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My body is a cage (DeWitt/Dominic)
Title: My body is a cage
Pairing: DeWitt/Dominic
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,030
Spoilers: up through 2x11 "Getting Closer," with some light speculation drawn from the series finale promo pictures
Summary: My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love. Adelle and Dominic. In which fourteen years pass, and some connections never do quite fade.
Author's Note: Because the day before school starts, what better thing to do than weirdly decide, "I AM GOING TO WRITE AN EPIC D/D FIC THAT SPANS OVER A DECADE." Yeah, I don't know! This took a few fragments of scenes that I'd started already, adds a bunch of new ones, and basically bounces back and forth throughout the whole duration of their relationship, including Me Being Really Optimistic About Neither Of Them Dying For Awhile. (Come on, Joss, let the morally dubious pairing prosper! Kill the good guys!)
I really like the way that the show's been handling going back and forth in time with its flashbacks, so I wrote this in the spirit of that. It is pretty much all over the place, not chronological or linear at all. I hope that it's pretty easy to follow, but just in case, I will provide a key for if you guys get really lost and need to refer back to it!
1. Speculative future land
2. The Magical Tucson Adventure, as seen in the flashbacks in "Getting Closer"
3. Epitaph One
4. Echoes
5. Right after Alpha's attack & escape
6. Post-A Spy In The House Of Love
7. Getting Closer
8. Epitaph One, shortly after The Scene Of Incomparable Awesome
9. Stage Fright
10. Even later in speculative future land
11. Pre-series
This is very much just a bunch of vignettes, and therefore it is all about Feelings and Repression as opposed to Figuring Out An Actual Plot. I looked at the Epitaph Two promo pics, went, 'Ooh, Adelle's wearing jeans! Ooh, they're in a kitchen!' These are not fancy deductive leaps, because it's me. Also, I chose to believe that Dom's absence from said promo pictures can be attributed to the fact that he's out ... fighting and kicking ass and somehow helping the cause, and not because he's, you know. No longer with us. (My soul will crumble. I, no lie, had an actual nightmare about this last night. Possibly I should broaden my interests to things that are real.)
With fic, I very rarely write stuff that speculates about the future, because I have this weird thing where I really, really hate being jossed. I like to mostly write little missing scenes that could totally be canon. But I abandoned that tendency for this one, because I love this ship and I love the incredible amounts of fun I have had discussing it with the gorgeous crew over at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
dewitt_dominic, and I just liked the notion of being able to, you know, give Adelle and Dominic the future my heart wants them to have. I am pretty sure that a lot of this is very very much derived from discussion over at that lovely community; one part in particular is, I believe, a theory posed by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
derevko_child that my brain gives a total thumbs up to.
Also, math, which is clearly an awful thing that I cannot do! Dom started working at the Dollhouse in like 2006 -- the Epitaph shenanigans all go down in around 2019, 2020, and I presume our gang's still alive and kickin' then, in order for Felicia Day & Co. to find them! In the random kitchen! So, fourteen years. Yeah. That's as much mathematical thinking as I will ever do again.
Okay! I think I have said all the rambly things that I wanted to say. Here we go!
My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love.
-The Arcade Fire
She takes them all out without much trouble: the last, though, she doesn’t see until it’s too late. He is vacant-eyed and sixteen at the most, with bad skin and crooked teeth. He knocks her down and her gun flies from her hand; she is disoriented, momentarily, as her head collides with the wall of the abandoned building behind her. He looms over her, monstrous in his utter blankness, blocking the weary sun. She thinks, in a way too scattered and shapeless to be quite poignant, of many things all at once: her mother’s hands, the scent of her father’s pipe tobacco, young and tipsy on champagne and giggling like mad with Margaret, Roger’s voice adoring as he calls her “Katherine,” Caroline with dirty hair and sullen eyes, stubbornly refusing tea, Topher waving his hands, Mr. Dominic catching her eye from across the House and coming to stand beside her, brisk as ever but with the slightest smile.
Then, in a sudden explosion of sound and red, the boy falls in an undignified heap before her. His blood spatters, warm, over her face.
“Ma’am,” Mr. Dominic says, gun in hand, unshaven and exhausted-looking. She can’t recall a time she’s ever been more pleased to see him. His timing really is impeccable.
“Mr. Dominic,” she responds curtly. He offers his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her up.
“Sorry,” he says, “about the blood.”
“Yes, well, let’s not lament what we can’t change. Hardly my favourite outfit, anyhow.” She does not feel quite like herself in jeans and sweatshirts, old trainers that leave her feet flat on the ground. She still hasn’t decided whether it’s liberating or humiliating.
He chuckles – a quick, dark laugh.
“Thank you very much for bothering to show up, by the way.”
“Hey, don’t mention it, Ms. DeWitt. As your right hand man, your safety is my first and foremost priority.”
She cannot tell whether he’s mocking her or something else – himself, perhaps. The whole world around them, perhaps, and what it has become.
“Very clever. Feeling sentimental, are we, Mr. Dominic? Missing the good old days?”
“I’d say I’m pretty nostalgic for the days of old, yeah.”
She casts a glance at him as they stride through the wreckage, draped in weak reluctant sunshine. It’s hard to tell whether he’s the one keeping up with her or vice versa. She supposes they’ve always had this odd unrelenting compatibility, in spite of everything.
“You’re not the only one,” she says.
+
They take the private jet to Tucson. Adelle is quite intent upon never allowing Caroline Farrell to trouble her again; for the duration of the flight, then, she does not discuss strategy with Mr. Dominic or sit about worriedly twiddling her thumbs. That would attribute the girl with a formidability, an importance that Adelle refuses to award her. They are on their way to mend this problem once and for all: it will be fixed, and that will be that.
She brings a book with her. It’s a lovely thing, an early edition volume of Katherine Mansfield stories given to her by Mr. Dominic last Christmas. He has an exceptional knack, she has found, for perfect gifts, equal parts elegant and impersonal. She knows the book was intended to be valued more for its rarity than its content, but she has always meant to read it. Needless to say, it’s been a bit of a challenge to find the time. Now seems as good an opportunity as any, and she does like the notion of him bearing witness to her reading it. She’d like to express her appreciation for what he does. This seems a fine way to do so. They aren’t exactly in the habit of talking about their feelings.
An hour or so passes. She is in the middle of “Bliss” when he clears his throat and says, “I’m glad you like it.”
She looks up at him.
“The book,” he adds, unnecessarily.
She supposes he’s bored, the poor man. He’s so good at silent stoicism that she’s begun to suppose it is in fact his preferred mode of existence. Still, when she thinks about it, he’s quite charming in conversation. Suddenly all the silence seems a terrible waste.
“Very much,” she says, glancing down at her page number and then shutting the book, resting it in her lap. “It was a lovely gift, Mr. Dominic, thank you.”
“Of course,” he says with a nod. He always seems at attention; she can’t help but like that. “I wasn’t familiar with the author, but from what I could tell, it seemed suited to you.”
“A perfect call,” Adelle says, inspiring a faint smile on his part. “I haven’t read her in years. But I’ve always liked her. I studied literature for awhile at university back in England, before I was swayed away by more scientific pursuits.”
“I went to England for a few weeks after I got out of college,” he says, his voice a little warmer than she’s accustomed to hearing it; they don’t often discuss things that don’t relate to work. He waits a moment, then adds, dryly, “It rained.”
She can’t help smiling. “It does tend to do that.”
When they drift back into quiet, she opens the book again. He stares forward, just like the other two members of the security team they’ve brought along, but all the same she can’t shake the sense that he’s looking at her. It is, she supposes, just a very acute awareness of his presence. She uncrosses her legs, then crosses them again; brushes her hair back to reveal her neck. (All to be blamed, of course, on the fact that it’s rather uncomfortable business, sitting down for so long.) She resumes her reading. But now – ardently! ardently! The word ached in her ardent body! Was this what that feeling of bliss had been leading up to?
+
‘Take the stairs,’ she told him once, so this time he makes sure to use the elevator. He’s still shaky on his legs: it makes him feel pathetic, more animal than human. Doesn’t matter if his hand’s trembling, he’s got a gun in it. He’ll kill her, he thinks. He likes the idea. He can’t think of a better grand finale. Here he is, accidental vigilante, turned good guy not out of honor, not for believing in what’s right, but because the bad guys took him out and what better way to wreak vengeance. Outside is alive with hell sounds.
He bursts through her office doors without knocking or waiting, and wouldn’t you know, Judith’s not there to call him on it. He wonders what happened to Judith, who he’s never really bothered to think about before.
Her office is still perfect, down to the same lamps, to the same fake flowers she keeps in a vase. She’s standing in the middle of it, queenly even now, her back to him. He takes in the sight of her for a second, just a second. Black skirt, silky blouse, blacks and purples and blues: it makes him think of bruises, even though the colors are too bright. He laughs without meaning to, bitterly, because isn’t it just like her, the world’s over but Adelle DeWitt is still dressed for success, sophisticated, standing tall. God forbid she waste away with the rest of them.
At the sound, she turns. Her hair is pulled back but it’s falling out around her face. There are big dark circles underneath her eyes. Not perfect, then, not ice, but he’s mad anyway, doesn’t care, doesn’t soften. Her lips part like she’s going to say something. He imagines some coy, crisp remark, Mr. Dominic. You enjoyed your time off, I hope. You’re looking a bit under the weather, forgive me for saying so. I was hoping your second foray into the Attic might take care of that. It doesn’t come. She stays quiet. Falters. He wants to hit her but he wants (and this has always been his problem) to fuck her, too. When he goes for her, gun in his right hand, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t get out of his way, either. This is what makes him realize, somewhere in his mind, that somehow, for some reason, she’s changed. Right now, he doesn’t care.
His hand goes to her throat like something else steers it there. Her skin is cool underneath his fingers, and he can feel the thump of her pulse. It quickens at his touch, the only sign that she’s scared of him. (Shaken, at least. He doesn’t know if he can scare her, not even now.) When he slams her down onto the sofa, she looks up at him like she expects him to kiss her, like she’s mocking him with it. If nothing else, it pulls him back into his own body.
“I regret to inform you, ma’am—” Each word, the first he’s spoken since he got out, is steady and hot with anger, just like his fingertips on her throat, her pulse, “—that we’ve had a security breach.”
“I sent for you, Mr. Dominic,” she says, looking up at him, her arm draped over her head like an old movie damsel’s, the skin of it so white.
+
They’re in her office, which, for the record, is really nice. Not his suit-nice, but close. He’s never really paid attention before for some reason. The red walls make everything feel nice and warm and calm, which is interesting, ‘cause red is supposed to be all about anger, or sex, or something, but he’s feeling pretty good. Not that sex isn’t good. Sex would be very good. Speaking of things he hasn’t had in awhile. Were they speaking of things he hasn’t had in awhile?
