Dollhouse Fic: "Written In Ink, Carved In Stone" (Dominic/DeWitt, ensemble, PG-13)
Okay, so from here on out, we're calling this the Waking 'verse. Sigh.
Also, this part started out very character and emotion-driven, and then toward the end it suddenly got all narrative and plot-y. Wtf?
Title: Written In Ink, Carved In Stone
Characters/Pairings: Dominic/DeWitt, Ballard, Topher, Claire, Victor, Boyd, Ivy
Rating: PG-13 for sex, language, alcohol, darkness
Spoilers: AU for 1x11, "Briar Rose", but references the finale
Length: 7,825 words
Notes: Same story as Waking Up One Moment at a Time, Walking the Haze That Is Between Dreams and Blame It On the Jujubes
Summary: What is a person but a portion of moments collected and choices made; a series of events viewed from a series of different perspectives, the whole never visible at once.
“Who is that?”
Paul watches the path across the way - DeWitt confidently strolls along, gazing over her domain.
He jerks his head to indicate the figure in the tailored suit that matches her step for step, hanging close by like a pale shadow. “Another client?”
(He’s been here just long enough, that he can bite back on the word “john”.)
“Huh, who?” Topher drops the childish pretense of pretending not to notice him. He turns away from his computer, craning his neck as he peers out.
“Him. Right there.” He points.
“Oh.” Topher loses all interest and curiosity, returning to his monitor. “That’s just Dominic. You’ve met him before.”
“Really? When?” he asks, incredulous. “I’m usually pretty good with faces.”
“Uh…just a week ago? Borderline screaming match over whether Echo got sent out on a high-risk engagement?” The tech’s eyes roll. “Funny, you’d think you’d remember-”
“Mr. Dominic was in Mike at the time,” Dr. Saunders interjects, glancing up from the file in her hands. He tries not to jump - she was so quiet he’d forgotten she was there.
She tends to invoke that effect a lot.
“Oh, right.” Topher waves a hand. “You haven’t met the ‘real’ him yet. Well, there you go: one Laurence Dominic, former head of security…not that you’d know it, from talking to him. The ‘former’ part, I mean.”
He feels a sense of horrified fascination. “He’s…an imprint? But I’ve never even seen that Active before-”
“No. He’s a real person.”
Dr. Saunders’ vehemence causes both Topher and he to stare.
She continues, firmly: “Like Topher said, he used to be in charge of security. An imprint was made of his personality, and his body was sent to the Attic. Sometimes he’s put into an Active, sometimes not, but his imprint is all the memories and experiences of a real person. Not a constructed one.”
There’s something hard about her eyes; Topher looks away, swallowing.
He’s not watching them, though. His gaze is on DeWitt and Dominic as they continue their path.
DeWitt pauses, probably to look down at the Actives. Dominic comes up behind her, telling her something; she turns her head and they converse for awhile, close, Dominic nodding.
“I don’t get it,” he says, finally. “Why send someone away like that, only to bring them back again?”
“Boy oh boy, talk about your long stories.” Topher looks over at Dr. Saunders, sighing.
“Do you want to tell it, or should I?”
_____
It’s almost enough to make him laugh, but sometimes he thinks it’s not even so much the sex he enjoys: it’s all the other parts.
Before - when she’s kissing him hard enough to chafe, hands all over as they tear through each other’s clothing, all the dedicated restraint and finely-crafted poise out the window as they rush together at last.
After - when her skin is soft and warm, sticky with sweat, and she’s lying curled up, nestled, in his arms, and everything smells like him and her together, impossible to separate, the way it was meant to be.
And all the little things, in between. The secret smiles and knowing nods, and the way her hand will sometimes linger, just a moment, as it passes against his. Never too long for anyone to notice, but just long enough for it to be felt.
The little quips in conversation. The light in her eyes when she’s pleased. The way they are, ever so surely, marking their territory in every room of this building so that everywhere they turn, there’s a memory to be treasured.
He still remembers clearly, that first dinner together: he was almost having trouble focusing, so overwhelmed to just be him again, after so long - but then she said his name, in this way she never had before. And all he could think of the rest of the night was her.
Of course…the moments in between pale in comparison with what it leads to. That feeling when he’s deep inside her, when she’s moving around him; her fingernails are digging into his back and his hands are bruising her thighs, and they gasp and moan out each other’s names.
No room, here, for “Mr. Dominic”. No room for “ma’am”.
No, there’s certainly nothing wrong with those parts of it, either. Nothing wrong with it in the least.
_____
Claire is carefully removing Victor’s stitches and trying not to flinch. To keep her focus, she counts the lines of tiny black thread.
“Dr. Saunders?” The hopeful sound of the Active’s voice brings her back. She meets his wide eyes.
“Am I all better?” he asks. “Am I my best again?”
Her metal tools feel unusually cold in her hands. She pauses to take a breath.
But before she can reply, another speaks from the doorway.
“You’ll get there, Victor. Don’t you worry.”
Slowly, she turns her head to look over at Mr. Dominic.
He continues, with quiet and convincing earnest: “You’ll be your best in no time.”
Victor smiles broadly, unaware of how the marks across his face twist. “I’m glad. I like to try to be my best.”
“Yeah,” Mr. Dominic’s voice is low, strained, as he watches Victor go: “Don’t we all.”
He meets her gaze again, after.
“Goddamit. Alpha.”
The disgust on the second word makes it sound more profane than the first. Fitting, she supposes.
Whatever else could be said of Mr. Dominic, she knows he was always honest in his revulsion of Alpha, the justified fury against the horrors he caused. She has never doubted him in that.
She looks down, putting away her instruments. “Not so easy to keep your distance, is it, when you’ve been on the other side?”
He jerks up. His eyes start to narrow, hostile, but she changes the subject. “Don’t worry. Victor’s still the good little dog he’s always been.”
She looks Mr. Dominic in the eye, and this time it’s her gaze that thins. “We all are - we know better than to bite the hands of our masters.”
He stares at her. His eyes are wide, his breath caught in his throat.
“You know,” he manages at length. “How…how did-?”
“Luck, mostly. Too many people saying all the wrong things at the wrong time.” She adds, more darkly, almost sardonic: “No wonder I never left.”
He can’t meet her gaze. He closes his eyes, swallowing dryly, before trying again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and for him his words are surprisingly heavy with emotion.
“I’m sure you are. Now.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” he protests.
“Oh? I suppose not.” Her fingers ball up, shoulders squared as she stares him down.
(Wasn’t there a time once she found him intimidating? Or, no: that memory’s probably as “real” as all the rest.)
“I suppose you suggested the Attic for a newly-worthless doll,” she concludes, her voice tight.
He responds softly, “Actually, I thought you should be let go. Early.”
She stares at him, this time. Her hands go numb.
“What?”
“Like you said, I keep my distance.” He looks weary, almost sad. “That doesn’t mean I feel nothing at all.”
She’s never noticed before how blue his eyes are, how clear. Probably because she’s never looked into them for so very long.
He begins: “Whiskey-”
“It’s Claire,” she cuts him off. “My name is Dr. Claire Saunders.”
He stares at her again.
“What? But-”
Calmly she returns to cleaning up. “We are exactly who we think we are, after all - aren’t we, Mr. Dominic?”
Slowly, he smiles at her, nodding.
“Of course, Doctor,” he agrees, understanding. “Of course we are.”
_____
He feels this heavy, hollow weight of disappointment in his stomach, when he comes back to find they’ve put him into Golf.
Another Active body, again. Four times, and he’d gotten used to the feel of his own limbs again. Four times, and he’d gotten spoiled.
He feels bitter, and angry, and mainly annoyed with himself. He’s a traitor and a prisoner, after all, and this is the Dollhouse. He knows how lucky he is, to have gotten as much as he has.
It isn’t about whether or not he thinks he deserves this (he doesn’t) - it’s about being realistic. And for a moment, he’d allowed himself to be grossly impractical in his expectations. He’d already had it explained to him: that he’d be getting a lot of “perks”, but he was far from free and clear.
His debt, of deceit and lies, was hardly yet paid.
So he stands by her side with hands behind his back, and he nods to her commands, and he tells her as best as he can without words that he knows this isn’t her fault.
If it was up to her, all would be forgiven by now, but it’s not up to her. Unfortunately.
After business is concluded for the day, he starts to leave, and she stops him with a frown.
“And just where are you going?”
She’s managed to catch him completely off-guard. “Well, obviously, we’re not going to be able to…”
“Oh? Aren’t we?” One eyebrow goes up. “And why ever not? You’re here, aren’t you; and so am I.”
He stares at her. “Adelle-” He looks down, turning over Golf’s hands. “I’m not…myself.” She just gives him the same expression, and he’s not sure what name to give this utter consuming bewilderment. “That doesn’t bother you? At all?”
“You seem to have forgotten,” she reminds him, wry; “the first time you kissed me, it was with somebody else’s lips.”
He had forgotten, actually. He’s kissed her so many times as himself.
But still. “I don’t know about this,” he admits. “It seems a little…twisted. Wrong. I’d rather be with you as, well, me.”
She’s actually laughing now, green eyes flashing. “I thought we already understood this was going to require putting up with certain irregularities. I, for one, am more than happy to take whatever opportunity I can get.”
She gets up from her desk and she moves towards him, and instinctively his hands are on her waist. Her hands are on his shoulders and she leans in and he closes his eyes when he feels her lips against his.
And in that moment, nothing could feel more right.
_____
Boyd watches as Topher goes through his files, rearranging them.
“Honestly, Topher.” Dominic stands a short distance away, glowering. “You’d think with all the spare time you have, you could manage to keep things straight.”
“Spare time? By whose definition?” Topher retorts. “You know very well if it weren’t for me, this whole place would be falling apart!”
Dominic scoffs. “Is that so?”
Boyd sighs inwardly, and begins preparing to intervene.
Luckily, Dominic spots something on the desk, changing topics: “And what’s that?”
“That?” Topher follows his gaze. “That’s…well, actually, that’s you.”
Boyd looks over. Sitting in some glowing device is a thick padding of microchips - a wedge containing an imprint. Dominic’s, it seems.
The individual in question swallows, clearly unnerved: Boyd can’t say he blames him. “…Oh.”
