Current mood:	accomplished
Entry tags:	fic-billy, fic-dom, fic:slash

Fic: Master of Disguise (BB/DM, PG)
Title: Master of Disguise
Author: MSilverstar (ms at msilverstar.com)
Pairing: Billy/Dominic
Rating: PG (for language only)
Summary: Where is Dom?
Feedback: Please, and any kind of constructive criticism
Warnings: Minor angst
Disclaimer: This is fiction, I made it up
Archive: my site msilverstar.com my LJ, Secret Santa, otherwise ask first, I'll probably say yes
Notes: Written for the "Secret Santa" challenge, as requested by gblvr using a gift certificate for a mall and a video camera. It was hard. Exuberant appreciation to anna_maria for the brainstorming. Also many thanks to shaenie for the beta and anatsuno for details of Collectormania 3.

~

"It's a mall, Billy."

"And?"

"I fucking hate malls, you know that. And bloody Milton Keynes."

"But you love fans, right?"

"Yeah."

"And you love me, right?"

"Yeah."

"So come to the fucking mall, Dom."

"If I do, you'll never know."

~~

Billy understands Dom too well. If he can come, he will. And it's not that far from London. Billy's on the lookout.

Is that Dom? The bloke has a big belly, and Dom's been known to use prosthetics. No, the chin is weak, can't be him.

The lasses get Billy's relaxed appreciation; even Dom can't fake that. He's seen Dom in drag (great legs but can't disguise his shoulders). But he discovers that he's scrutinizing every bundled-up granny, every man with a scarf around his neck.

He almost accosts a stout matron who's voice sounds like Dom's, but then her small plump hands hand him a photograph to sign. (Thank fucking god he didn't say anything).

All day it goes like that, Billy looking hard at everyone: they think he's the most charming celebrity they've ever met (they don't know he's searching for Dom). (Why is he searching so hard?) (What is it with Dom, now, that makes him feel like this?)

At lunch, the organizers go on and on about the show, and insist on presenting him with a gift certificate to the mall. As if he'd ever use it.

Over the terrible linguine, Andy accosts him, asking if he's sick, if he's angry, what's going on, Billy? Billy offers a weak smile, and tries to pass it off, but Andy's tough and won't let go, like a hound chasing a fox. All through lunch, he's prodding Billy and asking pointed questions. Billy falls into a role: "Billy Boyd lunching with a castmate." He turns back all the questions, smiles gamely, makes some jokes and horrible puns. All the while his chest gets tighter and tighter.

Finally, Billy flees to the toilet, and finds himself trembling as he splashes water on his face. He almost doesn't recognize his reflection; he looks like fucking Pippin, not himself. (Not thinking about Dom. Not.) Andy's waiting when he comes out, and insists on giving Billy a shoulder rub. It does help. But it takes a long time. It's coming on 2:30 when they get back to the salt mines.

In the afternoon, Billy gives up. If Dom is here, he's won; Billy is surprisingly happy about that. (Dom's so much fun when he's happy.) Billy lets himself slide along, playing with the fans, letting them sooth his battered self.

Just as his hand is aching and his eyes are blasted from all the flashbulbs, the organizers pull him out for an interview. It's a relief in some ways, and not in others. The American reporter is hidden behind the video camera, saying that he hates the movies, "But I got a job to do, so let's make it snappy."

Then he turns on the lights, adjusts the camera, and commences barking out inane questions. They're all the normal ones about Feet and tattoos and the trilogy coming to an end. Billy answers them as cheerfully as he can (hoping no one will ever see this). Even the ones about whether Orlando is single. Then the reporter asks about friendships, one by one, Ian and John and Viggo and the rest, ending with Dom. And that's the hard one, even as the practiced patter about being the best of friends comes out automatically. He gushes a little about what a wonderful bloke Dom is, how talented and clever. (Nothing about how much he's missing Dom, how he feels empty without him.)

Back to the table, and the fans. He has the best fans, he's convinced. Elijah and Orlando get the fainters, the screamers, the teenage girls who go silent. Billy (and Dom) get the smart ones; their gifts are often astonishingly beautiful and their questions interesting. They come in all shapes, sometimes together like the tall thin blonde and the short shapely dark one, both wanting to kiss him. Their cheerful appreciation is just what he needs right now.

Then there are the wackos. The very last one in line for him is clearly one of those. He's wearing an orc mask, for goodness sake. And brandishing maps of Middle Earth. Gibbering on about how Pippin isn't Scottish and Billy's a crap actor for not doing an English accent. That Pippin was only supposed to throw a stone down the well in Moria. That the Ents are much too hasty and how did they all get to the edge of the forest like that? At first Billy tries to answer, but the bloke isn't interested in hearing his explanations. He rants on, in a strangely familiar way.

Billy takes a chance and grabs the orc mask, and indeed, there is Dom, grinning at him. (Pure happiness.) "I win," Billy crows, "what should the forfeit be? Fetch and carry for me for a day?"

Dom looks at him oddly and says, "I don't think so!" Then he starts laughing: face getting red, even the tips of his ears. He has to sit down. He's still howling as the convention staff shoos away the last of the fans.

"The fuck, Dom? What's so funny?"

And from Dom, in an American accent, he hears his own words about Dom being wonderful, talented, clever.

"You saw that shite interview, then?"

One big howl, echoing through the glass and concrete passageway. Dom says, again in that accent, "But you got a job to do, so let's make it snappy."

~