[ 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. ]
... someone will "remember" later.
[ … 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. ]