“Well, technically, it’s one version of you. The same one I uploaded yesterday. But it’s just a record: it can’t remember anything you’ve experienced since then. Still, it could be worse,” Topher continues, warming to his subject; “See, the reason it’s in the reader right now is because I’m copying it…you…over to the beta. The back-up. Because, well, with one thing or another, I haven’t backed you up in a long time, and if something happened to the primary - god forbid - we’d be stuck with a version of Dom that didn’t remember everything that’d happened. We’d have to tell you about things all over again. It’d be total déjà vu!”
“You mean like I’m getting right now,” Dominic says tersely, “with you not shutting up?”
Boyd can’t quite suppress his laugh in time, and Topher shoots him a wounded look.
“Whose side are you on? I thought we were pals!”
“Pals,” Dominic repeats. “What is this, high school?”
Topher shakes his head, smirking. “Oh, we never really leave high school. Things never change. The people with the most brains are the underdogs, the ones with the most muscle lord it over the rest, and the pretty vapid cheerleader girls cling to popularity by-”
“Hey now,” Boyd interjects.
“Hey, we’re all guys here,” Topher says flippantly. With an aside glance, he waves a hand at Dominic: “You, about…eighty-five percent of the time.”
“Oh, funny,” Dominic responds.
“Actually…” Topher turns, a devious look on his features. He cocks his head. “That’s something I’ve been meaning to ask about. The whole girl-Active thing.”
“Don’t you dare,” Dominic says warningly. “We are not going there.”
“C’mon, Dominic, pony up. Don’t even try to pretend you’ve never checked out the merchandise.” Topher chuckles. “I think we all know what the first thing you did was, when you found yourself in a lady-body - same thing any guy would.”
He makes a squishing gesture in the area above his chest.
Dominic stares at him for a full beat.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he says slowly, with rising vitriol: “Right after the urge to vomit and scream uncontrollably wore off.”
Boyd winces. Topher’s expression shifts.
“Oh. Uh, yeah...” He rubs the back of his head. “Guess it’s a little different when you’re not just imagining it.”
“It’s not funny, Topher. It’s not a joke.”
Boyd can’t remember the last time Dominic looked so deadly serious - not angry, just intense.
“It’s not some fantasy, okay?” He shakes his head slowly, his eyes very wide. “You can’t begin to imagine.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.” Topher puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I promise I’ll never say anything again.”
“Good,” Dominic spits. “Don’t.”
The room lapses into silence.
“So,” Boyd offers, after a pause, “how did things go, your last brainstorming session with Ballard? He come up with any new ideas how to track Alpha down?”
Topher shifts to a mocking scowl almost immediately. “Ballard. What a moron!”
“He’s beyond incompetence,” Dominic chimes in with a disgusted sneer. “And so full on his own ego and morality, to boot.”
“Oh, I know!” Topher exclaims. “Just because he’s had a few lucky guesses-”
“-he thinks he’s better than the rest of us,” Dominic finishes for him.
Over in his corner, Boyd allows himself a small private smile.
_____
“Do you think it makes any kind of sense,” he says, fuzzily, “what it is we do? I mean…what we do to people?”
“I dunno, Dom.” Topher shifts in his seat. He’s got one of those squishy stress-ball things in his hand, and right now he’s looking to make it pop. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He stares blearily at the lights on the monitor from his position on the floor, and tries to put his words in order.
This is why going straight from one imprint to another is a bad idea. Apparently, on his engagement today, the Active he’s in managed to get drunk. Apparently, his handler was too clueless to even notice. And apparently, someone was in such a hurry to get him they didn’t even take time to check the body he was going into over properly.
And here they are. Him lying on the floor of the imprint lab sideways, secure in the knowledge that somewhere Adelle is tearing somebody a new one.
With such stupefying levels of incompetence run rampant, is it any wonder at all he went three years without blowing his cover? Really?
“Lemme try this again,” he says.
Actives are evidently lightweights. It’s probably because they pamper them so much.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s the whole relationship angle. The part where people are actually falling in love with these…things. Does that seem right to you?”
“Hey, man, to each his own.” Topher grins and shrugs.
He frowns, closing his eyes as he shakes his head side to side. “What’s love, anyway? I mean, what is it, really? It’s supposed to be so simple…and yet so hard.”
“Wow, okay: now we’re getting deep.”
It’s not even that he’s that drunk. He could stand if he wanted to. It’s just that when he’s intoxicated he tends to get, for lack of a better term, “huggy”. Potential humiliation factored, frankly he’d rather stay on the floor. Besides, the carpet is nice and soft.
He just wishes he was sober enough to shut his mouth.
“Let’s try this. Say, hypothetically, there was someone who was in love with…an imprint. Just the same imprint. And they said that was the only one they ever wanted.”
“Uh huh.”
“Now, say, they had that same imprint in…different bodies. Like, a lot of different bodies. They kept ordering engagements: same imprint, but a different body almost each time.”
“Uh huh.” Topher sounds incredibly uncomfortable now, for some reason.
“Well, what is that? Is that…that’s not normal. Is that even okay? I mean, it’s kind of like cheating, but I guess it’s not. Or is it? What do you think?”
“I…think it would probably be best for us both, if you did not know what I was thinking.”
“But then, how is the…the imprint supposed to feel? It’s not really fair, right? I mean, you’re supposed to be loved for yourself - but does that include bodies? It’s probably stupid, to feel upset over something like that; in a weird way, it’s even kind of flattering-”
“Jesus, you’ve got it bad,” Topher mutters disbelievingly. “I didn’t even realize.”
“Got…what bad? Hey. I’m not that drunk!”
“Yes. By all means, Dominic, assume that’s what I was talking about.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Go back to what you were saying. Or, don’t, actually. I think I’ve reached my tolerance of ‘awkward’ for today.”
“It’s not…” He struggles to return to his train of thought. “Monogamy. The thing that sounds like wood, but isn’t.”
“Yeah, Dom, I do know what that word means.”
“But what does it mean?” he pleads. “Is it still monogamy if it’s different bodies? Does that still count? Is…is it worth getting upset over if it’s not? No one can tell me!”
“No. I doubt anyone can.”
With a half-hearted smile, Topher reaches down and pats him on the head.
_____
“I don’t get it,” Paul says. “I honestly don’t get you people.”
Leaning over a diagram with a red marker, Dominic responds with a scoff.
“What’s there to get, exactly?”
Paul goes to the railing. He gestures; indicating the landing, the laboratories, the milling Actives below.
“This. All of this. How can you possibly deal with it - what you see, the things you do to people - on a daily basis, and then go about your business like it’s nothing? Like it’s…normal.”
He shakes his head at the bored faces of the personnel. “People bicker over parking spaces, and worry about their retirement-”
Without glancing up Dominic says indifferently, “It’s a job, same as any other.”
“Is that a fact?” He stares at him very pointedly for a long time, sick, shocked, and just plain disbelieving.
Dominic looks up, meets his gaze, and looks down again. He grips his marker between the fingers of the Active known as Delta, giving an upward roll with her eyes.
“Well,” Dominic concedes, sighing, “for the most part.”
“See, you, I definitely don’t get,” Paul continues: “Probably the least out of any of them.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“You were NSA, right?” he presses, insistent. “That’s who you use to work for, before you came here?”
Dominic turns his head. There’s something dark and decidedly unfriendly in his eyes.
“I am NSA.”
“Not anymore. Not that I’ve noticed.” He sets his mouth firmly. “You came here to get information on what they do to people. Now look at you - you’re working for the enemy team.”
“There are no teams in this, Ballard,” Dominic growls. “It was always about controlling and protecting the information, and the technology!”
“The technology that they used on you - they fried your brains, turned the real you into a vegetable and stuck your thoughts in whatever victim they had handy! Even now you’re still not even remotely free: a couple days a month you exist, the rest of the time you’re sitting in somebody’s hard-drive?”
He stares at him with confusion and outrage. “After all that, you’re helping them? Willingly? I could understand if you felt like you don’t have a choice, but-”
“What’s that story again, I think you FBI guys might be familiar with it,” Dominic puts in sarcastically, pretending to think: “Something about a pot and a kettle?”
“At least I don’t like them,” he interjects. “But I think you might. Yeah - I think you really do.”
“‘Like’ is such a strong word, really.” Dominic doesn’t sound very convincing. “I’d settle more for ‘tolerates’.”
“Look at yourself. Or at…whoever that is they’ve put you in. I can’t believe you’d let yourself get used to that.”
He shakes his head, disgusted. “How can you trust them? How can you trust anything, after having been in that chair?”
Dominic makes a fist, clenching fingers tight.
“Don’t, Ballard,” he warns. “I mean it - don’t.”
“You know I’m right. That’s exactly why you don’t want me to say it. How can you trust any thoughts, any feelings you have, knowing it could’ve been reprogrammed?”
Dominic closes his eyes and goes very still.
Finally, he says: “Faith.”
“Seriously?” He stares at him, incredulous. “That’s it? That’s…enough?”
“It’s either that,” says Dominic wryly, “or go completely crazy.” He returns to the diagram, going back to work.
“Give it time, Ballard. You’ll understand.”
_____
“Okay, this is…” He stares up at the ceiling, dazedly, as he tries to catch his breath. “This is odd, right? I mean, we can definitely agree that this is odd.”
She sits on the edge of the bed, hair falling in reckless waves around her.
“The fact that you’re still stringing words into sentences after your third orgasm, yes,” she responds lightly: “I think we can consider that ‘odd’.”
Half-heartedly, he tries to disentangle the sheets where they’re twisted around Foxtrot’s lower body. He sits up on his elbows, gazing at her.
“No, I mean, this whole thing. It’s…odd. It’s weird, right?” He bites his lip, worrying it. “You and me, being together like this.”
“Well,” she comments, as she pulls her chemise back on, “it certainly does keep things…interesting. Very interesting, indeed.”
“Sure,” he finds himself saying, bitterly: “Now if only I could be sure there was more to it than the ‘interesting’ part.”
She stops mid-motion, turning back with a frown. “Beg pardon?”
He’s tempted to shut up and let it go, but he can’t. It’s too much, now. He closes his eyes and speaks very soft and slow.
“You and I, we were never together before…” He swallows. “I always thought there was something there, sure, but we never acted on it.” He adds sardonically: “Too busy being ‘responsible’. Among other things.”
“A cause of great many regrets in more than one person’s lifetime, to be sure,” She murmurs.
