A/N: Just a thought that wouldn't leave me alone after Just4Me's comment for a chapter on "Thorin's Word A Day" #25: "I'm glad that was just a dream, and not some hideous alternate reality where they never really met". I realized the beginning of the story might read like that only when I was correcting typos in it, and I'm glad that you caught on that. So, here is a story!

You wake up with a jerk, your heart is beating painfully in your throat, you are taking huge gulps of air. You press your hand to your forehead and reach for the other side of the bed to touch the warm shoulder of your husband. "Thorin…" Your hand hits an empty pillow, and then it all comes back to you.

There can not be anyone in your bed. You are not married, and most of all there cannot be a sleeping Dwarf in your bed. Because Dwarves do not exist. You look at the annoying green digits on your radio. 3:15. You fall back into your pillows and groan.

You pull at your hair. What kind of a convoluted absurd dream was that? All those little tangible details, he was pressing you into his body, his mouth on the pulse on your neck, black thick beard tickling your skin, you were sitting on his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck. A heavy velvet dress on you, a dark blue attire on him, the children playing on the floor, the youngest in his older brother's arms, all of it so real...

You have had these dreams since you remember yourself. It seems with years they have been intensifying and in the past ten months, since you started working on that medieval exposition, they have been driving you mad.

More and more details add to your delusion. The way his hair falls and curtains you from the world when he presses your body into the sheets, the way it feels when his son stirs under your heart for the first time, the weight of his newborn babe in your hands, the feeling of power and pride you will feel when the heavy iron crown lies on your head, the smiles, the tears, the kisses, Thror, Unna, Dain and Othin...

You grab a pillow and smack it into your face. No more Northern mythology before bedtime. You nuzzle the pillow and will sleep to come. You have an important day tomorrow, there are flyers to order, a banquet hall to book, laundry to pick up…

You are late, and you tumble down the stairs only to see the bus leaving the bus stop. You curse under your breath and rush around the corner. You can still catch the other one, and with a lucky transfer you can still make it. You slip on the ice, and your handbag falls on the ground. You curse again and start picking up scattered items, thankful that at least there were not tampons in it.

You feel the presence of another person near by and lift your eyes. The gentlemen is probably around seventy, elegant silver grey hair, mischievous blue eyes. He is smiling to you, scooting and picking up your pens and tubes of lipstick. You gratefully accept them and then see the other bus going by. You definitely have had better days.

"It will get better," he has a low melodic voice, and you remember that he is still there. "Oh, sorry, I haven't thanked you." "It's quite alright, my dear, I only did what any self-respecting gentleman would do." You both get up, and you realize that he is very tall. An elegant grey suit, a grey coat and a silver scarf. Although slightly too monochrome for your taste, you have to admit he is quite dashing.

You sigh. "It's just that I'm now definitely late for my work..." "Believe an old man, my dear, the destiny is never late, nor is it early, it arrives precisely when it means to". You smile to him again and shove the last items in your handbag.

"Well, I really should be going... Have a nice day!" You turn around to leave, and then you hear his chocolate voice behind you, "And a very good day to you, lady Wren." You think that you must be hearing things, you shrug and take your first step towards the next bus stop.

You feel a gentle push at your back, and you have a moment to get appalled. Did this nice old gentlemen just pushed you from the curb, onto the road, into a giant puddle, dirty cold water mixed with ice? And then a large black car turns from around a corner, and you realize that the disgusting icy goo seeping into your ankle boot is the least of your problems at the moment.

You close your eyes and hear the brakes screeching. You brace yourself for an impact, but it never comes. You peek. The bumper is literally one inch away from your heaving chest, and you gulp.

The door flies open, and two large palms grab your shoulders. "Are you alright?! Miss, are you alright?!" You lift your eyes, and there he is. The endlessly familiar blue eyes, thick black lashes, the beard is here too, the hair is shorter, but still the same luscious dark waves with strands of argent, pulled into a ponytail, the curved sexy lips, and you feel nauseated. You always feel like vomiting when you are emotional.

He lets you go and steps back. "It's you..." You both say it at the same time and stare at each other. He shakes his head, and the gesture is familiar too. "Wren..." "Thorin..." "It's John actually," his voice is raspy, "Thorington." You emit a ridiculous giggle. He smiles widely. "Wren..." His velvet voice caresses your name, and you swoon.

The kiss is familiar too and the frigid water slushing in your boot is just another in a series of the disgusting substances somehow involved in a passionate moment between the two of you that you had to endure over years. There was swamp water, warg blood, Orc blood, Great Spider's web… You push your hands into his hair and get on your tiptoes. A delicious, so endlessly familiar chuckle rumbles in his chest. "What?" "You are so much shorter this time." "Oh you barmy muppet," your voice is warm and teasing, "it's you who is taller this time!"