Dollhouse Fic: "Sealed In Wax, Signed In Blood" (Dominic/DeWitt, Ballard, R)
In this addition, we're back to the people most of you actually care about now. (...Oh, and Ballard.)
Title: Sealed In Wax, Signed In Blood
Characters/Pairings: Dominic, DeWitt, Ballard, Topher, Boyd, Tanaka, mention of Echo and some OCs; Dominic/DeWitt
Rating: light R for sex, language, some darkness
Length: 7,348 words
Spoilers: Season One
Notes: Waking 'verse, again. We're getting to where you sorta need to have read the others to grasp what's going on: recommended readings for this part would be Written In Ink, Carved In Stone, Missionary Men, and Sweet and Pretty Little Liars
Summary: In which some things are found out by various parties, from all sorts of different angles.
Before when he went undercover, there was always a lie. A carefully fabricated and maintained persona that he put on each morning with his aftershave.
But they couldn’t do that with the Dollhouse assignment. The corporation’s reach was too great with far too many resources. A full cover story meant holes they could discover, plenty of chances to realize he wasn’t who he claimed to be.
So they decided to try something novel instead: the truth.
No fake identity, no phony history to memorize. A few tent-poles had to be put up, out of necessity (his employment record was obviously a complete fabrication), but other than that there was nothing to guide him but his own experiences. All he had was himself.
That should’ve made it easier.
What he failed to realize was that the lies had been useful. As long as he had to keep pretending, he couldn’t forget the real reason he was there, that it was about the mission and nothing else.
Now there was nothing to hide behind, no shield between himself and what he was living.
Nothing between himself and Adelle DeWitt, the woman he’d been sent to work both for and against. First he understood her, which was good. Then he started to respect and even admire her, which was tolerable.
Eventually, though, there was something else. Something far too strong to be dismissed as “like”, and far too complicated to be simply titled “lust”.
It was always there, lurking in the corner of their smiles and the back of their eyes and the lower tones of their voices. Always there, begging to be acknowledged.
There’d be these moments, when they’d look at each other and there would be silence - and they’d know whatever it was they had, it was stretched taut between them, and all it would take was one of them to reach out right then and the barrier would disintegrate like tissue paper, gone.
But he never reached, and neither did she. The moment would pass. They’d continue on.
The feeling he always had afterwards was relief mixed with disappointment. He told himself it was mostly relief.
It was hardly professional, after all. They couldn’t possibly act on it. They both had their reasons; though perhaps his list was a bit longer than hers.
Then everything changed when the truth came out.
He’d ordered people sent to the Attic before. He’d watched it done to people before.
But he couldn’t even begin to imagine.
What they did to him broke him down, into smaller and smaller pieces, everything crumbling. Until there was nothing left to hold onto, except for the simple truth that he wanted her, so much it was killing him.
So, he reached. And she didn’t pull away.
He should be bitter, and he knows it. He wasn’t so much turned as he was enslaved; he helped them because there was literally no choice.
Even now, he doesn’t really have options, because what’s he going to do if he wants to leave? Where is he going to go?
But if he’s sold out, then so be it. Because on paper the idea of sticking to his principles, that all looks just fine - but in reality, it came down to doing what they asked or spending the rest of eternity in a box gathering dust on a shelf, not existing save for when they dragged him out, poked him with a stick for crucial information and put him away again.
He wants to exist. So he sold his soul, whatever’s left of it, for waking up each morning and falling asleep every night, and drawing whatever number of breaths of air into his body it is the average human being gets each day. (Topher probably knows. But he’s not going to ask him.)
And if that seems pathetic, that he gave up so much for something so basic...nobody could ever understand. Not without knowing what’s it like to go without.
He has his body. He has a life. And, he has Adelle.
He should hate her. He knows that too. There are times he almost wishes he did, because at least that would be sane.
So little about his life seems sane.
But he doesn’t hate her, and he’s been through too much to want to try and make himself. He’s sick and tired of fighting this; they wasted three years, and wasn’t that enough?
All that’s left is this: his teeth scraping across her skin, his fingers tangled in her hair, the way everything feels perfect when he’s buried so deep inside her. When he’s got her coming so hard her eyes are wet.
And in this moment nothing else matters, nothing else exists, because he’s so gone with her he can’t even remember. He forgets about the long and twisted road he had to walk (sometimes crawl) to get here, just like he forgets everything else.
He’d forget his own name even, if she didn’t keep saying it over and over; gasping like it’s a prayer.
No, he can’t regret this. Because it doesn’t feel like he’s lost, or even settled. It only feels like he’s won.
_____
Paul stands by the door to the imprint lab, watching with all the hypnotized revulsion of a witness to a car wreck.
Dominic stands about an arm’s length away from him, also watching. His arms are folded in front of his chest, his brow furrowed slightly, expression set into what Paul has come to recognize as his standard stern frown.
Topher has his back to them, ignoring them both. In the imprint chair, Echo twitches slightly, a pained expression flitting across her face as she’s made into somebody else.
“Has there been any talk about later complications associated with this whole thing?” Paul asks Dominic, thinking aloud. “I mean, messing with people’s brains on a frequent and regular basis: I find it hard to believe that doesn’t cause some kind of trouble. Memory loss, tumors, stroke…”
He trails off as Dominic turns to stare at him with wide, hostile eyes.
“I’ve never heard anything about it,” the other man states. “But thanks for putting the idea into my head.”
Paul looks at him evenly. “Sorry.”
Dominic gives a short, tense shrug. “You don’t sound very sorry, Ballard,” he pointedly observes.
“Well,” Paul says, “maybe I believe in karma.”
Now Dominic’s turned to face him completely, quickly closing the distance between them. Paul squares his shoulders, drawing himself to his full height, but that doesn’t stop Dominic. He gets right up in Paul’s face.
“And just what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, boys, boys - there’s no need to fight.”
They both turn, startled, as a newly-imprinted Echo saunters over to them. She gives a sultry grin. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”
Paul feels an instinctive kick of disgust in his stomach. A look of irritation crosses Dominic’s face.
