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monaboyd Sep. 29th, 2003 06:35 pm)
mirabile-dictu.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Sep. 29th, 2003 06:35 pm)Title: Lucky Dominic
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG for language
Summary: If I knew you were coming I'd a baked a cake
Disclaimer: Utter tosh
A/N: Written for my beloved![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
empress_wu, who suggested I also post it here.
~ ~ ~
Two sticks unsalted butter. Damn American measurements. Dom stared at the recipe. He could cook; he'd been a cook. He'd even baked, although from a mix. But he was determined, and bright. Bright enough, at least, to follow a recipe, even one written in American.
He'd carefully read the recipe, made a list, gone to the Safeway in Santa Monica (which wasn't anything like the Safeway in Manchester), and let everything sit a few days, thinking about what he was doing.
Or not. He went surfing, went to the opening of a new clothing store in LA, bought music at Amoeba, flirted shamelessly with the boys and girls he'd seen there, got drunk once and tipsy twice, and woke up this morning decided.
Besides, he was out of time.
Two sticks unsalted butter, cut into sixteen pieces. Dom thought that was ridiculous -- specifying exactly sixteen. He was a rebel; maybe he should cut it into seventeen pieces, or fifteen. Or thirty! Yeah, yeah. He grinned and began hacking at the butter before realizing he should unpeel the paper from them first. Well, a minute or two picking out the paper and then he was off again.
Very satisfying, baking could be. He pushed the chopped butter aside and read on.
Eight ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped. Even better, he thought, and pulled out the chocolate from the cupboard. This had taken some doing. No American choccie for this cake, no. This was from NZ. From The Seriously Good Chocolate Factory, which they'd discovered when they got snowed in at Te Anau. He put a bar to his face and sniffed luxuriously. Fuck, it smelled good.
What a day that had been. Fucking snowflakes the size of Dom's hand. Sitting on washing machines in the laundry room of their hotel, freezing, while Viggo handed around shots of something too good for Dom's palette.
Later, when they'd thawed, they'd gone out to look around. Sean had found Cherub's; Dom never would have gone into a place named Cherub's, for fuck's sake, but Sean was married and kinda girly in some ways, though Dom respected him, yeah, but still. Cherub's. Inside they'd sold fantastic jackets, really warm and sharp. Dom's was hanging in his wardrobe in Manchester; couldn't wear the fucker in fucking LA, but it was brilliant on a cold winter's day in the UK, specially when he was visiting Bill. Who had one, too. All the hobbits did, and jumpers, too, which Dom had brought to LA. They'd been made in four colours, and each hobbit bought a different one -- Lighe's was blue, of course; Sean's yellow; Billy's navy; and Dom's bright fucking red, red like, like, the reddest red.
He unwrapped the chocolate and licked at it. Shit, that was good. Supposed to be finely chopped. That'll be fun, he thought, and squared it on the birch cutting board. He knew it was birch because Sean had given it to him after he'd caught him chopping on the, the linoleum or whatever was on the kitchen bench. Sean, that big girl's blouse, always knew shit like birch and chopping blocks. But it was useful, Dom admitted that.
He began whacking at the chocolate, surprised at its density. Okay, maybe whacking wasn't the approach for this. He steadied the knife with his left hand and carefully chopped the firm block into lopsided pieces and smeary slivers. At last, he deemed it suitable.
Put the butter in a heavy medium saucepan and add the chocolate and one-quarter cup of sugar. Dom had learned the hard way that different countries measure shit differently. But cups were easy; Mac had already had measuring cups in the kitchen when Dom moved in, so that was no problem.
Stir constantly until melted and well blended. Fucking boring, fucking boring, he thought, plus his wrist ached. Must be doing it wrong. Elijah's mum would know how, but Dom didn't live in her backyard anymore.
Deb was a nice woman, he thought, stirring harder. Dark brown dots appeared on his Los Banos tee-shirt, so he slowed down, scowling. He should've put on some music before starting this. Why the fuck had he gone to Amoeba if not so he could have music playing now? What an arsehole. His Handsome Boy Modeling School CD was just sitting on top of his desk. And though Lighe would scorn him, getting the latest Elvis Costello pleased Dom quite a bit. Well, Lighe wasn't there, was he. But Dom couldn't stop stirring the choc-butter mix just yet.
Remove from heat and let cool. "That's cool, that's cookin' cool," he muttered, pushing the pan to another burner, scuffing the surface of the stovetop. He'd have to scrub at that or he'd find Mackie in here bitching. Dom ran to his bedroom and snatched up the Costello CD. North. Not even really released yet, but because he was a hobbit, here it was. Excellent benefits from being a hobbit. Women shoving their tits in his face, CDs and shoes and clothing showering down on him -- Danger, danger, a voice in his head said. His mum's, maybe, or more likely Deb's. He slotted the disc into the CD player, hit play, and strode back to the kitchen, head down. Time to get serious.
Four eggs, sitting on the bench, at room temperature, cos he knew that much. Everything at the same heat. Though American temperatures were still weird to him. He had to do a little calculation in his head each and every time. Plus the oven was so different. Fortunately, it had a dial with tiny numbers written on it, so it had been simple to twist it to "pre-heat" and "300." Which sounded like it would fucking explode, but.