Ms. DeWitt is closing the door, even though Judith doesn’t seem to want them to. Judith is such a drag. “I can have a word in private with my Head of Security, Judith, if you don’t mind,” Ms. DeWitt’s saying, badass as usual. She’s so good at being in charge. Sure, it’s a sick twisted evil organization she’s in charge of, but, like, he couldn’t walk in those heels. He’s just saying. “And unless I am mistakennn—” She kinda drags it out like that, mistakennnn, like three, four n’s at least, it’s funny, “—I am the boss here. Do go be secretarial, will you?”
“But Ms. DeWitt, I was told to—”
Ms. DeWitt slams the door, then lets out a gleeful little laugh as she twists the lock. This is fun. He’s pretty sure he’s having a really good day. Like, stuff at that college science lab earlier was weird, like, take a chill pill everyone, and he’s pretty sure Echo still hates him for trying to kill her, which makes him feel awful because she has these really big eyes and it’s like kicking a puppy and he likes puppies, who doesn’t like puppies, but now that he’s here, he’s good.
“We should hang out more often,” he says, since it’s on his mind.
“I know,” Ms. DeWitt says; it’s weird, kinda, to call her ‘Ms.’ all the time, and why doesn’t he get to use her first name, anyway? Professionalism is stupid. Adelle is a pretty name. “I’ve spent the whole afternoon with Topher, and he didn’t even have any trousers on. Very inappropriate.”
“Topher!” Dominic groans. “I hate that guy!”
“He doesn’t think too highly of you, either, I’ll have you know. Earlier he said some piece of drivel about how you’d never willingly have fun.”
“What? I know how to have fun. I’m having fun right now.”
“Exactly! You’ll be happy to know I defended you most ardently.”
“You did?” For someone who occasionally kills disobedient handlers with sleeper dolls, she’s so nice. Oh well. Hearn was an asshole anyway.
“Well, no,” she admits, frowning. “But I’m quite sure I wanted to. I have no idea why I didn’t say anything. I never say anything, come to think of it! It must be very unhealthy. Oh! Speaking of unhealthy. Have you ever had Twinkies?”
“Uh, yeah. Who hasn’t?”
“I hadn’t.” She looks sad. “I lead a very repressed existence, I think.”
“Me too,” he says, looking at her legs. They’re all there, and leg-shaped. Really exceptional.
“Ooh, ooh, you know what’d be brilliant? If we sneaked down and stole Topher’s trampoline.”
“Brilliant. That’s a good word.”
“Do you think so? I know it’s a bit British. Do you think it’s unfortunate, that I can’t say my R’s the right way?” He never really thought about it before, like, purposefully thought about it, but she’s right. It’s kinda more like … ‘ahhhh.’ He likes that, though. Just between you and him, the British thing, it’s kind of hot. Except take out the ‘kind of,’ and replace it with ‘very.’
“No, no, no.” He figures three no’s should do the trick, to get her to believe him. He does a lot of that, getting her to believe him. “I love how you talk.”
“You do?” she asks, flattered.
“Definitely.”
“You talk very nicely too,” she replies. He grins. “Though you’re American, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he agrees, nodding.
“However. The trampoline. I really do think that this is something that must be done.”
“Oh yeah,” he says, mostly because she wants to, and that’s what he’s here for. To do her bidding.
“First, of course, we must formulate a plan of action. Topher will be there to guard it, and I suspect he has hidden powers even though he’s such a fidgety little fellow. Not to mention that he’s had a great deal of sugar—”
“Ms. DeWitt?” he interrupts, because okay, all of a sudden this is bothering him.
“Mr. Dominic?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Anything,” she says. “Anything at all.”
But he knows, even though he’s feelin’ pretty good right now, even though they are going to totally school Topher Brink in the ways of trampoline-having, and maybe even steal some Twinkies just to really rub it in his face (oh, it’ll be good), even though he and Adelle DeWitt are total partners in crime, he can’t do it. It’s like – something just won’t let him. Somewhere in the back of his head, he still knows that the reason he’s here is a secret he’s always gonna have to keep.
“Never mind,” he says.
She shrugs easily. “All right.”
Phew. Crisis averted.
“Judith will be right outside, mind.” She glares at the door, like she can see through it. “Determined to stop us. What a little shrew she is.”
“Let her try,” Dominic growls.
“Oh, Mr. Dominic,” she says, delighted. “Do promise me something, won’t you.”
“Sure.”
“Let’s do a great deal more of this in the future,” she orders, drumming her fingers excitedly on his arm. He looks down at them. “I don’t think we spend nearly enough time together. Even though—” Her brow furrows, confused, “—well, I suppose, technically, we spend almost all of our time together. But we ought to steal more trampolines.”
“Absolutely,” he says, liking the idea. “Because, you know, everyone needs hobbies.”
“This is a good hobby,” she mutters with great conviction.
“Especially you and me – we have it really tough.”
“We do!” she agrees emphatically.
“We have to be all serious, all the time, and take care of everything, and everyone thinks, ‘Oh, they’re so boring, they’re no fun’, but it’s like, where would they be without us, huh??”
“Drowning in their own incompetence, I should think,” she says, all savagely triumphant.
“Exactly! Drowning.”
“And for the record,” she says, “I don’t think you’re at all boring.”
He feels really guilty, with her looking at him like that. She might be his favourite person in the world. It’s not like that’s saying much, because he doesn’t really like very many people – who’s he gonna like, Topher? – but still. He wishes he didn’t have to lie to her. But it’d be worse, he reminds himself very sternly, if he didn’t.
“Let’s do this,” he says instead, sneering a little, using his badassest of tones. Yeah, that’s right. Head of Security, bitch.
She does a giddy little bounce, then puts on her serious face, the one that could probably kill innocent bystanders from sheer power. (And great hair.) He unlocks the door in one quick movement, and they stride out of the office, epic, determined, nothing standing between them and Topher’s trampoline.
Then Judith shuts down the whole operation pretty fast. Friggin’ Judith.
+
Even after Alpha’s escaped, they all keep going a long time, running on fear and disbelief. It’s surreal. Dominic’s spent his whole life making sure he could handle something like this, and he’s doing just fine. He feels weird, detached, steady. It’s like the worse things get, the easier it becomes to bark out orders, to take everything in stride. And yeah, there’s a small flicker of something in the back of his head – all that blood – but he ignores it. He’s got a knack for compartmentalizing.
Right now, he’s walking next to DeWitt. Topher’s on her other side, letting out a stream of chatter that’s even more deranged than usual (Dominic can grudgingly forgive him this, considering the circumstances); she’s nodding, offering concise replies, and then she stumbles. It’s not exactly a surprise considering those shoes she wears, but he’s never seen her so much as waver for a second in those things before. She’s crumbling, he thinks, and as soon as he thinks it it strikes him as such a stupid word, a Topher word, that’s the way the cookie crumbles, ha ha ha. When Adelle DeWitt starts losing her poise, you know it’s bad.
She doesn’t fall; he gets there first. He catches her elbow on instinct, steadying her.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Dominic,” she says, crisp and impatient, like his saving her from a collision with the floor is a minor inconvenience. He moves his hand away. Petty annoyance surges through him, just for a second. He needs to get some rest. They all do.
Things settle into a gradual calm. It’s not peaceful, though. It hangs over the whole House, stale and weak, like an animal caught in a trap once the biting and keening’s done, and all that’s left to do is give in to death. He starts to feel sick in his own skin. He wants a shower and a cup of coffee. He needs to shave.
There’s not much more any of them can do. DeWitt goes up to her office. He thinks of following her, but something stops him. (His hand on her arm, her clipped little admonishment.)
He goes into the kitchen. It’s empty and seems vast that way. His mind darts, inexplicably, to that scene in Jurassic Park with the velociraptors. He can’t remember the last time he watched a movie.
He rummages around until he finds a mug (it’s a friendly sky blue, round and big-handled), then goes searching for tea. He finds a box in the cupboard. It’s that fancy organic shit, of course. Nothing but the best for our programmable humans. It’s called Peppermint Sigh – yeah, yeah – and it’s got a quote from Confucius on the back of the box.
It’s almost four in the morning when he goes up to her office. He pounds his knuckles lightly against the door, a little too soft to hear. Protocol. Then he goes in anyway.
She’s sitting on the sofa, a blanket around her shoulders. Her posture’s perfect, her ankles crossed primly. He’s struck by the random, not-unfamiliar feeling that sneaks up on him sometimes when she’s around and it’s quiet.
“Ma’am.”
When she looks up at him, it’s almost like watching her wake up. “Oh, Mr. Dominic.” She makes a move to stand. “Duty calls.”
“No,” he says, gesturing at her with his free hand to stay down. “I was just—”
Her mouth twists. “Checking up?”
“It’s been hard on all of us.”
“Yes,” she agrees mildly.
They look at one another. It’s strange to see her bone-tired, to see her anything less than flawless. She stares openly up at him, as if she’s too exhausted to register how atypical of them it is, or at least too exhausted to care.
After a long time, he holds the mug out to her. “I thought you might like …”
“Thank you.” She takes it.
“It’s lukewarm and bland. Tried looking for honey or something, but I—”
“You made me a cup of tea,” she observes wryly.
He’s surprised to find himself embarrassed. He just spent two days dealing with the aftermath of a multiple, multiple personality’d psychopath slipping out of their grasp, not without slaughtering everyone in his way first, and he’s blushing over a cup of tea.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says gruffly.
There’s a flicker of amusement in her face. “And … sampled it, I gather from your ‘lukewarm and bland’ assessment.”
“Again. Don’t get used to it.”
“A food taster of my very own,” she says. She’s sardonic, but there’s something more tender than usual underneath it. “What would I do without you.”
He feels bad for her, all of a sudden. He knows she’s got a scientific mind, that she took this job for the promise of progress. He’s been with her for almost three years now, and he can’t quite blame her the way he did at first. Sure, maybe she’s asking for it, but – well, there might not be a right place, not where the Dollhouse is concerned, but whatever’s closest to the right place, that’s where her heart is.
He can’t believe he’s thinking this. God, he needs some sleep.
“If you’d like to go home for a few hours, please do,” she says with some of her usual briskness, like she’s reading his mind. “I’m beginning to suspect there’s not much more we can do around here.”
He thinks about it. Shower. Coffee. Then he looks back down at her. Her hair is escaping from its clip, falling into her face; her eye makeup’s smudged, a little. “The Head of Security should be on the premises,” he says. “Just in case.”
“Precisely the kind of thinking that made you Head of Security in the first place,” she replies, as if this is a perfectly practical business decision. They both know it isn’t. He should be on his game. Rest would be the best call for both of them right now. He doesn’t completely care. “You can sit down, if you like,” she adds.
His immediate impulse is to refuse, but he’s suddenly aware of just how long he’s been standing. He sits. He makes sure there’s space between them.