“And now that we are actually doing this, sometimes it just seems like…sorry to say it, Adelle: I think the ‘different bodies’ thing gets you just a little too excited.”
Her expression is downright dangerous. “Oh?” she asks, a trace of arctic chill beginning to emerge.
“No. I don’t mean it like that, I just…” He can’t quite look at her as he says what he does next. “This is all pretty convenient for you, isn’t it? Getting to sleep with different people without really sleeping with different people. Having someone who’s there whenever you want it, whenever you need it - and when you’re done, you can just put them away again. Someone who owes you everything. Someone who’s in your complete control.”
His fingers curl into fists. “It’s the ultimate practical arrangement.”
He dares to look up, and finds her staring at him. “You think the only reason we’re together is because you’re in this situation. That it has little to do with who you are, and everything to do with what.”
“I don’t think that,” he offers wearily. “I just…fear it.”
“I should be very angry with you Laurence, for even thinking such things of me, if not for the fact that it breaks my heart.” She moves closer, putting a hand on his. “Why would you even-?”
“I don’t know, I just…I don’t know.” He falls back on his side again, clutching at the sides of his head with his eyes screwed tightly shut. “I shouldn’t even have to think about these kinds of things. Nobody should have to.”
She wraps her arms around him, kissing him along the line of his jaw. He half-sighs, half-moans.
“Adelle…”
“Trust me,” she breaths. “Just trust me, please. The way that I’m trusting you, every time that we do this.” She pauses, her voice stretched taut: “Every time that I smile at you, and have faith that you won’t use it against me later.”
He stiffens. “No one was ever supposed to get hurt,” he tells her, wishing for the untold time that this wasn’t always going to be there, hanging over them.
There’s a humorless edge to her smile. “Did you really think that?”
He sighs, closing his eyes again as he slides a hand along her spine, pulling her into his embrace.
“No. Of course not.”
_____
It’s early, and Topher raps on the door until he thinks his knuckles are bruised.
On the fifth attempt it jerks open, a bleary-eyed Laurence Dominic staring at him.
“What?”
“And a happy good morning to you too,” he responds. “Enjoying your time away?”
Dominic’s forehead crinkles, as if he focuses hard enough Topher won’t be there. “I was. By sleeping. And not being around you.”
It’s taken months for Dominic to be allowed to leave the Dollhouse and in his own body. The agreement is he’s supposed to be under strict house arrest: no leaving his apartment.
“I’m here to make sure you’re not violating parole.” Might as well skip right to it.
“Of course you are.” Dominic looks mildly more awake; just as bemused. “Who decided to send you, though?”
“DeWitt’s not too happy with me lately - maybe she was hoping you’d shoot me,” Topher sighs.
“Aha.”
“Can I come in, or what? Do you have any idea how hard it was, commuting here at this hour?”
Dominic glares at him. Topher holds up a large paper bag: “I brought bagels!”
“Oh…fine.”
Dominic stumbles back inside. Topher follows.
“Nice digs,” he comments, head craning nosily every which way. “Decent. Actually, you could probably do better than this, especially in this market-”
“I like the space I have. Oh, and: shut up.”
“I also brought coffee. Frankly, it sounds like you could use some coffee. Where’s your-”
“Kitchen. On the right. Beside the stove.” Dominic rubs a hand across his eyes. “Mugs are right above it.”
“Okay, perfect.” He loads up the coffeepot without difficulty, then rummages in the cupboard for the mugs.
He stops dead as he’s met with the sight of a familiar black and white mascot. “Uh…Dom?”
Topher turns around, holding it up with all the overwhelmed incredulity owed to finding an unlikely coffee mug shaped like a classic cartoon character’s head.
“What’s this?”
“It’s Snoopy.” Dominic gives him a scowl that blatantly accuses him of being a moron. “Haven’t you ever seen Snoopy before?”
“Well, yes - yes, I have. But what are you doing with it?”
“I happen to like Snoopy.” The scowl becomes a very deadly glare. “Something wrong with liking Snoopy?”
“Oh - no, of course not,” Topher backpedals: “He’s certainly the most manly of all the animated dogs…”
He sets down the mug and clears his throat. “So, hey, about that coffee!”
While the desperately-needed java brews, Topher continues poking around. Surprise, surprise: there are actually some photographs in the living area.
“So, ‘fess up: how many of these came with the frame?” he quips. Dominic just glowers at him. “Goodness, but isn’t it surprising you don’t have more friends.”
“I manage.”
“You bet.” Topher examines the bookshelf - mainly surprised there is one. “So, um, can I ask you a question?”
“Dear god, what I wouldn’t give for the power to stop you.”
“How…how long have you and DeWitt been, y’know, knocking boots?”
He wasn’t aware it was possible to choke on air. But that’s apparently what Dominic does.
“Wh-what?” He stares at Topher, gaping. “How…how did you even-?”
Topher fidgets. “I kinda saw you guys. A few months ago.” His mouth twitches. “In the, uh, chair.”
“Oh, god.”
“Sorry.” He grimaces as he nods, assuring him the humiliation is mutual. “Believe me, if I could un-see it, I would…though, confidentially, even if I hadn’t, the crunked-up ramblings on the nature of monogamy might’ve gotten me a little curious.”
Dominic has his face buried in his hands. “Could you just go, now? Please?” He looks up again, shaking his head. “Why are you even bringing this up?”
“I just…” Topher sits down on the edge of an armchair. “I’m trying to piece it all together. With everything that’s happened between the two of you - I mean, dude, you were a spy. A double agent. Were you guys together then?”
“No.” Dominic sighs, evidently deciding ignoring him is pointless. “We weren’t.”
“And, you still got together? I mean, after…” Topher throws up his hands, indicating the enormity: “everything?”
“Well, yeah. Evidently.”
“That’s…I don’t even know what that is. I’m tempted to say ‘messed-up’, but then, it’s you. And DeWitt, for that matter. Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised.”
“Your flattery is overwhelming.”
“It’s just, I mean…” Topher trails off as he holds up a finger, considering if he actually wants to ask what he does. “So, uh, what about the times when you…visit…and you’re in a different body? You two still-?”
Dominic looks at him evenly, with is enough of an answer in itself. Topher swallows.
“Um. And the female Actives?”
This time Dominic looks away, with a sort of shrug and a sigh. Topher can feel his own eyes bulge.
“Okay. Whoa. Okay, that…whoa.” He giggles hysterically. “I feel like I should buy you a drink, or something.”
“I’d settle for coffee,” Dominic says pointedly.
Sure enough, the smell drifts in from the kitchen: what with the topic of their conversation, Topher hadn’t noticed. He gets up.
“Can I just say this? And then I promise I won’t ever, ever say anything on the subject again,” Topher calls. “I’m…happy for you guys. I really am.” A little softer, he adds, “Everybody needs somebody, right?”
There’s no response from Dominic. But the silence seems less tense. Topher smiles to himself.
He pours the coffee into the Snoopy mug.
____
“It’s certainly very helpful of you, Mr. Dominic, to be assisting us this way.”
“It’s my job, ma’am.”
“Well, no,” she points out with a faintly amused smile. “As a matter of fact, it’s not. Not anymore.”
“Ah. Well.” He smirks a little. “That is true.”
That should be painful - instead, they’re treating it like a joke. Strange how time can change things.
“Didn’t trust Langton to mind the fort while you were away?” he continues, just as lightly.
“Yes, well.” She takes a step, walking the edge of her office, and he immediately follows. “Around the time I realized he was taking actual notes as to what needed to be handled in my absence, I decided he wasn’t quite up to the full responsibility yet.”
“It is a lot to remember,” he offers with mild charity.
“Not for you, it wasn’t.”
She smiles at him softly, but then drops it with a sigh.
“Things just aren’t the same,” she states, tiredly.
He knows - he misses it, too. Them working together constantly, the way they did before.
Instead all he says is, “You still have me. Whenever you need me.”
“An event of increasing frequency lately, both to my extreme displeasure and joy.” She rubs her fingertips across her forehead. “There’s only so much secrecy one can stand. Even in this business.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that too much.” He shifts awkwardly.
“Why?” she asks, suspicious. “What happened?”
He sighs. “Topher. He knows. Apparently, he saw something he shouldn’t have.”
“Oh. Oh no.” Her horror is tempered only by her indignation. “Oh well, that’s just bloody fantastic. And if Topher knows-”
“Considering he’s an employee with high levels of security clearance on crucial company secrets?” His tone is completely deadpan. “Oh, I’m sure he’s managed to babble it to everyone by now.”
“Lovely.”
“So, we’re apparently the worst-kept secret, in a house built on secrets. Such is life.”
“Indeed it is.” She sighs as well, but then smiles again, shaking her head.
“Well, no use regretting what can’t be undone.”
He smiles back as he kisses her, resting his hand on her cheek. “No, ma’am.”
_____
Ivy is in hiding. This isn’t unusual.
She’s discovered, over her time as Topher’s assistant, that if she eats her lunch in a place where he can find her, then inevitably he will. He’ll interrupt her, with another list of menial tasks or requests to get this or that.
So instead she has lunch in the handler’s break-room, where for some reason Topher never thinks to look.
She doesn’t mind, any more than she minds anything else she has to do working here. Besides, she always overhears interesting things.
Apparently, handlers are big ones for gossip.
“I’d be embarrassed, if I was Langton. Can you imagine? DeWitt’s called away, and instead of leaving her head of security in charge, she gets her former head of security to ‘help’.”
“Former head of security, who turned out to be a government mole…which came out the last time she went away. Can someone please remind me why the hell Dominic is trusted with anything?”
“Oh, give it a rest, would you? He’s been thoroughly declawed.”
“Declawed, but not neutered. DeWitt would have no use for him, otherwise.”
“Okay, really? We know that’s just a rumor.”
“How sure of that are you? You wanna make a bet?”
“Kind of an abuse of power, ain’t it? I mean, if it’s true.”
“You kidding? I can tell you with complete confidence, upstairs don’t even care. So she’s getting some from one of her employees. Big deal. Long as it doesn’t effect the operation, nobody’s gonna say ‘boo’.”
“No one, huh? Nobody at all?”
“The head of the Hamptons branch has an Active he’s got programmed to think she’s his wife. She lives with him. He even takes her to company events, draped over his arm, smiling, and everybody’s gotta make nice and pretend like she’s a real person.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“No, that’s nothing. I used to work in DC before they transferred me out here. You didn’t hear it from me, but their head of House has got a thing for Actives when they’re ‘tabula rasa’. Like kids.”
