#eradoring

Legolas doesn't even blink when he finally snaps, instead leaning closer with renewed interest. "Does it bother you?" he asks, something uncomfortably close to pleasure twinkling in his eyes.

"To be gawked at like a tinker's toy? Aye, it bothers me!" Gimli thunders.

The Elf's lips part, some undoubtedly cruel response on his tongue -

But Aragorn intervenes, bless him. "Legolas!" Frustration of their long days bleeds into his voice. As if shepherding the little Hobbits weren't bad enough, the Elf's impertinence had him minding a Dwarf's pride now, too. "Leave Gimli be."

"I have questions," Legolas pouted - or near enough at least, to Gimli's inferior, Dwarven eyes.

"And they will wait for a time when Gimli is not so indisposed."

Blue tourmaline darts to the Dwarf once more, the edge just as sharp as his gaze roves over Gimli's stout form, takes in his dressed state and his hands on his beard both, and then slow and careful as only and Elf could be, his lips tug into a barely-there smile of understanding.

Gimli hated to be a novelty.

If possible, the understanding makes it worse. He's not sure why he thought maybe knowing the indecency of it would dissuade the Elf - should've known better, really - but it does nothing of the sort, and Legolas watches avidly now, every time Gimli resets a braid or combs frazzled tangles with thick fingers. He makes a show of fixing his own tight plaits, too, the obscene creature, picking out his neat braids nightly just to work nimble fingers over his own temples. If Gimli stares, it's only fair.

(Though he doesn't stare. Why would he? Stringy, Elven hair, too fine to hold a proper bead -.)

He doesn't stare. But the vulgarity of it all, the way the Elf all but invites attention - it's hard to look away form sometimes. He's only a Dwarf, after all, unused to this sort of brazenness, this brand of goading. No Dwarrow would have ever dared. The barbed words he can shoulder, the sport they've made of their competitiveness a welcome surprise. But this is not something he could have ever prepared for, this mockery of such an important ritual, the very foundation of Dwarvish pride, the bedrock of how they interacted with the world at large and their closes kin, both. It sets him on edge, worse than usual, even - gets him all riled up with no way to air his grievances because to do so would be to admit that, yes, okay, fine, it is an absurdly private thing he'd been reduced to doing in such mixed company, and yes indeed it does bother him when Legolas pulls his fingers through his gossamer-fine hair, shining like beaten mihril in the pale moonlight -

Gimli doesn't stare. Still, it would only be fair.

He's not safe from the Elf's questions, either. Legolas is patient enough to wait until Gimli has finished his routine, sure, but that is the extent of it. "What kind of oil is that? Is it meant to smooth out the texture? Do all Dwarves do this? Do Dwarves prefer fine hair?"

That one had made him sputter into this (much admired, thank you) coarse beard, bit it was still preferable to the other questions, the ones that called attention to his own peculiarities.

"If it's a private affair, are their private meanings to your braids?" Legolas asked the morning after first being admonished by Aragorn.

Gimli had impulsively fingered the end of one of his beard braids, an obvious tell which Legolas had caught with wide, gleaming eyes.

"Some of them," Gimli admitted hesitantly.

"Elves are the same," Legolas provided freely.

Gimli bites back an ill-advised urge to ask about the skinny plaits along his temples, but only just.

If Legolas notices his sudden tension, he at least has grace enough to pretend otherwise. "perhaps we are not so different," he muses instead, sending a clever little smirk over his shoulder .

Seated upon Arod behind him, Gimli does not have much room to wriggle in his discomfort.

Not done, the Elf asks next about his ornamentation."The beads," he clarifies. "Do they mean something as well?"

Gimli only wears two, and those tucked into his twin workman's braids, barely visible. "Aye," he hedges.

"Will you share their meaning with me?"

He sounds so hopeful and genuine that it is difficult to deny him. "It is… not done,' he grumbles lamely, though he honestly struggles to name why. His own beads are not particularly private.

Yet the Elf presses too far the next day, pulling Gimli's barrel braid back behind his shoulder when the wind takes it. He does this casually, as if in passing, yet his hands feel as intimate as a lover's caress on the nape of his neck. By the time Gimli has sense enough to turn and splutter about indecency, the Elf has already slipped away on silent feet, his attention trained on something new.

