Archive of Our Own ^beta

It had been Thorin who had been hit first.

Amidst a flurry of confused struggling, under a sky of red, a spear had found him with deadly precision, piercing the gleaming metal armour he had taken from among Smaug’s many treasures. It was as if time had stopped; as if the world had been devoid of smell and sound, and everything gravitated around Thorin II Oakenshield.

Thorin’s eyes had opened wide in disbelief, his face turning ashen when he had seen his own blood flow down mithril and iron to paint the earth red. And then, as if being pushed by tiny invisible hands, he had fallen backwards, slowly, like a rotten leaf sauntering downwards on an autumn breeze.

It was Fíli’s terrified, shrill yell of ‘Thorin!’ that had started the passing of time again.

Kili had wordlessly retreated, step by numb step, until he and Fili were shielding Thorin from the predatory glare of beady goblin eyes, blood-lust in their every look, every snarl.

There were too many of them. Their numbers were so vast that when one line of them fell, another immediately took their place, growling, biting, swinging crude weapons that had little finesse but were as deadly as Elvish blades.

Blood from friend and foe alike had coloured the mud beneath their feet a deep brown that bordered on black and Kili couldn’t take his eyes off it. So many dead. So many gone.

They were not going to survive.

They had reclaimed Erebor and Smaug’s treasure, but the true enemy had never been the dragon. The true enemy was Death breathing down their necks right then and there, on a field of ruby and black, on the front porch of majestic halls that would never be their home.

He could feel his brother’s presence beside him, could sense the fearful energy in him as easily as if Fili had spoken of his concerns. He too knew that they would not witness another sunrise, at least not with their mortal eyes. It wasn’t worth much in the grand scheme of things, but Kili was at least thankful that they would die side by side, fighting like the warriors they were born to be. They would make Thorin proud and fight with bow and sword and axe and bare knuckles until they drew their last breath.

It was a good thought. A noble thought. In the end it did little to numb the pain of watching his brother fall.

A folly of arrows came from the outer ranks, soaring as swiftly as the Eagles circling above their heads, and rained down on them like hail in a spring storm. They soared past Kili, digging deep into the mud around his feet, and he wondered if Mahal had somehow blessed him at birth, for no arrow had ever penetrated his skin, not during their entire journey, and none did so now. But Fili – brave and strong and golden – had obviously not received the same amount of divine luck. The first thing Kili heard was a surprised huff of breath, as if someone had knocked the air out of Fili by jumping on top of him, like Kili had loved to do as a young dwarfling. He turned so fast he nearly lost his balance on the slippery grounds of the battlefield, sword held in front of him as if he even had a chance to ward off an attack if it came. What he encountered however made him drop his blade altogether.

A crudely crafted arrow had hit Fili straight in the chest, penetrating his body so deeply that the tip poked out obscenely from between his shoulder blades. Fili’s mouth opened in a soundless ‘o’ of surprise, his eyes on the protruding black fletching. Blue eyes travelled up, locking with Kili’s terrified brown ones, neither of them comprehending what was happening.

“Fili,” Kili whispered, feeling how panic began to overtake him. Fili didn’t answer: he just blinked as if Kili was his anchor in the whirlpool that surrounded them. His skin started to drain of all colour, his eyes going hazy and icy as the pain finally hit him. He staggered backwards, only just managing to remain standing, a hand pressed right beneath the arrow as if he could make it disappear by sheer strength of will.

Kili didn’t even remember how he made it to Fili’s side, but he suddenly found himself next to him, grabbing his brother by the arm so hard he knew he must be able to feel it through his layers of chainmail and leather.

“Kili,” Fili breathed, suddenly looking away with wide-eyed terror, “Behind you.”

The pain came as a wave, burning as hot as dragon fire, travelling along his spine, making his eyes water and his knees buckle. It was Fili who held him upright, the two of them frozen like one of Rivendell’s mighty statues of old, immortalised for eternity. They, however, were only made of flesh and blood, not stone and marble, and their mortal facades were starting to crumble beneath the shadow of the Lonely Mountain.

And crumble they did, into an ungainly heap of limbs and armour. There was no surprised, breathless huff this time as Fili hit the ground, Kili falling down hard next to him. There was a sudden flutter of movement at the edge of Kili’s vision, a screech of goblin excitement, the sound of metal meeting metal coming from his right, then a weak gurgling sound.

