What You Wished For (Dollhouse One-Shot)
Title: What You Wished For
Author: obiwahn
Pairing/Characters: Paul/Echo
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual situations, violence, character death.
Spoilers: None really. Based very loosely on the promotional pics for Man on the Street.
Disclaimer: Joss is Boss. I own nothing, just playing.
Word Count: 1,203
A/N: Written for dollhousefics challenge 003 : Box
She stood before him - tear-stained cheeks and tousled hair; a lost little girl in a strange and horrific world. She was his obsession - his fantasy made flesh.
“Caroline,” he whispered, stopping dead in his tracks.
Over the past year she’d become the center of his existence - a ghost always on the periphery of his daily activities. The closer he got, the more fevered he became.
It was an obsession. Even he couldn’t deny that, and he’d long given up trying to rationalize it.
The black and white photograph, the home video, the class ring, and the army tags - he kept them all in a box on his night-stand, turning them over night after night in his hands, as though they were sacred artifacts - pieces to a puzzle that he must solve, or die trying.
Lubov had finally come through - had finally given him the information that would lead him to her. So he could save her.
She needed saving, after all.
“Thank God you’ve come,” she wept, and moved quickly towards him. Before he knew it she was in his arms - the scent of her hair intoxicating him as she buried her head in his chest. The tears that had been falling from her eyes now drenched the front of his shirt, a sensation that, God help him, sent a thrill of desire through his body.
“It’s ok,” he reassured her softly, his hand stroking the heavy fall of her brunette hair. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
He looked around the abandoned building, wary of being spotted by someone. He couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t a set up; but he believed her tears, and the fear in her eyes. When he’d called her “Caroline,” she hadn’t asked why. She was herself again, and she wanted to be free. He didn’t know how she had gotten away; but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he found her. All that mattered was that he was going to save her.
“I’m going to take you somewhere safe.”
She nodded against his collar-bone, and then slowly moved back to gaze up at him.
“Thank you.”
***
He’d never planned on taking her back to his apartment; but when she protested against going to the cops he decided that it was the only alternative. He placed his palm on the small of her back as he led her through the halls, padding quietly so that Mellie wouldn’t open her door and get the wrong idea.
When they were safely inside he led her to the sofa and asked her if she wanted something to drink.
“Just water,” she mumbled, nervously fiddling with a hangnail and staring at the ground. He wondered what had happened to make her this way. It seemed like she was suffering from post-traumatic stress.
Had she fought her way out? Were they looking for her now?
He went to the kitchen sink and filled a glass with water, hoping that she wouldn’t mind that it wasn’t the bottled kind. While he was thus busied his back was turned, and he didn’t hear her ghost-light footsteps approaching from behind.
And then, suddenly, a knife was at his throat.
***
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a damsel in distress,” she spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, though her grip on him attested to a considerable effort - effort that was not in vain.
“Did it make you feel like a man to see me cry? Did it make you hard?” She taunted him, the knife cutting against his skin slightly, causing tiny droplets of blood to fall on his crisp white shirt. The realization that he may die flooded him with adrenaline, and he shoved his body against her, loosening her grip before he twisted her arms, sending her to the ground.
“They sent you,” he rasped out, looking down at her, his hand covering his throat. “You’re not Caroline.”
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” she grinned, kicking out a leg and causing him to topple over. In a flash of movement she was on top of him, holding him down with one hand while she wielded the knife over him with the other.
“Either way, you’re going to die. So we might as well make this memorable,” she purred as she ground her hips against him. To his shame, he felt his body responding to her ministrations.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
She leaned in and took his mouth with hers, biting on his bottom lip. The knife fell to the ground as he shoved her upright, responding fiercely to the kiss.
Whether or not she remembered who she was - she was still his obsession, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything. If he could reach some tiny part of her, he’d take his chance. It was wrong beyond all meaning of the word, but that didn’t matter as much as the feel of her nails scraping against his chest as she tore off his shirt, or the hand that slid down his belly to cup the bulge of his arousal.
He arched his back as she tugged his pants down, and roughly lifted her skirt around her waist as she bore down onto him, taking him inside.
There was nothing romantic about the way she thrust against him, or the way that he held tightly onto her hips, leaving bruises that, later, she wouldn’t even remember.
She came like thunder, crashing onto him - around him, a thousand tiny ripples of pleasure that sent him over the edge with her.
In his ecstasy he didn’t see her pick the knife up again…
***
She stared down at the body beneath her, the wound that was bleeding onto her skirt, his blood on her hands.
He’d wanted this.
She'd seen it in his eyes.
Yet there was a feeling of sickness that was beginning to creep into her soul. Why did this kill feel different from the rest?
She got up from the kitchen floor and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt -- tried to wipe out the blood.
“No no no no, get that thing out of my face,” a voice lamented from the other room.
Her voice.
Perplexed, she followed the sound of the recording to living room, where it was playing on the television set. Someone had been there…the video player hadn’t been on before.
“All right, are we done!?”
Echo’s eyes were drawn to a box sitting precariously on the oak coffee table. Picking it up, she sat down on the side of the sofa. The first thing that caught her eye was the faded black and white photograph, smudged around the edges from being touched too often. A shock went through her at seeing her face reflected back. She looked so happy.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She’d never been that happy.
She turned the photograph over.
“Caroline,” she read aloud. That was what he’d called her.
She set the photograph back in the box and turned off the television set, anxious to get back to the van.
If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her treatment.
