monaboyd | FIC: All Things Annoying- Dom/Billy- Rated R for lang. and mention of m/m sex

Title: All Things Annoying

Author: Jen

Pairing: DM/BB

Rating: R for language and mention of m/m sex

Summary: In which Billy's being grumpy and Dom's being, well....Dom.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author does not know, and is in no way affiliated with the persons mentioned in this work. No disrespect is intended to the persons mentioned in this work. No money is being made from this in any way.

Feedback: Would be greatly appreciated. : )

A/N: Just a little bit of foolishness brought on by the realization that most arguments are 50% truth and 50% insanity. ; ) Notes written by the characters are indicated by ~~~~.

Dom had an unfortunate- and Billy was quite sure completely unconscious- habit of mimicing whatever film he'd last watched. For a couple of days after seeing anything 'Star Wars' related, Dom's speech would be peppered with Darth Vaderish breathing noises. If 'Saturday Night Fever' came on in the afternoon, Billy was sure to find Dom disco dancing while making dinner that night. Billy had once made the colossal mistake of popping 'Forrest Gump' into the dvd player, and later that evening, while in the middle of lovemaking, no less, Billy had discovered firsthand that being reminded that 'life is like a box of chocolates' was not at all conducive to orgasm. Forrest had been ripped out of the dvd player and frisbeed onto the front lawn roughly thirty seconds later. Dom had been extremely lucky he'd not been frisbeed out right along with him.

Now the fun was starting all over yet again. Billy stood in the middle of the bedroom and watched, open-mouthed, as a totally nude, gorgeously eye-linered Dom sashayed by him, grinning provocatively.

There would be nothing in God's world wrong with that, if it weren't for the fact that yesterday they had watched 'Silence of the Lambs' and Dom was now inadvertently doing a spot-on imitation of Buffalo Bill's weird little transvestite dance at the end of the movie.

Billy shuddered and backed up a step before he could stop himself.

At least Dom didn't have his cock tucked away in between his legs. If that would have been the case, Billy most likely would've run screaming into the night.

"Don't you just want t' fuck me into the matress, baby?", Dom winked and sexily ran his tongue over his bottom lip, sidling up to Billy to lay an inviting hand on his arm.

"Actually, Dominic...you're creeping me right th' feck out. Quit that!" Billy slapped at Dom's hand, half in horror, half in irritation.

Dom stopped in his tracks and blinked at Billy, confused by his sudden ferocity. "Quit what?", he asked, slowly taking back his now-stinging hand.

"That...that thing y' do!", Billy sputtered, red-faced, suddenly annoyed beyond all reason. His day had been one trial after another, had left him uncharacteristically stressed, and he'd slunk home to spend a quiet, relaxing evening with his boyfriend, to perhaps have a nice, peaceful lay-in, maybe a bit of comfort sex. Except things never worked that way with Dom...Dom did things like put on his own unique version of 'The Rocky Horror Picture Show'. "That bloody awful, annoying imitating thing! You're doing it as we speak, Dominic! Moving like that!"

Dom blinked again and replayed the last few moments in his mind. He'd stripped down in the toilet, applied a fresh layer of eyeliner in the hopes of luring his lover to bed for a satisfying round of shagging, then had simply come into the bedroom, walking up to said lover in what he hoped was a sexy manner. That was it, as far as Dom could remember. Where was this 'imitating' nonsense coming from? "What in the bloody hell are you on about, Bills?", he finally asked in a careful voice.

"It is annoying!", Billy hollered, in a high-pitched squeak, as if Dom had contradicted him.

Dom's eyebrow shot up and he backed off a little. Billy did not get his knickers in a bunch often, but when he did, the results could be spectacular. And often puzzling beyond belief. This was looking as if it was shaping into one of those times. "I don't have a clue what you're talking about, love.", Dom said quietly.

"I know y' don't!", Billy yelled back. "And that makes it all the more annoying!" Dom, who would comfortably walk around starkers in front of the pope, was still fetchingly naked, but Billy refused to be fetched. He was far too worked up. He went on, in a controlled- for the moment, anyway- rage. "If I'd wanted t' listen t' Darth Vader huffing in m' ear I'd've married James Earl Jones, now wouldn't I?"

