Chapter Text
Thorin had known Dwalin practically his entire life. From when they were young children, when Dwalin would beat him up for trying to tell her she couldn’t fight because she was a girl; to when they got older, and their worlds were turned upside down a thousand times over by dragons, kings, orcs, and a raging sister and the nephews she bore him. They were always there for each other. Dearest friends, and closer to each other than they were to their own flesh and blood. He knew that Dwalin, despite what misconceptions came along with other dwarrows of her gender, was tough. A true warrior down to the core.
Which was why her personal tastes in men always threw him.
Granted, his tastes were rather peculiar as well: male, with a kind smile, and able to make him laugh, even at the most inappropriate of times. Class wasn't even an issue, especially when they no longer had a kingdom and classes to deal with. But Dwalin’s proclivities were even stranger in his eyes. She preferred men, like he did, but at least he liked his men strong. Fighters, even though they weren’t the most proper of warriors. Muscles, beards and all. Dwalin, however, preferred a softer type. More kind, open hearts and good cooks; mind over brawn and the like. She didn’t even care that they didn’t have any signs of facial hair.
So he couldn’t help his odd stares when he saw how Dwalin treated their burglar. They didn’t know the hobbit very well, but despite that, she was rather polite to him (as polite as dwarves are, which to outsiders isn’t that polite). How she claimed that he was “too soft for the outside world”, and that was practically an open invitation by Dwalin’s standards. She stared, she watched, and she told Thorin off when the hobbit wasn’t within earshot.
“Really?” Thorin eventually asked when things had settled, and the burglar had turned in for the night. He had joined her when she slipped out to the back, where a rather flourishing garden stood.
“What?”
“The Halfling?” Thorin specified, causing Dwalin to roll her eyes. “You said yourself: he’s soft! He knows nothing of hardship, or of having to degrade yourself to provide for your family! Yet you choose him?”
It was a rare thing to see Dwalin fluster, and even though her snarl was fierce, the red that bloomed on her face was even more surprising. “I did not choose anyone!” She hissed. “There’s nothing wrong with appreciating a man! You know that.”
Thorin snorted. “He’s hardly a man.” He groused. “He’s as bare as a babe, and just as small.”
“Like you’re one to talk.” She retorted. “Luring that cheery toymaker and his family here on the promise of free beer?”
Thorin felt his own face heat at her words. “Shut up!”
“Then I suggest you do the same.” She grumbled. “Besides, as you always put it, there’s no harm in looking, is there?”
Thorin scoffed as she began to walk back inside the hobbit hole. “Get your fill while you can!” He called. “He’s not coming along with us in the morning!”
“We’ll see about that!”
And Thorin did see that morning, turning to watch the hobbit run up the hill, contract flapping around in his grip and looking so much like an excited babe that it was ridiculous, but Dwalin seemed to like it herself, grin flickering on her own face.
“Didn’t I tell you?” She teased from her seat and Thorin had to fight the urge to roll his eyes.
“Get him a pony!”