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monaboyd Aug. 22nd, 2004 06:24 pm)
flashditzie.livejournal.com posting in monaboyd Aug. 22nd, 2004 06:24 pm)Title: Free Fall
Author: Flashditzie
Rating: PG
Summary: Having recently been on a plane for the first time, I was inspired to write a fic in which Billy is afraid of flying and Dom helps him out. (I’ve discovered that I tend to agree with Dom on this issue--flying is cool! :D)
Warnings: Sickeningly trite fluff. Painfully obvious symbolism. (Also, possibly far too melodramatic. You be the judge.)
Feedback: Review. Whore.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Notes: A bit more serious than my usual fare, I’m afraid, but then again, I was in a serious mood when I came up with the plot. By no means angsty, though!
There’s always a moment, right before he abandons the safety of the chute to take that first, terrifying step onto the plane, when Billy Boyd seriously considers just dropping his carry-on and running for his life. He’ll pause in the doorway, limbs rendered numb and motionless by the same blind panic he can taste at the back of his throat, and in that instant, nothing matters but getting away, away from this hulking heap of metal that shouldn’t--can’t--possibly be able to fly. Eventually, of course, someone behind him will tap him politely on the shoulder, and he’ll shoot the rest of the line an apologetic (albeit somewhat strained) smile, and move on to greet the friendly (albeit somewhat curious) flight attendant.
(Flight attendants, Billy has long since decided, are either the bravest people in the world, or the stupidest.)
He will then force his legs to carry him onto the plane and all the way to his designated row, where he’ll shove his carry-on into the overhead compartment and collapse into his seat, lids sliding shut to veil the black fear that’s swimming in the usual bright green of his irises.
He will not open his eyes for the rest of the flight. Instead, he will put on a convincing performance for the people seated next to him, who will assume he’s sleeping. They won’t notice (or at least, they’ll pretend not to) that at every patch of turbulence, his fingers clench convulsively around the armrests.
Billy knows that his phobia is not a healthy one for a person whose job requires him to traverse the globe. He knows that planes actually crash less frequently than automobiles, although the exact statistics escape him. And he knows that flying is often far more feasible (not to mention efficient, with gas prices these days) than driving to his destination.
But none of that stops him from being afraid. None of that changes the feeling that this is all just some lark, some colossal practical joke that the Wright brothers decided to play on the laws of nature, and one day, gravity’s going to figure out who’s been prank-calling it’s house all these years and send every single aircraft tumbling right out of the sky.
(The force of gravity, he’s sure, does not have much in the way of a sense of humor.)
Until that day comes, Billy will just have to struggle with keeping his fear in check. And he’s made progress, he really has, but it’s so difficult to control such a vast and powerful thing, and he can never quite seem to repress the stupefied immobility that always paralyzes him in the doorway of the plane.
Today’s no exception. When he reaches the end of the passage, his confident steps falter, slow, cease, and he freezes just short of boarding. He’s peering into the yawning hatch (which bears a striking resemblance to the gaping maw of a tomb) and considering that a quick sprint to the nearest exit might prove beneficial to his health when someone from behind jostles him and a startled voice exclaims, “The fuck? Billy, mate, you getting on or what?”
Today’s no exception, except that it is, because today he’s traveling with Dom. And if Dom finds out that he’s afraid of flying, Billy knows he will never hear the end of it. After all, how much did Peter get teased when his arachnophobia was discovered? At least spiders have little pinchers and can actually bite you and stuff, not to mention being really creepy, as species go. Usually a plane’s most heinous crime is not having enough leg room.
(He has, in the past, considered making a documentary on what he knows to be the true nature of planes--the cunning, calculating side that most people never see. It would be similar to those programs about pets that turn on their owners--you know, When Good Dogs Go Bad and the like. He would call it When Motion Sickness Attacks!)
Bottom line? It’s time for Billy to do what he does best (aside from look damn sexy in a kilt, that is): act.
