Notes: Written for my first Contre La Montre challenge - drunk/tired in 28 minutes.

*

Billy stumbled twice on the way up the three steps to his house. You know it’s been too long a day when you’ve lost the ability to walk without giant latex feet, he mused.

Four attempts to get the key in the lock and then another two to open the door because he always forgets it turns the wrong way, and no, he doesn’t know why he keeps counting things but he’s been doing it ever since they finally called it a day and he manfully resisted the urge to drop to the ground and cry in relief.

The number of times he cursed the rest of the fellowship for getting to go home early while they did the Palantir scene over and over was too many to recall though. Autopilot had at least got him home (two lefts, one right and past the three houses with the green doors) and now he picked his way as quietly as possible up the stairs.

Funny, he didn’t remember there being so many.

If Orlando had been there, there’s a good chance he might have been carried up the stairs. All it would have taken was a faked swoon into his arms or even a hug and a leap and Orlando would have been happy to oblige.

Elijah wouldn’t have been much help. Elijah, Mr He-who-can-sleep-anywhere, would have fallen in the door behind him, dropped in the nearest chair and joined the land of the blessedly unconscious while Billy was still struggling to remove his coat.

Dominic, well Dom was the wild card. Equally as likely to take his hand and help, as he was to tickle and prod and jab exhausted giggles that were little more than breathy exhalations out of Billy as they both tripped up the stairs.

Finally, at the top, and his room. He winces when the door scrapes roughly over the carpet and steals a glance at the bed but the vague form he can make out in the dark doesn’t move.

Removing his shirt becomes a battle of wills with the temperamental cotton and he swears softly under his breath. This was bloody ridiculous; he had all the bloody coordination of being drunk without having had any of the fun parts.

The rest of the clothes concede to his mastery and he’s just silently praising himself for that when he trips over one of the random piles of crap lying around the room and lands heavily on the lump under his bed covers. Much swearing, and not quietly this time.

"Bill?" the sleep-roughened voice mumbled from somewhere above him.

"No, it’s your other clumsy Scottish boyfriend."

"Thought I told you to leave earlier, Billy’ll be home soon."

"Funny." Billy blinked harshly as Dominic flicked the lamp on without warning, while shielding his own eyes of course. He glanced down at his feet where there was now a pair of jeans tangled. Dom’s jeans actually. "I hate you, you know."

"Uh huh," Dominic agreed sleepily, unwrapping himself from the sheets and sliding over in the bed to make room.

Billy kicked the offending item away and crawled up and under the covers, knocking the lamp off (and over) on the way. He turned from his side to his back to his side to his back again and ignored the barest huff of laughter from the other side of the bed. He sighed and moved closer to Dominic, wrapping his arms around his waist from behind. But only because his side of the bed was cold and Dominic wasn’t,

Dominic turned in Billy’s arms and pressed a kiss in his hair. "Hate you too, Billy."