Fic: Tricksy Dwarves

Title: Tricksy Dwarves

Prompt: Dean and Aidan sneaking around set and trying to hide it from people

Pairing: Aidan/Dean

Rating: PG-15


It's a big day for Aidan Turner. He hasn't shared a shower with anyone since college, and even then it was only because he and Rosencrantz were desperately trying to wash oil paint off their faces in time for the next act.

Granted, he had fancied dear, unattainable Ros substantially, but standing half-naked next to him in a shower cubicle with stage make-up dripping wetly down his face wasn't a patch on this.

Currently he is being pressed, firm and soaking, against the wall of his trailer shower. His boyfriend – blond, big-eyed and seven years his senior – is pressed up against him, mouthing hotly at his neck and digging his fingers into Aidan's soapy hair.

It's utterly fantastic. The water spouting from the shower-head is starting to grow cold and weak, and the tiled wall is pressing a brick pattern into Aidan's back, and he keeps having to blink rapidly where he's got a bit of soap in his eye. But Dean's mouth and fingers and significantly naked body are enough to make up for it all.

“What do you think, babe?” he's breathing out now, nosing at the wet line of Aidan's neck. “Clean enough yet?”

“Definitely not,” Aidan gasps, too worked up to cringe at how desperate he sounds. He's been with Dean long enough now that he's past the point where he has to analyse every thought before voicing it. He has Dean. Dean loves him. Within reason, Aidan can say whatever he wants.

In fact, he has the perfect line on the tip of his tongue right now – the one so sexy he thinks it'll make Dean melt into a puddle right there on the shower floor – but fate chooses that exact moment to let a whole glob of shampoo fall into Aidan's eye, and he jerks away from Dean's embrace with a howl.

“Are you alright?” asks Dean, pawing at him in earnest. “Is it in your eye?”

“Yes, Dean, yes it's in my eye.”

“Here, let me –”

Aidan yelps, the sound echoing loudly around the hollow tiled walls. “You've got soap on your hands! You're rubbing it in, man!”

“Well, move so I can rinse them!”

“It's too late now, I'm going fuckin' blind! Just...”

All too soon the chorus of gasps and moans is replaced by grunts of varying degrees of annoyance, as the two men attempt to steer around one another and clear away the offending suds. Aidan tilts his face back beneath the lukewarm jet of water, clearing away the shampoo in his hair in the process, while Dean gingerly steps out into the coldness of the tiny bathroom and fumbles for a towel.

They seem to have both consigned themselves to the fact that the romantic moment has passed.

“You know you've only got one towel?”

Still rubbing miserably at his sore eye, Aidan sticks his head out of the cubicle. “What?”

Dean tries to pass the towel in question to him. “Here.”

“No no, it's alright, you use it.”

“Well no, it's your towel –”

“Dean, it's fine, I've got a –”

“You got soap in your eye!”

“I don't need a man-sized towel for my eye –”

A sharp knock on the front door of the trailer makes them both shut up. For a second, they're both deadly still, and very naked. Slowly, Aidan turns the shower off. All that can be heard for a few tense moments is the tentative drip of water. The knock booms again, making them both jump. Then –

“Aidan?”

Aidan gulps in realisation, water dripping into his eyes. “Shit, it's Richard. Er, here – chuck us the towel.”

Dean does, and Aidan almost slips in his haste to get out of the shower and catch it.

“Right, you stay in here, I'll see to the door,” he says, but when he turns around Dean has already gone. “Dean? Dean!”

“Dean?” comes Richard's voice outside.

“Richard!” Aidan calls back. “Just a minute, mate!” He turns back to Dean and hisses, “Just go in the bathroom.”

“He knows I'm here now,” says Dean, voice hushed as he roots around beneath the bed. “And anyway, I'm freezing. It's not my fault you threw my clothes under here last night, is it? I wanted to fold them up.”

“Fine, fine, but hurry up.”

Aidan finds his own jeans lodged down the back of the breakfast table. His t-shirt has been flung up on to to the shelf that runs round the top of the trailer. His boxers, alas, are nowhere to be found, vanished in the heat of passion.