One by one, whisk the eggs in. He could break an egg with one hand, something he was pretty proud of even though he was ashamed of his pride. More stirring, shit, they looked kind of slimy, but that was okay. Staring into the batter, he remembered the packet-mix cake he'd tried to make in New Zealand, but the oven was busted and he'd ended up eating half of the batter raw, until he realized he was making himself sick.
He'd called Bill that night. Dom's whisking slowed as he remembered. Victoria Sullivan, the script consultant, had been there when he'd called. Bill had sworn she was just a friend, but Bill was shy about that. Not like Dom, anxious to let everyone know the women he could pull. Or Dom back then. Dom broke another egg.
Shit, he'd felt lousy that night. It had been cold and dreary, and he'd thrown up a little in Bill's toilet, just bile and spit, but he'd been ashamed and embarrassed afterwards. Bill had put him to bed, in Bill's own bed, while he had slept on the couch. The bed had been strange and strangely comforting, and smelled like Bill's deodorant and the goop he put in his thinning hair. Regaine. "Every single night?" Dom had once asked him, watching him wield the little eyedropper.
"And mornin'," Bill had answered cheerfully. "Got to keep up appearances, yuh know."
"Eh, it's sticky."
Bill had just shrugged.
Only a quarter cup of flour. Dom thought that was a tiny bit of flour, yeah, staring into the cup, but he was wise to the ways of recipes now and didn't tempt fate by adding more. Stirred it in really well, all bubbly and shiny and not so slimy anymore.
The cake pan was brand new, a shiny aluminium exterior and slick brown Teflon interior. The directions instructed Dom to line it with more aluminium, and he'd fussed a bit over that, trying not to crease the foil. Shouldn't he butter it? But it didn't say to. Fuck. He rapped the sauce pan sharply on the bench, took a deep breath, and poured in the batter. Then he put that cake pan into a larger one and poured in hot water halfway up the little pan's sides. Into the oven, and a timer set for thirty-five minutes.
Costello's voice, his new voice, Dom thought of it, rumbled through the house on "You Left Me in the Dark." Too true, Dom nodded sagely.
He looked at the clock. He was doing well. Cake in the oven, time to tidy up a bit so Mac wouldn't roll his eyes at him when he got home, and then just wait.
He licked the saucepan a bit before washing it, but not too much, just enough to be sure it tasted fine. He'd learned his lesson about that, too.
He'd learned a lot of lessons in New Zealand, he thought, elbow deep in hot soapy water. He'd grown up a lot. And in LA, too, but in a different way. In NZ, he'd learned how to be on his own, to make new friends, to really devote himself to his work -- to his craft. His craft. He liked the sound of that.
In LA, he'd learned to protect himself. When he was first getting his feet, he was out partying every night. A couple of pictures of him stupid drunk, drinking beer on the streets, and his big brother Matt was calling long distance from Austria, worryin' he'd pull a River Phoenix. Yeah, so, he did go to the Viper Club once in a while, even now. And yeah, he did go to lots of openings and even some plays.
People did offer him stuff. Bad stuff, too, and he was sharp enough to know that. Matt nearly busted Dom's eardrum warning him off. Even his dad had called and they'd had an awkward, silence-filled conversation about what Dom was doing and why folks were saying things about him.
Yeah, he'd snorted coke, Jesus, Matt, what d'ya think? Didn't you at my age?
I will fly out and kick yer arse back to Manchester and lock you in yer old room, Matt had said tightly, and Dom thought he might really do it.
Fuck. He wiped his hands on his jeans and ran them through his hair. He really loved the blond spikiness of it. Blonds do have more fun, except not quite as much fun as he'd been having the first year out here. Matt, his dad, his mum, Lighe's mum, and even Lighe's sister had all taken him to task, and fucking Hannah was eight years younger than Dom. But she'd been in LA all her life, and she was a close observer. "I'm an anthropologist from Mars," she told him, and kissed his cheek smacky-like, a real little sis to him, too, but older in some ways than he'd ever be. He'd later discovered she was quoting the title of a book, but it suited her, too.
Even Lighe had spoken to him, in his rough husky voice, the one Dom could never get enough of, the voice of smoky sex and laughter and egging Dom on -- except never, Dom realized, never to anything dangerous. It's like Lighe was born old and wise. "I'm like Merlin," Lighe had once said, back in NZ, after Sean called him the thousand-year-old man, laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. "Living life backwards. I'll be young and dumb later. Right now," he slapped the table, still laughing, but Dom could see how serious he was, "I gotta pay the bills. Get Hannah through college, Mom into a retirement home."
So Lighe had tried to tell him but only succeeded in pissing Dom off. Matt had pissed him off, too, but that was different -- Matt was older and sophisticated and grown up, with kids of his own and all and a great dad, a fucking great dad. Matt had the right to piss him off.
Dom realized he was getting maudlin. Fucking Costello's sad songs. "When Did I Stop Dreaming" was playing now, and maybe he should skip to the next one.
The cake smelled terrific, little tendrils of chocolate and butter and sugar snaking out of the kitchen like in a cartoon, curling into Dom's nose. Only another fifteen minutes and it'd be done. He jumped up and started shoving things away -- CDs, DVDs, the red red jumper he'd bought at Cherubs, so long ago. Then he changed his mind, tore off his batter-spattered Los Banos tee, and tugged the jumper over his head. It felt good, and still smelled a bit like fabric softener, something Deb had taught him to use.