“Don’t rush me, Monaghan,” he growls over his shoulder, forcing his voice to a playful pitch and covering it with a thin veneer of feigned irritation. “You young people these days, always in such a soddin’ hurry. Do you good to slow down a bit, if you ask me.”
Dom eyes him skeptically for an instant before breaking into his trademark cheeky grin and giving Billy’s shoulder a light shove. “What can I say? Live fast, die young. Now move it, old man.”
Billy does, grumbling half-audibly about his aching joints and youngsters who’ve been brought up without proper respect for their elders. He thinks he even uses the word ‘whippersnapper,’ but he can’t be sure, because the part of his mind that isn’t devoted to fooling Dom is too busy being scared shitless to pay any attention to what he’s saying.
They’re seated next to each other, of course--row 8, seats B and C. Since this plane is smaller than your average commercial airliner, seat A is located across the aisle, which means that he and Dom will have some privacy, but. Well. The smaller the plane, the more it feels like an airborne metal death trap, at least in Billy’s book. Also, he’s just realized that the fact that he’s in front of Dom means that he’ll either have to take the window seat or risk blowing his cover.
Billy wonders if the matronly woman in row 7 would be very offended if he called himself all the things he’s thinking right now.
It takes him four tries to get his carry-on safely shoved into the bin, and when he finally slumps into his (window, dammit) seat, his hands are shaking like a junkie’s. He quickly balls them into fists and folds his arms protectively over his chest, screwing his eyes shut against...everything, really. The sunlight glaring through the plane’s tiny window. The brick of leaden anxiety that’s sitting heavily in his stomach. Dom’s cheerful smile as he stows his bag (with no problems whatsoever, of course) and flings himself into 8B.
They’re silent through the pilot’s announcements and the stewardess’s instructions, largely because Billy is busy trying not to be sick and Dom is busy scrutinizing his seat to see if it could, in fact, be used as a Lifesaving Device. As soon as the plane begins taxiing, however, he abandons his inspection in favor of bouncing excitedly up and down.
“Wake up, Bills! This is the best part!”
Oh, Jesus, is he joking? This is the absolute worst part, and no matter how good an actor he is, Billy can’t, cannot, open his eyes. Instead, he makes a noise that’s supposed to be agreeable, though it comes out several notches closer to petrified, and reminds himself that not throwing up is a very good idea.
Not an easy thing to keep in mind when Dom is tugging at his arm, laughing delightedly as they gain speed. “Come on, you’re missing it!”
Billy resists the urge to point out that missing it is the point, actually. He sucks in a deep breath when he feels the plane lift into the air, and his stomach heaves a violent threat. Take-off is always when the fear (and the nausea) hits him the hardest, when it rises up in his throat to choke him and pulses hotly, like poison, through his veins.
The difference being, of course, that with poison, at least there’s an end in sight.
They’re climbing now, Billy can tell by the angle of his seat, and even with his eyes closed, he can see the sturdy earth shrinking into obscurity below him, leaving him with nothing to hold on to. Even with his eyes closed, he can see himself free-falling, plummeting through the achingly blue sky, screams silenced by the height of his dizzying terror and a certain traitorous admiration for the beauty of the thing that will break him.
Billy can’t help it. He shudders, so hard that he feels it in his toes, knows Dom has to feel the vibrations through the hand that’s still grasping his upper arm. And he doesn’t care. Dom can take the piss all day, every day, but he is never getting on another airplane. From now on, he’s going to walk.
(He can tell people it’s for his health, that he’s really into exercise and fitness and what have you. Of course, he doesn’t own the requisite Spandex shorts, but he can find some, he’s sure. Just as long as he never has to fly again.)
Assuming he makes it out of this thing alive, that is.
The thought causes him to shudder again, and this time Dom notices the ripple of motion under his palm.
“Billy?” There’s a questioning voice in his ear, and the hand gripping his bicep slides up to rest on his shoulder. “What’s the matter, mate? What’s wrong?”
Everything.
“N-nothing.”