“…Christ.”
“But you see my point, don’t you? A little boss-lackey nookie is downright boring, by comparison. As long as she doesn’t overstep her bounds, no one’s going to do anything.”
“Sure, why would they, if she still does the job? That’s the important part.”
Ivy sits there quietly, licking pudding off the back of her spoon.
_____
“What are you thinking about?”
His head is pressed against her stomach, and she runs her fingers through his hair.
“About the terms of this,” he says. “This ‘agreement’.” He tilts his head back, looking at her. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance they’re up for another renegotiation.”
She frowns, pushing him away. She stands up. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“I know.”
“We are very blessedly lucky, Laurence, every day that someone doesn’t swoop down and insist I send you back to the Attic. Do you realize that? I’m honestly starting to wonder how well you comprehend.”
“I comprehend just fine. I know the risks. I understand everything. What you don’t seem to get is how I feel like I don’t have a choice. I have to press my luck, if I’m ever going to have a life again.”
She folds her arms, turning to look at him. “That’s what you want?”
“My body, full-time. No jumping around, no climbing in and out of that goddamned chair. Twenty-four hours of every day, and seven days of every week.”
“I know it’s not perfect.” She sighs. “But given the alternative, wouldn’t you say you have plenty of time now?”
He’s quiet for a moment before he responds. “How long would you say we’ve been together?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she smiles fondly, “but I’d say around eight months.”
“See, that’s my point exactly.” He fixes his eyes on hers. “Because I’d have guessed about half of that.”
Her face falls.
“We’re on different times, Adelle - how can we possibly be together, if we can’t even live at the same speed?”
She doesn’t reply immediately, looking down at the bedroom floor. Finally, she comes over and sits in front of him, sharpness in her eyes.
“It would require a great personal sacrifice. You do realize that.”
“Adelle, I know I’m asking a lot of you-”
“Not mine, Laurence,” she interrupts swiftly. “Yours.”
He stares at her. “What? What have I got possibly left to give, that they could want? That they haven’t already taken?”
Her voice is flat as she speaks. “The NSA has been digging around again, doing additional investigations. Even assuming they still believe you’re merely undercover, those in charge are tired of the game.” She looks him dead in the eye. “They want you to go to your handlers, and tell them it’s over.”
He feels winded. “You want me to end it. You want me to quit.”
“No more divided loyalties. You’d become an employee of the Dollhouse, full-time.”
“But I’d have to stop being NSA. That’s not a little step. That means walking away from everything I had before: my job, my life…”
“Let’s be honest, shall we?” She smiles mirthlessly. “You haven’t really had those things for quite some time.”
“No; I…” He swallows. “I could’ve always gone back. Even if I wasn’t planning on it, I could’ve gone back. You don’t stop being an agent just because you go undercover.”
He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. She stays quiet, gently stroking his chest.
“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “This is all I’ve ever wanted to do, my entire life.”
“Even as a child, you wanted to work for the National Security Agency?” She sounds mildly amused. “Certainly, there must’ve been some other juvenile fantasy, before that. Fireman, or lion-tamer, perhaps-”
“No, Adelle. No.” He cuts her off with swift, deadly seriousness. “This is all it’s been, for the longest time.”
She draws her hand away, but then after a moment places it against his face.
“I’m sorry. I truly am. But what choice do you honestly have? You can’t even choose between the NSA and the House - you choose between the House, or nothing.” She presses her lips together. “I know you’re not quite stubborn enough to go with ‘nothing’.”
The unspoken irony is that they both know he would’ve, once. Would’ve held his ground and let the House vent their unspeakable horrors upon him, just for the sake of not giving in.
But that was before. When there was nothing to give in for.
“Give up one life,” she states, “and gain another.”
He smiles humorlessly. “I feel like you should be offering me a piece of paper to sign,” he says sarcastically; “or tea.”
She smiles back wanly, and presses a delicate kiss to his forehead. “If I honestly thought it would make it easier, I would.”
He twines his fingers in hers, squeezing her hand.
What does he want more: to cling to an ideal he can’t live up to anymore, or this? Something real. Something that’s made him happier than he ever remembers feeling before in his life.
She’s right, of course. There isn’t really a choice.
_____
Paul gets into position about half an hour beforehand.
He sits at the counter at the truck-stop diner, trying not to be conspicuous as he adjusts his earpiece. From his position there’s a clear view of the only three patrons in the joint: a college student-slash-hitchhiker with “SAVE THE WHALES” on her backpack, a sunburned tourist in an honest to god Hawaiian print shirt, and a middle-aged man in a tailored gray business suit, hair shorn close to his head.
No prizes for guessing which one is from the NSA.
The bell over the door tinkles, and Dominic walks in. Paul hunches his shoulders, keeping an eye on his every move.
Dominic slowly goes past the vinyl-covered booths: taking in everything without making it known, in a way only someone with similar training would recognize.
It’s part of the reason they asked Paul, specifically, to be his backup. If Dominic’s going to double-cross them, he stands a good chance to see it coming.
Finally, Dominic reaches the front of the diner. He walks towards the man in the suit…and sits down in front of the college girl instead.
Her eyes flick up. “You’re late,” she says.
Paul blinks. Okay, never mind.
Dominic takes off his sunglasses, revealing shadows under his eyes. The “student” tilts her head.
“And you look like crap,” she adds.
“I had a little trouble, getting away,” he tells her, tersely.
“Whatever.” She slouches with cool professionalism, bored as she stretches out a hand. “What have you got for me?”
“It’s over, Nicole.” He says the words with the brittleness of someone who’s been mentally practicing them. She frowns.
“What do you mean, ‘over’? What are you talking about?”
“My cover got blown. They caught me. The House knows we’re after them.”
She straightens, and suddenly, she looks nothing like any college girl Paul has ever seen. Her body language and expression are all wrong - too focused, too intense.
“How is it that you’re telling me this?” There’s wariness in her tone.
Dominic laughs bitterly. “Isn’t it obvious? They sent me to deliver the message.”
“They did.”
“The Dollhouse wants the NSA to back off. No more snooping around. No more trying to uncover their secrets - or there will be consequences.”
The other agent nods, firm. Her eyes are hard. “So, you’re working for them now.”
Dominic looks stricken. “I don’t have a choice.”
“I don’t believe you.” The conversation has taken an oddly personal tone. “I never would’ve thought you could be so weak.”
“I didn’t…Nicole, you have no idea. The things they did to me-”
“So they twisted your arm a bit,” she says derisively. “And now you’ve cried uncle. You’re working for the enemy, turning your back on the agency. You’re a disappointment, Laurence.”
She stands up, grabbing her backpack. She leans toward him, stating with cold, even intensity:
“I’ll deliver your message, from your new bosses. But we both know this isn’t over.”
She strides out. Dominic watches her go with a crumbling expression.
Paul waits until he’s absolutely sure the agent has left. Then he gets up, tapping Dominic awkwardly on the shoulder.
“Come on. Time to go.”
On the way outside, Dominic says bitterly, “So? You hear everything you need to? You can tell them I was a good boy, and did exactly what I was told.”
Paul’s voice is quiet. “That girl, how old was she? She looked like she could’ve been in college, almost, but-”
“She’s twenty-four. What? Like the FBI never recruits young.”
“Sure, they have. But, an NSA special agent-”
“Trust me, Ballard.” Dominic’s face is set, his voice making it clear that the conversation is over. “She can take care of herself.”
Paul nods, woodenly. He has nothing more to say.
_____
“So tell me, Mr. Dominic, how does it feel to be free?”
He stands in front of her desk, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back. He thinks about it.
“Empty,” he says, honestly.
She walks towards him, her expression a mixture of sadness in acknowledgement of all he’s lost, and warmth to try and encourage him.
“You’d think you would feel lightened. Released.”
“Oh, I do. It’s just…” He stares off into space, overwhelmed. “I’ve been carrying all this weight around with me. For so long. And now that it’s finally gone, I don’t think I ever realized: there’s nothing underneath.”
It was always about the mission. Now, there is no mission. It begs the question, “What next?”
She smiles more delicately, nodding. She knows exactly what he’s thinking. Somehow, she always does.
“Well, you’ll just have to fill it up then, won’t you?” She reaches for him, stroking his forehead and brushing his hair. “You’ll have to take all that emptiness and find something new to make of it instead.”
He places his hand on top of hers, cradling the warmth of her palm.
His life has ended - but only the first version.
“I think,” he tells her, “I know where to start.”
_____
If the sight of a young woman in a neon band t-shirt, torn jeans, unzipped sweatshirt and faded chucks is out of place in the hallway of the NSA office, the reactions of the agents she passes by wouldn’t show it.
Nicole walks purposefully toward the intimidating doorway at the end of the hall. The guard in the dark suit and glasses nods with deference as he opens it for her.
Inside, the office is dark. The only light comes from between the blinds. The Deputy Director sits behind his desk, waiting.
She stands in front of him, hands clasped behind her back.
His voice is solemn as he speaks. “I read your report.” His gaze is sharp when he meets her eyes. “So, he’s gone native.”
“Worse than that, sir,” she says. “He’s gone rogue.”
The Deputy Director nods once, slowly. “We already knew the Dollhouse had impressive tactics of intimidation. Still - I doubt any of us could’ve predicted this.”
His agent says nothing. She stares straight ahead, waiting.
He’s silent for a moment, running fingertips around a groove in his desk.
“For the moment, we’ll heed the Dollhouse’s warning. I want our operations on them halted. We need to develop a new strategy, regroup our forces.”
She nods. “Yes, sir.” There is a pause, and she continues, carefully: “Sir? If I may have permission to speak to you informally?”
He gives a weary sigh, and a mirthless chuckle. “I suppose now’s a time for that.”
Nicole looks at the floor as she talks; only daring to meet his eyes at the very end. Her voice is filled with quietly suppressed emotion.
“I know how disappointed in him you must be, Dad. I’m disappointed in him too.”
The Deputy Director places his hands on his desk.
“You have no idea just how I feel, my dear. Any emotion you’re feeling is only a fraction of my own.”
The faint light starkly illuminates the grave sorrow of his expression, catching on his blue eyes, the fair hair fading to gray.