So it's only strange if Gimli makes it strange, is the situation, and he's loath to give the Elf another means to embarrass him, so he does not make it strange. Instead steels his resolve sometime the next day and grumbles about Legolas's hair being in his face while they rest a moment atop Arod and gathers the fine hair in the web of his thumb to push it over the thin ridge of his shoulder. Legolas spares him an easy glance over that same shoulder, nary a glint of mischief in his pale eyes.

So it's not strange, and Gimli won't be the first to make it so. Not even days later when the Elf resets his braids before the fire. He lets his hands fall to his lap after tying off the plaits at his temples, sighing in exhaustion that's long been gaining on him, no doubt (it had been day since he'd last rested, Gimli had noted, and he had the gall to call Dwarves stubborn.)

"Gimli," he starts, clear voice deceptively sweet. "Do you know how to do a two-strand braid?"

And he knows where the question is leading, yet the apprehension building in his stomach is not enough to make him lie. Aragorn watches keenly from across the fire, the smoke from his pipe blending with the thin trail that snakes skyward, his dark ranger's clothes blending with the smudgy waft until he's nothing more than the glint of eyes in the night.

"I know a few ways to do so, yes," Gimli hedges.

Legolas does not give him enough grace. "And the one I usually wear?" Absently, Gimli notes the directness of his demeanor, piercing eyes and severe stature. He doesn't even bother motioning to his crown to clarify which braid he means. It's abrasive, in a way, but they've spent enough time together by now that Gimli understands it, he thinks. Believes Legolas trusts his companions are perceptive enough to deduce the bits he omits.

He doesn't think too hard about what it means that Legolas knows Gimli will not assume the other braids, both of them knowing full well the Dwarf did just sit there and watch clever fingers wind delicate strands into familiar patterns, a bairn unable to keep their eyes to themselves their first time in the baths -

Gimli coughs. "A fishtail. Aye."

Legolas smiles, or at least comes as close to it as he ever does. "If that is how you wish to call it." In one fluid motion he stands and slinks closer, long legs folding underneath him as he sits before Gimli. Even atop the stump Gimli uses as a chair, the Elf's sleek crown comes near up to his chest.

In the stretch of stunned silence that follows, Aragorn's crackling pipe sounds loud enough to give away their position to Sarumon himself.

There's a tight pinch to the Elf's eyes when he looks over his own shoulder, nearly mischievous - or would be if not for the slight wrinkle of worry between his brows, genuine concern that he'd gone too far. "Won't you help?" he asks, voice nearly pleading.

Gimli swallows thickly, rough hands already smoothing along the silky strands before him. It's against his better judgment, but they've managed to reach some sort of friendly accord these last few days, and he doesn't wish to lose it. Besides, it's not the Elf's fault Gimli's own actions have misguided him into thinking this is acceptable behavior, and despite himself, he hates the look of apprehension straining the Elf's fair face, confusion and regret because of Gimli's conflicting behavior.

Unlike his companions, Gimli 's hair is thick and coarse, and holds his brads until washing. Legolas bides his time, content to ask for help with his own hair until they come upon another stream and Gimli finally lets his free to lather soap through. He feels eyes as grating as stone upon him the whole time, but he's too tired to kick up much of a fuss about it this night, and he's no real desire to fight with the Elf anymore anyway.

So he doesn't bother answering, isn't sure he could manage it, his voice so strained. Instead he sections out the braid and ignores how Legolas instantly settles, focuses on the fine silver thread running through his fingers, shining in the moonlight like mithril.

He finds a secluded copse of trees after, to go about oiling and setting his hair. Fool that he is, he expects his companions to respect his boundaries after so much talk about them, and is therefore caught quite unawares after - with his elbows stretched high overhead, corded muscles testing the hems of his tunics' sleeves as he begins his barrel braid at the his crown - when he hears a clear voice ringing from the line of elms surrounding him.

"Would you like assistance mellon nin?"

"Mahal's balls!" Gimli startles, whipping around to find the Elf stood far too close behind him, considering he hadn't heard the approach. "Sneaky creature," he curses. "Where'd you come from?"

Legolas feigns a moue of exaggerated reflection. He's difficult to read - especially when in jest - considering he only ever seems to move two facial muscles at a time, but Gimli is getting better. "The Greenwood."