Billy paused a moment, glaring at Dom as if expecting an answer. Dom nodded cautiously.

As Dom tried to scrub the deeply unsettling image of Billy and James Earl Jones sharing a marriage bed from his brain, Billy continued his befuddling tirade, getting more frenzied with every word. "There's a time and a place for 'If I Were a Rich Man', Dom, and tha' place is not th' middle of a bloody Chinese restaurant in downtown Los Angeles! The waitstaff did not appreciate th' sudden appearance of Tevye in th' midst of serving us our Egg Foo Yung! Newsflash, Monaghan...you're not now, nor never have been, a Russian Jew!"

Dom, confused beyond help now, blinked yet again at this odd proclimation. He felt as if he should say something, defend his honor in some small way, but before he could come up with a single rebuttal, Billy was off again.

"And if I wanted t' shag a serial killer, Dominic, I'd go out and track down Jeffrey fecking Dahmer!"

Ah...still a decidedly strange conversation, but at least about this Dom could speak with relative certainty. "Dahmer's dead, Bills.", he pointed out. "Was killed in gaol in Wisconsin by another inmate the 28th of November, 1994. Therefore, you'd not only be shagging a serial murderer, but also commiting necrophilia."

"There's another annoying thing! Right there!", Billy nearly screamed in triumph, shaking his finger at Dom. Dom was making this far too easy, was unintentionally proving Billy's point for him. "Your completely unneccesary blurting of trivia at the most inopportune moments! Why did I need t' know that right now, Dominic? Why would th' exact death date of a serial killer make one fecking bit of difference t' me at this point in time, eh? We're in th' middle of an argument, and you're channeling Alex bloody Trebek! Christ!"

"Wasn't aware we were arguing, Bills.", Dom murmurred softly, sitting on the edge of the bed, giving up all hopes of shagging for the night. This was definitely one of Billy's rare, but undeniably interesting, freak-outs. "Usually takes two to argue, and I'm not arguing, love.", Dom said, reasonably enough, he thought.

"Well, I am!", Billy shot back smartly, pacing around the room at warp speed. "'m arguing for th' both of us! 'm attempting t' list, as clearly as I possibly can, all th' things you do that annoy me, in th' vain hope that you'll stop doing them!"

Dom still had no earthly idea what Billy was babbling about- as far as this conversation was going Dom had gotten lost somewhere around "Quit that!"- but the word 'list' had permeated his mind, and at least now he had something concrete to work with. Lists were good. Lists he could do. He rose from the bed and padded over to the dresser, scooping up one of his many notebooks and a couple of stray pens, bringing everything back to the bed and settling back down. "We're listing my annoying habits, then, yeah?", he asked Billy chipperly, hoping to clarify. After all, it was entirely possible, with all of the weirdness flying about the room, that he'd misunderstood.

"Fecking right, we are!", Billy snapped, turning to glare laserbeams at the notebook in Dom's hand. "But I donnae need that t' tell y' how ye annoy me, Dominic! I c'n right well say it t' yer face!"

Christ...Billy only got indecipherably Scottish during two events. When he was severely pissed off and when he was on the brink of orgasm. Dom somehow didn't think that Billy was anywhere near coming in his trousers. "No, I think this way is better, Bills. Let's just write, shall we? We'll just sit here and mark down all of our grievances. You'll make a list of the things that annoy you about me, and I'll do the same for you, just to be fair." Billy only continued glaring. "And maybe we'll get calmed down just a wee bit, yeah?", Dom added, not very hopefully. He'd included himself in the 'calming down', to be diplomatic about things, but he didn't feel the tinisest bit uncalm, really. Billy, on the other hand, was a different story. As a matter of fact, Dom was seriously considering raiding the loo for some Valium and spiking Billy's evening tea. He'd not seen his lover acting this off the charts mental since that debacle with Witchitar a few years back. "C'mon, Bill...sit down.", Dom said gently, patting the bed beside himself. Billy muttered a few more Scottish-sounding curses, but stopped pacing and stalked purposely towards the bed. For a moment Dom feared that Billy might just strangle him, but he finally sat stiffly down onto the far end of the matress with one last colorful expletive, snatching up the pen and piece of paper that Dom offered him.

