all shall fade // dollhouse // whiskey/november // pg
title: all shall fade
fandom: Dollhouse
pairing: Whiskey/November
rating: PG
disclaimer: These characters are in no way mine.
summary: The clients are vague, but you like it that way. An engagement.
notes: Written for twistomatic at the Fall Fandom Free-For-All. Yes, I know that was close to a year ago. ~800 words.
The clients are vague, but you like it that way. You and Maggie get the details of the job -- three days out, some big party, some files need stealing, just up your alley -- and that's all you need. Anything more than that is a liability, and just because you're in this line of work doesn't mean you're foolhardy. You've seen what happens to people like that; it's not pretty.
Maggie does your hair, the night of, some incredibly intricate thing with bobby pins that you don't understand and can barely believe will stay up the entire night. Well it won't if you keep messing with it, she says, making a face, and slaps your hands away.
Final touch, she says, and stands behind you, fastens a delicate silver chain with a sparrow on it around your neck. She'd told you it was an impulse buy, more or less, at the department store an hour and a half east of here; you'd come out of the dressing room in your regular clothes, and she'd been over at the jewelry counter, holding your gown carefully and staring at this necklace. When you went to go pay, she took it with her. You didn't ask; she didn't offer.
There, she says, finally satisfied, and looks up, her brown eyes meeting your blue ones in the mirror. Her face finally relaxes into what might, one day, grow up to be a smile, and you return it, covering the hand she's left on your shoulder with her own.
You ready? you ask, giving her hand a squeeze.
She grins, finally, and moves to pick up her gear. You ask me that again and I'll hamstring you, she says, and you laugh.
You've been doing this for so long it's hard to imagine anything else, but you suppose if you'd stayed home this would have been your life anyway, after a fashion. Fancy balls, cocktail parties, rubbing elbows with important people. Maybe being an important person yourself, eventually, but only because of your husband.
You think of what you've done so far tonight, of Maggie, upstairs, finishing everything off, and you smile a little.
What do you think, Adelaide? someone asks, and you turn it into a full-blown, gosh-I'm-such-a-space-cadet-sometimes smile, cast your eyes downward ever so slightly, apologize for having drifted off. He repeats his question, and you answer, and then someone else jumps in, and your part is over.
It's strange; you knew a girl named Adelaide, growing up.
Two and a half hours later you get the signal, make your graceful departure, and head to the car. You look in the rearview mirror when you're buckled in, see Maggie give a thumbs-up from her position, curled up in the passenger seat-well, and drive away.
It's not until you're in the parking lot of the hotel and Maggie can't quite get herself out that you realize something's wrong; when you help her out of the car you notice she can barely put any weight on her right foot, and roll your eyes. Jesus, Maggie, you say, and half-carry her back inside.
It's just a sprain, she tells you, but she lets you wrap it up carefully with tape anyway, prop it up on the extra pillows. After you're out of the gown and she's out of what you affectionately refer to as her cat-burglar outfit, files on a jump drive hidden in your toiletry case, she even takes one of your dwindling supply of narcotics. One of you is going to have to get some more, soon.
A few minutes later she starts to slump a little against the headboard. You turn the TV off, help ease her so she's lying down, and cover her carefully without jostling her ankle more than necessary. She looks so frail, underneath the crisp white sheets; it's a wonder she hasn't been injured before.
You turn the light off, move to climb into your own bed, when she catches your hand with her own. Stay, she whispers, stay, and how can you deny her?
You lay down next to her, and she shuffles over so her head is on your chest. You start petting her hair, barely realizing it until she makes a happy sound, deep in her throat.
You remind me of a bird sometimes, she says, some time later, voice thick with sleep. I'm always worried you're going to fly away and leave.
What? Suddenly you're awake, surprised, hurt for some reason you can't quite articulate. Why?
Dunno, she says, and you feel the ghost of a shrug. I just worry, sometimes, when I can't sleep.
I'm never going to fly away, you say, stroking her hair a few more times. Never.
You promise?
Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.
Good. She noses at your collarbone a little, getting comfortable, and then you feel her lean up and kiss your neck. Good. And then she's asleep.
