(no subject)

[cathybites.livejournal.com]

haunted
dom/billy, PG
written for K's Symptoms of Love challenge. mmmm...challenge-y...my line was 'no more ghosts'. Music provided by Sinead O'Connor and Shane MacGowan.


Dom has never believed in ghosts. He's never believed in things that go bump in the night or that creep around in cellars. Has never believed in things that would whisper secrets behind a person's back, sending chills up the spine and disappearing in a rush of cold that would freeze his insides solid. Has never believed that no matter how much time has passed, some things would never disappear into vague dreams and half-forgotten memories, would instead hide in dark shadows, waiting for the right moment to make themselves known.

Dom has never believed in ghosts and he doesn't plan on starting anytime soon.

~*~

It's early in the morning, early enough that Dom can still see faint traces of the stars in the sky. There's a slight chill in the air and when he sits down in the sand, the cold seeps through his wetsuit, creeping into his limbs.

His legs fold under him and he closes his eyes, face turned up to the sky. It's a rare quiet moment in the city; all he can hear is the crash of waves and the faraway cry of a gull and he concentrates on his breathing - in with the good air and out with the bad.

Dom tries to listen to his own heartbeat but all he can hear is a familiar voice in the back of his mind, laughter echoing in his ears. He works on clearing his mind and forgetting the physical world but the spot next to him in the sand is distracting in its emptiness. He knows that there's nobody there, nobody sitting next to him and shouting rude things at the other surfers, but he can feel the warmth of another body pressing against his side, of an arm slung casually over his shoulders.

When he opens his eyes, something shimmers just at the edge of his peripheral vision, but he turns to look and nothing is there.

~*~

Breakfast is spent in the kitchen watching the sunlight creep across the floor. Dom spreads jam on a slice of toast and just for a moment he catches a whiff of porridge, sticky-sweet and hot. It reminds him of a morning (or maybe a dozen, maybe a hundred) he spent in another kitchen, whinging loudly about 'another bloody bowl of porridge?' and 'don't you have anything decent to eat?' and 'let's just skip breakfast.' But as much as he complained he had always eaten it and he can almost taste it now, just a hint of honey and oats on his tongue.

He bites into his toast and tells himself that he had never liked porridge anyway.

~*~

The mail comes and Dom sits on the sofa in the living room to sort it. There are bulky envelopes for Elijah, bills for both of them, and a few mailers for 'RESIDENT', but nothing else. He looks through the piles a few more times to be sure but that's it.

He doesn't even really know what he's hoping for. A letter? A postcard, maybe. Even just a note saying, 'How's it going? Miss you.'

Dom leans back into the cushions and sighs, but it's not as if he's been keeping up with contact either. He keeps meaning to write a letter or ring Billy up, but things happen. Or don't happen. And Dom just ends up sitting on the sofa and staring out the windows.

He can see the surfers from here, black specks skating across the waves, and it feels odd to watch them. It's like he's completely disconnected from the world, sitting all alone in this house while everyone goes on without him and there's no one he can talk to or go surfing with or have a laugh with or...

He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, the air stuttering in his throat, and hears

miss you, too

and something brushes softly against his cheek, and the drapes flutter behind the closed windows.

~*~

When it all comes down to it, Dom still doesn't believe in ghosts or phantoms or hauntings or any of that rubbish. What he does believe in is the way everything seems to remind him of Billy. He believes in missing his best mate so much that he's gone completely mental without him, seeing things and hearing voices just to fill up the empty space.

Billy's number is written on the back of his hand, underlined and circled with several small arrows pointing it out. Dom can't remember when he wrote it there or if there had been a reason for it. He stares at it and ignores the whisper at his ear; he wants to hear the real thing.

Dom picks up the phone and says, "No more ghosts."