“This is terrible,” she says after awhile. “The tea.”
“I know,” he says, making a face at her as he looks over. “Sorry.”
She laughs, staring down into its depths. Then she turns and meets his eyes. She’s beautiful, he thinks. He’s too tired not to think it. Suddenly, the space between them seems like nothing at all. She leans forward, or maybe he does. It’s a near-imperceptible movement, but this, them, it’s always been like that. Nuances and details. Things most people wouldn’t notice at all. He feels all of them with her.
This can’t happen, he reminds himself.
“Ma’am,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, “regarding Alpha—”
To her credit, she shifts right away. There’s no awkward pause, no moment of transition. Her voice is steady as ever as she says, “Don’t. Please. Let’s give ourselves fifteen minutes to forget Alpha. Just this once. I get the feeling we won’t have the opportunity again for a very long time.”
“Okay,” he says. Lately, he can’t find it in himself to want to refuse her anything. He remembers before he came here, when he thought this job would be easy.
They sit in silence that’s mostly comfortable. She drinks the whole cup of tea. He expects her to fall asleep, but she doesn’t: she sits tall, her expression thoughtful. Eventually, he’s the one who drifts off.
+
A few weeks after Mr. Langton replaces Mr. Dominic as Head of Security, Adelle comes across the book of Katherine Mansfield short stories on her shelf at home. She considers throwing it out; considers burning it. But she is done with that, with falling prey to her own foolish impulses. It is a book, a rare and lovely book. It would be sentimental and foolish to give it any additional meaning. She decides she will spend the evening reading. She turns to “Bliss,” which has always been her favourite.
At the end of the story, the young woman realizes that her husband is having an affair with one of the dinner guests. It is particularly timed to sting, as it’s right after she has begun – randomly, exquisitely – to come alive, to feel her desire for him catch and burn bright, even though they’ve been together so long.
Bertha simply ran over to the long windows.
“Oh, what is going to happen now?” she cried.
But the pear tree was as lovely as ever and as full of flower and as still.
She cries. When she is done, she goes into the bathroom and washes her face with cold water. She considers her reflection, and does not leave until she is content that none of what she is feeling shows in her face. She puts the book back onto the shelf, then goes to pour herself a drink.
+
But God, he’s a mess, lying there shaking in that ridiculous white bodysuit. She thinks of him with his beautiful expensive suits, always so handsome. If he were in less physical pain he would, she is certain, be humiliated. She has ruined him quite utterly, she supposes. Her revenge, his punishment: it’s been very thorough. They tell her that he must go to a hospital, that he’ll die otherwise. The warning makes her stomach lurch, one breathless instant protest to the idea. For a second, all she knows is that she does not want him dead. The feeling is an unwelcome one, needless to say: she buries it in fury first, then in cool efficient mercilessness. She tells them to put him back in the Attic, because tactically, it is the best option. (Because long ago she cried over him until she couldn’t breathe, because Boyd Langton is the better man by far and still, still she misses Dominic by her side, and he will pay for that, he must pay for that.)
He catches her arm, his hand stiff and terribly cold. She does not know – and it’s a stupid thing to notice at all – whether he’s touched her before. She rather thinks he hasn’t, at least not intentionally, at least not in a way that he has meant as he means this now. She dimly recalls him catching her elbow once, to keep her from falling.
“You bitch,” he says, each word a fight; he is not weak, she’ll give him that. Perhaps he’s as hardened as she is. “I’d rather die.”
She leans in close. “Well, I’d rather you didn’t.”
She puts her hand on top of his. To pluck it off, to cast it aside: a very unimportant thing, this matter of his fingers on her skin. Her hands are much warmer than his. Even in his wasting state, his grip is very sure.
She drops his hand – leaves this room and her own words behind. Fortunately, she has no time to pause, to ponder whether she meant it, and why.
+
“I suppose I don’t seem so bad anymore, huh,” Dominic says, after she’s told him about Boyd Langton. They sit at one of the tables in the former crafts area. Old art supplies litter the floor; no one’s been very attentive when it comes to keeping the place clean. Once, she thinks wryly, she wouldn’t have stood for that – not in her House. Dominic is absently twisting a paint brush between his fingers. She has her own hands wrapped around a cup of tea, one of the last. Supplies are running out. She left Topher around a half hour ago, after she’d finally coaxed him into sleeping. Today was one of the torturous instances where he thinks ceaselessly of Bennett, insisting again and again that he can bring her back, at turns extolling her virtues and wiping her imagined blood from his face.
It says something about the state of her existence, that Laurence Dominic’s company has become soothing. (Again, adds a troublesome voice in the back of her head.)
“I suppose not, in comparison,” she agrees lightly. “It’s hardly saying much.”
“It wasn’t me,” he says. “The mole sending messages to Ballard through altered imprints. The chip in the chair. That wasn’t me. I didn’t want anyone finding the place any more than you did.”
“Looking at the big picture, I suppose it was Langton. All part of his master plan.” She embellishes the last two words with a scowl.
“I was NSA, but I wasn’t lying to you, before you sent me to the Attic,” he says, every bit as earnest and as harsh as when he was bound before her, that night in her house. “I wanted to keep the tech from leaking to the public. Keep the House safe. Just like you.”
“You were NSA,” she says, noting the past tense. It’s the only part of what he’s said that she can bring herself to latch onto.
“I’m not gonna delude myself into thinking I’m ever getting out of here.” He is a little frightening to look at, his face haggard, his bitterness so apparent in his features. “Besides. The end is nigh. All hell’s broken loose, plus a little extra. Where do I have to go?”
The life of everyone in this House is ruined. She thinks of the nightmare that rages outside their makeshift Eden here: at this point, in all likelihood, everyone in the modern world’s lives are ruined. And the important things have not changed. He was a spy. He was punished accordingly. Still, a memory suddenly plagues her: him strapped into the chair, eyes wild, fixed dead on her. The sudden bloom of pain when he shot her. She still has the scar – will always, of course, for what would be the point of scars otherwise?
His ruin, at least, is her fault.
“I’m sorry,” she says, meaning it. The words are soft, and sound very brittle.
He doesn’t say anything back. A little ways away, a large group of their fellow captives have begun to sing, something classic and beloved that she can’t remember the title of anymore. Their voices give it the dusky, hopeful reverence of a church hymn.
+
He steps into her office. “Sierra's been kidnapped.”
“Ah. She drew his focus away from Rayna.” She smiles up at him, pleased. “Well, that was a good call.”
He nods. “Thank you. Her handler's outside location, I told him to wait for our team.”
“Yes, that's best. Echo?”
“On task. Still protecting Rayna.”
He turns to go.
“Are you a fan, Mr. Dominic?” she finds herself asking.
He turns. “I'm sorry?”
“Rayna. Do you like her music?”
For a moment, she thinks he might smile. The question’s thrown him a bit, she can tell. He recovers easily. “I don't know if being a fan has much to do with that. Not at the level we’re dealing with.”
Professionally minded as ever. In fairness, she doubts he’d ever own up to a liking for something called Superstar (Smash It).
“No,” she agrees pleasantly. “Get the girl. Close it out.”
He does. She sits alone in her office, with nothing to do but wait for Echo to succeed, for their services to sort out the problem perfectly. They’ve laid the groundwork for it well. Even after Alpha, things are capable of running smoothly, of being mended. She feels a flash of fondness for Mr. Dominic. Three years now: hiring him was no doubt one of the best decisions she’s made for the House. She cannot quite imagine this place without him. She amuses herself by wondering what sort of music he might like.
+
It’s early in the morning; rain pounds on the roof, twitches down the windows. The two of them are the only ones up. They sit at the kitchen table, nursing cups of shitty instant coffee. He’s not sure he can remember the taste of good coffee, which he guesses is a small consolation. Adelle’s never been a coffee drinker, but she’s always been fiercely adaptable.
They don’t talk for awhile. Don’t really need to. They know each other well enough that silence isn’t unendurable in each other’s company. Besides, they’re both tired.
“This is new,” she finally remarks, tracing one finger lightly over a cut across his cheek that’s nearly healed.
“It’s not bad,” he says, and tries not to remember getting it.
“It seems every time you come back to me, I’ve some new wound to discover.”
“Yeah, well. Gotta keep you interested somehow.”
She laughs a little, and takes another sip of her coffee. He does the same.
“I’m beginning to feel like a soldier’s wife,” she says after awhile, looking at the rain on the windowsill instead of him. “Or Penelope, God forbid. Who knew the apocalypse could turn one so saccharine. You’d hope it’d have the opposite effect.”
He watches her, drinks in the sight of her. Her hair is messy and tangled, and there are circles under her eyes, lines on her face. He can’t remember the last time she wore makeup. She’s dressed in one of his shirts; it’s too big and slides down, leaving one shoulder bare. He thinks of all the times he’s nearly died, and the fact that somehow, he’s still here next to her, even though logic and chance and everything else says he shouldn’t be, even though the world’s ended.
“Every time you leave,” she says, still watching the rain, “I wonder, ‘Ah, will this be it, then. Will this be the last time I see him.’ It’s so wearying to wait for someone when you can’t even be certain they’ll come back.”
“If I promised you,” he says, “to always come back, something tells me I’d bite it the second I walked out the door.”
“Yes,” she agrees, her mouth curving in a sad smile. “That sounds just about right, all things considered.”
“Tell you what. Let’s not risk it.”
“Let’s not.”
He reaches over and rests his hand on her bare shoulder. This right here, her skin underneath his fingers – somewhere along the line this became what he keeps fighting for. He doesn’t know what else there is to save. Sometimes, he doesn’t care. She closes her eyes and leans into the touch.
+
She’s more attractive than he’d expected. He’s seen pictures, and even some video footage. Somehow, that doesn’t prepare him for standing a few feet away from her. It’s not like walking in heels is a rare skill among women, but the way she does it as she comes up to meet him – it makes him think of siren song, ships dashed on rocks, not a chance of survival for the sailors, poor bastards. Resistance is futile: that kind of thing. There’s no way she’s not a crazy bitch, but hey, at least he’ll have something to look at day in and day out. In terms of assignments, he could have done a lot worse.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dominic,” she says. Her voice is warm and low and pretty, clipped and inviting all at once. The accent definitely works in her favor. He thinks he might understand how she gets those sorry sons of bitches to sign their lives away. It had seemed incomprehensible before. Her words, her demeanor, it’s all very professional, but a smile hints at her mouth, and her eyes are smart and bright. “My name is Adelle DeWitt. I look forward to working with you.”
“And you, ma’am,” he says. Gracefully, she offers her hand for him to shake.
Pairing: DeWitt/Dominic
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 6,030
Spoilers: up through 2x11 "Getting Closer," with some light speculation drawn from the series finale promo pictures
Summary: My body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love. Adelle and Dominic. In which fourteen years pass, and some connections never do quite fade.
