fic: dollhouse (back to the imprint)
Title: Back to the Imprint
Author: acinogan
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2093
Spoilers/Warnings: gen whole series spoilers for aired episodes
A/N: believe it or not, i wrote a topher/claire shippy fic (one-sided). written for doom_cheesepuff for the Heart of Gold Exchange in whedonland.
A/N2: slowly chipping away at my writer's block...
"We still need a doctor." The words were out of his mouth before he thought more than a nanosecond about the wisdom of actually saying them.
"We need a doctor for Whiskey - look at her face!" the panicked handler chimed in. But DeWitt picked up on the underlying thread. She usually did.
"What exactly are you suggesting, Topher?" Compared to DeWitt and himself, the handler sounded like she was the one who'd gotten Ginzued by Alpha instead of Whiskey, who was standing statically next to the handler, blood starting to drip off of her face and onto his carpet. He'd requisition new carpet tomorrow.
"We need a doctor. She needs an engagement - she is still under contract - and let's face it," he groaned inwardly after making the unintentional pun, and DeWitt pursed her lips slightly in distaste, "I'm not seeing number one requested active in her future any more."
DeWitt paused briefly before telling him to make it happen.
"But what about her face?" the handler asked.
"You'll have a few minutes while Topher gets the new profile together. Take her down to medical and do your best."
"Saunders is still down there..."
"Do you need someone to hold your hand? You're a grown woman; do your job."
"You want me to take her--"
"In a few moments, she won't even remember. Go. Now." Effectively dismissed, the handler led the surprisingly placid Whiskey out of Topher's office. Well, not so surprising. This Whiskey had always been easily suggestible in her resting state. He wondered how she would be as the new Doc Saunders. He guessed that depended on him, though, didn't it? DeWitt noticed him going into work mode and left him to it.
He ran his fingers over the shelves of wedges, pulling out the ones he needed. He'd start with the old Doc Saunders's medical knowledge. But leave out that lollipop thing. They were actives, not kids. She should care about the actives...oh, maybe even more than herself, so she wouldn't want to leave the Dollhouse. Leaving would be problematic. He should probably help that along with some mild-to-moderate agoraphobia, keep her here where she'd feel safe. Well, in theory, she should have been safe here before, but... No, the composite event was an anomaly, and it was over and it wouldn't happen again.
He'd throw in a soupçon of deviousness and a dash of suspicion so she'd be able to hold her own against the rest of the staff. And just enough idealism to let her convince herself she was doing some good here. Not enough to rock the boat, though. Better throw in a tendency to play by the rules and an aversion to change. So far, so good. It seemed like a good balance, pluses and minuses evening up the columns. He stacked the wedges on the desk next to the uploader.
He'd have to craft something from scratch to fill in for Alpha's attack on her, explain the scars. That would take a couple of extra minutes, but he would use whatever he came up with to keep her here, keep her safe. He'd been embellishing his 'mugging' base scenario for a minute or two when DeWitt poked her head back in.
"Are you almost ready?" she asked, and if he didn't know better, he'd have thought there was a hint of doubt in her voice.
"Yeah, I need to add a few finishing touches, and - what should we call her? All I can come up with is 'Dr. Saunders'." He didn't really care what their names were.
Usually, he could come up with something that wasn't clichéd. This time, he had nothing.
"How about...Claire?" DeWitt suggested, and it felt right.
"Claire it is. I just need another minute, throw some fuzzy childhood memories in there." He paused, looking to DeWitt. "How do you feel about a southern accent, Texas, maybe? Just for kicks. No? Okay." DeWitt left his doorway without a verbal response.
Another minute, and Whiskey was back in his office, face bandaged hastily. The wardrobe girl had already started doing her thing, the professional-looking skirt and blouse combo with the crisp white lab coat over it showing no outward sign of the attack that took place over an hour ago.
"So we are wanting her to think that this happened what, last week? A couple of days ago? Cause I'm making her smart, and a doctor. She's going to know those cuts are brand new. Get some blood on those clothes, maybe a couple of knife slashes," he told the girl while she adjusted the lab coat on Whiskey's shoulders, looking just as shell-shocked as the handler still did. "It's like I have to think of everything," he muttered.