"Y' do realize this could take awhile, don't y', Dominic?", Billy said tightly. "Best settle in for th' long haul. As a matter o' fact, I doubt this'll do." He waved the sheet of paper in front of Dom's face. "Y'd better give me th' entire goddamn notebook. One page willnae be nearly enough."

"Alright, then. List them, Billy. List them all. Here. Have at it, love." For the fist time during the whole tongue-lashing, hurt crept into Dom's voice. Billy sometimes got a bit crazy, but he hardly ever got truly mean about it. Dom took back the single sheet for his own use and held out the notebook to Billy.

Billy rolled his eyes and huffed, but took the proferred items, and turning his back to Dom, began to write in angry little bursts, the tangent he'd been off on continuing unbrokenly onto the paper....

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1. What about you annoys me? This. Right here. What you're making me do at this very moment, Dominic. Way beyond annoying. You're making me jot down a fucking list instead of just speaking the lists, which would make much more sense and be far easier. But no...if it's easy or in the least bit normal, Dom doesn't want to do it. Dom has to do everything the bloody hard way, and if I don't go along with the games, Jesus help me. You'll pout for a bloody week. Which leads me right to annoyance #2...

2. Your incessant pouting. For fuck's sake, Dom, you're going on thirty. Sticking your lower lip out at me when you don't get your way stopped working right around the time of Fangorn. I used to find it mildly cute- now you simply look like an enormous toddler. Grow up.

3. You steal the bedclothes from me. Every single night. I haven't had one proper night's rest any time I've ever, in the history of the world, shared a bed with you, Dominic. I get cosily cuddled, start to happily and warmly drift off to sleep, and the next thing I know the duvet's being whipped off of me and you're doing your patented Monaghan roll, taking my share of the blankets with you to your side of the bed. No, strike that...you don't roll. You bloody cocoon. You wrap yourself so tightly in the goddamned things that you look like King Tut and won't give them back no matter what I do. You're snug as the proverbial bug for the rest of the night, and there I am, Nessie blowing in the fucking breeze. I'm frankly surprised that I haven't died from pneumonia by now, Dom.

4. Here's another nightime annoyance. You talk in your sleep. Horribly and at great length, about every topic imaginable and some quite unimaginable. No, actually- I don't think 'talk' is the word I'm searching for here. Blather. Blather works much better. For instance, last night you sat up in bed, turned to me, and in a quite reasonable voice told me that I was making far too much noise blowing my banana and if I didn't stop Aunt Jemima was likely to beat me about the head with her trainer. Over the years, I've been everyone from Cleopatra to Russell Crowe. I don't know, and don't want to know, what sort of dreams you're having to prompt these wee outbursts, but whatever they might be, there has to be some kind of therapy to make them stop. Every once in awhile, I get treated to not only a babble fest, but a pantomime production. One fine evening you put on what appeared to be a marionette show, complete with voices, using my reading glasses and a dildo as your puppets. And another time I awoke to find you- still happily asleep- drawing on me with your eyeliner pencil. You're the one who likes to venture into public places with Webster's Fifth copied out onto your body, Dominic. I, however, do not, and will never, want anyone to see me with the Superman logo plastered all up and down both arms and what I'm fairly sure was a jack-o-lantern drawn around my navel.

