Dollhouse Fic: "Walking the Haze That Is Between Dreams" (Dominic/DeWitt, PG-13)
Title: Walking the Haze That Is Between Dreams
Characters/Pairings: Dominic, DeWitt, Langton, Topher, Claire, mention of various Actives; Dominic/DeWitt and some minor Victor/Sierra
Rating: PG-13 for language, adult themes, tone
Spoilers: through 1x10, "Haunted"
Length: 7,980 words
Notes: Direct sequel to Waking Up One Moment at a Time
Summary: You can't fight a ghost. But you can become one.
“…so, I think the measures that I’ve suggested will be more than satisfactory.”
He stands at attention along the edge of DeWitt’s office, hands clasped neatly behind his back as he concludes his report.
DeWitt nods in time to his words, looking down at the papers in front of her. Langton stands close to one side of her desk, glancing over at her before going back to watching him with a guarded frown.
“Thank you, Mr. Dominic,” DeWitt says. Her tone is clipped, even by her impressive standards. “I believe that shall be enough for now.”
She doesn’t glance anywhere but her desktop even once as she speaks.
He nods in acknowledgement of the dismissal: “Ma’am.”
He’s halfway turned to go before she suddenly continues, “I’m afraid you’ll be with us for just a little longer today. The sudden influx of requested engagements has built up something of a backlog in Topher’s workload. It’ll be a few hours yet before he has time to wipe your imprint back out of Victor.”
Now she’s looking up. He meets her eyes for a moment, for just one moment - and then he nods again, stiffly.
He turns and makes his exit without another word.
He’s not surprised to hear Langton’s footsteps trailing close behind him out on the landing.
“What’s the matter,” he glances over his shoulder, scowling with a mixture of irritation and resignation, “have a problem letting me out of your sights?”
Langton’s tone is careful when he responds. “Am I supposed to find it easy to trust a traitor?”
He scoffs at the word, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please. You already know why I did what I did, and I’m not going to waste my breath explaining myself to you. If anything, I’ve never been disloyal.”
“You sure had a funny way of showing it.”
Langton’s accusation grates against him; he walks faster, taking longer and quicker strides along the upper level’s floor.
“Listen to you! Suddenly, you’re in charge and now you’re Mr. Team Player. Seems I’m the only one who remembers all the times you went off-mission, endangering the entire operation for reasoning that equates to little more than catering to your own personal hero complex.”
Langton has no problem keeping up with him. His voice is as quiet and firm as ever when he replies, “Say what you will about my motives, Dominic, but in the end I never had the benefit of more than one employer in mind; which is far more than you can say.”
He stops dead, turning sharply to put one hand in the direction of Langton’s chest. The other man freezes instinctively, on-guard.
“Look,” he meets Langton in the eye with an intense glare: “Don’t you even start with this ‘company man’ line with me, got it? In case you haven’t noticed, every body I get to occupy is company property.”
He turns away again, walking more slowly this time as he gives a bark of humorless laughter.
“I think I’m redefining the standard for being a ‘company man’,” he concludes, the flippant tone to his voice in disagreement with the line of tension set into his shoulders.
Langton frowns a different frown this time as he continues to follow.
“Sorry,” he offers. “But I doubt you can fault me for following my instincts when it comes to my distrust of you.”
He glances back. “Distrust, or dislike?” he pointedly asks.
Langton doesn’t have anything to say to that, apparently.
Before he can press him further, he’s met with the sight of Sierra coming towards them from the opposite direction. The Active passes shoulders with him, and she gives him an honest to god schoolgirl smile as she does so: meeting his eyes with a little grin before dropping her gaze shyly to the floor.
He’s baffled, until he remembers which body he’s currently in.
“Saunders’ little happily-ever-after scenario still didn’t clear these two up?” he demands, following Sierra’s path with startled incredulity before turning back to Langton.
Langton sighs. “Not really, no.”
“Unbelievable,” he grunts in distaste. He stops to look out over the wandering Actives and personnel below, gripping the railing tight. “The whole place is falling apart, and-”
“Thank god you’re here to save us all?” Langton offers, lightly. He’s as close to outright mockery as the man ever gets.
He draws a breath, staring down at where Victor’s hands palm the railing for him. He can feel them gathering a layer of cold sweat.
Goosebumps gather on forearms left bare by Victor’s fitted t-shirt; he feels oddly exposed by such casual clothes. Especially here. He half-considered going into the wardrobe and getting a suit and tie to wear; to feel less naked, to feel more like him.
Except for how that would’ve seemed like a joke - an awful lot like playing dress-up.
“Good point,” he softly concedes, not looking back up.
Langton watches him quietly for a minute. “I’ll go see if Topher’s ready for you yet,” he finally says, leaving.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, barely listening. “You do that.”
On the floor below, Echo pauses in her strolling to peer back up at him with a curious tilt to her head.
_____
The white and blue flashing fades away. He doesn’t bother acknowledging the fact they’ve shuffled him into another female Active with anything more than a heavy sigh.
“Who is this?”
“What,” Topher asks playfully, “you don’t want to guess?” But he knows too well to actually commit to that game: “This is Lima,” he informs him in the same breath.
“Terrific.” He climbs out of the chair, careful to go slow before he has time to acclimate to new and different limbs.
Sad to consider that he’s actually gotten good at this. But that’s on the short list of things he doesn’t allow himself to think about.
“What is it this time?” he asks, all business. Some might accuse him of being in a hurry but the fact is he’s just doing what he’s always done when it comes to the Dollhouse: his job. Handling each crisis as fast as he can before any serious damage is done.
Besides, what would hurrying do for him, exactly? The sooner he solves the problem, the sooner he…what? Gets to go back into the mainframe, only to pop up again a moment later (from his perception, at least) for the next disaster? If anything, he should want to drag his feet.
Not that he ever does. Whatever his detractors might have to say about him, he frankly doesn’t think he could be that self-centered if he tried.
“Eh, nothing big, really,” Topher answers with a distracted smile and a shaky two-handed gesture. “Bit of a snafu in the new security system…nothing I can’t fix myself, actually, but DeWitt’s insisting I get a second, less techno-babble inclined perspective on it, and Boyd’s apparently got better things to do-”
“Fine.” As always he resists the urge to grab Topher by the neck and throttle him, trying to shake out something a little less full of pointlessness and hot air. “Show me whatever you need to.” He takes a step and then pauses, frowning.
Topher eyes him, hesitant. “Uh…you okay, Dom?”
“Actually, I-”
He feels a little out of it; tired, and sort of queasy. And then, before he can say as much, he finds his body wracked by a violent sneeze.
For a moment he stays frozen, wide-eyed, and then he fixes Topher with an accusatory stare.
“Ah, yeah,” Topher grins weakly, giving a sheepish chuckle, “Lima came down with a bit of a light head cold, recently. Doc Saunders put her on the backburner for engagements, until that’s all cleared up.”
“Which makes her perfect to stick me into, since it won’t be taking any of the working Actives away from the clients,” he states flatly, eyes narrowed.
Topher shrugs. “Practicality,” he says, airily. “It’s DeWitt’s mantra. You know her.”
He’s certain his expression must be unreadable: “Don’t I ever.”
Topher, of course, doesn’t notice. “Wait here. I’ll go grab the files.”
The tech scurries out, and he’s left alone in the laboratory with nothing but piled hard-drives and a monitor streaming lines of bright code for company.
He turns his head and almost against his will the chair immediately catches his gaze. He folds his arms across his chest, rubbing one hand against his forearm.
How many times has he been plugged in and out of that thing, now? He still too clearly remembers being bundled into it the first time, bound and screaming.
He takes a deep breath, and laughs humorlessly as Lima’s cold causes him to sniffle.
This is what he’s been reduced to: spare parts. They don’t waste the good Actives on him, why should they? Not like he has much say.
With a sigh, he sits down on Topher’s couch, staring around blankly for something to pass the time. He wishes he could just find a damn newspaper to read: at least then he’d know the day.
Or the month. Or the year.
His gaze settles on the candy dish on the glass table in front of him, stocked with Topher’s usual junk. He eyes a fistful of red licorice for a moment, finally snatching it with a shrug.
Why not? The empty calories can’t do him any damage. He props his feet up on the table and chomps down.
He closes his eyes, absorbing the taste of cheap, artificial sugar on his tongue.
_____
Romeo’s arm is in a sling, after an unfortunate incident involving a hyper-paranoid client who requested the perfect bodyguard and a solid sheet of glass.
The damage could be worse, but he’s off engagements for awhile. Which means his number is up next time Laurence Dominic comes to town.
He has to sit through Romeo’s physical therapy sessions while in the body, which he manages with minor grousing. He’s more or less resigned himself now to the fact that he’s only ever going to get the broken pieces, the odds and ends.
He’s sitting on the table in Saunders’ office, trying not to slouch or sulk too much while she gives Romeo’s arm a look.
She glances at him from the corner of one eye, tilting her head down to hide her face, in that way she developed only after she was left with the scars.
Her voice is quiet, empty: “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, I guess,” he says blandly. “It’s more an inconvenience than a source of pain.”
Her hands pause mid-motion. She turns to stare at him with wide and intense eyes.
“I wasn’t talking about the arm,” she tells him, soft and somehow sharp all at once.
His eyes widen. He pulls out of her grasp, suddenly discomfited.
“How do you think I feel?” he mutters gruffly, because there’s nothing else he can say.
It’s a good question, really, because he doesn’t quite know the answer. He doesn’t know how he feels about this because he doesn’t let himself feel. He can’t.
“It doesn’t really matter, anyway,” he concludes, forcefully dismissive.
