Billy sets his beer bottle down with a heavy 'thunk' and flips the bird over on the worktop. He grabs a fork and lifts the loose, dimpled skin, eyeing it cautiously before gingerly sliding his fingers under it. Wriggling them, he stretches the skin loose. The turkey makes a slick, wet sound and Billy blanches.

Dom's a bit like a petulant child. Strike that. Dom is a lot like a petulant child, and Billy's getting fed up. Strike that too. Billy is fed up and he's about to say so when Dom wrinkles up his forehead and drops his lips down over Billy's.

"It's Christmas," Dom brehes into his mouth. "C'mon."

"I'm sorry," Billy mutters after Dom has broken away. "I just don't like the holidays."

Dom has pulled away now, and is peering down at Billy with narrowed eyes. Billy feels as though he's just been slid under a microscope and he resists the urge to shift around on the mattress like a bacterial kaleidoscope. "Okay then," Dom says finally, with a small shrug, "We'll just skip it. It's not like Hawaii feels much like Christmas anyway."

Dom rolls over, pulling the coverlet with him, and Billy lies there, eyeing the bare curve of his spine in the dim light of Dom's bedroom. Billy is supposed to feel a huge sigh of relief. He is supposed to feel off the hook. He is supposed to feel the proverbial weight being lifted, but instead it feels like he's just doubled up the load and it's bearing down hard.

"Dommie?" Billy presses his palm flat between Dom's shoulder blades. Dom doesn't flinch away, but he doesn't tuck himself backwards into Billy either.

"S'okay, Bills.... night, yeah?"

***

Dom's flat looks better with the lights off and Billy cringes as he picks his way across Dom's bedroom and out to the den. The tree looks a little out of place surrounded by Dom's surfboard and bike, and there are Christmas cards lying on the coffee table. Billy picks up the top one, a blue card with glittered snow banks and a doe standing under snow heavy branches, and flips it open. He's about to read it when the door bangs open, followed Dom and several bags. Billy drops the card back down as though he's touched a hot iron, feeling a little guilty.

"You're up." Dom grins.

Billy nods. "Aye. What's all that?"

"Just dinner." Dom pushes his way into the kitchen and drops everything onto the counter. "Just dinner, Bills. Not Christmas, yeah?"

Billy's skeptical.

"Waves are good," Dom remarks casually. "You want to head out? Catch a few?"

Billy shakes him off, and ignores the flex of Dom setting his jaw.

"Fine," Dom says tightly. "I'm going out, then I've got to drop by the set and do some pick ups. I'll be awhile."

Billy nods. It's not exactly going like planned, and frankly, Billy didn't think he'd muck it up so badly. Holiday with Dom. It seemed simple enough when Dom first invited him over. They'd hook up with Elijah for New Years, hit the beach, hit the bottle and leave Glasgow in Glasgow.

If Dom's flat looks better with the lights off, then Dom's kitchen hasn't any hope at all. Billy pulls down a bowl from the cupboard, fills it with cereal and jerks open the ice box in search of milk only to be confronted by a turkey. He pushes past it, and pours the milk over his cereal, staring hard at the bags on the counter.

Fucking Dom.

Fucking Dom and his traditional fucking Christmas. Can't just order takeaway and wait for the holiday to blow over, can he? Nope. Dommie's just got to have plum pudding, cranberry jelly, sprouts and turkey. Fucking git. Doesn't he know that it's 23 degrees out??

Fine then. If it's a traditional Christmas dinner he's after, than it's a traditional Christmas dinner he'll have.

***

"Pot, pot, pot, pot," Billy chants as he roots through Dom's cupboards. A few minutes later, he has procured one large roasting pan, several smaller pots for good measure and a towel, which he's jammed into his back pocket. He's feeling like the love child of Julia Child and Jacques Pepin. He's feeling a bit invincible even. Clapping his hands together and rubbing them briskly, he smiles for his pretend camera. "All right then. Let's begin, shall we?"

Oh.

Oh, now that's just disgusting.

Billy eases his hand into the cold turkey. Turkey's arse, his brain crows, somewhat gleefully. For a moment he thinks that it's Dom's voice he hears crowing inside his head (and just how the fuck did that happen?). Wouldn't that just be like Dom to curl up on a lounge chair right next to his frontal lobe, and snicker while Billy's got his arm elbow deep in a turkey's arse?

Billy scowls and dumps the turkey into the sink, running the cold water and positioning it under the stream. By the time he's satisfied that it's as clean as dead birds ever get, his fingers are reddened and numb. He leaves the turkey sitting right upright in the sink to drain, and scrubs his hands dry on the towel.

This is beginning to feel like a bad idea.

Oil. Check. Apple cider vinegar...Billy yanks open the cupboard, staring into it and then back over at the sheet of paper - apple cider vinegar? Well, there's no bloody way that Dom has apple cider vin-- Oh. Of course Dom has apple cider vinegar. And why wouldn't he?

Billy twists the cap open and sniffs cautiously. Repulsive. He puts the cap back on, closes the cupboard door and then yanks open the refrigerator. Beer. That'll do the trick.