5. You preen like a woman. No...worse than a woman. I can take a shower, shave, dress, and be out the door in the time it takes you to fix one bloody strand of your hair. Get you anywhere close to a mirror and I may as well lay down on the spot and have a kip because you'll be there for Christ only knows how long. Whenever we go out I consciously steer you away from any sort of reflective surface for this very reason. Remember the Neiman Marcus incident, love? You stood in the hall to the dressing rooms for a good half hour, Dominic, staring into the mirror as if hypnotised, tweaking your bangs just so and flipping your scarf repeatedly from one shoulder to the other trying to decide which side looked sexier. Thirty minutes, Dom. I had to tell the other customers that you were mentally challenged to get them to quit gawking. Don't get me wrong- I adore your personal style. I love the way you look, your uniqueness. But you could be a tad speedier about it, yeah? And what makes it even worse is that you appear to think that I'm directly channeling Mr. Blackwell, or Joan Rivers, perhaps. You consult me on all of your fashion decisions, as if I have one bloody fucking clue what you're on about. Well, I'm telling you right now- I don't. I only humour you in the vain hope that it'll get you moving a wee bit faster. Frankly, Dom, I wouldn't know, nor care, about the difference between chenille and loose weave and haven't the faintest idea if that particular shade of 'Twilight Purple' polish accentuates your nail structure or makes your cuticles look shrivelled. The next thing I know, you're going to be asking me if your jeans make you look fat and I'll have to bludgeon you to death.

6. I don't know how to put this delicately, so I'm just going to say it straight out. You're a hopelessly incurable slob. If I left things to you the health department would've long ago condemned our home. Half-finished slices of pizza are not stored on top of the dvd player, Dominic, and the proper way to launder your stinky, soiled socks is not by shoving them beneath the furnishings. Who do you think has to crawl under there after them? Scotty is not hiding under our love seat, waiting to beam said socks down to the washer. Your idea of dusting is to blow the dust into a different amd more interesting pattern, and the one time I saw you with a sweeper in your hands you were attempting to use it on the drapery in the lounge. While aforementioned drapery was still hanging on the rod. And no one else on God's green earth would empty an entire container of Carpet Fresh into the machine when they discovered they were out of laundry detergent. Carpet Fresh was not designed for the spin cycle, Dom. That's why the word 'carpet' was used in the product title. There's a reason it's not called Whirlpool Fresh. I went around smelling like a bloody field of lilacs for a week after that little incident. Your one contribution to housework is cooking, which you do very well I must admit. But it's really no consolation because afterwards you leave the kitchen looking like a nuclear detonation site. I'm still trying to figure how you managed to get a glob of mashed potatoes on the top side of the blades of the ceiling fan. And the worst part about all of it is you seem to have the misguided notion that I enjoy running around picking up after you. You sit there gazing up at me while I'm trotting around cleaning with this half-amused, half-affectionate smile on your damned face. You look at me the way Ward Cleaver used to look at June while she went about her chores. You're not playing the husband to my happy, half-daft housewife, Dom. This is not Pleasantville. If I'd wanted a career in the domestic arts I'd be wearing a short, frilly black and white dress, now wouldn't I? I am not a Merry Maid, Monaghan.

7. Your idea of what constitutes an acceptable housepet. I really should need to say no more since we've been over this topic endlessly, but no matter how many times I mention my irritation on this particular subject, you never seem to listen. So I'll try yet again. Waking and rolling over to give you a cosy good morning snog only to find myself puckering up to a boa constrictor goes far, far beyond merely annoying, Dominic. Would it be such a crime to have a goldfish or a nice twittering budgie? The most annoying thing about all of this is that you make promises, constantly, to not acquire any more pets. And the next thing I know, there's a new addition to the family. And then there's the lying you try to do about it afterwards so I won't throw you out on your arse. How many people open their front door only to find a homeless gila monster waiting patienlty on the step for them, gazing up at them with pitiful, pleading eyes? How many blokes go down to the beach and wind up coming back to the house with a stray gecko that's somehow just happened to have made a nest in their flip-flop while they were having a quick surf? Yet this is what you'd have me believe, each and every time, that they simply appear out of nowhere and give you no choice but to adopt them. Guess what, love? I'm not buying a word of it. Our bedroom is slowly being turned into a bestiary and I've had just about enough of it. We're swiftly coming down to them or me, Dom. And the hell of it is, I'm not at all sure which you'd choose.

