of any omega he had ever met, had immediately trampled that idea the moment his wide green eyes met Thorin's sky blue.

Thorin had imprinted this scent to memory, many times believing and fearing he may never be overwhelmed by it again. It was unmistakable. Instinct took over as he knew his One was in danger, and if Thorin was not the one to save him, he would no longer be worthy of the beads he now gripped with fervor in his pocket.

"Hgh..." About a dozen voices rang out at once as Bilbo's hearing returned to him, all grunting and groaning in a shared pain. The first of his senses to become overwhelmed was his nose, as a strong, disgusting smell of metal, musk, and dust almost threatened to knock him out a second time. There was something else, slowly gaining strength above that of plain blood around him, but his body began screaming before the hobbit could quite place it.

He felt it first in his head. That made sense, as when the loud crack rang out through the wide expanse of the shaft, a nearby dwarf had all but jumped to Bilbo's back, slamming him into the ground and shielding his head before the rubble began to collapse. Everything happened all at once, as before it was simply the weight of one dwarf keeping him pinned down, but in nearly the same second, it quadrupled. Rocks are heavy, the hobbit thought through the fog in his mind. A remaining sliver of rationality knew he was beyond concussed.

"Aye, little lad," the dwarf above him, alive only by a miracle of Mahal, began to speak before falling into a loud coughing fit. It was deeply strained and wheezy, but the fact he was speaking brought some comfort to the back of Bilbo's mind. "'r you still with us? By Mahal, I hope so, or 'ell have all of our heads.."

"Oh... Just fine," the omega replied. His tail instinctively moved to sway with the same sarcasm his tone carried, but he found it pinned down. "A bit of pain everywhere, b-but..." he found himself wincing as he tried to move his left arm, which was either bruised or broken, so he shifted his right to try and move himself to his side somehow.

The dwarf crushing Bilbo's head had to have been super-human (or, super-dwarf?), as he began pushing rubble from above them out of the way. "'s is a cave-in, pretty bad one." He huffed, voice and body straining as he fought for room in the mess. "'f we're lucky, which id'nt likely, it was just a layer of the ceiling that came down, n'd not the whole bloody cave..."

Bilbo nodded slightly, as much as he could considering the circumstances. By now, he was able to focus more on that second scent, which was creeping into his mind more by the second, eventually winning dominance over that of the literal bloodshed around him. It was undeniably, unmistakably Thorin. He was getting close, and he was fuming. Concerned and fuming. But mostly unhealthily angry. Bilbo scoffed out loud, half tempted to scold the man when he came face to face with him. If he did.

Adrenaline is a funny thing. It often works to the advantage of the one afflicted, but once it runs thin, the backlash is a worse feeling than if the rush hadn't been there in the first place. All at once, the reality of exactly what had happened to him had hit. He had, oh so ignorantly, followed a group of 14 miners into a cave, despite the grim looks on all of their faces, and ended up crushed under what felt like hundreds of pounds of weight. And while that couldn't be accurate, as he was still alive, the pain he felt made it rather difficult for him to rationalize his thought process.

If he were to die here, it would be the worst possible way he could. The omega had, despite nearly everything being stacked against him, survived an adventure that required signing a dozen page contract listing every way he could possibly be crippled for life, or have his life stolen away entirely. He had experienced countless things that none other had lived through to tell the tale, and his life was somehow brought to higher luxury than it had been before because of it. But it was starting to feel like the damned rock impaling his left leg was going to be the thing that did it for him. There was much he was going to miss out on, if he died here. He had recently received a letter informing him of the unfortunate passing of one of his closer relatives, which left one of the worst things to a hobbit - an orphan. The letter stated that it would not be required for him to claim the boy, named Frodo, but it was him that the 'ling was asking for. He had made plans to return to the Shire for the first time since his departure to meet with him, his second-cousin-once-removed, who he hadn't even met. It shocked him that Frodo was asking for him specifically. Surely his parents had some other family or friends he knew more intimately. Bilbo was nothing close to a parental figure, the closest he had gotten was scolding the children near his home who took to trampling in his precious garden. Oh.. his garden. His greenhouse here in Erebor was soon to be complete. He had already begun filling the plant beds prematurely, much too excited to find comfort in something of home. Thorin hadn't made any effort to stop him, and instead sat, watched, and listened while Bilbo ranted about the different plants he had requested and their symbolism. Surrounded by the scent of Thorin, he didn't even realize when he let the importance of flowers in his culture slip until he noticed the flush on Thorin's face. He never saw the dwarf blush before, had never witnessed his tail wag with such vigor, his scent grow even more overwhelming, something he didn't even believe possible. Being an alpha and omega, each other's true feelings were laid bare much more than either two had liked. They each knew how the other felt in a way more intimate and primal than they could truly comprehend. Their want for each other was only able to be restricted through the constant demands Thorin had to meet, leaving little time for the two to properly court, or even mate. Bilbo would die here without ever mating with Th...