He made the mistake of meeting Whiskey's gaze, and the blankness reminded him of how very imprintable she was, the ideal canvas for his art. He was going to miss that, seeing his brainchildren manifested in her physical form. This could be his last chance with her. Maybe he should make a couple of minor adjustments, nuances that only he would ever notice. He had time while wardrobe girl got the blood and a knife. It would make her more authentic, after all, so he went to tinker.
Finally satisfied, and with all relevant parties in position by the chair, he performed the imprint, probably the last one she would ever receive.
"Did I fall asleep?" She jolted to a sitting position the second the chair lights were off, blank slate replaced by cornered prey anxiously searching the room for predatory threat.
"For a little while," he said calmly. "We gave you a mild sedative."
She exhaled slowly as the memory came to her. He never got tired of this part. "Alpha..."
"He's gone. You're safe here," he reinforced. It couldn't hurt. She nodded in agreement, then winced at the pain the movement caused. She reached up, feeling the bandages. She started to climb down from the chair, frowning ever so slightly at the hand he offered her to help her down. Damn, he was good.
She went to one of his stations, quickly figuring out how to open a window with the webcam on herself, lifting the bandages gingerly to examine her injuries in the the rudimentary mirror. Maybe, just maybe, he'd given her more computer skills than she needed. Oh, well. He was still very pleased with his latest creation.
***
"Achievement is balanced by fault, by...a lack. You can't have one without the other. Everyone who excels is overcompensating, running from something, or hiding from something," he said while he looked at Claire in the next room. He'd made sure of that in her case.
"The past?" the new handler, Langton, asked him.
"Sometimes." Sometimes it was the highly inappropriate unrequitable crush someone had imprinted on you on a whim. He blamed trauma from the Alpha debacle for causing the heightened emotions that had taken over his brain for the minute before he'd imprinted Whiskey for the last time. He'd kicked himself on a nearly daily basis ever since then, her constant cool professionalism toward him not exactly the result he'd been expecting. He'd thought he might get some furtive glances from beneath lowered eyelids here and there. He hadn't thought ahead to the resentment that she would develop due to her completely illogical crush on a co-worker that was destined never to develop into reality. So now she avoided him as much as possible, and when she couldn't avoid him, it was so obvious to him that she would rather be anywhere else that he usually ended up getting snippy with her. That usually made her leave more quickly, and that put him out of his misery that much faster.
He continued explaining the most basic parts of his job to Langton. The new guy seemed different from the usual handler hire, a little less mercenary, a little more interested in the 'why' of it all. A couple of months here would take the shine off of him. He seemed all right so far, but he better reign in the barely suppressed righteous indignation before his first assignment. These people had all signed contracts, they were far from victims. They had all known exactly what they were getting into. Well, except for Alpha, and Claire. Their...special circumstances hadn't really been stipulated in their contracts.
He excused himself from Langton, sent him on his next stop in the 'getting to know the Dollhouse' tour. Good luck, big guy. You're going to need it.
Back at his desk, he had a new email: a daily report from Claire. He didn't bother reading it. He might as well have written it himself through her eyes - rotate actives on physically demanding assignments, psychological decompression opportunities, blah, blah, blah. Noble causes, to be sure, but disregarding the bottom line somewhat.
At least her imprint seemed to be holding up, pristine as the day he'd made her.
***
Actives, grouping. That was...not great. And the cream filling in the Twinkie was that Claire was the one he'd have to go to about it. Of course, if other actives were 'glitching,' as Dominic liked to say, there was always the outside, very tiny chance that Claire could, too. He should probably observe her more closely. Just to make sure she was still herself.
I'd forgotten she smelled so good, he thought the next day as they sat together by a bank of monitors, sifting through archived security footage. And seriously, how embarrassing had it been to point out Victor's 'man reaction'? At least they knew a little better what they were dealing with as far as the actives went.
Did she always smell that good, or had she put on perfume or done some other girly toiletry thing because she'd known they'd be working together?