Before either of them can respond however, Echo’s handler is there, gripping her firmly but politely by the arm.
“Come on, Tiffany,” he says blandly. “You’re going to be late to the party.”
“Right,” Echo agrees, giving one last glance over her shoulder before allowing herself to be led away. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun.”
Paul watches her go, fighting down the urge to run out there and stop her. No telling what these people have programmed her to do for tonight.
“It’s not your problem, Ballard,” Dominic says gruffly, reading his mind. Paul turns to him, ready to say something, but just then Langton walks over.
“Come on.” He looks at Paul and Dominic. “DeWitt’s ready for us now.”
“Oh, thank god,” Topher exclaims. He raises his arms, waving them dismissively towards the door. “Yes, by all means, get these two out of here! They’re turning my space into a serious no-fun zone. No offense, Boyd: I know that’s usually your thing.”
Langton gives him a good-natured roll of his eyes, while Dominic just glares.
Paul follows the other two men as they head out in the direction of DeWitt’s office.
“Have fun at your grand ol’ security conference!” Topher calls after them. “And, hey - if any two of you start fighting, somebody please come and let me know.”
_____
She has always been so good at pushing things aside, at taking her urges and her emotions and setting them apart from her; finding a way to remove them so they will not get in her way.
It was like this, with her bullet wound. She pushed the pain aside, set it apart, made herself numb to it. She had other things to do, too important to be ignored, and anyway this was nothing.
Now she looks at the scar in the mirror, traces it lightly with her finger, and somehow she remembers the pain. She remembers it, perfectly clear.
How curious, that back then she was able to feel nothing, and yet a part of her felt it all along. So the memory would still be there for her, when she cares to revisit.
But it’s this way with Laurence, too. Because at the time, she wouldn’t let herself feel it - she tore him from her side and pushed him away, extracted from her system like the bullet he put into her. She purged him, erased him, gone. She did this, and all the while she felt not a thing.
Now she looks back on it, remembers that time, and sees all too clearly how much the act hurt her. How even as she told herself she’d lost nothing by removing him, the empty place where he belonged throbbed and wept.
Recalling the pain, she’s glad she was somehow able to ignore it then. Because if she had truly acknowledged it or allowed it to be felt, surely it would’ve killed her.
But no, she always tried to maintain practicality where Laurence was concerned. Even when her baser instincts were for her to do anything but.
It’s not that she was worried, precisely, about the complications involved. Three years, he kept his restraint and so did she, but it wasn’t because she fretted about her career.
They wanted to fuck each other. That much was obvious. She had a feeling of decided certainty they’d be quite good at it together, that it would be very enjoyable for them both.
That wasn’t the part that concerned her, that kept her from deciding to give it a try. Fucking was, in its own way, very practical. But she’d a worrisome suspicion that with them it wouldn’t just stay that way.
She was afraid one day she’d wake up to find somewhere along the way they’d stopped fucking and started making love instead, and that would never do.
So the urge stayed simply an urge, a little taste of bitter longing on the back of her tongue, and they kept working together as they always did, and when she found out what he really was she told herself she’d been fortunate, then; that it was really all for the best.
It was still practicality, when she brought him back. Not vengeance or a desire to hurt that had her designing a plan to break him down, to bring him to a place where he had no choice but to work for them. Never anything personal.
But it was so hard to maintain that, watching it unfold. So hard, for once, to keep setting those feelings aside where they couldn’t control her.
She had trusted, once, and been betrayed. For that she should never trust again. Even if analysis of the facts told her he’d no reason or even ability to repeat the act she still should’ve never given him the opportunity.
But he kissed her, and she let him, and instead of the shame of her foolishness all she felt was longing.
Three years of practicality, in hindsight, look so very much like three years worth of regret.
So she trusts him. She has to, because whatever this is, it’s grown too big and sharp and poignant to allow itself to be simply pulled apart and set aside. Its hold on her is too strong: it demands to be felt. What’s more, she wants to feel it.
She’s glad, though, they waited for the first time until after he was in his own body again. They had dinner, and the conversation was perfectly business-like, trying to arrange exactly what would happen to him now.
But the tones they used were personal, and they said each other’s first names perhaps a time too many, and more than once she reached to gently place her hand over his.
They went outside, and she started to shiver because she always forgot how chilly these nights could be. And he put his arms around her, and his lips were warm and his hands were cold and he was so very Laurence she almost came undone right there in the street, in front of everybody, uncaring.
He carefully escorted (steered, really) her back to the car and drove them to her place, and then, finally, there could be the removal of clothes and the much-desired touching and, frankly, she’s a bit astonished they even made it all the way to her bed.
What they do, she supposes, is as equal parts fucking as it is love-making, and it’s every bit as glorious as she imagined. And she cannot make herself feel wrong for it.
So she falls asleep with her head pillowed on his chest and his arm around her, and she feels perfect and content and safe.
She wants this. She lets herself want it, because she’s decided she’s spent too many years not wanting anything else. She’s pushed aside too many things, and now that something better is in front of her she cannot let it slip through her fingers.
Not this time. Not ever again.
_____
“What was it precisely that you wanted to talk to us about, Mr. Ballard?”
DeWitt leans against the edge of her desk, gazing at him evenly. Dominic stands close behind to her right. Langton is a few feet away towards the center of the office, watching them all impassively.
Paul clears his throat. “Remember that little mix-up that happened awhile ago, with the jet that ended up getting grounded?”
DeWitt’s eyes flash, remembering. “Right. We all believed it might have something to do with Alpha.”
“You said you were going to look into it,” Langton adds, intensely interested. “Did you?”
“Yeah, I did. First of all, it doesn’t look like your mystery client that requested that two Dolls was a setup. As far as I can tell, he’s a real guy - an eccentric weirdo, but a real guy. Second of all, I don’t think this had anything to do with Alpha.”
