Slashababy 2004 Stories

  FANFICTION: This story depicts real-life public figures engaged in completely fictional, false and untrue activities. It never happened, it never will happen. This story is a work of fantasy and satire which in no way professes to express the truth about the life, thoughts, feelings, desires, opinions, beliefs, activities or sexual orientation of any person mentioned herein.

Dom's Three Step Plan

for denyce36
by cincodemaygirl

Fandom: LotRiPS Characters: Elijah/Orlando, Dom
Genre: fluff
Rating: PG-13 for swearing
Written for: denyce36 as part of the Slashababy challenge/exchange.
Notes: Many, many thanks to 2am_optimism, iseulte_variante, tarar, cawti and tenar for ideas, encouragement and fantastically detailed betas. I needed hand-holding and all of you provided it and far more. Apologies for the lack of Colin Farrell, but honestly, it really is better this way!


Dom's Three Step Plan

At first I don't understand the smirk. Just, every couple of hours, there the bastard is, smirking at me from across the set or the pub or wherever. It takes me a couple of days to figure it out - let's face it, Dom smirks a lot. I start getting suspicious when I realize that a smirk always follows my spacing out. After the first day of general smirking, Dom lets his eyes flick meaningfully to the direction I'd been spacing... . And oh, fuck.

Who could fucking blame me, anyway? I mean, it's not like I'm real susceptible to pretty, okay? I basically grew up in fucking Hollywood, and there is no shortage of pretty there and you get used to it. But Orlando is like a whole new category, you know? But it's more than that, too. He's also funny and weird and you never know what he'll say next. He's just without artifice. Which is not something that you get used to in Hollywood.

So anyway, finally I get wise, or rather Dom decides to let me in on it. He's fucking smirking because he's figured out my stupid, pointless crush on the elf. The elf that's got a fucking girlfriend back in Kent or Surrey, or Something-Shire or whatever the fuck place in England he was before, and as if he'd ever look at me anyhow.

So I don't really appreciate Dom and his fucking sneaky giggling. Can't a guy just enjoy the eye candy without his supposed friends having to mock him all the goddamn time? All I'm doing is trying to have a nice peaceful breakfast of caffeine, sneak some peeks at the view. Orlando is two tables over with Viggo, eating eggs and looking wonderful -- half in costume and half himself. I could do without the blond wig, but all the same it's a nice scene.

Oh, and now it's not enough to make fun from across the room, he's got to come over here and fucking talk about it.

"So, have you got a plan, nudge nudge wink wink," Dom says, wiggling his eyebrows like a fucking muppet and gesturing wildly with a Pop Tart.

I, of course, pretend not to know what on earth he might be referring to and put on my most innocent face. "What are you yammering on about, asshole?" Avoiding direct eye contact is the key for this method, because if I look at him, Great Actor or not, he'll know I'm fucking bluffing.

Oh, shit. I look. God dammit. He probably knows anyway, right? Fuck. He's fucking snorting at me now as well as smirking. "You know," Dom says, smug as hell. "Are you going to ask him out? Or maybe just leap on him and wriggle, eh? He'd get the idea."

I've already learned that prank-wise I'm no match for Dom, but I am fully capable of bumping his elbow just when he's about to take a bite of his artificially flavored toaster pastry, making him smash it into his jaw. Heh. Fucker.

That at least turns the smirk into a glare. Ha ha. I don't know why I even answer him. "No, I'm fucking not," I say, and it comes out as a hiss. "He's got a fucking girlfriend, and you know it."

"HAD a girlfriend," Dom corrects, brushing away crumbs and casting a dismayed look at what's left of the smashed tart. "As in, hasn't got one now."

"As in, straight," I remind him, "so stop looking at me like that all the time, all right?"

Bastard smirks at me. "Like what?"

Clearly this is my cue to growl at him and storm off, as I suspect PJ would be unhappy if Frodo murdered his cousin.

Bastard had told me he wanted to take me out for a consolatory pint, and I wasn't going to pass off a chance to get drunk on Dom's dime; least he could do and all. So I get there. I didn't even shower, for chrissake, and who's at the bar looking expectant? Yeah. Orlando. God dammit. We have a few words - "Dom here yet? No? Huh," - and a few minutes go by before realization strikes. Of course when I go over to Dom's later to murder him I won't mention those few minutes.

I swear I could kill him using only the power of my brain, and that's quite impressive considering he's god knows where, miles away. I swear I feel his windpipe closing off. Maybe it's wishful thinking, but I prefer to think it's impending death.

