(![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
said-to-heart.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
monaboyd May. 14th, 2007 11:27 pm)
said-to-heart.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd May. 14th, 2007 11:27 pm)Title: Life is a foreign Language
Author: Said_To_Heart
Author: Said_To_Heart
Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG13
Feedback: Would be fantastic. First time I’ve ever written Dom/Billy.
Disclaimer: This is not an accurate representation of character. This is a written piece of fiction that holds no relevance in real life. All mistakes are my own.
Summary: It is not common practice, to fall for the person who runs you over with their car. AU.
Chapter: 1
Billy lived in a small flat in Glasgow, a modest home some may say, but he liked it.
He liked being able to look down over his surroundings, even if his view was just of other flats, identical to his own in construction. Through his bedroom window he could see the local park, if he craned his neck to the left a little.
The area wasn’t rough per-se, there were small (and large) families living off benefits, and children running around with an all year tan, it didn’t matter how much money was poured into it, the park would still be graffitied. All in all, it was just your common council estate.
The inside of his flat was painted in varying shades of blue, ranging from the light blue of his bathroom, which also had a ghastly anchovy suite, to the dark navy of his living room. His bedroom and kitchen supported the same turquoise colour; there was a sale on in MFI.
His family (compromising of his sister and her sometimes boyfriend) and friends disapproved of the area, the décor ‘You need to realise there are other colours out there Billy!’ and of his couch. Which was bright red. And yellow.
He worked as head waiter in ‘Jacksons’, a popular restaurant near the centre of the city. It had opened a year ago, and Billy applied to be a waiter, as he had recently lost his job at a small florists. He had made friends there, the owner, Ian, was old enough to retire, but both he and Craig were left out of the job.
He had worked there for three years, and through all his time there it had struggled. It came to a surprise to no one when they learned they had to close. Once he had started his new job, it was but a few weeks before he got promoted to head waiter.
He had an easy manner and the customers liked him, and at thirty six, he was senior enough to command a small amount of respect from his co-workers. . . Small, being the operative word.
******
September 25th
A loud beeping filled the room, resounding of off the walls and penetrating the sleepy haze that the lump in the bed had so happily surrounded himself with.
The shrill noise soon turned the muted content that morning brings into bad-tempered irritation. A small, deft (though distinctly masculine) hand crept from beneath the cream bedding the push down the red button atop the small machine. A tinny voice announced the time to be 7.00 am.
The lump made a strange wheezing sound, and decided ‘ten more minutes’
At 8:20, the harried form of one William ‘Billy’ Boyd hurtled down the concrete steps of his block, his jacket half on and cursing himself for oversleeping for the second time that week, quite a feat, considering it was only Wednesday.
Mumbling explanatives under his breath, he yanked open the door to his Vauxhall Astra which was painted a charming blue. Sitting down, he despaired at being able to see his own breath steaming out in the cold September air.
Ice covered the windshield so with clumsy movements he clicked on one of the many leavers. He was hoping that the heaters would melt the ice quickly so that he could turn on the windscreen wipers to get rid of the remaining ice. After ten minutes of impatient waiting in the softly rumbling car, he looked at his watch, 8:30.
Making a decision, he bit his lip and started driving off, his view was poor through the partially melted ice, but he couldn’t waste more time. His scarf was wrapped so that it covered his mouth and his fingers were numb clutching the steering wheel as he navigated his way out of the sprawling estates of the area and got onto a main road.
He was worried about the ice sliding down the windscreen, but the thought of an angry Viggo threatening to give his job to someone else (namely Elijah) drove him on. He picked up speed and turned the radio on to distract himself, he switched onto Radio One to catch Chris Moyles; it always put him into a better mood.
Billy spared a glance at the local pub, ‘The Black Lion’ as he turned right towards the road that lead into the inner city, he turned to look back in front of himself and his heart stopped beating for a moment as he saw the blur of a green jacket before him, he slammed on the breaks but he was above the speed limit due to his rush, and the person had darted into the road, the bonnet of his car collided with the being, and a sickening thud rung in his ears. The silence was unending as he sat in the driver’s seat, breath hitching, trying desperately to gather the courage to step out of the car.
******
Dominic Monaghan was what most people referred to as ‘trouble’. He had grown up in Manchester with his parents and an older brother. School was a rough ride for him, always being too quick to anger he found himself in more fights than it was worth, his behaviour was a disappointment to his family though he managed to get decent enough O-levels* despite being put into lower sets due to his ‘attitude problems’.
He went to collage and got A-levels in Drama, English literature and History, and then proceeded to crush his parent’s hopes and dreams of him turning into a respectable citizen by leaving to be a holiday rep in the Isle of White.
He was good at his job, friendly, great with kids and he always had excess energy, but due to the seasons he was often left unemployed during the winter months.
Sometimes he was able to stay with various friends for a few weeks, but he always ended up at home, and every time it happened the reception was a little colder.
One season, a co-worker took a disliking to him, he took every opportunity to rile Dom and eventually he snapped. He broke the man’s nose, and then promptly got fired.
