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“No, hold on, that’s not – ” Bard tried to reach over Thorin’s shoulder but the dwarf blocked him. “You’re doing it wrong.”
“I know what I’m doing,” growled Thorin, flicking blood off his fingers.
Bard winced as Thorin readjusted his grip. “You obviously don’t.”
“This is not the first time I’ve gutted something.”
“Be that as it may,” said Bard, reaching over Thorin again and this time managing to grab the near-shredded fish out of his hands, “you’ve certainly never gutted fish before.” Bard pushed Thorin to the side and salvaged what he could of the fish before tossing it into the basket on the floor. “Now,” he said, taking a fresh fish and plucking the knife from Thorin’s hands, “watch me.”
Watching Bard demonstrate the proper way to gut a fish didn’t seem to work, as Thorin nearly tore apart the next fish he tried. “No,” said Bard, “you have to be gentle. Look, like this.” He took hold of Thorin’s hand and put the fish in his palm – “Gentle,” he repeated – and guided Thorin’s thumb along the inside of the fish. “Just ease it away from the flesh, like that.” The angle was awkward for them both and Bard nearly elbowed Thorin in the chest, so after a particularly colourful curse from Thorin, Bard shifted to stand behind Thorin. “Let’s try that again,” he said, taking Thorin’s hands in his own – their fingers slick with gore and lakewater – and reaching for yet another fish.
Thorin stiffened against him, surrounded as he was by Bard’s tall frame, the man’s arms on either side of him. “I am no child,” he hissed. He could feel Bard’s chin against his hair as the man leaned close. Fish scales flew up like snow beneath Bard’s hands and Thorin couldn’t help but admire the skill it took to run a blade against skin with such force and yet never break it.
“No,” agreed Bard, guiding Thorin’s fingers past the gills. “A child of this city would know better.”
“Then I am not a child of this city,” rephrased Thorin, even as his hands followed Bard’s and managed, for the first time, to rip out the fish’s guts without turning the meat into a pulp.
“But you want to trade with us.” Bard’s voice was close to Thorin’s ear as he peered carefully at the fish in their hands. “So you should learn to appreciate our craft, as we do yours.”
“I’ve not taken you mining,” countered Thorin. With Bard’s hand over his, he chopped off the head. That, at least, he knew how to do cleanly.
“Perhaps you should.”
Thorin’s hand stilled over the chopping board. Suddenly, he because acutely aware of Bard’s body flush behind him, his arms pressed close against him on either side, his hands around Thorin’s wrists. He turned his head slightly to the side, catching Bard’s profile over his shoulder.
“Are you…” Bard turned to look at him, his face close enough to Thorin’s that he could feel his breath soft upon his face. He tried again. “Are you flirting with me?”
He wasn’t sure what kind of response he’d been expecting; perhaps an outright denial, or a laugh, and Bard moving away from him and stopping this pointless gutting lesson. Instead, Bard merely smiled and readjusted his grip on Thorin’s hand. “Come now, Master Dwarf, nimble fingers make a fisherman.” And then he winked.