Orlando, thank goodness, didn't seem to get that it was a setup, and I just let him think that Dom had forgotten or had to do something else, and since the man himself neglected to answer his cell, Orlando couldn't find out differently. So we have a few drinks and talk about something. I've no idea what, my brain is missing in action, and it's lucky I don't just drool, honestly. What I remember is that when I drove him home, he said he'd had fun and we should do it again. God knows how I got home. Didn't even feel like leaving a nasty message on Dom's voice mail once I got there, either.

Doesn't stop him from calling me, though. I'm in a blissful pile on the couch, considering starting up the Playstation, when my cell goes off. Damn him to hell, he must have snuck it out of my pocket earlier because now the ring tone is the goddamn Flipper theme song, which I admit I was really hoping to never hear again.

"You fucker, I hate this song," I say into the phone, but I know it lacks the vehemence I was going for. I'm just in too good a mood to bitch at Dom, even though he deserves it.

"That was the point, you realize," Dom answers, "and what kind of way is that to answer the phone when your dearest friend, who is kindly assisting you to improve your love life, is calling to check how things went?" I can hear the smile in his voice, and that helps bring back the rage.

"It was fine; I don't think he understood that it was a set up. But what if he had, you cunt? What if he knew, and god, he's so nice that he's have to do the 'letting me down easy' thing, and then I'd have to kill myself of sheer embarrassment, and THEN wouldn't you be sorry?"

Okay, so, I know as I was saying it that it was a bit melodramatic, but it is still out of line for him to laugh like that. It takes him several minutes to stop wheezing, the asshole. Finally the noises slow to a bit of chuckling. Exasperation evident in my voice, I inquire after his health, not that he deserves that kind of consideration. "Are you done laughing at me, you dick?"

There is renewed giggling, and then Dom calms down. "Now, Lij, hang on. Before you put out a hit on me, ask yourself- did you have a good time?"

"Well, yeah. Not that--"

"Well then, mission accomplished. You went out with Orlando, and you had a good time. Aren't you supposed to be thanking me?" He'd better watch himself, I know where he lives. Cunt.

"Yes. But still! And with the! ARGHHHH," I conclude, knowing that it was impossible to make my position understood, seeing as Dom is unbelievably dense where relationships are concerned. "Dude, he's straight. Also, he is way out of my league, and--"

Asshole does it again. "Elijah, you idiot, there is no 'out of your league,' you big blue-eyed freak. Also, my top-rated, never wrong, uber-dependable gaydar assures me that our elf is bisexual."

"What? How do you know?

"I told you, you deaf thing, I just always know. You'll see, I'll prove it to you." Even over the phone I can feel him being smug.

"Gaydar doesn't fucking work, man," I say. "The only way to know is to ask, and even then you might get a lie, or sometimes they don't know themselves. The only sure way is to get them naked in your bed."

"I'm telling you," Dom says, voice low. "I'll prove it. You wait."

There's a pause while I'm busy scoffing. Fortunately this is an inaudible activity.

"So, blue-eyed freak," Dom starts in.

"I do not answer to that, thank you," I respond. Fuck, I answered to that.

He does me the courtesy of not pointing that out. "You're still coming over to mine on Friday, right? Footie and a veritable cornucopia of alcohol, yeah?"

Dom claims to have invited the entire fellowship, but only Billy, Viggo, and Orlando actually show up. Viggo is a nice surprise- he's been around more lately, I think as I take a beer and a spot on the couch.

I've learned not to make too much fun of soccer- "FOOTBALL," they yell at me indignantly when I call it that- just because it generally gets them more riled than is worth dealing with. Besides, Orlando's next to me on the couch and he grins whenever his team makes a goal, and I'm occupied by staring surreptitiously and going through as many beers as I can manage.

Dom, true to his word, really does provide a cornucopia of options- four different kinds of beer, Guinness, plus scotch for Billy; more than enough liquor to get three hobbits, one elf, and one man thoroughly toasted if they so choose, which we do. By the end of the match, which Dom's team wins and Orlando's loses, even Viggo looks a bit red. Not that I notice, because Orlando is all sad and mopey while still being giggly-drunk, and I admit I find this rather captivating. And being drunk yourself makes it hard to ignore that kind of thing, dammit, even though all the smirking and meaningful looks from Dom do help to remind me.

