fanfic: Dollhouse
Title: Don't tell me what you've done
Fandom/pairing: Dollhouse ; Adelle ; semi-Adelle/Dominic
Word count: 1300-ish
Spoilers: Through “A Spy in the House of Love.” Inspired by the description for the upcoming episode, but not spoiler-y.
Notes: Title and section titles from the lyrics of Cursive’s “We’re Going To Hell”, uploaded here. I recommend you download it; rarely have I encountered a song whose every line is as applicable to a pairing as this song is to Adelle and Laurence, and to the Dollhouse in general.
Further notes: Eeeee, Dollhousefic! I really, really, really loved writing this. It felt right and it flowed and I was in that zone, and it was that perfect balance of getting inspired in the moment and crafting something over several days. I would love feedback! ♥
What’s that ‘neath the floorboards?
The Attic. A misleading term: it lies not above their heads, but deeper underground even than the pentagonal resting place of the Dolls. Taking the shadowy, wood-slatted stairs with care, Adelle can’t prevent the thought that she is descending into hell.
Make her way through the winding halls, lit almost imperceptibly from beneath, smears of not so much light as a paler brand of shadow pushing through the worn wood here and there, painting the world gray. Find the door that pushes out into the great chamber: so many sides that it appears circular, with walls extending from the nearly straight corners, forming alcoves that naturally taper into a point as the not-quite-parallel walls draw closer to meeting ; where the apex of each pair of walls should be, a panel instead, cutting the point short. Later, these panels will slide back simultaneously, as they do each night, and the center of the hall will slowly fill with empty shells of human beings, wandering lost, aimless, heading for the open space on instinct but stopping, confused, when they reach the center. Soon enough, they will return to the familiar, they will doze, and the panels will click shut.
Now, Adelle draws a card from her pocket and slides it along the ridge between the panel and the wall of the alcove straight across the expanse, farthest from the door. There is a single, faint beep with no discernible source, and then the panel slides noiselessly back. She waits, blinks, and steps into the dark. Inside, a thin layer of cushioning covers the narrow floor, and against the back wall, a mere few feet from the opening she stands in, a chair.
In the chair, a figure. She breathes.
I’ve a hunger for the deviant
He has been here for a full month now, yet it is she who can see in the dark. His wide eyes stare out at nothing; she fancies she can spy cobwebs festooned across those empty gray orbs.
She can recall each and every time she allowed herself a look into those eyes and wondered what it would be like to let her control slip.
(At her side for three years, and never once a lapse; never a stray touch or a centimeter lost between them. Three years that were meant to stretch into the interminable; she had her iron crown of control in place and she would never have wavered, not once. A waste.)
Now, she extends an arm and flattens her hand upon his chest. His heart beats steadily, every pump of his blood a strike against her palm.
Her lips form the word, “why?” although she gives it no voice. She swallows the unexpected prickling swell behind her nasal cavity, the tightness in her throat, and presses a steadying hand to her breast. Each hand contains a heartbeat, now, and she can feel how much faster her own is than his and hates herself for it, hates that she can never match the thoughtless composure of the souls she commands. Her own soul throbs upon impact; it is why she holds herself apart, why she must.
She is so terribly much more fragile than she would ever have anyone know, and it is her burning drive to bury this facet of herself that cuts her out to do what she does. Those who excel are those who have something vital to prove.
It’s embarrassing how naïve you are. It is the truest thing he has said to her, and the scariest. It is not, she thinks, the betrayal that dismantled her from the inside out; had he been a true rogue agent, working tirelessly to bring down the Dollhouse by subverting its very foundation, driven by a consuming hatred of the despicable nature of such a place, had he, in short, been another Ballard, intensity sharpening his eyes, she would have known how to fight him and rushed with adrenaline at the prospect. As her enemy, Laurence Dominic would have remained the sort of man she could look at levelly and feel her gut spark at the challenge. It was his insistence that he remained on the same side as she, the side of the Dollhouse, that sickened her; the idea that he had seen himself as some sort of clandestine protector, holding her steady behind her back, was the very thing she could not forgive.
She never was his equal, not in his eyes, and that alone rewrites the past three years more than any attempt to undermine her would have; it makes everything a lie, and she had thought, had truly believed that the one person in all the Dollhouse free from those sorts of lies, those lies of perception, was Laurence Dominic. Always he had spoken exactly what he saw; she had come to rely on it, even when she disagreed. It became her comfort, or as close to comfort as she could ever get: from one man, the truth. Roger was always a lie; she had known and it had almost killed her, but still she had remained standing, week after week after week. His eyes, gazing at her, were a lie; however he saw her, it was programmed into him in a chair bound up with electrodes. Nothing was ever supposed to hurt more than that; accepting this had made her able to keep returning to him.
It hurt infinitely more when the lie was deliberate.
To have thought you were perceived in one certain way, and to have that suddenly snatched away - it was an indescribable pain, a nagging phantom sting that flared at the worst of times.