Gimli snorts despite himself. "Aye, and do they have such things as privacy in those hallowed halls?"

"Not among the trees," Legolas denies, far too much innocence in his voice as he tilts his head toward the elm boughs overhead, as if he'd wandered into the grove for no other reason that to speak with them. He doesn't fool Goili, not when he looks so pleased with himself. Sometimes he thinks the Elf is unused to being found humorous, thinks he may be right considering how damn droll Elves tend to be, and the company Legolas chooses to keep.

"Well these trees are mine for the moment. Go ahead and ask them, they'll tell you they want no more than my company. Go find an oak to sing to, I'm sure you'll make fast friends, both so hard-headed." He makes to shoo the Elf away, but Legolas doesn't budge

"You ignore my offer of help and yet I'm the hard-headed one?" Again, he sounds sad and confused and Gimli sighs.

"Aye, I'm worse than you, no doubt." His palm rasps over his beard as he considers his next words and Legolas watches him keenly, interested. "It's just that it's not done, laddie, among Dwarves. To help with another's braids, it's very -. It's very… familiar."

In the dim light, Legolas's eyes wink like starlight, so far out of reach and yet so comfortingly familiar.

(And when did he start thinking of stars as familiar or comforting? By Durin, but he needed some times among his own.)

"It is intimate, then?" The Elf asks, voice teetering dangerously on that smug, Elven self-satisfaction.

"Aye," Gimli admits carefully. "Between Dwarves, at least."

"And yet you braid my hair."

"That's different," Gimli blurts. When did the Elf slink so close? Damn his quiet feet.

"How so?"

Gimli huffs. "It just its! elves have no such tradition so it doesn't feel like such an invasion to touch your hair."

Legolas looks like he has something to say to that, but remains silent when Gimli continues.

"But helping with my hair… well, there's only one way to interpret that."

For a long moment, neither of them say anything. Indeed, the silence feels so thick that even Gimli think he can hear the trees whispering about what a pair of dolts they make. Legolas's face pinches in disappointment, and Gimli thinks he'll finally be left alone -

But then the Elf draws his quiet sort of strength about him, tall and lean and unbreaking as a birch tree, and just as silver-pale in the wan light. "Our people are not so different as you assume, mellon nin. It seems some bindings are only ever meant to be fashioned between two people." Closer now still, Legolas's fine-boned fingers trace Gimli's cheek, feather-light - a hair's breadth above the line of his beard. Respectful enough, arguably. "You may interpret my offer however you wish, Gimli. I would still make it."

And Gimli hates to be a novelty, but it's then that he realizes he might hate making this Elf into one more, denying him connection and friendship because he didn't think him capable of it. Denying them both this.

"Well, may as well enjoy taking care of it while you can," Gimli grumbles, broad fingers wrapping around the Elf's to drag them lower, let them comb through the brambles of his fine beard. "My father's like to shave it off once he hears about this."

Legolas's answering smile is so bright, Gimli wonders how he ever failed to recognize it.

Silence stretches for long moments, so deep that Dwalin can hear the popping of the fire below, and it takes him a moment to recognize that the whole camp has fallen quiet, even the droning of Fili and Kili's inane chattering now ceased. Indeed, the only one fool enough to break it is the Hobbit himself, Bilbo's high, squeaking voice calling across the space easily enough. Dwalin catches something about a rabbit and a head of lettuce and needs hear no more to know it's not what commands such stillness.

"Do ye think he knows?"

Balin scoffs. "That timid creature? If he knew he'd be no more than a boiling puddle right now. Can't imagine this is exactly proper by his standards."

"It's barely proper by ours," Dwalin amends, and Balin hups in agreement. "I hadn't even realized Thorin had figured it out himself, yet."

"Aye, the stubborn lad. Thought he'd be burying our burglar in the royal tombs before he realized the epitaph should maybe read consort,'" Balin muses.

Dwalin takes a moment to picture it, the sadfuture that may have been, and the king who would have found no joy in the home which he had fought to reclaim. And yet, ass he watches, Thorin ties off his pitiful little braid and inspects it, no doubt resigning himself to a new daily schedule judging by the way he frowns at Bilbo's fine hair. Dwalin smiles ruefully. "Well, let's hope our Hobbit realizes sooner than that as well."

