So... apparently, Dwalin made himself at home in my OTP, and intends to stay there -.- (Yes, I know, I know, I haven't given up on SOO – I promise!)
Anyway, on that note: This fanfic was, in a way, inspired by the wonderful bubbysbub's If You Go Out to the Woods - because, strictly speaking, any Bilbo/Thorin/Dwalin piece I write is. There should be not too many similarities except for the obvious, but it wouldn't be fair not to mention this. Besides, if any of you haven't read it – go do so! ;)

Also, this is a fill for a prompt at the hobbit kink meme, and was going to be about 3k words… except then drama happened, and it got a little out of hand *cough* But, well, you know me. Drama always happens :p

Soo… with all that said, enjoy :)

Behind Blue Eyes

I: Out of the clear Blue sky

Bilbo can sense it the moment everything changes for the first time.

Not that she is in any way fit to react to it, with everything that is happening-

Dwalin's emotions are, like always, a roiling pool of heat ever-ready to explode, tickling and dancing at the edge of her awareness whenever she manages not to concentrate on them in the first place. He, like Thorin, is always on her mind, in more than one way. Sometimes she succeeds at pushing them away, a comforting reprieve, but now? Now Thorin is lying behind her on the cold, hard ground, his own emotions a deep, churning pool of agony, waves of hopelessness and pain and endless anger all crashing into her with every breath he takes. Still, the red-hot force of Dwalin's staggering surprise burns at the forefront of her mind, along with an incredible gratitude – she has, after all, stepped between the one he loves and certain death – and something like… wonder?

A stark difference to the usual disdain and occasional flashes of worry.

There is, however, no time to think at all, let alone analyse this sharp change in regard for her.

With shaking hands she drives the blade of her little sword into the orc's chest once more, forcing herself to concentrate on the nuances of its flickering hatred instead. No fear flares up, like she might have expected were she still clear enough to actually think, not even a clear blaze of pain… just more hatred, and then – this flame in front of her goes dark as she finally pierces the blackened heart, and at the same time a heavy blanket settles over the agony that is Thorin behind her, the whipped up waves calming with unconsciousness.

Bother.

For a single, short moment Bilbo allows herself to avert her focus and her eyes to follow the sensation of blanketed pain, darting a brief glance at his unmoving form behind her – she knows he is alive, can feel it, the water dark but not lost, however, that barely succeeds in making her any less worried – before tightening her hold on the weapon in her small hands once more, defiant blue eyes now fixed on Azog's advancing form.

Where the attacker before was a candle's flame, the Pale Orc is a bushfire, burning with a hatred she has never felt before (not even from Lobelia who, by all rights, has loathed her for her entire life), and his confidence slams into her like a blazing mace. He is the superior of the two, and more than aware of it.

But, there are two vital characteristics to Bluebell – who prefers going by the nickname her Took cousins gave her after she showed up in trousers instead of skirts once more, thank you very much – Baggins that Azog the Defiler does not know of, and she is most certainly going to exploit every advantage of them: First, the one whose head (or something similar, his blazing emotions differ enough from a hobbit's that she cannot make out any details of his currently greatest desire) he is asking for is one she has lost her heart to, one she considers family, and thus one she will protect with everything she has. She is, after all, a Baggins of Bag End. And second, she is a hobbit. Well, he may be aware of that (or not), but most certainly not of what her being a hobbit means (apart from the obvious facts, of course, that she is tiny, and has had no weapons-training whatsoever-): That she can sense every single undercurrent, every movement and flicker of emotion burning through him. She may not be able to make sense of all the details and nuances, may not have the experience to read every little flicker and flare like others might read a book, but not for nothing is Bilbo one of the strongest and most talented empaths the Shire has brought forth since Bullroarer Took.

She may not be a warrior, but she sure knows how to interpret another's emotions, thoroughly exploit them, and (sometimes) even twist them to her own advantage.

(Not that the latter is an ability she will ever be allowed to use, by Shire law or Yavanna's will.)

Yet, despite the extent of her gift – or maybe even due to it – she struggles with focussing on the flame of hatred that is the Pale Orc, with so many different (and whipped up) emotions slamming into her that she barely manages to keep them apart, let alone concentrate on a specific one. Dori and Ori's panic are the strongest ones, whirling and raging and battling her own for supremacy-

Forcing her eyes to stay glued to the Pale Orc's cruel features Bilbo takes a deep breath, before searching for the wizard in all that chaos of fear and pain.