A month, and still her shifting into consciousness each morning is accompanied by a sucker punch to the stomach in the instant that the reality of her waking hours reasserts itself. A month, and her world still hasn’t ceased its daily few moments of ghastly violent shaking, she a marble tumbling inside it, everything the wrong way up, until she opens her eyes and faces the day.
It unnerves her. She was - is - impregnable. At all costs, she must maintain her assurance. A month, and at last her struggle has brought her here, to the darkest of places, staking everything on finding escape by ceasing all attempts to run away and instead turning, facing, and standing her ground. If she looks Laurence Dominic in the eyes, perhaps finally, finally, she can banish him.
Just let your conscience go
Silently, she leans over him. She removes her hand from his chest and tangles it in his hair, pulling his head back until he is looking up at her.
She sets her jaw and speaks, her voice colder than it has ever been. “You are Laurence Dominic. I am Adelle DeWitt. You destroyed my trust. You very nearly destroyed everything I have.”
His eyes dart over her face, and she has the impression of an animal caged, fettered, denied its freedom, trapped in an existence so much smaller than it was ever meant to have. “I am - ” he croaks. “You are - ” He stares at her in bewilderment, and a cruel smile curls over her face.
“Precisely,” she says bitterly.
Then she kisses him for all she is worth. She kisses him, allowing a deep-seated hunger to well up, unchained, and overtake her. She kisses him, and he does nothing. She kisses him until she is spent, until there is a throbbing ache between her legs and a dull numbness in her chest.
She draws back. She straightens. She brushes her hands once down the front of her skirt. “Goodnight, Mr. Dominic,” she says crisply.
She pauses just outside the alcove. His lips move wordlessly behind her, but she does not turn. The panel clicks into place, and she is gone.
*
Don’t tell me what you’ve done
'Cause I don’t wanna know
You say it’s not so hard
Just let your conscience go
You’re flashing me that politician's grin
You got your image squeaky clean
You’ve such a fetching smile
But a maw with sharp teeth
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
So show me some remorse
Show me a little guilt
Don’t tell me we’re just animals
Awaiting our next kill
I’ve been disciplined by religion, by fear
So I can’t quite seem to keep my thoughts pure
I’ve a hunger for the deviant
And a thirst for worse
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell, my friends
So what’s that something sinister inside
We act so civilized
Devils in tuxedos
Our sordid hearts are far too hard to hide
What’s that 'neath the floorboards?
Boom boom
Boom boom
Boom boom
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
Fandom/pairing: Dollhouse ; Adelle ; semi-Adelle/Dominic
Word count: 1300-ish
Spoilers: Through “A Spy in the House of Love.” Inspired by the description for the upcoming episode, but not spoiler-y.
Notes: Title and section titles from the lyrics of Cursive’s “We’re Going To Hell”, uploaded here. I recommend you download it; rarely have I encountered a song whose every line is as applicable to a pairing as this song is to Adelle and Laurence, and to the Dollhouse in general.
Further notes: Eeeee, Dollhousefic! I really, really, really loved writing this. It felt right and it flowed and I was in that zone, and it was that perfect balance of getting inspired in the moment and crafting something over several days. I would love feedback! ♥
What’s that ‘neath the floorboards?
The Attic. A misleading term: it lies not above their heads, but deeper underground even than the pentagonal resting place of the Dolls. Taking the shadowy, wood-slatted stairs with care, Adelle can’t prevent the thought that she is descending into hell.
Make her way through the winding halls, lit almost imperceptibly from beneath, smears of not so much light as a paler brand of shadow pushing through the worn wood here and there, painting the world gray. Find the door that pushes out into the great chamber: so many sides that it appears circular, with walls extending from the nearly straight corners, forming alcoves that naturally taper into a point as the not-quite-parallel walls draw closer to meeting ; where the apex of each pair of walls should be, a panel instead, cutting the point short. Later, these panels will slide back simultaneously, as they do each night, and the center of the hall will slowly fill with empty shells of human beings, wandering lost, aimless, heading for the open space on instinct but stopping, confused, when they reach the center. Soon enough, they will return to the familiar, they will doze, and the panels will click shut.
Now, Adelle draws a card from her pocket and slides it along the ridge between the panel and the wall of the alcove straight across the expanse, farthest from the door. There is a single, faint beep with no discernible source, and then the panel slides noiselessly back. She waits, blinks, and steps into the dark. Inside, a thin layer of cushioning covers the narrow floor, and against the back wall, a mere few feet from the opening she stands in, a chair.
In the chair, a figure. She breathes.
I’ve a hunger for the deviant
He has been here for a full month now, yet it is she who can see in the dark. His wide eyes stare out at nothing; she fancies she can spy cobwebs festooned across those empty gray orbs.
She can recall each and every time she allowed herself a look into those eyes and wondered what it would be like to let her control slip.