There’s a pause. Saunders’ eyes are half-lidded, her clipboard pressed close to her chest.
“It can’t be easy,” she offers in a near-whisper, gaze settled firmly on the ground. “And it’s…braver of you than I would’ve expected,” her eyes drift up again, “choosing to help the Dollhouse in this way, after what happened.”
“Choosing? Funny, I think I missed the part where I had a choice,” he retorts. He shakes his head, sneering bitterly. “You make it sound like I should expect gratitude, but despite the obvious leash, I’m barely trusted. DeWitt won’t even look me in the eye.”
After another silent, tense moment Saunders puts down her clipboard and goes back to massaging Romeo’s muscles.
“She lost a friend recently, while you were gone,” she says in a tone almost conversational.
He stills. “I wasn’t told,” he says quietly.
“Margaret Bashford,” Saunders continues. “She was also a client here.”
He knows that name. “What, you mean that old bat that came in every couple of months to have an imprint made, just so that she could-?”
He stops, as a gradual and startling realization forms.
“They put her imprint in Echo. She helped solve her own murder.” Saunders could be describing the weather, for all her lack of enthusiasm. “I hear it was very exciting.”
“Oh,” he says. “…Oh.”
So he hasn’t been the first ghost DeWitt has seen lately, an old acquaintance staring out at her from behind different eyes.
Funny: it’s the first time he’s really considered how bizarre this must seem to everyone else. He knows he looks different but he still feels the same, so that part never really registers.
But anyone else sees a usually complacent Active, moving with his body language and speaking with his words.
What’s it feel like, knowing that today they might start a conversation that they’ll be finishing tomorrow with a completely different face?
He drops his shoulders, burying his head in his hands with a stifled moan.
Saunders watches him, expression set in that sad look she usually reserves for Actives. “You sound tired.”
He raises his head again, glaring at her. “It’s funny,” he begins sardonically; “I don’t recall that you ever liked me very much, Doctor.”
“You’re implying that disliking someone goes hand in hand with being happy to see them suffer.”
She turns away to write on her clipboard, and her tone is suddenly very, very pointed: “It takes a certain kind of person to enjoy watching people squirm.”
Well, there’s a personal attack. He doesn’t waste his time or hers by denying it. There’s not really any point.
He only shrugs again, wondering if somehow Romeo’s well-rested and cared-for face can still convey how sick and utterly exhausted he feels right now.
“Well,” he finally offers, toneless; “no rest for the wicked - right?”
_____
“Hey. Hey, Dom?”
“What?”
“Have you seen my phone?”
He clenches his teeth impatiently, digging one hand into Sierra’s scalp, fingers tangled in her hair. He looks up from his makeshift workstation where he’s been going over security logs, trying to find the source of an intelligence leak, and glances around at the haphazard array that Topher somehow considers an office.
“I don’t know,” he says, “what’s it look like?”
Topher’s hands flutter distractedly; he makes a face. “Uh, a phone? Come on, seriously, you’ve seen it before.”
“It’s not my job to keep track of your toys,” he grates slowly, rolling his eyes. He shoves a fistful of Sierra’s pale locks out of his face again, returning to the logs.
There are thick stacks of them spread across the entire surface of the tabletop. He’s made five different kinds of notations in three different kinds of pen. The answer is in here somewhere, he knows, he just can’t find it.
Topher is being immensely and frustratingly distracting, rustling papers and pushing things around. Pencils clatter noisily to the floor. “Are you sure you didn’t-?”
He slams his hands on the table, causing it to shake.
“Would you just leave me alone?” he demands. He snatches up another pen (ballpoint, black) clicking it absently between his fingers as he tries to think. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to work.”
“Okay, yikes, sorry.” Topher half-winces, half-grins, taking the hint and backing away. “Wound a little tighter lately, are we? I mean, even for you.”
His only response is to look up enough to give a withering glower, before going back to staring at the logs once more.
All the numbers and phrases are starting to blur together - he’s going blind from staring at so much black on white. He needs a break, but he knows one isn’t coming to him any time soon.
He shuts his eyes tightly, balling one hand into a fist and digging it against his temple, willing himself to think. This is no small leak of information: if it’s not stopped soon, the Dollhouse could be in serious trouble.
“All work and no play make Dom a dull boy,” Topher quips, watching him.
“Funny,” he says with heavy sarcasm. Shaking his head, he focuses on the papers, scratching in another mark. “I happen to know exactly who I am.”
“Or so you think,” Topher mumbles to himself, typing something at his computer.
He goes completely still, an icy cold shock spreading all over his body from where it slams into him. His head jerks up, eyes wide.
“What?”
“I…oops.” Topher glances back at him, just as quickly turns away again. “Uh, nothing.”
He gets to his feet, pens and security logs forgotten. “What,” he repeats, “did you just say?”
Topher gives a little yelp - evidently he’s forgotten just how fast he can move, and in an Active body at that; suddenly, the tech finds himself effectively pinned against the wall.
He leans forward, holding Topher in place with his arms framing him on either side. “Do I only think I have all my memories, and there’s something you’ve made me forget?”
Topher cringes, cowering. “W-why would you even think-”
“Don’t you even!” he yells and slams the flat of one hand into the wall, causing Topher to jump. “DeWitt said you could do as much, back when you first wiped me.” He grits his teeth, hissing. “Playing around with my imprint so you could make me do whatever you wanted.”
He doesn’t want it to be true; god, he doesn’t want it to be. But if it is, he has to know.
“Am I even real at all? Or am I just another persona you whipped up on your computer, the perfect patsy to get all your dirty work done?”
He’s gone so tense, he’s shaking. He stares straight ahead at the tech with unblinking fury, and he doesn’t see him at all.
This can’t be happening. Not to him.
He hits the wall again, much harder this time. He can feel it - Sierra’s going to have a bruise. “Tell me!” he roars.
“Calm down!” Topher practically shrieks. “I didn’t do anything to your imprint or your memories; there’s nothing fake about them! I…it was a joke. A really, really bad one, and in very poor taste to be sure, but that’s all it was. I was just joking - please don’t kill me!”
He holds his hands in front of him as if they’ll someone make an effective shield. “Come on, Dominic, you know me: I’m a terrible liar. Just look at my face.” He stares up at him, desperate. “I swear I haven’t done anything to you.”
Then he considers that: “I mean, besides…you know.”
He shoves himself away from Topher. He believes him. But that doesn’t make anything any better.
“I need some air,” he announces. He storms out of the lab, slamming the door behind him.
It isn’t until he’s taken half a dozen steps across the landing that he realizes he’s gasping, pulse throbbing up in his throat.
He’s walking quickly, but he doesn’t know where he’s going. All he knows is he has to get out, away, somehow. All he knows is he has to move.
Victor is standing at the top of the landing up from the stairs. When he sees Sierra’s body coming towards him his face brightens; he starts to raise his hand in a wave.
He points at Victor with one outstretched arm, face set in a stern and warning glare as he circles around him.
“Don’t you even start,” he orders, in a deadly tone. He is not dealing with this.
Victor’s eyes widen, adopting the confused and worried expression of a child who doesn’t know why they’ve been chastised.
“Ugh!” With a noise of disgust he keeps going, leaving the bewildered Active behind.
Eventually he reaches an isolated section of the floor and he stops, letting out a deep exhale as he clutches at the railing. He stays there for a moment, breathing, and then lifts his head to look at the Actives below.
Going about their business as usual, in their carefree mindless way. Not knowing that at any moment they could be pulled aside, chosen at random to be the next place his persona takes up residence.
He lurks among them like a parasite, jumping from one host to the next. Never owning, always borrowing.
He curls Sierra’s fingers into fists, staring down at them as his thoughts go unbidden to his real body in the Attic. Something heavy rises to block the back of his throat.
Who’s the real Laurence Dominic, now? The body in cold storage might just be an empty shell, but he supposes it has just as much right to the claim. It was him, until he got wiped. It still is him…he just can’t remember.
He’s been split in half, fractured. So which is real? The body that has no memories - but could, theoretically, someday regain them - or is it him, memories and personality intact but nothing to hold onto? A formless ghost, wandering.
He rests his elbows on the railing, pressing his hands to the sides of his temples.
It’s very high up here. He finds himself calculating how much damage it would do if he fell, if it would be enough to-
But that’s pointless. Even if he jumped, they could just bring him back. They’d use the old imprint. He wouldn’t even remember.
In fact, for all he knows, maybe he has killed himself. Over and over again: each time starting over with no memory of doing it.
He clutches a hand over his mouth to hold back hysterical laughter.
He can’t remember the last time he ate breakfast, or took a shower, or read the sports page. Every time he shows up in a new, clean body that’s fed and rested and ready to go. So all he has to do is go to work, get the job done, and go back into his box.
Lather, rinse, and repeat - endlessly.
He feels like a machine: a machine that never shuts down.
“I need a vacation,” he says, later, when at last he’s back in DeWitt’s office, leak correctly identified and mystery solved.
The corner of DeWitt’s mouth twitches in a way that’s not really a smile, flipping through his report. “Very amusing, I’m sure,” she says in dismissive response, dry.
“That wasn’t a joke. I’m serious.” Both Langton and DeWitt look at him. He squares his shoulders but continues in all earnest. “I need a break.”
“A break?” Langton repeats, eyebrows raised, clearly incredulous. “From what, exactly?”
He turns to look at him, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get it, do you?” he says, sharply. “When you pull my imprint out again, it’s not like I stay conscious while I’m hovering around Topher’s desktop in the form of code. The only time I’m aware is when I’m here.”