He made his bed quickly, and straightened the clutter on the night table, then rubbed at the computer monitor with his discarded tee-shirt. Tossed it in the wicker basket in his wardrobe and that was it.
This was it. The timer was binging insistently, and he jogged to the kitchen. Fuck, but it smelt great. He pulled the doubled pans cautiously from the oven and balanced them on a burner, then re-read the recipe.
A knife inserted in the center comes out streaky but not wet. He fetched the knife back from the big block in the corner and slid it in then out, a tiny incision into the heart of the cake. Maybe a little wet. He stared at the dull surface of the blade, smeared with chocolate. This needs to be right. This cake needs to be perfect.
He fingered his om ring, slipping it around his finger nervously, and then decided to bake the cake for another five minutes.
His feet were cold. He should pull on some socks. The thick ones that Christine had given him for Christmas last. All the Fellowship got them; she'd actually knitted them. Sat down in her Home and Garden perfect house and knitted socks for nine strange men. No wonder Sean loved her.
Sean had talked to Dom, too, hugging him fiercely; he really was a girl, kissing Dom's cheek like Hannah had, talking in complete sentences and carefully articulated words, energy beaming from him like a sit-com on the telly, a walking After School Special Starring Sean Astin, reminding Dom of what they'd had in NZ and what they didn't have in LA and what they'd never have again. Fucking Sean, in love with Lighe and resigned to it, who the fuck was he to offer advice? Dom flushed with guilt at his thoughts; he loved Lighe, too, and he loved Sean, and Sean always only meant well. Sean loves me, he thought, and his stomach unclenched a bit.
Dom tidied away the newspaper on the coffee table in the living room en route to his bedroom for the socks, stuck his head in the bathroom to check his face for chocolate spots and to admire his blond hair again, and then raced back to the kitchen in time to shut off the timer before it could start up its racket again.
This is perfect, he told himself. Abso-fucking-perfect.
Chill the cake for one hour. Easy-peasy. He pulled the inner pan out of the hot water and set it on a dishtowel while clearing space in the fridge. Mostly beer, two bottles of wine recommended by Viggo, a bag of lettuce and stuff that was supposed to turn into a caesar salad, a chicken already roasted by Safeway and shredded by Dom to be added to the salad, a bottle of soy milk and one of rice, six little cups of soy yogurt, and Mac's headache medication. He shoved everything aside, put the bag of lettuce in the crisper, and packed the still-warm cake into the fridge.
Viggo had talked to him, too. They'd met in London and driven up to the Edinburgh Festival to see Bills in his new play, the one with the role written specially for him, and Dom was so fucking envious. Jesus, who wouldn't be? And Bill nailed the part, weird and calm and even dying on stage, kind of.
On the trip up, Henry asleep in the backseat, the night flying past them as Dom drove, since he didn't trust Americans driving on the left side of the road, Viggo sat silent and nearly invisible in the dim glow of the dashboard. Viggo sucked up the light, storing it, Dom thought, to use later in his art.
In true Viggo fashion, he started mid-sentence of a stream of consciousness flow, saying, "Our lives are measured out in coffee spoons but by touch, too, I think, or they should be, otherwise it's a mistake. It's such a mistake. The church on the beach, empty and silent but full of light, a bird flying through from the cold dark night into the brief warmth and light and then back eternally into the night -- that's us, that's all we have, that brief, brief moment of warmth and light. Let's not squander it, no, no . . ." and he mumbled off into silence. Before Dom could get his head together enough to respond, he heard Viggo snore, and the car was full of sleeping Mortensens.
Well, Viggo always was fucking weird.
In one hour, Dom could peel off the aluminium foil, spray the whipping cream on it, and that would be it. He couldn't do anything else.
He couldn't do anything else but wait.
Costello sang on, sad love-sick songs. Stupid fucking CD; who'd given it to him? Fuckin' Amoeba shouldn't treat him special. He was just a bloke from Germany who got fucking lucky. And maybe he'd used up all the luck he'd ever have in his life, because what could be luckier than being in Rings? Nothing. He'd shot his bolt with that.
Lucky Dominic.
That's what Bean had called him when they'd bumped into each other in, where the fuck was it? Venice? Someplace neither of them had spoken the language and Dom remembered the shock of seeing Bean's blond hair; he'd instantly decided he'd be blond, too, cos shit Bean looked good, better than Boromir, and they'd hugged on the plaza, tightly, then stared into each other's faces. Sat right down and ordered wine, Bean did, a northern bastard pretending to be cosmopolitan, but Bean fell back into the familiar burr. "Yer soundin' American," he'd teased Dom, tossing back the wine, waving the waiter over for more. "Heard you was on The Osbournes; weren't Ozzie a Brit once?"
"Fuck off," Dom had told him, but he'd blushed cos it was true; he was losing his accent and Britishness, even his dad had told him that. Bean sounded the same no matter where he was, though. Worse'n Viggo in some ways. "Seen the Bloom lately?" Dom asked, changing the subject.
"Aye, regular as clockwork he is, turnin' up on the press junkets, the poncy git. He's gonna be on the 'A' list, ya know," Bean added more seriously. "Outta all of us, he's the star."
"Not Vig? Not you?" Not Lighe?