(At her side for three years, and never once a lapse; never a stray touch or a centimeter lost between them. Three years that were meant to stretch into the interminable; she had her iron crown of control in place and she would never have wavered, not once. A waste.)
Now, she extends an arm and flattens her hand upon his chest. His heart beats steadily, every pump of his blood a strike against her palm.
Her lips form the word, “why?” although she gives it no voice. She swallows the unexpected prickling swell behind her nasal cavity, the tightness in her throat, and presses a steadying hand to her breast. Each hand contains a heartbeat, now, and she can feel how much faster her own is than his and hates herself for it, hates that she can never match the thoughtless composure of the souls she commands. Her own soul throbs upon impact; it is why she holds herself apart, why she must.
She is so terribly much more fragile than she would ever have anyone know, and it is her burning drive to bury this facet of herself that cuts her out to do what she does. Those who excel are those who have something vital to prove.
It’s embarrassing how naïve you are. It is the truest thing he has said to her, and the scariest. It is not, she thinks, the betrayal that dismantled her from the inside out; had he been a true rogue agent, working tirelessly to bring down the Dollhouse by subverting its very foundation, driven by a consuming hatred of the despicable nature of such a place, had he, in short, been another Ballard, intensity sharpening his eyes, she would have known how to fight him and rushed with adrenaline at the prospect. As her enemy, Laurence Dominic would have remained the sort of man she could look at levelly and feel her gut spark at the challenge. It was his insistence that he remained on the same side as she, the side of the Dollhouse, that sickened her; the idea that he had seen himself as some sort of clandestine protector, holding her steady behind her back, was the very thing she could not forgive.
She never was his equal, not in his eyes, and that alone rewrites the past three years more than any attempt to undermine her would have; it makes everything a lie, and she had thought, had truly believed that the one person in all the Dollhouse free from those sorts of lies, those lies of perception, was Laurence Dominic. Always he had spoken exactly what he saw; she had come to rely on it, even when she disagreed. It became her comfort, or as close to comfort as she could ever get: from one man, the truth. Roger was always a lie; she had known and it had almost killed her, but still she had remained standing, week after week after week. His eyes, gazing at her, were a lie; however he saw her, it was programmed into him in a chair bound up with electrodes. Nothing was ever supposed to hurt more than that; accepting this had made her able to keep returning to him.
It hurt infinitely more when the lie was deliberate.
To have thought you were perceived in one certain way, and to have that suddenly snatched away - it was an indescribable pain, a nagging phantom sting that flared at the worst of times.
A month, and still her shifting into consciousness each morning is accompanied by a sucker punch to the stomach in the instant that the reality of her waking hours reasserts itself. A month, and her world still hasn’t ceased its daily few moments of ghastly violent shaking, she a marble tumbling inside it, everything the wrong way up, until she opens her eyes and faces the day.
It unnerves her. She was - is - impregnable. At all costs, she must maintain her assurance. A month, and at last her struggle has brought her here, to the darkest of places, staking everything on finding escape by ceasing all attempts to run away and instead turning, facing, and standing her ground. If she looks Laurence Dominic in the eyes, perhaps finally, finally, she can banish him.
Just let your conscience go
Silently, she leans over him. She removes her hand from his chest and tangles it in his hair, pulling his head back until he is looking up at her.
She sets her jaw and speaks, her voice colder than it has ever been. “You are Laurence Dominic. I am Adelle DeWitt. You destroyed my trust. You very nearly destroyed everything I have.”
His eyes dart over her face, and she has the impression of an animal caged, fettered, denied its freedom, trapped in an existence so much smaller than it was ever meant to have. “I am - ” he croaks. “You are - ” He stares at her in bewilderment, and a cruel smile curls over her face.
“Precisely,” she says bitterly.
Then she kisses him for all she is worth. She kisses him, allowing a deep-seated hunger to well up, unchained, and overtake her. She kisses him, and he does nothing. She kisses him until she is spent, until there is a throbbing ache between her legs and a dull numbness in her chest.
She draws back. She straightens. She brushes her hands once down the front of her skirt. “Goodnight, Mr. Dominic,” she says crisply.
She pauses just outside the alcove. His lips move wordlessly behind her, but she does not turn. The panel clicks into place, and she is gone.
*
Don’t tell me what you’ve done
'Cause I don’t wanna know
You say it’s not so hard
Just let your conscience go
You’re flashing me that politician's grin
You got your image squeaky clean
You’ve such a fetching smile
But a maw with sharp teeth
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
So show me some remorse
Show me a little guilt
Don’t tell me we’re just animals
Awaiting our next kill
I’ve been disciplined by religion, by fear
So I can’t quite seem to keep my thoughts pure
I’ve a hunger for the deviant
And a thirst for worse
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell, my friends
So what’s that something sinister inside
We act so civilized
Devils in tuxedos
Our sordid hearts are far too hard to hide
What’s that 'neath the floorboards?
Boom boom
Boom boom
Boom boom
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell
We’re going to hell