“After all…he is my son.”
Also, this part started out very character and emotion-driven, and then toward the end it suddenly got all narrative and plot-y. Wtf?
Title: Written In Ink, Carved In Stone
Characters/Pairings: Dominic/DeWitt, Ballard, Topher, Claire, Victor, Boyd, Ivy
Rating: PG-13 for sex, language, alcohol, darkness
Spoilers: AU for 1x11, "Briar Rose", but references the finale
Length: 7,825 words
Notes: Same story as Waking Up One Moment at a Time, Walking the Haze That Is Between Dreams and Blame It On the Jujubes
Summary: What is a person but a portion of moments collected and choices made; a series of events viewed from a series of different perspectives, the whole never visible at once.
“Who is that?”
Paul watches the path across the way - DeWitt confidently strolls along, gazing over her domain.
He jerks his head to indicate the figure in the tailored suit that matches her step for step, hanging close by like a pale shadow. “Another client?”
(He’s been here just long enough, that he can bite back on the word “john”.)
“Huh, who?” Topher drops the childish pretense of pretending not to notice him. He turns away from his computer, craning his neck as he peers out.
“Him. Right there.” He points.
“Oh.” Topher loses all interest and curiosity, returning to his monitor. “That’s just Dominic. You’ve met him before.”
“Really? When?” he asks, incredulous. “I’m usually pretty good with faces.”
“Uh…just a week ago? Borderline screaming match over whether Echo got sent out on a high-risk engagement?” The tech’s eyes roll. “Funny, you’d think you’d remember-”
“Mr. Dominic was in Mike at the time,” Dr. Saunders interjects, glancing up from the file in her hands. He tries not to jump - she was so quiet he’d forgotten she was there.
She tends to invoke that effect a lot.
“Oh, right.” Topher waves a hand. “You haven’t met the ‘real’ him yet. Well, there you go: one Laurence Dominic, former head of security…not that you’d know it, from talking to him. The ‘former’ part, I mean.”
He feels a sense of horrified fascination. “He’s…an imprint? But I’ve never even seen that Active before-”
“No. He’s a real person.”
Dr. Saunders’ vehemence causes both Topher and he to stare.
She continues, firmly: “Like Topher said, he used to be in charge of security. An imprint was made of his personality, and his body was sent to the Attic. Sometimes he’s put into an Active, sometimes not, but his imprint is all the memories and experiences of a real person. Not a constructed one.”
There’s something hard about her eyes; Topher looks away, swallowing.
He’s not watching them, though. His gaze is on DeWitt and Dominic as they continue their path.
DeWitt pauses, probably to look down at the Actives. Dominic comes up behind her, telling her something; she turns her head and they converse for awhile, close, Dominic nodding.
“I don’t get it,” he says, finally. “Why send someone away like that, only to bring them back again?”
“Boy oh boy, talk about your long stories.” Topher looks over at Dr. Saunders, sighing.
“Do you want to tell it, or should I?”
_____
It’s almost enough to make him laugh, but sometimes he thinks it’s not even so much the sex he enjoys: it’s all the other parts.
Before - when she’s kissing him hard enough to chafe, hands all over as they tear through each other’s clothing, all the dedicated restraint and finely-crafted poise out the window as they rush together at last.
After - when her skin is soft and warm, sticky with sweat, and she’s lying curled up, nestled, in his arms, and everything smells like him and her together, impossible to separate, the way it was meant to be.
And all the little things, in between. The secret smiles and knowing nods, and the way her hand will sometimes linger, just a moment, as it passes against his. Never too long for anyone to notice, but just long enough for it to be felt.
The little quips in conversation. The light in her eyes when she’s pleased. The way they are, ever so surely, marking their territory in every room of this building so that everywhere they turn, there’s a memory to be treasured.
He still remembers clearly, that first dinner together: he was almost having trouble focusing, so overwhelmed to just be him again, after so long - but then she said his name, in this way she never had before. And all he could think of the rest of the night was her.
Of course…the moments in between pale in comparison with what it leads to. That feeling when he’s deep inside her, when she’s moving around him; her fingernails are digging into his back and his hands are bruising her thighs, and they gasp and moan out each other’s names.
No room, here, for “Mr. Dominic”. No room for “ma’am”.
No, there’s certainly nothing wrong with those parts of it, either. Nothing wrong with it in the least.
_____
Claire is carefully removing Victor’s stitches and trying not to flinch. To keep her focus, she counts the lines of tiny black thread.
“Dr. Saunders?” The hopeful sound of the Active’s voice brings her back. She meets his wide eyes.
“Am I all better?” he asks. “Am I my best again?”
Her metal tools feel unusually cold in her hands. She pauses to take a breath.
But before she can reply, another speaks from the doorway.
“You’ll get there, Victor. Don’t you worry.”
Slowly, she turns her head to look over at Mr. Dominic.
He continues, with quiet and convincing earnest: “You’ll be your best in no time.”
Victor smiles broadly, unaware of how the marks across his face twist. “I’m glad. I like to try to be my best.”
“Yeah,” Mr. Dominic’s voice is low, strained, as he watches Victor go: “Don’t we all.”
He meets her gaze again, after.
“Goddamit. Alpha.”
The disgust on the second word makes it sound more profane than the first. Fitting, she supposes.
Whatever else could be said of Mr. Dominic, she knows he was always honest in his revulsion of Alpha, the justified fury against the horrors he caused. She has never doubted him in that.
She looks down, putting away her instruments. “Not so easy to keep your distance, is it, when you’ve been on the other side?”
He jerks up. His eyes start to narrow, hostile, but she changes the subject. “Don’t worry. Victor’s still the good little dog he’s always been.”
She looks Mr. Dominic in the eye, and this time it’s her gaze that thins. “We all are - we know better than to bite the hands of our masters.”
He stares at her. His eyes are wide, his breath caught in his throat.
“You know,” he manages at length. “How…how did-?”
“Luck, mostly. Too many people saying all the wrong things at the wrong time.” She adds, more darkly, almost sardonic: “No wonder I never left.”
He can’t meet her gaze. He closes his eyes, swallowing dryly, before trying again.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and for him his words are surprisingly heavy with emotion.
“I’m sure you are. Now.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” he protests.
“Oh? I suppose not.” Her fingers ball up, shoulders squared as she stares him down.
(Wasn’t there a time once she found him intimidating? Or, no: that memory’s probably as “real” as all the rest.)
“I suppose you suggested the Attic for a newly-worthless doll,” she concludes, her voice tight.
He responds softly, “Actually, I thought you should be let go. Early.”
She stares at him, this time. Her hands go numb.
“What?”
“Like you said, I keep my distance.” He looks weary, almost sad. “That doesn’t mean I feel nothing at all.”
She’s never noticed before how blue his eyes are, how clear. Probably because she’s never looked into them for so very long.
He begins: “Whiskey-”
“It’s Claire,” she cuts him off. “My name is Dr. Claire Saunders.”
He stares at her again.
“What? But-”
Calmly she returns to cleaning up. “We are exactly who we think we are, after all - aren’t we, Mr. Dominic?”
Slowly, he smiles at her, nodding.
“Of course, Doctor,” he agrees, understanding. “Of course we are.”
_____
He feels this heavy, hollow weight of disappointment in his stomach, when he comes back to find they’ve put him into Golf.
Another Active body, again. Four times, and he’d gotten used to the feel of his own limbs again. Four times, and he’d gotten spoiled.
He feels bitter, and angry, and mainly annoyed with himself. He’s a traitor and a prisoner, after all, and this is the Dollhouse. He knows how lucky he is, to have gotten as much as he has.
It isn’t about whether or not he thinks he deserves this (he doesn’t) - it’s about being realistic. And for a moment, he’d allowed himself to be grossly impractical in his expectations. He’d already had it explained to him: that he’d be getting a lot of “perks”, but he was far from free and clear.
His debt, of deceit and lies, was hardly yet paid.
So he stands by her side with hands behind his back, and he nods to her commands, and he tells her as best as he can without words that he knows this isn’t her fault.
If it was up to her, all would be forgiven by now, but it’s not up to her. Unfortunately.
After business is concluded for the day, he starts to leave, and she stops him with a frown.
“And just where are you going?”
She’s managed to catch him completely off-guard. “Well, obviously, we’re not going to be able to…”
“Oh? Aren’t we?” One eyebrow goes up. “And why ever not? You’re here, aren’t you; and so am I.”
He stares at her. “Adelle-” He looks down, turning over Golf’s hands. “I’m not…myself.” She just gives him the same expression, and he’s not sure what name to give this utter consuming bewilderment. “That doesn’t bother you? At all?”
“You seem to have forgotten,” she reminds him, wry; “the first time you kissed me, it was with somebody else’s lips.”
He had forgotten, actually. He’s kissed her so many times as himself.
But still. “I don’t know about this,” he admits. “It seems a little…twisted. Wrong. I’d rather be with you as, well, me.”
She’s actually laughing now, green eyes flashing. “I thought we already understood this was going to require putting up with certain irregularities. I, for one, am more than happy to take whatever opportunity I can get.”
She gets up from her desk and she moves towards him, and instinctively his hands are on her waist. Her hands are on his shoulders and she leans in and he closes his eyes when he feels her lips against his.
And in that moment, nothing could feel more right.
_____
Boyd watches as Topher goes through his files, rearranging them.
“Honestly, Topher.” Dominic stands a short distance away, glowering. “You’d think with all the spare time you have, you could manage to keep things straight.”
“Spare time? By whose definition?” Topher retorts. “You know very well if it weren’t for me, this whole place would be falling apart!”
Dominic scoffs. “Is that so?”
Boyd sighs inwardly, and begins preparing to intervene.
Luckily, Dominic spots something on the desk, changing topics: “And what’s that?”
“That?” Topher follows his gaze. “That’s…well, actually, that’s you.”
Boyd looks over. Sitting in some glowing device is a thick padding of microchips - a wedge containing an imprint. Dominic’s, it seems.
The individual in question swallows, clearly unnerved: Boyd can’t say he blames him. “…Oh.”
“Well, technically, it’s one version of you. The same one I uploaded yesterday. But it’s just a record: it can’t remember anything you’ve experienced since then. Still, it could be worse,” Topher continues, warming to his subject; “See, the reason it’s in the reader right now is because I’m copying it…you…over to the beta. The back-up. Because, well, with one thing or another, I haven’t backed you up in a long time, and if something happened to the primary - god forbid - we’d be stuck with a version of Dom that didn’t remember everything that’d happened. We’d have to tell you about things all over again. It’d be total déjà vu!”