After the game Dom asks for my help carrying refills in from the kitchen, and uses the opportunity to assure me that information is on its way. "When Manchester wins, I win," he says.

"That's unbelievably stupid," I tell him, trying to remember what Viggo is drinking. "You said you were always right, for one thing. Does this mean your gaydar only works if Manchester wins? And what if it's not soc-football season?"

"It always works. But it's most effective when the Mancs win. Trust me, mate, superstition exists because it's valid. Now behold the master at work."

Sighing, I follow him into the living room.

And the bastard is slick as hell, before I know it we're playing some kind of Britishized truth or dare where I understand about two words in three. Billy has confessed to some kind of travesty involving a great deal of vodka and a partially shaved German Shepherd; Viggo has admitted to occasionally writing bad poetry deliberately just to see if anyone calls him on it, and Orlando has told everyone that he was seventeen when he had his first time with a guy. He blushes when he says it, but his tone of voice isn't the least bit embarrassed.

Dom's cruel but he's not awful, and he makes everyone answer that one for both genders. There are no surprises beyond that Viggo and I both started early, and that Billy's only fucked women and I've only fucked men. Even Dom's a bit surprised to hear that last.

"There is such a thing as a Kinsey six, you know," I tell them, and try to hide my blush behind my bottle.

"Dom wouldn't know," Billy explains seriously. "He'll shag anything so long as it holds still long enough!"

In retaliation Dom carefully puts Billy's glass of scotch out of reach, hits him over the head with a couch cushion, and then places the cushion on Billy's chest and sits on the pile. "Harrumph. For the record, I'd rather shag animate folks. And definitely not persons insulting my virtue."

Dom looks nonplussed when that statement causes gales of laughter from Billy along with the muttered reply, "That must really limit your options, then."

The rest of us snicker. Dom hops up and down a bit on the cushion, smiling at the upset noises Billy makes as air is pushed from his lungs. "Ah, but you're the only one I've met with breeding poor enough to insult me to my face, Bills."

Viggo seeks to clarify the point. "So," he says to Dom, "You're saying that Billy here is animate enough to shag, but too rude?"

"Point to the man with the sword," Dom answers.

"Does this mean that you do not masturbate?" Viggo asks seriously, raising one eyebrow, and there's a pause while his meaning dawns on our alcohol-addled minds. Billy takes the opportunity presented by Dom's distraction to roll out from underneath Dom and the couch cushion, so that Dom's indignant-sounding response to Viggo is quashed by Billy's revenge and mad scientist style laughter.

Viggo manages to sober up enough to drive home, but the rest of us are too tired from the laughing, or in Orlando's case the accidental snorting of beer foam. Just as I'm falling asleep on my end of the couch, lulled by the sound of Billy's snoring, Dom leans over to whisper in my ear.

"Told you so," fucker says to me.

Two weeks later, by the time I think Dom has finally given up his cause as impossible, he invites me, Billy, and Orlando out to dinner at a little Moroccan place east of town. I should have seen it coming, I know; guys like Dom don't really give up on anything. But still, with Billy invited too, I think... I guess I didn't really mind, honestly. Romantic dinner with your crush? Better if he's aware of it, and on board, but good anyway. Dammit, I am such a glutton for punishment.

So of course Dom stealthily arranges for Orlando to give me a ride, and then calls my cell phone ten minutes before eight to say that Billy's lost his keys and they have to get Sean to drive them to Billy's for the spare, and can they reschedule for next week? Bastards. It's a lot of work to be irritated and thrilled all at once, and to try not to let either slip.

Orlando's early everywhere, so we are already seated at the restaurant when the call comes, and I have to try my best not to look gleeful when he says we might as well stay and have dinner. I have to bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning when he follows up with, "Billy and Dom are such mad bastards anyway, and it's nice just the two of us, yeah?"

All I can do is nod. Orlando orders us some Moroccan beer, and that and the soft lighting and the hilarity of trying to pick up oil-covered olives using pita bread as a utensil relaxes me enough to not make a total fool of myself. Also in the good column is that Orli's more talkative than usual. Soon he's got me laughing about an argument Bean and Viggo had on set, and I counter with the insane safety concerns Sean presented Barry with two weeks ago. It's like my tension just melts and I can enjoy myself. Though of course I'm still freaked that I'll give myself away by staring at his mouth, but when somebody eats an olive like that they'd better be expecting attention.

Rats, he's caught me staring. "Have I got something... " He motions vaguely around his face, and now I've got to backpedal.

