#orlin

He'd been courting Ori for months now. They'd danced around each other under increasing tension for the entirety of the quest, and the thing that had finally broken the strain had been the final battle. Ori had been in a state of near-hysterical panic when he'd burst into Dwalin's healing tent, and had berated the warrior about the dangers of ill-advised and pig-headed charges at the enemy for approximately 30 seconds before desolving into exhausted, relieved sobs. And really, Dwalin had been incapable of resisting the urge to scoop him up, to prove to Ori that he was alive and well.

Oin had been less than pleased about having to re-stitch Dwalin's wounds, but to add insult to the injury the healer had then fetched Dori, who had screamed at the pair so loudly that the rest of the Company, excluding a gravely wounded Thorin and a very distracted burglar, had also streamed into the tent, weapons at the ready, only to take up rousing cheers at the long-anticipated sight of the scribe tucked firmly under Dwalin's tattooed arm.

The unconventional beginning to their story should have been warning enough that their courtship would not be simple. At every turn, Dwalin was finding himself blocked by two over-protective relatives. His traditional courting gifts would mysteriously disappear from Ori's doorstep, his desk, hell, even from the scribe's private dining table! Ori, apparently, was having just as hard a time of it, as everywhere they went, one of Nori's 'associates' would just 'happen to be passing' the exact spot they'd arranged to meet, no matter how discreet they were about their planning.

Many times, Dwalin had tried to call the whole thing off, seeing the strain that it put on Ori. But, fierce and determined as always, Ori had refused to back down, and that fire had given Dwalin the will to fight, too. Which was how he found himself at the door to Ori's chambers, no longer attempting to hide their relationships in shadows and swift moments. His heart was in his throat at just the idea of it, but he was here, so he might as well get on with it. It wasn't until he'd raised his fist to knock on the door that he heard the sound of multiple voices from inside the dwelling, and he froze, listening intently.

"... just want to make sure you're really alright with this, Ori," whined a nasily voice, and Dwalin scowled at the wood before him. Dori, here to meddle in business that was not his own, as always. Still, Dwalin remained where he was as the older Dwarf continued, "It's, well, it's just not right, is it? It's like he's ..."

"Like he's obsessed with you." Nori's sharp tones carried just enough scoff that on the other side of the door, Dwalin flinched. "It's ... To be frank, it's downright creepy."

The warrior's hand fell limply to his side, all of his breath escaping his lungs in a harsh exhale at that word. He'd thought it himself, many times, along with other associated and much less kind phrases that might be used to describe his attraction to a Dwarf who was almost a full century younger than himself. To hear that thought echoed by others brought such a heavy wall of self-loathing and disgust down onto his shoulders that he immediately turned to leave. It was the sharp edge to the next words of his own Âzyungal that made him pause.

"You're right," Ori stated, but before Dwalin's heart could fully shatter in his chest, the scribe went on determinedly, "He is obsessed with me. He listens to everything I say, even when it's clear that he has no interest in what I'm talking about. He remembers how I like my eggs at breakfast, and which books I'm looking for in the library, and what my favourite colour is. He sits with me while I knit, just to sit with me, and he takes time out of his already very busy day to tell me his stories, because he knows that I want to write them down for our history. You call it creepy, Nori, but I like to think that it's love. And I won't have you two ruin this for me just because I've finally found something worth keeping for myself."

He was so captivated by the speech that he didn't immediately register the sounds of movement that followed it, and subsequently he jumped almost out of his war-ruined skin when the door before him was flung wide open. A small figure came tumbling out, and it was entirely on reflex that he reached out and caught the squire by the upper arms.

"Oh! Dwalin!" Ori squeaked, his face already flushing under his blonde whiskers. "How long - Mahal, how much d-did you -"

"I heard everything," Dwalin growled, and Ori paled just as quickly as he'd blushed. But Dwalin softened his grip and dipped his head to press his forehead to Ori's as he murmured, "You're right. It is love."

"Oh," Ori breathed, then he was moving again, leaning away briefly to kick shut the front door of his own house, right in the gaping faces of his relatives. And all at once Dwalin was being pushed back against the stone wall behind him, the scribe almost climbing his body in his efforts to get closer. Ori's lips were warm and insistent against his own, and Dwalin almost protested when they were removed. But his sense of loss was quickly replaced with a burning need when Ori whispered against his mouth, "Take me to your home? Please?"