Sons of Eos

[glasgow-blue.livejournal.com]

This is a Blue Plate Special for marysiak, who merely asked that I incorporate the following facts: 1. Dom likes trees. 2. Billy is scared of heights.

With thanks to taibhrigh, who assures me that it is not absolute crap. She might be lying. Caveat Lector.

Title: Sons of Eos
Pairing: Billy/Dom
Rating: PG for language only
Word Count: 900
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.
Archive: Please ask.
Cross-posted: glasgow_blue



It took four beers, a tenner, and a dare, but Billy's here, clinging to the trunk of an Oak for dear life. For the first time in, well, ever, he's beginning to regret being a Scot--to resent that piece of himself that can be goaded into battle by questions addressing his bravery and resolve. He clutches the bark and wishes he were Swiss: neutral, chocoholic, and a maker of pocketknives. Or French, even: scornful and above the effects of ridicule.

"What sorts of things have you seen, eh? What stories have you got to tell?"

Billy thinks this is a stupid kind of conversation to start twenty feet in the air. He opens his mouth to say so, but snaps it shut again. Dom's not asking him these questions. Dom is talking to the tree.

Dom is talking to the bloody tree.

Dom loves trees. He has a kind of reverence for them that utterly lacks sense. A tree is a tree is a tree, right? Maple. Oak. Ash. Elm. Whatever. Bark. Leaves. Roots to trip over. Branches to scrape the sky and make you want to vomit up your supper and then some--especially when you've somehow been talked into climbing them by a madman in a green wristband and baggy jeans.

"You're a fucking lunatic," Billy says through clenched teeth.

"Nonsense," comes the reply. Dom scrambles higher still, shaking the branches as he goes.

Billy wonders if his estate is in order.

Dom's talking again…something about the ancient Greeks and tree-spirits and venerable energy. He's prattling on to the tree as well, telling her how shapely her limbs are and complimenting her leaves.

Yes, that's right, her. Dom has chosen a gender for the tree. He's probably named it as well, though Billy couldn't care less about proper nouns at the moment.

He's thinking that this is it. He's going to die up here because there is no way he's going to be able to open his eyes long enough to figure out a route down. All in all, he supposes, there are probably worse ways to die than from exposure in a tree in Hyde Park. Though…do you think the pigeons will peck at his innards until the police come to remove the body? That's no good for him. Even in death, his innards need to stay where they belong. They just do.

"Come on, Bills. Sun's almost up. You have to see this."

He does not. There is nothing worth opening his eyes for. Not one thing.

The branches shake again and someone lets out a suspiciously girly sounding squeak. Can't be Dom. Dom's humming Eleanor Rigby as he scampers back down to where Billy's standing. Scots, Billy thinks, are not supposed to squeak. Somewhere in the Highlands, the ghost of Rob Roy is having a good belly laugh. Wanker.

Scots are hill-walkers. They are farmers. They are miners and sailors. They are not arboreal and never have been, thanks.

"I hate you," Billy says.

Dom's hand lands softly on his shoulder, fingers gripping and infusing courage. "Do not," he answers.

He's right, of course, and Billy cracks open one eye. The light is changing. He can see other tree limbs nearby. He can see the ground between his sneakers. He can see just how precariously his feet are positioned on the branch. Oh, Christ, he can see the ground and it's, like, ten miles away. Fifty, maybe.

Billy hugs the tree for all he is worth.

"Don't look," Dom says, giving a gentle tug. "Just climb. I'll help you."

Billy shakes his head. "Here's fine."

Give the English bastard a push and use his body to break your fall, the ghost suggests.

He tells Rob Roy to go fuck himself. And William Wallace, while he's at it.

Dom reaches around and closes his hand over Billy's, prying fingers upwards one by one. His chest is warm against Billy's back. He smells like smoke and beer and acorns.

"Two more branches, Bills, that's all. It's worth it, trust me."

Billy does trust Dom. Not with his car or his wallet or even his CDs, mind. Dom can be careless with things. But not with life. Not with people or animals or--God help him--trees.

"If I fall," Billy says, "I'm taking you with me."

"Fair enough."

So, Billy capitulates. He lets Dom move his limbs and shove him this way and that. He obeys when told to climb. He pulls and strains and doesn't look down. And, once he manages to make it up to the spot Dom was aiming for, he refuses to close his eyes, even though his stomach is doing back-flips and his brain is screaming for a parachute.

Rob Roy's ghost says good on ya, laddie! and gives him a standing ovation.

Then a miracle happens.

Just as Dom is settling in next to him, the sun breaks over the crest of the world and casts a golden-pink glow across the Thames and onto Big Ben. It washes through the palace gardens and over concrete and steel, coming to rest on Billy's cheeks.

Dom bumps shoulders with him and sweeps an arm outward toward the city, framed with graceful limbs and gilded leaves. It would be okay to die up here, Billy thinks. It would be okay if this dawn were the last thing he sees.

"See?"

"Aye," Billy says.