No matter how bad the pain was, or how quickly the world was starting to turn grey and lightless, Kili fought to turn around. His fingers scrambled uselessly at slippery mud and even slicker blood, but at last he managed to roll onto his side, finding Fili’s recumbent form right next to him.

“No,” Kili choked out, the word a wheeze and a groan at once, one crimson-smeared hand reaching up to touch Fili’s face, eyes refusing to take in the sight of a sword sticking out of his older brother’s belly. He could feel wetness on his cheeks, in his beard, but that did not matter. None of it mattered anymore, for a world without Fili was no world at all.

This time when fire erupted between his shoulder blades Kili did not fight the blackness it brought in its wake. Instead he grasped Fili’s hand, head falling heavily to a piece of Middle Earth that had been stained by fierce battle, and awaited the welcoming lights of the Halls of Mahal and his brother’s awaiting arms.

Lights sprang on, sudden and bright like artificial suns. Aidan opened his eyes from where his head rested on the ground. He tried to wipe the earth, now transformed into mud with the help of the tears he had cried, from his face, but of course that only made him look like a mud lark. He felt as if his head was about to explode from all the crying and screaming he had been doing. The glamorous life of an actor, he thought sarcastically. If only people knew what it was really like.

With a groan he finally sat up, looking down at Dean, who was lying next to him, artificial arrow and sword sticking out of his chest like he was he was some topsy-turvy porcupine. Aidan prodded him in the side with his prosthetic hand, trying to smile even though his mind was still torn between being Aidan Turner and Kili the Dwarf. It was a strange phenomenon; another thing someone who wasn’t an actor would never be able to understand. You couldn’t just throw your character aside like a tattered old shirt. You somehow got to carry that person with you, even more so after playing something as emotional as your own death scene.

“You can stop now. Lights are up.”

But all Aidan got in reply was silence. Stark, uncharacteristic silence.

Aidan’s brow creased, then he smiled. Leave it to Dean to turn this whole thing into a big joke. Aidan knew what his friend was like when stressed; always trying to make the others laugh when the weight pressing down on their shoulders - the expectations everyone had - got too much for them to handle.

Aidan gave it another second or two before he prodded Dean again.

“I know what you’re up to, O’Gorman.” Prod, prod. “Alright, cut the crap, mate. I’m knackered and my head feels as if someone planted a Molotov up there.” Because really, there was only so much even Aidan could take after a long, hard day at work.

It was only then that Aidan noticed the slightly blue tinge to Dean’s lips, nearly invisible beneath the layers of makeup and dirt, but there nonetheless. Dean didn’t have those during the scene. He might have them later on, when they did close ups, but Aidan was certain they hadn’t been there when they had started shooting.

“Dean?” Aidan asked, voice dropping with sudden worry. He held a hand in front of Dean’s face – frighteningly still, his skin looking pasty – and felt... nothing. Not a hint of breath. Just the total absence of anything.

Aidan didn’t even know he had ripped off his prosthetic hands until he found his bare fingers pressed against Dean’s neck, frantically searching for a pulse. He didn’t know a thing about first aid, but that was what they did on TV, right? You searched for a pulse. But no matter how much he prodded and pushed, or how restless his fingers moved over Dean’s skin like raven’s wings, he found none.

“Dean! Come on. Come on. Come on,” Aidan chanted, hands frantic on Dean’s immovable body, pulling at armour and fastenings with fingers that wouldn’t cooperate. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Dean was fine. He had been fine five minutes ago. Why wasn’t he moving? Why wasn’t he fucking moving?

And that knowledge, that this was not an act or a scene, that this was reality, made Aidan freeze, like a man petrified for all eternity by a pyroclastic surge.

Hands, sudden and rough, pushed him away, pried at his fingers where they were fisted into the front of Fili’s jerkin, trying to get him to let go but he wouldn’t. He couldn’t leave. He needed to make sure Dean was alright.

And then there was another touch, gentler this time. Hands that guided and steered and held. Familiar hands. Aidan didn’t want to leave but these hands were more insistent, despite their warmth, and he let himself be led away, painful step by painful step, until he collapsed in an undignified heap a couple of feet away from where his eyes still lingered.