Boyd came to check on their findings, and the shift in Claire's demeanor was obvious. She softened. She was...nice to Boyd.
Well, that was another unexpected development. He probably should have seen it coming, though. He'd practically scripted it himself. He could see it now: big strong protector-type sweeps traumatized brilliant physician off her feet and they ride off into the sunset together to go have a coterie of little bleeding-heart babies.
"Topher, can we talk about something over lunch?" Boyd asked him, snapping him out of their fairytale life.
"Sure, big guy. Let me go grab a juice box."
He saw Boyd nod at Claire as they started to leave "Dr. Saunders."
The small smile she gave Boyd should have been his, and it was his own fault that it wasn't. It all went back to the imprint.
***
She knew. He was sure the second he saw her, slowly fading scars illuminated by the light spilling in through the big picture window. She blamed him for Alpha, he kind of thought she always had, but she'd practically spelled it out him while they'd been scrambling around after Alpha's sneak attack, trying to figure out which wedge he'd imprinted Echo with before he took her, fittingly enough, one of Whiskey's. One of hers.
He had wondered if that was all she blamed him for. There was plenty there for her to find out, to be sure. From the looks of things on his computer screen, she'd already found it. But he tried anyway, his "Dr. Saunders?" coming out more hesitant than he'd intended.
He tortured himself, letting her rail on him for Frankensteining her, a possibility he'd expected since the event, but it actually hurt now that it was actually happening.
Hate him? She hated him? And she thought that was what he'd intended? For a second, and not for the first time, he wished he were big and strong, like Boyd, or even like that overly moral government schmuck Ballard. He had the overwhelming urge to grab her and throw her into the chair, re-imprint her, fix what he'd failed to think through the last time, almost like Alpha had apparently done with Echo. But he couldn't do that. Could he? Maybe he could...
He tried to buy some time, to distract her, telling her to look at her file so he could have a second to grab her Dr. Saunders imprint and make the changes he needed to make, make her not hate him. But she wouldn't look. She walked away, and he had to let her. She knew who she was now, and there was nothing he would be able to do to change it.
~END~
Author: acinogan
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2093
Spoilers/Warnings: gen whole series spoilers for aired episodes
A/N: believe it or not, i wrote a topher/claire shippy fic (one-sided). written for doom_cheesepuff for the Heart of Gold Exchange in whedonland.
A/N2: slowly chipping away at my writer's block...
"We still need a doctor." The words were out of his mouth before he thought more than a nanosecond about the wisdom of actually saying them.
"We need a doctor for Whiskey - look at her face!" the panicked handler chimed in. But DeWitt picked up on the underlying thread. She usually did.
"What exactly are you suggesting, Topher?" Compared to DeWitt and himself, the handler sounded like she was the one who'd gotten Ginzued by Alpha instead of Whiskey, who was standing statically next to the handler, blood starting to drip off of her face and onto his carpet. He'd requisition new carpet tomorrow.
"We need a doctor. She needs an engagement - she is still under contract - and let's face it," he groaned inwardly after making the unintentional pun, and DeWitt pursed her lips slightly in distaste, "I'm not seeing number one requested active in her future any more."
DeWitt paused briefly before telling him to make it happen.
"But what about her face?" the handler asked.
"You'll have a few minutes while Topher gets the new profile together. Take her down to medical and do your best."
"Saunders is still down there..."
"Do you need someone to hold your hand? You're a grown woman; do your job."
"You want me to take her--"
"In a few moments, she won't even remember. Go. Now." Effectively dismissed, the handler led the surprisingly placid Whiskey out of Topher's office. Well, not so surprising. This Whiskey had always been easily suggestible in her resting state. He wondered how she would be as the new Doc Saunders. He guessed that depended on him, though, didn't it? DeWitt noticed him going into work mode and left him to it.
He ran his fingers over the shelves of wedges, pulling out the ones he needed. He'd start with the old Doc Saunders's medical knowledge. But leave out that lollipop thing. They were actives, not kids. She should care about the actives...oh, maybe even more than herself, so she wouldn't want to leave the Dollhouse. Leaving would be problematic. He should probably help that along with some mild-to-moderate agoraphobia, keep her here where she'd feel safe. Well, in theory, she should have been safe here before, but... No, the composite event was an anomaly, and it was over and it wouldn't happen again.