1/2 cup? Well that's hardly enough.

"Better make it a full cup, yeah?" Billy is talking to the bird. "You can never have too much beer, isn't that right, mate?" Billy quips, giving the thigh a sharp slap and polishing off the remaining beer in one long pull. "All right then, what's next?" Billy mutters to himself.

"Several hours. Now that's sort of open to interpretation, isn't it?"

Billy drops the turkey into the roasting pan and then pours the marinade over it. "There. You've got 20 minutes, or however long it takes me to make cranberry sauce."

The sauce, Billy finds, is surprisingly easy. Pot. Water. Sugar. More sugar, and cranberries. When he turns back to the turkey, Billy's beginning to hedge towards feeling invincible again.

Bloody. Fucking. Hell. There's a fucking National Turkey Federation? It's a bird. A simple fowl (a dead one at that), and Billy's clearly on top of the food chain, so really...how hard can this possibly be? Billy reads on.

Cooking Bag? Shite. He's a little flummoxed, and not above admitting it, if hard pressed.

"Listen you," Billy admonishes the bird, "we don't have time for a cooking bag, even if I did know what the fuck that was. So we're going to skip right to the injector part, okay? Not to worry, you shan't feel a thing. Wait right there, I'm going to get a beer...because that last one? Clearly tasted like another!"

Billy sets his beer bottle down with a heavy 'thunk' and flips the bird over on the worktop. He grabs a fork and lifts the loose, dimpled skin, eyeing it cautiously before gingerly sliding his fingers under it. Wriggling them, he stretches the skin loose. The turkey makes a slick, wet sound and Billy blanches.

"Ugh."

"Bills?" Dom says softly from the doorway of the kitchen, "What are you doing?"

"Well, for one, I am brutalizing your dinner with this, this...thing..."

"That's a baster," Dom offers, taking a step forward into the kitchen until he is standing in the doorway, arms crossed, looking vaguely skeptical.

"Whatever." Billy waves him off and drains the last of his drink (his third since the sage). "I called your mother. I've made the cranberry jelly, and a marinade for our Turkish friend here. And although I substituted a little, I'm quite sure you'll find that the end results will suffice just fine." Billy pauses, looking at Dom thoughtfully, "Actually, I'm quite proud."

"Uh-huh." Dom looks dubiously around the kitchen. There is cranberry juice leaking over the side of his pot (his good pot, his favourite pot) and dribbling down onto the stove into a sticky, jammy-looking mess. Dom crosses the kitchen and dips his finger into the pot, sucking the jelly off the tip of it, and working his tongue against the rounded groove of his fingernail.

"Wait. You called my Mum?" Dom asks, a slow grin growing on his face.

"National Turkey Federation, my arse." Billy hiccups as he wanders into Dom's living room. He looks around the room, trying to remember what he was looking for before he gives up and flops down under the Christmas tree to stare up at the ceiling through the lights. "We just won't be eating until sometime after midnight, that's all."

"Especially seeing you haven't actually put your 'Turkish' friend in the oven."

Billy snorts and scratches the side of his face absently. Dom drops down beside him under the tree, wriggling his head closer to Billy.

"You have apple cider vinegar," Billy says tiredly. His eyes are closing, but he can feel Dom's nod against his shoulder and his warm breath bleeding through the cotton of his shirt. "I've never heard of such a thing and frankly, Dom, it smells bloody awful."

Dom laughs quietly. Dom's a bit like a petulant child. Strike that. He is a lot like a petulant child, and Billy's fine with that. Strike that too. Billy's more than fine with it. He's about to say so when Dom wrinkles up his forehead and drops his lips down over Billy's.

Billy can feel his breath catch. "I'm sorry ... about before. I didn't mean... I shouldn't have --"

Dom's fingers are edging their way under the hem of Billy's shirt, smoothing their way warmly across Billy's belly. "S'okay Bills ... It's Christmas," Dom breathes into his mouth.

And for once, Billy thinks, it feels like it is.

---

A/N: Thanks to pinn2480 for the multiple beta's and to shelbecat for the initial read through as well. Thanks also to lugonn  who gave me the idea -- which is basically, totally mocking myself -- even if he'll never read this.

Apologies to Pinn for my blatant misuse/representation of science. Stained bacteria, as I've been informed, don't actually move about -- they're just a nice pretty purple colour. I'll remember that next time I'm trying to find a way to describe the head of Billy's wanton cock.

Also. There truly is a National Turkey Federation, and this recipe exists. It's not mine so I can't vouch for whether or not it's a good one... and truthfully, the way I cook, I wouldn't rely too heavily on my opinion anyway. In any case, I'm sure that the NTF would be appalled by this fic, and by my cooking. Oh well, no harm no fowl. (snickers)

Lastly, and most importantly: almaviva, who requested the pairing and a story that was Happy Christmas -- everybody in love -- no angst. I hope you enjoy, sweetie. And Merry Christmas from the Monaboyd's and I.