No, Dom would answer if you asked—the Pippin wig and tummy and scarf does nothing to diminish Billy's ravishability. Dom, proud of having invented the word "ravishability," would then proceed to stare at the place where the wig's waves end on Billy's neck and would, most likely, forget you were standing there. Because Billy? Dressed as Pippin? Hidden under layers of cloak, overcoat, weskit, stomach prosthetic, and trousers? Well, that's just a challenge, man. And his thoughts scatter under the sudden and moist fantasy of peeling back each layer one by one to reveal the pink, warm skin underneath.

They walk. And stand. And kneel. A helicopter takes them fifty miles east and drops them off. They play "cup" and "nudge" as dozens of crewmembers mill around them. They are asked what they want for lunch. They repeat dialogue, emotionlessly for the sake of repetition, to each other. Dom picks leaf litter from Billy's feet hair. Billy swats his hand and chucks a cup at him. Dom picks up the leaves and puts them back on Billy's feet, muttering. He tears his eyes away from the boyish curve of Billy's jaw, which is proving to be an annoying temptation.

As they eat their pasta salads and fruit, Dom can't take his eyes off Billy. He has a very particular way of biting his food and chewing it that distracts Dom—pure animalistic transfixion. And he's aware of what his staring means to Billy, who has admitted (late at night with moonlight and sweat the only thing gracing his skin) that Dom's eyes are merely lenses for the blazing sensuality behind them. Look at me, they say. Tell me what I'm thinking, little Pickle. Tell me that my body is burning. Tell me how much I want you right now.

Billy relaxes between takes, body wrapped in a blanket, and looks up in time to catch Dom peeking at him. He glances down at his hobbit feet. He ponders the salmon color of Peter's shirt and decides the color would like nice on Dom. He thinks about telling Dom. He comes to conclusion that doing so would be far too gay. He quietly points out the irony in that.

"What?"

"What what?"

"You're gawking."

"Was not."

"Were too!"

"Prove it."

"Wanker. Don't have to prove nothin'."

"Mm, wanking."

"Did I say wanking?"

"Mm. Yeah."

"Oh."

(Yeah, they reused that one.)

A broken down transport van keeps the Feet crew from returning to camp on time. The trailer put aside for Billy and Dom during their Fangorn location scenes is a hastily arranged affair and isn't very comfortable. They're pestered and offered a dozen things to make up for the wait but in the end just lock the damned rickety door and settle in, uncomfortable and itchy with grime, glue, and sweat-stained wool. Billy complains about being tired and in need of a wash. Dom places his latex foot on the bit of exposed chair between Billy's thighs and smiles slowly.

He'll give in. That's the basis for Dom reaching out and starting it. Because he knows Billy and he wouldn't even bother if he knew Billy would push him away. All Billy does is give him a strange look and sit very still when Dom begins to work the foot in hard circles against the bulge in Billy's breeches. When he realizes Dom isn't kidding, his eyes fly to the trailer door and then float back to Dom's face.

"Fuck," he sighs, the muscles at the corners of his eyes tightening.

Dom sits up and slowly undoes the ties there.

He tries to grope Dom upward, to get him into a position so that he can part Dom's costume, too. But Dom hushes him with a fierce kiss and then quickly kneels between Billy's thighs, shaking his head. No time. Sit still.

"Shhh," Dom says. He pushes up the many layers of shirt and ignores the springy bulge of the tummy extension and shoves down the waistband of Billy's briefs. He inhales through his nose, drops his jaw, and sinks forward. Billy's whole body flinches, growing hot. Billy's hands curl into the unnatural weave of Merry's hair...and pull down, hard.