He tugs the jeans and t-shirt on anyway and then, conscious that Richard's knocking has grown significantly more impatient, flings back the door.

“Hi hi,” Aidan grins, panting slightly. He surreptitiously leans in the doorway to try and obscure as much of Dean as possible.

“Ah, morning Aidan,” Richard says gruffly. “Sorry to bother you like this, but Luke's tied up and I don't know who else to talk to. It's about this scene with Bard...”

And then, just like that, Richard sets a heavy foot on the step and pushes past Aidan to get into the trailer.

This might be Aidan's cue to explain why Dean is in here, naked and wet, but when he turns around Dean is perched innocently on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and smiling. His clothes are sticking to him a bit, but thankfully Richard doesn't seem to notice. He greets Dean tiredly, and then sits himself down at the breakfast table, script in hand.

Aidan rubs his palms together. “Shall I put the kettle on, lads?”

Glancing up distractedly, Richard says, “Yeah, good idea. This is gonna take a while.”

Inwardly, Aidan groans. It's moments like this he has to remind himself that he loves Dean, and that Richard is a great mate, because these awkward interruptions just won't stop happening and it's becoming less and less easy to deal with them.

Because the thing is, Dean is his boyfriend. It's just, well, no one else really knows it yet.

*

Three days later, Aidan is sitting in the cafeteria on his own. Everyone else is in make-up, and lonely melancholy has begun to creep up on him. His copy of Fashion Quarterly isn't doing much to stimulate him. He's in full Kili costume, and couldn't feel less fashionable if he tried.

Dropping his magazine on to the table, Aidan sighs. He hasn't seen Dean since the fateful morning of The Shower. In fact, to say they play brothers, they don't seem to have seen much of each other at all recently. When Aidan's dubbing his voice, Dean's engaged in a read-through. When Dean has a wardrobe fitting, Aidan's passed out in exhaustion.

Sometimes Aidan wonders what the hell they're doing, why they think it's a good idea to carry on this secret relationship. It feels more like some illicit, clandestine operation at times. But then, he doesn't think it's a good idea. He knows it's not.

The problem is, Aidan loves Dean. Really, really loves him. He's beautiful, of course – not in a generic, male-model, muscle-man kind of way. Aidan would kick himself for thinking in Hallmark clichés, but it really is the little things; it's the way Dean's nose is just a little too big for his face, the way he's incapable of smiling with his mouth open, how his ears are perfectly round and stick out just a tiny bit.

And he's short too, so short Aidan can put an arm around him or cuddle him properly in bed because, truth be told, he's always sort of got a kick out of being the big spoon.

And it's not just how he looks either; Aidan loves Dean's accent and how subtly funny he is, how intelligent he is, the way he complains about the slight softness of his belly but is too lazy to go to the gym. He loves the way Dean drinks his tea black and sugary, and reads novels about serial killers and insists on reading out all the grisly bits to Aidan. He loves the way Dean can sleep just about anywhere, and does so with his mouth open, and how at night he likes to doze with only a thin cotton sheet covering him, so that Aidan can see the wonderful line of his legs and hips and back.

He loves Dean, and the only price he has to pay for it is sneaking around the set of a major movie, and knowing that if anyone found out about them all hell would break loose, their careers would suffer, their fans would quickly evaporate.

Small price to pay, Aidan tells himself confidently, thinking of Dean's lazy morning kisses.

As if on cue, the metal doors to the cafeteria swing open and Dean – well, Fili – sticks his head in and peers round, as though checking the coast is clear. Seeing that it is, he steps in and closes the doors firmly behind him.

He doesn't speak at first. As if struck by a brilliant idea, he quickly crosses the room in three long strides, ridiculous boots thumping, and takes Aidan's face between his hands, kissing him. Aidan places his hands in the stupid blond extensions and tugs him closer. They kiss like that for a long time and it's lovely, if a little awkward with Dean's magnificent beard and braids between them.

Still holding on to his face, Dean pulls back and murmurs, “Missed you, gorgeous.”

“I only live next door to you.”

“I know. It's ridiculous. Where've you been hiding?” It's then that Dean notices the magazine on the table, and he gives a bemused smile. “Thinking of a new career, Aidan?”