"Naw. Maybe Vig, but he's old, like me, and I'm where I'm gonna stay. Second or third on the bill, that's good enough fer me. Dunno about you hobbits, though." Bean stared thoughtfully at Dom. "Yer too young, yanno. Give it a decade."
"Billy's got the decade."
"And look what he's doin'." Bean really stared then, hard, like the fucking Sheffy he was, so Dom waved over the waiter this time. He could do cosmo himself.
Bean was right, Dom knew. He'd seen Orlando himself in LA not too long ago, on one of those press junkets. Orli had asked him to drop by and Dom had, happy to be included, to be photographed with gorgeous Orli, wrapped up in his arms, his hair curly and flopping on his forehead now, no more Mohawk, that was kid stuff. But he'd only had a minute for Dom until he was pulled away.
Fuck. Dom was jealous of Orli, that was true. But he didn't let it eat at him; how could he, when he'd read in interviews that Orli quoted his mate Dom, and missed hanging with the hobbits. Poor bugger, Dom thought, then: Naw. Fucker's got more mates'n he knows what ta do with.
But he missed Orli a bit, same as he did Bean. If he was honest with himself.
He looked at up the clock, not even registering the time until he forced himself to look again. And the minute he saw the time, he heard the knock.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, and wiped his hands on the damp dishtowel. He glanced around, and looked at his reflection in the microwave. Grown up, now, yeah, like Matt, kinda, but not as tall and not nearly as smart, not even as smart as Hannah. He'd have to keep hoping for luck.
"Ya in there?" a familiar voice called just as he opened the door.
"Bill," he said quietly, and picked up the bag.
"I forgot money," Bill said, shoving his hands in his pockets and bringing out British pounds and NZ dollars but none of the boring green American bills.
"Ya cunt," Dom told him affectionately, but paid off the cabbie and left a big tip. He realized he was still carrying the bag, as if he'd been leaving and not Bill arriving.
"Jesus, what smells sa good?" Bill asked the minute he stepped inside.
"Remember that chocolate place, down in Te Anau?" Dom asked him, still holding the bag and wondering what the fuck Bill had brought with him from Glasgow that weighed so much.
"Aye, and that's the jumper we bought! I got mine, too, look," and he tugged at the bag, pulling it out of Dom's hand, thumping it down, and unzipping it right in the hall to reveal a jumbled mess of clothes and CDs and a couple of books, but Dom couldn't see what they were because Bill was pulling out his navy jumper. "Remember? It was so feckin' cold, my feet, Christ, I thought my toes would fall off."
"How could I forget your toes, Bill?" Dom asked him, helping him scoop back the escaped clothing and shit. He bundled the still-unzipped bag up and carried it just like that into his bedroom, dumping it on the floor under a window.
"I'm stayin' here, then?" Bill ask from the door way. Dom slowly stood up and jammed his hands into his back jeans pockets. He felt his shoulders creep up to his ears.
"If ya want," he finally said, not turning around.
"Oh, aye, that's just what I want," Bill said, and Dom turned around, smiling so hard his face hurt. Bill was smiling, too, looking weary and jet-lagged and happy. "I was hopin' that's what ya meant when ya called. Ya sounded --" he broke off, and studied Dom's face.
"I was," Dom admitted, and Bill nodded.
"Me, too."
"Well."
"So the chocolate?"
"Oh, I baked ya a cake."
Bill's grin grew broader. "Did ya really bake it then, Monaghan, or are we eatin' it with a spoon?"
Dom walked toward him and shoved him gently with his shoulder. To his shock, Bill turned and bit his shoulder, right through the red red jumper. "Oy!"
Spitting out red lint, Bill grinned at him. "Tastes fine, it does." They stared at each other, Dom feeling his face and probably his ears turning as red as his jumper. Bill slid his arm around Dom's waist. "Do you know what time it is in Glasgow?"
"Yah, it's, uh," he glanced at the second watch on his wrist, "it's just gone two in the morning."
"I'm sleepy."
"But there's dinner, and cake, I made it all just for you."
"And I'm hungry, too, Dom, but first," and Bill stood up straight, tightening his hold on Dom, "first I need ta sleep. And I'm thinkin' ya look knackered as well, mah boy."
Greatly daring, Dom leaned against Bill. "So I'm yer boy, eh?"
"If we're sleeping together in that, aye, yeh're mah boy. Do ya deny it?"
Dom shook his head. "But I made that cake, with chocolate specially from Te Anau."
"Oh, we'll eat the cake. I want to eat it all." His voice had grown deeper; his pirate's voice, Peter called it.
Bill's face came closer to Dom's, and he remembered Pippin saying to Merry: But I've always been taller than you. Bill did seem taller right now, and Dom relaxed into the sensation. "Is this whatcha wanted?" Bill asked him, and then kissed him, as gently and sweetly as Dom had known he would.
"Oh, aye," he said using Bill's awful Glaswegian vowels, but Bill kissed him again, and then he kissed Bill, and Bill said, "Leave the jumper on then, will ya?" and Dom knew the chocolate cake would be dessert to the best meal he'd ever have.
Behind him, on the little night table, waiting to be shown to Bill, lay a postcard of London Bridge all lit up at night like the cake Dom could never make; a note from Ian on the back. "Call Billy," it said. "Gandalf worries about his hobbits."