His voice rises: he’s fighting off the urge to yell. “So however long you think it’s been, however much time has passed between the last time you took me out and put me away, I don’t feel that. I don’t know that. For me, it’s just like jumping from one point to the next.”
Langton doesn’t say anything, but shifts back a little. His features are carefully schooled to indifference but he looks ever so slightly shaken.
He gathers his composure, turning from Langton and facing DeWitt again.
“Just give me twenty-four hours,” he stresses, trying not to sound like he’s begging. “Just twenty-four hours, away from the House, in any Active you choose to give me.” Something inscrutable flashes in DeWitt’s eyes, and he decides not to tempt fate: “Not Echo. But any other body. I don’t care.”
Her face is a complete blank to him. Three years at her side and he learned to read all the subtle nuances, but she’s reached a whole new level. Now she’s trying to keep him out.
“I will take it into consideration,” she states at length. She doesn’t bother looking at him as she closes the file he gave her, pushing it away.
“As everything seems to be in order, Mr. Dominic, I believe we have no further use for your services at the moment.”
Back in the box he goes.
He drops his head and says quietly, “Yes, ma’am.”
_____
He’d forgotten what it was like, the rush of adrenaline from having to physically take someone down.
A new client…well, prospective new client; obviously, they won’t be doing business with him now. Not after he went completely nuts in DeWitt’s office.
Luckily he just happened to be there, on his way out the door from making his final report. He was in a hurry to get out, go back to Topher and get his imprint wiped - but something about the would-be client set off alarms for him. He lingered instead, which meant he was there when the man snapped.
Instinct took over - he tackled the guy, wrestling him to the floor. It was a brief if intense struggle: his opponent was mainly flailing and he had training on his side, with an added bonus from occupying a healthy Active.
There was a point at the very beginning where it looked like he was at a disadvantage, not used to fighting in this body, his moves calculated for longer arms and legs and a different center of gravity.
He was able to catch himself, though, adjusting quickly. More quickly than he might have expected, truth be told.
He’s not entirely sure - probably it’s just because of all his experience, having to think on his feet.
But then there’s also the fact that the Active he’s currently in is Echo, known for her ability to adjust readily to any situation at hand.
A suspicious coincidence. He chooses to think of it as just that, if only because he’d rather not consider the alternatives.
The adrenaline is still soaring, as he takes measured breathes to bring his heart rate back down. There’s a scrape on the back of Echo’s arm where he was hurled against the window and he keeps his hand on it to staunch the bleeding.
“Are you alright, ma’am?”
He looks over at DeWitt. She leans against the front of her desk, sitting on it as she grips the surface with both hands to steady herself. It takes all of his experience with her to tell that she’s even a little ruffled: as ever, the very image of stability and poise.
She knew well enough to get out of the way, once the struggle started. Only a few hairs have fallen out of place.
“I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Dominic,” she answers him calmly. She straightens, brushing her skirt. “And yourself?”
“Just a cut.” He can’t help it as his tone turns mildly sardonic. “Don’t worry: I was careful to not let any damage happen to your favorite Active.”
She lifts her gaze back up.
“I rather don’t recall that I was inquiring about Echo,” she remarks.
He locks eyes with her for a moment, caught off-guard - shaken, when he pulls away again.
His attentions travel back to where security is escorting the would-be attacker out. They both watch, silently, as the man is dragged away by two handlers, yelling and raving incomprehensibly all the while.
He turns back to DeWitt once they’re gone.
“If I may,” he offers, deadpan, “might I recommend the addition of some new layers to the client screening process?”
She gives him that withering look of hers that translates as a rolling of the eyes. “Suggestion duly noted.”
Tension passed, crisis averted - and for a moment it’s just like the old days. She starts to give him a small, confidential smile and he starts to return it with one of his own.
Well, we’ve done it again, Mr. Dominic. They always did make a good team.
But she meets his eyes, and there’s a visible break in her expression when she sees they aren’t actually his: the memory of his current state and, more importantly, what happened to bring it about resurfacing all at once.
Just like that, the moment is gone. She reforms her face into a stern and indifferent frown.
For his part, he stares at the floor; biting back on that wave of unnamed something that rises whenever they’re alone like this. The urge to say, for so many reasons, “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Still,” she speaks up, mildly, as she goes to straighten the mess caused when the fighting collided with her desk, “it was rather impressive, you so quickly moving to rectify the situation like that.”
He shrugs dismissively. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”
Shoulder to the wheel.
The thought comes at random, unconnected. It slips in innocuously and at first he accepts it without consideration. But then he blinks, realizing that it’s out of place.
There’s a memory attached there that he can’t quite reach. And he has a bad feeling that it’s not his.
His fingers tighten where they cover Echo’s injury, clutching the skin hard enough to bruise.
DeWitt eyes him carefully.
“Mr. Dominic?”
“I should go,” he manages, brusque. “I have to get out of this body.”
She nods once, never mind the fact that he’s already about to move.
“Yes. All right.”
_____
“Congrats, Dom,” Topher says, brightly. “Looks like you’ve earned yourself a three-day weekend.”
Three days of limited freedom. Three days, when he only asked for one.
Is that a reward, or a sign of warning? It’s probably best not to ask.
They give him Tango, who happens to be in perfectly good health, as well as an already-packed suitcase and a key to a hotel room.
He doesn’t ask if there’ll be anyone following him. He knows.
The hotel is decent not posh and luxurious, but far from being a flea-infested rat-trap either. Average. The kind of place where a tourist would stay.
So for the first twenty-four hours that’s what he pretends to be: just another tourist from out of town, taking in the sights of the city.
He visits plenty of busy metropolitan areas but he doesn’t go inside any of the museums or hotspots. He walks along with the crowds, letting them carry him where they will. He goes into office buildings and rides the elevator, pretending he has an appointment. He browses a few stores, window-shopping.
He waits in line at a busy coffee shop. He has lunch at a greasy spoon diner. And yes, he finds the time to read a newspaper, and several magazines as well.
He rides the bus, takes the subway and catches taxi cabs. And when he gets tired of that, he walks.
He keeps his head down, appearance obscured by dark sunglasses and loose-fitting clothes. The last thing he wants is anyone to notice Tango’s appearance and decide to hit on her - that’s something he really doesn’t need.
He can’t help wondering if that was intentional: if they gave him a female Active because they thought if he was in a male body the temptation to escape would be too great, but this’ll prove the final straw that keeps him from trying to run.
If that’s the case they don’t know him very well: he never takes risks he doesn’t think he can pull off successfully.
Right now, the House has all the cards.
He goes by the area of the park where chess players gather, old men and college students and vagabonds looking to score a quick buck. He watches them for awhile but doesn’t join.
He’s never been more than decent at speed chess; he does much better with a drawn-out game, one where he has time to formulate a strategy.
When Topher got a new chess set, he put it out on his desk to show it off to anyone walking by. The next thing the tech knew someone was dropping in every day to move a piece. The ensuing game dragged on for months, and it drove Topher crazy trying to figure out who was beating him.
No one else knew either. Whoever it was, they were particularly good at coming by when nobody was around.
Only one person figured it out.
DeWitt asked him one day, carelessly and without preamble: “Do you suppose Topher is ever going to guess who his mystery opponent is?”
“Oh, maybe,” he responded, “if it ever crosses his mind that I do anything besides glower menacingly and bark orders.” He smirked. “But I doubt it.”
He smiles at the memory but it quickly turns bittersweet. Shoving hands in his pockets he walks away again, not wanting to watch anymore.
He does so much wandering partially because he’s trying to make sure he wears himself out. The last thing he wants is to get back to his room and find he can’t fall asleep.
He’s been so looking forward to this, it’s scary. Sleep - a chance to turn off and on again, and actually feel it.
Things go his way for once. Not only does he sleep like the dead, if he dreams he doesn’t remember.
Definitely a good thing - the things his subconscious could drag up about now would be plenty to handle on their own. The fact that he’s technically occupying somebody else’s brain at present is a downright unbearable wild card.
The second day he doesn’t even leave his hotel room.
Funny to think that this could be a novelty: spending the entire day in his sweats, eating pizza for breakfast and cereal for dinner, lazing in front of the TV even though nothing’s on.
There’s a new movie on pay-per-view, which means it’s been out for awhile. The previews for it had only just started playing when he got wiped.
He watches it anyway. Lots of explosions, car chases - mildly exciting fare.
How is it that doing such average, ordinary, boring things has become a vacation? That they’re part of the exotic? It’s just not right.
He used to be…what? Normal? Human? Something there’s not a word for, because he never thought there’d be a day when he’d be something else.
After the sun goes down he stands at the window, pushing aside the curtain to look at the city lights. If he squints he can just make out some of the people far below.
He’s been keeping a half-interested eye out the whole time, seeing if he can spot whoever’s tailing him. He hasn’t, which either means they’re very good, or they’re not keeping too close. Maybe no one’s worried about him trying to run off after all.
He lets the curtain drop, trying to figure out what he’ll do tomorrow. What’s something else he hasn’t done in awhile? What do normal people do every day?
They wake up, they get dressed…they go to work.
So, that’s exactly what he does.
It’s late. Most of the employees have gone home. DeWitt is alone in her office, in the process of locking up.
“Evening, ma’am.”
She stills and then straightens from behind her desk, trying not to show that he’s startled her. “Mr. Dominic. I wasn’t expecting to see you for at least another twenty-four hours.”
He leans against the doorframe, gaze even and arms folded. “I know. But no one said I couldn’t come back early, if I wanted.”
She gives him a questioning look and he shrugs. “I felt like visiting,” he says coolly.
