Title: Pot Roast Frankie
Pairing: Billy/Dom (Monaboyd)
Warnings: Nasty Billy, bad Billy!
Disclaimer: These blokes are not my property, the story is.
Comments: These poor guys! I just could not stop bullying them *g*
Summary: Billy gets his own back.
The door swung open to an empty apartment, Billy pocketed his spare key and grabbed the edge of the front door, mentally counting to three and slamming it with every ounce of strength he could muster. Snapping on the lights he noted with disappointment that he hadn’t done any noticeable damage.
“Now,” he murmured, twitching shut the curtains and pushing the play button on Dom’s expensive CD player, “mood music.” Metallica spewed from the mounted speakers so loud that that the walls seemed to quiver under the deafening tirade.
Closing his eyes Billy assumed the correct position and, taking hold of his imaginary partner, serenely waltzed around the room before switching to Beethoven’s 9th Symphony (his own contribution to the collection) and setting about his business.
Even in the dead darkness Dom could see the destruction, the carnage becoming more apparent as the door gently swung open and hit the wall, the handle settling in its well-worn dent.
“Holly fucking shit.”
Cautiously Dom walked from room to room, it felt like some sort of sick dream, all around him his personal effects were scattered on the floor or destroyed.
His duvet had been ripped from his bed and torn open, his stuffed puppy Mr Frankie was pinioned to the chopping board through the neck with the bread knife, every single one of his plates and mugs had been systematically smashed, flung at every corner of the kitchen with a furious force.
Livid wheals of red and black were splattered across every surface, walls, floor and ceiling. His clothes had been laid out carefully across the chairs and sofa in images of grotesque and twisted positions.
Dom felt sick to his stomach, feeling the bile rise and not quite making it to sink or toilet. Lying against the side of his bathtub shivering he felt hot tears coursing down his cheeks. One thought came into his mind. He had to get out.
Somewhere in the background a door slammed followed a few seconds later by a sound that made him jump so violently he smashed his head against the tub.
The answering machine picked up the call.
“Dommie,” a voice sing-songed, a hint of a laugh behind the voice, “are you surprised? I took the liberty of redecorating for ya. Now how about you pick up the fucking phone instead of letting me talk to a machine eh? It’s very rude you know.”
Lurching to his feet, slipping slightly in the vomit covering his bathroom floor he ran for the phone, bouncing off walls in his hurry.
“Billy you fucking bastard!” He screamed into the receiver as he snatched the hand set from its cradle.
“If you’re trying to piss me off Dom, you already did that,” the voice went on in it’s conversational tone, “Did you see the kitchen yet? Me and Mr Frankie really went to town on that one.”
“You know fucking why.” Savage. And then back to conversational again. “Jesus Dom, you look like shit, a little too pale if you ask me. That would be all the blood your dick has been hogging recently right? I imagine it’s left you a bit drained.”
Spinning round Dom wildly raked the room at a glance. “Where are you Billy?” he questioned warily.
“Hide and seek Dom.”
“No Dom, you’re finished.”