“I'm so bored,” Aidan groans. “It's all I could find. Well, that or Creative Knitting.”

Suddenly Dean is in his lap, pressing their foreheads together, and they must look so stupid to anyone looking in. Speaking of, Aidan pulls back slightly to give the room one last glance over, just in case anyone might be hiding under a table or behind a vending machine.

“They're all still in make-up,” Dean says gently, as though reading his mind. “We've got at least an hour.”

Aidan smiles. “An hour for what exactly?”

“Well, if you find that knitting magazine I'm sure we could use our time productively.”

They both chuckle quietly (Aidan is loath to admit his own laugh is actually more of a giggle) and press their mouths together, slow and warm. Dean's arms loop lazily around his neck.

“You're kissing off my make-up,” Aidan mumbles against his lips.

“I'll stop then, shall I?”

Aidan's grip on Dean's thigh tightens, and he pulls him further into his lap.

“Didn't say that,” he growls, going to give Dean's earlobe a nip before remembering it's prosthetic. “So weird making out with you in costume.”

“Turning you off?”

“Not a bit.”

“With you it's a bit like kissing a caveman,” Dean tells him, picking up a long strand of Kili hair. “Very primal, don't you think?”

“Difficult to buy that, what with you looking like Father Christmas.”

“Ah, then shouldn't you be in my lap?”

“Mm, watch it, O'Gorman, you're starting to reveal your kinks.”

Dean winks ridiculously and kisses him again. “I know you want to know all my kinks, Turner.”

“S'true. It's the only reason I'm sleeping with you, so I can ruin you.”

“You tell the world my kinks and I'll tell them how you like to –”

The doors slam open, and eleven dwarves march in, jeering loudly. The entourage is led by a particularly squeaky-voiced young man with a bowl cut and beard, declaring that if he doesn't get Fruit Pastilles right now, he's actually really honestly going to die.

Dean slips right out of Aidan's lap and on to the floor, masking it as some sort of gymnastic display, while Aidan swivels in his seat and buries his nose once more in Fashion Quarterly.

Within minutes, six dwarves have joined their table, effectively wiping off their own make-up with vending machine food.

“Thought you said we had an hour,” Aidan mutters from behind his magazine, when Dean hauls himself up into the seat next to him.

Dean mutters, “Sorry,” and takes a crisp when Adam offers him one.

*

“Did you lock the door?” Dean murmurs against his lips, seven hours later. It's nearly ten at night, and they're on Aidan's bed, and the only light cast on them is the warm glow of the overhead reading lamps.

Aidan smiles up at him. “Mhm.”

“And the window in the bathroom?”

“The window in the bathroom's about a foot high.”

“I'm not taking any chances,” Dean says, all mock sternness, but then their lips melt into another kiss and he seems to forget about it.

They've got it all planned out; the doors and windows are indeed locked, and they've put the television on to block out any noises which may occur. The tiny heater is on so the trailer's all warm and cosy, and the sheets are fresh, and only a couple of hours ago Aidan passed by a high class New Zealand vending machine and, on a whim, bought a couple of bars of Whittaker's Kiwi Fruit chocolate, thinking wistfully of all the interesting ways they could use them.

He paws clumsily for them now on the night stand, distracted by the warmth of Dean's lips on his neck. He drops one bar altogether, but retrieves the other and slides the soft wrapping up the side of Dean's face so that he looks up, blinking in surprise.

“Kiwi Fruit,” he breathes, taking the bar like a child in awe. “This is my absolute favourite.” He seems to realise his age then, because he tuts and bats Aidan gently on the nose with the chocolate. “You soppy romantic. Can I open it?”

“What else d'you think it's for?” Aidan chuckles, but Dean's already tearing open the shiny paper like a kid.

Sitting up, his knees astride Aidan's hips, he holds the dark bar to his nose and inhales deeply, closing his eyes like it's the most heavenly think he's ever held.