Billy heartily congratulates himself on actually managing to get a word out, even if it did have that weird little hitch at the beginning.
“Billy, are you...are you scared?”
Shit.
The incredulous tone of Dom’s voice is enough to make him reconsider his decision to risk a lifetime of teasing, but it’s a bit late now to do anything to fix it. Nevertheless, he valiantly attempts to keep the charade going by shaking his head emphatically. Him? Billy Boyd? Scared of flying? Ha! What a ridiculous notion!
“Yes, you are. Jesus, you’re fucking shaking.”
Billy shrugs stubbornly. “So? Maybe I’m cold.”
“And you’re all tense and stiff.”
“Maybe the seats are uncomfortable.”
“And you won’t open your eyes.”
“Maybe I’m...oh, fuck it. Fine. I’m scared,” Billy admits miserably. “You happy?”
Dom is uncharacteristically quiet for a beat, two beats, three, and for a fleeting moment, Billy actually considers opening his eyes, just to see if the bastard is, as he suspects, repressing laughter. Before he can act on that impulse, however, there’s suddenly an arm draped over his shoulders, warm and comforting, pulling him closer against the armrest and further into the Dom.
“What’s got you so frightened then, hmm?”
Billy snorts. “Well, let’s see. We’re trapped in a machine that could, at any moment, experience any number of potentially hazardous technical problems, is being piloted by a man that neither of us has ever met, and is now cruising at an altitude of ten thousand feet, give or take a couple thousand. I dunno, Dom. You tell me. What could I possibly be afraid of?”
“It’s a mystery, that,” Dom agrees solemnly. “However, seeing as how you retain the ability to turn into a sarcastic arse at a moment’s notice, I’d venture that this fear isn’t too debilitating.”
“I’m sure you would. I always have said that you’re a daft twat.”
Billy winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because he knows that he shouldn’t be saying such things to Dom. Not to his Dom, who is only trying to tease him into a better mood. Who is currently offering comfort in the
form of soothing words and hugs (or as close as he can manage with that bloody armrest in the way). Who truly doesn’t understand Billy’s fear of flying, because he.
Isn’t afraid of anything, really.
Except, you know, normal things like sharks or Viggo when he’s in an arty mood (terminally) or reality television. And that’s not Dom’s fault at all, and it’s terribly unfair to snap at him when he’s doing his best, and Billy would naturally ask forgiveness for his hostility if he didn’t suddenly feel like sobbing.
Dom understands, though. Even without the apology, he understands, and he doesn’t sound angry at all when he asks, “Billy, you see those clouds outside?”
Billy shakes his head. Of course he doesn’t. He can’t a damned thing. His eyes are closed, and they’re going to stay that way. He can admire the clouds when he’s got both feet planted safely on the ground again.
“You should take a look. They’re all thick and puffy,” Dom observes, sounding thoughtful. “They’re all solid, and I bet in a pinch we could make an emergency landing on one of them. Whaddya reckon?”
Billy reckons that it’s very...Dom-ish, the idea that the clouds could support an aircraft. It’s lovely and whimsical and something he would very much like to believe in. Something he would believe in, except for the little voice in his head that informs him that that’s impossible. The plane would tear right through those seemingly-stable clouds, the voice declares, and Billy is forced to admit the truth of the matter.
“They’re clouds, Dominic. They couldn’t even support one person, let alone an entire airplane full.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. If I somehow fell out of this airplane right now, I’d slice through them like butter.”
Dom’s response is immediate, as if the solution to the problem Billy has introduced is obvious: “Well, then I’d fly down and save you.”
Sometimes Billy wonders if Dom has a little voice inside his head that tells him what’s possible and what’s an idyllic fantasy. Most of the time, he suspects the answer is a resounding no.
“But...you can’t fly, Dom.”
“Says who?” Dom demands, and he sounds so self-assured, so absolutely bloody certain that Billy actually thinks, Maybe.
And the little voice falters.