Author's Note: Because the day before school starts, what better thing to do than weirdly decide, "I AM GOING TO WRITE AN EPIC D/D FIC THAT SPANS OVER A DECADE." Yeah, I don't know! This took a few fragments of scenes that I'd started already, adds a bunch of new ones, and basically bounces back and forth throughout the whole duration of their relationship, including Me Being Really Optimistic About Neither Of Them Dying For Awhile. (Come on, Joss, let the morally dubious pairing prosper! Kill the good guys!)
I really like the way that the show's been handling going back and forth in time with its flashbacks, so I wrote this in the spirit of that. It is pretty much all over the place, not chronological or linear at all. I hope that it's pretty easy to follow, but just in case, I will provide a key for if you guys get really lost and need to refer back to it!
1. Speculative future land
2. The Magical Tucson Adventure, as seen in the flashbacks in "Getting Closer"
3. Epitaph One
4. Echoes
5. Right after Alpha's attack & escape
6. Post-A Spy In The House Of Love
7. Getting Closer
8. Epitaph One, shortly after The Scene Of Incomparable Awesome
9. Stage Fright
10. Even later in speculative future land
11. Pre-series
This is very much just a bunch of vignettes, and therefore it is all about Feelings and Repression as opposed to Figuring Out An Actual Plot. I looked at the Epitaph Two promo pics, went, 'Ooh, Adelle's wearing jeans! Ooh, they're in a kitchen!' These are not fancy deductive leaps, because it's me. Also, I chose to believe that Dom's absence from said promo pictures can be attributed to the fact that he's out ... fighting and kicking ass and somehow helping the cause, and not because he's, you know. No longer with us. (My soul will crumble. I, no lie, had an actual nightmare about this last night. Possibly I should broaden my interests to things that are real.)
With fic, I very rarely write stuff that speculates about the future, because I have this weird thing where I really, really hate being jossed. I like to mostly write little missing scenes that could totally be canon. But I abandoned that tendency for this one, because I love this ship and I love the incredible amounts of fun I have had discussing it with the gorgeous crew over at
dewitt_dominic, and I just liked the notion of being able to, you know, give Adelle and Dominic the future my heart wants them to have. I am pretty sure that a lot of this is very very much derived from discussion over at that lovely community; one part in particular is, I believe, a theory posed by derevko_child that my brain gives a total thumbs up to.Also, math, which is clearly an awful thing that I cannot do! Dom started working at the Dollhouse in like 2006 -- the Epitaph shenanigans all go down in around 2019, 2020, and I presume our gang's still alive and kickin' then, in order for Felicia Day & Co. to find them! In the random kitchen! So, fourteen years. Yeah. That's as much mathematical thinking as I will ever do again.
Okay! I think I have said all the rambly things that I wanted to say. Here we go!
-The Arcade Fire
She takes them all out without much trouble: the last, though, she doesn’t see until it’s too late. He is vacant-eyed and sixteen at the most, with bad skin and crooked teeth. He knocks her down and her gun flies from her hand; she is disoriented, momentarily, as her head collides with the wall of the abandoned building behind her. He looms over her, monstrous in his utter blankness, blocking the weary sun. She thinks, in a way too scattered and shapeless to be quite poignant, of many things all at once: her mother’s hands, the scent of her father’s pipe tobacco, young and tipsy on champagne and giggling like mad with Margaret, Roger’s voice adoring as he calls her “Katherine,” Caroline with dirty hair and sullen eyes, stubbornly refusing tea, Topher waving his hands, Mr. Dominic catching her eye from across the House and coming to stand beside her, brisk as ever but with the slightest smile.
Then, in a sudden explosion of sound and red, the boy falls in an undignified heap before her. His blood spatters, warm, over her face.
“Ma’am,” Mr. Dominic says, gun in hand, unshaven and exhausted-looking. She can’t recall a time she’s ever been more pleased to see him. His timing really is impeccable.
“Mr. Dominic,” she responds curtly. He offers his hand. She takes it, and he pulls her up.
“Sorry,” he says, “about the blood.”
“Yes, well, let’s not lament what we can’t change. Hardly my favourite outfit, anyhow.” She does not feel quite like herself in jeans and sweatshirts, old trainers that leave her feet flat on the ground. She still hasn’t decided whether it’s liberating or humiliating.
He chuckles – a quick, dark laugh.
“Thank you very much for bothering to show up, by the way.”
“Hey, don’t mention it, Ms. DeWitt. As your right hand man, your safety is my first and foremost priority.”
She cannot tell whether he’s mocking her or something else – himself, perhaps. The whole world around them, perhaps, and what it has become.
“Very clever. Feeling sentimental, are we, Mr. Dominic? Missing the good old days?”
“I’d say I’m pretty nostalgic for the days of old, yeah.”
She casts a glance at him as they stride through the wreckage, draped in weak reluctant sunshine. It’s hard to tell whether he’s the one keeping up with her or vice versa. She supposes they’ve always had this odd unrelenting compatibility, in spite of everything.
“You’re not the only one,” she says.
+
They take the private jet to Tucson. Adelle is quite intent upon never allowing Caroline Farrell to trouble her again; for the duration of the flight, then, she does not discuss strategy with Mr. Dominic or sit about worriedly twiddling her thumbs. That would attribute the girl with a formidability, an importance that Adelle refuses to award her. They are on their way to mend this problem once and for all: it will be fixed, and that will be that.
She brings a book with her. It’s a lovely thing, an early edition volume of Katherine Mansfield stories given to her by Mr. Dominic last Christmas. He has an exceptional knack, she has found, for perfect gifts, equal parts elegant and impersonal. She knows the book was intended to be valued more for its rarity than its content, but she has always meant to read it. Needless to say, it’s been a bit of a challenge to find the time. Now seems as good an opportunity as any, and she does like the notion of him bearing witness to her reading it. She’d like to express her appreciation for what he does. This seems a fine way to do so. They aren’t exactly in the habit of talking about their feelings.
An hour or so passes. She is in the middle of “Bliss” when he clears his throat and says, “I’m glad you like it.”
She looks up at him.
“The book,” he adds, unnecessarily.
She supposes he’s bored, the poor man. He’s so good at silent stoicism that she’s begun to suppose it is in fact his preferred mode of existence. Still, when she thinks about it, he’s quite charming in conversation. Suddenly all the silence seems a terrible waste.
“Very much,” she says, glancing down at her page number and then shutting the book, resting it in her lap. “It was a lovely gift, Mr. Dominic, thank you.”
“Of course,” he says with a nod. He always seems at attention; she can’t help but like that. “I wasn’t familiar with the author, but from what I could tell, it seemed suited to you.”
“A perfect call,” Adelle says, inspiring a faint smile on his part. “I haven’t read her in years. But I’ve always liked her. I studied literature for awhile at university back in England, before I was swayed away by more scientific pursuits.”
“I went to England for a few weeks after I got out of college,” he says, his voice a little warmer than she’s accustomed to hearing it; they don’t often discuss things that don’t relate to work. He waits a moment, then adds, dryly, “It rained.”
She can’t help smiling. “It does tend to do that.”
When they drift back into quiet, she opens the book again. He stares forward, just like the other two members of the security team they’ve brought along, but all the same she can’t shake the sense that he’s looking at her. It is, she supposes, just a very acute awareness of his presence. She uncrosses her legs, then crosses them again; brushes her hair back to reveal her neck. (All to be blamed, of course, on the fact that it’s rather uncomfortable business, sitting down for so long.) She resumes her reading. But now – ardently! ardently! The word ached in her ardent body! Was this what that feeling of bliss had been leading up to?
+
‘Take the stairs,’ she told him once, so this time he makes sure to use the elevator. He’s still shaky on his legs: it makes him feel pathetic, more animal than human. Doesn’t matter if his hand’s trembling, he’s got a gun in it. He’ll kill her, he thinks. He likes the idea. He can’t think of a better grand finale. Here he is, accidental vigilante, turned good guy not out of honor, not for believing in what’s right, but because the bad guys took him out and what better way to wreak vengeance. Outside is alive with hell sounds.
He bursts through her office doors without knocking or waiting, and wouldn’t you know, Judith’s not there to call him on it. He wonders what happened to Judith, who he’s never really bothered to think about before.
Her office is still perfect, down to the same lamps, to the same fake flowers she keeps in a vase. She’s standing in the middle of it, queenly even now, her back to him. He takes in the sight of her for a second, just a second. Black skirt, silky blouse, blacks and purples and blues: it makes him think of bruises, even though the colors are too bright. He laughs without meaning to, bitterly, because isn’t it just like her, the world’s over but Adelle DeWitt is still dressed for success, sophisticated, standing tall. God forbid she waste away with the rest of them.
At the sound, she turns. Her hair is pulled back but it’s falling out around her face. There are big dark circles underneath her eyes. Not perfect, then, not ice, but he’s mad anyway, doesn’t care, doesn’t soften. Her lips part like she’s going to say something. He imagines some coy, crisp remark, Mr. Dominic. You enjoyed your time off, I hope. You’re looking a bit under the weather, forgive me for saying so. I was hoping your second foray into the Attic might take care of that. It doesn’t come. She stays quiet. Falters. He wants to hit her but he wants (and this has always been his problem) to fuck her, too. When he goes for her, gun in his right hand, she doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t get out of his way, either. This is what makes him realize, somewhere in his mind, that somehow, for some reason, she’s changed. Right now, he doesn’t care.
His hand goes to her throat like something else steers it there. Her skin is cool underneath his fingers, and he can feel the thump of her pulse. It quickens at his touch, the only sign that she’s scared of him. (Shaken, at least. He doesn’t know if he can scare her, not even now.) When he slams her down onto the sofa, she looks up at him like she expects him to kiss her, like she’s mocking him with it. If nothing else, it pulls him back into his own body.
“I regret to inform you, ma’am—” Each word, the first he’s spoken since he got out, is steady and hot with anger, just like his fingertips on her throat, her pulse, “—that we’ve had a security breach.”
“I sent for you, Mr. Dominic,” she says, looking up at him, her arm draped over her head like an old movie damsel’s, the skin of it so white.
+
They’re in her office, which, for the record, is really nice. Not his suit-nice, but close. He’s never really paid attention before for some reason. The red walls make everything feel nice and warm and calm, which is interesting, ‘cause red is supposed to be all about anger, or sex, or something, but he’s feeling pretty good. Not that sex isn’t good. Sex would be very good. Speaking of things he hasn’t had in awhile. Were they speaking of things he hasn’t had in awhile?
Ms. DeWitt is closing the door, even though Judith doesn’t seem to want them to. Judith is such a drag. “I can have a word in private with my Head of Security, Judith, if you don’t mind,” Ms. DeWitt’s saying, badass as usual. She’s so good at being in charge. Sure, it’s a sick twisted evil organization she’s in charge of, but, like, he couldn’t walk in those heels. He’s just saying. “And unless I am mistakennn—” She kinda drags it out like that, mistakennnn, like three, four n’s at least, it’s funny, “—I am the boss here. Do go be secretarial, will you?”