Fandom: LOTR RPS
Pairing: DM/BB
Rating: PG for language
Summary: If I knew you were coming I'd a baked a cake
Disclaimer: Utter tosh
A/N: Written for my beloved
empress_wu, who suggested I also post it here.~ ~ ~
Two sticks unsalted butter. Damn American measurements. Dom stared at the recipe. He could cook; he'd been a cook. He'd even baked, although from a mix. But he was determined, and bright. Bright enough, at least, to follow a recipe, even one written in American.
He'd carefully read the recipe, made a list, gone to the Safeway in Santa Monica (which wasn't anything like the Safeway in Manchester), and let everything sit a few days, thinking about what he was doing.
Or not. He went surfing, went to the opening of a new clothing store in LA, bought music at Amoeba, flirted shamelessly with the boys and girls he'd seen there, got drunk once and tipsy twice, and woke up this morning decided.
Besides, he was out of time.
Two sticks unsalted butter, cut into sixteen pieces. Dom thought that was ridiculous -- specifying exactly sixteen. He was a rebel; maybe he should cut it into seventeen pieces, or fifteen. Or thirty! Yeah, yeah. He grinned and began hacking at the butter before realizing he should unpeel the paper from them first. Well, a minute or two picking out the paper and then he was off again.
Very satisfying, baking could be. He pushed the chopped butter aside and read on.
Eight ounces bittersweet chocolate, finely chopped. Even better, he thought, and pulled out the chocolate from the cupboard. This had taken some doing. No American choccie for this cake, no. This was from NZ. From The Seriously Good Chocolate Factory, which they'd discovered when they got snowed in at Te Anau. He put a bar to his face and sniffed luxuriously. Fuck, it smelled good.
What a day that had been. Fucking snowflakes the size of Dom's hand. Sitting on washing machines in the laundry room of their hotel, freezing, while Viggo handed around shots of something too good for Dom's palette.
Later, when they'd thawed, they'd gone out to look around. Sean had found Cherub's; Dom never would have gone into a place named Cherub's, for fuck's sake, but Sean was married and kinda girly in some ways, though Dom respected him, yeah, but still. Cherub's. Inside they'd sold fantastic jackets, really warm and sharp. Dom's was hanging in his wardrobe in Manchester; couldn't wear the fucker in fucking LA, but it was brilliant on a cold winter's day in the UK, specially when he was visiting Bill. Who had one, too. All the hobbits did, and jumpers, too, which Dom had brought to LA. They'd been made in four colours, and each hobbit bought a different one -- Lighe's was blue, of course; Sean's yellow; Billy's navy; and Dom's bright fucking red, red like, like, the reddest red.
He unwrapped the chocolate and licked at it. Shit, that was good. Supposed to be finely chopped. That'll be fun, he thought, and squared it on the birch cutting board. He knew it was birch because Sean had given it to him after he'd caught him chopping on the, the linoleum or whatever was on the kitchen bench. Sean, that big girl's blouse, always knew shit like birch and chopping blocks. But it was useful, Dom admitted that.
He began whacking at the chocolate, surprised at its density. Okay, maybe whacking wasn't the approach for this. He steadied the knife with his left hand and carefully chopped the firm block into lopsided pieces and smeary slivers. At last, he deemed it suitable.
Put the butter in a heavy medium saucepan and add the chocolate and one-quarter cup of sugar. Dom had learned the hard way that different countries measure shit differently. But cups were easy; Mac had already had measuring cups in the kitchen when Dom moved in, so that was no problem.
Stir constantly until melted and well blended. Fucking boring, fucking boring, he thought, plus his wrist ached. Must be doing it wrong. Elijah's mum would know how, but Dom didn't live in her backyard anymore.
Deb was a nice woman, he thought, stirring harder. Dark brown dots appeared on his Los Banos tee-shirt, so he slowed down, scowling. He should've put on some music before starting this. Why the fuck had he gone to Amoeba if not so he could have music playing now? What an arsehole. His Handsome Boy Modeling School CD was just sitting on top of his desk. And though Lighe would scorn him, getting the latest Elvis Costello pleased Dom quite a bit. Well, Lighe wasn't there, was he. But Dom couldn't stop stirring the choc-butter mix just yet.
Remove from heat and let cool. "That's cool, that's cookin' cool," he muttered, pushing the pan to another burner, scuffing the surface of the stovetop. He'd have to scrub at that or he'd find Mackie in here bitching. Dom ran to his bedroom and snatched up the Costello CD. North. Not even really released yet, but because he was a hobbit, here it was. Excellent benefits from being a hobbit. Women shoving their tits in his face, CDs and shoes and clothing showering down on him -- Danger, danger, a voice in his head said. His mum's, maybe, or more likely Deb's. He slotted the disc into the CD player, hit play, and strode back to the kitchen, head down. Time to get serious.
Four eggs, sitting on the bench, at room temperature, cos he knew that much. Everything at the same heat. Though American temperatures were still weird to him. He had to do a little calculation in his head each and every time. Plus the oven was so different. Fortunately, it had a dial with tiny numbers written on it, so it had been simple to twist it to "pre-heat" and "300." Which sounded like it would fucking explode, but.