He'd throw in a soupçon of deviousness and a dash of suspicion so she'd be able to hold her own against the rest of the staff. And just enough idealism to let her convince herself she was doing some good here. Not enough to rock the boat, though. Better throw in a tendency to play by the rules and an aversion to change. So far, so good. It seemed like a good balance, pluses and minuses evening up the columns. He stacked the wedges on the desk next to the uploader.
He'd have to craft something from scratch to fill in for Alpha's attack on her, explain the scars. That would take a couple of extra minutes, but he would use whatever he came up with to keep her here, keep her safe. He'd been embellishing his 'mugging' base scenario for a minute or two when DeWitt poked her head back in.
"Are you almost ready?" she asked, and if he didn't know better, he'd have thought there was a hint of doubt in her voice.
"Yeah, I need to add a few finishing touches, and - what should we call her? All I can come up with is 'Dr. Saunders'." He didn't really care what their names were.
Usually, he could come up with something that wasn't clichéd. This time, he had nothing.
"How about...Claire?" DeWitt suggested, and it felt right.
"Claire it is. I just need another minute, throw some fuzzy childhood memories in there." He paused, looking to DeWitt. "How do you feel about a southern accent, Texas, maybe? Just for kicks. No? Okay." DeWitt left his doorway without a verbal response.
Another minute, and Whiskey was back in his office, face bandaged hastily. The wardrobe girl had already started doing her thing, the professional-looking skirt and blouse combo with the crisp white lab coat over it showing no outward sign of the attack that took place over an hour ago.
"So we are wanting her to think that this happened what, last week? A couple of days ago? Cause I'm making her smart, and a doctor. She's going to know those cuts are brand new. Get some blood on those clothes, maybe a couple of knife slashes," he told the girl while she adjusted the lab coat on Whiskey's shoulders, looking just as shell-shocked as the handler still did. "It's like I have to think of everything," he muttered.
He made the mistake of meeting Whiskey's gaze, and the blankness reminded him of how very imprintable she was, the ideal canvas for his art. He was going to miss that, seeing his brainchildren manifested in her physical form. This could be his last chance with her. Maybe he should make a couple of minor adjustments, nuances that only he would ever notice. He had time while wardrobe girl got the blood and a knife. It would make her more authentic, after all, so he went to tinker.
Finally satisfied, and with all relevant parties in position by the chair, he performed the imprint, probably the last one she would ever receive.
"Did I fall asleep?" She jolted to a sitting position the second the chair lights were off, blank slate replaced by cornered prey anxiously searching the room for predatory threat.
"For a little while," he said calmly. "We gave you a mild sedative."
She exhaled slowly as the memory came to her. He never got tired of this part. "Alpha..."
"He's gone. You're safe here," he reinforced. It couldn't hurt. She nodded in agreement, then winced at the pain the movement caused. She reached up, feeling the bandages. She started to climb down from the chair, frowning ever so slightly at the hand he offered her to help her down. Damn, he was good.
She went to one of his stations, quickly figuring out how to open a window with the webcam on herself, lifting the bandages gingerly to examine her injuries in the the rudimentary mirror. Maybe, just maybe, he'd given her more computer skills than she needed. Oh, well. He was still very pleased with his latest creation.
***
"Achievement is balanced by fault, by...a lack. You can't have one without the other. Everyone who excels is overcompensating, running from something, or hiding from something," he said while he looked at Claire in the next room. He'd made sure of that in her case.
"The past?" the new handler, Langton, asked him.
