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fellowshippers2004-02-21 11:57 am
ananke9.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2004-02-21 11:57 am
The Fridge, Billy/Dom, PG-13
Title: The Fridge
Author: Ananke
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG-13, for consistently appalling language from our good friend Dom.
Disclaimer: The fridge, sadly, is real. The people, happily, are too. However, the story is what generally goes by the name of ‘fiction’, implying a lack of existence in the real world.
Summary: Some people clean their fridges. Some do not.
"Fridge," says Billy, ominously.
Dom groans, loudly and dramatically, from his comfortable perch across the couch, legs splayed half over the arm, half over the back. Billy has a way of making such a *fuss* about the simplest things.
"Wha'?" What's wrong with the fridge, because unless it's sprouted legs and walked away, carrying with it Dom's beer and more importantly, milk for Dom's urgently needed coffee, then Dom doesn't much care.
"The fridge *smells*." Disgust is tempered with the mildest of amusement, as Billy stands over Dom's prone figure, looking unusually tall from Dom's somewhat weary point-of-view.
"Uh." Dom's not sure what response is required. It's a fridge. Fridges smell. It's what they do. If Billy's going to be such a prima donna, then Dom hopes he's not going to try to use the bathroom.
"Dominic my lad, fridges are not supposed to smell.”
Bloody mind-reading cunt.
“It's revolting,” continues Billy, patiently. “What have ya got in there anyway?"
"Where's my coffee?" asks Dom pathetically, because if he can remind Billy of his tremendous suffering, maybe that'll distract Martha-bloody-Stewart from worrying about whether the goddamn fridge smells. Which it doesn't, anyway. Not really. "Dy-ing here, Bil--ly."
"I made yer coffee, ye revolting bastard, and then I opened the fridge to get the milk and the smell hit me and I got distracted with opening the windows and, you know, trying not to get asphyxiated."
Dom fixes him with a glare that makes his head hurt, dammit, because the fuckin' fridge isn't *that* bad, and he needs his coffee before taking this level of fuckin' abuse. Dammit.
"Anyone ever tell you you’re cute when you're in pain?" Mock-censure has bloomed into full-blown amusement, and just *wait*, thinks Dom, until that little bastard's the one with a hangover; see how much sympathy's going then.
"Coffee?" he wails, pathetically, having given up any hope that dignity's the way to go. Or that he can manage anything remotely resembling dignity for the time being.
"On the kitchen table," says Billy placidly, apparently immune to the full power of Dom's hungover scowl.
Dom’s mouth falls open in outraged horror. He slowly drop-slides off the couch, and, with the most martyr-like slump that he can fake, he trudges sadly to the kitchen to fetch his own coffee. Behind him, Billy hoots in mockery and calls: “Just remember, today’s the 20th of February!”
Dom ignores him, because he doesn’t see how the date in any way justifies being such a fucking prick to a hungover mate who just wants a cup of fucking coffee, without the side of abuse, thanks all the same. He picks his way to the kitchen, spies the cup of steaming and life-saving coffee, and goes to fetch some milk. The fridge doesn’t smell that fuckin’ bad; he doesn’t know what Billy’s whinging about.
He grabs the nearest milk carton, shoves the Billy-offending fridge closed with his pajama-clad arse, and pours milk into his coffee.
Except it doesn’t pour so much as….plop. After a bit of shaking. Coffee slops over the side of the cup and Dom’s stomach churns in either support or protest, he’s not sure which. Nausea leaps from stomach to throat before he can close his eyes to the congealing mess in his precious coffee. Blinking from behind protective fingers, he peers at the date on the milk carton.
“Oh, and be careful what milk you use,” calls Billy cheerfully. “There’s some rancid muck from last October, but I put it where you’ll see it.”
Dom stumbles blindly to the bathroom and swears several shades of vengeance against hygiene-freak Scottish bastards.
In the background he can hear Billy laugh.