Gandalf is like the darkening sky above them, a huge expanse spanning across the entirety of her sixth sense's reaches. She has never been able to actually read him (or even understand him, really), his emotions too grand and complex for her to make sense of. Still, she knows him well enough (an old friend of her mother's as he is) to discern the underlying feelings, if not any details. The dark, oppressive clouds of dread may have been disheartening, if not for the hopeful sunrays peeking through, and an impatient wind slowly but surely picking up.

It is enough for Bilbo to understand that there is a plan, even if it is Gandalf's.

It means that there is hope, too.

This perception slams into her with the same force as Azog's confidence did, giving her the strength to finally push all those negative emotions (Balin's painful resignation, Nori's naked fear, Bofur and Bombur's shaking trepidation, Óin's paralysing fright, Bifur's crippling agony, Glóin's stubborn refusal to believe what is happening, the boys' and Dwalin's frenzied urgency-) to the back of her mind.

The Pale Orc snarls something in that foul language of his – the implication clear enough in the blazing mixture of hatred and satisfaction – and another orc approaches where she is quivering in front of Thorin's unmoving form. Bilbo grips her short sword even more tightly as a wave of determination (her own once more) sweeps through her, strong enough to drown out all but Thorin, Dwalin and the disfigured creature before her. It burns with the same hatred and single-minded focus to follow its leader's commands as the one before it did, and it is this similarity that allows her to attune to it more easily, despite the raw strangeness of its blazing emotions. Remembering how the other orc's death felt, calling to mind the sudden blank darkness where before a bright, cruel flame had flared, she carefully raises her weapon the way she has seen Thorin do it. There is none of his tight control, none of the easy certainty brought about only by years of sweat and rigid training, but she trusts it to be effective none the less.

When the orc lunges its hatred blazes with fierce determination. It gives her no more than a moment's warning, but Bilbo throws her own body out of the blow's way while striking low herself. Still, she feels the rugged blade cut her side, easily drawing through her thin clothing. The abdominal being before her screeches and falls to its knees when her own little blade mercilessly slices through them, however, its flaming emotions drowning out her own ache as well as all others except for Thorin and Dwalin's.

It is the blanketed agony behind her that gives her the push she needs to jump forward and stab the orc, low under its ribs and then again roughly across the jugular, until its flame, too, fades before finally going black-

And with the absence of the burning hatred comes the pain.

Hissing lowly she reaches for her side even as she doubles up, dismayed when her hand comes away with blood. Bother. (She really should have known, what with how it is feeling, but, well. She has always been better at drawing conclusions from others' emotions than at listening to her own.)

From the corners of her eyes she sees Azog's warg crouch, crude animals' emotions reaching her, but finds herself unable to react to it. (Shock, her mind helpfully provides her with an answer. Also, her hands are shaking and she is feeling faintly sick – though that is more likely due to having killed a living being, orc or no.)

Still, she is the only one standing, the last barrier between Thorin and the Pale Orc-

Dwalin's victorious ferocity and destructive anger explode against her mind much like Grasper slams into the White Warg's side.

Fíli and Kíli are not far behind him, their blades cutting a wide swathe through the mass of attackers, and Bilbo immediately takes advantage of the short respite, pressing her small hands against the wound at her side in an effort to staunch the bleed. The cut must be deeper than she originally thought, and were it not for all those fevered emotions – the pain would have been crippling, for a soft creature like her.

She hears Dwalin roar then, when an orc attempts to sneak past him and a distracted Bilbo (whose hands are coated in entirely too much blood when she cautiously pulls them away from her side once more) in order to attack Thorin.

She would have whipped around, too, to help him, her wound forgotten for the moment, were it not for the abrupt ray of hope from Gandalf drowning out even Ori and Dori's desperate panic, and the sudden appearance of emotions too grand and old to comprehend.

Staring thoughtlessly at the darkening sky, through the smoke and against the light of the moon, Bilbo spots the forms of giant Eagles and allows her shoulders to sag.

She tries to stumble over to Thorin, but huge claws close around her – and the small sword she barely has the presence of mind to grasp tightly with one hand, the other once more pressed against her side – before she manages to take even one step and lift her up, only to leave her falling but moments later.

Another powerful Eagle catches her easily, a calm focus of confident certainty suddenly at the forefront of her mind, and she allows it to blanket all other emotions, including her own. No matter her talent, or her experience (the Fell Winter is a memory she prefers to bury rather than think of, but one that does rear its ugly head from time to time), there is little control she can draw from when another's emotions are as wild and raw as those of her companions are right now.

Tiredly she allows the Eagles' unbroken serenity to drown both thought and emotion, pulling the handkerchief Bofur gave her all those weeks before from her pocket with shaking fingers and pressing it against her side even as she stares at the sky passing above her with blank, unseeing eyes.

So... what do you think?