Real smores aren't as good as fictional ones.

Dom can deal with being laughed at; he didn't really feel embarrassed admitting to Billy that he had never actually had one. Didn't care that his very Scottish partner had lost his smore virginity first. Didn't mind being told to go to the bloody store and damn well buy graham crackers, marshmallows, and chocolate bars.

Now he stands in front of the microwave, nose to the black-tinted glass, wondering why microwaves don't simply have clear fronts because seeing through the tint is stupid—not to mention frustrating—and watching the chocolate and marshmallow go moosh.

"Is it done?"

"Dunno!" Billy says, to the tone of why're you asking me, git? and gets a grumble in response. He leans closer, nose flattening against the glass. "They look...squishy."

Dom shifts his feet as they stand cheek to cheek with the microwave humming its invisible powers of meltyness. "I think it's done."

"The chocolate still has its shape, Dom."

"Well, excuse me. Please, Professor of the Chocolate, go on. I'll leave the vital smore birthing process to greater minds." Dom grumbles and steps away from the microwave, leaning the seat of his pants back onto the rim of the counter. He watches Billy watch. He thinks that maybe watching Billy watch is not much better than watching himself.

The microwaves beep-beeps annoyingly and Billy takes out the two plates, eyeing the messy lump doubtfully. He picks up two plain graham crackers and lays them down on the melted bases, pressing. He blinks when all the marshmallow and chocolate leaks out the sides. "It's not supposed ta do that."

"Our smores defy the natural laws of Smoredom," Dom deadpans in a newscaster voice, draping an arm around Billy's back. He highly doubts Billy has a back-up plan in case of smore failure.

Billy begins to scoop up the lumps of melted chocolate from the plate and encourage them back between the graham crackers. Dom raises an eyebrow at the messy process; he notes the crumb-littered chocolate and the white gooey marshmallow that paints Billy's small hands.

"Now we let the chocolate cool," Billy announces, just short of tacking on Eureka!, and grins at Dom, motioning to the plate. "And then we can eat them."

Ten minutes later they sit side by side on the kitchen counter and share a look. Dom nods and then Billy nods and they lean in and scoop up a smore each. Dom bites down and blinks as a gob of chocolate falls with a low plop onto his jeans. The graham cracker crumbles, not at all helpfully, and the marshmallow is chewy and won't come out in a clean bite. The same happens to Billy a heartbeat later and they look at each other with mouths rimmed in melted chocolate—and they chew slowly, casting despondent sighs.

"M'marshmallow's not cooperatin'." Billy sits up a little, eyeing the chocolate on his thigh. His graham cracker splits down the middle and ends up mangled, hanging over his fist. He and Dom stare at it and then he spreads his palm and turns it up-side down over the plate, where the blob falls stickily.

Dom peeks at his smore, which isn't doing its smorey little job and staying together, but is instead gaping at the end, dripping tiny lines of chocolate. "We're having our arses kicked by snack food, Billy."

Billy mumbles. Dom reaches out and takes Billy's wrist, bidding farewell to the remains of his unfaithful smore with his other hand, and gently sucks the chocolate from Billy's pinky finger. He proceeds to lap the rest of the confection off Billy's hand, taking particular care to wriggle the tip of his tongue down the center of Billy's palm and the inside of Billy's wrist.

He realizes he's missed a spot and slips off the counter, jeans falling low on his arched hips for a second before he leans over Billy's jean-clad thigh and lightly laps at the chocolate lump. He traces the path of smore-prints up Billy's shirt—silently declaring his tracking skills—and licks just above the spot where his chest hair starts all the way to the salty-sweet curve of Billy's neck.

Billy's hand cups the back of Dom's head and pulls him in as they tangle, kissing and sharing the taste of marshmallow. Billy finds himself pressed against the counter with a heated, sticky Dom between his thighs—and the slow darting thrust of Dom's tongue between his lips brings the sharp flavor of chocolate and sex.

There is a pause and they cast smoldering, playful looks at each other, hands grappling for hems and zippers and Dom chuckles, casting one last glance at the abandoned plate of crumbled smores.

Real smores aren't as good as fictional ones...they're better.