"Oh, I should think so," Balin assures, tamping out his bowl. Though his eyes remain glued to the pair below, assessing. "Bilbo is not nearly so stubbornly blinded as his other half."

Except just then, as if specifically meant to contradict the old Dwarf, Bilbo's clever fingers itch over his scalp, seeking out the thong that holds the braid in place, dithering all the while. "You know actually, now that it's in, I rather don't like how it pulls. Think I'll just manage with my hair in my face, thank you."

The eruption of movement that follows is impressive in it's coordination, all thirteen members of Thorin's original company all springing to attention as they beg him no wait! stop!

"It's too early for Dwarrow," he mutters, nose twitching. "Much too early." There's a frantic edge to his voice as he moves throughout his own dwelling, as if he's trying to reassure himself there's no possible way his house guests have found his writing. (It's not, definitely not. Since they've arrived, they've liked nothing better than to sleep all day so as to miss the sun and stay up all night drinking all his stores.) He's been nothing but gracious to them, staying up far past supper to entertain because he knows how much they prefer staying underground when it doesn't involve so much sunlight and windows. It would be some new manner of cruelty to pay him back this way, sneaking into his study at odd hours to pry into writings! He simply can't believe it of any of them. Perhaps if Nori had come, or Balin, being a cautious sort, but it's only Bifu and Bofur, Dwalin, Ori and Dori, and Thorin. Surely none of them would be the type to -

His grimace pulls from one side of the face to other as he looks down the wing where they're staying warily. There's a glow coming from under Thorin's door, as if he hasn't yet bothered to pull his drapes. "Far too early."

--

"Master Baggins," the king drawls once he's bid Bilbo enter. He's at the secretary, with his broad back turned to the door. Just busywork, Bilbo assures himself. A king must have accounts to review, after all, just because he's reading doesn't mean he's reading a Hobbit's silly memoirs.

"Uh, good morning," Bilbo hedges, cringing to himself as he slips one step closer in an attempt to peer over his guest's shoulder.

Thorin doesn't turn to him. There's a shuffle of papers as if a cast swath of book is being flipped past, and then the King's voice is just so slightly off when he asks, "What do you mean?"

Ah.

"No. No, no, no," Bilbo mutters as he stamps closer. "Thorin Oakenshield, that is not -!"

The man finally turns to him, his robe gaped wide to reveal a frankly indecent amount of chest hair and old, blue ink. Bilbo mildly notes that perhaps it's for the best he sleeps all day. He cannot imagine trying to join a picnic with this man in tow. Thorin's still got one hand on the desk, thick fingers propping Bilbo's Unexpected Journey open to a fair few pages. Bilbo notes with some horror how far he's been able to read.

"- ready for reading," Bilbo splutters. It's as good a reason as any to keep his guest from thumbing through it.

"I'll say," Thorin rumbles, leaning back toward the desk so he can turn to one of his marked pages. "You do know how secretive Dwarves are, yes?" He asks patronizingly.

Bilbo twitches, trying to catch a peek at the page before Thorin can say any more.

"You have gathered this?"

"Yes, I've gathered it!" Bilbo snaps, and the king gives him a rather unimpressed glare.

"So you can appreciate why Dwalin brought me this? Why he thought I might find it interesting to know exactly what you're writing about?"

"I've made no mention of any secret doors, or secret languages, or even secret stones," Bilbo snarks, trying to make a desperate lunge for the book.

"And yet you find the time to reveal so much more," Thorin counters, easily spinning out of reach with the book held aloft.

Bilbo could probably still grab it, but he will not participate in such petty games as keep away. "Put that down, please," he begs instead. He still has his pride.

"Braids, for example." Thorin recites, "'Dwarves are very particular about their hair, and their beards. There seems to be a language about it, one they seem neither inclined to tell me, nor lenient with my lack of knowledge upon. Since starting, I have offended Bombur by not knowing he whole host of children, embarrassed myself by not realizing I wasn't the only gainfully employed robber amongst ourselves, and apparently offered my services up as a cobbler. The only sense I can seem to make of all this is that King Thorin -.'"

"Right," Bilbo decides, lunging for the book. Thorin lifts it near to the rafters easily, leaving Bilbo hopping like a child after it as he continues, voice descending to the gravel.

