two weeks' paid vacation won't heal the damage done

[outoftheattic]

By this point, Laurence Dominic knew the layout of the Compound like the back of his hand. His recovery had gone much more slowly than he would have liked, although that wasn't saying much. (If he'd had his way, he'd have been out of there the day after he went in. Instead, he'd stayed there over a month.) While he still wasn't completely better,

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[outoftheattic]

Any chance that she might have had of getting away unnoticed, at least, was almost immediately nixed out the moment Dominic was back on solid footing. In any given space, he made it a habit of knowing exactly who was present and where any possible exit and entrance points were. While the same principles hardly applied to a beach, that didn't mean he wasn't going to stay on his game.

It took some effort for him not to freeze on the spot; it didn't exactly help that he didn't know where to start -- no greeting he could think of would lead to a conversation that might end well. He, at least, didn't know where they stood. Nothing had been resolved the last time that they'd spoken, something that was more unhelpful than not. The immediate question was if it'd be worse if he didn't say anything or worse if he did. The former, he figured, entirely detached (or so he'd protest) from any desire he might have as to figuring out what was in store. He didn't harbor any particular desire to be put into whatever Attic equivalent the island might have.

"Small world. Or island, as it were."

[coercive]

For a moment (perhaps more) the best Adelle could do was tilt her head, incapable of concealing her surprise (and, admittedly, her confusion). Wherever they stood, it was an area far beyond gray, but despite not having known what to expect, this was certainly not among the possibilities. Then again, there was at least some small part of her that was both confounded and relieved each day she survived without being sought out for revenge. It was easier, maybe, to place Laurence Dominic on level with herself; not to believe him to be above vengeance because she certainly never was. Each time she escaped confrontation, he grew more difficult to understand, a fact with which she was far less than comfortable.

"Indeed it is," she responded, finally, suffering from a rather obvious lack of anything better to say. "You've been released from the clinic," that much she felt she could assume. It was both an easier and safer direction in which to steer the conversation, as she couldn't imagine him being too eager to discuss the fact that he was as yet still far from being in top shape.

[outoftheattic]

"Yeah, I finally got kicked out of the nest," he said dryly, his expression a strained approximation of a smile. Not really knowing how he wanted to approach any conversation with her was, to say the least, a bit of a problem. Was he supposed to be outright angry, bitter, sarcastic, resigned, apathetic, or what? Lacking an answer, his responses generally came out stuck awkwardly somewhere in between.

[coercive]

With a nod of her head, Adelle now found herself inadvertently avoiding eye contact, her eyes now fixed on a square patch of sand that was neither particularly interesting nor effective in diverting her interest. It was a rare occasion on which she found herself at a loss for words, but awkward silences were quickly becoming the predominant method of communication between them, neither aware of how to approach the other. Or so she supposed, but it was difficult to presume anything about the man anymore; she could but hazard a guess as to what he was thinking, and even then, her own concerns and worries filled most of the gaps, creating an unreliable portrait of a man who was not, in fact, as similar to herself as Adelle had once believed.

"Whatever will you do with yourself?" She inquired, tone equally as dry, save for the underlying hint of curiosity that revealed her to be more interested than she lead on.

[outoftheattic]

It was a hint that, for the large part, he chose to ignore, at least on the surface. It was the sort of information that he had no idea what to do with, and bringing it up in a direct question could hardly end well.

"Find somewhere to live," he answered, figuring that there was no point in being roundabout (and realizing that, 'What do you care?' was probably not a good route to go down). "And wait until whatever decided to put me on this godforsaken island decides to take me back out, too." He was careful to keep the pronouns singular, unwilling to further murky the waters with the use of 'us' instead.

(At present - to him - it wasn't a question of forgiveness. It was simply how they would go about tackling what stood between them; ground had to be given on both sides, and he didn't care to yield anything more just yet.)

