Chapter Text
The bell over the door gave a cheery jangle when Dom opened it; he stepped into the shop and it jangled again when the door clunked shut behind him. “Just a minute!” came a call from the back room.
Dom dropped his umbrella into the bin by the door. “No hurry!” he called back, and began to wander, looking at the kilts and sporrans and bolts of cloth draped on tables and tailor’s dummies about the room. It was more of a mess than a display area, but Dom didn’t mind. He was leaning close to inspect a rack of garish tartans when the sneezing began.
“Ooh, that sounds nasty,” said the tailor, appearing before him with a handkerchief held foremost.
Dom took it and backed away, still sneezing. “It’s not - ahh - choo! - that I’m ill.” He sniffed mightily and then blew his nose into the linen. “I’m allergic to wool.” He sneezed again, clutching the cloth to his face, eyes watering.
“Come to the wrong shop then, haven’t you?” The tailor was older than Dom, and rather pixie-ish. Small, and compact, and neat-fingered, which he’d have to be, wouldn’t he? “Here, come over here, I think it’s the most wool-free zone in the place.” He led Dom to a little sitting area with two squashy armchairs and a table, books and magazines strewn across its surface. “Sit down, sit down.”
Dom blew his nose again. “Thanks, thank you.”
“D’you need some water? Tea? Medicine?” He was grinning, the little bastard, but Dom couldn’t help grinning back.
“A bullet to my head?” He wiped at his nose and looked at the hankie. “I think I’ve killed it,” he said.
The tailor held up one hand. “It’s yours now.” He was smiling.
Dom nodded and wadded it up, stuffing it into a pocket. “Well, erm, thank you.” He looked at the man. “I feel rather. Ah. Sheepish.” He grinned.
The shopkeeper burst into peals of high laughter. “As y’should, oh, my, as y’should after saying that,” he gasped. “Really, though, now,” he snorted, settling, red-cheeked and merry, “what can I help you with? Or were you just wandering, looking for a place to get out of our lovely dreich weather?”
“Actually, I need to buy a kilt,” Dom said. “I’m Dom Monaghan,” he added, offering his hand.
The tailor shook it. “Billy Boyd,” he replied. “And are you sure it’s a kilt you need? Seeing as most of them are made of wool, you know.” His eyes sparkled, and Dom’s stomach lurched. Not this again, not now, dammitall.
But the tailor - Billy Boyd - was waiting for an answer. “I’m getting married,” Dom said in a rush. “And I have to wear a kilt. My, ah, my fiancée’s family is quite traditional.”
“That’s bad news,” Boyd said. “Traditionally, you know, you’re going to be sneezing your arse all the way down the aisle.” He didn’t look too terribly upset by the thought. He looked, in fact, as though he wanted to start giggling again.
“Help me out, then,” Dom said, spreading his hands. “I can wear some blends, as long as the wool content isn’t too high. I might get a contact rash...” He trailed off, because the tailor was laughing again.
“I’ll help you, I’ll help you,” he wheezed finally, and Dom glowered for a moment before he smiled.
“I was afraid no one would,” Dom confided. “I went by a couple of the big shops and they looked at me like I’d shit on their doorstep when I said I wanted a kilt not made of wool. And since I didn’t want one in leather, either...” Dom shrugged.
“Aye, bunch of right sods they can be, the traditionalists,” Boyd said, sucking his teeth meditatively. “What can you wear?”
“Anything but wool,” Dom replied. “Or wool in a low concentration. And usually it’s contact that bothers me, I can be around it as long as I don’t, you know.” He made a wry face. “Lean forward and inhale deeply.”
The tailor nodded. “And how much time have we got? I’ll have to order the fabric, since I don’t have much but wool on hand that’s the proper weight. And what tartan, Christ, I hadn’t thought of that -”
“Plenty of time,” Dom said. “The date’s a bit fluid. And cost isn’t an issue, since my fiancée’s family is paying - though please don’t tell them it’s not wool, yeah?” Boyd nodded, eyes glinting as he grinned, and Dom grinned back. “The tartan is, erm, MacTavish - clan tartan.”
“Red and blue, or red and green, or red and blue and green?”
“The, ah, the traditional?” Dom said. “Red and blue, large, erm, squares.”
Boyd whistled and smiled. “Marrying up, are we?” he said, then laughed at Dom’s expression. “M’sorry, m’sorry, just kidding. But is it that MacTavish family?”
“The same,” Dom said dryly. “And yes, I am marrying up. I can’t believe they’ll even let their precious daughter marry someone who is,” he held up one finger: “not a cousin,” another finger, “not rich,” another, “not a Scot,” and one last, “not royalty.” He grinned. “And a lowly actor to boot.”
“Are you an actor, then,” Boyd said vaguely, but his eyes were on the ceiling. “I’ll have to special order the fabric, I think from... no...” His voice trailed off; after a moment he focused on Dom again. “It’ll be a while, Dom – Dom, right? I don’t think the MacTavish tartan is available in anything but wool in these parts, so I’ll have to send off to have it specially made. You’re sure you’ve plenty of time?”
“Oh, well.” Dom laughed, hoping it didn’t come out quite as bitterly as he thought it must. “Between my actorly flakiness and Una’s regular need to put me in my place, I think it’s safe to say that we have time.”
“All right, then.” Boyd was still smiling, a small, private smile. “Well, let’s get you measured, shall we?” He turned to a table and lifted a tape measure from it with a flourish. “You’ll be paying a bit for this today, right?”
