Disclaimer: This is fiction. I do not make any money from this. I don't mean no disrespect.
Archive: Please contact me for permission.
Notes: Written for Chaya, who asked for fluffy Dom/ Billy. I'm sorry that it's a day late. Have a Merry Christmas! Thanks to valentine1971 for the beta and *hugs* to sarcasticmissy for staying up all night and helping me find a title. :)
Monkey does as monkey did. And that's why I do what I do as soon as I leave the plane: I joke around. Billy's there with a cardboard sign saying "Merry" and I grin and hug him and kiss him on the nose. We collect my two bags and Billy smiles when he sees that I brought the bright red one along. The one he gave me. I joke about the colour of the bag in the airport, and I joke about long-distance flights all the way home.
When we arrive at his place I storm from room to room to see if something has changed. Nothing has, except for the air in the spare bedroom that has gone slightly stale, and the fact that Billy's smell is everywhere. The bed is made, pillows straightened, but I still suspect he had slept in here not too long ago. I flop down on the couch and wait for him to bring me something to drink - he always does. While he's in the kitchen, I rummage through my bagpack. I can hear him in the kitchen, the clinking of glasses. By the time he is back with two bottles of beer, I already have placed the gift wrapped box in front of his seat. For almost a minute he just stands there, both bottles in his left hand, fingers tightly around their necks. He then seems to remember where he was and what he was about to do, for he hands me one bottle and smirks an apology. Pointing to the box, he claims his seat next to me. He raises his left brow, just like I knew he would. He has this expression that says "What's this?" or maybe "Are you serious?". I take a swig from the bottle and grin as his curiousity takes over and he unwraps my gift. When he sees what it is, he laughs.
"A fireplace in a box?"
He looks at the small thing very fondly and makes a quick joke about being able to spend romantic evenings in front of a fireplace now. I follow his lead, joking about him being able to take it to the bedroom, and well, anywhere he wants. He looks at the miniature and its details: the mantlepiece, the tiny stones, the little candle.
"Do you have a lighter," he asks, although he bloody well knows I do have
one. I throw the silver lighter over and he catches it almost without looking.
We're still in sync.
He lights the candle and smiles.
"Thanks, Dom," he says. I stretch until I can touch his hand. I want to joke, say something about moveable fireplaces again, but there is something about the candlelight and the way it gets caught in Bill's blonde hair. He is still smiling and leans a little closer to catch whatever joke I'm about to tell.
I touch his face and he closes his eyes for a second. I should have kissed him then, when his eyes were still closed, but I kiss him now. It's just a short kiss, nothing dramatic or earth shaking. I wish that I could tell whether the redness in Bill's cheeks is the tiniest blush or if he's just flushed from the beer. I don't remember if he had more than a quick sip. I was looking at him not his bottle. I look at his face, thinking God, I know him so well, know his face so well, his eyes, lashes, laugh lines. But everytime I look at him I forget. My mind goes blank and I have to rediscover the exact shade of green that his eyes are, the curve of his lips, the freckles on his forehead. Each time I try to remember and each time I think I succeeded until I look at him again. Even worse, I forget that look he sometimes gives me, where he smiles his Pippin smile, not all bright and sparkling, but that thoughtful "That's my Merry" smile, where his lips curve a bit more and his eyes get this soft glow. Every time I see him looking at me like that my heart stops and I wonder how this can be directed at me. But his smile always grows wider and fonder when he catches me reading him again, and he looks at his hands instead of me, those small perfect dainty hands that can tell stories, and never says a word. I look at him know. He is still slightly blushed, stunned from an altogether too short kiss. And while he is still a bit surprised about what had just happened, I only wonder why I never have kissed him before.
I open my mouth to say something that takes away the importance. But I won't. I can't. A joker's a joker until he's a fool. So instead of fooling around I tell him.
"I love you, Bills."
"That's great, Dom," he says, in this strangely quiet and serious voice, "I
love you too."
I can only stand so much seriousness, so I pet his head and grin. He grins
back at me and cuddles close. I wrap my arm around him and stare at the candle
in the tiny fireplace that was only meant as a joke.