“But Ms. DeWitt, I was told to—”
Ms. DeWitt slams the door, then lets out a gleeful little laugh as she twists the lock. This is fun. He’s pretty sure he’s having a really good day. Like, stuff at that college science lab earlier was weird, like, take a chill pill everyone, and he’s pretty sure Echo still hates him for trying to kill her, which makes him feel awful because she has these really big eyes and it’s like kicking a puppy and he likes puppies, who doesn’t like puppies, but now that he’s here, he’s good.
“We should hang out more often,” he says, since it’s on his mind.
“I know,” Ms. DeWitt says; it’s weird, kinda, to call her ‘Ms.’ all the time, and why doesn’t he get to use her first name, anyway? Professionalism is stupid. Adelle is a pretty name. “I’ve spent the whole afternoon with Topher, and he didn’t even have any trousers on. Very inappropriate.”
“Topher!” Dominic groans. “I hate that guy!”
“He doesn’t think too highly of you, either, I’ll have you know. Earlier he said some piece of drivel about how you’d never willingly have fun.”
“What? I know how to have fun. I’m having fun right now.”
“Exactly! You’ll be happy to know I defended you most ardently.”
“You did?” For someone who occasionally kills disobedient handlers with sleeper dolls, she’s so nice. Oh well. Hearn was an asshole anyway.
“Well, no,” she admits, frowning. “But I’m quite sure I wanted to. I have no idea why I didn’t say anything. I never say anything, come to think of it! It must be very unhealthy. Oh! Speaking of unhealthy. Have you ever had Twinkies?”
“Uh, yeah. Who hasn’t?”
“I hadn’t.” She looks sad. “I lead a very repressed existence, I think.”
“Me too,” he says, looking at her legs. They’re all there, and leg-shaped. Really exceptional.
“Ooh, ooh, you know what’d be brilliant? If we sneaked down and stole Topher’s trampoline.”
“Brilliant. That’s a good word.”
“Do you think so? I know it’s a bit British. Do you think it’s unfortunate, that I can’t say my R’s the right way?” He never really thought about it before, like, purposefully thought about it, but she’s right. It’s kinda more like … ‘ahhhh.’ He likes that, though. Just between you and him, the British thing, it’s kind of hot. Except take out the ‘kind of,’ and replace it with ‘very.’
“No, no, no.” He figures three no’s should do the trick, to get her to believe him. He does a lot of that, getting her to believe him. “I love how you talk.”
“You do?” she asks, flattered.
“Definitely.”
“You talk very nicely too,” she replies. He grins. “Though you’re American, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he agrees, nodding.
“However. The trampoline. I really do think that this is something that must be done.”
“Oh yeah,” he says, mostly because she wants to, and that’s what he’s here for. To do her bidding.
“First, of course, we must formulate a plan of action. Topher will be there to guard it, and I suspect he has hidden powers even though he’s such a fidgety little fellow. Not to mention that he’s had a great deal of sugar—”
“Ms. DeWitt?” he interrupts, because okay, all of a sudden this is bothering him.
“Mr. Dominic?”
“Can I tell you something?”
“Anything,” she says. “Anything at all.”
But he knows, even though he’s feelin’ pretty good right now, even though they are going to totally school Topher Brink in the ways of trampoline-having, and maybe even steal some Twinkies just to really rub it in his face (oh, it’ll be good), even though he and Adelle DeWitt are total partners in crime, he can’t do it. It’s like – something just won’t let him. Somewhere in the back of his head, he still knows that the reason he’s here is a secret he’s always gonna have to keep.
“Never mind,” he says.
She shrugs easily. “All right.”
Phew. Crisis averted.
“Judith will be right outside, mind.” She glares at the door, like she can see through it. “Determined to stop us. What a little shrew she is.”
“Let her try,” Dominic growls.
“Oh, Mr. Dominic,” she says, delighted. “Do promise me something, won’t you.”
“Sure.”
“Let’s do a great deal more of this in the future,” she orders, drumming her fingers excitedly on his arm. He looks down at them. “I don’t think we spend nearly enough time together. Even though—” Her brow furrows, confused, “—well, I suppose, technically, we spend almost all of our time together. But we ought to steal more trampolines.”
“Absolutely,” he says, liking the idea. “Because, you know, everyone needs hobbies.”
“This is a good hobby,” she mutters with great conviction.
“Especially you and me – we have it really tough.”
“We do!” she agrees emphatically.
“We have to be all serious, all the time, and take care of everything, and everyone thinks, ‘Oh, they’re so boring, they’re no fun’, but it’s like, where would they be without us, huh??”
“Drowning in their own incompetence, I should think,” she says, all savagely triumphant.
“Exactly! Drowning.”
“And for the record,” she says, “I don’t think you’re at all boring.”
He feels really guilty, with her looking at him like that. She might be his favourite person in the world. It’s not like that’s saying much, because he doesn’t really like very many people – who’s he gonna like, Topher? – but still. He wishes he didn’t have to lie to her. But it’d be worse, he reminds himself very sternly, if he didn’t.
“Let’s do this,” he says instead, sneering a little, using his badassest of tones. Yeah, that’s right. Head of Security, bitch.
She does a giddy little bounce, then puts on her serious face, the one that could probably kill innocent bystanders from sheer power. (And great hair.) He unlocks the door in one quick movement, and they stride out of the office, epic, determined, nothing standing between them and Topher’s trampoline.
Then Judith shuts down the whole operation pretty fast. Friggin’ Judith.
+
Even after Alpha’s escaped, they all keep going a long time, running on fear and disbelief. It’s surreal. Dominic’s spent his whole life making sure he could handle something like this, and he’s doing just fine. He feels weird, detached, steady. It’s like the worse things get, the easier it becomes to bark out orders, to take everything in stride. And yeah, there’s a small flicker of something in the back of his head – all that blood – but he ignores it. He’s got a knack for compartmentalizing.
Right now, he’s walking next to DeWitt. Topher’s on her other side, letting out a stream of chatter that’s even more deranged than usual (Dominic can grudgingly forgive him this, considering the circumstances); she’s nodding, offering concise replies, and then she stumbles. It’s not exactly a surprise considering those shoes she wears, but he’s never seen her so much as waver for a second in those things before. She’s crumbling, he thinks, and as soon as he thinks it it strikes him as such a stupid word, a Topher word, that’s the way the cookie crumbles, ha ha ha. When Adelle DeWitt starts losing her poise, you know it’s bad.
She doesn’t fall; he gets there first. He catches her elbow on instinct, steadying her.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Dominic,” she says, crisp and impatient, like his saving her from a collision with the floor is a minor inconvenience. He moves his hand away. Petty annoyance surges through him, just for a second. He needs to get some rest. They all do.
Things settle into a gradual calm. It’s not peaceful, though. It hangs over the whole House, stale and weak, like an animal caught in a trap once the biting and keening’s done, and all that’s left to do is give in to death. He starts to feel sick in his own skin. He wants a shower and a cup of coffee. He needs to shave.
There’s not much more any of them can do. DeWitt goes up to her office. He thinks of following her, but something stops him. (His hand on her arm, her clipped little admonishment.)
He goes into the kitchen. It’s empty and seems vast that way. His mind darts, inexplicably, to that scene in Jurassic Park with the velociraptors. He can’t remember the last time he watched a movie.
He rummages around until he finds a mug (it’s a friendly sky blue, round and big-handled), then goes searching for tea. He finds a box in the cupboard. It’s that fancy organic shit, of course. Nothing but the best for our programmable humans. It’s called Peppermint Sigh – yeah, yeah – and it’s got a quote from Confucius on the back of the box.
It’s almost four in the morning when he goes up to her office. He pounds his knuckles lightly against the door, a little too soft to hear. Protocol. Then he goes in anyway.
She’s sitting on the sofa, a blanket around her shoulders. Her posture’s perfect, her ankles crossed primly. He’s struck by the random, not-unfamiliar feeling that sneaks up on him sometimes when she’s around and it’s quiet.
“Ma’am.”
When she looks up at him, it’s almost like watching her wake up. “Oh, Mr. Dominic.” She makes a move to stand. “Duty calls.”
“No,” he says, gesturing at her with his free hand to stay down. “I was just—”
Her mouth twists. “Checking up?”
“It’s been hard on all of us.”
“Yes,” she agrees mildly.
They look at one another. It’s strange to see her bone-tired, to see her anything less than flawless. She stares openly up at him, as if she’s too exhausted to register how atypical of them it is, or at least too exhausted to care.
After a long time, he holds the mug out to her. “I thought you might like …”
“Thank you.” She takes it.
“It’s lukewarm and bland. Tried looking for honey or something, but I—”
“You made me a cup of tea,” she observes wryly.
He’s surprised to find himself embarrassed. He just spent two days dealing with the aftermath of a multiple, multiple personality’d psychopath slipping out of their grasp, not without slaughtering everyone in his way first, and he’s blushing over a cup of tea.
“Don’t get used to it,” he says gruffly.
There’s a flicker of amusement in her face. “And … sampled it, I gather from your ‘lukewarm and bland’ assessment.”
“Again. Don’t get used to it.”
“A food taster of my very own,” she says. She’s sardonic, but there’s something more tender than usual underneath it. “What would I do without you.”
He feels bad for her, all of a sudden. He knows she’s got a scientific mind, that she took this job for the promise of progress. He’s been with her for almost three years now, and he can’t quite blame her the way he did at first. Sure, maybe she’s asking for it, but – well, there might not be a right place, not where the Dollhouse is concerned, but whatever’s closest to the right place, that’s where her heart is.
He can’t believe he’s thinking this. God, he needs some sleep.
“If you’d like to go home for a few hours, please do,” she says with some of her usual briskness, like she’s reading his mind. “I’m beginning to suspect there’s not much more we can do around here.”
He thinks about it. Shower. Coffee. Then he looks back down at her. Her hair is escaping from its clip, falling into her face; her eye makeup’s smudged, a little. “The Head of Security should be on the premises,” he says. “Just in case.”
“Precisely the kind of thinking that made you Head of Security in the first place,” she replies, as if this is a perfectly practical business decision. They both know it isn’t. He should be on his game. Rest would be the best call for both of them right now. He doesn’t completely care. “You can sit down, if you like,” she adds.
His immediate impulse is to refuse, but he’s suddenly aware of just how long he’s been standing. He sits. He makes sure there’s space between them.
“This is terrible,” she says after awhile. “The tea.”
“I know,” he says, making a face at her as he looks over. “Sorry.”