[coercive]

Despite possessing the capacity for patience when it suited her, Adelle DeWitt was not, in fact, what one would call "patient." One of the grand perks of her position was never being made to wait for long, a privilege that she was no longer afforded here on the island. However, it had been nearly two months since she had arrived, and apart from encountering Laurence Dominic in the kitchen one otherwise quiet afternoon, life had remained mind-numbingly uneventful. It was a drastic and unwelcome change of pace, and one with which she was growing increasingly frustrated.

Unwise though it might be, she simply couldn't force herself to tiptoe around subjects which only grew worse as they were left unaddressed. She'd never had a problem being straightforward with him before; now should be no different.

(Except for the fact that it was - it was drastically different for all the reasons they both knew and refused to confront.)

"To say that we've found ourselves in an unfortunate situation would be a monumental understatement," she pointed out, arms rising to cross over her chest. "I can imagine that whomever - or whatever, as local myth would have it - is behind all this has had itself quite the laugh at our expense. But the fact remains: we are, for better or worse, stranded on this rock until further notice, and I do not look forward to spending my days walking on eggshells in lieu of acknowledging the animosity that exists between us both."

[outoftheattic]

"You do understand what I was doing in the Dollhouse, don't you?" he asked, tone flat. (Might as well jump right in, he supposed, if they were going to do this at all. He could agree that this was a topic that had to be broached, and there wasn't exactly any delicate way to go about doing it.) "You get that everything I did was to your benefit. You sent me to the Attic, Adelle. That's why this I spent my first month here in the clinic. Why I still can't walk straight. Why things on the other side got messed up to the point that they did."

Shrugging, he let his hands fall back to his sides. "It's not animosity, at least not on my end. Actually, no, I am a little bitter. But more than that, God, I feel sorry for you. What with Rossum bearing down on you - that must have been fun."

[coercive]

He was, of course, absolutely right. It had been one of the first realizations she had come by, before rebelling in full. Echo returned from the Attic with a chilling account of the nightmares she had witnessed - news of where the world was surely headed, should Rossum be allowed to further exploit the technology. Almost immediately, she recalled Laurence Dominic's words, warning her more than a year in advance of the same possibility. He had anticipated this, and she had punished - no, she had destroyed him for it.

But much like everything else just then, Adelle had put those thoughts out of her mind almost as soon as they were allowed to surface, telling herself that the time for guilt and regret was sure to come. There were greater and more immediate matters requiring her attention. She was beyond atonement, and entertained no delusions to the contrary, but there was still time to stop Rossum. Slight though it was, their side still had a chance, and it was imperative that they seize it. That had been her focus; the sole saving grace that kept her from drowning herself in the nearest bottle of fine liquor.

Still, she wasn't about to let Laurence Dominic, of all people, feel sorry for her. "You can keep your pity," she nearly spat, barely capable of containing herself. It wasn't a matter of intention, in the end; it was betrayal, and his had been personal. At least, it had felt personal, and it was for that reason that she held onto her resentment with no desire of letting go. It was pathetic, and she was more than deserving of his pity, but she wasn't about to openly admit to it. "I sent you to the Attic because there was no other choice. How, I wonder, would Rossum have taken the news that we apprehended our NSA spy only to set him free, allowing him the chance to report back to his handlers?

And as for the company, I can assure you that they have recently come to deeply regret their decision to 'bear down' on me, as you so put it."

[outoftheattic]

For a brief moment, Dominic's expression changed. A smile flickered across his features, bearing no note of happiness but belying a small, small amount of satisfaction. Not that things had turned out the way they had, but that, in the end, she'd been able to do something about it. Or at least, that was what he assumed she meant by her last statement.

"Congratulations," he said, unable to help the amusement that colored his tone of voice. (He didn't particularly feel like backtracking to his visit to the Attic. They could cycle around to that later, after all, and this matter was more pressing.) Feeling a certain burden lift from his shoulders, he shifted his weight, trying not to let the vague fatigue that now perpetually dogged him show through. "How'd you do it?"