Author: obiwahn
Pairing/Characters: Paul/Echo
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual situations, violence, character death.
Spoilers: None really. Based very loosely on the promotional pics for Man on the Street.
Disclaimer: Joss is Boss. I own nothing, just playing.
Word Count: 1,203
A/N: Written for dollhousefics challenge 003 : Box
She stood before him - tear-stained cheeks and tousled hair; a lost little girl in a strange and horrific world. She was his obsession - his fantasy made flesh.
“Caroline,” he whispered, stopping dead in his tracks.
Over the past year she’d become the center of his existence - a ghost always on the periphery of his daily activities. The closer he got, the more fevered he became.
It was an obsession. Even he couldn’t deny that, and he’d long given up trying to rationalize it.
The black and white photograph, the home video, the class ring, and the army tags - he kept them all in a box on his night-stand, turning them over night after night in his hands, as though they were sacred artifacts - pieces to a puzzle that he must solve, or die trying.
Lubov had finally come through - had finally given him the information that would lead him to her. So he could save her.
She needed saving, after all.
“Thank God you’ve come,” she wept, and moved quickly towards him. Before he knew it she was in his arms - the scent of her hair intoxicating him as she buried her head in his chest. The tears that had been falling from her eyes now drenched the front of his shirt, a sensation that, God help him, sent a thrill of desire through his body.
“It’s ok,” he reassured her softly, his hand stroking the heavy fall of her brunette hair. “I’m going to get you out of here.”
He looked around the abandoned building, wary of being spotted by someone. He couldn’t be sure that this wasn’t a set up; but he believed her tears, and the fear in her eyes. When he’d called her “Caroline,” she hadn’t asked why. She was herself again, and she wanted to be free. He didn’t know how she had gotten away; but it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he found her. All that mattered was that he was going to save her.
“I’m going to take you somewhere safe.”
She nodded against his collar-bone, and then slowly moved back to gaze up at him.
“Thank you.”
***
He’d never planned on taking her back to his apartment; but when she protested against going to the cops he decided that it was the only alternative. He placed his palm on the small of her back as he led her through the halls, padding quietly so that Mellie wouldn’t open her door and get the wrong idea.
When they were safely inside he led her to the sofa and asked her if she wanted something to drink.
“Just water,” she mumbled, nervously fiddling with a hangnail and staring at the ground. He wondered what had happened to make her this way. It seemed like she was suffering from post-traumatic stress.
Had she fought her way out? Were they looking for her now?
He went to the kitchen sink and filled a glass with water, hoping that she wouldn’t mind that it wasn’t the bottled kind. While he was thus busied his back was turned, and he didn’t hear her ghost-light footsteps approaching from behind.
And then, suddenly, a knife was at his throat.
***
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not a damsel in distress,” she spoke calmly, matter-of-factly, though her grip on him attested to a considerable effort - effort that was not in vain.
“Did it make you feel like a man to see me cry? Did it make you hard?” She taunted him, the knife cutting against his skin slightly, causing tiny droplets of blood to fall on his crisp white shirt. The realization that he may die flooded him with adrenaline, and he shoved his body against her, loosening her grip before he twisted her arms, sending her to the ground.
“They sent you,” he rasped out, looking down at her, his hand covering his throat. “You’re not Caroline.”
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not,” she grinned, kicking out a leg and causing him to topple over. In a flash of movement she was on top of him, holding him down with one hand while she wielded the knife over him with the other.
“Either way, you’re going to die. So we might as well make this memorable,” she purred as she ground her hips against him. To his shame, he felt his body responding to her ministrations.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.
She leaned in and took his mouth with hers, biting on his bottom lip. The knife fell to the ground as he shoved her upright, responding fiercely to the kiss.
Whether or not she remembered who she was - she was still his obsession, and he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anything. If he could reach some tiny part of her, he’d take his chance. It was wrong beyond all meaning of the word, but that didn’t matter as much as the feel of her nails scraping against his chest as she tore off his shirt, or the hand that slid down his belly to cup the bulge of his arousal.
He arched his back as she tugged his pants down, and roughly lifted her skirt around her waist as she bore down onto him, taking him inside.
There was nothing romantic about the way she thrust against him, or the way that he held tightly onto her hips, leaving bruises that, later, she wouldn’t even remember.
She came like thunder, crashing onto him - around him, a thousand tiny ripples of pleasure that sent him over the edge with her.
In his ecstasy he didn’t see her pick the knife up again…
***
She stared down at the body beneath her, the wound that was bleeding onto her skirt, his blood on her hands.
He’d wanted this.
She'd seen it in his eyes.
Yet there was a feeling of sickness that was beginning to creep into her soul. Why did this kill feel different from the rest?
She got up from the kitchen floor and tried to smooth out the wrinkles in her skirt -- tried to wipe out the blood.
“No no no no, get that thing out of my face,” a voice lamented from the other room.
Her voice.
Perplexed, she followed the sound of the recording to living room, where it was playing on the television set. Someone had been there…the video player hadn’t been on before.
“All right, are we done!?”
Echo’s eyes were drawn to a box sitting precariously on the oak coffee table. Picking it up, she sat down on the side of the sofa. The first thing that caught her eye was the faded black and white photograph, smudged around the edges from being touched too often. A shock went through her at seeing her face reflected back. She looked so happy.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She’d never been that happy.
She turned the photograph over.
“Caroline,” she read aloud. That was what he’d called her.
She set the photograph back in the box and turned off the television set, anxious to get back to the van.
If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late for her treatment.