She laughs, staring down into its depths. Then she turns and meets his eyes. She’s beautiful, he thinks. He’s too tired not to think it. Suddenly, the space between them seems like nothing at all. She leans forward, or maybe he does. It’s a near-imperceptible movement, but this, them, it’s always been like that. Nuances and details. Things most people wouldn’t notice at all. He feels all of them with her.
This can’t happen, he reminds himself.
“Ma’am,” he says, his voice a little hoarse, “regarding Alpha—”
To her credit, she shifts right away. There’s no awkward pause, no moment of transition. Her voice is steady as ever as she says, “Don’t. Please. Let’s give ourselves fifteen minutes to forget Alpha. Just this once. I get the feeling we won’t have the opportunity again for a very long time.”
“Okay,” he says. Lately, he can’t find it in himself to want to refuse her anything. He remembers before he came here, when he thought this job would be easy.
They sit in silence that’s mostly comfortable. She drinks the whole cup of tea. He expects her to fall asleep, but she doesn’t: she sits tall, her expression thoughtful. Eventually, he’s the one who drifts off.
+
A few weeks after Mr. Langton replaces Mr. Dominic as Head of Security, Adelle comes across the book of Katherine Mansfield short stories on her shelf at home. She considers throwing it out; considers burning it. But she is done with that, with falling prey to her own foolish impulses. It is a book, a rare and lovely book. It would be sentimental and foolish to give it any additional meaning. She decides she will spend the evening reading. She turns to “Bliss,” which has always been her favourite.
At the end of the story, the young woman realizes that her husband is having an affair with one of the dinner guests. It is particularly timed to sting, as it’s right after she has begun – randomly, exquisitely – to come alive, to feel her desire for him catch and burn bright, even though they’ve been together so long.
Bertha simply ran over to the long windows.
“Oh, what is going to happen now?” she cried.
But the pear tree was as lovely as ever and as full of flower and as still.
She cries. When she is done, she goes into the bathroom and washes her face with cold water. She considers her reflection, and does not leave until she is content that none of what she is feeling shows in her face. She puts the book back onto the shelf, then goes to pour herself a drink.
+
But God, he’s a mess, lying there shaking in that ridiculous white bodysuit. She thinks of him with his beautiful expensive suits, always so handsome. If he were in less physical pain he would, she is certain, be humiliated. She has ruined him quite utterly, she supposes. Her revenge, his punishment: it’s been very thorough. They tell her that he must go to a hospital, that he’ll die otherwise. The warning makes her stomach lurch, one breathless instant protest to the idea. For a second, all she knows is that she does not want him dead. The feeling is an unwelcome one, needless to say: she buries it in fury first, then in cool efficient mercilessness. She tells them to put him back in the Attic, because tactically, it is the best option. (Because long ago she cried over him until she couldn’t breathe, because Boyd Langton is the better man by far and still, still she misses Dominic by her side, and he will pay for that, he must pay for that.)
He catches her arm, his hand stiff and terribly cold. She does not know – and it’s a stupid thing to notice at all – whether he’s touched her before. She rather thinks he hasn’t, at least not intentionally, at least not in a way that he has meant as he means this now. She dimly recalls him catching her elbow once, to keep her from falling.
“You bitch,” he says, each word a fight; he is not weak, she’ll give him that. Perhaps he’s as hardened as she is. “I’d rather die.”
She leans in close. “Well, I’d rather you didn’t.”
She puts her hand on top of his. To pluck it off, to cast it aside: a very unimportant thing, this matter of his fingers on her skin. Her hands are much warmer than his. Even in his wasting state, his grip is very sure.
She drops his hand – leaves this room and her own words behind. Fortunately, she has no time to pause, to ponder whether she meant it, and why.
+
“I suppose I don’t seem so bad anymore, huh,” Dominic says, after she’s told him about Boyd Langton. They sit at one of the tables in the former crafts area. Old art supplies litter the floor; no one’s been very attentive when it comes to keeping the place clean. Once, she thinks wryly, she wouldn’t have stood for that – not in her House. Dominic is absently twisting a paint brush between his fingers. She has her own hands wrapped around a cup of tea, one of the last. Supplies are running out. She left Topher around a half hour ago, after she’d finally coaxed him into sleeping. Today was one of the torturous instances where he thinks ceaselessly of Bennett, insisting again and again that he can bring her back, at turns extolling her virtues and wiping her imagined blood from his face.
It says something about the state of her existence, that Laurence Dominic’s company has become soothing. (Again, adds a troublesome voice in the back of her head.)
“I suppose not, in comparison,” she agrees lightly. “It’s hardly saying much.”
“It wasn’t me,” he says. “The mole sending messages to Ballard through altered imprints. The chip in the chair. That wasn’t me. I didn’t want anyone finding the place any more than you did.”
“Looking at the big picture, I suppose it was Langton. All part of his master plan.” She embellishes the last two words with a scowl.
“I was NSA, but I wasn’t lying to you, before you sent me to the Attic,” he says, every bit as earnest and as harsh as when he was bound before her, that night in her house. “I wanted to keep the tech from leaking to the public. Keep the House safe. Just like you.”
“You were NSA,” she says, noting the past tense. It’s the only part of what he’s said that she can bring herself to latch onto.
“I’m not gonna delude myself into thinking I’m ever getting out of here.” He is a little frightening to look at, his face haggard, his bitterness so apparent in his features. “Besides. The end is nigh. All hell’s broken loose, plus a little extra. Where do I have to go?”
The life of everyone in this House is ruined. She thinks of the nightmare that rages outside their makeshift Eden here: at this point, in all likelihood, everyone in the modern world’s lives are ruined. And the important things have not changed. He was a spy. He was punished accordingly. Still, a memory suddenly plagues her: him strapped into the chair, eyes wild, fixed dead on her. The sudden bloom of pain when he shot her. She still has the scar – will always, of course, for what would be the point of scars otherwise?
His ruin, at least, is her fault.
“I’m sorry,” she says, meaning it. The words are soft, and sound very brittle.
He doesn’t say anything back. A little ways away, a large group of their fellow captives have begun to sing, something classic and beloved that she can’t remember the title of anymore. Their voices give it the dusky, hopeful reverence of a church hymn.
+
He steps into her office. “Sierra's been kidnapped.”
“Ah. She drew his focus away from Rayna.” She smiles up at him, pleased. “Well, that was a good call.”
He nods. “Thank you. Her handler's outside location, I told him to wait for our team.”
“Yes, that's best. Echo?”
“On task. Still protecting Rayna.”
He turns to go.
“Are you a fan, Mr. Dominic?” she finds herself asking.
He turns. “I'm sorry?”
“Rayna. Do you like her music?”
For a moment, she thinks he might smile. The question’s thrown him a bit, she can tell. He recovers easily. “I don't know if being a fan has much to do with that. Not at the level we’re dealing with.”
Professionally minded as ever. In fairness, she doubts he’d ever own up to a liking for something called Superstar (Smash It).
“No,” she agrees pleasantly. “Get the girl. Close it out.”
He does. She sits alone in her office, with nothing to do but wait for Echo to succeed, for their services to sort out the problem perfectly. They’ve laid the groundwork for it well. Even after Alpha, things are capable of running smoothly, of being mended. She feels a flash of fondness for Mr. Dominic. Three years now: hiring him was no doubt one of the best decisions she’s made for the House. She cannot quite imagine this place without him. She amuses herself by wondering what sort of music he might like.
+
It’s early in the morning; rain pounds on the roof, twitches down the windows. The two of them are the only ones up. They sit at the kitchen table, nursing cups of shitty instant coffee. He’s not sure he can remember the taste of good coffee, which he guesses is a small consolation. Adelle’s never been a coffee drinker, but she’s always been fiercely adaptable.
They don’t talk for awhile. Don’t really need to. They know each other well enough that silence isn’t unendurable in each other’s company. Besides, they’re both tired.
“This is new,” she finally remarks, tracing one finger lightly over a cut across his cheek that’s nearly healed.
“It’s not bad,” he says, and tries not to remember getting it.
“It seems every time you come back to me, I’ve some new wound to discover.”
“Yeah, well. Gotta keep you interested somehow.”
She laughs a little, and takes another sip of her coffee. He does the same.
“I’m beginning to feel like a soldier’s wife,” she says after awhile, looking at the rain on the windowsill instead of him. “Or Penelope, God forbid. Who knew the apocalypse could turn one so saccharine. You’d hope it’d have the opposite effect.”
He watches her, drinks in the sight of her. Her hair is messy and tangled, and there are circles under her eyes, lines on her face. He can’t remember the last time she wore makeup. She’s dressed in one of his shirts; it’s too big and slides down, leaving one shoulder bare. He thinks of all the times he’s nearly died, and the fact that somehow, he’s still here next to her, even though logic and chance and everything else says he shouldn’t be, even though the world’s ended.
“Every time you leave,” she says, still watching the rain, “I wonder, ‘Ah, will this be it, then. Will this be the last time I see him.’ It’s so wearying to wait for someone when you can’t even be certain they’ll come back.”
“If I promised you,” he says, “to always come back, something tells me I’d bite it the second I walked out the door.”
“Yes,” she agrees, her mouth curving in a sad smile. “That sounds just about right, all things considered.”
“Tell you what. Let’s not risk it.”
“Let’s not.”
He reaches over and rests his hand on her bare shoulder. This right here, her skin underneath his fingers – somewhere along the line this became what he keeps fighting for. He doesn’t know what else there is to save. Sometimes, he doesn’t care. She closes her eyes and leans into the touch.
+
She’s more attractive than he’d expected. He’s seen pictures, and even some video footage. Somehow, that doesn’t prepare him for standing a few feet away from her. It’s not like walking in heels is a rare skill among women, but the way she does it as she comes up to meet him – it makes him think of siren song, ships dashed on rocks, not a chance of survival for the sailors, poor bastards. Resistance is futile: that kind of thing. There’s no way she’s not a crazy bitch, but hey, at least he’ll have something to look at day in and day out. In terms of assignments, he could have done a lot worse.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Dominic,” she says. Her voice is warm and low and pretty, clipped and inviting all at once. The accent definitely works in her favor. He thinks he might understand how she gets those sorry sons of bitches to sign their lives away. It had seemed incomprehensible before. Her words, her demeanor, it’s all very professional, but a smile hints at her mouth, and her eyes are smart and bright. “My name is Adelle DeWitt. I look forward to working with you.”
“And you, ma’am,” he says. Gracefully, she offers her hand for him to shake.
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I...will be back later, to reread this and give you better comment. All I can say right now is OH MY GOD, YES.
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(This line - He wants to hit her but he wants (and this has always been his problem) to fuck her, too - was brilliant, by the way. It is a thesis statement for their entire relationship! Oh, they are amazing together.)
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(A thesis statement, WITH PROFANITY! They are the dream, this ship. That was, you know it, totally totally Iron & Wine inspired. Evening On The Ground has somehow totally become my Epitaph One Scene Of Incomparable Beauty song!)