"- 'keeps his beard short as a sign of repentance for the kingdom he believes himself to have lost.'" He glowers down at Bilbo impressively, his stringy hair hanging around them both. "Is this not secret?"

"I think it's possible you're being a little drama -!"

Thorin spins again, holding Bilbo back behind him now with a thick arm barring him from slipping past. "Or maybe beads and jewelry? You seem to know quite a bit about Dwalin's ear cuff," he accuses, and then his voice rises as if to continue reciting, and Bilbo makes a desperate bid to retrieve his book. He knows what that passage contains, knows he may have gotten a bit carried away talking about the other Dwarf's partially missing ear, and how prone he'd been to imagining the fight which took it. Bilbo had always been prone to imagining rather... impressive fights.

(Actually, he hadn't, thank you. Can trace the exact moment he'd become rather taken with them, but it would do him no ounce of good to mention that here, so he didn't.)

"You've made your point!" The Hobbit grits, still trying to lunge for his book.

"Have I?" The king counters, continuing to twist away. There's a rustling of pages before he continues to drone. "'There is, also, a language of tattoos, though those I cannot decipher. I have noted while bathing that each Dwarrow carries many more than he maybe ought, though of course that's easy for me to say considering I am not one. Dwalin is the most heavily decorated, of course. His inkings are not confined by the hem of his attire like the rest of them, and indeed the marking only get more dense as more skin is revealed -.' You know, you talk about Dwalin a lot in here."

Yes. Dwalin. "Will you please put that down now?"

"'They each carry a number of knots on their chests,'" Thorin continues, completely ignoring Bilbo, and the Hobbit pales. "'This is how I know they have a shared meaning, the placement and features are all too similar. Whatever they mean, Thorin wears the most with twin knots upon his breasts which bleed into an intricate belt of knots below. Jarring though they are, they cannot be called ugly, for the artist who did them seems to have had a great eye for form and figure, each line cast in a way to only accentuate the musculature there.'"

These last words are drawn out slow and accusatory as Thorin finally turns to face his host while slamming the book closed with enough force to send a gust of wind ruffling Bilbo's curls.

"Master Baggins," he drawls again.

"Don't!" The Hobbit snaps, wheeling away and shaking his finger as if trying to ward off the very air surrounding them, which has grown oppressive and close.

As always, Thorin ignores him. "I'd no idea you'd such a keen eye for figure."

"Thorin -!"

"Tell me, did you find Dwalin's decorations so well-suited for his musculature?"

Bilbo pinches the bridge of his nose. He'd rather talk about Smaug himself, or the Elves pass as breakfast than Dwalin at the moment; but he'd rather talk about the other Dwarf than the one in front of him, also. "Yes I suppose I found the ones upon his shoulders particularly complementary."

A beat passes. Another. Bilbo still cannot look his guest in the eye.

"I don't want to talk about Dwalin," Thorin decides, throwing the book rather unceremoniously onto the secretary. Bilbo scrambles after it, but the king hardly seems to notice, his voice lifted to be heard over the Hobbit's mad dash. "I want to talk about what possessed you to write about all this in the first place."

"Well, I lived among you for a year, I could hardly help but pick up on things," Bilbo defends peevishly, and then bites off his follow up with a cry when he realizes the book in his hands has been dogeared!

Thorin says something else - probably, at least, he always has needed the last word - but Bilbo isn't listening, rifling through the damaged pages to settle them back into position. He can't help but read as he goes, frustration not enough to suppress his curiosity. It's not until the third page that he spots the similarities.

Dwalin's ax, his family tree (near as Bilbo can puzzle it, at least.) Dwalin, Dwalin, Dwalin.

Well, at least Thorin hadn't been marking off mentions of himself. Bilbo can handle rewriting a damaged page or two, but the whole confounded book would have been a great ask.

"Thorin," he tries, clearing his throat.

The man in question continues to rant.

"Thorin."

"- Have you so little regard for our customs? You seem to know them well enough, and yet you forget -!"

Bilbo's nose is twitching, a sure sign he's about to do something stupid. "Thorin."

"- you continue to disregard all sense of -!"

"Thorin!"

The king's scowl is impressive as always. Ordinarily, it would be enough to make Bilbo wilt, but he's always prided himself on his ability to soldier through, when it's really important, and he believes this time it is.