Sensing that he’s gained the upper hand (temporarily, anyway), Dom insists, “I can fly if I need to, you know. I really can. Believe me?”
“I--I don’t know.” He can’t say no, even though the little voice in his head has recovered and is screaming it, because the question wasn’t so much a request as it was a plea. And because part of him (the part that’s less about rationality and logic and reality and more to do with what he wants) really does believe that Dom can fly.
“Look," Dom begins desperately, "Maybe you can’t trust the men who put this thing together. Maybe you can’t trust the men who maintain its condition, and maybe you can’t trust the man that’s operating it at this very second. But you can trust me, Billy. You can always trust me.”
The pain in his voice is unexpected. It’s surprisingly sharp, like cutting your foot on glass you were sure you’d swept up. It’s not shoved into the closet or scraped under the rug, it’s sitting on the mantel in plain view of everyone who happens by, so prominent and obvious and agonizingly there that Billy catches his breath at the audacity of the one who dared to place it so conspicuously.
Then realizes that he’s the guilty party.
“Ah, Bills.” A hand curls gently around Billy’s tightly balled fist and coaxes it into relaxation, strong fingers threading through still-trembling digits. “You can’t really think I’d ever let you be hurt, can you?”
And that’s it. Something loosens in his chest, something that must somehow be wired to his optic nerves, because suddenly, Billy’s able to open his eyes. Dom’s glint back at him hopefully, as blue and endless as the sky outside, and, looking into them, Billy realizes that he’s not afraid of flying anymore. Which makes sense, because why should he be?
After all, he’s already fallen.
Author: Flashditzie
Rating: PG
Summary: Having recently been on a plane for the first time, I was inspired to write a fic in which Billy is afraid of flying and Dom helps him out. (I’ve discovered that I tend to agree with Dom on this issue--flying is cool! :D)
Warnings: Sickeningly trite fluff. Painfully obvious symbolism. (Also, possibly far too melodramatic. You be the judge.)
Feedback: Review. Whore.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened.
Notes: A bit more serious than my usual fare, I’m afraid, but then again, I was in a serious mood when I came up with the plot. By no means angsty, though!
There’s always a moment, right before he abandons the safety of the chute to take that first, terrifying step onto the plane, when Billy Boyd seriously considers just dropping his carry-on and running for his life. He’ll pause in the doorway, limbs rendered numb and motionless by the same blind panic he can taste at the back of his throat, and in that instant, nothing matters but getting away, away from this hulking heap of metal that shouldn’t--can’t--possibly be able to fly. Eventually, of course, someone behind him will tap him politely on the shoulder, and he’ll shoot the rest of the line an apologetic (albeit somewhat strained) smile, and move on to greet the friendly (albeit somewhat curious) flight attendant.
(Flight attendants, Billy has long since decided, are either the bravest people in the world, or the stupidest.)
He will then force his legs to carry him onto the plane and all the way to his designated row, where he’ll shove his carry-on into the overhead compartment and collapse into his seat, lids sliding shut to veil the black fear that’s swimming in the usual bright green of his irises.
He will not open his eyes for the rest of the flight. Instead, he will put on a convincing performance for the people seated next to him, who will assume he’s sleeping. They won’t notice (or at least, they’ll pretend not to) that at every patch of turbulence, his fingers clench convulsively around the armrests.
Billy knows that his phobia is not a healthy one for a person whose job requires him to traverse the globe. He knows that planes actually crash less frequently than automobiles, although the exact statistics escape him. And he knows that flying is often far more feasible (not to mention efficient, with gas prices these days) than driving to his destination.
But none of that stops him from being afraid. None of that changes the feeling that this is all just some lark, some colossal practical joke that the Wright brothers decided to play on the laws of nature, and one day, gravity’s going to figure out who’s been prank-calling it’s house all these years and send every single aircraft tumbling right out of the sky.
(The force of gravity, he’s sure, does not have much in the way of a sense of humor.)