One by one, whisk the eggs in. He could break an egg with one hand, something he was pretty proud of even though he was ashamed of his pride. More stirring, shit, they looked kind of slimy, but that was okay. Staring into the batter, he remembered the packet-mix cake he'd tried to make in New Zealand, but the oven was busted and he'd ended up eating half of the batter raw, until he realized he was making himself sick.
He'd called Bill that night. Dom's whisking slowed as he remembered. Victoria Sullivan, the script consultant, had been there when he'd called. Bill had sworn she was just a friend, but Bill was shy about that. Not like Dom, anxious to let everyone know the women he could pull. Or Dom back then. Dom broke another egg.
Shit, he'd felt lousy that night. It had been cold and dreary, and he'd thrown up a little in Bill's toilet, just bile and spit, but he'd been ashamed and embarrassed afterwards. Bill had put him to bed, in Bill's own bed, while he had slept on the couch. The bed had been strange and strangely comforting, and smelled like Bill's deodorant and the goop he put in his thinning hair. Regaine. "Every single night?" Dom had once asked him, watching him wield the little eyedropper.
"And mornin'," Bill had answered cheerfully. "Got to keep up appearances, yuh know."
"Eh, it's sticky."
Bill had just shrugged.
Only a quarter cup of flour. Dom thought that was a tiny bit of flour, yeah, staring into the cup, but he was wise to the ways of recipes now and didn't tempt fate by adding more. Stirred it in really well, all bubbly and shiny and not so slimy anymore.
The cake pan was brand new, a shiny aluminium exterior and slick brown Teflon interior. The directions instructed Dom to line it with more aluminium, and he'd fussed a bit over that, trying not to crease the foil. Shouldn't he butter it? But it didn't say to. Fuck. He rapped the sauce pan sharply on the bench, took a deep breath, and poured in the batter. Then he put that cake pan into a larger one and poured in hot water halfway up the little pan's sides. Into the oven, and a timer set for thirty-five minutes.
Costello's voice, his new voice, Dom thought of it, rumbled through the house on "You Left Me in the Dark." Too true, Dom nodded sagely.
He looked at the clock. He was doing well. Cake in the oven, time to tidy up a bit so Mac wouldn't roll his eyes at him when he got home, and then just wait.
He licked the saucepan a bit before washing it, but not too much, just enough to be sure it tasted fine. He'd learned his lesson about that, too.
He'd learned a lot of lessons in New Zealand, he thought, elbow deep in hot soapy water. He'd grown up a lot. And in LA, too, but in a different way. In NZ, he'd learned how to be on his own, to make new friends, to really devote himself to his work -- to his craft. His craft. He liked the sound of that.
In LA, he'd learned to protect himself. When he was first getting his feet, he was out partying every night. A couple of pictures of him stupid drunk, drinking beer on the streets, and his big brother Matt was calling long distance from Austria, worryin' he'd pull a River Phoenix. Yeah, so, he did go to the Viper Club once in a while, even now. And yeah, he did go to lots of openings and even some plays.
People did offer him stuff. Bad stuff, too, and he was sharp enough to know that. Matt nearly busted Dom's eardrum warning him off. Even his dad had called and they'd had an awkward, silence-filled conversation about what Dom was doing and why folks were saying things about him.
Yeah, he'd snorted coke, Jesus, Matt, what d'ya think? Didn't you at my age?
I will fly out and kick yer arse back to Manchester and lock you in yer old room, Matt had said tightly, and Dom thought he might really do it.
Fuck. He wiped his hands on his jeans and ran them through his hair. He really loved the blond spikiness of it. Blonds do have more fun, except not quite as much fun as he'd been having the first year out here. Matt, his dad, his mum, Lighe's mum, and even Lighe's sister had all taken him to task, and fucking Hannah was eight years younger than Dom. But she'd been in LA all her life, and she was a close observer. "I'm an anthropologist from Mars," she told him, and kissed his cheek smacky-like, a real little sis to him, too, but older in some ways than he'd ever be. He'd later discovered she was quoting the title of a book, but it suited her, too.
Even Lighe had spoken to him, in his rough husky voice, the one Dom could never get enough of, the voice of smoky sex and laughter and egging Dom on -- except never, Dom realized, never to anything dangerous. It's like Lighe was born old and wise. "I'm like Merlin," Lighe had once said, back in NZ, after Sean called him the thousand-year-old man, laughing so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. "Living life backwards. I'll be young and dumb later. Right now," he slapped the table, still laughing, but Dom could see how serious he was, "I gotta pay the bills. Get Hannah through college, Mom into a retirement home."
So Lighe had tried to tell him but only succeeded in pissing Dom off. Matt had pissed him off, too, but that was different -- Matt was older and sophisticated and grown up, with kids of his own and all and a great dad, a fucking great dad. Matt had the right to piss him off.
Dom realized he was getting maudlin. Fucking Costello's sad songs. "When Did I Stop Dreaming" was playing now, and maybe he should skip to the next one.
The cake smelled terrific, little tendrils of chocolate and butter and sugar snaking out of the kitchen like in a cartoon, curling into Dom's nose. Only another fifteen minutes and it'd be done. He jumped up and started shoving things away -- CDs, DVDs, the red red jumper he'd bought at Cherubs, so long ago. Then he changed his mind, tore off his batter-spattered Los Banos tee, and tugged the jumper over his head. It felt good, and still smelled a bit like fabric softener, something Deb had taught him to use.