Bilbo opens the book at random and slims until he finds the name. It's easy because it's always there, his spidery scrawl turned neat as he shapes the letters with precise care. "Thorin takes no breakfast most days, the royal fool. I do believe he is fueled by nothing more than contempt and duty. Me, I favor the little fried brook trouts Fíli caught this morning.' There, you see?"

For his part, Thorin quite obviously doesn't, continuing to glare at the Hobbit with such intensity that for a moment Bilbo feels as if they're back on the battlements and he swallows past the mounting fear building in his belly as he selects a new page. He's no time for doubt just now.

"Here, look," he says, turning the book so Thorin can see as he points to the Dwarf's name. Again and again he does this, nimble fingers drawn like a magnet to the neat letters. He's never noticed how the stand out on the page before. He's loath to rewrite all these pages as well, but this simply won't do. It's no wonder Dwalin would have brought Thorin the book, the meddlesome beast - not to his king, who would take umbrage with the security of all things, good gracious, but to his friend who he probably figured would want to know how lovesick his burglar was.

Must be they've always been this obvious.

"You see now?" He prompts, again guiding Thorin's eye to a paragraph evidently devoted entirely into chronicling the way the king's voice gets impossibly more gravelly in the morning. The rewrite is looking more and more likely by the minute.

"See what, Master Baggins?"

"Oh, you Dwarves -. You're so pigheaded!" Bilbo drops the book onto the bed, nearly fed up with the whole affair. "I'd say maybe I should spend the rest of these pages pining after Dwalin because at least he has some sense about him, but it seems we're too well matched, you and I."

"What are you saying?" Thorin fumes.

"Honestly, it's like you're trying to be obstinate," Bilbo mutters. And then, because he's long since learned the best route one can take when dealing with a Dwarf is the direct one, he clears his throat and says, "I'm in love with you, Thorin."

He expects to have to fight about it because they've done a lot of that through the years, but Thorin just looks dumbfounded. "You what?"

Bilbo stamps his foot. "I said I'm in love with you! Now don't ask me why, because for the life of me I can't come up with a singular good quality of yours, you jealous creature, but if you take another look at that book I'm sure you'll find a million of them -." Thorin makes to protest but Bilbo steams on, bullying into the king's space like he owns it because, well, it's his house and he does. "And I'm saying that I should very much like to kiss you now."

He's wrapped up in thick arms before he can even finish his demand.

A light blush and a twitching nose. Bilbo always looks his most rabbit-ish when deliberating over a risky feast - would it be worth it to tempt the Dwarf's wrath, the reward of this rare embarrassment? He goes to open his mouth, hesitates, and Thorin smells an easy victory, his beloved Hobbit easily cowed with a withering glare.

"Don't," he warns, and Bilbo's answering scowl isn't quite enough to cover his continued delight.

He turns to Frodo instead. "Room for another?" He asks, pulling the tiny children's chair from the corner. Thorin had needed to replace it with a proper chair from the table because the spindly thing had started groaning under the weight of his assessing gaze alone.

"Please, uncle, make yourself at home," Frodo invites, rather magnanimously.

Bilbo thanks him kindly, never once commenting on the absurdity of being spoken to thus within his own home. Hobbits really were such silly little creatures.

Frodo sets about pouring his uncle a cup and Bilbo lifts the empty vessel to his lips, slurping appropriately. He eyes the plates in front of them curiously. "What have we here? Scones?"

"Biscuits!" Frodo corrects him, as if it should have been obvious.

"Of course, of course, something sweet this fine morning," Bilbo comments dryly, playing at serving himself.

"Be careful! They're still hot," Frodo warns, and Bilbo obediently feigns dropping his treat and waving his fingers to cool them before turning his busy-body gaze back upon the Dwarf seated across from him, eyes flickering over the impressive silhouette with too much amusement gleaming in his eyes for Thorin's taste.

"Master Thorin, lovely to see you here, being social. And indeed looking the part, no less!"

"Master Burglar," Thorin answers blithely, borrowing the old title he only still uses when he's feeling particularly like he could dangle his pesky Hobbit out over some battlements again.

At his elbow, Frodo hides a giggle in his sleeve, never once convinced.

"A fine coat that is," Bilbo carries on, unaffected. "And you wear it well!"