Langton frowns. “It fits with his MO. Using authority figures to cause trouble for the Dollhouse-”
“If you assume there really was a terrorist threat called in,” Paul interrupts.
“There wasn’t?” Dominic asks.
Paul smiles humorlessly. “I called in a few of the favors I actually have left with the Bureau, did some poking around. None of this is official, of course, but it looks like Homeland Security was asked to lock down the airport of behalf of another agency.”
“Whom?” DeWitt demands.
Paul looks straight at Dominic.
“The NSA.”
Almost subconsciously, both Langton and DeWitt follow his gaze. Dominic balks.
“What’s everyone staring at me for?” he asks, equal parts furious and insulted. “You honestly think I had something to do with this?”
“I think we were more hoping you could shed some more light on the situation,” DeWitt offers in her most placating tone.
“I wouldn’t know. It’s not part of anything the Agency was planning last I was still involved.” He seems to recall something, and grimaces. “Though if I had to guess…”
“Yes?” Langton prods, one eyebrow quirking. Dominic sighs.
“One of the things we were trying to do while I was in position here was identify all of the Actives. We thought if we could figure out where the recruits were coming from, that’d put us one step closer to getting at the inner workings of the House.”
DeWitt looks decidedly less than pleased. “The NSA has intelligence on our Actives?”
“I’d give them photographs, fingerprints if I could manage it,” Dominic elaborates. He has the courtesy to look apologetic.
“What good would any of that do?” Paul demands, frowning. “I tried looking up some of your Dolls before: I thought you people had them effectively erased from existence.”
“The NSA has a few more resources than a one-man snipe hunt, Ballard,” Dominic tells him condescendingly. “My guess is they managed to ID at least one or two, then put out some kind of bulletin on them.”
“So when Victor or Sierra, possibly both, tried to go through airport security they got flagged, and the NSA came looking for them,” Langton finishes, understanding.
DeWitt comments sharply, “I thought that the goal wasn’t to bring down the Dollhouse.”
“It’s not. It’s not supposed to be.” Dominic puts his hands on his hips, frustrated. “I don’t know what’s going on here. Obviously the game-plan’s changed since I was involved, once they realized the House was onto them, but I have no way of finding out what it is now.”
Langton’s eyes shift over to him: “Ballard?”
Paul nods. “I can look into it. I mean, I can’t promise anything, but I know some people I can call.”
DeWitt nods as well, crisply. “Do it, then. Anything else?”
“I’d say that’s about it.”
“Very well. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
Langton nods in acknowledgement of the dismissal and turns to leave. Paul follows his lead. Dominic starts to join them, but DeWitt stops him: “Just another moment, Mr. Dominic.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Back outside the closed office door, Paul turns to Langton.
“What’s that all about?” he asks. “Is she going to rip him a new one for what he did back then?”
To his surprise, Langton smiles. “Hardly. That’s all water under the bridge. If I had to guess, she’s probably going to try and placate him, tell him it’s not his fault he couldn’t be more help.”
Paul stares at him, disbelieving. “Why would she do that?” he demands.
Langton walks away with a calm expression and an easy shrug.
“If you can’t guess, Ballard, it’s not my place to tell.”
_____
Two days ago he had a nightmare, that he woke up and he was inside one of those glass-covered pods where the Actives sleep.
He had just enough time in his dream to realize what was going on and start panicking before he awoke for real, in his bed.
He got up and started pacing, willing himself to calm down.
He knows this is real, that this is reality, but he doubts anyone could fault him if every once in a while he wonders and worries. Not after what’s happened to him. Not after where he’s been.
He doesn’t have the nightmare again, exactly, but for some reason it’s the first thing he thinks of when he awakes suddenly, in the middle of the night.
He wraps his arm around Adelle a little tighter and he stares up at the ceiling and he draws deep breaths, one after the other, like if he gets enough air into him it’ll somehow ensure that it’s real.
He knows he isn’t an imprint. He knows his memories and feelings aren’t fake.
He can feel shrewdly certain in this for reasons of sheer common sense if nothing else. The truth is just too damn convoluted to have been programmed. That spaz Topher couldn’t make half this up if he tried.
But the thought still lingers, nagging in the back of his head. He doesn’t think it’s ever going to go away.
“Laurence?” Adelle shifts, voice thick with sleep, eyes fluttering. She tilts her head to look at him, concerned as she touches the side of his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says, and in that moment he feels relief because he knows it’s the truth.
He’s real, and she’s real, and here they both are.
He moves his hand up along her shoulder, brushing her hair and one side of her cheek.
“Just a bad dream. It doesn’t matter.”
_____
Paul waits in the park, watching the clock.
At the exact time he put in his note, the man he’s waiting for appears.
“This had better be damn good, Ballard.”
Paul grins snidely. “Happy to see you too, Tanaka.”
The other man glowers, and then tilts his head up to give a pointed glance at the old carousel behind them. Paul shrugs.
“I figured it was less cliché than going to the pond to feed the ducks.”
With an irritated sigh, Tanaka whips off his sunglasses. “I don’t know why I even decided to show up. Let me guess, this has to do with your mysterious Dollhouse again?”
“Not so mysterious. Not anymore. But don’t worry about that.”
Paul holds up his hands in a placating gesture.
“I just want to pick your brain for awhile, ask a few questions, and then I’ll get out of your hair.” Tanaka looks unconvinced, so he promises: “Hey, it’ll save you a lot more time in the long run. Or would you rather I create another commotion trying to get answers on my own?”
“Alright. You have successfully piqued my interest.” With a slight roll of his eyes in surrender Tanaka begins walking along slowly, and Ballard falls into line beside him. “What do you want to know, that only I can tell you?”
“The NSA. I know you’ve worked with them before, cooperated on past investigations.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, I’m trying to figure out just what exactly their deal is.”
Tanaka stops walking to look at him. “First the Dollhouse, now the NSA? What’s next, Ballard? Black helicopters? You going to try and break into Area 51?”
“Just humor me, okay? Say the Dollhouse is real, and that there’s a connection.”