[coercive]

To say that his reaction had been unexpected would have been no minor understatement, but Adelle refused to allow her surprise - and ever-growing confusion - to show. One arm reaching to rub at the back of her neck, she returned his felicitations with an empty, pointed smile of her own.

"I had Echo infiltrate the Attic," she stated, as if it were obvious, as if he should have figured that one out all on his own. (She shouldn't blame him for having so little faith in her, but that didn't mean she wouldn't.) "When she returned - as was the objective - with a deeper understanding of Rossum's most compromising secrets, we were able to use the information to our advantage. We discovered, from Caroline, our mysterious founder's true identity... and then we blew him up, along with a sizable share of the Tuscon headquarters."

[outoftheattic]

"I know about Echo," he said, as if trying to piece together the missing parts of the picture on his own, slowly forming a coherent, whole story for himself. "We found Clyde - original Clyde. She left to deliver the news and I stayed behind until -"

More time had passed for her than it had for him. It had to be the case.

It wasn't important, he knew. Not in the grand scheme of things, not in relation to blowing Rossum sky high. But he had to ask. He had to know.

"What happened to me?"

[coercive]

About that. (If only.)

Knowing that the question was inevitable - and she did, she had known it since their first encounter in the kitchen - didn't make it any easier to answer, now that she had to. Before, she had possessed the significant advantage of being the only one of the two in good health. Although he was still far from full-strength, there was little to keep Laurence from strangling her, now, should this information represent the final straw to drive him over the edge.

She could lie. She could lie and say he had died, an alternative he himself had deemed preferable, and he would never have to know. But was it self-preservation, she wondered, or sympathy which inspired her to conceal the truth? He'd had ample opportunity to kill her, now, and never once acted on the impulse (assuming that impulse existed at all; he still claimed it didn't). Moreover, the prospect of an existence on this island with only the Attic occupying that space at the end of the tunnel - it seemed cruel, even to her. Even to someone who had once wished upon him all the suffering in the world.

"You were able to warn Echo in time," she said, as if it weren't already implicit in their incendiary triumph over Rossum. She reasoned that it was the least she could offer before shattering his every hope of ever escaping that mental prison. "Surely you can venture a guess as to your physical condition, and as we were already under siege, there was insufficient time to provide the kind of medical care you required."

[outoftheattic]

That answer could go one of two ways. He had either died, or she'd put him back in the Attic. Realizing this, Dominic wavered on the spot, unable to hide the horror he was feeling. His face lost all color that it had gained in the past month, and chances were that, at this point, a gun could have gone off next to his ear and he wouldn't have noticed.

He didn't know what to think. Her reasons for allowing either thing to happen were obscure to him, and nothing that he really wanted to speculate on. He did know, however, what he wanted to have happened. However, her not immediately stating that he'd died only meant one thing.

"Why?" he asked, voice hoarse. It wasn't a direct answer to what she'd said, but it was the only thing he could think of anymore. "Just tell me I died, just - why?"

[coercive]

Well, then. There was a decision she would be regretting for some time to come. It was difficult, watching him falter, simultaneously feeling inclined to reach out a hand to help steady him and foolish for even considering it. They were not friends, and he was just as likely to accept a helping hand from her as she was to openly apologize for sending him back - which was to say, not in the slightest.

On that note, she wasn't about to stand here and feel guilty for a decision that amounted to saving his life. From Adelle she knew of the Attic - bits and pieces, mostly, strung together from ragged accounts of Echo's adventures within - he could have killed himself long ago, were he so driven. Why he didn't, she couldn't deign to know, but it certainly wasn't her responsibility to finish the job for him. (As for the decision not to lie, it was dishonesty that led him into the Attic in the first place; far be it from her to follow in his footsteps.)

"Because you asked," she replied, simply, uncertainty giving way to crossness, if only for the mere fact that it was the more familiar of the two.