It felt as if someone had poured starch down Aidan’s oesophagus. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t pull enough air into his lungs and he felt how the world began to blacken, except for that tiny pinpoint where Dean’s head was.

Someone muttered something in his ear. It could as well have been Chinese for all Aidan could comprehend, but it was calming and he leaned into whoever was babbling at him, because someone would make sure that everything would be fine again and the person whom that voice belonged to seemed a good enough candidate for the job.

Looking at Dean felt like observing him through the eye of a telescope: so far away and yet so close. Too close. A medic performed a more resolute rendition of looking for a pulse, head snapping up when none was found, hand ripping at cloth and leather and chainmail and Aidan knew wardrobe would freak the hell out over that and he laughed. The hand that was still on his back began to rub in soothing circles.

Someone pulled a bag from somewhere and modern equipment began to litter the ground of Middle Earth and that made Aidan laugh even harder. This was such a crappy, dramatic thing, wasn’t it? He expected Hugh Laurie to pop up any minute now, all House’s swagger and American accent, but of course he would be wearing Elf gear and wouldn’t that be the most hilarious thing ever?

The hand on his back stopped its circular motion to dig into the muscles on either side of his spine, making the eruption of laughter that threatened to grow ever louder stop as abruptly as if a plug had been pulled out of a socket. Some small part of Aidan knew he was on the verge of going hysterical, but the slight pain travelling up his backbone was enough to rein him in again. Enough until one of the medics began to forcefully push on Dean’s now exposed chest, while the other one took his place next to Dean’s head, tipped it back and breathed oxygen into his lungs. A third medic appeared out of nowhere, then a fourth, and Aidan leaned further into the warm, steady presence next to him as they swarmed all over Dean, like bees in a hive, pulling at clothing, inserting an IV, sticking the white patches of a heart monitor to his chest. The machine gave an immediate loud beep as the medic performing CPR stopped for a moment, the screen showing a flatline.

“Defibrillator!”

Aidan whimpered pathetically at the back of his throat. He didn’t want to see any more, damn it. He had never thought that he would be the type to watch a car wreckage, but he couldn’t stop staring, no matter how hard he tried. He was shaking, hands wringing together, a silent prayer on his lips and where the hell had that suddenly come from? He was still muttering a fragmentary Hail Mary when paddles were placed against Dean’s chest and his body jolted against the electric currents running through his body. But no matter what the medics tried and no matter which deity Aidan called for, the line on the monitor remained as straight as the shaft of an arrow.

Aidan sat up with a start, his breathing loud and erratic, even to his own ears. He was out of breath, as if someone had tried to smother him with a pillow in his sleep. He ran shaky hands through his hair and down his face, scrubbing roughly at his stubble-covered, sweaty cheeks as he willed his heart rate back to normal.

Jesus Christ, what the hell had that been all about?

Like any other human being on the face of the Earth Aidan had had nightmares before, but this had not been a normal bad dream. This had felt like the actual reality. Clammy sweat was making the sheets stick to his skin and his heart rate was nowhere near average. Breathing felt like trying to draw oxygen into his lungs through a straw and for a moment he wondered whether he was actually on the edge of having a full-blown panic attack. He’d had one of those when James had taken him sky diving, but even that one attack, triggered by deadly heights and the loss of control, hadn’t felt even remotely like what he was experiencing now.

His eyes travelled towards his iPhone on the bedside table, overwhelmingly tempted to call Dean and ask him whether he was alright, but that would definitely make him look like either a git, or like a git on drugs.

Feeling lightheaded, Aidan dropped back onto the mattress, flinging one arm across his face until his breathing had returned to something that could be described as near normal.

It was this movie. It was getting under his skin, turning Aidan into some weird creature that had either crawled right out of a David Attenborough documentary or out of a window at the local loony bin. He had never had any trouble discerning between reality and role, but this film was not like being in a series back on the Isles. They were an ensemble in the truest sense of the word: hidden from the rest of the world like a group of outcasts, seeing monsters around every corner. There were days when Aidan felt more in touch with Kili than with himself. At least Kili was a pretty straightforward lad: protect your own, kill what threatens you. But this? This was taking method acting to a whole new level.

