[ That's not what he expects. A grunt, a nod, something other than a softened expression and two, short words, that's what he's anticipating. So his brows inch higher and his eyes widen, his features freezing on the surprise, holding, holding, before abruptly loosening with a blink and a stretch of his lips. It may seem odd, how easily the joy comes, but it feels victorious in a way, to receive such thanks, because it's not something easily given, not with Thorin. So for one, painstakingly vulnerable moment, Bilbo smiles wide and unabashed.
But he's still very much on the floor and if the pressure of his knees doesn't get to him first, it's the crick in his neck. He looks away then and pushes himself up, falling back on the comforting habit of righting his coat and smoothing his vest to divert attention away from his – embarrassingly – pleased state. ] You're, ah, welcome.
[ A hint of the smile is still there when he looks to Thorin again and, ah, right. Wounds wrapped, bandages tied, everything is as it should be, except—
He glances to that ugly mar of skin mid-torso. That, thankfully, does not require any wrapping, but he eyes it nonetheless, a touch longer than what is usually deemed proper. And suddenly there's a shift; he abruptly – almost comically – realizes it's not just a wound he's observing, but a great deal of skin. Right. He makes an odd noise, like he's in the midst of sputtering while trying to simultaneously clear his throat and then slides his gaze to the side. ] Now that you're properly patched, you can, ah, go about getting clothed. [ His fingers fiddle – of course they do – and soon find themselves clutching to the sides of his coat. ] I'll just... [ He trails off awkwardly, nodding across the way to his bed, which he will, um, be walking over to right now, thank you, and just, don't mind him, and please put something on, thank you again. ]
i'm kind of amazed i didn't get an edit. since this sat for 5 hours.
But he's still very much on the floor and if the pressure of his knees doesn't get to him first, it's the crick in his neck. He looks away then and pushes himself up, falling back on the comforting habit of righting his coat and smoothing his vest to divert attention away from his – embarrassingly – pleased state. ] You're, ah, welcome.
[ A hint of the smile is still there when he looks to Thorin again and, ah, right. Wounds wrapped, bandages tied, everything is as it should be, except—
He glances to that ugly mar of skin mid-torso. That, thankfully, does not require any wrapping, but he eyes it nonetheless, a touch longer than what is usually deemed proper. And suddenly there's a shift; he abruptly – almost comically – realizes it's not just a wound he's observing, but a great deal of skin. Right. He makes an odd noise, like he's in the midst of sputtering while trying to simultaneously clear his throat and then slides his gaze to the side. ] Now that you're properly patched, you can, ah, go about getting clothed. [ His fingers fiddle – of course they do – and soon find themselves clutching to the sides of his coat. ] I'll just... [ He trails off awkwardly, nodding across the way to his bed, which he will, um, be walking over to right now, thank you, and just, don't mind him, and please put something on, thank you
again. ]