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The only reason for watching the hobbit was to keep an eye on the stranger; it mattered little what thoughts Balin might have harbored.
Thorin felt nothing but revulsion for the creature Gandalf had entrusted to them.
Perhaps he felt something akin to concern or jealousy, too, but mostly he wondered what the hobbit hoped to gain from their quest.
The wealth of Erebor was appealing, certainly, yet the hobbit never seemed truly interested in asking about the treasure. When he did ask about Erebor, it was to inquire about its location, perhaps recalling details from maps he had seen before—or from incomplete ones.
Thorin had gathered from conversations between Bilbo and Bofur that the wizard had been quite open with the hobbit: the hobbit’s mother had been a friend of Gandalf’s, and—since the wizard evidently needed a hobby (or perhaps he had simply taken a liking to hobbits)—he had taken her along on his travels, venturing as far as Rivendell, where Elrond had gifted her a few maps.
“But, by the looks of it, they’re very incomplete.” Bilbo Baggins looked puzzled. “What’s the point of making a map and leaving it unfinished? Do the elves realize that they aren't the only ones who exist?”
Gandalf’s expression had been pleasant, as was the hobbit’s raised eyebrow directed at him—as if challenging him to butt into the conversation.
Many dwarves had watched the exchange, and they were surprised when the wizard chose instead to gaze at the sky, watching out of the corner of his eye as the hobbit smiled victoriously and whispered something to Bofur, who burst into laughter without a shred of restraint.
(It was only after the Carrock that Thorin would discover Bilbo possessed a repertoire of embarrassing information about Gandalf; if provoked enough by the wizard, he would reveal these tidbits one by one, much to Gandalf’s own chagrin and embarrassment.)
Thorin’s gaze—which had lingered a bit too long on that small gesture of defiance, wondering if it was possible to spark a fighting spirit in the hobbit—shifted to the hobbit’s nose, which was wrinkling in an almost adorable way.
Feeling self-conscious about the kindness of that train of thought, Thorin turned away, barking out quick orders before casting a curt glance at the pair who had drawn everyone’s attention; deciding he had no time to waste on their chatter, he left them to prepare dinner, as was their duty.
Unfortunately, it kept happening.
If he overheard a conversation among the dwarves and someone said something blatantly absurd, the hobbit wouldn’t interrupt or even comment. Instead, he would simply wrinkle his nose.
And, after the Carrock, Thorin found it utterly adorable.
After careful observation—even while contempt and mistrust ran high between them—Thorin realized that Bilbo didn’t wrinkle his nose in just one way; far from it.
A slight wrinkle meant something didn’t quite convince him; a more pronounced wrinkle meant someone had spoken out of turn and said something foolish; if his eyebrows joined the wrinkle, it meant Bilbo was about to argue.
And, in truth, Bilbo had no qualms about directing that same reaction at Thorin himself, regardless of his status as leader of the Company or future king.
“Why are you staring at me?” Bilbo asked the question once it became clear that Thorin hadn't been discreet enough and had been found out.
“I’m not staring at you,” Thorin said instead, deciding to follow Balin’s advice and simply deny any accusation.
“You are staring at me,” Bilbo insisted, ignoring the convention that required humoring the king if he wished to pretend otherwise.
“I was observing,” Thorin clarified, stalling for time in hopes of distracting Bilbo.
“Observing what?”
Thorin hesitated for just a second before saying, “Your nose.”
Bilbo’s eyes widened, clearly not expecting that answer. “My nose?”
“It moves,” Thorin explained.
Bilbo immediately brought a hand to his face, blushing slightly around the ears. “It doesn’t move.”
Thorin smiled. “It just did.” Noticing Bilbo’s blush, he added—hoping to ease the other’s embarrassment—“I like it when you do that.”
“When do I do what?” Bilbo asked, confused.
“When you scrunch your nose,” Thorin specified. “It’s a very genuine reaction. Almost instantaneous.”
“It is,” Bilbo admitted. “My cousins used to find it rather odd.”
“Odd?” Thorin repeated, surprised that anyone would ever find it strange. “That isn’t the word I’d use to describe it.”
“Then what word would you use?” Bilbo asked, almost challenging him, his ears still flushed.
“Adorable,” Thorin blurted out, blushing himself as Bilbo’s jade-green gaze settled on him. “I mean—uh...”
“I know what you meant,” Bilbo said, stopping him from searching for an answer. “Thank you.”
Thorin smiled.