Knowing he would not be able to find any peace in the confines in his bed, Aidan got up. His flat was freezing cold, but Aidan didn’t even notice. He entered his small kitchen, not minding the pile of dirty plates on the corner of the worktop, and grabbed a used cup that looked at least reasonably clean. Watching how coffee began to filter into the pot, Aidan let the dream pass by again.

He had heard of dreams that were bad omens; dreams that predicted those things that had not yet come to pass. Aidan didn’t believe in any of that nonsense. Things happened when they happened and didn’t appear in people’s minds like some kind of short indie film. He wasn’t Nostradamus, for fuck’s sake. Aidan lit a cigarette, hopping up on the counter, legs dangling, and frowned at the spot on the floor where the trees outside created abstract patterns. He sat there until the sun began to rise, just staring, not knowing what to do with his thoughts.

The first birds were starting their cheerful song outside when Aidan left his flat. The walls of his home away from home were closing in on him, making it feel like a tomb, and he reckoned that perhaps a drive around town with some music blaring from the speakers would clear his mind enough to help him make it through the day.

When he arrived on set an hour later he didn’t feel any better. Not even Jim Morrison’s smoke-and-booze voice had managed to filter the dream from Aidan’s mind. Throwing in the towel he went into make-up half an hour before his call time, not missing Richard’s surprised look at seeing him there already. He vaguely listened to the gentle scolding he received from his make-up artist as she tried to conceal the dark shadows beneath his eyes, lecturing him like a mother hen on the benefits of raw food and enough sleep. That last sentence almost made Aidan bark an unpleasant laugh. He escaped the trailer as soon as the final brushstroke had settled on his face and locked himself in his trailer for the rest of the morning, although he did look outside with a deep sigh of relief when he heard Dean’s voice as he chatted with Luke just below his window.

The set was ready, the mood suitably dour. They all tended to laugh and joke around until the last moment – and sometimes even during a shoot – but that morning everyone seemed to realise the impact of the scenes they were about to film. The abnormality of spending the time waiting for his cue in the absence of any of his co-stars made Aidan feel even queasier than he already had. After having skipped their usual communal breakfast he had forced himself to eat a banana and drink a cup of tea with two extra sugar cubes, but the extra sugar did little to calm his heart or settle his nerves. He had left his script in his trailer on purpose, not wanting to be confronted with those words again. He knew what Kili would say and do. Hell, he knew it so well he had actually bloody dreamed about it.

They had been rehearsing it for two days now. Death scenes were nothing new for Aidan, but this was without a doubt going to be the biggest, most elaborate and also most life-changing one he had ever done. He wasn’t unknown back home, but the exposure he would receive just by being in a Peter Jackson movie was of course nowhere near the level of celebrity he had now.

Staring at the barren wasteland that was supposed to double as the battlefield, Aidan felt decidedly uncomfortable. They had rehearsed the scene over and over again, working with the entire arsenal of crew just to get this one exactly right. But playing it in shorts and t-shirts in a small gym at the other end of the studio was not the same as standing on the actual sound stage, thoroughly Kili-fied and having his internal engine work on nothing more than nicotine and caffeine.

“I can’t do it,” Aidan muttered under his breath, feeling the first vestiges of panic creep up on him. He knew it was absurd – for God’s sake, it had been a dream – but he felt queasy and sick even only thinking about the upcoming scene.

“Can’t do what?” James asked from where he was standing next to him, Bofur’s hat still in his hands. They had all learned pretty early on that their costumes were so hot to wear that it was a lot more comfortable to don anything they could at the very last moment instead of wearing it all day long.

Aidan observed him from out of the corner of his eye and weighted his options. He could remain silent, be the professional he fancied himself to be, or he could share the burden with someone, talk about it. Not that Aidan was a talker. Oh, he tended to chat more than anyone he knew, but jabbering about nonsense and opening up were two different things. He chanced another glance at James and, for once, let his need for another person’s view win him over.

“This scene. I... I don’t know how to do it,” he began, words slower and more haltingly than they would usually fall from his lips.

“Of course you do!” And at that moment James sounded more like Bofur with his unending source of positivity than like Jimmy. “You’ve done it before. Your brother dies, you die, everyone is in tears and you’ll break millions of hearts all over the globe.”

Yes, that was the nitty gritty of it, but the basics weren’t the problem, now were they?

“It’s not that,” Aidan said again, kicking carefully at one of the large styrofoam rocks with the toe of one of Kili’s boots. “I have a bad feeling about it.”

