honorbound_heir: (Firelight.)
Thorin II Oakenshield ([personal profile] honorbound_heir) wrote in [community profile] middlemuses2016-04-11 09:59 pm

I live for the nights I can't remember

CHARACTERS: [personal profile] experting & [personal profile] honorbound_heir
DATE: Continuing from this post.
WHERE: Camping out somewhere past Bree on the East-West Road.
SUMMARY: Most of the old Company plus several dozen newcomers are on their way back to Erebor, and now that the entire group has been reunited, it seems like a good idea to break out the good ale and make a party of it now before the roads get more uncertain.
WARNING(S): Drunken shenanigans are likely to abound, but nothing tooo crazy. (... I think?)



[ There are times when Thorin is reminded, very strongly, that this journey is not like his last. Not even like the one that brought him out this far once again, where he had much of the same company as before. It had been less eventful, if anything, with less knowledge and resulting interest in his travel than they had been subjected to before. The fact that the King of Erebor was out and about on the roads was only heard of in rumors, and even those tended to lag far behind his actual presence. The news of a large group of dwarves traveling east, however, is not a secretive affair, but that much is not necessarily a problem. Even if the goblins had recovered enough to cause them significant trouble, it's unlikely that such a large group would make it past the elvish settlements on both sides of the Misty Mountains. No, Thorin is not expecting any significant trouble. Not until they get much farther east.

Which is why he has allowed the younger members of their group to break out the kegs they've brought along, and throw something of an impromptu party at their encampment just past the last town they're going to see for some time. (He's definitely not making a stop in Rivendell this time, not unless forced to due to unforeseen difficulties.) They're still within the borders of the lands that the rangers patrol on a regular basis, regardless, so it's probably the best place to get all of that excess excitement out of their systems. They've staked out an encampment in a small valley near the road, low enough to make their campfires harder to see from a distance - and he has a full-time watch going that has decent visibility on the landscape around them.

There's plenty of food and ale to go around, and though they have no tables, the dwarves seem to make do just fine with convenient rocks, and whatever else they can balance a plate on. Mugs and plates are passed around the campfires with ease, and there's singing, and even some dancing as the clear sky above them begins to sparkle with stars. Thorin manages to excuse himself from the chaos fairly early, after having a few drinks and enough to eat, but he's not going too far. Instead he settles down near his bedroll with one last mug of ale, leaning back against a boulder as he watches the party continue on without him, further along down the way. He's keeping an eye on Bilbo, in particular, as the hobbit is lacking for nothing as far as companionship - he's almost a celebrity of sorts - and some of the younger dwarves, especially, have a habit of drinking a little too much.

... What he's not exactly aware of is the fact that after he left they broke out the stronger drink.

It is late enough, though, that most of the more boisterous revelry is settling down into quieter groups, with the drunker set finally settling in to pass out for the rest of the night. The last of the food that's been set out will doubtless be finished off by midnight, and what's left of the ale put away for another time. It will be some time, still, before the last of the fires are put out, however, and Thorin will likely be awake far past that, as usual. He's smoking his pipe, and looking contemplative as he studies the night sky over them, though still casting a watchful eye over the now quieter milling of the crowd. ]


experting: (⊚ so i'm here)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-12 04:47 am (UTC)(link)
[ Whoever has been spreading stories about him and, and exaggerating them to the point that the younger ones feel something akin to wonder when looking at him, well, those fib-tellers need to stop. It's overwhelming. Embarrassing. To think that he, a simple Baggins, would be a center of some grand tale, bah. Least to say, the whirlwind of meeting dwarf after dwarf after dwarf, who all apparently have some preconceived ideas of who he is, has been... enlightening. Tiring? Yes, most definitely tiring. In what followed, he may have spent a great deal of energy in glaring at his best guessed culprits, but unfortunately for Bilbo, the ire of a hobbit does not have the strength to endure and he inevitably settles into the joined company, albeit a touch timidly at first.

But then there's ale. And food. And more ale.

Hobbits are creatures of comfort and there is no simpler comfort than that of a good meal and a bottomless flask. Bilbo can hold his own well enough and has, on occasion, with visits to the Green Dragon, but the mix is, of course, different than what he's accustomed to in the Shire, with a potency that's stronger than he ought to have given it credit for. He indulges. And indulges some more. The fact that those around him seem especially keen to ensure he is never left wanting only contributes to him always having an ale in hand. And really, by the end of it, he's not all that concerned anymore about what stories have been circulating about him. In fact, it's rather humorous. Everything is rather humorous now that he thinks about it. Sitting there on a log, he finds himself grinning faintly and quietly – at first – snickering to himself. He shifts though and then there's a lapse that has him leaning back some, which is – somehow – too much, and he just about loses his balance, but then the dwarf beside him – bother, now what is his name again? – gives him a helpful slap to right him forward.