“Between the Dollhouse and the NSA?” Tanaka grunts. “Sadly, I’ve heard you come up with crazier theories. Not that that’s saying much.”
Paul frowns. “The National Security Agency is supposed to be for gathering foreign intelligence. They’re an organization of cryptographers, data crunchers, computer geeks…what would they want with the Dollhouse?”
“Hypothetically speaking?” Tanaka offers, dry. “The NSA that turns in its mission statement to Johnny Q. Public and the NSA that’s actually in operation are not the same thing. First of all, they’re only supposed to rely on us to gather local intel. But you know just how well different federal agencies play ball together.”
Paul snorts. “So they have their own field agents,” he infers. “Highly trained?”
“The average NSA agent is, in fact, your number-crunching computer geek. An NSA special agent on the other hand, well, they’re right up there. See, it’s their job to collect the information the other agents have to analyze. And they’ll do anything to get it, be it steal, spread their legs, or kill.”
He glances at Paul. “All of this is off the record, of course,” he says, nonchalant. “And entirely unconfirmed.”
“Of course,” Paul returns coolly. They keep walking. “But the NSA is into technology, is what you’re saying. Local and abroad. Which is what they want with the Dollhouse.”
“Sure, Ballard, the Dollhouse.” Tanaka’s voice drips with sarcasm, blatantly mocking him. “By all means.”
Paul ignores him. After a moment he says, “Have you ever heard of an agent named Dominic?”
Tanaka blinks and then, as Paul watches in astonishment, he actually gives a knowing chuckle.
“Dominic,” he says meaningfully, almost to himself. He turns his head to give Paul a wry smirk. “Which one did you meet?”
Paul just stares at him blankly. Tanaka’s smirk only grows wider as he continues.
“The Deputy Director of the NSA, the second most powerful person in the agency and the most powerful civilian, is a man named Mitchell Dominic. He’s been with them virtually his entire career, and is considered to be one of the best at what he does. He’s the one in charge of all the highly-classified critical missions. Most of the special agents report to him. If, and I frankly cannot believe I’m saying this, your Dollhouse does indeed exist and the NSA is looking into them, then he would most likely be your man.”
He tilts his head significantly. “Mitchell Dominic has two children: an older son named Laurence, and a stepdaughter named Nicole. They are both NSA special agents. From what I hear, they’re some of the best their agency’s got. They report directly to him.”
Paul can feel his eyes growing wide as the realization he hits home.
He remembers the young girl he saw, Dominic’s handler; the one Dominic had said could “take care of herself”. Didn’t he call her Nicole?
“Both his kids are agents, and they work for him?” he repeats, making himself focus on the present. “But that’s-”
“Not nepotism.” Tanaka holds up a warning finger, cutting him off. “Believe me. They wouldn’t be where they were if they hadn’t earned it. No, that’s not the kind of man their father is.”
“Oh yeah?” Paul asks. “What kind of man is he?”
Tanaka smirks humorlessly. “Let me tell you something I once heard from one of my contacts at the NSA. He said if Mitchell Dominic had been part of the intelligence community during the Nixon administration, then Watergate would never have happened.”
“Because he’s just that honest,” Paul finishes.
Tanaka laughs. He puts his sunglasses back on.
“No, Ballard,” he corrects him: “Because if he was in charge, he would’ve made damn sure nobody got caught.”
_____
He isn’t in her bed every morning, quite. But it happens often enough they’ve made a routine.
Her alarm goes off. They awake and slowly disentangle.
Usually she turns off the alarm herself, as it’s on her side of the bed, but sometimes she finds herself acting the part of the petulant schoolchild refusing to be woken; she shuts her eyes tighter and clings to him in stubborn determination, face pressed against his skin. When this happens he eventually reaches past her, rolling over her slightly, with the faintest of grumbles as he shuts it down.
She gets out of bed with as much dignity as can be managed, grabbing her robe and leaving him behind.
She showers first. He goes second.
Sometimes he helps her dress, fastening a difficult necklace clasp or a zipper that’s hard to reach. Sometimes she lingers in the bathroom, watching him shave.
They have breakfast together, light conversation. He has a tendency to get half-lost in the newspaper, which amuses her exactly as much as it annoys.
They drive in separately. She’s not quite sure why.
She supposes it makes them feel slightly more restrained, in that they at least bother with keeping up appearances.
“Good morning, Mr. Dominic.”
“Good morning, ma’am. Having a pleasant day so far?”
“Indeed I am, Mr. Dominic. Thank you for asking. And yourself?”
“Very nice indeed, ma’am.”
“Ah, excellent. Good to hear.”
Somewhere close, Topher is making a face and heavily rolling his eyes.
She shoots him a warning look, and he scatters.
_____
“So, what’s the story?” Langton asks. “Did you find out anything?”
They’re gathered back in DeWitt’s office again for one of their group briefings. Topher’s there as well: evidently DeWitt wants to talk to him afterwards about some upgrade he’s suggesting for his equipment. He hangs off in the corner, slurping a juice-box obnoxiously.
Paul ignores him. He folds his hands behind his back and sets his shoulders straight.
“Yes and no,” he says. “I wasn’t able to find any answers about what the NSA is up to currently. But I did find out a few things about their history.”
Dominic snorts, unimpressed. “All of which I probably could’ve told you myself.”
Paul looks at him evenly. “Yeah,” he says, slowly, “but somehow I don’t think you would have.”
Dominic glares at him.
“Are you accusing me of withholding information? Why? What good would that do me?”
Topher’s head whips back and forth between Paul and Dominic as they speak, his eyes riveted and his mouth never leaving his straw.
Paul continues, “For starters, there’s that agent that was acting as your handler; the girl who looked like she still could’ve been in college.”
“Oh, for…” Dominic makes a sound of disgust. “What is it with you, Ballard? Everywhere you go, you have to find yourself another damsel in distress? I told you she could take care of herself!”
“Yeah, you did,” Paul says sharply. “What you didn’t tell me, though, was that she was your stepsister.”