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THIS IS LOVELY. So lovely, in fact, I must have died from it. Angst! Bitterness! Strangulation! Cool professionalism! Plotting to steal Topher's trampoline! Ahee!
So many quotable lines. May I just hug this fic and shower it with cake? *hugs fic and showers it with cake*
I want to see this speculative future land in the finale. I MUST SEE IT.
Professionally minded as ever. In fairness, she doubts he’d ever own up to a liking for something called Superstar (Smash It).
LOL. I LIEK 'EM THAT SONG.
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p.s. Hahahahahaha, your icon is such ENTIRE PERFECTION.
tl;dr ridiculous feedback
(Oh, OH and those promo pics of ADELLE in jeans and a sweatshirt good god she is so beautiful and I LOVE that you put in a bit about her ambivalence to that change - her clothes have always been such a huge part of her character, because the way she chooses to present herself is SO important and SO calculated - Adelle in JEANS!)
Oh my god uncrossing her legs while reading BLISS you are killing me. And then you bring it back later, ouch, that is awesome. It's funny imagining DeWitt as having anything in common with a woman so giddy and oblivious as Bertha, and yet she has that stroke of idealism that does seem to blind her at times. Not just about Dominic, but the house itself, and Rossum. (Also, and this is weird, but I think Caroline and Bennett actually fit that story well too, a parallel perhaps with Bertha and Pearl, who are so slashy, after all.)
I loooove Judith. Why did we never see her!? Only one line tossed off when we could have been having wacky secretary shenanigans this whole time. JUDITH, I'm so looking forward to her being in all sorts of fic.
Oh man, the interlude after Alpha - that is my favourite. I love what you've done with his awareness of her, and of his situation undercover, and the exhaustion that just suffuses that whole piece. It seems very, very in-character, and I love the little detail of him sitting and maintaining a careful distance - that's one thing that seems evident in Reed Diamond's performance; he always seems very physically controlled, and although they walk super-close together, he almost seems to maintain a precise distance from her when they're face to face, like he can't look at her straight on and let himself get too close (professionalism WOO - and of course that goes straight out the window once she knows his secret. Then its All Invading Personal Space All the Time!)
That paragraph was actually intended to rave about the "food taster" line, which is so perfectly DeWitt's sense of humour I can hear Olivia Williams delivering it.
OH GOD THOSE LAST FEW PARAGRAPHS - DeWitt without makeup, without pretense. I'm dead now I need you to know. They're so COMFORTABLE with each other, even when they resent each other or hate each other, so you get past all that and to a quiet moment like that, and they're just together being wry and pragmatic and that EASE they've always had with each other comes through so well. I love the contrast in their styles of speech too, with Dominic talking about 'biting it' and Adelle talking about how 'wearying' the apocalypse is, and refusing to surrendor to life as Penelope. God, they're wonderful.
In case you couldn't tell, THIS IS WONDERFUL.
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Re: Bliss -- and this is me being so geeky and so shippy (big surprise!) -- I decided a long time ago that I would love some way of subtextually confirming that Roger and Adelle's Miss Lonelyhearts escapades are her way of solving the fact that she can't be with Dominic, thus making Roger, you know, her substitute Dominic! And so I thought, "I know, I'll use the name Katherine! That shall be the link!" But then it was like, Um, okay, because obviously Adelle and Dominic would spend endless hours conveniently discussing the name Katherine and thus filling it with significance, NOT. And there is my weird tendency to want to spell it with a K, which limited my fount of Katherines all the more! But then on the plane ride back to school, when I had nothing to do but, er, ponder writing fanfiction, I was like, "OH HEY, KATHERINE MANSFIELD!!!" And my heart did soar and the angels did sing, etc. So my wily intent there was totally just to get the name Katherine in there, and thus imply that she chose that name for when she was with Roger in quiet reference to her feelings for Dominic. Haha, with that being said, I didn't want to make it overt at all, because I felt like no way could I justify Adelle ever consciously addressing this, but as such, I don't know if it even registers at all. I put that reference to it in the first paragraph and decided that was as overt as I was going to get, but WHO KNOWS! In any case, these are my adventures in endeavouring to create subtext, whoohoo!
Also: haha, I will shamefully admit that I did not reread Bliss while writing this, I just kinda flipped around and grabbed a few quotes. But I loved that when I covered it in a class last year, and I like the notion of creating a parallel between HARDCORE AS ALL Adelle and this flighty, oblivious young woman. Dominic's "It's embarrassing, how naive you are" line from Spy in the House of Love seems to forever resound in my brain when I contemplate Adelle's characterization. I think she's hardened so much this season -- and of course it is delightfully easy to believe that that's due to Dom's betrayal! -- but then, if we're going by Epitaph, she sort of softens again, and I do think she is sort of inherently romantic in spite of her hard edges. She's so lovely and maternal and kind with Topher toward the end there. I just love the notion of her character getting to run that full spectrum.
God, I am talking about this A LOT. Also, A++++ to your comment about Bertha and Pearl as Bennett and Caroline. I so need to reread this story again. And -- have enthusiastic shippy feelings about Bennett/Caroline. (Which is not gonna be hard! Sorry Topher. :( )
JUDITH. SHE IS EVERYWHERE. It is genuinely weird to me that we've never seen her, because she is mentioned SO OFTEN. I didn't really pay attention for awhile, but ever since the start of the show, Adelle has been calling for Judith! Getting Judith to do things! And I'm just like, Who is Judith, and why does she have such a continuous presence even though we've never seen her!
... maybe she's the true mastermind, and Boyd's her mere minion. She's gonna chop the head off humanity like Judith did to Holofernes!!
I get the sense that maybe this comment is approaching too long; will continue in another! (Oh, man, you poor creature. Look at this mad ramblitude you've sparked with your awesomeness!)
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Just completely captures everything we've seen about their relationship and everything we've got our fingers crossed to see.
*is utterly dead*
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I really hope Dominic gets the ending you write. Wouldn't it be epic if he did? I'd be blown away because I'm fully expecting him to die within the next two weeks. Because you know, if there's even a speck of happiness, Joss will just have to ruin it moments later.
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Thank you so much for reading! :D
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point one: i love that song
And then the little scenes that take place pre-Spy are so heart wrenchingly normal! I can completely picture them taking place in between all the power walking. You've completely captured the dynamic of their relationship, from the utterly professional to those little hints that created this ship in the first place.
The rest? Painful, painful, and I mean that in the best way possible. Sad and beautiful, the future of their relationship laid out in the only way I can picture it. Just perfect.
There's so many quotable lines and little bits that made me smile. I love it. The vignette style was very smooth, and the characterization was so good I could hear the actors in my head. Adding to memories for sure.
ps. I love Judith
pps. I love you for writing this.
Re: point one: i love that song
Again: THANK YOU!
Also, I feel like Judith might have some very stealthy rise to fame and power, or maybe be the mastermind behind it all, like, Boyd works for her. Stealthy secretary power!
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I've been meaning to read Katherine Mansfield as well, haha :)
I can't pick a favourite scene, they are great. I think it's very appropriate that you end with the scene when they've first met. I also like how you connect the scenes together with references to past events, objects like the Mansfield book, how DeWitt's office was still the same.
Lovely lovely work, I can't thank you enough for writing these stories.
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Don't you fucking dare. I'm serious if you do that I'm going to need to start focusing on things that are real and DO NOT WANT!
About the fic, first let me say this: fsghdfsbvskm I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!
She supposes they’ve always had this odd unrelenting compatibility, in spite of everything.
TRUTH!
given to her by Mr. Dominic
For some reason the the passive voice here just kind of made me squee. It gave it a kind of tenderness.
He’s so good at silent stoicism that she’s begun to suppose it is in fact his preferred mode of existence. Still, when she thinks about it, he’s quite charming in conversation. Suddenly all the silence seems a terrible waste.
The "preferred mode of existence" kind of hilarious, but in that subtle good reading type of way. And the ending, oh it is so Adelle, and again with just this tender bittersweetness that is through out this fic and kills me.
I'm going to preface my next few reactions with: you write D/D high really well.
Not his suit-nice, but close.
ROFL! I loved the suit love.
Judith is such a drag. “I can have a word in private with my Head of Security, Judith, if you don’t mind,” Ms. DeWitt’s saying, badass as usual. She’s so good at being in charge. Sure, it’s a sick twisted evil organization she’s in charge of, but, like, he couldn’t walk in those heels. He’s just saying. “And in case I am mistakennn—” She kinda drags it out like that, mistakennnn, like three, four n’s at least, it’s funny, “—I am the boss here. Do go be secretarial, will you?”
First, the "Judith is such a drag" is a perfect example of why you write them high so well, it is just that they suddenly state things in a really kind of simple way of awesome. I love Dominic acknowledging DeWitt's total and constant badassness. And Dominic and the heels! I needed to keep in the whole paragraph for "go be secretarial" It's so Adelle.
and why doesn’t he get to use her first name, anyway? Professionalism is stupid. Adelle is a pretty name.
You write the highness so, so well!
For someone who occasionally kills disobedient handlers with sleeper dolls, she’s so nice. Oh well. Hearn was an asshole anyway.
Oh they're disregard for human life, I shouldn't like it as much as I so obviously do.
and that’s what he’s here for. To do her bidding.
This was again a line that struck me as bittersweet, as well as awesome, and true.
even though they are going to totally school Topher Brink in the ways of trampoline-having... even though he and Adelle DeWitt are total partners in crime
I love the idea that this is possibly how Dominic thinks all the time it is just more expressive and hilarious while high. And they are total partners in crime!
She might be his favourite person in the world.
Again with the lovely, and the bittersweet.
Yeah, that’s right. Head of Security, bitch.
Totally going on an icon, just so you know.
She does a giddy little bounce, then puts on her serious face, the one that could probably kill innocent bystanders from sheer power.
It probably could. I like how high Dominic is basically expressing all of my fannish feelings about Adelle.
but whatever’s closest to the right place, that’s where her heart is
I'll just be over sobbing like a baby 'cause their so heartbreaking and you capture consistently and with such prettiness.
(Because long ago she cried over him until she couldn’t breathe, because Boyd Langton is the better man by far and still, still she misses Dominic by her side, and he will pay for that, he must pay for that.)
This is so how I see her reaction, and I love that you had it.
There’s no way she’s not a crazy bitch
LOL!
Not line specific, when Dominic almost spilled the beans to her while he was high, it was so perfect, and it made me upset for both of them, and I just, I want to hug them, or have them hug or each other. JUST HUGS NEED TO MAKE EVERYTHING BETTER, OKAY?
This whole thing was so bitter sweet and amazing. It killed me. You're writing is really fantastic, and you've captured them perfectly. Seriously, every line was so in character, and so them.
