Billy Boyd and the Risks of Trusting a Monaghan
Title: Billy Boyd and the Risks of Trusting a Monaghan
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dom/Billy, gen
Warnings: Mischief
Word count: ~1250
Feedback: I trust you.
Notes: For the 2lineschallenge.
Lyrics:
eatin' a reuben sandwich with sauerkraut
don't stop now, baby, let it all hang out
-the hombres, let it out (let it all hang out)
“Come on, Bills. Do you trust me?”
Now that was the question, wasn’t it? Billy regarded the lad in the dim hall before him, all confident shoulders and closely buzzed scalp, face cast downward so as to drill Billy with a look from under his eyebrows that screamed things like, Ooh imagine the mischief we could cause Billy, the trouble, and all the naughty things you’ve always wanted to do but never had the balls, and I’m certainly not to be trusted but come on now, won’t it be fun?
Bill wasn’t the sort that trusted others immediately. It was an insensible habit borne out of unlucky circumstance and a few too many broken promises. Age six, when Maggie had promised him the old birch tree’s branches were strong enough to hold his weight. Age ten, when his school friend Neil promised to return his treasured bicycle. Well, the bike had been returned, but in a useless heap of twisted metal and a friend with more than a few broken bones. Age thirteen, when the medic told him his father would “be just fine, not to worry, lad.” Age sixteen, when the pretty new girl in school, Emily, had promised to meet him in the park at eight pm. He’d waited for that one nearly until midnight, but she never came. Never gave him a second look either, something about living on the wrong side of the tracks. Ah, to trust, to place matters of great importance in the hands of another. Now that was...
“Christ Billy, it’s not life or death here. You gonna do this with me or not?”
He blinked, then stopped looking through Dom’s head to look at him, taking in the crooked grin with the tip of a tongue between ragged teeth, the blue eyes glittering eagerly, hands gripping a jar of Vaseline and latex gloves nicked from the studio’s make-up room. True, greasing as many of the studio's doorknobs as possible didn’t really qualify as life threatening. But still, this was Day 17 out of 348 (give or take), and Billy really didn’t want to be the first one shipped back to Scotland with his tail between his legs and never hear the end of it from his mates. This Dominic, this twitchy, gangly, bright-eyed lad had only been here since the day before yesterday, and already he was hellbent on stretching boundaries.
Billy chewed the corner of his lips, trying to quell the fact that they were making his decision for him. They were tipping up in response to Dom’s cheeky grin before he could control himself and give the lad a stern talking-to about professionalism and workplace etiquette. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Dominic’s puckish nature was so damned infectious. It was, after all, just a wee prank, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. So Bill rolled up his sleeves and took the Vaseline with a quick waggle of his eyebrows.
Fear is another thing altogether if you think about it. Fear being an instinctual response to dangerous circumstances, such as being held underwater without having time to take a deep breath, or getting viciously attacked by a tiger. The natural fight-or-flight reflex still doesn’t separate humankind from that of a deer or a fox or a damned chicken for that matter. No, fear is one of those things that a Scot may never be rid of (tenacity as well, but that’s different).
Guilt though, now that was a human thing. Animals don’t have guilt. Oh, they may feign guilt, such as a dog that’s stolen a sandwich off of the kitchen counter and is being reprimanded. But really all they felt in doing the stealing was the happiness of full stomach, and a strange reverent love of the attention it brought from their owner (negative though it may be). Because for some reason to some dogs, being swatted with a newspaper is better than no attention at all. But, Billy reasoned as humans are wont to do, people shouldn't leave food out where a dog can be tempted anyway, then there wouldn’t be any stealing and fake guilt in the first place.
Was he an actor or wasn’t he? Top of his guaduating class, a couple of local films, ‘Scotland’s most desirable theater actor’ on his résumé, right? Aye, an actor, and a fine one to boot. Not that he went around boasting about this, but he should easily have been able to hide said human guilt when he and Dom sat down at the meeting with the only folders of copy and fingers that didn’t show the oily residue of their combined efforts that morning. The cheeky little cuss had no problem whatsoever looking nonchalant and more than a little vacant about the disgust of his offended fellows.