James raised both eyebrows, which looked rather silly in combination with Bofur’s hat, but Aidan couldn’t find it in himself to smile.

“And why’s that? Too much mud? Afraid it will ruin your pretty face, lad?” And James was grinning now, trying to relieve the tension, Aidan knew that, but it rubbed him the wrong way and he bit his lip to keep from snapping at James.

“I dreamed that Dean died. Here. Today.”

And that made James stop dead in his tracks. “Our Dean?”

Aidan shrugged, faux casually. “How many do you know?”

James looked at him for a long moment, those green eyes that constant observed peering deep and Aidan got the distinct feeling he was trying to glance right into his brain.

“You never struck me as the superstitious type, mate,” he at last supplied, making Aidan shrug again.

“I’m not.” Aidan sighed and reached up to push his hands through his hair, but he let his arms drop when he encountered Kili’s wig instead of his own locks. “I’ve never had this before, but that dream was so... so realistic.”

“Aye, I had one of those while I was doing Murphy’s.” James fiddled with Bofur’s hat, finally putting it on and setting it at an angle that was slightly more rakish than absolutely necessary. “I was sure they were going to hurt my girls. It drove me mad for a while, but then I told Sonia and she basically ordered me to snap out of it. Now, I’m not sure about my wife’s prowess as a psychologist, but it did work.”

He winked at Aidan, who managed to give the tiniest of smiles in return. “It’s these roles we play. They get under our skins and make us lose touch with reality. They become part of us, you know, these people. We all end up either mad or as drunks.”

This time Aidan did smile. “Or mad and drunk.”

“Or that.” James’ hand landed on Aidan’s shoulder where he pinched hard enough for him to feel the touch through layers of fabric and muscle suit. “Your Dean will be fine.”

Aidan frowned. “He’s not my Dean.”

“Well, perhaps not.” And why didn’t James sound at all convinced by those words? “But he is your brother.”

“Yeah, he is.” Aidan smiled, wrapping an arm around James in a short, loose hug. “Thanks, man.”

“Anytime, lad. You know that.”

Aidan nodded. He was feeling slightly lighter, as if the heavy load he had been carrying with him had been halved. He prepared to take his leave, maybe find a can of Red Bull somewhere to give him some extra energy after the sleepless night he had been struggling through. Maybe catering had one of those chocolate muffins still sitting around and he reckoned something sweet might do him good. Mind firmly fixed on food and drinks, Aidan was only stopped by the sound of James’ voice.

“So are you going to tell him?”

Aidan twisted around on his heels, eyebrows drawn together. “Who?”

“The Archbishop of Canterbury.” James rolled his eyes and shook his head as if he was deeply disappointed by the borders of Aidan’s IQ. “O’Gorman, of course.”

“Nah, I guess not. He needs his wits about him for the scene. I don’t want to worry him.”

It wasn’t the truth, not even close to it, in fact. Aidan was pretty damn sure that if he told Dean he would laugh at him, pat him on the back and say ‘great one, mate’, as if it was one big joke. Alright, so maybe Aidan was making a bigger deal out of it than it truthfully deserved, but he couldn’t help it. Not with how close they all were; not with the weight and stress of his job pressing down on his shoulders.

With a wry smile Aidan looked back at James, who simply shrugged.

“It’s your choice, lad. Just do yourself a favour if you don’t and let it go. You can’t act if your heart’s not in it and I don’t fancy being here until midnight because we have to do reshoot after reshoot because Kili’s mind is otherwise occupied. I’m not one of you young‘uns anymore.”

“You’re hardly old.”

“Lad,” came the extremely serious reply, “You should hear my knees pop in the morning.”

Aidan laughed, shaking his head, then sobered up. “I won’t bugger this up. I promise.”

“Of course you won’t!” And James slapped him on the back. “Now, while you’re off to get yourself a drink, bring me a cappuccino, would you? Two sugars, extra milk. There’s a good lad.”

Aidan didn’t even begin to wonder anymore how James could read his mind like it was a crappy airport novel.

It had been Thorin who had been hit first. Their uncle had been severely injured, yet Kili knew he and his brother would fight until the bitter end. It was a noble thought and it did nothing to numb the pain of watching his brother fall. When fire erupted between Kili’s shoulders he did not fight the blackness, for a world without Fili was no world he wished to live in. Closing his eyes he waited for the crows to claim his body while his soul seared up to Mahal’s Great Halls.