Oh. Yes. Thank you.

… Did he say that aloud? He hopes he did, because he surely owes what's-his-name his gratitude. ]
—Thank you. [ By the look and the following laugh, Bilbo slowly realizes that, yes, he probably already said it once. Ah, well. He looks to the fire then and seeing the flicker of color suddenly gives him the idea that he is very much too warm. Skin flushed in a way more attributed to overzealous drinking, Bilbo feels... clammy. Constricted. Broken, disjointed thoughts can only see the warmth of the fire being to blame, so of course the obvious solution is to leave...? Yes. That sounds correct. Except, where is he meant to go?

Planning is not his strong suit at the moment and the inner wondering is forgotten within the next breath. Instead, he merely pushes himself to weak legs and as compromised as his proper sensibilities are, he thinks nothing of placing a hand to what's-his-name's shoulder to steady his footing. He's still clinging to his cup as he – eventually – sets to walking, or perhaps stumbling is the better word. At first sight of a dwarf without a cup though, Bilbo presses his own into his grip, pats his hands, as though encouraging him to take the drink, and then he mumbles something about that being a good lad. Even though, chances are, the dwarf is Bilbo's senior. Nonetheless, that's no matter because he's walking, yes walking. To... to...?

His bedroll? Now where has he placed that...

Probably further away from all the noise? Somewhere with, with privacy. Being rolled over on by the allotment of dwarves sounds quite uncomfortable, so surely he would have tried to avoid that. The reasonings are, honestly, not even that clear. It's more of a steady thought of away that has him heading for the outskirts and the light of a pipe in the dark. Thorin. And just like that, he feels warm again. Giddy on a feeling that has the tips of his fingers tingling and his steps growing messier in the way they stomp over twigs and brush. ]
There you are. [ Syllables a tad slower than normal and twisted in a way that's all too telling, Bilbo is, in a word, oblivious to it, merely coming to a stop. Wavers, sways, as though his body can't comprehend the need to pause. ] I've been—... looking for you? [ No he hasn't. He hasn't? What was he looking for then? Thorin seems like an appropriate thing to go looking for, if he does say so himself. ]
experting: (⊚ POUT)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-12 03:06 pm (UTC)(link)
[ The blanket makes a good, comfortable seat and leaning into the stone behind him is... cold, but nice. He's still rather warm afterall. So he sits there quietly and sips at the canteen, even though he's had his fill of liquids by now. However, if Thorin's urging him to do something, well, he thinks it's best to do as he says, right? His head bobbles briefly, slightly on that thought and then he takes another gulp. For a handful of moments, the steady restlessness is quelled and he's just beginning to bask in the smell of pipe-smoke and thought of Thorin within reach, when there's words once more and... stories?

Oh. Oh. Yes, those silly stories about him that are entirely hilarious in their preposterousness. He remembers now. Except—the sudden smile just as quickly loses its strength and he's left with a frown. Blame? Why would he want to blame Balin for giving rise to them? He turns his head, still resting on the stone, and stares over at Thorin with an unfocused and embarrassingly clueless gaze. But the thoughts are churning in his head, slowly, but with enough efficiency that the pocket of memory does come to him a moment later. Wait. That's right. He doesn't like the stories? No he doesn't. He hated them before becoming distracted with food and drink and the general merriness of everyone around him.

Yes. Yes so he should most definitely blame Balin.

He raises his head and then lets it dip forward, down, eyeing the canteen between his hands. ]
Balin. [ Just his name but amongst the syllables, there's a harshness that can only mean Bilbo will share words, many words, with Balin once they reach Erebor. A huff follows. Then he sets the canteen down – drops it is more accurately – and then twists in his seat, turning his body to tilt more toward Thorin. Shoulder angled uncomfortably against the stone, Bilbo doesn't seem to mind, not when he can wriggle and press one flushed cheek to the cool surface. ] Thorin. [ Frowns. ] Thorin. You're the King. Can't you order them to, to forget such nonsense?
experting: (⊚ feel my brain cells dying as you talk)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-13 03:53 am (UTC)(link)
[ Oh, is Thorin trying to have an intelligent conversation here? Best of luck. It's right around avalanche that Bilbo's severely compromised attention wavers and loses the thread, the meaning of such words fading to make room for a distant realization that Thorin is, indeed, making some sort of point. Bilbo thinks he knows what it is, but then again... – what were they talking about? Oh yes. The stories. They ought to put a stop to that. Wait. That's right, he wants to – and he said so too – but Thorin refuses, because small shifts and avalanches and these things cannot be forgotten.