Until that day comes, Billy will just have to struggle with keeping his fear in check. And he’s made progress, he really has, but it’s so difficult to control such a vast and powerful thing, and he can never quite seem to repress the stupefied immobility that always paralyzes him in the doorway of the plane.
Today’s no exception. When he reaches the end of the passage, his confident steps falter, slow, cease, and he freezes just short of boarding. He’s peering into the yawning hatch (which bears a striking resemblance to the gaping maw of a tomb) and considering that a quick sprint to the nearest exit might prove beneficial to his health when someone from behind jostles him and a startled voice exclaims, “The fuck? Billy, mate, you getting on or what?”
Today’s no exception, except that it is, because today he’s traveling with Dom. And if Dom finds out that he’s afraid of flying, Billy knows he will never hear the end of it. After all, how much did Peter get teased when his arachnophobia was discovered? At least spiders have little pinchers and can actually bite you and stuff, not to mention being really creepy, as species go. Usually a plane’s most heinous crime is not having enough leg room.
(He has, in the past, considered making a documentary on what he knows to be the true nature of planes--the cunning, calculating side that most people never see. It would be similar to those programs about pets that turn on their owners--you know, When Good Dogs Go Bad and the like. He would call it When Motion Sickness Attacks!)
Bottom line? It’s time for Billy to do what he does best (aside from look damn sexy in a kilt, that is): act.
“Don’t rush me, Monaghan,” he growls over his shoulder, forcing his voice to a playful pitch and covering it with a thin veneer of feigned irritation. “You young people these days, always in such a soddin’ hurry. Do you good to slow down a bit, if you ask me.”
Dom eyes him skeptically for an instant before breaking into his trademark cheeky grin and giving Billy’s shoulder a light shove. “What can I say? Live fast, die young. Now move it, old man.”
Billy does, grumbling half-audibly about his aching joints and youngsters who’ve been brought up without proper respect for their elders. He thinks he even uses the word ‘whippersnapper,’ but he can’t be sure, because the part of his mind that isn’t devoted to fooling Dom is too busy being scared shitless to pay any attention to what he’s saying.
They’re seated next to each other, of course--row 8, seats B and C. Since this plane is smaller than your average commercial airliner, seat A is located across the aisle, which means that he and Dom will have some privacy, but. Well. The smaller the plane, the more it feels like an airborne metal death trap, at least in Billy’s book. Also, he’s just realized that the fact that he’s in front of Dom means that he’ll either have to take the window seat or risk blowing his cover.
Billy wonders if the matronly woman in row 7 would be very offended if he called himself all the things he’s thinking right now.
It takes him four tries to get his carry-on safely shoved into the bin, and when he finally slumps into his (window, dammit) seat, his hands are shaking like a junkie’s. He quickly balls them into fists and folds his arms protectively over his chest, screwing his eyes shut against...everything, really. The sunlight glaring through the plane’s tiny window. The brick of leaden anxiety that’s sitting heavily in his stomach. Dom’s cheerful smile as he stows his bag (with no problems whatsoever, of course) and flings himself into 8B.
They’re silent through the pilot’s announcements and the stewardess’s instructions, largely because Billy is busy trying not to be sick and Dom is busy scrutinizing his seat to see if it could, in fact, be used as a Lifesaving Device. As soon as the plane begins taxiing, however, he abandons his inspection in favor of bouncing excitedly up and down.
“Wake up, Bills! This is the best part!”
Oh, Jesus, is he joking? This is the absolute worst part, and no matter how good an actor he is, Billy can’t, cannot, open his eyes. Instead, he makes a noise that’s supposed to be agreeable, though it comes out several notches closer to petrified, and reminds himself that not throwing up is a very good idea.
Not an easy thing to keep in mind when Dom is tugging at his arm, laughing delightedly as they gain speed. “Come on, you’re missing it!”
Billy resists the urge to point out that missing it is the point, actually. He sucks in a deep breath when he feels the plane lift into the air, and his stomach heaves a violent threat. Take-off is always when the fear (and the nausea) hits him the hardest, when it rises up in his throat to choke him and pulses hotly, like poison, through his veins.