Or, maybe not. A loud crash tore the hobbit from his daze. He had fainted again, likely from the loss of blood in his thigh, but was still alive. Another bang shot through the air, a musky scent tearing through the natural smell of the earth and the rubble and the stale pain. Other races described the dwarves as smelling of clay and bile, a smell only their kin could love. But while Thorin had that characteristic clay of the earth, he also smelled of the clearest waterfall you could imagine, reflecting his youth, potential, and strength. Especially right now, where being so close to him felt like being crushed under such a waterfall, though in the best way possible. Nearly every second, a clang, crash, thump, bang cut through the muffling of the stone, getting closer and closer to the location of the dwarf and hobbit.

The smells in the air indicated a large group, though one or two would occasionally fall behind as they uncovered survivors. Bilbo would later find out that the stone was so brittle that breaking through was no struggle for the dwarves, especially not for an adrenaline and hormone blinded Thorin. They had, indeed, only been crushed by a singular layer of rock, but every second meant the possibility of full collapse, so recovery efforts were quick and almost too ruthless, though most understood the haste.

Bilbo knew, very soon on, that Thorin was coming for him. His scent betrayed as much. No dwarf was on his mind, no concern for his own life. He would follow the scent of the hobbit until he found him. He could feel something in his brain being tugged closer to Thorin, somehow, like his being was being pulled into an embrace before he was physically. An odd reassurance. "I am coming. I am going to save you, if it is the last thing I do."

A week passed in recovery. While dwarves were not known across the lands for their medics, Bilbo had to hand it to them, they knew how to care for gnarly injuries and promote full recovery. He supposed they had seen many a cave-in in their time, and knew how to handle them. For the first few days, he faded in and out of consciousness quite frequently, spending more time asleep than he did awake. This, he later learned, brought his medical team close to insanity, as they needed to keep him awake to monitor his concussion. Thorin spent only an hour receiving medical attention. He had thrown out both of his arms, and nearly dislocated his arm once he finally had Bilbo in his vision. The omega could imagine it, his alpha tearing rock with his bare hands. The fantasy kept him warm and content as he slept, as did the constant scent of that man constantly by his side. Thorin ate, slept, and worked by Bilbo's bedside. He personally handled keeping him fed and, with his explicit permission, keeping him washed once his body was in the state to endure such a thing.

"It's quite embarrassing, isn't it?" Bilbo mused one evening. By now, besides needing to walk with a cane, and his tail being much less active than it used to be, you could barely tell he was within an inch of his life some time before. And yet, Thorin, his mate, insisted on helping him bathe. "Hm?" Thorin hummed behind him. Bilbo inclined his head to the side, catching Thorin's gaze within his own. "That I experienced the first cave-in since your return to the mountain, and almost died to it. I heard some openly claim it a bad omen on our union." The hobbit exaggerated his tone near the end, mocking the shock and urgency he perceived in their voices. While Bilbo expected a laugh, or perhaps a grunt, he was instead met with an arm wrapping around his shoulders, gently pulling him backwards into a strong... clothed chest. "Oh- Thorin, you're getting your shirt all wet! It was just washed, too. Come on-" His thoughts were fully halted as nose met scent gland, and instinct kicked in, melting Bilbo in place.