Prompt for the Feels for Fíli Art and Fic Mini Contest / #8 Release the Crack-en

Runner-up in the Feels for Fíli Art and Fic Mini Contest / #8 Release the Crack-en / Fic

This is un-beta'd.

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SAVE ALL YOUR KISSES FOR ME
Marigold Faucet

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inspired by true events

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Jóli likes to consider himself a good Dwarf.

A brave Dwarf.

The kind of Dwarf who wouldn't run from a fight, unless his opponent was Thorin—or Dwalin, and thinking about it, probably Balin too. If Jóli really thought about it (and that's the problem, his father would say, before knocking his sword from his hand, you think too much) he wouldn't much like to fight Glóin either or Óin or—or most of the mountain, if Jóli were to really, really think about it.

Which he does—frequently.

That doesn't make him coward. Rather Jóli is the kind to pick his battles carefully, preferring to fight Orcs, Goblins and small infant children—like Fíli, the perfect combination of all three at times. Dís would argue that Fíli takes after him in that regard and which Jóli would counter with something infallibly witty, resulting in either a bruised arm or a wholly sated wife.

And when Fíli is born, Dís swears she will cut Jóli's tongue out if he ever tries to be witty again.

She never follows through of course, for which Jóli is thankful, because Fíli is too beautiful and too perfect for either of them to ever regret bringing him into the world. Sure, he takes after his mother in appearance, with the exception of his hair and possibly his chin (which is still up for debate), and in temperament, but that is not what matters.

What matters is that Jóli likes to consider himself a good Dwarf.

A brave Dwarf.

Because Fíli makes him so.

He'll never be a grand hero, not like in the stories he reads to Fíli or the battle-hardened warriors who insist on raiding his kitchen every other evening (as if they have no homes of their own to go to), but he made peace with that a long time ago. He's had his taste of battle and bloodshed, six long and bitter years of it, but he'll fight if he has to—if he's asked to.

Or Fíli asks him to.

And Fíli does ask him to—a lot.

Where Jóli breezes through life with nary a concern (or so Dís claims), Fíli seems determined to make up for all the worry his father lacks, softly demanding Jóli check beneath the bed for gob-bins and ors with a quiet teese. Jóli doesn't mind, he never minds, heart swelling when Fíli beams at him pats the pillow beside him (barely talking, but still ordering him around with all the authority of a prince).

Yet no matter how many gob-bins and ors he frightens away, no matter how brave he truly is, nothing will stop Jóli from running—unless his legs have been chopped off, then he might crawl at a slow pace—to his wife when horribly wounded.

A broken nose is no exception.

Fíli trails helplessly behind him, Jóli clutching his nose as blood pours down his face and staining his shirt—his favourite shirt. He loved that shirt and he is sure it had loved him in return, all soft and comfortable, like a warm embrace you could wear all the time (if Dís would let him, but she had never liked Shirty—obviously jealous).

Dís frowns at him, the slight twitch of her lips betraying her amusement as surely as the raucous laughter of Thorin and Dwalin (and Jóli swears he can hear Balin laughing too) gives them away. Still, Dís has enough grace to refrain from laughing, guiding Jóli to a chair and handing him a cloth to stem the flow of blood. Fíli latches onto his leg and Jóli frown at him, eyes narrowed in accusation.

"He broke by nose," Jóli states miserably, frowning at how ridiculous his voice sounds (no wonder those fools are laughing), holding the cloth tenderly against his nose.

"I can see that," Dís says, voice carefully blank as she pinches his nose and tilts his head forehead. "And what were you doing that warranted such a violent reaction?"

Jóli looks up at her, cheeks flushing because it is so—so benign. "Kissing," he mumbles.

And it was kissing, proper Dwarvish kissing, though it started as wrestling; Jóli playing the mighty beast as Fíli slayed him again and again and again, with Thorin and Balin giving instructions every now and then. Fíli had him pinned when Dwalin had arrived, watching in fascination as Balin and Dwalin greeted each other in a way that would surely concuss a lesser Dwarf.