His friends were all working during these months, and after hearing of the incident, his mother refused to let him back home heedless of his brother’s pleas to allow Dom to return. Matt couldn’t support Dom, he was recently a father and all of his money and time was being swallowed up by a bundle of joy that went by the name of ‘Amy’.
In the months that followed Dom had managed to hold down a few part time jobs, usually at bars and supermarkets, but was mainly left the sleep where he could find shelter, with a duffle bag holding all of his worldly possessions substituting as a pillow.
His friends thought him travelling Britain; he’d decided to exclude the fact that he spent six out of seven nights sleeping on the streets. He still had his honour. This life style became harder as winter approached, and by late September found him wandering the cold streets of Glasgow.
******
September 25th
Dom woke with a start as he heard the sound of oncoming footsteps, if he had learnt anything during these last few dreadful months, it was that people were not always kind to the homeless.
He quickly swept up his Nike duffle bag and proceeded to walk casually down the street. Judging from the light, he reckoned it to be eight-ish, he had become skilled at telling the time by light alone.
His stomach clenched painfully and he remembered that he had not eaten since yesterday morning; he casually slipped into the first Spar he saw, and continued to browse the shelves.
Slipping past the fridges, he expertly concealed a Cornish pasty in the pocket of his coat, hoping that he had not been seen by the mother and small boy that were buying bread a few meters away, and began to make his way to the doors.
His heart sped up at this point (it always did) and his pulse pumped horribly in his throat, he felt as if the whole shop should be able to feel the heat he was emitting and just as he reached the doors, a heavy hand landed on his forearm.
‘Sir, could you please empty your pockets.’ An authoritive looking guard asked him.
Dom’s eyes frantically met those of the Guard, they flickered down, his name was ‘Sean’.
‘I, uh,’ He cleared his throat uncomfortably, hypersensitive to his surroundings, the stare of the people around him and the increasing weight on his arm. ‘Why?’ he managed to croak out.
‘This store has cameras Sir, I saw you take that food item. Just hand it over and I’ll let you off with a warning.’
‘What food item?’ Dom tried an innocent approach.
‘The Cornish Pasty, that’s in your pocket.’ ‘Sean’ said after a long suffering sigh. He usually only got this kind of trouble from ink cartridge stealing twelve year olds.
‘I don’t have a Cornish Pasty in my pocket. Can’t stand beef. I’m allergic.’ Dom’s ears were burning with the blatant lie.
Sean was quickly becoming annoyed with the blonde man in front of him. He just couldn’t understand people sometimes. He saw the bloke take the pasty, the bloke knew that Sean had seen him take the pasty, so why the customer felt the need, to lie about taking the bloody thing was beyond him!
Said blonde bloke was looking worried by the twitching tendon in the guard neck, and the hand on his arm, which was clenching as if it were strangling something. Dom gulped.
Sean sighed, again. ‘Give me the pasty, and I’ll let you off with a warning.’ The guard hoped that the guy would take the offer, he was tired, his new born had colic and had kept him up all night with her screaming.
Dom knew the request was reasonable, more than fair really. But he was so hungry. His eyes darted to the door and the hand tightened.
‘Sir!’ Sean barked, cursing his luck.
Dom, panicking now, made a move to get away, and this was taken as a very obvious escape attempt. A frenzied tussle ensued and before he knew it he was pounding down the street, a heavy bag over one shoulder banging painfully against his back and no clue as to where he was going.
He could hear the guard behind him shouting curses and asking him to stop. Dom closed his eyes and wished he was elsewhere. If Matt could see him now, running from a local Spar, with a pastry in him pocket, being chased by an irate grown-up as if he were ten.
The pasty felt heavy in his pocket and his heart was drumming in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. He took a sharp corner, and then another, disappearing into back alleys. He knew he was faster than the other, bigger, man and so made a final sprint.
The next alley way he took was dank and dark, the floor was littered with fag butts and there was a broken plastic garden chair blocking his path. He could see a main road up ahead. So taking a flying leap, he crashed into daylight.
He came out next to a pub, he was sweating and trembling and his coat stuck to his arms and back awkwardly, he gulped in air and glanced about.
He couldn’t loiter for long, so gaining his second wind he took of into the road, if he had paid more attention to his surroundings, he would have noticed a dog peeing on a lamppost a bit away from him, but more importantly, he would have noticed a blue car coming his way.
******
When Dom awoke, every part of him was screaming in agony, his breath was like a ball in his chest, causing him to gulp and wheeze. His legs felt like lead, except the shooting pains that were sparking through them.
Dom had never felt pain like this and all he could see through the watery film over his eyes was a worried pair of green eyes floating before his own, and all he could hear was a scared, shaken sounding Scottish voice assuring him that help was on the way.
Having been assured of his continued survival, he faded back out of consciousness.
*I don’t know if he did O-levels. My sister is a few years younger, and the syllabus changed in her time at school.
Thanks for reading. Comment if it wasn’t too painful.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
Mmmm... cornish pastry. I want one now. Good job. Intriguing. Can't wait for more.
From:
no subject