No, of course I'm not staring at my platonic male friend's lips. I try to go for something believable and out comes, "No, your eyes just look really neat in this light. Dark eyes are so pretty." Did I just call him pretty? Fucking hell.

But he just smiles. "I like lighter eyes myself. Blue is best. But with dark hair. No blondes."

And now we're off on a very vague discussion of types, me half-listening in order to be sure I've not given myself away somehow. When I've reexamined my last few sentences to be sure I've not said anything that implies Orlando himself in bright flashing lights, Orli's changed topics slightly to character attributes.

"They've got to be really interested in something, you know?" he says, expression earnest. "They've got to be passionate about something. Doesn't really matter what. Their career, maybe, movies, music, just, something. Music is the hottest, though. People get really into that."

Did he just, did he, no, surely not? People? Music? Careers, movies? I've got to calm down, he doesn't mean me, fuck fuck fuck, I must be bright red. "Yeah," I say, and I manage not to squeak. "Absolutely. They've got to be passionate about something." But I can counter, right? "Sports, even, animals, fashion, doesn't really matter, as long as there's something."

Orlando grins widely at me, eyes sparkling. "You ready to call it a night?" I hope I don't visibly deflate. I thought there was something, but of course there isn't, he's just talking, there's nothing in it. I nod and signal the waiter for the check.

Hope sparks for a minute when Orlando snatches it off the table. "You'll get it next time, mate," he says. Jesus the universe is cruel. Dom better hope he's wearing protective gear the next time I see him.

We're quiet on the way back; Orlando lets me handle the radio, but it's all talk or sports or bad top 40.

"Where are your CDs, 'Lij?" Orlando asks me, eyes leaving the road for a few seconds.

"I didn't bring any," I answer, and nothing, there's silence, until I see his shoulders shaking in my side vision. He's laughing.

"First time for everything, eh?"

I laugh, too. It's true, I'm rarely without some CDs. If there were an action figure of me- well, of the real me, anyway- it would probably come with a CD collection. And a laptop, and a Playstation, and of course a cell phone... I really am such a nerd.

"Penny?" Oh, shit, what was I thinking? How gorgeous his skin is? Shit, no, I can't say that. Oh, right, the action figure thing. Man, I am going to sound so stupid, but it's better than the skin thing, so...

"I was just thinking that if there were an action figure of me it would have to come with a CD player. I mean, not Frodo or whatever, but actually a figure of me."

"I can see that," Orlando says musingly. "What does mine come with?"

Ummmm... "Frilly shirts?" That's not really what I mean to say. I sneak a look over at him, and he's expressionless. Uh-oh. "Your bow, maybe? A little figure of your dog?" Now he's smiling.

"Dom comes with a whoopee cushion, a joker hat, and a pie to throw?" Orlando offers.

"Or possibly just dynamite," I mutter.

He's quiet; maybe he didn't hear?

"Um, Elijah," he says. I wait for him to say more. He doesn't.

"Yeah?" We wait some more.

"I, well, I asked Dom to bail on us tonight."

"You... What? Why?" Is he going to let me down easy? Buy me dinner first to be nice? Ask me a really big favor? What the fuck? It's like I've got to turn down the volume on my brain in order to hear his answer.

"Well... I wasn't talking generally earlier. When we were talking about our types?"

Oh my god, what? Is he? What? I probably look like a fucking fish. He's not talking anymore. Why is he not talking anymore? "Yeah?" I say, as encouragingly as possible.

He's timed it well; we're pulling into my driveway. He parks, turns off the ignition, and turns to look at me, but his eyes are downcast.

"I really like how into music you are," he starts softly. "And you must be tired of hearing it, but your eyes are... " Bizarre? Freakish? What is he going to say? Why does he talk so fucking slow? "... Awesome," he finishes. He sounds... Breathless?

We sit in silence a few moments because my brain has completely shut down and I can't make my mouth work.

"You mean, you were talking... about me?" I ask. I must sound like a moron. "I'm your type? Does that... "

He finally brings his eyes up to meet mine. "Yeah," he says, and smiles this shy smile that makes it hard for me to breathe. "Is that... Do you... "

I let the grin I've been biting down on go. "Yeah. I really, really do." I've never gotten a moment like this before, right out of a movie, but I know my cue. Igrab him by his goofy shirt and pull until our lips meet.

Maybe Dom won't have to die after all.



Slashababy 2004 Stories