elevator music for just_drifting_6
Title: Elevator Music
Author: sevendayloan
Rating: PG-13 for some sexuality. Nothing explicit.
Pairing(s): DeWitt/Dominic
Recipient/Prompt: just_drifting_6 // "Elevator"
Disclaimer: Dollhouse does not belong to me.
Summary: Still, he can't help it, there's something about the elevator that makes him ... nervous.
A/N: The notorious elevator fic is a pretty ambitious undertaking, so I just dipped my toes in the waters. Very sorry for the lateness! Hope it's still enjoyable. :)
It's been two weeks now and he still can't seem to get it out of his head. Even when he goes home at night he can hear it, the rap of her heels against the polished hardwood floor of the Dollhouse. That stacatto drumbeat, the tattoo of stillettos, beating an endless rhythm in his brain. Click-click-click. He can't quite get it out, and it lingers to infect his dreams with images he can't quite understand: all skyscrapers and pencil skirts. Maybe that's why he's dead on his feet today, he thinks, as he follows the click-click-click into the elevator, a foot behind as usual, footbeats falling in time with hers, as though he was steping to a high-powered march.
The elevator thrums contentedly as it begins its slow journey from her office to the heart of the Dollhouse, deep within the bowels of 23 Flower St. The lights are harsh, a bright fluorescence that's jarringly different from the soft lights and muted colors of the House itself. It's penetrating, revealing even, and it makes him shift uncomfortably.
She looks over at him, eyebrows raised and he stops his little dance with an embarrassment that he hopes doesn't show on his face. Still, he can't help it, there's something about the elevator that makes him ... nervous.
He adjusts his tie.
She fixes her hair.
He fiddles with his cuff.
She straightens her skirt.
He checks his gun.
She unbuttons her blouse.
Well, shit. Don't look, he thinks. Don't look, don't look..
He looks. She's looking straight ahead, but he can tell that she knows, the smirk on her face oddly reminiscent of a predator that's captured its prey. He thinks of the last few weeks, the synergy, the shared looks. Had she known that he'd wanted this? Actually, scratch that, had he known that he'd wanted this? He swallows hard and closes his eyes. Years of training an professional distance, all undone my one or two little buttons.
This was supposed to be an easy job, information only, no real heroics. Spend your days looking imposing behind an attractive Brit, hardly World War III. They'd pulled him off of his other job, explaining a need for an experienced agent before sending him halfway across the country with a file and a prayer. He's pretty damn sure that this wasn't what they'd had in mind.
They arrive at the floor with a soft thud that jolts him out of his reverie. He looks over at her, not sure how to proceed. Her shirt is already buttoned, her face non-plussed. Like nothing ever happened. Had he been imagining it? He must've been; there was no way that Adelle DeWitt, head of the LA Dollhouse and master of all she touches had just ... had she? Was she, was she laughing?
He needed to get more sleep.
"You're not ill, are you, Mr. Dominic? " she asks, her eyes dancing with a mirth that never touches her lips. "You look a little ... flushed."
She turns then and walks away, leaving her footsteps to echo through the nearly empty hallway. Click-click-click.
Author: sevendayloan
Rating: PG-13 for some sexuality. Nothing explicit.
Pairing(s): DeWitt/Dominic
Recipient/Prompt: just_drifting_6 // "Elevator"
Disclaimer: Dollhouse does not belong to me.
Summary: Still, he can't help it, there's something about the elevator that makes him ... nervous.
A/N: The notorious elevator fic is a pretty ambitious undertaking, so I just dipped my toes in the waters. Very sorry for the lateness! Hope it's still enjoyable. :)
It's been two weeks now and he still can't seem to get it out of his head. Even when he goes home at night he can hear it, the rap of her heels against the polished hardwood floor of the Dollhouse. That stacatto drumbeat, the tattoo of stillettos, beating an endless rhythm in his brain. Click-click-click. He can't quite get it out, and it lingers to infect his dreams with images he can't quite understand: all skyscrapers and pencil skirts. Maybe that's why he's dead on his feet today, he thinks, as he follows the click-click-click into the elevator, a foot behind as usual, footbeats falling in time with hers, as though he was steping to a high-powered march.
The elevator thrums contentedly as it begins its slow journey from her office to the heart of the Dollhouse, deep within the bowels of 23 Flower St. The lights are harsh, a bright fluorescence that's jarringly different from the soft lights and muted colors of the House itself. It's penetrating, revealing even, and it makes him shift uncomfortably.
She looks over at him, eyebrows raised and he stops his little dance with an embarrassment that he hopes doesn't show on his face. Still, he can't help it, there's something about the elevator that makes him ... nervous.
He adjusts his tie.
She fixes her hair.
He fiddles with his cuff.
She straightens her skirt.
He checks his gun.
She unbuttons her blouse.
Well, shit. Don't look, he thinks. Don't look, don't look..
He looks. She's looking straight ahead, but he can tell that she knows, the smirk on her face oddly reminiscent of a predator that's captured its prey. He thinks of the last few weeks, the synergy, the shared looks. Had she known that he'd wanted this? Actually, scratch that, had he known that he'd wanted this? He swallows hard and closes his eyes. Years of training an professional distance, all undone my one or two little buttons.
This was supposed to be an easy job, information only, no real heroics. Spend your days looking imposing behind an attractive Brit, hardly World War III. They'd pulled him off of his other job, explaining a need for an experienced agent before sending him halfway across the country with a file and a prayer. He's pretty damn sure that this wasn't what they'd had in mind.
They arrive at the floor with a soft thud that jolts him out of his reverie. He looks over at her, not sure how to proceed. Her shirt is already buttoned, her face non-plussed. Like nothing ever happened. Had he been imagining it? He must've been; there was no way that Adelle DeWitt, head of the LA Dollhouse and master of all she touches had just ... had she? Was she, was she laughing?
He needed to get more sleep.
"You're not ill, are you, Mr. Dominic? " she asks, her eyes dancing with a mirth that never touches her lips. "You look a little ... flushed."
She turns then and walks away, leaving her footsteps to echo through the nearly empty hallway. Click-click-click.