Dominic freezes. Both Langton and DeWitt stare. There’s a spluttering sound as Topher chokes on his juice.
“Your stepsister is a spy too?” he exclaims disbelievingly. Then he backtracks with: “Wait…Dom has a stepsister?” He tilts his head, curious. “Is she cute?”
“Topher-” Dominic begins with a growl.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Paul demands, butting in. Dominic looks back at him, eyes narrowing darkly.
“Because I didn’t think it was any of your business, that’s why.”
“You didn’t think it was any of our business, that you knew the exact identity of one of the agents coming after the House?” Langton puts in.
“What difference does it make that I’m related to her?” Dominic retorts.
“And I suppose you didn’t think you needed to mention either, that your father is the NSA Deputy Director,” Paul adds.
There’s dead silence in the room as everyone absorbs this information, and Dominic hunches his shoulders under the weight.
“…Whoa.” Topher’s fingers waggle, his hands waving uncontrollably. “Whoa, okay, wait just one minute here.” He gapes at Dominic. “You’re a spy, your stepsister’s a spy, and your dad’s a spy too? I mean, what the heck does your mom do?”
“She’s dead,” Dominic snaps.
Topher winces. “Oh. Sorry.”
After a moment though, he goes, “Um. Was she killed for being a spy?”
“Topher.”
“What, Boyd, geeze - I’m just asking!”
“Enough,” DeWitt says sharply, causing all to fall silent.
She raises her head, meeting Dominic evenly in the eyes. “Why did you never say anything?”
“Ma’am, I…I honestly thought it didn’t matter,” he says, almost pleading. “I could list off for you every agent I know, but that wouldn’t tell us anything about how or why they’re going after the Dollhouse.”
“Perhaps not.” DeWitt’s voice is even, so tense it’s brittle. “But I find it personally astounding that in all this time, you never once thought to mention that the people you were asked to turn against were also your family.”
There is a pause.
Dominic isn’t really looking at anything as he states, wearily, “I didn’t think it was important.”
No one seems to have anything to say, after that.
_____
His apartment isn’t as nice as hers, obviously. It’d be pointless to even try and compare.
He keeps a decent enough place, on the salary she’s been paying him for the past three years. Still, the difference in lifestyle between the head of a branch of a major corporation, and a former chief of security turned security consultant is a pretty big one.
He isn’t surprised that it takes awhile before she expresses an interest in spending the night at his place instead of hers.
Frankly, he’s a little surprised she showed any interest at all.
But everything’s clean and there are no incriminating photos anywhere, and if she has an opinion of the state of his décor she’s polite enough not to say anything.
Besides, all she’s really there for is the bed. He knows he’s got a nice enough bed.
In the morning, he carefully extracts himself and goes to the kitchen, trying not to make noise.
He doesn’t remember why he even has a waffle-iron (he probably could, if he tried - Nicole’s always given him the most random presents - but he doesn’t want to think about that). The first batch comes out burned because he forgets to grease it first. And he knows Adelle prefers her eggs sunny-side-up, but she’ll just have to cope with scrambled because he’s never been able to figure out how not to break the yolk.
“Laurence?”
He whirls around to find her standing there, hair slightly rumpled, giving him an incredibly bemused expression. He puts down the spatula he was poking at the frying pan with.
“What,” he smirks, “surprised?”
Glancing at the mess spread out across the countertops, she says dryly: “That anyone could make such an elaborate disaster area from such a small amount of ingredients? Most definitely.”
But she’s smiling as she says it.
“Okay,” he admits, with good-natured grousing; “so I’m not exactly ‘homey’-”
“No.” She takes a step closer, slipping her arms around his waist. “But I think it’s wonderfully meaningful, that you’d even try.”
She looks up at him and he gazes back down at her, and after a moment he leans in to kiss her on the lips.
When they separate though, he groans, remembering. “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Teabags. I was gonna get some, but I forgot-”
He trails off as, smiling secretively, she goes over and finds where she left her purse the night before. She pulls out a small box of instant tea.
Then she comes back over, reaching past him to open up the cabinet and put it right next to where he keeps the coffee.
He stares at it for a minute. “Well, now.”
“After all, you aren’t the only one capable of planning ahead,” she reminds him.
He smiles back at her. “No,” he agrees.
_____
“How’s it going in here?” Paul asks.
“It’s going,” Topher responds. He slouches further in his chair, clearly resenting the fact he even has to talk to him. Paul sighs.
“I meant, did you have any luck gaining access to the NSA database?” he elaborates.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Mister Former-FBI-Man Ballard, but the NSA is an intelligence agency - one whose whole basis for being is, pretty much, computer data and technology and super-advanced code?” He rolls his eyes, shrugging with his hands. “It’s a bit more complicated than pushing a few buttons!”
“I thought you were supposed to be some kind of technological genius,” Paul remarks.
“Ah, you’re trying to play to my ego. You’re learning.” Topher grins smugly. “But no, even for a certifiable super-brain like yours truly, hacking the NSA super-computer is just a little beyond me.”
“So you’ve got nothing,” Paul says, disappointed.
“Didn’t say that, exactly.” Topher taps a few keys, bringing up some files on his screen. “I did get these: personnel records. Did a master search for the surname ‘Dominic’ and lookee here, we’ve got three - Laurence, Mitchell, and Nicole.”
Topher pauses, offhand: “It’s still kinda hard to imagine Dom even having a family. I always pictured him sprung fully-formed from the earth, all suited-up and scowl-y.”
“Did you get anything interesting from the files?” Paul stands behind his chair and bends to peer over his shoulder.
Topher shoots a pointed withering glare at the invasion of his personal space.
“Eh, not…really,” he speaks with great reluctance. “That’s the problem with these federal agency databases; half of what you actually can access is never the full story.” He taps another key, bringing up Dominic’s file. “See? It’s been sanitized. We’ve got case numbers that are meaningless without any context, and entire sections that have been redacted and stamped with a big bold ‘classified’.”