Bother; a dwarf intending to be stubborn, imagine that.

He exhales. The first two words of his rebuttal knit together in his head and he's onto his third, but then there's a neither will he forget and Bilbo shifts in the following quiet, squinting with a bit of scrutiny. He's suddenly at an impasse on how to react. Not that he truly even realizes there's options. Instead, he seems to... stop; quiet in the following beat and making no indication of responding, he merely watches Thorin, face still caught somewhere in the midst of displeasure and confusion. Argue? What's he going to argue? The stories, yes – why does he have such trouble remembering that? He could. He should. Misconception ought to be corrected and quickly too before it spreads beyond irreversibility, but the surety of his need for order and reputation is numbed out and with how quickly his thoughts seem to be drifting in favor of more pleasant avenues, it's really no wonder he forgets to keep pushing.

The squint and the mild wrinkle to his nose relaxes, and just like that, everything flips. There's a smile and back is that affectionateness made bold by ale and merry company. Clearly – or perhaps not so clearly, even though it seems especially clear to Bilbo that such a statement from Thorin requires an equal one in return. Ah, yes, so—clearly, Bilbo's found something favorable in all that and he reaches out, to unceremoniously plop his palm on Thorin's forearm. No meaningful squeeze or jovial shake, just... his hand there. ]
And I will not be forgetting what you've done for me. [ Annnnd... pat pat. There's a solemn sort of seriousness to those vaguely slurred words, as though he truly feels some sort of depth for the moment, but the fact that he pats once, twice more at Thorin's arm before drawing back adds an air of ridiculousness that really does him no favors.

What's he even talking about anyway? Well. Thorin saved his life. Perhaps not as many times as Bilbo ended up saving him – ha – but well... Thorin took him on an adventure and now he's taking him on another and... that's good. That means a lot. Really it does. Oh no. ]


You're such a dear friend. [ This is super important, okay? It's important that Thorin understand, because he's very dear and important and Bilbo doesn't think he's ever told him that? Or has he? … He might have? Well, he certainly hasn't said it lately. And that's quite rude of him not to let Thorin know. Because he should know. Yes. ] Have I ever told you how dear you are to me?
experting: (⊚ i'll rob you blind later)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-13 04:58 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Ah, Thorin's of the perceptive kind, that's quite good. There should be some semblance of surprise, Bilbo thinks, at the idea of Thorin and perceptiveness going hand in hand, but he's already relaxing, seemingly content to accept that he will not have to elaborate. Thorin does though. At another time with a far clearer mind, the fondness would not have been lost on him and Bilbo, well, he probably would have sputtered and fiddled and found something incredibly sweet – and possibly embarrassing – about telling smiles and Thorin measuring the affection embedded there. Even the hasty grab for ale might have aided in endearing Thorin that much more to him, but thoughts still murky and weighed down to the point that judgment is slowed and abandoned for far simpler, superficial observations, the depth is lost on him. Instead, he furrows his brow and takes it, almost, somewhat, literally. ] Do I?

[ He leans back then and shifts to face forward once more, shoulders knocking to the stone. He looks down the length of his nose, as though trying to see this smile of his and smiling wider after a moment, then wider still after another, aiding himself for a sight that he'll never accomplish. That doesn't seem to detour him, though thankfully he relaxes his mouth, and breathes out, laughing lightly. ] Goodness, I had no idea. To think it's as clear as that.

[ Fascinated, that's the only way to describe it. See, he's pressing his fingers to his mouth now, touching the end curl and then tracing it around to follow the line of his smile, only to huff one, short exhale of amusement at whatever meaning he finds there. He repeats the motion a second time, quirking his lips higher and begins to wonder if each one is different. They should be, right? That would make sense. Perhaps he should ask Thorin? Thorin does indeed seem to know more about his smiles than even he does; ha, how unusual.