Fear is a bit difficult to hide sometimes. Particularly when one’s omnipotent and yet ordinarily reserved boss enters the room wiping his hands on a handkerchief and glaring round the table. Surely Dominic knew a thing or two about fear. But no, the twat remained calm, collected and had the presence of mind to hide his clean hands under the bloody table. Pete’s magnified eyes continued their search (and really, eyes shouldn’t be magnified and spitting acid at the same time), only to skip over the Initiator of the Vaseline Fiasco and settle on his Trusty Partner In Crime. The one who was now quietly removing the skin from the bones of his (very clean, soft and not the least bit oily) thumb with his teeth and sweating fretfully. Right. I’ll be packing my bags, then. Nice knowing all of you. Wasn’t young enough for the part to begin with. Don’t get up, I can find my own way out.
“So that’s the way it’s gonna be, is it?” Pete barked, and Billy jumped in the embarrassing manner of a man caught with his trousers down. Dom snorted beside him in the manner of a man who found this whole scenario to be extraordinarily funny. Git. All your fault. If I go down you’re coming with me...
“Good to know I've cast my hobbits right,” Pete said bracingly and sat down with his eyes still drilling nails into one aghast Scot and a Mancunian who was desperately trying to hold in his mirth. “Right then, let’s get started,” Pete continued, “On page two...”
And that was all.
Billy risked a glance at Elijah who stared down at his smudged script looking mildly perplexed. He looked at Astin who was resolutely ignoring him while attempting to make notes in his script’s margins while his fingers slipped down an oily pencil. Stuart was shredding an oily napkin and looking fraught himself, though Billy wasn't sure why; it's not as if he'd been the culprit. Billy darted a look at Ian. And being Ian, he returned it with the sly not-quite-there smile of someone who had been around this sort of thing since before Billy was born, and well done, my boy. It had a way making one feel twelve years old and tremendously proud of himself for getting away with a slap on the wrist. Billy grinned down at his script. Dom was finished laughing at his own cleverness, and now listening intently to Pete’s run-through of storyboards of their upcoming first scene with a look of a seasoned professional.
Ah, Billy thought, relaxing now that the heat was off. Yes, that's exactly how this is going to be. He nudged Dom's foot under the table. To the casual observer, Dom’s serious demeanor didn’t waver a notch. But Billy saw the tiniest quirk of a smile behind the hands (clean and fresh, with a bright red pinky nail on the left one) now clasped together in front of his mouth, the hint of a line at the corner of each eye.
The dart of a gleaming eye and returning nudge of Dom's trainer against his under the table said it all. Just you wait and see what I can cook up next.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Dom/Billy, gen
Warnings: Mischief
Word count: ~1250
Feedback: I trust you.
Notes: For the 2lineschallenge.
Lyrics:
eatin' a reuben sandwich with sauerkraut
don't stop now, baby, let it all hang out
-the hombres, let it out (let it all hang out)
“Come on, Bills. Do you trust me?”
Now that was the question, wasn’t it? Billy regarded the lad in the dim hall before him, all confident shoulders and closely buzzed scalp, face cast downward so as to drill Billy with a look from under his eyebrows that screamed things like, Ooh imagine the mischief we could cause Billy, the trouble, and all the naughty things you’ve always wanted to do but never had the balls, and I’m certainly not to be trusted but come on now, won’t it be fun?
Bill wasn’t the sort that trusted others immediately. It was an insensible habit borne out of unlucky circumstance and a few too many broken promises. Age six, when Maggie had promised him the old birch tree’s branches were strong enough to hold his weight. Age ten, when his school friend Neil promised to return his treasured bicycle. Well, the bike had been returned, but in a useless heap of twisted metal and a friend with more than a few broken bones. Age thirteen, when the medic told him his father would “be just fine, not to worry, lad.” Age sixteen, when the pretty new girl in school, Emily, had promised to meet him in the park at eight pm. He’d waited for that one nearly until midnight, but she never came. Never gave him a second look either, something about living on the wrong side of the tracks. Ah, to trust, to place matters of great importance in the hands of another. Now that was...
“Christ Billy, it’s not life or death here. You gonna do this with me or not?”
He blinked, then stopped looking through Dom’s head to look at him, taking in the crooked grin with the tip of a tongue between ragged teeth, the blue eyes glittering eagerly, hands gripping a jar of Vaseline and latex gloves nicked from the studio’s make-up room. True, greasing as many of the studio's doorknobs as possible didn’t really qualify as life threatening. But still, this was Day 17 out of 348 (give or take), and Billy really didn’t want to be the first one shipped back to Scotland with his tail between his legs and never hear the end of it from his mates. This Dominic, this twitchy, gangly, bright-eyed lad had only been here since the day before yesterday, and already he was hellbent on stretching boundaries.
