Dollhouse: Starches And Other Inappropriate Temptations (The Slightly More British Remix)
Original Fic: Tangerines, by duh_i_read
Remix: Starches And Other Inappropriate Temptations (The Slightly More British Remix) [Dominic/Adelle, 250 words, rated PG-13, spoilers up to Echoes], by amathela
"Thank you, Mr Dominic," she says, voice clipped, British.
(Sarcastic. Unfeeling.)
He nods, professional. As always. There's a single hair, clinging to the lapel of his jacket, unmistakeably hers.
She doesn't pluck it from the fabric. That would be ... a shade too intimate, perhaps.
(His jacket was soft, she remembers. Topher had called her a cat, catlike, and she can live with the comparison. Cats are dignified, elegant. And never admit when their composure slips.)
Her arm still aches from the shot; Dr Saunders, she thinks, was none too gentle -
("Doesn't she smell like tangerines?" Topher had asked, and Adelle had suddenly craved candy, sweet instead of savoury.)
But she can forgive that, under the circumstances.
"If you need anything further," Mr Dominic says, and his expression gives nothing away.
(It doesn't need to. She learned to read him long ago.)
She is conscious of Topher in the room, doesn't need to look over to confirm that they aren't alone.
Not that it would matter.
"I shall keep you informed," she says, and he nods once, again, before leaving.
"That was -" Topher says, and she turns, her eyes hard.
He swallows, and glances at Dr Saunders.
(That may be a problem. Not, necessarily, that she is in a position to judge.)
"I'm just saying, I wish we had surveillance of that."
Adelle considers - only briefly - what it would cost the house to have him wiped.
"And I'm leaving," he says -
Adelle pours herself a drink. (Vodka, she thinks. Not whiskey.)
Remix: Starches And Other Inappropriate Temptations (The Slightly More British Remix) [Dominic/Adelle, 250 words, rated PG-13, spoilers up to Echoes], by amathela
"Thank you, Mr Dominic," she says, voice clipped, British.
(Sarcastic. Unfeeling.)
He nods, professional. As always. There's a single hair, clinging to the lapel of his jacket, unmistakeably hers.
She doesn't pluck it from the fabric. That would be ... a shade too intimate, perhaps.
(His jacket was soft, she remembers. Topher had called her a cat, catlike, and she can live with the comparison. Cats are dignified, elegant. And never admit when their composure slips.)
Her arm still aches from the shot; Dr Saunders, she thinks, was none too gentle -
("Doesn't she smell like tangerines?" Topher had asked, and Adelle had suddenly craved candy, sweet instead of savoury.)
But she can forgive that, under the circumstances.
"If you need anything further," Mr Dominic says, and his expression gives nothing away.
(It doesn't need to. She learned to read him long ago.)
She is conscious of Topher in the room, doesn't need to look over to confirm that they aren't alone.
Not that it would matter.
"I shall keep you informed," she says, and he nods once, again, before leaving.
"That was -" Topher says, and she turns, her eyes hard.
He swallows, and glances at Dr Saunders.
(That may be a problem. Not, necessarily, that she is in a position to judge.)
"I'm just saying, I wish we had surveillance of that."
Adelle considers - only briefly - what it would cost the house to have him wiped.
"And I'm leaving," he says -
Adelle pours herself a drink. (Vodka, she thinks. Not whiskey.)