[ 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? ]
HE TOUCHED HIS HAIR. /still going on about that.
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? ]