Billy chewed the corner of his lips, trying to quell the fact that they were making his decision for him. They were tipping up in response to Dom’s cheeky grin before he could control himself and give the lad a stern talking-to about professionalism and workplace etiquette. He couldn’t for the life of him figure out why Dominic’s puckish nature was so damned infectious. It was, after all, just a wee prank, and it probably wouldn’t be the last. So Bill rolled up his sleeves and took the Vaseline with a quick waggle of his eyebrows.
Fear is another thing altogether if you think about it. Fear being an instinctual response to dangerous circumstances, such as being held underwater without having time to take a deep breath, or getting viciously attacked by a tiger. The natural fight-or-flight reflex still doesn’t separate humankind from that of a deer or a fox or a damned chicken for that matter. No, fear is one of those things that a Scot may never be rid of (tenacity as well, but that’s different).
Guilt though, now that was a human thing. Animals don’t have guilt. Oh, they may feign guilt, such as a dog that’s stolen a sandwich off of the kitchen counter and is being reprimanded. But really all they felt in doing the stealing was the happiness of full stomach, and a strange reverent love of the attention it brought from their owner (negative though it may be). Because for some reason to some dogs, being swatted with a newspaper is better than no attention at all. But, Billy reasoned as humans are wont to do, people shouldn't leave food out where a dog can be tempted anyway, then there wouldn’t be any stealing and fake guilt in the first place.
Was he an actor or wasn’t he? Top of his guaduating class, a couple of local films, ‘Scotland’s most desirable theater actor’ on his résumé, right? Aye, an actor, and a fine one to boot. Not that he went around boasting about this, but he should easily have been able to hide said human guilt when he and Dom sat down at the meeting with the only folders of copy and fingers that didn’t show the oily residue of their combined efforts that morning. The cheeky little cuss had no problem whatsoever looking nonchalant and more than a little vacant about the disgust of his offended fellows.
Fear is a bit difficult to hide sometimes. Particularly when one’s omnipotent and yet ordinarily reserved boss enters the room wiping his hands on a handkerchief and glaring round the table. Surely Dominic knew a thing or two about fear. But no, the twat remained calm, collected and had the presence of mind to hide his clean hands under the bloody table. Pete’s magnified eyes continued their search (and really, eyes shouldn’t be magnified and spitting acid at the same time), only to skip over the Initiator of the Vaseline Fiasco and settle on his Trusty Partner In Crime. The one who was now quietly removing the skin from the bones of his (very clean, soft and not the least bit oily) thumb with his teeth and sweating fretfully. Right. I’ll be packing my bags, then. Nice knowing all of you. Wasn’t young enough for the part to begin with. Don’t get up, I can find my own way out.
“So that’s the way it’s gonna be, is it?” Pete barked, and Billy jumped in the embarrassing manner of a man caught with his trousers down. Dom snorted beside him in the manner of a man who found this whole scenario to be extraordinarily funny. Git. All your fault. If I go down you’re coming with me...
“Good to know I've cast my hobbits right,” Pete said bracingly and sat down with his eyes still drilling nails into one aghast Scot and a Mancunian who was desperately trying to hold in his mirth. “Right then, let’s get started,” Pete continued, “On page two...”
And that was all.
Billy risked a glance at Elijah who stared down at his smudged script looking mildly perplexed. He looked at Astin who was resolutely ignoring him while attempting to make notes in his script’s margins while his fingers slipped down an oily pencil. Stuart was shredding an oily napkin and looking fraught himself, though Billy wasn't sure why; it's not as if he'd been the culprit. Billy darted a look at Ian. And being Ian, he returned it with the sly not-quite-there smile of someone who had been around this sort of thing since before Billy was born, and well done, my boy. It had a way making one feel twelve years old and tremendously proud of himself for getting away with a slap on the wrist. Billy grinned down at his script. Dom was finished laughing at his own cleverness, and now listening intently to Pete’s run-through of storyboards of their upcoming first scene with a look of a seasoned professional.
Ah, Billy thought, relaxing now that the heat was off. Yes, that's exactly how this is going to be. He nudged Dom's foot under the table. To the casual observer, Dom’s serious demeanor didn’t waver a notch. But Billy saw the tiniest quirk of a smile behind the hands (clean and fresh, with a bright red pinky nail on the left one) now clasped together in front of his mouth, the hint of a line at the corner of each eye.
The dart of a gleaming eye and returning nudge of Dom's trainer against his under the table said it all. Just you wait and see what I can cook up next.