“You mean like I’m getting right now,” Dominic says tersely, “with you not shutting up?”
Boyd can’t quite suppress his laugh in time, and Topher shoots him a wounded look.
“Whose side are you on? I thought we were pals!”
“Pals,” Dominic repeats. “What is this, high school?”
Topher shakes his head, smirking. “Oh, we never really leave high school. Things never change. The people with the most brains are the underdogs, the ones with the most muscle lord it over the rest, and the pretty vapid cheerleader girls cling to popularity by-”
“Hey now,” Boyd interjects.
“Hey, we’re all guys here,” Topher says flippantly. With an aside glance, he waves a hand at Dominic: “You, about…eighty-five percent of the time.”
“Oh, funny,” Dominic responds.
“Actually…” Topher turns, a devious look on his features. He cocks his head. “That’s something I’ve been meaning to ask about. The whole girl-Active thing.”
“Don’t you dare,” Dominic says warningly. “We are not going there.”
“C’mon, Dominic, pony up. Don’t even try to pretend you’ve never checked out the merchandise.” Topher chuckles. “I think we all know what the first thing you did was, when you found yourself in a lady-body - same thing any guy would.”
He makes a squishing gesture in the area above his chest.
Dominic stares at him for a full beat.
“Oh, yeah, sure,” he says slowly, with rising vitriol: “Right after the urge to vomit and scream uncontrollably wore off.”
Boyd winces. Topher’s expression shifts.
“Oh. Uh, yeah...” He rubs the back of his head. “Guess it’s a little different when you’re not just imagining it.”
“It’s not funny, Topher. It’s not a joke.”
Boyd can’t remember the last time Dominic looked so deadly serious - not angry, just intense.
“It’s not some fantasy, okay?” He shakes his head slowly, his eyes very wide. “You can’t begin to imagine.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.” Topher puts his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I promise I’ll never say anything again.”
“Good,” Dominic spits. “Don’t.”
The room lapses into silence.
“So,” Boyd offers, after a pause, “how did things go, your last brainstorming session with Ballard? He come up with any new ideas how to track Alpha down?”
Topher shifts to a mocking scowl almost immediately. “Ballard. What a moron!”
“He’s beyond incompetence,” Dominic chimes in with a disgusted sneer. “And so full on his own ego and morality, to boot.”
“Oh, I know!” Topher exclaims. “Just because he’s had a few lucky guesses-”
“-he thinks he’s better than the rest of us,” Dominic finishes for him.
Over in his corner, Boyd allows himself a small private smile.
_____
“Do you think it makes any kind of sense,” he says, fuzzily, “what it is we do? I mean…what we do to people?”
“I dunno, Dom.” Topher shifts in his seat. He’s got one of those squishy stress-ball things in his hand, and right now he’s looking to make it pop. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
He stares blearily at the lights on the monitor from his position on the floor, and tries to put his words in order.
This is why going straight from one imprint to another is a bad idea. Apparently, on his engagement today, the Active he’s in managed to get drunk. Apparently, his handler was too clueless to even notice. And apparently, someone was in such a hurry to get him they didn’t even take time to check the body he was going into over properly.
And here they are. Him lying on the floor of the imprint lab sideways, secure in the knowledge that somewhere Adelle is tearing somebody a new one.
With such stupefying levels of incompetence run rampant, is it any wonder at all he went three years without blowing his cover? Really?
“Lemme try this again,” he says.
Actives are evidently lightweights. It’s probably because they pamper them so much.
“I guess what I’m trying to say is, it’s the whole relationship angle. The part where people are actually falling in love with these…things. Does that seem right to you?”
“Hey, man, to each his own.” Topher grins and shrugs.
He frowns, closing his eyes as he shakes his head side to side. “What’s love, anyway? I mean, what is it, really? It’s supposed to be so simple…and yet so hard.”
“Wow, okay: now we’re getting deep.”
It’s not even that he’s that drunk. He could stand if he wanted to. It’s just that when he’s intoxicated he tends to get, for lack of a better term, “huggy”. Potential humiliation factored, frankly he’d rather stay on the floor. Besides, the carpet is nice and soft.
He just wishes he was sober enough to shut his mouth.
“Let’s try this. Say, hypothetically, there was someone who was in love with…an imprint. Just the same imprint. And they said that was the only one they ever wanted.”
“Uh huh.”
“Now, say, they had that same imprint in…different bodies. Like, a lot of different bodies. They kept ordering engagements: same imprint, but a different body almost each time.”
“Uh huh.” Topher sounds incredibly uncomfortable now, for some reason.
“Well, what is that? Is that…that’s not normal. Is that even okay? I mean, it’s kind of like cheating, but I guess it’s not. Or is it? What do you think?”
“I…think it would probably be best for us both, if you did not know what I was thinking.”
“But then, how is the…the imprint supposed to feel? It’s not really fair, right? I mean, you’re supposed to be loved for yourself - but does that include bodies? It’s probably stupid, to feel upset over something like that; in a weird way, it’s even kind of flattering-”
“Jesus, you’ve got it bad,” Topher mutters disbelievingly. “I didn’t even realize.”
“Got…what bad? Hey. I’m not that drunk!”
“Yes. By all means, Dominic, assume that’s what I was talking about.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind. Go back to what you were saying. Or, don’t, actually. I think I’ve reached my tolerance of ‘awkward’ for today.”
“It’s not…” He struggles to return to his train of thought. “Monogamy. The thing that sounds like wood, but isn’t.”
“Yeah, Dom, I do know what that word means.”
“But what does it mean?” he pleads. “Is it still monogamy if it’s different bodies? Does that still count? Is…is it worth getting upset over if it’s not? No one can tell me!”
“No. I doubt anyone can.”
With a half-hearted smile, Topher reaches down and pats him on the head.
_____
“I don’t get it,” Paul says. “I honestly don’t get you people.”
Leaning over a diagram with a red marker, Dominic responds with a scoff.
“What’s there to get, exactly?”
Paul goes to the railing. He gestures; indicating the landing, the laboratories, the milling Actives below.
“This. All of this. How can you possibly deal with it - what you see, the things you do to people - on a daily basis, and then go about your business like it’s nothing? Like it’s…normal.”
He shakes his head at the bored faces of the personnel. “People bicker over parking spaces, and worry about their retirement-”
Without glancing up Dominic says indifferently, “It’s a job, same as any other.”
“Is that a fact?” He stares at him very pointedly for a long time, sick, shocked, and just plain disbelieving.
Dominic looks up, meets his gaze, and looks down again. He grips his marker between the fingers of the Active known as Delta, giving an upward roll with her eyes.
“Well,” Dominic concedes, sighing, “for the most part.”
“See, you, I definitely don’t get,” Paul continues: “Probably the least out of any of them.”
“Oh, here we go.”
“You were NSA, right?” he presses, insistent. “That’s who you use to work for, before you came here?”
Dominic turns his head. There’s something dark and decidedly unfriendly in his eyes.
“I am NSA.”
“Not anymore. Not that I’ve noticed.” He sets his mouth firmly. “You came here to get information on what they do to people. Now look at you - you’re working for the enemy team.”
“There are no teams in this, Ballard,” Dominic growls. “It was always about controlling and protecting the information, and the technology!”
“The technology that they used on you - they fried your brains, turned the real you into a vegetable and stuck your thoughts in whatever victim they had handy! Even now you’re still not even remotely free: a couple days a month you exist, the rest of the time you’re sitting in somebody’s hard-drive?”
He stares at him with confusion and outrage. “After all that, you’re helping them? Willingly? I could understand if you felt like you don’t have a choice, but-”
“What’s that story again, I think you FBI guys might be familiar with it,” Dominic puts in sarcastically, pretending to think: “Something about a pot and a kettle?”
“At least I don’t like them,” he interjects. “But I think you might. Yeah - I think you really do.”
“‘Like’ is such a strong word, really.” Dominic doesn’t sound very convincing. “I’d settle more for ‘tolerates’.”
“Look at yourself. Or at…whoever that is they’ve put you in. I can’t believe you’d let yourself get used to that.”
He shakes his head, disgusted. “How can you trust them? How can you trust anything, after having been in that chair?”
Dominic makes a fist, clenching fingers tight.
“Don’t, Ballard,” he warns. “I mean it - don’t.”
“You know I’m right. That’s exactly why you don’t want me to say it. How can you trust any thoughts, any feelings you have, knowing it could’ve been reprogrammed?”
Dominic closes his eyes and goes very still.
Finally, he says: “Faith.”
“Seriously?” He stares at him, incredulous. “That’s it? That’s…enough?”
“It’s either that,” says Dominic wryly, “or go completely crazy.” He returns to the diagram, going back to work.
“Give it time, Ballard. You’ll understand.”
_____
“Okay, this is…” He stares up at the ceiling, dazedly, as he tries to catch his breath. “This is odd, right? I mean, we can definitely agree that this is odd.”
She sits on the edge of the bed, hair falling in reckless waves around her.
“The fact that you’re still stringing words into sentences after your third orgasm, yes,” she responds lightly: “I think we can consider that ‘odd’.”
Half-heartedly, he tries to disentangle the sheets where they’re twisted around Foxtrot’s lower body. He sits up on his elbows, gazing at her.
“No, I mean, this whole thing. It’s…odd. It’s weird, right?” He bites his lip, worrying it. “You and me, being together like this.”
“Well,” she comments, as she pulls her chemise back on, “it certainly does keep things…interesting. Very interesting, indeed.”
“Sure,” he finds himself saying, bitterly: “Now if only I could be sure there was more to it than the ‘interesting’ part.”
She stops mid-motion, turning back with a frown. “Beg pardon?”
He’s tempted to shut up and let it go, but he can’t. It’s too much, now. He closes his eyes and speaks very soft and slow.
“You and I, we were never together before…” He swallows. “I always thought there was something there, sure, but we never acted on it.” He adds sardonically: “Too busy being ‘responsible’. Among other things.”
“A cause of great many regrets in more than one person’s lifetime, to be sure,” She murmurs.
“And now that we are actually doing this, sometimes it just seems like…sorry to say it, Adelle: I think the ‘different bodies’ thing gets you just a little too excited.”