He made his bed quickly, and straightened the clutter on the night table, then rubbed at the computer monitor with his discarded tee-shirt. Tossed it in the wicker basket in his wardrobe and that was it.
This was it. The timer was binging insistently, and he jogged to the kitchen. Fuck, but it smelt great. He pulled the doubled pans cautiously from the oven and balanced them on a burner, then re-read the recipe.
A knife inserted in the center comes out streaky but not wet. He fetched the knife back from the big block in the corner and slid it in then out, a tiny incision into the heart of the cake. Maybe a little wet. He stared at the dull surface of the blade, smeared with chocolate. This needs to be right. This cake needs to be perfect.
He fingered his om ring, slipping it around his finger nervously, and then decided to bake the cake for another five minutes.
His feet were cold. He should pull on some socks. The thick ones that Christine had given him for Christmas last. All the Fellowship got them; she'd actually knitted them. Sat down in her Home and Garden perfect house and knitted socks for nine strange men. No wonder Sean loved her.
Sean had talked to Dom, too, hugging him fiercely; he really was a girl, kissing Dom's cheek like Hannah had, talking in complete sentences and carefully articulated words, energy beaming from him like a sit-com on the telly, a walking After School Special Starring Sean Astin, reminding Dom of what they'd had in NZ and what they didn't have in LA and what they'd never have again. Fucking Sean, in love with Lighe and resigned to it, who the fuck was he to offer advice? Dom flushed with guilt at his thoughts; he loved Lighe, too, and he loved Sean, and Sean always only meant well. Sean loves me, he thought, and his stomach unclenched a bit.
Dom tidied away the newspaper on the coffee table in the living room en route to his bedroom for the socks, stuck his head in the bathroom to check his face for chocolate spots and to admire his blond hair again, and then raced back to the kitchen in time to shut off the timer before it could start up its racket again.
This is perfect, he told himself. Abso-fucking-perfect.
Chill the cake for one hour. Easy-peasy. He pulled the inner pan out of the hot water and set it on a dishtowel while clearing space in the fridge. Mostly beer, two bottles of wine recommended by Viggo, a bag of lettuce and stuff that was supposed to turn into a caesar salad, a chicken already roasted by Safeway and shredded by Dom to be added to the salad, a bottle of soy milk and one of rice, six little cups of soy yogurt, and Mac's headache medication. He shoved everything aside, put the bag of lettuce in the crisper, and packed the still-warm cake into the fridge.
Viggo had talked to him, too. They'd met in London and driven up to the Edinburgh Festival to see Bills in his new play, the one with the role written specially for him, and Dom was so fucking envious. Jesus, who wouldn't be? And Bill nailed the part, weird and calm and even dying on stage, kind of.
On the trip up, Henry asleep in the backseat, the night flying past them as Dom drove, since he didn't trust Americans driving on the left side of the road, Viggo sat silent and nearly invisible in the dim glow of the dashboard. Viggo sucked up the light, storing it, Dom thought, to use later in his art.
In true Viggo fashion, he started mid-sentence of a stream of consciousness flow, saying, "Our lives are measured out in coffee spoons but by touch, too, I think, or they should be, otherwise it's a mistake. It's such a mistake. The church on the beach, empty and silent but full of light, a bird flying through from the cold dark night into the brief warmth and light and then back eternally into the night -- that's us, that's all we have, that brief, brief moment of warmth and light. Let's not squander it, no, no . . ." and he mumbled off into silence. Before Dom could get his head together enough to respond, he heard Viggo snore, and the car was full of sleeping Mortensens.
Well, Viggo always was fucking weird.
In one hour, Dom could peel off the aluminium foil, spray the whipping cream on it, and that would be it. He couldn't do anything else.
He couldn't do anything else but wait.
Costello sang on, sad love-sick songs. Stupid fucking CD; who'd given it to him? Fuckin' Amoeba shouldn't treat him special. He was just a bloke from Germany who got fucking lucky. And maybe he'd used up all the luck he'd ever have in his life, because what could be luckier than being in Rings? Nothing. He'd shot his bolt with that.
Lucky Dominic.
That's what Bean had called him when they'd bumped into each other in, where the fuck was it? Venice? Someplace neither of them had spoken the language and Dom remembered the shock of seeing Bean's blond hair; he'd instantly decided he'd be blond, too, cos shit Bean looked good, better than Boromir, and they'd hugged on the plaza, tightly, then stared into each other's faces. Sat right down and ordered wine, Bean did, a northern bastard pretending to be cosmopolitan, but Bean fell back into the familiar burr. "Yer soundin' American," he'd teased Dom, tossing back the wine, waving the waiter over for more. "Heard you was on The Osbournes; weren't Ozzie a Brit once?"
"Fuck off," Dom had told him, but he'd blushed cos it was true; he was losing his accent and Britishness, even his dad had told him that. Bean sounded the same no matter where he was, though. Worse'n Viggo in some ways. "Seen the Bloom lately?" Dom asked, changing the subject.
"Aye, regular as clockwork he is, turnin' up on the press junkets, the poncy git. He's gonna be on the 'A' list, ya know," Bean added more seriously. "Outta all of us, he's the star."
"Not Vig? Not you?" Not Lighe?