Topher waves a dismissive hand at the screen.
“I’m sure anything we could actually get out of this, Dominic could just tell us himself.”
“He didn’t tell us about his father or his stepsister,” Paul reminds him. Topher nods slowly.
“Okay…true. But you kinda have to admit, it is a little awkward. I don’t know of I’d be so eager to gab about it either if my former spy-brethren also just so happened to be my-”
“Bring up Nicole’s file,” Paul commands.
“Um, what, am I talking to myself here?” Topher mutters. “Would it at least kill you to ask politely?”
Paul looks him in the eye. “Please.”
“Why, it’s my pleasure,” Topher complies with a voice that’s falsely over-sweet. “Here you go.”
Just like her stepbrother, not much of Nicole’s full profile remains. There is a picture though. Paul nods.
“Yeah, that’s her.” She doesn’t seem quite so young here, brown hair pulled back and the lapels of a suit jacket just visible at the edge of the frame. Perhaps not surprisingly she doesn’t look a thing like Dominic; the only thing they have in common is blue eyes. Even then hers are the wrong shade of blue.
“You ever hear of Mossad?” Paul finds himself asking Topher.
The tech screws up his eyes, thinking. “Uh, they’re somebody’s secret service, right?”
“Israel. From what I’ve heard, they’re known for this sort of thing - whole families being recruited into the spy game: parents, children, spouses and siblings. Never really thought I’d see it with an American agency though.”
“Spooky,” Topher offers, sounding bored.
“Can you bring up their father’s file?”
“Sure, but I’m telling you, it’s a no-go.” Topher shakes his head, typing. “I’ve already looked at these, and Papa Dom’s is even less forthcoming than those of his brood. No big surprise, considering how long he’s been working for these guys.”
Topher’s right - there’s barely anything there to go on. But like the others, at least there’s the picture.
The Deputy Director of the NSA stares straight ahead of him, mouth set into a firm line, as if he can see right through them.
“I give you: Laurence Dominic in about thirty years, with a bit more starch,” Topher quips, noting the family resemblance.
Paul barely hears him. He looks carefully at the photo of Mitchell Dominic, studying his expression, or lack thereof.
He has a feeling that this is a dangerous man to be the enemy of.
There’s just something about him - he seems like the type that doesn’t ever flinch.
_____
It’s interesting to think, that despite everything they don’t really know all that much about each other.
It’s because they kept their relationship as what it was for so very long, she supposes. They never really moved much beyond small-talk; in fact, they all but made a point of it.
Things like where the other grew up, what they studied in school, favorite vacation spots or religious affiliations or hobbies; all the minutiae most people make a point of collecting from one another in the early days of a relationship, as if part of some requisite fact-finding mission…they know almost none of it.
Instead, however, they are very familiar with all the little things one can only absorb through time. Quirks and annoyances and petty habits - how he prefers his coffee with sugar but no cream and how she always picks the radishes out of her salad.
The odd things, she’s discovered, that tend to often be the source of more argument and dissolution than any disagreement over politics or childhood sweethearts over could.
Still there is that bothersome, almost amusing sense that they’re somehow going about this backwards. She can read his every mannerism like a book but she doesn’t even know his middle name. They’re somewhat sheepishly stuck retracing their steps now, going back and filling in all of the blanks.
It’s a train of thought similar to this she’s stuck on, as she lies awake in the cross-haze of rising evening and fading afterglow, feeling his thumb idly rub a pattern on the side of her arm.
She almost believes he might’ve dozed off, until he asks, “What are you thinking about?”
“I was just realizing,” she replies, murmuring; “you never speak about your family.”
He stills, ever so slightly. After a moment he goes, sardonically, “Well, I think you might be aware of the reason for that.”
She sighs a little. “Even so.” She moves so that she’s peering up at him, meeting his eyes. “You never even mentioned you had a stepsister.” Her tone is somewhat dry as she continues pointedly, “You think that might’ve somehow come up in three years’ worth of casual conversation.”
There’s a pause as he meets her gaze, frowning. He draws a breath.
“I made a point not to talk about anything that could’ve put suspicion on me,” he says. “That includes family.”
“How?” she demands, accusing. He gives her a look.
“Oh, you’ve got a sister, really?” he says in a mock-conversational tone. “What does she do for a living?”
“I suppose,” she concedes the point. She settles down again, making herself comfortable. “Still, now that your secret’s out of the bag, I think I could stand to know a little more.”
He’s silent again for quite some time. “Is it only out of interest in me that you ask?”
Now his is the tone that’s pointed.
She closes her eyes, the hand that rests upon his breast halfway curling into a fist.
“I won’t lie by saying there isn’t an air of self-preservation about it,” she states honestly, revealing what she’s certain he’s already as much as guessed. He knows her too well, after all. “Your relatives are also part of the very group that’s currently putting my organization in danger.”
“So, you want to know more about me, but if it also means getting info about your enemies as well, that only helps,” he sums, sarcastic, with a narrow smile.
“There’s no need to be so-”
“No. Forget it.” He cuts her off, closing his eyes as he lets out a deep breath, all the malice going out of his expression. “Sorry. Never mind. What do you want to know?”
Him giving up the defensive so abruptly leaves her temporarily at a loss.
Finally, she goes, “Your father.”
“Ah.” Some of the twist comes back into his mouth, evidently expecting this: “Figures.”
She takes another moment to choose her words carefully before continuing. “You said before the NSA had already gathered some basic information about the Dollhouse, before you were sent in. That meant your father had at least some idea of what he was getting you into; of what could happen if something went wrong.”
Her voice goes very soft.
“I suppose I’d just like to know what sort of man it is, that could send his own son into a situation like that.”
He takes a pause of his own before speaking. “It wasn’t like that.”
She looks at him, frowning, confused.
“The Dollhouse was a critical assignment,” he states flatly, his tone completely matter of fact. “Top priority. It was crucial nothing go wrong. For that, he sent in his best agent.”