8. No matter what you're doing at any given time, you have a noise to go with it. I don't even think you're aware of it, but honestly, you never totally and completely shut up. And it's not just the one noise- I think I could block one out effectively. But you have a different noise for each of your actions. Cooking means a low humming in the back of the throat. Reading means a series of lip-smacks. While you're dressing (which I think I've pointed out above takes longer than the whole of the Revolutionary War) you make this kind of hissing sound, like air slowly leaking from a tyre. And it's not only the one hiss; there's your high-pitched, whistly 'I bloody adore this look' hiss, your 'I'm not sure if this jumper brings out my eyes properly' hiss, and, the most annoying of them all, your 'Fuck me, this scarf makes me look like Iggy Pop in drag!' hiss. During a shower or bath, or whenever you get in any kind of water situation, really, you do your best impression of a submarine. In case you've not noticed, I no longer come anywhere near you while you're playing video games. That's because you sound like a robot that's being slowly short-circuited. You beep and whirr, Dominic. Sometimes, when you really get into things, you even vroom. That's the reason that you've always beaten me at games- it's not that I'm a terrible player, but that you make so many indecipherable mechanical noises in my ear that I go a bit mental and forget which button is which. And, Christ Jesus, Monaghan... when you're online, especially while you're looking at anything to do with gay porn, I've learned to leave the house as quickly as humanly possible because you make this noise that defies fucking description. If you were to put me on the spot, I'd say it was somewhere between a woman in prolonged labour and the death throes of a brontosaurus.

9. You fidget, Dom. You fidget horrifically. You, in fact, are fidgeting right at this very moment. Your foot is wiggling fast enough to light a signal fire and you're unconsciously (I hope) itching at your balls and scratching your arse even as I write this. This might be acceptable if you kept it confined to our bedroom, but no such luck. You're just as fidgety, if not more so, in public. If you want proof, just watch yourself on tape. During that last telly interview you were playing with your crotch so ferociously that I feared you were about to start wanking right there on stage. And I'm hardly the only one who's noticed this. There are entire websites devoted to that particular crotch-tugging incident, I assure you. I've seen them. You can't hold still for more than a few seconds at a time. Try watching a film or reading a book while the person next to you looks as if he's either rapidly signing out War and Peace for a deaf audience or attempting to call baseball plays whilst hopped up on crack.

10. Here it is; the final item on Boyd's bitch-list. I could come up with a lot more, but we'd be here all night, and I thought ten a diplomatic place to stop. I am not an armchair, Dom. You have this infuriatingly annoying habit of sitting on me at the most inconvenient and absurd times. Cuddling up to me and settling down on my lap prior to shagging = wonderful and sexy. Cuddling up to me and settling down on my lap while I'm trying to read the newspaper, or while I'm trying to put on my shorts, or while I'm attempting to eat a plateful of pasta, or while I'm driving to the shopping mall = irritating as bloody hell and potentially disastrous. I don't know how many times I've mentioned this to you, but still you keep on with it. I know you're a cuddler by nature, Dommie, but there's a time and a place for it. I swear you were a koala bear in some past life. I'm going to start wearing upward sticking pins in my trousers. Maybe then you'll get the point.

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Dom finsished his own list in under five minutes, sat impatiently waiting for Billy for another ten, purple fingernails tapping out 'Eleanor Rigby' on the surface of the bedtable. He finally gave up on waiting and went to the kitchen for a drink, not bothering to turn on any lights. He blindly got a glass from the cupboard and opened the freezer to get ice, one cube slipping from his grasp to fall on the floor. Instead of picking it up, he kicked it underneath the cooker to melt. He retrieved a soda from the fridge, unknowingly knocking a ketchup bottle askew in the process, poured his drink in the dark, three-fourths making it into the glass, one-fourth pooling onto the countertop. Humming, he absently bumped the refrigerator door closed with a bare hip, leaving it standing half an inch open, then exited the kitchen, a dribbled trail of Dr. Pepper marking his path through the room. On the way back through the living room he got sidetracked by a documentary on South American reptiles and stood in front of the television watching for a good fifteen minutes more. The program reminded him that he hadn't fed the babies yet that evening and he spent another few minutes doling out insects and trying to talk Porter the chameleon into giving him a kiss. On the way down the hallway he caught his reflection in a picture frame, noticed his hair was slightly out of place, and stopped to pat it down properly.