Her expression is downright dangerous. “Oh?” she asks, a trace of arctic chill beginning to emerge.
“No. I don’t mean it like that, I just…” He can’t quite look at her as he says what he does next. “This is all pretty convenient for you, isn’t it? Getting to sleep with different people without really sleeping with different people. Having someone who’s there whenever you want it, whenever you need it - and when you’re done, you can just put them away again. Someone who owes you everything. Someone who’s in your complete control.”
His fingers curl into fists. “It’s the ultimate practical arrangement.”
He dares to look up, and finds her staring at him. “You think the only reason we’re together is because you’re in this situation. That it has little to do with who you are, and everything to do with what.”
“I don’t think that,” he offers wearily. “I just…fear it.”
“I should be very angry with you Laurence, for even thinking such things of me, if not for the fact that it breaks my heart.” She moves closer, putting a hand on his. “Why would you even-?”
“I don’t know, I just…I don’t know.” He falls back on his side again, clutching at the sides of his head with his eyes screwed tightly shut. “I shouldn’t even have to think about these kinds of things. Nobody should have to.”
She wraps her arms around him, kissing him along the line of his jaw. He half-sighs, half-moans.
“Adelle…”
“Trust me,” she breaths. “Just trust me, please. The way that I’m trusting you, every time that we do this.” She pauses, her voice stretched taut: “Every time that I smile at you, and have faith that you won’t use it against me later.”
He stiffens. “No one was ever supposed to get hurt,” he tells her, wishing for the untold time that this wasn’t always going to be there, hanging over them.
There’s a humorless edge to her smile. “Did you really think that?”
He sighs, closing his eyes again as he slides a hand along her spine, pulling her into his embrace.
“No. Of course not.”
_____
It’s early, and Topher raps on the door until he thinks his knuckles are bruised.
On the fifth attempt it jerks open, a bleary-eyed Laurence Dominic staring at him.
“What?”
“And a happy good morning to you too,” he responds. “Enjoying your time away?”
Dominic’s forehead crinkles, as if he focuses hard enough Topher won’t be there. “I was. By sleeping. And not being around you.”
It’s taken months for Dominic to be allowed to leave the Dollhouse and in his own body. The agreement is he’s supposed to be under strict house arrest: no leaving his apartment.
“I’m here to make sure you’re not violating parole.” Might as well skip right to it.
“Of course you are.” Dominic looks mildly more awake; just as bemused. “Who decided to send you, though?”
“DeWitt’s not too happy with me lately - maybe she was hoping you’d shoot me,” Topher sighs.
“Aha.”
“Can I come in, or what? Do you have any idea how hard it was, commuting here at this hour?”
Dominic glares at him. Topher holds up a large paper bag: “I brought bagels!”
“Oh…fine.”
Dominic stumbles back inside. Topher follows.
“Nice digs,” he comments, head craning nosily every which way. “Decent. Actually, you could probably do better than this, especially in this market-”
“I like the space I have. Oh, and: shut up.”
“I also brought coffee. Frankly, it sounds like you could use some coffee. Where’s your-”
“Kitchen. On the right. Beside the stove.” Dominic rubs a hand across his eyes. “Mugs are right above it.”
“Okay, perfect.” He loads up the coffeepot without difficulty, then rummages in the cupboard for the mugs.
He stops dead as he’s met with the sight of a familiar black and white mascot. “Uh…Dom?”
Topher turns around, holding it up with all the overwhelmed incredulity owed to finding an unlikely coffee mug shaped like a classic cartoon character’s head.
“What’s this?”
“It’s Snoopy.” Dominic gives him a scowl that blatantly accuses him of being a moron. “Haven’t you ever seen Snoopy before?”
“Well, yes - yes, I have. But what are you doing with it?”
“I happen to like Snoopy.” The scowl becomes a very deadly glare. “Something wrong with liking Snoopy?”
“Oh - no, of course not,” Topher backpedals: “He’s certainly the most manly of all the animated dogs…”
He sets down the mug and clears his throat. “So, hey, about that coffee!”
While the desperately-needed java brews, Topher continues poking around. Surprise, surprise: there are actually some photographs in the living area.
“So, ‘fess up: how many of these came with the frame?” he quips. Dominic just glowers at him. “Goodness, but isn’t it surprising you don’t have more friends.”
“I manage.”
“You bet.” Topher examines the bookshelf - mainly surprised there is one. “So, um, can I ask you a question?”
“Dear god, what I wouldn’t give for the power to stop you.”
“How…how long have you and DeWitt been, y’know, knocking boots?”
He wasn’t aware it was possible to choke on air. But that’s apparently what Dominic does.
“Wh-what?” He stares at Topher, gaping. “How…how did you even-?”
Topher fidgets. “I kinda saw you guys. A few months ago.” His mouth twitches. “In the, uh, chair.”
“Oh, god.”
“Sorry.” He grimaces as he nods, assuring him the humiliation is mutual. “Believe me, if I could un-see it, I would…though, confidentially, even if I hadn’t, the crunked-up ramblings on the nature of monogamy might’ve gotten me a little curious.”
Dominic has his face buried in his hands. “Could you just go, now? Please?” He looks up again, shaking his head. “Why are you even bringing this up?”
“I just…” Topher sits down on the edge of an armchair. “I’m trying to piece it all together. With everything that’s happened between the two of you - I mean, dude, you were a spy. A double agent. Were you guys together then?”
“No.” Dominic sighs, evidently deciding ignoring him is pointless. “We weren’t.”
“And, you still got together? I mean, after…” Topher throws up his hands, indicating the enormity: “everything?”
“Well, yeah. Evidently.”
“That’s…I don’t even know what that is. I’m tempted to say ‘messed-up’, but then, it’s you. And DeWitt, for that matter. Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised.”
“Your flattery is overwhelming.”
“It’s just, I mean…” Topher trails off as he holds up a finger, considering if he actually wants to ask what he does. “So, uh, what about the times when you…visit…and you’re in a different body? You two still-?”
Dominic looks at him evenly, with is enough of an answer in itself. Topher swallows.
“Um. And the female Actives?”
This time Dominic looks away, with a sort of shrug and a sigh. Topher can feel his own eyes bulge.
“Okay. Whoa. Okay, that…whoa.” He giggles hysterically. “I feel like I should buy you a drink, or something.”
“I’d settle for coffee,” Dominic says pointedly.
Sure enough, the smell drifts in from the kitchen: what with the topic of their conversation, Topher hadn’t noticed. He gets up.
“Can I just say this? And then I promise I won’t ever, ever say anything on the subject again,” Topher calls. “I’m…happy for you guys. I really am.” A little softer, he adds, “Everybody needs somebody, right?”
There’s no response from Dominic. But the silence seems less tense. Topher smiles to himself.
He pours the coffee into the Snoopy mug.
____
“It’s certainly very helpful of you, Mr. Dominic, to be assisting us this way.”
“It’s my job, ma’am.”
“Well, no,” she points out with a faintly amused smile. “As a matter of fact, it’s not. Not anymore.”
“Ah. Well.” He smirks a little. “That is true.”
That should be painful - instead, they’re treating it like a joke. Strange how time can change things.
“Didn’t trust Langton to mind the fort while you were away?” he continues, just as lightly.
“Yes, well.” She takes a step, walking the edge of her office, and he immediately follows. “Around the time I realized he was taking actual notes as to what needed to be handled in my absence, I decided he wasn’t quite up to the full responsibility yet.”
“It is a lot to remember,” he offers with mild charity.
“Not for you, it wasn’t.”
She smiles at him softly, but then drops it with a sigh.
“Things just aren’t the same,” she states, tiredly.
He knows - he misses it, too. Them working together constantly, the way they did before.
Instead all he says is, “You still have me. Whenever you need me.”
“An event of increasing frequency lately, both to my extreme displeasure and joy.” She rubs her fingertips across her forehead. “There’s only so much secrecy one can stand. Even in this business.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that too much.” He shifts awkwardly.
“Why?” she asks, suspicious. “What happened?”
He sighs. “Topher. He knows. Apparently, he saw something he shouldn’t have.”
“Oh. Oh no.” Her horror is tempered only by her indignation. “Oh well, that’s just bloody fantastic. And if Topher knows-”
“Considering he’s an employee with high levels of security clearance on crucial company secrets?” His tone is completely deadpan. “Oh, I’m sure he’s managed to babble it to everyone by now.”
“Lovely.”
“So, we’re apparently the worst-kept secret, in a house built on secrets. Such is life.”
“Indeed it is.” She sighs as well, but then smiles again, shaking her head.
“Well, no use regretting what can’t be undone.”
He smiles back as he kisses her, resting his hand on her cheek. “No, ma’am.”
_____
Ivy is in hiding. This isn’t unusual.
She’s discovered, over her time as Topher’s assistant, that if she eats her lunch in a place where he can find her, then inevitably he will. He’ll interrupt her, with another list of menial tasks or requests to get this or that.
So instead she has lunch in the handler’s break-room, where for some reason Topher never thinks to look.
She doesn’t mind, any more than she minds anything else she has to do working here. Besides, she always overhears interesting things.
Apparently, handlers are big ones for gossip.
“I’d be embarrassed, if I was Langton. Can you imagine? DeWitt’s called away, and instead of leaving her head of security in charge, she gets her former head of security to ‘help’.”
“Former head of security, who turned out to be a government mole…which came out the last time she went away. Can someone please remind me why the hell Dominic is trusted with anything?”
“Oh, give it a rest, would you? He’s been thoroughly declawed.”
“Declawed, but not neutered. DeWitt would have no use for him, otherwise.”
“Okay, really? We know that’s just a rumor.”
“How sure of that are you? You wanna make a bet?”
“Kind of an abuse of power, ain’t it? I mean, if it’s true.”
“You kidding? I can tell you with complete confidence, upstairs don’t even care. So she’s getting some from one of her employees. Big deal. Long as it doesn’t effect the operation, nobody’s gonna say ‘boo’.”
“No one, huh? Nobody at all?”
“The head of the Hamptons branch has an Active he’s got programmed to think she’s his wife. She lives with him. He even takes her to company events, draped over his arm, smiling, and everybody’s gotta make nice and pretend like she’s a real person.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“No, that’s nothing. I used to work in DC before they transferred me out here. You didn’t hear it from me, but their head of House has got a thing for Actives when they’re ‘tabula rasa’. Like kids.”
