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LOTRips: Soon The Snow (Dom/Billy)

For girlandetc, who requested this once upon a time.

Title: Soon The Snow
Author: voleuse
Fandom: LOTRips
Ship: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: This never happened.
Summary: Is fervor belief's only measure?



The waves are gentle tonight, a slow murmur and rush, soothing him, reminding him of things that came before.

He digs his toes into the wet sand, breathes in the moonlight.

It's all one ocean, he tells himself. The waves here in Hawaii once crashed against Mexico, will lap against New Zealand again.

He flips open his cell phone, fiddles with the keys before hitting the speed dial. No answer, just voice mail.

"Bill," he begins, then stops. Starts again. "Do you think the water here will reach all the way back home?"

Stays silent for a moment, fills in the possible answers.

"Just wondering," he explains.

There's static on the line.

"If you see a coconut float by Aberdeen, it's from me."

He hangs up.

*


Middle of the day, and he pokes at the food on his plate. Thinks it might be tuna, but he isn't sure. Doesn't want to ask.

His cell phone rings, and the couple at the next table break off their conversation and look at him.

He grins, the one that he uses when people don't recognize him and he wants them to, and shrugs as he stands. He digs his phone out of his pocket as he makes his way to the front of the restaurant, waves at his waitress to make sure she knows he isn't skipping out.

The phone stops ringing. He glares at it and, obediently, it chirps, lets him know he has voice mail.

"Dominic," Billy's tin voice begins, "you do know I'm nowhere near Aberdeen, right?"

"Yes," Dom responds, but the recording keeps going.

"Unless, of course, you think I spend all my time golfing." Billy sounds amused, now. "We're not all fortunate enough to get paid to lay about on a beach in Hawaii, you know."

Billy's polite enough to pause, there, and let Dom laugh.

Then, "It's good to hear you," quietly, and the message ends.

*


Instead of going out with the others, after the day's filming ends, he goes home.

Pulls a box out of the back of his closet, fumbles in a desk drawer until he finds scissors and glue.

The box is filled with magazines, and on top, and empty scrapbook. Empty, aside from a scribbled note in the corner, and a photo tucked between the pages.

It's the two of them, from back then. Someone, probably Viggo, had taken the snapshot when they hadn't been watching. Billy's staring down at something at Dom's hand, Dom's looking at Billy. It's not evident from the photograph, but Dom remembers what had captured Billy's attention, a single word he had jotted on his palm.

Waiting.

He pulls the photo out, sets it in front of him, carefully.

Then, he opens the magazines, flips through pages to find the articles, the pictures of them, together.

He prises them carfully from the pages, as if they might shatter instead of tear, and dabs glue on the back of them, nudges them around in the scrapbook until the glue dries. The edges crinkle at his fiddling, the excess glue pushing against the paper in cool globs.

There's a knock on the door.

He considers, then ignores it. He's not in the mood for company, not even the raucous, margarita-fueled cheer of his co-stars.

His cell phone rings, and he jerks away from the paper, curses as the corner of one photo tears.

He grabs the phone without looking at the caller ID, flips it open. "Yeah?"

"Open the door, you bloody great--"

"Bills?" Dom cranes his neck, looks at the clock. "What are you--"

"Open the door."

"You're..." Dom drops the phone, stumbles to the door and yanks it open. "Here."

"I hate airplanes," Billy says without preamble, dropping a dufflebag on the carpet and walking straight to the kitchen. "Well, the one I was on, anyway."

"Oh." Dom closes the door. Picks at the dried glue on his hands.

Billy rummages through a cabinet and emerges with a glass, fills it with water from the tap. "This won't poison me, will it?" He drinks anyway.

Dom laughs, a huff of air that tightens his chest.

Billy finishes his water, sets the glass down on the counter.

Dom watches the glass, waits for something to happen. Nothing does.

"What are you doing here?" he asks, finally.

Billy bites his lower lip. "I thought the coconut was taking too long." He grins. "Figured I'd come pick it up myself."

Dom rearranges his face into blankness. "I see. Good thinking, there."

"Efficiency is important," Billy replies.

The kitchen window is open. Someone's laughing outside, and the breeze is warm, faintly moist.

Dom's feeling a little thirsty himself, but he can't bring himself to bridge the distance, yet.

Billy drums his fingers against the counter, then crosses the room. Reaches past Dom, brushes his hand against his shoulder.

Locks the door, and they're only a breath apart.

Then, not even that.

Dom smiles.


###

A/N: Title and summary adapted from Fervor by Carl Phillips. Link courtesy of breathe_poetry.

Originally linked here.

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