It was Balin who suggested Fíli give Jóli a proper kiss. About time he learned, Balin had claimed and Jóli will never admit that he had agreed (though he will deny this to his dying day), for if he had known what was to come, he would have moved out of the way and let Fíli kiss the floor instead.

But Jóli didn't, only smiled as Fíli pressed his tiny, little hands to his cheeks and enthusiastically bashed his forehead against Jóli's nose—breaking it.

"Oh, sanlulkhê," Dís bursts, smacking his head forehead when he tries to tilt it back. "Only you."

"Don'd you dare," Jóli cries, because he knows that tone. "Don'd you dare laugh!"

She tries at least, which Jóli appreciates, but it is not enough. "I'm sorry!" she laughs, so hard she has trouble keeping her breath. "I'm not—sorry—sorry."

"Id's nod funny," Jóli pouts, looking down at Fíli who stares tearfully back at him. "Fíli's nod laughing." he points.

"Fíli is terrified," Dís huffs, trying to catch her breath.

"Don'd know why," mutters Jóli. "By nose didn'd fighd back."

"Because he hurt his Da," Dís says, slapping him on the shoulder. "Well, that and you shrieked—"

"—in a bery banly fashion—"

"—loud enough bring down the mountain." she smiles.

"Id hurd," Jóli cries, tilting his head up. "A lod." he adds, frowning. "I don'd dink you're being bery sybpadedic."

"You frightened my son," Dís counters, slapping Jóli's head back down. "That is unforgivable."

"He broke by nose," he whines.

Dís sighs, running her fingers through his hair. "It was an accident."

"I know," Jóli concedes, closing his eyes. "I blabe Dwalin and Balin—all deir broderly head budding." he shouts, loud enough to be heard and hear him they do, their laughter doubling in intensity—Jóli sincerely hopes they all choke. "Don'd led dem near our nexd child, dey're a derrible influence."

Then, resting his hand on Fíli's head, he softly adds, "Id's doo lade for Fíli, bud we can do bedder nexd dime!"

Dís rolls her eyes with a smile. "Stop being so overdramatic," she says.

"I'b disfigured for life!" Jóli cries.

"You're fine," Dís laughs, gently taking Jóli's hand and moving it away from his nose. "See, the bleeding has stopped and there's no sign of crookedness."

"I know when you're lying," Jóli says, tentavily touching his nose, flinching at the pain. "You habe a cobplex series of dells, none of which you habe done, bud I'b sdill working deb all oud."

"Honestly," Dís cries, throwing her arms up in a huff, her smile betraying her amusement yet again. "Console your son while I find something to clean your face with."

"Do I habe do?" Jóli groans, frowning at Fíli who is still tightly clamped around his leg. "I'b da wounded pardy, he should be consoling be seeing as you're doing a derrible job ad id yourself."

"Jóli?" Dís responds sharply. "Console. Your. Son."

"Fine!" Jóli bites back, leaning down to pick up Fíli and set him on his lap. "Now, by liddle gobin—"

"Jóli!" Dís shouts.

"Fíli," Jóli sighs dramatically, grinning at Fíli's wide eyed guilt. "Ghibashel, I'b nod angry, I probise." he smiles and Fíli smiles too, careful and unsure. "You jusd habe do be gendle and nod lisden do anyding Balin dells you eber again."

"I'm sure Balin would love to hear you say that to his face," Dís says, coming back with a steaming bowl and wet cloth.

"By face is ruined because of hib and his broder," Jóli says, sucking in a breath as Dís carefully cleans the blood from his face, before moving onto his beard. The laughter has stopped, thank Mahal, but he's still rather mad—arses, the lot of them. "And Dorin doo, if we're going do drow blabe around."

Dís shakes her head, bemused. "Your face is fine."