“Visiting.” She smiles tightly, in that way that says she can tell you’re lying. “I see.”
They stare at each other for a moment.
“I was just leaving,” she says.
“Shall I escort you to your car?” he offers.
“I certainly believe I can find it myself,” she responds, dry. But she doesn’t stop him when he follows her anyway, just one step behind.
He holds her car door open for her, exchanging a polite nod when she gets in and he closes it behind her.
Then, he walks around to the passenger side and gets in. Her fingers tighten on the wheel, spasmodically, but she says not even a word. She merely starts the car.
He wasn’t sure why he came back to the Dollhouse. He wasn’t sure what he was even doing. What he wanted. But he thinks he knows, now.
They make it all the way out of her car, into her building and up to the hall just outside her penthouse apartment with neither of them saying anything.
But as she pauses to reach for her key, he moves. She turns around just in time so she’s facing him when he pushes her back, pinning her against the wall.
She draws in a breath but doesn’t move, doesn’t panic, doesn’t even act surprised. She tilts her chin up, meeting his gaze evenly. For the longest time they just stand there, tension in the air as they look each other in the eyes.
Three years. Three years, and they had the perfect working relationship. They tried to keep their feelings professional and not get attached.
If that was the case, then why did what had happened hurt?
“This is why you put me in a female body, isn’t it?” he asks her, his breathing ragged. “Because you hoped it would cool off…whatever this is that’s going on between us.”
She smiles grimly, and admits, “Perhaps.”
He’s been working with her for three years, all too aware of how beautiful she is, how strong. Of how she steals glances at him, sometimes, out of the corner of her eye.
He kisses her, pressing his mouth up against hers close. She makes a small sound, almost like she’s in pain - but she kisses back with just as much fervor.
At some point he eventually moves off of her, letting her open the door to let them inside, because it would raise some very awkward questions if the neighbors caught her necking with some strange blonde woman out in the hall.
They don’t speak, still, as she hangs up her jacket and moves towards her bedroom, slipping off those impressive heels as she goes.
They never needed to talk to each other. Not really. They were both so good at picking up on all the little signs.
She lies down, still fully-dressed, and he climbs on top of her.
“I do hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she states, breathless, “but I remind you that anything that happens to Tango is going to have to eventually be explained.”
“God, I don’t even…” he groans, reaching to brush the side of her neck. “I just want…”
He just wants to touch her, so much. So that’s exactly what he does, stroking the curve of her arm and the bow of her lips and the softness of one breast. He kisses her over and over, on her mouth and her cheek and all the way down to the hollow of her throat. She closes her eyes and draws her breath in sighs, rising up to press herself closer against him, digging her hands into his scalp and even going so far as to drape one leg across his lower back.
Eventually he slips off of her, lying to one side as they both catch their breath. She stays flat on her back, arms limply up around her head as she stares at the ceiling.
“How positively primary school,” she remarks. Her chest rises and falls, and her light tone doesn’t match the look on her face. “Getting so excited over a lot of heavy petting.”
“Adelle-”
“Yes, Laurence?” Like the distinction means nothing.
He pulls closer to her again, cupping her chin as he looks into her eyes. He slips an arm around her and presses his face into her shoulder, breathing the scent of her in.
“I should hate you so much,” he mutters, in something like desperate amazement, “after what you’ve done to me…”
“After what I’ve done?” He moves away to look in her in the eye, as she holds his gaze frankly and frowns. “And I suppose it’s of no consequence at all, how you betrayed me.”
“I…never.” He grips her tightly by the wrist. “What exactly did I do? My job was always to keep the Dollhouse secure, to make sure nothing happened to its people or its technology. I did my job. Loyally.”
“You lied,” she states, lips curling angrily. “For three years, every day, you lied to me.”
“In only the smallest possible way. After that, everything I did, everything I said, was nothing but the truth.” He draws a breath, frustrated. “We’ve already had this conversation. Why are we having it again?”
“You were, in some small way, working against me,” she insists. “You were a spy, and you got caught. I thought you understood me well enough to know not to take the consequences of that personally.”
“Except you couldn’t have just killed me, could you? You couldn’t even send me to the Attic and keep me there. No, you went and made it personal. Adelle, look at what you’ve done to me. Do you even have any idea?”
He closes his eyes, brushing his face against her. “Do you know what I’ve been doing with these seventy-two hours of freedom you’ve given me? I slept. I brushed my teeth, and drank coffee, and a hundred other pointless things that most people do every day as part of living. Only now it’s those things that I treasure, because I don’t get to do them anymore.”
He tries to get as close to her as he can - wishing he could just sink inside her, safe. “I want a life,” he says brokenly. “I don’t even want my life, I just want a life.”
“An ironic sentiment for me to express, considering our business,” she replies quietly, “but we don’t always get what we want.”
He has nothing to say to that. They lay next to each other, silent. After a moment she reaches over, curling her fingers around his wrist. He turns his head.
“How’d you like to get dinner sometime?”
He’s not sure what catches her off-guard more, the question or the offhand manner in which he asks. “Are you serious?”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re turning me down.”
“Well, I think it might be a little hard to explain,” she observes wryly, smiling in spite of herself.
“I’m sure you can find a way.”
He smiles back at her, but then his smile disappears.
“I can’t keep doing this, Adelle.” He shakes his head. “It’s breaking me apart. I need more time.”
“Time?” she echoes.
“More time out of the box. To do things other than work. To remind me what it’s like to be human.” He rolls over so he can face her clearly, and this time he doesn’t care that he’s begging. “Please.”
There’s a long moment, and it takes him awhile to identify what’s going on in her expression. She looks…timid. And uncertain.
“I honestly don’t know that I have the authority,” she finally whispers. He lets go of her, pulling away. “Laurence,” she reaches for him, a desperate sadness in her eyes, “I’m sorry.”
“You had the authority to do this to me in the first place,” he reminds her, cold.
But he can’t stand the look that she gets after that, so he reaches out to her anyway. He kisses her with somebody else’s lips and uses somebody else’s hand to brush the hair out of her eyes.
“I forgive you,” he whispers to her. “I shouldn’t, but I forgive you.”
They drift off to sleep with her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her.
At some point in the night he wakes, and hears a soft sound he can’t identify. Her shoulders are shaking.
Is she crying?
He pulls his arms tighter, and holds her close.
_____
Not that he has any way of knowing, but he has a feeling they won’t be bringing him out again for awhile, when they put him away.
It’s too much for DeWitt (Adelle) to deal with, probably. Too hard, even for her.
He supposes he can’t fault her for that. He’s not sure how well he’d handle it either, were their situations reversed.
He wonders what she sees, when she looks into his eyes. If all she notices is the different shape, the different color - or if she looks past that, somehow, and still sees him underneath.
But of course, regardless of time passing, it all happens in a moment for him. So the next thing he knows is the white flash as he resurfaces, dull humming in his ears.
He’s startled to see it isn’t just Topher waiting for him this time. Adelle is there too, serene expression, hands on her hips.
The body he’s in feels sluggish, numb somehow, and for a moment he lays there, blinking as he tries to get his bearings.
Topher’s grinning like a loon. “Hey Dom, how’re you feeling?”
“Stiff,” he says. And his eyes widen at the sound. He clutches his throat, and then stares down at his hands.
At his hands: at his own hands.
“Oh my god.”
Topher beams even wider somehow. “Uh huh.”
He stretches his arms out, turning his hands over, taking himself in. He’s even wearing one of his own suits - which raises a few awkward questions, but there aren’t words to describe how much he could care less about that right now.
Finally, he looks up, meeting Adelle in the eye.
She smiles ever so delicately. “Welcome back, Mr. Dominic.” Professional, politely restrained.
“But, how did you-?”
Her smile wavers a little. “Suffice to say I don’t believe I will be getting as big a Christmas bonus this year as anticipated.”
She says this breezily, and it’s clear that’s all the explanation she’s willing to give, for now.
It’s every ounce of restraint he possesses, and the fact that his legs still feel a little like they’re made of jelly, that keeps him from leaping out of the chair to take her in his arms.
Probably for the best: he doubts she’d appreciate it, especially with Topher right there.
As if reading his mind she goes, “Topher, if you’d please leave us alone for a moment. Mr. Dominic and I have something to discuss.”
“Uh, you’re welcome?” Topher mutters disbelievingly, but does as he’s told.
The minute they’re alone Adelle’s gaze becomes more stern. “Don’t get too excited. I should tell you, the terms of your situation haven’t changed.”
But then she briskly continues: “However…they’re currently up for renegotiation.”
He’s not quite sure he understands. “What do you need from me?”
She hands him a phone.
“Our sources indicate the NSA has been trying to launch an investigation into us recently, trying to find out why it’s taken you so long to check in,” she states. “You are to call whoever it is you report to, letting them know there’s nothing to be concerned about, but due to the crucial nature of your cover you’re going to have to go further underground for awhile.”
His grip tightens on the phone. “I see.” The only reason he’s in his body again is because they need him to be.
Still, that doesn’t explain why it’s really him, not just some half-formed imprint they’ve given his memories to.
He climbs out of the chair, frowning down at the object in his hand as he tries to figure it out.
Currently up for renegotiation.
“Oh, and Laurence?”
He turns automatically. “Yes?”
Her smile is no different than it always is. But if he looks closely, he thinks he can see something sparkling in the back of her eyes.
“After you’ve made your call, we can discuss the long-term implications further,” she says: “Over dinner.”
“I played a bad hand very well.”
He smiles back at her, widely. “Yes, ma’am.”
On the phone, he hits "send".