The difference being, of course, that with poison, at least there’s an end in sight.
They’re climbing now, Billy can tell by the angle of his seat, and even with his eyes closed, he can see the sturdy earth shrinking into obscurity below him, leaving him with nothing to hold on to. Even with his eyes closed, he can see himself free-falling, plummeting through the achingly blue sky, screams silenced by the height of his dizzying terror and a certain traitorous admiration for the beauty of the thing that will break him.
Billy can’t help it. He shudders, so hard that he feels it in his toes, knows Dom has to feel the vibrations through the hand that’s still grasping his upper arm. And he doesn’t care. Dom can take the piss all day, every day, but he is never getting on another airplane. From now on, he’s going to walk.
(He can tell people it’s for his health, that he’s really into exercise and fitness and what have you. Of course, he doesn’t own the requisite Spandex shorts, but he can find some, he’s sure. Just as long as he never has to fly again.)
Assuming he makes it out of this thing alive, that is.
The thought causes him to shudder again, and this time Dom notices the ripple of motion under his palm.
“Billy?” There’s a questioning voice in his ear, and the hand gripping his bicep slides up to rest on his shoulder. “What’s the matter, mate? What’s wrong?”
Everything.
“N-nothing.”
Billy heartily congratulates himself on actually managing to get a word out, even if it did have that weird little hitch at the beginning.
“Billy, are you...are you scared?”
Shit.
The incredulous tone of Dom’s voice is enough to make him reconsider his decision to risk a lifetime of teasing, but it’s a bit late now to do anything to fix it. Nevertheless, he valiantly attempts to keep the charade going by shaking his head emphatically. Him? Billy Boyd? Scared of flying? Ha! What a ridiculous notion!
“Yes, you are. Jesus, you’re fucking shaking.”
Billy shrugs stubbornly. “So? Maybe I’m cold.”
“And you’re all tense and stiff.”
“Maybe the seats are uncomfortable.”
“And you won’t open your eyes.”
“Maybe I’m...oh, fuck it. Fine. I’m scared,” Billy admits miserably. “You happy?”
Dom is uncharacteristically quiet for a beat, two beats, three, and for a fleeting moment, Billy actually considers opening his eyes, just to see if the bastard is, as he suspects, repressing laughter. Before he can act on that impulse, however, there’s suddenly an arm draped over his shoulders, warm and comforting, pulling him closer against the armrest and further into the Dom.
“What’s got you so frightened then, hmm?”
Billy snorts. “Well, let’s see. We’re trapped in a machine that could, at any moment, experience any number of potentially hazardous technical problems, is being piloted by a man that neither of us has ever met, and is now cruising at an altitude of ten thousand feet, give or take a couple thousand. I dunno, Dom. You tell me. What could I possibly be afraid of?”
“It’s a mystery, that,” Dom agrees solemnly. “However, seeing as how you retain the ability to turn into a sarcastic arse at a moment’s notice, I’d venture that this fear isn’t too debilitating.”
“I’m sure you would. I always have said that you’re a daft twat.”
Billy winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth, because he knows that he shouldn’t be saying such things to Dom. Not to his Dom, who is only trying to tease him into a better mood. Who is currently offering comfort in the
form of soothing words and hugs (or as close as he can manage with that bloody armrest in the way). Who truly doesn’t understand Billy’s fear of flying, because he.
Isn’t afraid of anything, really.
Except, you know, normal things like sharks or Viggo when he’s in an arty mood (terminally) or reality television. And that’s not Dom’s fault at all, and it’s terribly unfair to snap at him when he’s doing his best, and Billy would naturally ask forgiveness for his hostility if he didn’t suddenly feel like sobbing.
Dom understands, though. Even without the apology, he understands, and he doesn’t sound angry at all when he asks, “Billy, you see those clouds outside?”