“Boyd’s Tartans.”
“Um, hi, this is Dom. I came in the other day about a MacTavish tartan...”
“I remember you. What can I help you with?”
Dom rubbed his nose and looked meditatively into his fridge, tucking the phone between ear and shoulder. “I was just wanting to know if you have all the other bits of a proper kiltish sort of, of outfit.”
“Like hose, and shoes, and sporrans and things?”
“I saw you have sporrans, but, ah, I’m not sure what to wear as far as a shirt and jacket and so on.” He closed the fridge and turned to lean on the work top, phone pressed to his ear.
“Ah, well. I assume it’s to be a formal event?”
“The more formal the better,” Dom said dryly.
“Then you’ll probably be wanting a Prince Charlie and a nice weskit...” and Boyd was off, his tenor voice lilting on about evening versus afternoon, silver buckles, flashing (“sounds like fun,” Dom put in, and Boyd snickered before going on), hose, sgain dubh and what was appropriate and inappropriate and when and where.
“And...” Dom was perched on the work top by this time, eating yoghurt from a cup; he swallowed hastily. “...Do you stock all those things?”
“I stock most, and I have catalogues for the others. If you have a chance to drop by the shop I can settle you with a few books and you can have a look.”
“I can do that,” Dom said. “You’re right down from the Pavilion, so.”
“That’s fine. I’m open till six most days. Just stop by whenever you can. And bring your handkerchief.”
Dom grinned. “I should be all right, so long as I don’t have to wear one of your handiworks as a muffler.”
“Ach, and here I had your Christmas present all picked out.”
Dom laughed, startled. “Sorry to ruin your plans.”
“Ah well, suppose I’ll recover. So I’ll see you soon, then?”
“You will. Thanks, um, Mr. Boyd.”
“Billy, please. You’re welcome. Bye.”
“Bye.”
“Will the bride be wearing white?”
Dom looked up from his catalogue, startled, and saw Boyd squeezing his eyes shut.
“Sorry, Christ, sorry, I didnae mean it that way -”
Dom laughed. “Don’t worry, I’m unoffendable. How did you mean it?”
The tailor’s green eyes popped open again. “I just meant -” Dom kept snickering, the other man’s face was so very pink – “I meant, what colours is she using, like for flowers and bridesmaids and such. Those’re the colours you should look for, for things like your weskit and such.”
“Oh.” Dom leaned back, hands resting easy over the slick pages of the catalogue. “Well, apparently she’s modelling the whole bloody affair on the cake, of all things.”
“The cake?” Boyd cocked his head.
Dom shrugged. “Apparently. Got some fancy French cake maker, and she meets him on the hour every hour, practically. I think the bridesmaids are wearing blue, though.”
“What kind of blue?” Boyd perched on the arm of the chair, and Dom shifted subtly - closer, then away, looking up at the tailor. He was - dammit. Boyd was too cute for his own good.
“What?” Dom blinked up at him. “Oh. Um. Royal blue, kind of? I think? Like the blue in the tartan, really. Yeah, actually. Just like that.”
Boyd leaned over him, lifting the book off his lap, and Dom folded his hands hastily. “Here, have a look at these,” Boyd said, flipping through the pages rapidly, and Dom tried desperately to pay attention to something other than the man himself.
“Boyd’s Tartans.”
“Erm, Mr. Boyd? Billy? This is Dom, with the...” His voice trailed away, waiting for the tailor to remember him.
“I know. How are you? How can I help you?” He sounded brisk, and Dom stumbled over his next words.
“Well, I wondered if you would have room in your schedule to make a few more MacTavish kilts.”
“Well, I, ah - probably. Yes, of course. Still no wedding date?”
“Not to speak of. Una’s talking about April... or May. Or June.”
Billy laughed, and Dom smiled. “Aye, well, I could make a few more kilts before then, that’s plenty of time. And I won’t even ask what’s happened to March.”
Dom grinned. “Mad as a hare.”
A groan. “Well, tell me about this, then - who are the kilts for? Will they be proper wool -” a teasing note - “or your own bastard hybrid? And when shall I measure the recipients?”
“Well, apparently Mr. MacTavish - Una’s father, that is - he wants all the nephews and cousins to have new kilts for the wedding, and he asked about and it turns out you have a decent reputation,” Dom snorted his disbelief and Billy laughed, “so he thought he’d send them all along. The wedding’s an excuse, I think. He just wants to get them all kitted out properly.”
“Aye, well, I’ve no problem with kitting out every MacTavish in Glasgow, to be sure.” Dom heard him click his tongue against his teeth thoughtfully. “You didn’t say when they’d be coming to be measured.”
“Er - whenever, I suppose. I wanted to check with you before setting anything up. Can I just give Mr. MacTavish your address and, well -”
“Certainly. That’ll be grand, they can come by whenever they please; as you know I’m here mostly. Just tell them to come before...” Another thoughtful tongue click, and Boyd named a date. “That way I’ll have time to get all the fabric ordered and so on.”
“All right. Thanks, uh, Billy.”
“You’re more than welcome. In fact,” Billy sounded like he was smiling broadly, “thank you. I can’t say I’ll mind the money or the business, so it’s a good turn you’ve done me.”
Dom fidgeted in his chair. “Well, good. Then. So... goodbye?”
“Goodbye, and thank you again.”