Characters/Pairings: Dominic, DeWitt, Langton, Topher, Claire, mention of various Actives; Dominic/DeWitt and some minor Victor/Sierra
Rating: PG-13 for language, adult themes, tone
Spoilers: through 1x10, "Haunted"
Length: 7,980 words
Notes: Direct sequel to Waking Up One Moment at a Time
Summary: You can't fight a ghost. But you can become one.
“…so, I think the measures that I’ve suggested will be more than satisfactory.”
He stands at attention along the edge of DeWitt’s office, hands clasped neatly behind his back as he concludes his report.
DeWitt nods in time to his words, looking down at the papers in front of her. Langton stands close to one side of her desk, glancing over at her before going back to watching him with a guarded frown.
“Thank you, Mr. Dominic,” DeWitt says. Her tone is clipped, even by her impressive standards. “I believe that shall be enough for now.”
She doesn’t glance anywhere but her desktop even once as she speaks.
He nods in acknowledgement of the dismissal: “Ma’am.”
He’s halfway turned to go before she suddenly continues, “I’m afraid you’ll be with us for just a little longer today. The sudden influx of requested engagements has built up something of a backlog in Topher’s workload. It’ll be a few hours yet before he has time to wipe your imprint back out of Victor.”
Now she’s looking up. He meets her eyes for a moment, for just one moment - and then he nods again, stiffly.
He turns and makes his exit without another word.
He’s not surprised to hear Langton’s footsteps trailing close behind him out on the landing.
“What’s the matter,” he glances over his shoulder, scowling with a mixture of irritation and resignation, “have a problem letting me out of your sights?”
Langton’s tone is careful when he responds. “Am I supposed to find it easy to trust a traitor?”
He scoffs at the word, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please. You already know why I did what I did, and I’m not going to waste my breath explaining myself to you. If anything, I’ve never been disloyal.”
“You sure had a funny way of showing it.”
Langton’s accusation grates against him; he walks faster, taking longer and quicker strides along the upper level’s floor.
“Listen to you! Suddenly, you’re in charge and now you’re Mr. Team Player. Seems I’m the only one who remembers all the times you went off-mission, endangering the entire operation for reasoning that equates to little more than catering to your own personal hero complex.”
Langton has no problem keeping up with him. His voice is as quiet and firm as ever when he replies, “Say what you will about my motives, Dominic, but in the end I never had the benefit of more than one employer in mind; which is far more than you can say.”
He stops dead, turning sharply to put one hand in the direction of Langton’s chest. The other man freezes instinctively, on-guard.
“Look,” he meets Langton in the eye with an intense glare: “Don’t you even start with this ‘company man’ line with me, got it? In case you haven’t noticed, every body I get to occupy is company property.”
He turns away again, walking more slowly this time as he gives a bark of humorless laughter.
“I think I’m redefining the standard for being a ‘company man’,” he concludes, the flippant tone to his voice in disagreement with the line of tension set into his shoulders.
Langton frowns a different frown this time as he continues to follow.
“Sorry,” he offers. “But I doubt you can fault me for following my instincts when it comes to my distrust of you.”
He glances back. “Distrust, or dislike?” he pointedly asks.
Langton doesn’t have anything to say to that, apparently.
Before he can press him further, he’s met with the sight of Sierra coming towards them from the opposite direction. The Active passes shoulders with him, and she gives him an honest to god schoolgirl smile as she does so: meeting his eyes with a little grin before dropping her gaze shyly to the floor.
He’s baffled, until he remembers which body he’s currently in.
“Saunders’ little happily-ever-after scenario still didn’t clear these two up?” he demands, following Sierra’s path with startled incredulity before turning back to Langton.
Langton sighs. “Not really, no.”
“Unbelievable,” he grunts in distaste. He stops to look out over the wandering Actives and personnel below, gripping the railing tight. “The whole place is falling apart, and-”
“Thank god you’re here to save us all?” Langton offers, lightly. He’s as close to outright mockery as the man ever gets.
He draws a breath, staring down at where Victor’s hands palm the railing for him. He can feel them gathering a layer of cold sweat.
Goosebumps gather on forearms left bare by Victor’s fitted t-shirt; he feels oddly exposed by such casual clothes. Especially here. He half-considered going into the wardrobe and getting a suit and tie to wear; to feel less naked, to feel more like him.
Except for how that would’ve seemed like a joke - an awful lot like playing dress-up.
“Good point,” he softly concedes, not looking back up.
Langton watches him quietly for a minute. “I’ll go see if Topher’s ready for you yet,” he finally says, leaving.
“Yeah,” he mumbles, barely listening. “You do that.”
On the floor below, Echo pauses in her strolling to peer back up at him with a curious tilt to her head.
_____
The white and blue flashing fades away. He doesn’t bother acknowledging the fact they’ve shuffled him into another female Active with anything more than a heavy sigh.
“Who is this?”
“What,” Topher asks playfully, “you don’t want to guess?” But he knows too well to actually commit to that game: “This is Lima,” he informs him in the same breath.
“Terrific.” He climbs out of the chair, careful to go slow before he has time to acclimate to new and different limbs.
Sad to consider that he’s actually gotten good at this. But that’s on the short list of things he doesn’t allow himself to think about.
“What is it this time?” he asks, all business. Some might accuse him of being in a hurry but the fact is he’s just doing what he’s always done when it comes to the Dollhouse: his job. Handling each crisis as fast as he can before any serious damage is done.
Besides, what would hurrying do for him, exactly? The sooner he solves the problem, the sooner he…what? Gets to go back into the mainframe, only to pop up again a moment later (from his perception, at least) for the next disaster? If anything, he should want to drag his feet.
Not that he ever does. Whatever his detractors might have to say about him, he frankly doesn’t think he could be that self-centered if he tried.
“Eh, nothing big, really,” Topher answers with a distracted smile and a shaky two-handed gesture. “Bit of a snafu in the new security system…nothing I can’t fix myself, actually, but DeWitt’s insisting I get a second, less techno-babble inclined perspective on it, and Boyd’s apparently got better things to do-”
“Fine.” As always he resists the urge to grab Topher by the neck and throttle him, trying to shake out something a little less full of pointlessness and hot air. “Show me whatever you need to.” He takes a step and then pauses, frowning.
Topher eyes him, hesitant. “Uh…you okay, Dom?”
“Actually, I-”
He feels a little out of it; tired, and sort of queasy. And then, before he can say as much, he finds his body wracked by a violent sneeze.
For a moment he stays frozen, wide-eyed, and then he fixes Topher with an accusatory stare.
“Ah, yeah,” Topher grins weakly, giving a sheepish chuckle, “Lima came down with a bit of a light head cold, recently. Doc Saunders put her on the backburner for engagements, until that’s all cleared up.”
“Which makes her perfect to stick me into, since it won’t be taking any of the working Actives away from the clients,” he states flatly, eyes narrowed.
Topher shrugs. “Practicality,” he says, airily. “It’s DeWitt’s mantra. You know her.”
He’s certain his expression must be unreadable: “Don’t I ever.”
Topher, of course, doesn’t notice. “Wait here. I’ll go grab the files.”
The tech scurries out, and he’s left alone in the laboratory with nothing but piled hard-drives and a monitor streaming lines of bright code for company.
He turns his head and almost against his will the chair immediately catches his gaze. He folds his arms across his chest, rubbing one hand against his forearm.
How many times has he been plugged in and out of that thing, now? He still too clearly remembers being bundled into it the first time, bound and screaming.
He takes a deep breath, and laughs humorlessly as Lima’s cold causes him to sniffle.
This is what he’s been reduced to: spare parts. They don’t waste the good Actives on him, why should they? Not like he has much say.
With a sigh, he sits down on Topher’s couch, staring around blankly for something to pass the time. He wishes he could just find a damn newspaper to read: at least then he’d know the day.
Or the month. Or the year.
His gaze settles on the candy dish on the glass table in front of him, stocked with Topher’s usual junk. He eyes a fistful of red licorice for a moment, finally snatching it with a shrug.
Why not? The empty calories can’t do him any damage. He props his feet up on the table and chomps down.
He closes his eyes, absorbing the taste of cheap, artificial sugar on his tongue.
_____
Romeo’s arm is in a sling, after an unfortunate incident involving a hyper-paranoid client who requested the perfect bodyguard and a solid sheet of glass.
The damage could be worse, but he’s off engagements for awhile. Which means his number is up next time Laurence Dominic comes to town.
He has to sit through Romeo’s physical therapy sessions while in the body, which he manages with minor grousing. He’s more or less resigned himself now to the fact that he’s only ever going to get the broken pieces, the odds and ends.
He’s sitting on the table in Saunders’ office, trying not to slouch or sulk too much while she gives Romeo’s arm a look.
She glances at him from the corner of one eye, tilting her head down to hide her face, in that way she developed only after she was left with the scars.
Her voice is quiet, empty: “How are you feeling?”
“Fine, I guess,” he says blandly. “It’s more an inconvenience than a source of pain.”
Her hands pause mid-motion. She turns to stare at him with wide and intense eyes.
“I wasn’t talking about the arm,” she tells him, soft and somehow sharp all at once.
His eyes widen. He pulls out of her grasp, suddenly discomfited.
“How do you think I feel?” he mutters gruffly, because there’s nothing else he can say.
It’s a good question, really, because he doesn’t quite know the answer. He doesn’t know how he feels about this because he doesn’t let himself feel. He can’t.
“It doesn’t really matter, anyway,” he concludes, forcefully dismissive.
There’s a pause. Saunders’ eyes are half-lidded, her clipboard pressed close to her chest.