“Smells so good. Here.” Dean breaks a piece off and holds it between his fingers a couple of inches from Aidan's lips, just far away enough that Aidan has to push his head up and take it from him. He slides his lips over Dean's fingers as he does, all the way to the first knuckle, before pulling back, catching the chocolate in his mouth.

Dean's approval of this is short-lived. Aidan begins to chew, and Dean yelps.

“What are you doing?” he demands, so suddenly that Aidan jumps and almost chokes.

“What?”

“You're not supposed to eat it like that.”

And then Dean actually slaps him – slaps him – on the wrist, and breaks off another piece. He wriggles a bit, leaning back so that his arse nestles comfortably against Aidan's crotch, and then places the piece very carefully on to his own tongue.

Then he leans down close and murmurs, “You're supposed to let it melt.”

Aidan bites back a laugh, snapping his teeth gently. “Didn't realise you were such a chocolate connoisseur,” he mutters, but then Dean is kissing him and suddenly all of this tangy, fruity, melted dark chocolate is being pushed into Aidan's mouth and it's absolutely delicious.

“Jesus, that's so... good,” he says when Dean pulls away.

“You sound surprised.”

“I'm not really big on sweets.” In a move he secretly thinks terribly suave, Aidan pulls out from underneath Dean and manages to push him gently on to his back. “I was kind of just hoping to use it on you. What do you think, Dean? I melt some chocolate on your chest and work my way down...”

The hitch in Dean's breath is audible. His eyes flutter in the most agonizingly sexy way, and Aidan is all but ready to carry out his suggestion straight away. Then there comes a knock on the door, and Dean lets out this weird noise which is half laugh, half sob, and presses his fingers into his eyes like he's trying to gouge them out in anguish.

“We'll ignore it,” Aidan whispers, but the knock comes again, rapt and jaunty, and Adam's voice dances clear over the sound of the television: “Aidan? You coming for a drink?”

Aidan's eyes dart back to the man beneath him. Dean's giving him a mildly terrifying stare which seems to read if you say yes, I will genuinely castrate you.

“No, mate, I'm – I'm sick,” he calls back unconvincingly.

“Supposed to be an actor,” Dean mutters.

“Come on,” Adam drags out. “Just one or two. We're not even going off site, we're all invited over to Richard's.”

Aidan is surprised – and a little guilty – to find how tempted he is by the offer. He looks at Dean again and says, “Do you want to...?”

“No!”

“Right, sorry...” Turning his head back towards the door, Aidan shouts, “No, you go on without me, man. Honestly, I'm good.”

For a moment, there's nothing but silence. Satisfied and smug, Aidan smiles and leans in to kiss Dean once more, when a second voice comes from outside.

“He'll let you bring your boyfriend.”

Shit.

That's James.

Dean looks at him, eyes wide, and Aidan stares back. They must look insane like this, arms wrapped around one another, frozen with the TV blaring above them and chocolate staining their lips like naughty schoolchildren.

Before either of them can think up a suitable response, a bloody third voice joins in:

“Oh yeah, man,” comes Richard's deep baritone, “you're both more than welcome.”

And then, humiliatingly, laughter.

Aidan and Dean look at each other, mortified. Slowly, almost ashamedly, Aidan peels himself away, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and shuffling sheepishly towards the door. He opens it a crack, enough to see them but not enough for them to see Dean.

Outside, grinning stupidly, stand no less than eight dwarves.

“What, er, what did you say?” Aidan asks lightly, as though just making conversation.

It's Richard who steps forward. There is a ridiculously un-Richard smirk plastered on his face. He gestures for Aidan to lean down and, in yet another very un-Richard way, murmurs into his ear, “I said you and your boyfriend are more than welcome in my trailer.”

Aidan swallows and gives a shaky smile, nodding. Gesturing to his pyjama get-up of vest and sweat pants, he says, “Right. I'll just... put some clothes on then, eh?”

Closing the door gently on them, he turns to look at Dean. He's still lying on the bed, a hand clapped over his mouth in embarrassment, the bar of Kiwi Fruit chocolate lying forgotten beside him.

“So,” Aidan says slowly, a silly, dumbfounded smile forming gradually on his face. “Secret's out.”

Somehow, he gets the distinct impression it never really was a secret.