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Bwahaha, I am so happy you enjoyed the high section! I had way too much fun with that. I just finished writing a zilllllllllions page long (well, er, okay, that's a slight exaggeration) story that was first person and kind of goofy, so writing someone's ridiculous thought process came way too easily to me, to the point where I was like, 'Okay, this is Laurence Dominic, I should tone it down.' Except then I remembered the part where he stroked his sleeve and dubbed it soft like a kitty, and then I was validated.
Oh they're disregard for human life, I shouldn't like it as much as I so obviously do.
Hahahaha, LOVE! They're just so matchingly wicked over it, how can we not find it adorable & delight-inducing! I made an icon to express this very sentiment earlier:
DeWitt and Dominic ♥ torturing people and then chuckling over it later! Maybe this should be gross; however, their magic instead renders it adorable. It's just the way things are.
I like how high Dominic is basically expressing all of my fannish feelings about Adelle.
Hahaha, RIGHT? I have no shame! However: Dominic spends like all day every day around Adelle, and therefore gets to bask in her amazing more than anybody. There's no way he could just be immune to that, right??
This is so how I see her reaction, and I love that you had it.
I really liked writing that part, and trying to make it just as absolutely cold and hard and fierce as humanly possible. I think that rather than suggesting that she doesn't care about him at all in scenes like that one and the others where she's awful to him, it's more like ... confirmation of exactly how much she cares. How awful she is equals how affected she secretly feels. The utter epitome of this to me will, I think, always be her face in A Spy in the House of Love when she interrogates him, where it's just so blank and so hardcore and expressionless that somehow you can see the pain it's causing her to be that utterly unaffected and merciless. AUGH, OLIVIA GODDESS WILLIAMS. ♥
And, wow, this comment got gigantic! Again, thank you so much!!
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Although I think the Echoes part was my favorite, because it was hilarious. Trying to kill Echo is like trying to kill a puppy! He wants to school Topher, of course he does! JUDITH! And then there's the part where he wants to tell her he's a spy, but even drugged he knows that's a terrible idea, and it's so sad and also weirdly sweet. He just wants to come clean!
And I really love the last two scenes too - the second to last one, because it's really how I imagine their relationship going if they both live long enough. Like it was in the first place, but better, because then they don't have the lies and the professionalism to come between them. And then I think ending with the beginning was perfect!
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I am realizing just how dire my need to rewatch Echoes is. I haven't seen it in ages! Ages! And for some reason, I've watched all the Adelle/Topher parts so many times that I've got it pretty much committed to memory, but the Dominic parts are like a distant unbelievable giddy dream to me! Reed Diamond, how so hilariously awesome.
Like it was in the first place, but better, because then they don't have the lies and the professionalism to come between them.
Cue wistful, hopeful sigh!!! Themmmm.
Again: thank you so much!
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you killed me.
She does not feel quite like herself in jeans and sweatshirts, old trainers that leave her feet flat on the ground. She still hasn’t decided whether it’s liberating or humiliating.
This struck me as being so perfectly Adelle. It's a strange thing, the ability to wear the casual look. Some people think its awful to ~make~ women wear heals but, to me, wearing heels and a dress/or skirt makes me more empowered than jeans and trainers. I imagine it to be the same for Adelle, of course her outfits are hot, but they are also part of her creating a persona.
“Very clever. Feeling sentimental, are we, Mr. Dominic? Missing the good old days?”
“I’d say I’m pretty nostalgic for the days of old, yeah.”
THIS.
I have had many a ridiculous thought on what went down on the plane to Arizona but yours is the best. KATHERINE MANSFIELD AS A PRESENT! I love the idea that Dominic got Adelle a Christmas present, I wonder what she got him.
“It rained.”
She can’t help smiling. “It does tend to do that.”
Everyone always writes it rains in England, so when I read this I made a frown-y face, ~its not always raining~ then I looked out the window and it was raining. LOL you are right. It does tend to rain. ♥
He wants to hit her but he wants (and this has always been his problem) to fuck her, too.
God, this. So much. That is what's compelling about them, they want to hate each other, make each other suffer but there is something more under the surface that makes them stop, or sometimes urges them on.
Everything about the Echoes part is perfect. Stealing Topher's trampoline. Genius. You wrote high!Dominic really, really well!! ♥ God Judith. RUINING THE FUN.
There’s a flicker of amusement in her face. “And … sampled it, I gather from your ‘lukewarm and bland’ assessment.”
Perfect. There is a sense of cautious chivalry in this whole scene, god Mr Dominic I love you.
(Because long ago she cried over him until she couldn’t breathe, because Boyd Langton is the better man by far and still, still she misses Dominic by her side, and he will pay for that, he must pay for that.)
To me this is exactly what is fueling Adelle in this scene. It's not that no one can take him miserable!Ballard offered and it's not that she particularly cares to have someone on the inside, Clyde is dead now anyway. It's that she wants to make him pay. Sometimes I wonder who long she would carry on making him pay.
Also the Boyd line. DAMN. I cannot wait to see Adelle's reaction to this. She is going to be so pissed on so many levels. I think she will be pissed, for sure, but accept it more easily and with less ~something~ (I can't think of the word I am searching for) than she did when she found out about Mr Dominic. Less bitterness maybe? I see it as a much less personal betrayal, of course :D
He was a spy.
I imagine Adelle says this to herself a lot, repeating it to detach him from whatever else he may of been to her, at the very least she considered him a friend.
The happily ever after future (not happily) you have envisioned for them is perfect. I'd like to hold on to some hope that he lives. This right here, her skin underneath his fingers – somewhere along the line this became what he keeps fighting for. He doesn’t know what else there is to save. &hearts ♥
I love that you ended at the beginning.
it makes him think of siren song, ships dashed on rocks, not a chance of survival for the sailors, poor bastards.
SO perfect.
I JUST LOVED IT, OK? :)
You write both Adelle and Mr Dominic just so on target and all of this is completely engaging and believable within the show. (Isn't it funny, I feel comfortable calling Adelle, Adelle but I never call Mr Dominic Laurence...pointless thought)
I LOVE YOU.
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Everyone always writes it rains in England, so when I read this I made a frown-y face, ~its not always raining~ then I looked out the window and it was raining. LOL you are right. It does tend to rain. ♥
Hahaha! The whole reason I put that little exchange in was because I vaguely referenced it in one of my earlier fics about them, and I was in such a bizarre state of 'I will tackle everything, everything in this fic, even my past fanfics!!!' that I just -- put it there. And dude, at least it's England! That way, raininess seems awesome! It rained nonstop for three weeks when I was home for Christmas break, and that's Alaska. It's just not the same. Damn it, Alaska!
There is a sense of cautious chivalry in this whole scene, god Mr Dominic I love you.
I want to build shrines to the phrase 'cautious chivalry' as applied to Dominic; it makes my heart go pitter-patter!
DAMN. I cannot wait to see Adelle's reaction to this. She is going to be so pissed on so many levels. I think she will be pissed, for sure, but accept it more easily and with less ~something~ (I can't think of the word I am searching for) than she did when she found out about Mr Dominic. Less bitterness maybe? I see it as a much less personal betrayal, of course :D
I AM LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS SO MUCH. It's just like -- gah, our poor girl. I really, really hope that they reference it in relation to Dominic's betrayal. Possibly in a scene where Adelle and Dom talk about their feelings. (I can't stop dreaming big! It's becoming a problem!)
(Isn't it funny, I feel comfortable calling Adelle, Adelle but I never call Mr Dominic Laurence...pointless thought)
Hahaha, same here! Adelle is pretty much Adelle to me, but the notion of calling Dominic Laurence or calling the ship Adelle/Laurence confuses my brain so much. Thank goodness their last names alliterate so snappily; solves so many problems!
Thanks again for the awesome feedback!!
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Brilliant, gorgeous, hilarious, heartbreaking, magnificent. Man, I love your brain.
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I am stubbornly going to believe that this is the way it will end - bitter and beaten and decidedly imperfect - with Adelle comparing herself to Penelope and not being too happy about it, but with some intangible sense of togetherness that still left me wondering whether they were lovers or companions or a little of both. (Of course it was while I was reading this that I realised how like Lord Asriel and Mrs Coulter they really are - with Echo /Caroline as Lyra. But that's a whole other story - and probably one that doesn't end the same way).
If I don't get the ending I want for them - and lets face it who ever gets the ending they want - I am going to come back here and read this and have my faith in the divine rightness of some things restored; no matter how messed up the world is.
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I love all the vignettes and on the second reading, when I was thinking about the themes, I realised that a lot of them include a touch and the ones that don't have some other small intimacy.
Oh, I love that you picked up on this! In its very earliest versions, before my idea shifted a lot, I wanted to take the Epitaph One Sexy Stranglin' scene and tie it back into a few flashback scenes and center the whole thing around rare instances in which they actually have physical contact. And even though I moved away from that idea a lot, the theme still stuck around pretty prominently, touch and lack thereof, and it just makes me super happy that you remarked upon it!
with some intangible sense of togetherness that still left me wondering whether they were lovers or companions or a little of both
Oh, I love how you phrased this. ♥ I say both! I wrote that imagining that, during that scene, they'd been romantically involved for at least a few years, and it didn't really occur to me 'til much later that I went this whole story without even including a single kiss. Which I guess is just Them Bein' Them, because so much of this dynamic is about the careful distance and what doesn't get said or done and how important the little, seemingly inconsequential stuff is.
(Of course it was while I was reading this that I realised how like Lord Asriel and Mrs Coulter they really are - with Echo /Caroline as Lyra. But that's a whole other story - and probably one that doesn't end the same way).
I haven't read this series for YEARS AND YEARS, but pretty much all that I remember about it is that I loved Lord Asriel/Mrs. Coulter. Therefore: APPROVED!
Again, thank you so much for your lovely comments, I'm so glad you enjoyed this.
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Despite the wonderful angst and the beautiful slow build of awareness you create between these two, I think my favorite scene in this fic is when they're drugged. Because I've always been insanely curious what happened between them during "Echoes" that made them so ungodly uncomfortable and embarrassed around each other the next day. Ah, deleted scene. This is now my canon. I love how you captured their cracked personalities so well.
You've got mad talent in pretty much everything you do. I am in humble awe!
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Sigh. This is perfection. There's so many things I loved, but especially LOVED your take on Echoes. And Dominic making Adelle tea and then being embarrassed about it. AWWW IT JUST MADE ME WANT TO SQUISH HIM. And your speculative futureland is totally my canon now. The end killed me and almost made me cryyyyyyy!!!! With them not having to speak and the shitty instant coffee AND EVERYTHINGGGGGG OMG. This right here, her skin underneath his fingers – somewhere along the line this became what he keeps fighting for. He doesn’t know what else there is to save. Sometimes, he doesn’t care. *GETS ALL CHOKED UP* ♥♥♥♥♥
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