Disclaimer: The Hobbit, all characters, places, and related terms are the sole property of J.R.R. Tolkien's estate, and Warner Brothers, New Line Cinema, Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, and WingNut Films.

Author's Note: Written as a fill for a prompt on the hobbit-kink meme. Takes place before the mountain pass and the goblins.

His Place

"Begging your pardon, Master Thorin, but I think ye are being too hard on the hobbit." The words come out in a rush as Bofur fidgets with his fur hat in his hands, trying to keep his frustration in check. Yet his gaze is steady when Thorin looks up from cleaning his sword at the edge of the camp.

"Indeed?" A raised eyebrow occupies the question. At the toymaker's firm nod, Thorin continues, "A member of the company is expected to keep up, do as told, not be a nuisance, not complain endlessly, and not to get into trouble."

Bofur takes a deep breath, his grip on his hat tightening, gathering his nerve. "Aye. And Bilbo has been trying. He now is good with riding his pony and with walking all day. He has caught on with the way things are done: setting up camp, preparing the meal, keeping watch. He has done well so far for being a hobbit."

"But he is not a dwarf. He has no place here."

"He helps keep the lads entertained. He has scoured edible plants for us. And he stalled for time with the trolls; I would not have thought of that. He is proving his worth," Bofur points out quietly. His ears turn red at Thorin's snort.

"That incident with the trolls—"

"Was not Bilbo's fault! Nor was today's mishap either."

Thorin shakes his head and frowns down at his sword. "Worthless hobbit unable to keep his footing or calm a spooked pony, and tumble down a hill. To panic for falling into a puddle…"

Bofur snaps heatedly, "Bilbo cannot swim, Thorin! It is a common way for halflings to accidentally die in the Shire."

Unbidden, the image of the lingering haunted, frightened look in the hobbit's brown eyes as he, wrapped in blankets before the campfire, was lifted onto the wizard's lap and promptly buried his face in the large grey beard comes to the toymaker's memory. It was that moment that proved to be the final straw, and he found himself marching over to his leader.

"He told you that?" Something unreadable flickers in Thorin's cool blue eyes.

"He did." Bofur wills himself to hold his leader's intense gaze.

Lowering his head, Thorin waves a hand in dismissal. "I will not waste any more words with you on the burglar."

A bitter chuckle escapes the miner. "No, ye have never taken the time to spare even one single civil word for our hobbit all these months! No praise when he does something right. No encouragement for trying, for asking. And yet he has followed ye, continues to follow ye! No, he is not a dwarf. No, he is not used to our way of living. Yet he remains! But do ye not think it possible his homesickness, struggling to do right, may be influenced by your treatment of him? Only putdowns, pointing out wrongs, claiming he does not belong is all ye have ever given him! Do not drive Bilbo to regret coming and decide turn back, not when we need him, when he is part of the company!"

The heavy, tense silence surrounds the whole camp, and Bofur realizes he did not take care with keeping his voice low. He senses the others' stares. But it is Thorin he remains focused on.

The prince's expression is thunderous (and Bofur imagines his is the same in its own way) as he glares up at the toymaker. "Enough" – the word is quiet. For the second time his hand motions dismissal.

This time Bofur obeys. He marches off into the woods, breath ragged, heart pounding, and anger and frustration swirling, not ready to face the rest of the company.

"It did no good," he tells himself, collapsing onto a rock a safe distance from camp and dropping his head into his hands. "Of course, it did not."

It had been that thought which had often quenched the idea of approaching Thorin about his behavior towards Bilbo in the past. He was stubborn, and a prince. Yet today Bofur had been so upset by his cutting remarks, uncaringness in face of the hobbit's genuine fear, that he had gathered his courage and spoken his mind.

And nothing will change.

The thought drains away his lingering anger and frustration, bringing in their place embarrassment and a sense of defeat. What will the others think of him…?

Eventually Bofur lifts his head, aware of the air turning chillier. Awkwardly brushing his hand over his wet cheeks, he slowly rises to his feet. Breathing in deeply, shakily, he returns to the campsite.

It is quiet and still, all having retired for the night except for Ori on first watch. Avoiding the lad's eye, Bofur silently walks to his bedroll and gets under the blanket. Sleep, sleep, he commands himself, trying to relax.

An immeasurable time later the toymaker feels a small, warm, un-dwarf like body press into his back. Swallowing thickly, he slowly looks over his shoulder. A pair of brown eyes – no longer haunted or frightened, and something in Bofur's chest uncoils – look back at him.

"Thank you."

"Ye are welcome. Tis what friends are for."

Bilbo's eyes widen, then light up. "You are my friend, too."

Bofur's cheeks dimple in a true, if surprised, smile. Turning his body to face the hobbit, he allows him to snuggle into his chest and rests his chin on the messy dark curls. Friends – the word wraps around him, and his smile remains as he closes his eyes.

THE END

Author's Note: It is hard to picture merry Bofur losing his temper; hopefully it came across as believable. And he and Bilbo are well on the way to becoming BFFs!