… Only Thorin knows, right?

His fingers pause and slowly he finds a curious, albeit perplexed frown as he stares at the outstretch of his feet. It's of no matter, really – the fact that he's sitting over here in the dark, on the edge of camp is more telling of how much favor Thorin has – but suddenly, knowing the extent of transparency there is in his expressions is of some importance. The most importance. If he remembers come morning, of having a conversation with Thorin about his smiles, he's going to walk himself off a cliff, watch. ]
Do you think every one can see? [ And he's actually bothered to lower his voice. He doesn't mean now of course, though he does press his knuckles to his mouth as he, briefly, glances toward camp. Does everyone know Thorin is the dearest of the dear? ]
experting: (⊚ i'm a statue)

i'm just going to assume a bunch of stuff.

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-13 09:56 pm (UTC)(link)
[ He lowers his fist from his mouth and there, his gaze is back to Thorin, the forced concentration pinching his brows. Huh? That's right, yes, he does know how boisterous and physical dwarven expression is. Why, usually Bilbo has to painstakingly spell out his explanations in order to get that group of numbskulls to understand. Thorin is one of the few that seems to have any sense amongst them, although, Balin does surpass him quite easily, but Balin is on a level all his own when it comes to knowing. ] Oh. Oh good. [ The following sigh seems to release whatever tension there is left in him and his body slumps against stone, a faint curve returning to his mouth. ] That's very good.

[ And he's quiet after that. The need to babble subsides – at least for a short while – and he finds reason for peace. So he sits there slumped against the stone, occasionally side-glancing to eye the pipe and the play of smoke, but for the most part, he stares at his feet, alternating between the barely there motion of rocking them side to side and wriggling a few toes. Steadily, his eyelids droop, half-lidded and perhaps edging on drowsy, however, there's still enough energy to him that Thorin will not be saved from his ridiculous company any time soon.

In fact, it's not too long until that lull breaks with a shift. And then another. He straightens his spine, sitting higher to chase that mild, very mild twinge between his shoulder-blades, but the agitation has begun and Bilbo's not of the mind to ignore even the smallest of disturbances. Grumbling nonsensically, he twists and pats his hand against the stone, thinking perhaps, that it can be made more comfortable that way. Why are they even sitting against a boulder anyway? There are far more comfortable places to sit. Or, or to lay down. Oh, laying down would be far more preferable.

… This seems familiar. As though he's already meant to do this, but has become... distracted? That's right. Earlier, he'd been in search of his bedroll and he came this way to find... Thorin? Yes. No. Thorin simply happened to be here and his bedroll is...

Right over there.

It looks different. Not that bedrolls have any particular design beyond canvas and wool, but distantly, he marvels at it appearing larger than he remembers. But concerns are really unsuited for him right now and he goes about pushing himself to his feet without further ado, which, of course, requires him to borrow Thorin's shoulder. Thank you. He bends down – thankfully not stumbling – and grabs the blanket, seemingly uncaring as it unfolds to leave part of it dragging as he walks the very short distance to the bedroll. His bedroll. Flops down, sighs and stretches out; ah yes, better, much better. ]
experting: (⊚ commence fake acting)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-14 12:37 am (UTC)(link)
[ The blanket is a problem at first. Hm, perhaps he should have righted it and spread it before collapsing. So there's some kicking of his feet as he coaxes the rest of fabric to unfold and cover his toes. Once properly set, he grasps the edge and bundles it up below his chin as he rolls to his side and loosely curls. Comfortable? Ha. The memory of his soft, airy mattress with its finely woven blankets and assortment of pillows makes him physically ache, but he can almost appreciate the improvements this time.

The bedding is still thin, but not as skimped as before; a touch thicker, maybe, and made of something softer than the rough threading of before. The ground is mostly level from what he can tell, though it does dip down toward his toes. Ground is still ground though and it does not give in the way he wants it to. Whatever heartiness he once acquired over long months of travel has softened with comfortable living and that initial bliss of stretching out drains from him, leaving mounting unease in its wake. Which, ordinarily, he would stubbornly keep to himself and maintain all airs of being fine and this being quite agreeable indeed and yes, thank you...

But his tongue is made looser. Franker. And he grumbles. ]
No. [ He buries half his face into the wadded cloth meant to be his pillow, stills, and then promptly decides he doesn't like that. So lifts his head and flops it back down, finding a slightly different angle that isn't quite wanted, but doesn't entirely bother his neck.