Billy shakes his head. Of course he doesn’t. He can’t a damned thing. His eyes are closed, and they’re going to stay that way. He can admire the clouds when he’s got both feet planted safely on the ground again.
“You should take a look. They’re all thick and puffy,” Dom observes, sounding thoughtful. “They’re all solid, and I bet in a pinch we could make an emergency landing on one of them. Whaddya reckon?”
Billy reckons that it’s very...Dom-ish, the idea that the clouds could support an aircraft. It’s lovely and whimsical and something he would very much like to believe in. Something he would believe in, except for the little voice in his head that informs him that that’s impossible. The plane would tear right through those seemingly-stable clouds, the voice declares, and Billy is forced to admit the truth of the matter.
“They’re clouds, Dominic. They couldn’t even support one person, let alone an entire airplane full.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. If I somehow fell out of this airplane right now, I’d slice through them like butter.”
Dom’s response is immediate, as if the solution to the problem Billy has introduced is obvious: “Well, then I’d fly down and save you.”
Sometimes Billy wonders if Dom has a little voice inside his head that tells him what’s possible and what’s an idyllic fantasy. Most of the time, he suspects the answer is a resounding no.
“But...you can’t fly, Dom.”
“Says who?” Dom demands, and he sounds so self-assured, so absolutely bloody certain that Billy actually thinks, Maybe.
And the little voice falters.
Sensing that he’s gained the upper hand (temporarily, anyway), Dom insists, “I can fly if I need to, you know. I really can. Believe me?”
“I--I don’t know.” He can’t say no, even though the little voice in his head has recovered and is screaming it, because the question wasn’t so much a request as it was a plea. And because part of him (the part that’s less about rationality and logic and reality and more to do with what he wants) really does believe that Dom can fly.
“Look," Dom begins desperately, "Maybe you can’t trust the men who put this thing together. Maybe you can’t trust the men who maintain its condition, and maybe you can’t trust the man that’s operating it at this very second. But you can trust me, Billy. You can always trust me.”
The pain in his voice is unexpected. It’s surprisingly sharp, like cutting your foot on glass you were sure you’d swept up. It’s not shoved into the closet or scraped under the rug, it’s sitting on the mantel in plain view of everyone who happens by, so prominent and obvious and agonizingly there that Billy catches his breath at the audacity of the one who dared to place it so conspicuously.
Then realizes that he’s the guilty party.
“Ah, Bills.” A hand curls gently around Billy’s tightly balled fist and coaxes it into relaxation, strong fingers threading through still-trembling digits. “You can’t really think I’d ever let you be hurt, can you?”
And that’s it. Something loosens in his chest, something that must somehow be wired to his optic nerves, because suddenly, Billy’s able to open his eyes. Dom’s glint back at him hopefully, as blue and endless as the sky outside, and, looking into them, Billy realizes that he’s not afraid of flying anymore. Which makes sense, because why should he be?
After all, he’s already fallen.
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Robin Gurl
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*hugs Billy*
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love <3
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Awwww, I love it! I knew from the second I saw you as the author that it would be another really good one. It's funny how you've got Dom and Billy down to an art, really...
Beautiful, luv, just beautiful...
Luv, Peace, Monaghan and Boyd,
~Marciana
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I love everything about it. EVERYTHING. And the ending is soooooo beautiful. You are fantastic.
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Especially the end. <3
*hugs*
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I liked this; fluffy without being sappy, serious with enough humor in appropriate places. Well done :)
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Great work!
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*giggles* Yesss. *so amused* That's wonderful. =)
It's surprisingly sharp, like cutting your foot on glass you were sure you'd swept up.
And RAWR. I hate that! Except I'm the type that never TRULY trusts that spot on the floor and I'll tiptoe about it for about a month before I forget something was broken there and end up with that piece of glass in my toe that everyone else has magically avoided. ><
This was cute and funny and Dom's just a big softy in a lanky, angular frame. I heart it. ♥
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*beams*
and love the last line :))
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XP *runs away...STREAKING!* MUAH-HAHAHAHA!!
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