Good.
fandom: Dollhouse
pairing: Whiskey/November
rating: PG
disclaimer: These characters are in no way mine.
summary: The clients are vague, but you like it that way. An engagement.
notes: Written for twistomatic at the Fall Fandom Free-For-All. Yes, I know that was close to a year ago. ~800 words.
The clients are vague, but you like it that way. You and Maggie get the details of the job -- three days out, some big party, some files need stealing, just up your alley -- and that's all you need. Anything more than that is a liability, and just because you're in this line of work doesn't mean you're foolhardy. You've seen what happens to people like that; it's not pretty.
Maggie does your hair, the night of, some incredibly intricate thing with bobby pins that you don't understand and can barely believe will stay up the entire night. Well it won't if you keep messing with it, she says, making a face, and slaps your hands away.
Final touch, she says, and stands behind you, fastens a delicate silver chain with a sparrow on it around your neck. She'd told you it was an impulse buy, more or less, at the department store an hour and a half east of here; you'd come out of the dressing room in your regular clothes, and she'd been over at the jewelry counter, holding your gown carefully and staring at this necklace. When you went to go pay, she took it with her. You didn't ask; she didn't offer.
There, she says, finally satisfied, and looks up, her brown eyes meeting your blue ones in the mirror. Her face finally relaxes into what might, one day, grow up to be a smile, and you return it, covering the hand she's left on your shoulder with her own.
You ready? you ask, giving her hand a squeeze.
She grins, finally, and moves to pick up her gear. You ask me that again and I'll hamstring you, she says, and you laugh.
You've been doing this for so long it's hard to imagine anything else, but you suppose if you'd stayed home this would have been your life anyway, after a fashion. Fancy balls, cocktail parties, rubbing elbows with important people. Maybe being an important person yourself, eventually, but only because of your husband.
You think of what you've done so far tonight, of Maggie, upstairs, finishing everything off, and you smile a little.
What do you think, Adelaide? someone asks, and you turn it into a full-blown, gosh-I'm-such-a-space-cadet-sometimes smile, cast your eyes downward ever so slightly, apologize for having drifted off. He repeats his question, and you answer, and then someone else jumps in, and your part is over.
It's strange; you knew a girl named Adelaide, growing up.
Two and a half hours later you get the signal, make your graceful departure, and head to the car. You look in the rearview mirror when you're buckled in, see Maggie give a thumbs-up from her position, curled up in the passenger seat-well, and drive away.
It's not until you're in the parking lot of the hotel and Maggie can't quite get herself out that you realize something's wrong; when you help her out of the car you notice she can barely put any weight on her right foot, and roll your eyes. Jesus, Maggie, you say, and half-carry her back inside.
It's just a sprain, she tells you, but she lets you wrap it up carefully with tape anyway, prop it up on the extra pillows. After you're out of the gown and she's out of what you affectionately refer to as her cat-burglar outfit, files on a jump drive hidden in your toiletry case, she even takes one of your dwindling supply of narcotics. One of you is going to have to get some more, soon.
A few minutes later she starts to slump a little against the headboard. You turn the TV off, help ease her so she's lying down, and cover her carefully without jostling her ankle more than necessary. She looks so frail, underneath the crisp white sheets; it's a wonder she hasn't been injured before.
You turn the light off, move to climb into your own bed, when she catches your hand with her own. Stay, she whispers, stay, and how can you deny her?
You lay down next to her, and she shuffles over so her head is on your chest. You start petting her hair, barely realizing it until she makes a happy sound, deep in her throat.
You remind me of a bird sometimes, she says, some time later, voice thick with sleep. I'm always worried you're going to fly away and leave.
What? Suddenly you're awake, surprised, hurt for some reason you can't quite articulate. Why?
Dunno, she says, and you feel the ghost of a shrug. I just worry, sometimes, when I can't sleep.
I'm never going to fly away, you say, stroking her hair a few more times. Never.
You promise?
Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.
Good. She noses at your collarbone a little, getting comfortable, and then you feel her lean up and kiss your neck. Good. And then she's asleep.
Good.