"Naw. Maybe Vig, but he's old, like me, and I'm where I'm gonna stay. Second or third on the bill, that's good enough fer me. Dunno about you hobbits, though." Bean stared thoughtfully at Dom. "Yer too young, yanno. Give it a decade."
"Billy's got the decade."
"And look what he's doin'." Bean really stared then, hard, like the fucking Sheffy he was, so Dom waved over the waiter this time. He could do cosmo himself.
Bean was right, Dom knew. He'd seen Orlando himself in LA not too long ago, on one of those press junkets. Orli had asked him to drop by and Dom had, happy to be included, to be photographed with gorgeous Orli, wrapped up in his arms, his hair curly and flopping on his forehead now, no more Mohawk, that was kid stuff. But he'd only had a minute for Dom until he was pulled away.
Fuck. Dom was jealous of Orli, that was true. But he didn't let it eat at him; how could he, when he'd read in interviews that Orli quoted his mate Dom, and missed hanging with the hobbits. Poor bugger, Dom thought, then: Naw. Fucker's got more mates'n he knows what ta do with.
But he missed Orli a bit, same as he did Bean. If he was honest with himself.
He looked at up the clock, not even registering the time until he forced himself to look again. And the minute he saw the time, he heard the knock.
"Yeah, yeah," he muttered, and wiped his hands on the damp dishtowel. He glanced around, and looked at his reflection in the microwave. Grown up, now, yeah, like Matt, kinda, but not as tall and not nearly as smart, not even as smart as Hannah. He'd have to keep hoping for luck.
"Ya in there?" a familiar voice called just as he opened the door.
"Bill," he said quietly, and picked up the bag.
"I forgot money," Bill said, shoving his hands in his pockets and bringing out British pounds and NZ dollars but none of the boring green American bills.
"Ya cunt," Dom told him affectionately, but paid off the cabbie and left a big tip. He realized he was still carrying the bag, as if he'd been leaving and not Bill arriving.
"Jesus, what smells sa good?" Bill asked the minute he stepped inside.
"Remember that chocolate place, down in Te Anau?" Dom asked him, still holding the bag and wondering what the fuck Bill had brought with him from Glasgow that weighed so much.
"Aye, and that's the jumper we bought! I got mine, too, look," and he tugged at the bag, pulling it out of Dom's hand, thumping it down, and unzipping it right in the hall to reveal a jumbled mess of clothes and CDs and a couple of books, but Dom couldn't see what they were because Bill was pulling out his navy jumper. "Remember? It was so feckin' cold, my feet, Christ, I thought my toes would fall off."
"How could I forget your toes, Bill?" Dom asked him, helping him scoop back the escaped clothing and shit. He bundled the still-unzipped bag up and carried it just like that into his bedroom, dumping it on the floor under a window.
"I'm stayin' here, then?" Bill ask from the door way. Dom slowly stood up and jammed his hands into his back jeans pockets. He felt his shoulders creep up to his ears.
"If ya want," he finally said, not turning around.
"Oh, aye, that's just what I want," Bill said, and Dom turned around, smiling so hard his face hurt. Bill was smiling, too, looking weary and jet-lagged and happy. "I was hopin' that's what ya meant when ya called. Ya sounded --" he broke off, and studied Dom's face.
"I was," Dom admitted, and Bill nodded.
"Me, too."
"Well."
"So the chocolate?"
"Oh, I baked ya a cake."
Bill's grin grew broader. "Did ya really bake it then, Monaghan, or are we eatin' it with a spoon?"
Dom walked toward him and shoved him gently with his shoulder. To his shock, Bill turned and bit his shoulder, right through the red red jumper. "Oy!"
Spitting out red lint, Bill grinned at him. "Tastes fine, it does." They stared at each other, Dom feeling his face and probably his ears turning as red as his jumper. Bill slid his arm around Dom's waist. "Do you know what time it is in Glasgow?"
"Yah, it's, uh," he glanced at the second watch on his wrist, "it's just gone two in the morning."
"I'm sleepy."
"But there's dinner, and cake, I made it all just for you."
"And I'm hungry, too, Dom, but first," and Bill stood up straight, tightening his hold on Dom, "first I need ta sleep. And I'm thinkin' ya look knackered as well, mah boy."
Greatly daring, Dom leaned against Bill. "So I'm yer boy, eh?"
"If we're sleeping together in that, aye, yeh're mah boy. Do ya deny it?"
Dom shook his head. "But I made that cake, with chocolate specially from Te Anau."
"Oh, we'll eat the cake. I want to eat it all." His voice had grown deeper; his pirate's voice, Peter called it.
Bill's face came closer to Dom's, and he remembered Pippin saying to Merry: But I've always been taller than you. Bill did seem taller right now, and Dom relaxed into the sensation. "Is this whatcha wanted?" Bill asked him, and then kissed him, as gently and sweetly as Dom had known he would.
"Oh, aye," he said using Bill's awful Glaswegian vowels, but Bill kissed him again, and then he kissed Bill, and Bill said, "Leave the jumper on then, will ya?" and Dom knew the chocolate cake would be dessert to the best meal he'd ever have.
Behind him, on the little night table, waiting to be shown to Bill, lay a postcard of London Bridge all lit up at night like the cake Dom could never make; a note from Ian on the back. "Call Billy," it said. "Gandalf worries about his hobbits."
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You have, however, inspired me. Off to revise, revise, revise.