“…Christ.”
“But you see my point, don’t you? A little boss-lackey nookie is downright boring, by comparison. As long as she doesn’t overstep her bounds, no one’s going to do anything.”
“Sure, why would they, if she still does the job? That’s the important part.”
Ivy sits there quietly, licking pudding off the back of her spoon.
_____
“What are you thinking about?”
His head is pressed against her stomach, and she runs her fingers through his hair.
“About the terms of this,” he says. “This ‘agreement’.” He tilts his head back, looking at her. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance they’re up for another renegotiation.”
She frowns, pushing him away. She stands up. “You’re pushing your luck.”
“I know.”
“We are very blessedly lucky, Laurence, every day that someone doesn’t swoop down and insist I send you back to the Attic. Do you realize that? I’m honestly starting to wonder how well you comprehend.”
“I comprehend just fine. I know the risks. I understand everything. What you don’t seem to get is how I feel like I don’t have a choice. I have to press my luck, if I’m ever going to have a life again.”
She folds her arms, turning to look at him. “That’s what you want?”
“My body, full-time. No jumping around, no climbing in and out of that goddamned chair. Twenty-four hours of every day, and seven days of every week.”
“I know it’s not perfect.” She sighs. “But given the alternative, wouldn’t you say you have plenty of time now?”
He’s quiet for a moment before he responds. “How long would you say we’ve been together?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she smiles fondly, “but I’d say around eight months.”
“See, that’s my point exactly.” He fixes his eyes on hers. “Because I’d have guessed about half of that.”
Her face falls.
“We’re on different times, Adelle - how can we possibly be together, if we can’t even live at the same speed?”
She doesn’t reply immediately, looking down at the bedroom floor. Finally, she comes over and sits in front of him, sharpness in her eyes.
“It would require a great personal sacrifice. You do realize that.”
“Adelle, I know I’m asking a lot of you-”
“Not mine, Laurence,” she interrupts swiftly. “Yours.”
He stares at her. “What? What have I got possibly left to give, that they could want? That they haven’t already taken?”
Her voice is flat as she speaks. “The NSA has been digging around again, doing additional investigations. Even assuming they still believe you’re merely undercover, those in charge are tired of the game.” She looks him dead in the eye. “They want you to go to your handlers, and tell them it’s over.”
He feels winded. “You want me to end it. You want me to quit.”
“No more divided loyalties. You’d become an employee of the Dollhouse, full-time.”
“But I’d have to stop being NSA. That’s not a little step. That means walking away from everything I had before: my job, my life…”
“Let’s be honest, shall we?” She smiles mirthlessly. “You haven’t really had those things for quite some time.”
“No; I…” He swallows. “I could’ve always gone back. Even if I wasn’t planning on it, I could’ve gone back. You don’t stop being an agent just because you go undercover.”
He lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. She stays quiet, gently stroking his chest.
“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “This is all I’ve ever wanted to do, my entire life.”
“Even as a child, you wanted to work for the National Security Agency?” She sounds mildly amused. “Certainly, there must’ve been some other juvenile fantasy, before that. Fireman, or lion-tamer, perhaps-”
“No, Adelle. No.” He cuts her off with swift, deadly seriousness. “This is all it’s been, for the longest time.”
She draws her hand away, but then after a moment places it against his face.
“I’m sorry. I truly am. But what choice do you honestly have? You can’t even choose between the NSA and the House - you choose between the House, or nothing.” She presses her lips together. “I know you’re not quite stubborn enough to go with ‘nothing’.”
The unspoken irony is that they both know he would’ve, once. Would’ve held his ground and let the House vent their unspeakable horrors upon him, just for the sake of not giving in.
But that was before. When there was nothing to give in for.
“Give up one life,” she states, “and gain another.”
He smiles humorlessly. “I feel like you should be offering me a piece of paper to sign,” he says sarcastically; “or tea.”
She smiles back wanly, and presses a delicate kiss to his forehead. “If I honestly thought it would make it easier, I would.”
He twines his fingers in hers, squeezing her hand.
What does he want more: to cling to an ideal he can’t live up to anymore, or this? Something real. Something that’s made him happier than he ever remembers feeling before in his life.
She’s right, of course. There isn’t really a choice.
_____
Paul gets into position about half an hour beforehand.
He sits at the counter at the truck-stop diner, trying not to be conspicuous as he adjusts his earpiece. From his position there’s a clear view of the only three patrons in the joint: a college student-slash-hitchhiker with “SAVE THE WHALES” on her backpack, a sunburned tourist in an honest to god Hawaiian print shirt, and a middle-aged man in a tailored gray business suit, hair shorn close to his head.
No prizes for guessing which one is from the NSA.
The bell over the door tinkles, and Dominic walks in. Paul hunches his shoulders, keeping an eye on his every move.
Dominic slowly goes past the vinyl-covered booths: taking in everything without making it known, in a way only someone with similar training would recognize.
It’s part of the reason they asked Paul, specifically, to be his backup. If Dominic’s going to double-cross them, he stands a good chance to see it coming.
Finally, Dominic reaches the front of the diner. He walks towards the man in the suit…and sits down in front of the college girl instead.
Her eyes flick up. “You’re late,” she says.
Paul blinks. Okay, never mind.
Dominic takes off his sunglasses, revealing shadows under his eyes. The “student” tilts her head.
“And you look like crap,” she adds.
“I had a little trouble, getting away,” he tells her, tersely.
“Whatever.” She slouches with cool professionalism, bored as she stretches out a hand. “What have you got for me?”
“It’s over, Nicole.” He says the words with the brittleness of someone who’s been mentally practicing them. She frowns.
“What do you mean, ‘over’? What are you talking about?”
“My cover got blown. They caught me. The House knows we’re after them.”
She straightens, and suddenly, she looks nothing like any college girl Paul has ever seen. Her body language and expression are all wrong - too focused, too intense.
“How is it that you’re telling me this?” There’s wariness in her tone.
Dominic laughs bitterly. “Isn’t it obvious? They sent me to deliver the message.”
“They did.”
“The Dollhouse wants the NSA to back off. No more snooping around. No more trying to uncover their secrets - or there will be consequences.”
The other agent nods, firm. Her eyes are hard. “So, you’re working for them now.”
Dominic looks stricken. “I don’t have a choice.”
“I don’t believe you.” The conversation has taken an oddly personal tone. “I never would’ve thought you could be so weak.”
“I didn’t…Nicole, you have no idea. The things they did to me-”
“So they twisted your arm a bit,” she says derisively. “And now you’ve cried uncle. You’re working for the enemy, turning your back on the agency. You’re a disappointment, Laurence.”
She stands up, grabbing her backpack. She leans toward him, stating with cold, even intensity:
“I’ll deliver your message, from your new bosses. But we both know this isn’t over.”
She strides out. Dominic watches her go with a crumbling expression.
Paul waits until he’s absolutely sure the agent has left. Then he gets up, tapping Dominic awkwardly on the shoulder.
“Come on. Time to go.”
On the way outside, Dominic says bitterly, “So? You hear everything you need to? You can tell them I was a good boy, and did exactly what I was told.”
Paul’s voice is quiet. “That girl, how old was she? She looked like she could’ve been in college, almost, but-”
“She’s twenty-four. What? Like the FBI never recruits young.”
“Sure, they have. But, an NSA special agent-”
“Trust me, Ballard.” Dominic’s face is set, his voice making it clear that the conversation is over. “She can take care of herself.”
Paul nods, woodenly. He has nothing more to say.
_____
“So tell me, Mr. Dominic, how does it feel to be free?”
He stands in front of her desk, shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back. He thinks about it.
“Empty,” he says, honestly.
She walks towards him, her expression a mixture of sadness in acknowledgement of all he’s lost, and warmth to try and encourage him.
“You’d think you would feel lightened. Released.”
“Oh, I do. It’s just…” He stares off into space, overwhelmed. “I’ve been carrying all this weight around with me. For so long. And now that it’s finally gone, I don’t think I ever realized: there’s nothing underneath.”
It was always about the mission. Now, there is no mission. It begs the question, “What next?”
She smiles more delicately, nodding. She knows exactly what he’s thinking. Somehow, she always does.
“Well, you’ll just have to fill it up then, won’t you?” She reaches for him, stroking his forehead and brushing his hair. “You’ll have to take all that emptiness and find something new to make of it instead.”
He places his hand on top of hers, cradling the warmth of her palm.
His life has ended - but only the first version.
“I think,” he tells her, “I know where to start.”
_____
If the sight of a young woman in a neon band t-shirt, torn jeans, unzipped sweatshirt and faded chucks is out of place in the hallway of the NSA office, the reactions of the agents she passes by wouldn’t show it.
Nicole walks purposefully toward the intimidating doorway at the end of the hall. The guard in the dark suit and glasses nods with deference as he opens it for her.
Inside, the office is dark. The only light comes from between the blinds. The Deputy Director sits behind his desk, waiting.
She stands in front of him, hands clasped behind her back.
His voice is solemn as he speaks. “I read your report.” His gaze is sharp when he meets her eyes. “So, he’s gone native.”
“Worse than that, sir,” she says. “He’s gone rogue.”
The Deputy Director nods once, slowly. “We already knew the Dollhouse had impressive tactics of intimidation. Still - I doubt any of us could’ve predicted this.”
His agent says nothing. She stares straight ahead, waiting.
He’s silent for a moment, running fingertips around a groove in his desk.
“For the moment, we’ll heed the Dollhouse’s warning. I want our operations on them halted. We need to develop a new strategy, regroup our forces.”
She nods. “Yes, sir.” There is a pause, and she continues, carefully: “Sir? If I may have permission to speak to you informally?”
He gives a weary sigh, and a mirthless chuckle. “I suppose now’s a time for that.”
Nicole looks at the floor as she talks; only daring to meet his eyes at the very end. Her voice is filled with quietly suppressed emotion.
“I know how disappointed in him you must be, Dad. I’m disappointed in him too.”
The Deputy Director places his hands on his desk.
“You have no idea just how I feel, my dear. Any emotion you’re feeling is only a fraction of my own.”
The faint light starkly illuminates the grave sorrow of his expression, catching on his blue eyes, the fair hair fading to gray.
“After all…he is my son.”