“And cut!” Peter’s voice echoed across the set. Aidan groaned as he sat up, prosthetic hand rubbing at his lower back where his quiver had dug into his hip and he knew that that was going to leave a nice bruise. He cast his eyes across the set, watching as people scrambled back to their feet, collecting weapons. PAs, the make-up crew and the lighting personnel began to bustle around the soundstage, descending onto them like a colony of ants.

Graham dropped down next to Richard, who was unable to move with a fake spear strapped to his chest, both of them wiping sweat from their heads and eyes.

Aidan sighed, head hanging low between his bend knees for a long moment, before he finally turned his head enough to be able to look at Dean.

Dean was still on the floor, eyes closed and face and clothes splattered with dirt and mud, and Aidan’s breath stuck in his throat like a mouthful of ash.

“Dean?” he began tentatively, and wasn’t this eerily like his dream? Aidan looked around frantically, expecting someone to jump forward and yell the words ‘ha ha’ right into his face for being so gullible, but nobody did.

“Dean. Fuck. Dean!” And now Aidan really did panic. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye, noticed Martin come to a standstill right beside him, Jed in tow.

“You alright, mate?” Martin asked, looking down at Dean’s still form, frowning ever so slightly. “Is he alright?”

“I... I don’t know. Jesus. Fuck. Dean!” And in real life Aidan didn’t possess the clarity of mind to look for a pulse or check for injuries. In real life Aidan was nothing but a screaming, panicking mess.

He should have told Dean. He should have told fucking Peter, because he would have made sure that nothing would happen to any of them, but of course he hadn’t.

“Dean!” Aidan demanded again, and only then did he notice that Dean’s formerly slack mouth had started to stretch and quirk.

Dean cracked open one blue eye and grinned that insufferable grin of his, the braids of Fíli’s moustache twitching with the movement. “Gotcha, mate.”

That smile, so cheeky and cocky, so fucking sure of himself, made something snap inside of Aidan. He stared incredulously at Dean for another moment, hearing laughter erupt around them at Dean’s antics at the same time as angry heat blossomed across Aidan’s face.

“Fuck you!” Aidan snapped, no longer in control of what he did or said. He jumped up, stubbornly ignoring both Dean’s flabbergasted “Aidan?” and the hand that came out of nowhere – James’s hand – to stop him midstride. Aidan shook him off with a huff and in a flurry of leather and dirt-stained fabric he escaped the soundstage.

The fresh air outside did little to soothe Aidan’s temper. He strode across the set, moving between trailers and cars until he found a relatively remote spot. The sun was high in the sky, shortening the shadows on the ground, but even the light could not sweeten Aidan’s sour mood.

Bloody fucking idiotic stupid twat of an O’Gorman.

James had told him. Of course James hadn’t been able to control himself and had spilled the beans as soon as Aidan had gone to fetch his cappuccino. Aidan kicked against a loose pebble and watched as it bounced off one of the trailers with a satisfactory loud thump. He shouldn’t have trusted anyone with his story, that was for certain. He should have listened to that inner voice that had insisted it was a bad idea to wear his heart on his sleeve. Of course he had known that they would all take the piss out of him for it, but the thought that Dean would actually go through such lengths to re-enact the whole thing just to get on Aidan’s tits was not something that had crossed Aidan’s mind.

Sighing under his breath Aidan made his way over the low wall that separated the studio ground from the car park and sat down, head bowed. He knew he had broken his own golden rule of never being a prick on set, but he hadn’t been able to help himself. He badly needed a cigarette but make-up and wardrobe had long since forbidden any of the actors to smoke whilst dressed in full dwarf-attire, so instead he settled for gnawing viciously on his bottom lip until he tasted blood.

The sound of footsteps didn’t come as a surprise, but Aidan wasn’t prepared to face anyone just yet all the same. Quite sure that it was one of his cast mates, and even surer that he couldn’t possibly ruin his reputation of being an easy-going, friendly guy even further, he snapped, “Bugger off.”