“It can’t be easy,” she offers in a near-whisper, gaze settled firmly on the ground. “And it’s…braver of you than I would’ve expected,” her eyes drift up again, “choosing to help the Dollhouse in this way, after what happened.”
“Choosing? Funny, I think I missed the part where I had a choice,” he retorts. He shakes his head, sneering bitterly. “You make it sound like I should expect gratitude, but despite the obvious leash, I’m barely trusted. DeWitt won’t even look me in the eye.”
After another silent, tense moment Saunders puts down her clipboard and goes back to massaging Romeo’s muscles.
“She lost a friend recently, while you were gone,” she says in a tone almost conversational.
He stills. “I wasn’t told,” he says quietly.
“Margaret Bashford,” Saunders continues. “She was also a client here.”
He knows that name. “What, you mean that old bat that came in every couple of months to have an imprint made, just so that she could-?”
He stops, as a gradual and startling realization forms.
“They put her imprint in Echo. She helped solve her own murder.” Saunders could be describing the weather, for all her lack of enthusiasm. “I hear it was very exciting.”
“Oh,” he says. “…Oh.”
So he hasn’t been the first ghost DeWitt has seen lately, an old acquaintance staring out at her from behind different eyes.
Funny: it’s the first time he’s really considered how bizarre this must seem to everyone else. He knows he looks different but he still feels the same, so that part never really registers.
But anyone else sees a usually complacent Active, moving with his body language and speaking with his words.
What’s it feel like, knowing that today they might start a conversation that they’ll be finishing tomorrow with a completely different face?
He drops his shoulders, burying his head in his hands with a stifled moan.
Saunders watches him, expression set in that sad look she usually reserves for Actives. “You sound tired.”
He raises his head again, glaring at her. “It’s funny,” he begins sardonically; “I don’t recall that you ever liked me very much, Doctor.”
“You’re implying that disliking someone goes hand in hand with being happy to see them suffer.”
She turns away to write on her clipboard, and her tone is suddenly very, very pointed: “It takes a certain kind of person to enjoy watching people squirm.”
Well, there’s a personal attack. He doesn’t waste his time or hers by denying it. There’s not really any point.
He only shrugs again, wondering if somehow Romeo’s well-rested and cared-for face can still convey how sick and utterly exhausted he feels right now.
“Well,” he finally offers, toneless; “no rest for the wicked - right?”
_____
“Hey. Hey, Dom?”
“What?”
“Have you seen my phone?”
He clenches his teeth impatiently, digging one hand into Sierra’s scalp, fingers tangled in her hair. He looks up from his makeshift workstation where he’s been going over security logs, trying to find the source of an intelligence leak, and glances around at the haphazard array that Topher somehow considers an office.
“I don’t know,” he says, “what’s it look like?”
Topher’s hands flutter distractedly; he makes a face. “Uh, a phone? Come on, seriously, you’ve seen it before.”
“It’s not my job to keep track of your toys,” he grates slowly, rolling his eyes. He shoves a fistful of Sierra’s pale locks out of his face again, returning to the logs.
There are thick stacks of them spread across the entire surface of the tabletop. He’s made five different kinds of notations in three different kinds of pen. The answer is in here somewhere, he knows, he just can’t find it.
Topher is being immensely and frustratingly distracting, rustling papers and pushing things around. Pencils clatter noisily to the floor. “Are you sure you didn’t-?”
He slams his hands on the table, causing it to shake.
“Would you just leave me alone?” he demands. He snatches up another pen (ballpoint, black) clicking it absently between his fingers as he tries to think. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m trying to work.”
“Okay, yikes, sorry.” Topher half-winces, half-grins, taking the hint and backing away. “Wound a little tighter lately, are we? I mean, even for you.”
His only response is to look up enough to give a withering glower, before going back to staring at the logs once more.
All the numbers and phrases are starting to blur together - he’s going blind from staring at so much black on white. He needs a break, but he knows one isn’t coming to him any time soon.
He shuts his eyes tightly, balling one hand into a fist and digging it against his temple, willing himself to think. This is no small leak of information: if it’s not stopped soon, the Dollhouse could be in serious trouble.
“All work and no play make Dom a dull boy,” Topher quips, watching him.
“Funny,” he says with heavy sarcasm. Shaking his head, he focuses on the papers, scratching in another mark. “I happen to know exactly who I am.”
“Or so you think,” Topher mumbles to himself, typing something at his computer.
He goes completely still, an icy cold shock spreading all over his body from where it slams into him. His head jerks up, eyes wide.
“What?”
“I…oops.” Topher glances back at him, just as quickly turns away again. “Uh, nothing.”
He gets to his feet, pens and security logs forgotten. “What,” he repeats, “did you just say?”
Topher gives a little yelp - evidently he’s forgotten just how fast he can move, and in an Active body at that; suddenly, the tech finds himself effectively pinned against the wall.
He leans forward, holding Topher in place with his arms framing him on either side. “Do I only think I have all my memories, and there’s something you’ve made me forget?”
Topher cringes, cowering. “W-why would you even think-”
“Don’t you even!” he yells and slams the flat of one hand into the wall, causing Topher to jump. “DeWitt said you could do as much, back when you first wiped me.” He grits his teeth, hissing. “Playing around with my imprint so you could make me do whatever you wanted.”
He doesn’t want it to be true; god, he doesn’t want it to be. But if it is, he has to know.
“Am I even real at all? Or am I just another persona you whipped up on your computer, the perfect patsy to get all your dirty work done?”
He’s gone so tense, he’s shaking. He stares straight ahead at the tech with unblinking fury, and he doesn’t see him at all.
This can’t be happening. Not to him.
He hits the wall again, much harder this time. He can feel it - Sierra’s going to have a bruise. “Tell me!” he roars.
“Calm down!” Topher practically shrieks. “I didn’t do anything to your imprint or your memories; there’s nothing fake about them! I…it was a joke. A really, really bad one, and in very poor taste to be sure, but that’s all it was. I was just joking - please don’t kill me!”
He holds his hands in front of him as if they’ll someone make an effective shield. “Come on, Dominic, you know me: I’m a terrible liar. Just look at my face.” He stares up at him, desperate. “I swear I haven’t done anything to you.”
Then he considers that: “I mean, besides…you know.”
He shoves himself away from Topher. He believes him. But that doesn’t make anything any better.
“I need some air,” he announces. He storms out of the lab, slamming the door behind him.
It isn’t until he’s taken half a dozen steps across the landing that he realizes he’s gasping, pulse throbbing up in his throat.
He’s walking quickly, but he doesn’t know where he’s going. All he knows is he has to get out, away, somehow. All he knows is he has to move.
Victor is standing at the top of the landing up from the stairs. When he sees Sierra’s body coming towards him his face brightens; he starts to raise his hand in a wave.
He points at Victor with one outstretched arm, face set in a stern and warning glare as he circles around him.
“Don’t you even start,” he orders, in a deadly tone. He is not dealing with this.
Victor’s eyes widen, adopting the confused and worried expression of a child who doesn’t know why they’ve been chastised.
“Ugh!” With a noise of disgust he keeps going, leaving the bewildered Active behind.
Eventually he reaches an isolated section of the floor and he stops, letting out a deep exhale as he clutches at the railing. He stays there for a moment, breathing, and then lifts his head to look at the Actives below.
Going about their business as usual, in their carefree mindless way. Not knowing that at any moment they could be pulled aside, chosen at random to be the next place his persona takes up residence.
He lurks among them like a parasite, jumping from one host to the next. Never owning, always borrowing.
He curls Sierra’s fingers into fists, staring down at them as his thoughts go unbidden to his real body in the Attic. Something heavy rises to block the back of his throat.
Who’s the real Laurence Dominic, now? The body in cold storage might just be an empty shell, but he supposes it has just as much right to the claim. It was him, until he got wiped. It still is him…he just can’t remember.
He’s been split in half, fractured. So which is real? The body that has no memories - but could, theoretically, someday regain them - or is it him, memories and personality intact but nothing to hold onto? A formless ghost, wandering.
He rests his elbows on the railing, pressing his hands to the sides of his temples.
It’s very high up here. He finds himself calculating how much damage it would do if he fell, if it would be enough to-
But that’s pointless. Even if he jumped, they could just bring him back. They’d use the old imprint. He wouldn’t even remember.
In fact, for all he knows, maybe he has killed himself. Over and over again: each time starting over with no memory of doing it.
He clutches a hand over his mouth to hold back hysterical laughter.
He can’t remember the last time he ate breakfast, or took a shower, or read the sports page. Every time he shows up in a new, clean body that’s fed and rested and ready to go. So all he has to do is go to work, get the job done, and go back into his box.
Lather, rinse, and repeat - endlessly.
He feels like a machine: a machine that never shuts down.
“I need a vacation,” he says, later, when at last he’s back in DeWitt’s office, leak correctly identified and mystery solved.
The corner of DeWitt’s mouth twitches in a way that’s not really a smile, flipping through his report. “Very amusing, I’m sure,” she says in dismissive response, dry.
“That wasn’t a joke. I’m serious.” Both Langton and DeWitt look at him. He squares his shoulders but continues in all earnest. “I need a break.”
“A break?” Langton repeats, eyebrows raised, clearly incredulous. “From what, exactly?”
He turns to look at him, eyes narrowing. “You don’t get it, do you?” he says, sharply. “When you pull my imprint out again, it’s not like I stay conscious while I’m hovering around Topher’s desktop in the form of code. The only time I’m aware is when I’m here.”
His voice rises: he’s fighting off the urge to yell. “So however long you think it’s been, however much time has passed between the last time you took me out and put me away, I don’t feel that. I don’t know that. For me, it’s just like jumping from one point to the next.”