She feels an odd chill, both at what he’s saying and the manner in which he says it. “He compartmentalizes you so easily?”
He closes his eyes again, actually chuckling.
“That’s a funny question, coming from you.”
It isn’t the same thing, even remotely. “He’s your father.”
“And my boss.” His voice drops to a murmur, “At least, he was.”
Her heart sinks, but before she can say anything, he opens his eyes and looks at her as he adds lightly, “Now you’re my boss.”
She can’t resist smiling back. “Indeed.” Her hand sneaks up, rubbing the side of his neck. “Not to sound overly confident, but I daresay you’ve found yourself an improvement?”
He laughs. “You could say that, sure.”
She climbs on top of him, pressing her lips against his as he rubs the middle of her back.
After a moment, the kiss deepens. She slips her legs around his waist, rocking against him in a specific sort of way.
“Ahh.” He breaks for air with a groan, eyes screwed shut as a heated expression comes across his face. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
She smirks primly, hands curling around his shoulders as she leans forward, straddling him.
“Why, Mr. Dominic,” she murmurs, “how ever did you guess?”
Title: Sealed In Wax, Signed In Blood
Characters/Pairings: Dominic, DeWitt, Ballard, Topher, Boyd, Tanaka, mention of Echo and some OCs; Dominic/DeWitt
Rating: light R for sex, language, some darkness
Length: 7,348 words
Spoilers: Season One
Notes: Waking 'verse, again. We're getting to where you sorta need to have read the others to grasp what's going on: recommended readings for this part would be Written In Ink, Carved In Stone, Missionary Men, and Sweet and Pretty Little Liars
Summary: In which some things are found out by various parties, from all sorts of different angles.
Before when he went undercover, there was always a lie. A carefully fabricated and maintained persona that he put on each morning with his aftershave.
But they couldn’t do that with the Dollhouse assignment. The corporation’s reach was too great with far too many resources. A full cover story meant holes they could discover, plenty of chances to realize he wasn’t who he claimed to be.
So they decided to try something novel instead: the truth.
No fake identity, no phony history to memorize. A few tent-poles had to be put up, out of necessity (his employment record was obviously a complete fabrication), but other than that there was nothing to guide him but his own experiences. All he had was himself.
That should’ve made it easier.
What he failed to realize was that the lies had been useful. As long as he had to keep pretending, he couldn’t forget the real reason he was there, that it was about the mission and nothing else.
Now there was nothing to hide behind, no shield between himself and what he was living.
Nothing between himself and Adelle DeWitt, the woman he’d been sent to work both for and against. First he understood her, which was good. Then he started to respect and even admire her, which was tolerable.
Eventually, though, there was something else. Something far too strong to be dismissed as “like”, and far too complicated to be simply titled “lust”.
It was always there, lurking in the corner of their smiles and the back of their eyes and the lower tones of their voices. Always there, begging to be acknowledged.
There’d be these moments, when they’d look at each other and there would be silence - and they’d know whatever it was they had, it was stretched taut between them, and all it would take was one of them to reach out right then and the barrier would disintegrate like tissue paper, gone.
But he never reached, and neither did she. The moment would pass. They’d continue on.
The feeling he always had afterwards was relief mixed with disappointment. He told himself it was mostly relief.
It was hardly professional, after all. They couldn’t possibly act on it. They both had their reasons; though perhaps his list was a bit longer than hers.
Then everything changed when the truth came out.
He’d ordered people sent to the Attic before. He’d watched it done to people before.
But he couldn’t even begin to imagine.
What they did to him broke him down, into smaller and smaller pieces, everything crumbling. Until there was nothing left to hold onto, except for the simple truth that he wanted her, so much it was killing him.
So, he reached. And she didn’t pull away.
He should be bitter, and he knows it. He wasn’t so much turned as he was enslaved; he helped them because there was literally no choice.
Even now, he doesn’t really have options, because what’s he going to do if he wants to leave? Where is he going to go?
But if he’s sold out, then so be it. Because on paper the idea of sticking to his principles, that all looks just fine - but in reality, it came down to doing what they asked or spending the rest of eternity in a box gathering dust on a shelf, not existing save for when they dragged him out, poked him with a stick for crucial information and put him away again.
He wants to exist. So he sold his soul, whatever’s left of it, for waking up each morning and falling asleep every night, and drawing whatever number of breaths of air into his body it is the average human being gets each day. (Topher probably knows. But he’s not going to ask him.)
And if that seems pathetic, that he gave up so much for something so basic...nobody could ever understand. Not without knowing what’s it like to go without.
He has his body. He has a life. And, he has Adelle.
He should hate her. He knows that too. There are times he almost wishes he did, because at least that would be sane.
So little about his life seems sane.
But he doesn’t hate her, and he’s been through too much to want to try and make himself. He’s sick and tired of fighting this; they wasted three years, and wasn’t that enough?
All that’s left is this: his teeth scraping across her skin, his fingers tangled in her hair, the way everything feels perfect when he’s buried so deep inside her. When he’s got her coming so hard her eyes are wet.
And in this moment nothing else matters, nothing else exists, because he’s so gone with her he can’t even remember. He forgets about the long and twisted road he had to walk (sometimes crawl) to get here, just like he forgets everything else.
He’d forget his own name even, if she didn’t keep saying it over and over; gasping like it’s a prayer.
No, he can’t regret this. Because it doesn’t feel like he’s lost, or even settled. It only feels like he’s won.
_____
Paul stands by the door to the imprint lab, watching with all the hypnotized revulsion of a witness to a car wreck.
Dominic stands about an arm’s length away from him, also watching. His arms are folded in front of his chest, his brow furrowed slightly, expression set into what Paul has come to recognize as his standard stern frown.
Topher has his back to them, ignoring them both. In the imprint chair, Echo twitches slightly, a pained expression flitting across her face as she’s made into somebody else.