All the while, he stares over at Thorin and quickly finds problem with that too. When the question comes, there is a ring of genuine confusion underlying it, but there's a much heavier dose of huffiness that weighs it out. ]
Why are you so far? [ Because he, himself, climbed to his feet and went about walking away. He realizes the cause, truly he does, but at the same time, he doesn't. All he knows is that he rather enjoyed sitting beside Thorin and even though he's lying down now, there's no reason that Thorin shouldn't still be right here, sitting close and ready to provide his much desired company.

… They aren't even far, honestly. Sure, if Bilbo were to uncurl his fingers and flop a hand forward, he would, in fact, not be able to reach Thorin, and there would still be some distance there. Which is apparently what he's found issue with and good luck to anyone wanting to reason with him. ]
experting: (⊚ i hate them all)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-14 02:48 am (UTC)(link)
[ … It's rather embarrassing how heavily his mood hinges on Thorin. Well, clearly it isn't embarrassing now, at least not for Bilbo, but perhaps later, much later, he'll cover his face and groan at how utterly rotten he's being, more or less demanding Thorin move a few feet to appease him. For now, he's rather content. Blissful even. Though, of course, there's still a span of space between the edge of the bedroll and Bilbo, which is synonymous with distance still remaining from Thorin to Bilbo.

… He'll take care of that.

He scoots and scoots and eventually settles, edging right on the rim and nearly finding his nose pushed into dirt. Retucks the pillow and recurls his body, scrunching about as close to that folded leg as he can without actually spilling off the bedroll and there, done. Perfect. Well, not perfect, he knows that, but it'll do. He breathes in and then exhales, lips quirking at the familiar scent of pipeweed and leather, and he thinks, maybe, if he concentrates hard enough, he can feel the radiating warmth of being close again. The ground still digs in and tweaks the line of his body in ways that will give rise to aching joints, but he is almost comfortable. Almost.

He still can't imagine growing used to this though. Sheer exhaustion had been the greatest contribution to his supposed adjusting before. So the knowledge of a nice bed waiting for him is grand and all, but that's a reward made true only— ]
After weeks and weeks and weeks... [ So it hardly helps soothe him. Not that he needs much soothing anymore, if the faint smile is any indication. There's amusement in that too. Distant, but there, the mutters having trailed off into a breathy laugh. But then he lets his eyes slip closed and he tries burying part of his face into the pillow once more, voice drawing out on a hum.

Even with long travel ahead and horrid sleeping accommodations all around— ]
I'm still glad I followed you. [ And it's possibly the drink—no no, it's most definitely the drink, that has him babbling and so very greedy for closeness. All of which leads to a yawn and him blindly reaching forward to pat, then settle against Thorin's thigh. Fingers grasp and then he's merely holding onto a pinch of fabric, seemingly needing an anchor and reassurance that Thorin will stay. ] I would follow you anywhere.
experting: (⊚ charmed I'M SURE)

tl;dr bilbs falls asleep. sry it's boring LMAO

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-14 05:08 am (UTC)(link)
[ He cracks open an eye at the added weight, but otherwise makes no acknowledgment for it. It's not from lack of interest, it's mere inability to process and between the stubborn grip of his fingers and the following confessions, his addled mind overwhelms on each. Lost, hm. Usually, his modesty would kick in and all instances confirming such a statement would be conveniently forgotten on his part. Sputtering, vehemently shaking his head and declining, yes, that's more the avenues he would take in hopes of turning any such unneeded credit away from himself.

However, for how foggy his thoughts are, they can be oddly clear in the fact that he doesn't circle and backtrack and reconsider, thus confusing himself in the very same process. Instead, the statement is what it is and it's... true. He saved Thorin's life. Rescued him from a dungeon. Found the secret keyhole. Aided in the gold sickness...? Maybe. That debacle is still a sore spot that always leaves him regretful and contemplative on whether or not his method had been worth the fallout.

But his thoughts don't travel quite that far and he's left with his good mood. He offers nothing more than a drowsy, answering hum, the words he means to say, that he will always find him, requiring too much concentration and coordination from his rapidly declining ability to do anything other than breathe in, breathe out and maintain his grip. But even that wavers and with parting strength, he brings his hand back in, rejoining the other to grasp at the coat and hug it close. The scent is comforting. Familiar. It's so very Thorin. It reminds him of being pulled in close and held against a large, solid frame. The scent, the warmth, it's like being wrapped up in Thorin and he's giddy on a feeling he doesn't know how to place or name.