Langton doesn’t say anything, but shifts back a little. His features are carefully schooled to indifference but he looks ever so slightly shaken.
He gathers his composure, turning from Langton and facing DeWitt again.
“Just give me twenty-four hours,” he stresses, trying not to sound like he’s begging. “Just twenty-four hours, away from the House, in any Active you choose to give me.” Something inscrutable flashes in DeWitt’s eyes, and he decides not to tempt fate: “Not Echo. But any other body. I don’t care.”
Her face is a complete blank to him. Three years at her side and he learned to read all the subtle nuances, but she’s reached a whole new level. Now she’s trying to keep him out.
“I will take it into consideration,” she states at length. She doesn’t bother looking at him as she closes the file he gave her, pushing it away.
“As everything seems to be in order, Mr. Dominic, I believe we have no further use for your services at the moment.”
Back in the box he goes.
He drops his head and says quietly, “Yes, ma’am.”
_____
He’d forgotten what it was like, the rush of adrenaline from having to physically take someone down.
A new client…well, prospective new client; obviously, they won’t be doing business with him now. Not after he went completely nuts in DeWitt’s office.
Luckily he just happened to be there, on his way out the door from making his final report. He was in a hurry to get out, go back to Topher and get his imprint wiped - but something about the would-be client set off alarms for him. He lingered instead, which meant he was there when the man snapped.
Instinct took over - he tackled the guy, wrestling him to the floor. It was a brief if intense struggle: his opponent was mainly flailing and he had training on his side, with an added bonus from occupying a healthy Active.
There was a point at the very beginning where it looked like he was at a disadvantage, not used to fighting in this body, his moves calculated for longer arms and legs and a different center of gravity.
He was able to catch himself, though, adjusting quickly. More quickly than he might have expected, truth be told.
He’s not entirely sure - probably it’s just because of all his experience, having to think on his feet.
But then there’s also the fact that the Active he’s currently in is Echo, known for her ability to adjust readily to any situation at hand.
A suspicious coincidence. He chooses to think of it as just that, if only because he’d rather not consider the alternatives.
The adrenaline is still soaring, as he takes measured breathes to bring his heart rate back down. There’s a scrape on the back of Echo’s arm where he was hurled against the window and he keeps his hand on it to staunch the bleeding.
“Are you alright, ma’am?”
He looks over at DeWitt. She leans against the front of her desk, sitting on it as she grips the surface with both hands to steady herself. It takes all of his experience with her to tell that she’s even a little ruffled: as ever, the very image of stability and poise.
She knew well enough to get out of the way, once the struggle started. Only a few hairs have fallen out of place.
“I’m perfectly fine, Mr. Dominic,” she answers him calmly. She straightens, brushing her skirt. “And yourself?”
“Just a cut.” He can’t help it as his tone turns mildly sardonic. “Don’t worry: I was careful to not let any damage happen to your favorite Active.”
She lifts her gaze back up.
“I rather don’t recall that I was inquiring about Echo,” she remarks.
He locks eyes with her for a moment, caught off-guard - shaken, when he pulls away again.
His attentions travel back to where security is escorting the would-be attacker out. They both watch, silently, as the man is dragged away by two handlers, yelling and raving incomprehensibly all the while.
He turns back to DeWitt once they’re gone.
“If I may,” he offers, deadpan, “might I recommend the addition of some new layers to the client screening process?”
She gives him that withering look of hers that translates as a rolling of the eyes. “Suggestion duly noted.”
Tension passed, crisis averted - and for a moment it’s just like the old days. She starts to give him a small, confidential smile and he starts to return it with one of his own.
Well, we’ve done it again, Mr. Dominic. They always did make a good team.
But she meets his eyes, and there’s a visible break in her expression when she sees they aren’t actually his: the memory of his current state and, more importantly, what happened to bring it about resurfacing all at once.
Just like that, the moment is gone. She reforms her face into a stern and indifferent frown.
For his part, he stares at the floor; biting back on that wave of unnamed something that rises whenever they’re alone like this. The urge to say, for so many reasons, “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Still,” she speaks up, mildly, as she goes to straighten the mess caused when the fighting collided with her desk, “it was rather impressive, you so quickly moving to rectify the situation like that.”
He shrugs dismissively. “Just doing my job, ma’am.”
Shoulder to the wheel.
The thought comes at random, unconnected. It slips in innocuously and at first he accepts it without consideration. But then he blinks, realizing that it’s out of place.
There’s a memory attached there that he can’t quite reach. And he has a bad feeling that it’s not his.
His fingers tighten where they cover Echo’s injury, clutching the skin hard enough to bruise.
DeWitt eyes him carefully.
“Mr. Dominic?”
“I should go,” he manages, brusque. “I have to get out of this body.”
She nods once, never mind the fact that he’s already about to move.
“Yes. All right.”
_____
“Congrats, Dom,” Topher says, brightly. “Looks like you’ve earned yourself a three-day weekend.”
Three days of limited freedom. Three days, when he only asked for one.
Is that a reward, or a sign of warning? It’s probably best not to ask.
They give him Tango, who happens to be in perfectly good health, as well as an already-packed suitcase and a key to a hotel room.
He doesn’t ask if there’ll be anyone following him. He knows.
The hotel is decent not posh and luxurious, but far from being a flea-infested rat-trap either. Average. The kind of place where a tourist would stay.
So for the first twenty-four hours that’s what he pretends to be: just another tourist from out of town, taking in the sights of the city.
He visits plenty of busy metropolitan areas but he doesn’t go inside any of the museums or hotspots. He walks along with the crowds, letting them carry him where they will. He goes into office buildings and rides the elevator, pretending he has an appointment. He browses a few stores, window-shopping.
He waits in line at a busy coffee shop. He has lunch at a greasy spoon diner. And yes, he finds the time to read a newspaper, and several magazines as well.
He rides the bus, takes the subway and catches taxi cabs. And when he gets tired of that, he walks.
He keeps his head down, appearance obscured by dark sunglasses and loose-fitting clothes. The last thing he wants is anyone to notice Tango’s appearance and decide to hit on her - that’s something he really doesn’t need.
He can’t help wondering if that was intentional: if they gave him a female Active because they thought if he was in a male body the temptation to escape would be too great, but this’ll prove the final straw that keeps him from trying to run.
If that’s the case they don’t know him very well: he never takes risks he doesn’t think he can pull off successfully.
Right now, the House has all the cards.
He goes by the area of the park where chess players gather, old men and college students and vagabonds looking to score a quick buck. He watches them for awhile but doesn’t join.
He’s never been more than decent at speed chess; he does much better with a drawn-out game, one where he has time to formulate a strategy.
When Topher got a new chess set, he put it out on his desk to show it off to anyone walking by. The next thing the tech knew someone was dropping in every day to move a piece. The ensuing game dragged on for months, and it drove Topher crazy trying to figure out who was beating him.
No one else knew either. Whoever it was, they were particularly good at coming by when nobody was around.
Only one person figured it out.
DeWitt asked him one day, carelessly and without preamble: “Do you suppose Topher is ever going to guess who his mystery opponent is?”
“Oh, maybe,” he responded, “if it ever crosses his mind that I do anything besides glower menacingly and bark orders.” He smirked. “But I doubt it.”
He smiles at the memory but it quickly turns bittersweet. Shoving hands in his pockets he walks away again, not wanting to watch anymore.
He does so much wandering partially because he’s trying to make sure he wears himself out. The last thing he wants is to get back to his room and find he can’t fall asleep.
He’s been so looking forward to this, it’s scary. Sleep - a chance to turn off and on again, and actually feel it.
Things go his way for once. Not only does he sleep like the dead, if he dreams he doesn’t remember.
Definitely a good thing - the things his subconscious could drag up about now would be plenty to handle on their own. The fact that he’s technically occupying somebody else’s brain at present is a downright unbearable wild card.
The second day he doesn’t even leave his hotel room.
Funny to think that this could be a novelty: spending the entire day in his sweats, eating pizza for breakfast and cereal for dinner, lazing in front of the TV even though nothing’s on.
There’s a new movie on pay-per-view, which means it’s been out for awhile. The previews for it had only just started playing when he got wiped.
He watches it anyway. Lots of explosions, car chases - mildly exciting fare.
How is it that doing such average, ordinary, boring things has become a vacation? That they’re part of the exotic? It’s just not right.
He used to be…what? Normal? Human? Something there’s not a word for, because he never thought there’d be a day when he’d be something else.
After the sun goes down he stands at the window, pushing aside the curtain to look at the city lights. If he squints he can just make out some of the people far below.
He’s been keeping a half-interested eye out the whole time, seeing if he can spot whoever’s tailing him. He hasn’t, which either means they’re very good, or they’re not keeping too close. Maybe no one’s worried about him trying to run off after all.
He lets the curtain drop, trying to figure out what he’ll do tomorrow. What’s something else he hasn’t done in awhile? What do normal people do every day?
They wake up, they get dressed…they go to work.
So, that’s exactly what he does.
It’s late. Most of the employees have gone home. DeWitt is alone in her office, in the process of locking up.
“Evening, ma’am.”
She stills and then straightens from behind her desk, trying not to show that he’s startled her. “Mr. Dominic. I wasn’t expecting to see you for at least another twenty-four hours.”
He leans against the doorframe, gaze even and arms folded. “I know. But no one said I couldn’t come back early, if I wanted.”
She gives him a questioning look and he shrugs. “I felt like visiting,” he says coolly.
“Visiting.” She smiles tightly, in that way that says she can tell you’re lying. “I see.”