Thorin opens his mouth as if to retort, but young Frodo must already see the shape of it in Thorin's scowl, and he shoves an empty plate at his guest's chest to distract him. "Here!" he offers the imaginary biscuits. "They should be plenty cooled now!"

Thorin attempts to glower at the lad, but can feel it run out of steam as he takes in the huge, sad eyes. Damn him, but he's not managed to grow immune to them in the last hour or so. He mutters a thanks and goes to take the dish, casting one last glare at his burglar in the process -

Only, as he reaches to take the plate, there's the unmistakable sound of seams popping and he stills, embarrassment and anger mounting as he watches Bilbo's face purple with suppressed laughter. For a moment they simply stare at one another, each willing the other to break first, and then Frodo's giggles begin to bubble over, and Bilbo erupts with him, and Thorin's pride has taken enough wounds in his life, thank you.

He stands so quickly it sends the chair tottering backwards. The Hobbits, having grown much too complacent in the face of his quick and ultimately harmless temper, only laugh the harder and Thorin storms off to the bedroom, peels of delight echoing through the strange vaulted halls until the door slams shut after him, cutting them off.

Thorin goes to rip the coat off and hears more stitches pop, and it stops him dead in his tracks same as it did before, though now he thinks first of Bilbo's fine things. Just as quickly as it came over him, his frustration peters out. He takes in the coat properly for the first time, noting that Frodo had selected of the new ones, all crushed velvet and gold buttons. He couldn't blame him, as it was a rather fine choice and looked quite fetching on Bilbo. On Thorin, he looked like a raw stuffed sausage, all blue and bloated, but that was hardly the fault of the coat.

He doesn't doesn't want to damage it further, is the problem. A popped stitch or two could be mended by Bilbo's clever little fingers, but to tear the coat apart at the seams would be another matter entirely. So he takes a moment to settle himself before carefully trying again, but it's no luck - the coat creaking dangerously no matter how he moves.

It's how Bilbo finds him - stuck with the coat shimmied halfway down his biceps, his arms stretched uncomfortably behind him and yet too afraid to make any move, the seams along the shoulders popping and groaning with every shift. He sighs when he hears the latch catch, turning to glare at the Hobbit before he even has a chance to say anything. To his credit, Bilbo gives no indication of his amusement past the slight flush high on his cheeks and the way he bites at his top lip for a half a beat too long.

Still, it's too much. "Would you just come help me?" Thorin snaps, and Bilbo jolts into action, scurrying up behind him to take measure of the situation.

Too broad, Thorin deems it.

"Right, stuck then, are you? What's the last thing you tried?"

Thorin sends him another withering glance over his shoulder, one more stitch up the spine snapping in protest.

Bilbo spares it a momentary, sympathetic look before turning back to meet Thorin's glare. "Well go on then, you can't be so tied up when you could just -" here he breaks off, miming an odd sort of flex where his fists cross over each other around his navel.

"Yes, by all means, Master Burglar," Thorin hisses, and this time the title makes Bilbo's face scrunch up. "If you want me to rip out of your fine clothes, continue to simply stand there gawking."

Uncowed, the Hobbit gives him an appraising sort of eye, as if the prospect doesn't sound all that bad. Then his gaze meets Thorin's and he snaps back to business. "Alright, let's see here." He places one hand on Thorin's spine and gives his best approximation of a shove while still keeping one shoulder bent back with a grip on the sleeve. "Tough as an old tree, you are," he mutters, but his ministrations do afford the coat to slip incrementally lower down the one arm.

It takes some doing, but they manage to wrestle the thing off with arguably more damage done to Thorin's joints than to the coat itself. Panting slightly, Bilbo holds it up for inspection, though he doesn't seem too upset by the damage.

At least not so upset that he can't still joke. "For that it's worth, you do look nice in my clothes."

"Cheeky," Thorin warns, but there's no heat to it, his frustrations all burned away, and he simply pulls Bilbo closer by the lapels of his own fine little house coat -not hard enough to test the stitching, mind. He rather likes the look of this blue one too much. "Not near as nice as you."

Bilbo lets himself be folded into an embrace, and Thorin pretends not to notice how his grip finds Thorin's bicep, as if taking the measure with anew appreciation. "That's true," he muses quietly, pressing a kiss to Thorin's jaw. Then he leans up, voice a low purr in his ear. "But you look even better out of them."