But it's soothing, so very soothing, and if the thought of being held in one of Thorin's hugs isn't a pleasant image the have when drifting off, Bilbo can't say what is. In fact, he can't say anything at all, for his features relax and there, he's lost to the waking world, blissfully unaware of the horrors that await come morning. ]
experting: (⊚ oh gawd it's all coming back to me)

HE TOUCHED HIS HAIR. /still going on about that.

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-15 02:30 am (UTC)(link)
[ Perhaps his internal clock, already set for early rising, is still stubbornly working despite the copious amounts of alcohol of the previous night. Or maybe he knows, on some subconscious level, that something so very essential to his comfort has been removed. That someone has left. Either way, it isn't much later that he begins to stir.

When Bilbo comes to, it's to the vow of never partaking in dwarven festivities ever again. What starts as a faint ache upon first waking, needles deeper as awareness slowly returns to him and soon, he's nursing the dull throb between his temples that creeps down to the base of his skull until his head feels overstuffed and near bursting. He clenches his eyes closed, hoping to forcibly block out such annoyances, however, it does him little good. If anything, the prolonged focus works against him and whether it's his imagination or truth, the method makes it feel worse. Sigh. Travel today will be very enjoyable indeed, he can already see that. And what else can he see? Well...

He pushes himself up, marginally, just enough that he's still half-reclined but can toss a slow, cautious glance around the immediate area. Huh, at least he had enough sense to drag his bedroll somewhere away from the pile of dwarves and supply. Not too far of course, but there's plenty of space around him to grant him some semblance of peace and privacy, enough so that the turmoil that's been there since waking begins to lull ever so slightly. That's doesn't last long though, because then he's carefully sitting upright. Despite the care he maintains in easing himself into motion, the rush still floods his senses and the moment of pounding and pain has him leaning forward, hands coming up to cradle his head. Bother, just... bother. It passes soon – though in Bilbo's opinion, not soon enough – and he cracks open his eyes, staring down at his lap and—... that's not a blanket. It is familiar though. It almost looks like...

Oh.

No, it can't be. Hands drop and waver, hover, even now hesitating before finding the gumption to pluck at the coat, turn it this way and that, and conclude that of course it's Thorin's. That's... fine, he thinks. Embarrassing, because Thorin probably had little choice but to come to Bilbo's aid, what with him foolishly deciding to drag his bedroll over here, so far from the fire and combined heat of close, slumbering bodies. He's still rather unsuited for travel, but he's hoped not to be a burden as he once was in the early weeks of the quest. Grumbling, he pinches the bridge of his nose and clenches his eyes, the headache briefly outdone by the weight of embarrassment. While undeniably kind, the gesture is entirely unwanted. Or well... not unwanted. Just...

He chews on his bottom lip, tracing his fingers over a line of stitching and... that's enough of that. Clearing his throat, he swipes a touch at his cheek, feeling a touch warm—... which is not unusual, when he's stuck under all these layers. Yes, that's it. Ignoring the ever present desire to bury his head into the pillow and never wake again, he throws off the covers and pushes himself to – slightly – unsteady feet. Best plan of action would be to fix up his bedroll and go about returning Thorin's coat before too many of the others wake to bear witness. No many seem to be milling about just yet, not with the darkened sky only just beginning to lighten; there's Dwalin and... well, of course there's Thorin already up. So he, yes, he should... get to doing all that. But when he turns and looks down?

No.

It isn't immediate but there's a dawning horror that the bedroll is not as it should be. It's larger. Better made, as though actually designed for extensive travel. And he just knows that it has to be Thorin's. What, what happened last night? Bits and pieces are there for him to access, and true, the gaps are slowly filling in as he comes back to himself, but the memories have yet to sharpen entirely. He feels a bit... panicky? Why? It's Thorin. It's... fine. Perfectly fine. He just needs to get this sorted right now and then he'll sort the rest of everything later. Yes. So he does that. Rolls the bedroll, fastens it, and then folds up the coat with a detached sort of awareness that's actually quite efficient. Quick even. It's only when he's done, staring down at the roll and holding the tight, fold of the coat to his chest that he finds himself at a loss again. Should he wait here or should he go to Thorin?

… Going to Thorin to return his things would be far more polite but... – he's rather fond of stalling too. So. Hm. Um? ]
experting: (⊚ you're welcome BITCH)

... someone will "remember" later.