"Sometimes." Sometimes it was the highly inappropriate unrequitable crush someone had imprinted on you on a whim. He blamed trauma from the Alpha debacle for causing the heightened emotions that had taken over his brain for the minute before he'd imprinted Whiskey for the last time. He'd kicked himself on a nearly daily basis ever since then, her constant cool professionalism toward him not exactly the result he'd been expecting. He'd thought he might get some furtive glances from beneath lowered eyelids here and there. He hadn't thought ahead to the resentment that she would develop due to her completely illogical crush on a co-worker that was destined never to develop into reality. So now she avoided him as much as possible, and when she couldn't avoid him, it was so obvious to him that she would rather be anywhere else that he usually ended up getting snippy with her. That usually made her leave more quickly, and that put him out of his misery that much faster.
He continued explaining the most basic parts of his job to Langton. The new guy seemed different from the usual handler hire, a little less mercenary, a little more interested in the 'why' of it all. A couple of months here would take the shine off of him. He seemed all right so far, but he better reign in the barely suppressed righteous indignation before his first assignment. These people had all signed contracts, they were far from victims. They had all known exactly what they were getting into. Well, except for Alpha, and Claire. Their...special circumstances hadn't really been stipulated in their contracts.
He excused himself from Langton, sent him on his next stop in the 'getting to know the Dollhouse' tour. Good luck, big guy. You're going to need it.
Back at his desk, he had a new email: a daily report from Claire. He didn't bother reading it. He might as well have written it himself through her eyes - rotate actives on physically demanding assignments, psychological decompression opportunities, blah, blah, blah. Noble causes, to be sure, but disregarding the bottom line somewhat.
At least her imprint seemed to be holding up, pristine as the day he'd made her.
***
Actives, grouping. That was...not great. And the cream filling in the Twinkie was that Claire was the one he'd have to go to about it. Of course, if other actives were 'glitching,' as Dominic liked to say, there was always the outside, very tiny chance that Claire could, too. He should probably observe her more closely. Just to make sure she was still herself.
I'd forgotten she smelled so good, he thought the next day as they sat together by a bank of monitors, sifting through archived security footage. And seriously, how embarrassing had it been to point out Victor's 'man reaction'? At least they knew a little better what they were dealing with as far as the actives went.
Did she always smell that good, or had she put on perfume or done some other girly toiletry thing because she'd known they'd be working together?
Boyd came to check on their findings, and the shift in Claire's demeanor was obvious. She softened. She was...nice to Boyd.
Well, that was another unexpected development. He probably should have seen it coming, though. He'd practically scripted it himself. He could see it now: big strong protector-type sweeps traumatized brilliant physician off her feet and they ride off into the sunset together to go have a coterie of little bleeding-heart babies.
"Topher, can we talk about something over lunch?" Boyd asked him, snapping him out of their fairytale life.
"Sure, big guy. Let me go grab a juice box."
He saw Boyd nod at Claire as they started to leave "Dr. Saunders."
The small smile she gave Boyd should have been his, and it was his own fault that it wasn't. It all went back to the imprint.
***
She knew. He was sure the second he saw her, slowly fading scars illuminated by the light spilling in through the big picture window. She blamed him for Alpha, he kind of thought she always had, but she'd practically spelled it out him while they'd been scrambling around after Alpha's sneak attack, trying to figure out which wedge he'd imprinted Echo with before he took her, fittingly enough, one of Whiskey's. One of hers.
He had wondered if that was all she blamed him for. There was plenty there for her to find out, to be sure. From the looks of things on his computer screen, she'd already found it. But he tried anyway, his "Dr. Saunders?" coming out more hesitant than he'd intended.
He tortured himself, letting her rail on him for Frankensteining her, a possibility he'd expected since the event, but it actually hurt now that it was actually happening.
Hate him? She hated him? And she thought that was what he'd intended? For a second, and not for the first time, he wished he were big and strong, like Boyd, or even like that overly moral government schmuck Ballard. He had the overwhelming urge to grab her and throw her into the chair, re-imprint her, fix what he'd failed to think through the last time, almost like Alpha had apparently done with Echo. But he couldn't do that. Could he? Maybe he could...
He tried to buy some time, to distract her, telling her to look at her file so he could have a second to grab her Dr. Saunders imprint and make the changes he needed to make, make her not hate him. But she wouldn't look. She walked away, and he had to let her. She knew who she was now, and there was nothing he would be able to do to change it.
~END~