"By repudation den—dey will neber led be hear da end of dis," Jóli laments. "Defeaded by a kiss." he sighs. "I can sdill here deb laughing—make deb sdop, you frighden deb."

"I will, I promise," Dís replies, a wide smile spreading across her face. "As soon as I stop laughing."

"I don'd bind you laughing," Jóli winks at her, because she is so very beautiful when she laughs. "Bud Dorin laughing is abnorbal, I dought his face would crack and fall off if he dried."

"Clearly seeing you in pain is enough to humour even His Royal Haughtiness," Dís smiles, pressing a careful kiss to his forehead as she goes to dispose of the bloody cloths. "Besides, it's nice to hear him laugh." she throws over her shoulder. "Fíli did a good job in that respect."

"I suppose he's cude and kind of funny," Jóli muses, cocking his head to the side and poking his tongue out at Fíli, making him giggle. "He'll be a sdrong warrior ad leasd—nod doo brighd, bud whad could we expecd? He does dake afder you."

"Insulting your wife and nurse will do you more ill than good," Dís responds, poking him in the face.

"I'b hoping you'll burder be and spare be da shabe," he says.

"You are a child," Dís laughs.

"Ab nod!" Jóli cries, affronted. "I ab a banly, banly Dwarf."

"Who squalls like a babe at the slightest hurt," she says.

"You wound be," Jóli gasps. "Id albosd hurds as buch as dis."

"Fíli," Dís smiles sweetly. "Why don't you kiss your 'adad's nose better?"

Fíli looks apprehensive and Jóli is sure his panic is etched so clearly on his face that if Thorin and the others were to see, their laughter would begin anew, but then Fíli carefully presses two small hands to Jóli's cheeks and—

"Gendly," Jóli cries, moving his head back. "Gendly!"

—ever so softly taps Jóli's nose with his forehead.

He'll deny this too, but the action is so tender that it almost—almost—makes him cry (and not because it feels as if his face is on fire).

Dís smiles at them both fondly, sending Jóli off to change his shirt (and she promises to do her best to salvage it, but Jóli holds little hope), Fíli following close behind. He changes his shirt with great care, mindful of his swollen nose and the washes the rest of the blood from his beard and chest. He takes his time, the throbbing pain of a headache settling in the space behind his eyes, listening to Fíli babble away.

(Its calming in its own special way.)

"How's your face?" Thorin asks him when Jóli and Fíli finally remerge.

"Sdill beaudiful and a dabn sighd bedder dan yours," Jóli quips, sitting down and setting Fíli in his lap.

"You're more nose than Dwarf," Thorin snorts (and Jóli envies that Thorin can do that without pain).

"Jusd beans dere's bore of id's beaudy do adbire," Jóli shrugs, grinning painfully wide when Fíli chimes in with an enthusiastic yeah. "Don'd be jealous, id's unbecoming of royaldy."

Jóli was right when he said they would never left him hear the end of it, Balin at least feeling somewhat guilty and subdued in his teasing. Thorin and Dwalin however seem fit to laugh themselves silly before the night is through, both slightly drunk and assured of their own hilarity.

As if he wasn't suffering enough!

Soon enough though he finds himself dozing, whimpering pathetically at the chaste kisses Dís presses to his lips when he had been hoping for something more substantial (and maybe a new baby), Fíli sound asleep on his chest with his hand wrapped tightly around Jóli's finger.

And as Dís quietly ushers their guests out of the room, Jóli finally succumbs to sleep, distractedly musing that at least it will be a good story to tell Fíli one day when he's older.

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(Jóli never does get the chance to tell Fíli the story, but that doesn't mean Fíli is never told. It's not until they are at Beorn's, all the more closer to Erebor, that it finally comes out.

It only takes nearly breaking Thorin's nose with a door.)

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Fin.

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Khuzdul:

ghivashel / treasure of all treasures

sanlulkhê / my perfect fool