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-15 04:34 am (UTC)(link)
[ Seems the decision is made for him. Of course, that means he's been allowed next to no time to scrounger up a plan on how to approach what, in his mind, is a near disaster of impropriety, but it's probably for the best that they get this done quickly. No sense in shuffling their feet and waiting for more ears to listen in. Not that there's going to be anything worth listening to. It's just a coat. And a bedroll. And…— wait, what? ] Oh.

[ … So is that what they're doing? Ignoring the bedroll at his feet and the coat folded against his chest? ] Um. Yes, all right. [ Honestly, he'd rather avoid pouring any more dwarven concoctions down his throat, especially when he's in little mood to face anyone's judgment other than his own. He thinks, maybe, he can survive the day without aid, and between the mix of stubbornness and embarrassment he's currently harboring, there might truly be the strength needed to toil through the pain; somehow, he finds that much more agreeable. But maybe. Maybe he'll talk to Dís.

Right now, there's far more pressing matters. Though, are they really not going to talk about it? Perhaps Thorin's waiting for him to say something about it first? That's... fair, he supposes. Afterall, it's Bilbo's fault. Still, he's grown accustomed to the special brand of dwarven tact, or better yet, lack thereof and while he's hardly expected Thorin to cut all pretenses and demand his things back, the moment spent instead on what could almost be dubbed concern – in a roundabout way, at least – for his splitting headache throws him off. It's hardly polite conversation. Even if drunken merriment is common enough in the Shire, having morning conversations about it, even the methods to do away with it, are usually avoided. Nonetheless, it makes him think of, well, manners and familiar pleasantries and the kind of fleeting inquiries that can only be called sociable.

So still unmoved from his spot, still hugging the coat, he stares over at Thorin and tries to imitate the same cool, rather detached composure. ]
… Did you sleep all right? [ He holds steady for one breath and then, there, done, everything collapses. Brows bunch, nose wrinkles and there's a tight, twist of his lips, the displeasure far too potent, especially in the swift— ] Of course you didn't. How could you? [ He's speaking to Thorin, obviously, but the way he glares at the ground and the rough, deprecating tone makes it seem as though he's reprimanding no one other than himself.

He sighs, looks to Thorin and he almost grows smaller in the moment, his body hunching just the slightest bit. ]
I'm sorry. I didn't mean to take your bedroll. [ Pause. Think. Well. ] Or… maybe I did, I don't rightly remember, but I'm certain I would have left it alone if I'd had any sense. [ He's babbling, even he can see that and he has to huff and shake his head and oh, that's a mistake. None of that. No. ]
experting: (⊚ SO UNSURPRISED)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-15 05:39 pm (UTC)(link)
[ He is eager to give it up. And he's not meaning to hold it hostage – goodness, of all things – but it goes without saying, that he's somewhat distracted at the moment. Holding it occupies his hands, saving the both of them from needless, frantic gestures, and all right, hugging it seems to bring him a level of comfort that keeps him from completely letting these ideas run away from him. He does catch that though. The way Thorin drops his gaze for a pointed, extended look at the folded mass is an impossible detail to miss. That, added with two, frank explanations, quell the chaos of his worries and drain the fight, leaving a suddenly quieter, more obedient Bilbo in the following moment.

He frowns, shies his gaze to the ground, feeling a newfound sense of mortification for making such a fuss over something Thorin sees as irrelevant. ]
I, ah, no I suppose not. [ In his mind, Thorin's ability to push him out or simply pick him up and drop him somewhere else does not make his thievery any less regretful, but he does count it as a blessing that Thorin hadn't plucked him up. That may have been the slightest bit more humiliating.

Ah well. Best to finish this.