When he finally made it back to the bedroom Billy was still furiously scribbling away. Dom's eyebrow shot up and a hurt look crossed his face, his lower lip protruding slighty. He didn't say anything aloud, but he privately wondered if Billy had been that serious about the many things he had to complain about, what they were still doing together as a couple. This could be far worse than he'd imagined at the first.

He sat down on the bed to wait for Billy to finish, his foot jiggling nervously, unconsciously smacking his lips together so that a small, reoccuring popping noise broke the silence of the room. Just as Billy was writing the last word of his diatribe, Dom could stand no more and wiggled into his lap, scooching around to get comfortable, effectively squashing Billy's up-until-then-neatly-written note. Billy said nothing, only sighed wearily and tugged the notebook out from underneath Dom's naked bum, thrusting the journal into his hands.

Billy felt a small stab of guilt at the ferocity of all he had written, but only a small stab...after all, none of it was a lie, now was it? In fact, Dom was, at this very moment, proving pretty much every bit of what Billy had put to paper.

Dom, unhappily noting that two complete pages of the notebook were filled to bursting with Billy's small, tidy script, began to read. After a few sentences, he gave up on trying to put on a show of bravery and his face crumpled, unshed tears pooling in his eyes. Halfway through reading, his lips clamped forcibly together, cutting off all chance of any noises escaping. A few moments later his rapidly jiggling foot came to a sudden stop and his body stiffened to statue form, not making the slightest movement. When he got to the last paragraph, he hurriedly slipped off of Billy's lap to sit stock-still on the bed beside him, careful not to crowd him in the least, sad eyes looking down at the floor.

After a few moments, he picked up his own note from the other side of the bed and handed it to Billy wordlessly, still avoiding Billy's eyes.

Billy sighed again, then set to reading. Dom's list, compared to Billy's own, was short and totally disorganized, no neat numbers seperating ideas, everything all jumbled together in a clump. Dom's line of thought, as usual, seemed to start from absolutely nowhere...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Annoying things about you, Bills? Let's see....

I'd say that teensy whistling noise that comes from your nose when you're asleep, the one that's kept me lying awake countless nights, but then I remember how dreadfully lonely I am when you're not sleeping next to me and your little bit of whistling suddenly seems like the most beautiful sound on earth. Sometimes I start to get annoyed by the way you hurry me along when I'm trying to get fancied up, pushing and prodding at me to get me moving, but then I think about the time, before, when there was no one there to push or prod, when my world was filled with only black, empty longing, and I see that a little pushing and prodding is a small price to pay for the world of Billy-laughter I have now. There's your slightly annoying habit of sometimes not wanting to be touched, the way you unconsciously move away from me just when I want to cuddle, need to feel your body against mine, but just when I feel like I can't stand the distance between us for one second longer, your hand slips into mine, and the fit is so perfect, so brilliant, that I forget we were ever apart. There's the scolding you do when I forget to pick up my socks, that's a bit annoying ... until your scowl gives way to that sweet, slow, impish smile and I fall in love with you all over again. I'd tell you it annoys me when you get pissed and go away into your own little place instead of talking to me, shut me out in favour of the silence of your mind, but then I'm reminded that life is fragile, that the day might come when I'm forced to live without you by my side, and I realise that every single moment with you, even the angry silence, is a gift.

So, I guess I'd have to say... the only truly annoying thing about you, my love, is that I can never seem to get enough.

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"Christ, Dommie.", Billy whispered brokenly as he finished reading, his own eyes filling. He reached out and hooked a finger under Dom's chin, gently forcing Dom to look at him. Dom's eyes were lost, wounded, and Billy's heart nearly shattered.

He snatched his list from Dom's lap, hurriedly scribbled an addition to the bottom of the paper, then placed it back in one of Dom's hands. The other, Billy took into his own, his fingers wrapping tenderly around Dom's.

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11. Absolute most annoying thing about you, Monaghan. When we argue, I have not one hope in bloody hell of winning.

And it only makes me love you more.
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end...

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Date: 2005-11-28 02:29 am (UTC)

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