Whoever it was stopped in their tracks for a moment, right in the shadow of one of the trailers, then continued to walk in Aidan’s direction. Of course it was Dean. Aidan hadn’t expected otherwise. He scowled darkly at Dean, who held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“I didn’t know, Aid.”

Aidan ignored that statement, not in the mood to give in already. He was still as pissed off as fuck. He twisted a piece of fabric between his prosthetic hands, watching as it sprang back to its original shape once he let it go, albeit creased, and the imperfection made him strangely happy. Not as happy as planting a fist in Dean’s fake nose would make him, but for the moment it would do.

“James just told me. I had no clue,” Dean continued, taking a tentative step closer. Aidan’s scowl turned into a frown, eyebrows still lowered at a dangerous angle, but at least he didn’t want to murder Dean right then and there.

Obviously taking that as a sign of permission Dean hoisted himself up on the wall next to Aidan. Aidan continued to stare straight ahead, still not entirely trusting his hands to let go off his costume and not wrap themselves around a certain New Zealander’s throat.

They sat in silence for a while until the shadows on the ground began to grow even shorter.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Dean finally asked, hands resting on the bricks of the wall. He had taken off his Fili hands, Aidan realised, and he wondered why he noticed such a trivial thing while his mind was still bouncing between annoyance and exhaustion.

“Because I would have sounded like a fuckin’ git,” he answered at last, making it sound more like a bark than a normal sentence. The anger, fuelled by a lack of sleep and confusion, was no longer focused on Dean, and now Aidan was pissed off with himself for being such a whining twat.

Dean was quiet for a moment, legs dangling. When he finally did speak his voice was even softer than normal. “I wouldn’t have laughed at you.”

Aidan gave Dean the evil stare of doom, or something which he reckoned was close enough, making Dean shrug and grin. “Alright, so maybe a little, but I would have listened to you, too.”

“To tell me I’m a bloody idiot.”

It was the most natural thing in the world for Dean’s arm to come up to wrap around Aidan’s shoulders. Aidan sighed, disgusted by his own need for comfort, but then the resolve not to give in to that took all of 0.2 seconds before he let himself be manhandled into a tight embrace.

“You’re not an idiot,” Dean said and the vehemence in his otherwise gentle voice was enough to convince Aidan of that fact. “You’re stressed and tired.”

“You’re right. Should’ve told you,” Aidan mumbled into Fili’s locks, arms coming up on their own accord to hug Dean back, feeling his heartbeat finally return to its normal rate. He should have listened to James, but it was always easier to decide something like that after the fact had already taken place. If he had he certainly wouldn’t have looked like a right wanker in front of everyone, that was for sure. At least Dean didn’t seem to mind about him buggering things up.

“Yes, you should have,” Dean agreed. Aidan knew he should be surprised when Dean pulled away far enough to brush warm, soft lips against his own in a chaste caress, as gentle as the wings of a butterfly, but he wasn’t. Not enough to press his own smooch to the corner of Dean’s eternally smirking mouth anyway. Dean chuckled, then pushed some of the stray hairs away from Aidan’s face.

“Alright, this is what we’re going to do,” Dean said, finally letting go of Aidan, although his hand remained warm and comfortable at the small of Aidan’s back. “We’re going to smoke a cigarette.”

“But wardrobe...”

“Wardrobe doesn´t need to know, now do they?” And Dean winked while he stood up and pulled Aidan with him. “Then we’ll return. You’ll apologise for being a dipshit...”

Aidan mock glowered at that, but Dean shook his head, albeit with a smile on his face. “You’ll apologise for being a dipshit. We’ll do the fucking scene and then we’ll have a drink or five. How does that sound?”

“It’ll do,” Aidan said with a shrug, but the smile that accompanied his words was the first genuine one to grace his face in days.

“Also...,” Dean began, then stopped, cocking his head to the side as he looked up at Aidan with a smile.

“Yeah?” Aidan prompted, very much aware of Dean’s hand that still lingered on his back.

Dean’s smile widened, making the skin around his eyes turn into a web of creases and laugh lines. “You know that dreams about death mean change, don’t you?”

“I don’t believe in any of that supernatural crap,” Aidan replied, but he couldn’t help but smile in return. Their gazes remained locked for a long moment, until Dean broke the silence with a shrug, “I know you don’t, but you may want to remember it. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” Aidan agreed before he bent down to claim Dean’s mouth with his lips.