Sucking in a steadying breath, he then goes about crossing the distance between them. Coming to a stop in front of him, Bilbo holds out the coat for him to take, not quite meeting his eyes. ]
Thank you. [ Despite his earlier fussing, there is genuine gratitude there. Soft, perhaps even the tiniest bit shy, but then a moment passes and he can't silence the need to throw out— ] Even though there surely hadn't been need to sacrifice your coat too. [ It can almost be called a reprimand, especially with the pointed look he gives Thorin. Letting him make himself nice and comfortable in the wrong bedroll, fine, but giving him the coat too? Nonsensical. ]
experting: (⊚ who ordered a dash of hope?)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-15 09:05 pm (UTC)(link)
[ Ah yes, Bilbo does realize that Thorin is quite... purposeful. Every word measured, every nuance of expression controlled; the conscious decision behind Thorin's every motion is something Bilbo has marveled over – and more commonly, frustrated over. So no, it's not truly nonsensical. It's simply easier to brush it off as just another ridiculous, dwarven decision, rather than to analyze it, nitpick it, and wonder what thoughts would have driven Thorin to shed his own coat for him. Even if Bilbo had shivered and – inwardly groaning right about now – complained, Bilbo thinks Thorin, who never settles for the easy route, would have toiled over finding another blanket, rather than immediately surrender his coat. So why had Thorin settled? What reason had pushed him to sacrifice his own comfort for Bilbo's?

Thorin brushes by then and Bilbo exhales a sigh as he releases the thought with it, gaze falling on the boulder they'd sat against last night. They—oh yes, that's right? He vaguely remembers that. Without much thought, he straightens his spine and rolls his shoulders back, his body seemingly recalling the rigidity of stone. They'd talked, he's certain they must have, but he can't remember the words themselves – which is, honestly, probably for the best, because he isn't exactly gifted in maintaining intelligent chatter with a belly full of ale. He does remember... pipeweed? Yes, Thorin had been smoking and Bilbo had reached over to... take his pipe? No, that's not it. But he had reached over. To... to... – pat his arm...?

Frowning, he's abruptly snapped out of it and he turns to look to Thorin, only feeling the slightest bit woozy from the motion. Huh. Oh. Yes, his things. ]
...It's best to assume I don't remember much of anything from last night. [ Sounding the slightest bit put out by that, he glances, rather morosely, toward the center of camp, where there's still too many barely rousing bodies to navigate through. He would have dropped his pack somewhere on the outer rim, but even though such a decision would have been made long before indulging around the campfire, even that's fuzzy enough that recalling precisely where is difficult.

Ah well. It will not have gone missing. He simply needs to— ]
I should go about finding it. [ Besides, Thorin probably has more important things to be doing right now anyway, other than being apologized to, thanked and reprimanded, all in the span of two minutes. ] With some luck, my pack won't be under someone. [ Here, he does laugh quietly at his own trivial joking though, smiling over to Thorin. ]
experting: (⊚ not liking this)

[personal profile] experting 2016-04-16 05:14 am (UTC)(link)
[ Oh? Oh, he's walking—um, okay, just a moment, wait, following. He does lag behind some; Thorin's stride is naturally longer than a hobbit's and with the added detriment of an aching head, Bilbo ends up tracing his footsteps like some, small shadow. But then there's his things and he breathes a sigh of relief, before hurrying past Thorin to crouch down in front of the assortment. There's nothing he actually needs out of his pack. He's learned the unspoken rule of living within one's clothes until the excess of dirt and ripped threads merit a change, so he merely pushes the rolled fabric aside, digging, digging, and there, he does pull out a new handkerchief at least, soon stuffing it in his pocket. Buckles and ties his pack shut, then pushes himself to his feet. ]

Well. That's set. [ In large thanks to Thorin; he'll earn a small smile from Bilbo for that. But his attention wavers and spreads around, looking to the others scattered about. It's been a good while since Bilbo has gone through the motions of breaking camp and while it's not exactly an overly complicated list of duties, he's ever conscious of the changed dynamic. More dwarves, more ponies, more supplies; there's quite a bit more parts this time around and for how valued Bilbo seems to be, that does little to reassure him of how he fits into the working of things.

If he's honest, he'd rather not do anything, other than find a jug of water and a nice place to sit for five minutes. But there are things to do, he knows there must be. So— ]
So... what should I do to help? [ It's already lighter than when he first woke; give it ten minutes more and that color will truly begin to blossom. Which is important, because from what he remembers, Thorin's partial to early starts. So he has to wonder how long Thorin'll allow the rest to teeter about and remain tucked in their bedrolls, before he begins unloading orders.

He lightly scratches at his cheek, soon answering his own question. ]
Perhaps breakfast? [ As soon as the words are out, he's glancing around for Bombur. Bombur handled the cooking before, but Bilbo, who had no other apparent use at the time, had filled the spot of his helper. Ah, there. Still snoozing; thankfully, at the moment, not as loudly as he's famous for. ] It might still be a touch too early, but... it's probably best to be too early, rather than too late with this group.

Page 1 of 3