Author: Ananke
Pairing: Dom/Billy
Rating: PG-13, for consistently appalling language from our good friend Dom.
Disclaimer: The fridge, sadly, is real. The people, happily, are too. However, the story is what generally goes by the name of ‘fiction’, implying a lack of existence in the real world.
Summary: Some people clean their fridges. Some do not.
"Fridge," says Billy, ominously.
Dom groans, loudly and dramatically, from his comfortable perch across the couch, legs splayed half over the arm, half over the back. Billy has a way of making such a *fuss* about the simplest things.
"Wha'?" What's wrong with the fridge, because unless it's sprouted legs and walked away, carrying with it Dom's beer and more importantly, milk for Dom's urgently needed coffee, then Dom doesn't much care.
"The fridge *smells*." Disgust is tempered with the mildest of amusement, as Billy stands over Dom's prone figure, looking unusually tall from Dom's somewhat weary point-of-view.
"Uh." Dom's not sure what response is required. It's a fridge. Fridges smell. It's what they do. If Billy's going to be such a prima donna, then Dom hopes he's not going to try to use the bathroom.
"Dominic my lad, fridges are not supposed to smell.”
Bloody mind-reading cunt.
“It's revolting,” continues Billy, patiently. “What have ya got in there anyway?"
"Where's my coffee?" asks Dom pathetically, because if he can remind Billy of his tremendous suffering, maybe that'll distract Martha-bloody-Stewart from worrying about whether the goddamn fridge smells. Which it doesn't, anyway. Not really. "Dy-ing here, Bil--ly."
"I made yer coffee, ye revolting bastard, and then I opened the fridge to get the milk and the smell hit me and I got distracted with opening the windows and, you know, trying not to get asphyxiated."
Dom fixes him with a glare that makes his head hurt, dammit, because the fuckin' fridge isn't *that* bad, and he needs his coffee before taking this level of fuckin' abuse. Dammit.
"Anyone ever tell you you’re cute when you're in pain?" Mock-censure has bloomed into full-blown amusement, and just *wait*, thinks Dom, until that little bastard's the one with a hangover; see how much sympathy's going then.
"Coffee?" he wails, pathetically, having given up any hope that dignity's the way to go. Or that he can manage anything remotely resembling dignity for the time being.
"On the kitchen table," says Billy placidly, apparently immune to the full power of Dom's hungover scowl.
Dom’s mouth falls open in outraged horror. He slowly drop-slides off the couch, and, with the most martyr-like slump that he can fake, he trudges sadly to the kitchen to fetch his own coffee. Behind him, Billy hoots in mockery and calls: “Just remember, today’s the 20th of February!”
Dom ignores him, because he doesn’t see how the date in any way justifies being such a fucking prick to a hungover mate who just wants a cup of fucking coffee, without the side of abuse, thanks all the same. He picks his way to the kitchen, spies the cup of steaming and life-saving coffee, and goes to fetch some milk. The fridge doesn’t smell that fuckin’ bad; he doesn’t know what Billy’s whinging about.
He grabs the nearest milk carton, shoves the Billy-offending fridge closed with his pajama-clad arse, and pours milk into his coffee.
Except it doesn’t pour so much as….plop. After a bit of shaking. Coffee slops over the side of the cup and Dom’s stomach churns in either support or protest, he’s not sure which. Nausea leaps from stomach to throat before he can close his eyes to the congealing mess in his precious coffee. Blinking from behind protective fingers, he peers at the date on the milk carton.
“Oh, and be careful what milk you use,” calls Billy cheerfully. “There’s some rancid muck from last October, but I put it where you’ll see it.”
Dom stumbles blindly to the bathroom and swears several shades of vengeance against hygiene-freak Scottish bastards.
In the background he can hear Billy laugh.
no subject
I love it! That's my dorm fridge, post three-week Christmas break. Lucky me got to clean it. *barf*
Great ficklet. :)
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Funniest. Line. Ever. *dies laughing* *loves all over fic*
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