Bilbo wasn't sure what to do. He had been laughing happily with Bofur and Bombur just a few minutes ago, and when they had left to go serve breakfast to the others, Bilbo had decided to start cleaning up. He was not paying attention, however, and rather than grabbing the pot over the fire by the handle, he grabbed the steaming hot edge. He managed to stifle his cry, not wanting the other dwarfs, who were busy eating and packing their belongings on the other side of camp, to hear him. Thorin had already made it perfectly clear that Bilbo was an outsider, and he went out of his way to make the hobbit feel small and useless. The last thing Bilbo wanted was for the other dwarfs to see him as a burden, and with a severely burned hand, Bilbo would be just that. Biting his lip to keep from screaming, Bilbo took a look at the damage. He had grabbed the pot with his left hand, and it was currently blistered all the way from the centre of his palm to the tips of his fingers. The blisters were angry, red, and sorely sensitive, and Bilbo almost passed out from the pain. Breathing in shakily, he closed his burning palm, his eyes welling up with tears from the pain, and stuffed his hand in his pocket. He strode quickly over to the other side of camp, looking around nervously to make sure no one was watching, until he got to his packed bag. Reaching inside, he pulled out a small bag of herbs he had packed, picked straight from is garden. He had learned how to treat certain illnesses with herbs from Old Took, though he had never actually had to use them before. Sure, he made a cup of herbal tea sometimes to settle a sore stomach, but living in the plush comfort of the Shire, Bilbo had never really managed to hurt himself more than a small cut, or as a child, a couple of skinned knees. He had definitely never burned the skin off his hand. As such, he had no idea really which herb to use. He was thinking back to his lessons from Old Took, when a shout of "BURGLAR" caught him off guard.
Stuffing the bag of herbs back in his bag, Bilbo turned just in time to see Thorin marching towards him.
"What do you think you're doing?" Thorin growled. "The pots need washing, the ponies need to be loaded, and you're sitting here doing nothing!"
"I...I.." Bilbo started to stammer, but he was quickly cut off.
"Save it," Thorin said abruptly. "I didn't expect much better of you anyways."
He turned and strode off, leaving a humiliated Bilbo standing alone, clutching his burnt fist in his pocket. The other dwarfs had turned to look when Thorin had started shouting, but they now turned away, with the exception of Bofur, who walked up to the hobbit and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"It's alright, lad. He's just in a bad mood, is all," the toymaker said.
"Is he ever in a good mood?" Bilbo countered, a small snort of derision escaping him.
"BURGLAR, ARE YOU GOING TO MAKE ME REPEAT MYSELF?," Thorin shouted from across camp.
Bilbo felt a deep blush climbing up his neck, and he stared angrily at Thorin. The dwarf king glared back, his eyes daring Bilbo to speak, but he didn't. Instead, Bilbo marched towards the pots, carefully lifted the largest one by its handle using his right hand, and started walking to the lake to start cleaning. Thorin watched him the entire time. Bilbo quickly regretted grabbing the largest pot, however, when he realized just how heavy it was. He struggled to carry it using only his right hand while he clutched his injured left hand close to his body, and of course, Thorin noticed right away.
"Why don't you use two hands, Master Baggins. Maybe you'll actually make it to the lake," he said, mockingly.
Bilbo didn't answer. Instead, he continued what he was doing, struggling forward with the larger pot gripped in his one good hand.
"Did you not hear me, hobbit?!" Thorin bellowed.
Bilbo ignored him once again. Storming towards Bilbo, Thorin was livid. Standing in front of the Hobbit, he opened his mouth to yell once more, but stopped when he saw the tears threatening to fall from Bilbo's eyes.
"What is your problem?!" Bilbo shouted, one of the tears rolling down his cheek. The pain in his burnt hand was overwhelming, and he felt warmth dripping down his wrist.
Looking down and noticing red liquid streaming slowly down the halfling's clenched palm, Thorin quickly made a grab for Bilbo's injured hand, but Bilbo pulled away.
"Let me see your hand," he commanded.
"Get away from me," Bilbo gritted out between clenched teeth, the anger in his voice startling the dwarf king.
"Bilbo, give me your hand," Thorin said again, reaching out for the hobbit, who shrunk away from him.
Gripping the pot still in his right hand, Bilbo stormed around Thorin, narrowly dodging the dwarf king's hand reaching for him. He was intent to wash the damn pot and get Thorin off his case, even though he knew the damage was already done. Thorin knew he was injured, and the king wouldn't ignore that, but Bilbo still desperately prayed that he would.
He stomped off towards the lake, dragging the pot, but Thorin was right on his heels.
"BILBO!" Thorin shouted, grabbing the back of his collar, "STOP!"
Bilbo stopped. Not that he really had a choice. Thorin had a death grip on his collar, and Bilbo knew that struggling would only anger the king more. Instead, he resigned himself to Thorin's grip, his shoulders slack, another tear rolling down his cheek.
"I don't know who you think you're dealing with, hobbit, but when I give you an order, you comply!" Thorin spat.
"So sorry, dwarf," Bilbo hissed before he could stop himself. He felt Thorin tense behind him, and he knew he was going to get it for that. But he couldn't help himself. The dwarf king had a way of bringing out the worst in Bilbo.
"What did you say?" Thorin asked, his voice unexpectedly calm.
"Oh, I'm sorry, I thought that's how we were to address each other, what with you calling me hobbit all day long," Bilbo spat back. "You may be King under the non-existent Mountain, Thorin, but you're no king of mine."
Bilbo instantly regretted his words. He didn't want to speak with such acid in his words, but nor would he go on letting Thorin treat him like dirt. He could feel Thorin's fist, still clenching Bilbo's collar, start to shake. He expected the king to strike him, to throw him to the ground. He did not expect him to release his collar and gently grasp Bilbo's lower left arm. One of Thorin's large hands grasped around his palm, the other gently trying to open the hobbit's clenched fist, a slow dripping of blood still flowing from where Bilbo had obviously clenched tightly enough to break the already damaged skin. Before he managed to pry Bilbo's palm open, however, the hobbit had pulled away again.
"What happened?" Thorin asked, his voice gentler than Bilbo had ever heard it.
"It's...it's nothing," Bilbo stuttered, cradling his injured palm in his other hand. "It's just a small...scratch, no big deal."
"Let me see," Thorin asked, his voice still calm and gentle.
This time Bilbo let him grasp his small wrist and gently open his fist. Upon seeing the angry, red burn, Thorin's eyes widened.
"A small cut?" he asked sarcastically, looking up at Bilbo.
Bilbo refused to look at him.
"Why would you try to hide any injury, especially one like this? Do you know how easily this could have become infected?" Thorin asked.
"Great, then I'd be a bigger burden," Bilbo muttered, still not looking at the dwarf king.
Shocked at his words, Thorin was about to speak when Bofur appeared.
"Oh, there you are. We were wondering where you two went off to. Heard some screaming before, is everything okay? We just finished packing up the ponies..." the cheerful toymaker continued to prattle on happily, until he looked down and saw Bilbo's hand.
"Aule, what did you do to yourself, Bilbo? Hey, OIN!" Bofur called, "bring some of those herbs you've got there, our burglar is injured!"
"I can take care of it," Thorin snapped, but Bilbo had already pulled away.
Bofur helped Bilbo back to camp, bringing him to Oin, who was already busy mixing and mashing several assorted herbs into a salve.
Thorin, meanwhile, remained exactly where he had been standing with Bilbo, softly cursing a certain toymaker under his breath.