They stare at each other for a moment.
“I was just leaving,” she says.
“Shall I escort you to your car?” he offers.
“I certainly believe I can find it myself,” she responds, dry. But she doesn’t stop him when he follows her anyway, just one step behind.
He holds her car door open for her, exchanging a polite nod when she gets in and he closes it behind her.
Then, he walks around to the passenger side and gets in. Her fingers tighten on the wheel, spasmodically, but she says not even a word. She merely starts the car.
He wasn’t sure why he came back to the Dollhouse. He wasn’t sure what he was even doing. What he wanted. But he thinks he knows, now.
They make it all the way out of her car, into her building and up to the hall just outside her penthouse apartment with neither of them saying anything.
But as she pauses to reach for her key, he moves. She turns around just in time so she’s facing him when he pushes her back, pinning her against the wall.
She draws in a breath but doesn’t move, doesn’t panic, doesn’t even act surprised. She tilts her chin up, meeting his gaze evenly. For the longest time they just stand there, tension in the air as they look each other in the eyes.
Three years. Three years, and they had the perfect working relationship. They tried to keep their feelings professional and not get attached.
If that was the case, then why did what had happened hurt?
“This is why you put me in a female body, isn’t it?” he asks her, his breathing ragged. “Because you hoped it would cool off…whatever this is that’s going on between us.”
She smiles grimly, and admits, “Perhaps.”
He’s been working with her for three years, all too aware of how beautiful she is, how strong. Of how she steals glances at him, sometimes, out of the corner of her eye.
He kisses her, pressing his mouth up against hers close. She makes a small sound, almost like she’s in pain - but she kisses back with just as much fervor.
At some point he eventually moves off of her, letting her open the door to let them inside, because it would raise some very awkward questions if the neighbors caught her necking with some strange blonde woman out in the hall.
They don’t speak, still, as she hangs up her jacket and moves towards her bedroom, slipping off those impressive heels as she goes.
They never needed to talk to each other. Not really. They were both so good at picking up on all the little signs.
She lies down, still fully-dressed, and he climbs on top of her.
“I do hate to be the bearer of bad news,” she states, breathless, “but I remind you that anything that happens to Tango is going to have to eventually be explained.”
“God, I don’t even…” he groans, reaching to brush the side of her neck. “I just want…”
He just wants to touch her, so much. So that’s exactly what he does, stroking the curve of her arm and the bow of her lips and the softness of one breast. He kisses her over and over, on her mouth and her cheek and all the way down to the hollow of her throat. She closes her eyes and draws her breath in sighs, rising up to press herself closer against him, digging her hands into his scalp and even going so far as to drape one leg across his lower back.
Eventually he slips off of her, lying to one side as they both catch their breath. She stays flat on her back, arms limply up around her head as she stares at the ceiling.
“How positively primary school,” she remarks. Her chest rises and falls, and her light tone doesn’t match the look on her face. “Getting so excited over a lot of heavy petting.”
“Adelle-”
“Yes, Laurence?” Like the distinction means nothing.
He pulls closer to her again, cupping her chin as he looks into her eyes. He slips an arm around her and presses his face into her shoulder, breathing the scent of her in.
“I should hate you so much,” he mutters, in something like desperate amazement, “after what you’ve done to me…”
“After what I’ve done?” He moves away to look in her in the eye, as she holds his gaze frankly and frowns. “And I suppose it’s of no consequence at all, how you betrayed me.”
“I…never.” He grips her tightly by the wrist. “What exactly did I do? My job was always to keep the Dollhouse secure, to make sure nothing happened to its people or its technology. I did my job. Loyally.”
“You lied,” she states, lips curling angrily. “For three years, every day, you lied to me.”
“In only the smallest possible way. After that, everything I did, everything I said, was nothing but the truth.” He draws a breath, frustrated. “We’ve already had this conversation. Why are we having it again?”
“You were, in some small way, working against me,” she insists. “You were a spy, and you got caught. I thought you understood me well enough to know not to take the consequences of that personally.”
“Except you couldn’t have just killed me, could you? You couldn’t even send me to the Attic and keep me there. No, you went and made it personal. Adelle, look at what you’ve done to me. Do you even have any idea?”
He closes his eyes, brushing his face against her. “Do you know what I’ve been doing with these seventy-two hours of freedom you’ve given me? I slept. I brushed my teeth, and drank coffee, and a hundred other pointless things that most people do every day as part of living. Only now it’s those things that I treasure, because I don’t get to do them anymore.”
He tries to get as close to her as he can - wishing he could just sink inside her, safe. “I want a life,” he says brokenly. “I don’t even want my life, I just want a life.”
“An ironic sentiment for me to express, considering our business,” she replies quietly, “but we don’t always get what we want.”
He has nothing to say to that. They lay next to each other, silent. After a moment she reaches over, curling her fingers around his wrist. He turns his head.
“How’d you like to get dinner sometime?”
He’s not sure what catches her off-guard more, the question or the offhand manner in which he asks. “Are you serious?”
“It doesn’t sound like you’re turning me down.”
“Well, I think it might be a little hard to explain,” she observes wryly, smiling in spite of herself.
“I’m sure you can find a way.”
He smiles back at her, but then his smile disappears.
“I can’t keep doing this, Adelle.” He shakes his head. “It’s breaking me apart. I need more time.”
“Time?” she echoes.
“More time out of the box. To do things other than work. To remind me what it’s like to be human.” He rolls over so he can face her clearly, and this time he doesn’t care that he’s begging. “Please.”
There’s a long moment, and it takes him awhile to identify what’s going on in her expression. She looks…timid. And uncertain.
“I honestly don’t know that I have the authority,” she finally whispers. He lets go of her, pulling away. “Laurence,” she reaches for him, a desperate sadness in her eyes, “I’m sorry.”
“You had the authority to do this to me in the first place,” he reminds her, cold.
But he can’t stand the look that she gets after that, so he reaches out to her anyway. He kisses her with somebody else’s lips and uses somebody else’s hand to brush the hair out of her eyes.
“I forgive you,” he whispers to her. “I shouldn’t, but I forgive you.”
They drift off to sleep with her back against his chest, his arms wrapped around her.
At some point in the night he wakes, and hears a soft sound he can’t identify. Her shoulders are shaking.
Is she crying?
He pulls his arms tighter, and holds her close.
_____
Not that he has any way of knowing, but he has a feeling they won’t be bringing him out again for awhile, when they put him away.
It’s too much for DeWitt (Adelle) to deal with, probably. Too hard, even for her.
He supposes he can’t fault her for that. He’s not sure how well he’d handle it either, were their situations reversed.
He wonders what she sees, when she looks into his eyes. If all she notices is the different shape, the different color - or if she looks past that, somehow, and still sees him underneath.
But of course, regardless of time passing, it all happens in a moment for him. So the next thing he knows is the white flash as he resurfaces, dull humming in his ears.
He’s startled to see it isn’t just Topher waiting for him this time. Adelle is there too, serene expression, hands on her hips.
The body he’s in feels sluggish, numb somehow, and for a moment he lays there, blinking as he tries to get his bearings.
Topher’s grinning like a loon. “Hey Dom, how’re you feeling?”
“Stiff,” he says. And his eyes widen at the sound. He clutches his throat, and then stares down at his hands.
At his hands: at his own hands.
“Oh my god.”
Topher beams even wider somehow. “Uh huh.”
He stretches his arms out, turning his hands over, taking himself in. He’s even wearing one of his own suits - which raises a few awkward questions, but there aren’t words to describe how much he could care less about that right now.
Finally, he looks up, meeting Adelle in the eye.
She smiles ever so delicately. “Welcome back, Mr. Dominic.” Professional, politely restrained.
“But, how did you-?”
Her smile wavers a little. “Suffice to say I don’t believe I will be getting as big a Christmas bonus this year as anticipated.”
She says this breezily, and it’s clear that’s all the explanation she’s willing to give, for now.
It’s every ounce of restraint he possesses, and the fact that his legs still feel a little like they’re made of jelly, that keeps him from leaping out of the chair to take her in his arms.
Probably for the best: he doubts she’d appreciate it, especially with Topher right there.
As if reading his mind she goes, “Topher, if you’d please leave us alone for a moment. Mr. Dominic and I have something to discuss.”
“Uh, you’re welcome?” Topher mutters disbelievingly, but does as he’s told.
The minute they’re alone Adelle’s gaze becomes more stern. “Don’t get too excited. I should tell you, the terms of your situation haven’t changed.”
But then she briskly continues: “However…they’re currently up for renegotiation.”
He’s not quite sure he understands. “What do you need from me?”
She hands him a phone.
“Our sources indicate the NSA has been trying to launch an investigation into us recently, trying to find out why it’s taken you so long to check in,” she states. “You are to call whoever it is you report to, letting them know there’s nothing to be concerned about, but due to the crucial nature of your cover you’re going to have to go further underground for awhile.”
His grip tightens on the phone. “I see.” The only reason he’s in his body again is because they need him to be.
Still, that doesn’t explain why it’s really him, not just some half-formed imprint they’ve given his memories to.
He climbs out of the chair, frowning down at the object in his hand as he tries to figure it out.
Currently up for renegotiation.
“Oh, and Laurence?”
He turns automatically. “Yes?”
Her smile is no different than it always is. But if he looks closely, he thinks he can see something sparkling in the back of her eyes.
“After you’ve made your call, we can discuss the long-term implications further,” she says: “Over dinner.”
“I played a bad hand very well.”
He smiles back at her, widely. “Yes, ma’am.”
On the phone, he hits "send".