“Has there been any talk about later complications associated with this whole thing?” Paul asks Dominic, thinking aloud. “I mean, messing with people’s brains on a frequent and regular basis: I find it hard to believe that doesn’t cause some kind of trouble. Memory loss, tumors, stroke…”
He trails off as Dominic turns to stare at him with wide, hostile eyes.
“I’ve never heard anything about it,” the other man states. “But thanks for putting the idea into my head.”
Paul looks at him evenly. “Sorry.”
Dominic gives a short, tense shrug. “You don’t sound very sorry, Ballard,” he pointedly observes.
“Well,” Paul says, “maybe I believe in karma.”
Now Dominic’s turned to face him completely, quickly closing the distance between them. Paul squares his shoulders, drawing himself to his full height, but that doesn’t stop Dominic. He gets right up in Paul’s face.
“And just what exactly is that supposed to mean?”
“Hey, boys, boys - there’s no need to fight.”
They both turn, startled, as a newly-imprinted Echo saunters over to them. She gives a sultry grin. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”
Paul feels an instinctive kick of disgust in his stomach. A look of irritation crosses Dominic’s face.
Before either of them can respond however, Echo’s handler is there, gripping her firmly but politely by the arm.
“Come on, Tiffany,” he says blandly. “You’re going to be late to the party.”
“Right,” Echo agrees, giving one last glance over her shoulder before allowing herself to be led away. “Wouldn’t want to miss out on the fun.”
Paul watches her go, fighting down the urge to run out there and stop her. No telling what these people have programmed her to do for tonight.
“It’s not your problem, Ballard,” Dominic says gruffly, reading his mind. Paul turns to him, ready to say something, but just then Langton walks over.
“Come on.” He looks at Paul and Dominic. “DeWitt’s ready for us now.”
“Oh, thank god,” Topher exclaims. He raises his arms, waving them dismissively towards the door. “Yes, by all means, get these two out of here! They’re turning my space into a serious no-fun zone. No offense, Boyd: I know that’s usually your thing.”
Langton gives him a good-natured roll of his eyes, while Dominic just glares.
Paul follows the other two men as they head out in the direction of DeWitt’s office.
“Have fun at your grand ol’ security conference!” Topher calls after them. “And, hey - if any two of you start fighting, somebody please come and let me know.”
_____
She has always been so good at pushing things aside, at taking her urges and her emotions and setting them apart from her; finding a way to remove them so they will not get in her way.
It was like this, with her bullet wound. She pushed the pain aside, set it apart, made herself numb to it. She had other things to do, too important to be ignored, and anyway this was nothing.
Now she looks at the scar in the mirror, traces it lightly with her finger, and somehow she remembers the pain. She remembers it, perfectly clear.
How curious, that back then she was able to feel nothing, and yet a part of her felt it all along. So the memory would still be there for her, when she cares to revisit.
But it’s this way with Laurence, too. Because at the time, she wouldn’t let herself feel it - she tore him from her side and pushed him away, extracted from her system like the bullet he put into her. She purged him, erased him, gone. She did this, and all the while she felt not a thing.
Now she looks back on it, remembers that time, and sees all too clearly how much the act hurt her. How even as she told herself she’d lost nothing by removing him, the empty place where he belonged throbbed and wept.
Recalling the pain, she’s glad she was somehow able to ignore it then. Because if she had truly acknowledged it or allowed it to be felt, surely it would’ve killed her.
But no, she always tried to maintain practicality where Laurence was concerned. Even when her baser instincts were for her to do anything but.
It’s not that she was worried, precisely, about the complications involved. Three years, he kept his restraint and so did she, but it wasn’t because she fretted about her career.
They wanted to fuck each other. That much was obvious. She had a feeling of decided certainty they’d be quite good at it together, that it would be very enjoyable for them both.
That wasn’t the part that concerned her, that kept her from deciding to give it a try. Fucking was, in its own way, very practical. But she’d a worrisome suspicion that with them it wouldn’t just stay that way.
She was afraid one day she’d wake up to find somewhere along the way they’d stopped fucking and started making love instead, and that would never do.
So the urge stayed simply an urge, a little taste of bitter longing on the back of her tongue, and they kept working together as they always did, and when she found out what he really was she told herself she’d been fortunate, then; that it was really all for the best.
It was still practicality, when she brought him back. Not vengeance or a desire to hurt that had her designing a plan to break him down, to bring him to a place where he had no choice but to work for them. Never anything personal.
But it was so hard to maintain that, watching it unfold. So hard, for once, to keep setting those feelings aside where they couldn’t control her.
She had trusted, once, and been betrayed. For that she should never trust again. Even if analysis of the facts told her he’d no reason or even ability to repeat the act she still should’ve never given him the opportunity.
But he kissed her, and she let him, and instead of the shame of her foolishness all she felt was longing.
Three years of practicality, in hindsight, look so very much like three years worth of regret.
So she trusts him. She has to, because whatever this is, it’s grown too big and sharp and poignant to allow itself to be simply pulled apart and set aside. Its hold on her is too strong: it demands to be felt. What’s more, she wants to feel it.
She’s glad, though, they waited for the first time until after he was in his own body again. They had dinner, and the conversation was perfectly business-like, trying to arrange exactly what would happen to him now.
But the tones they used were personal, and they said each other’s first names perhaps a time too many, and more than once she reached to gently place her hand over his.
They went outside, and she started to shiver because she always forgot how chilly these nights could be. And he put his arms around her, and his lips were warm and his hands were cold and he was so very Laurence she almost came undone right there in the street, in front of everybody, uncaring.
He carefully escorted (steered, really) her back to the car and drove them to her place, and then, finally, there could be the removal of clothes and the much-desired touching and, frankly, she’s a bit astonished they even made it all the way to her bed.
What they do, she supposes, is as equal parts fucking as it is love-making, and it’s every bit as glorious as she imagined. And she cannot make herself feel wrong for it.
So she falls asleep with her head pillowed on his chest and his arm around her, and she feels perfect and content and safe.
She wants this. She lets herself want it, because she’s decided she’s spent too many years not wanting anything else. She’s pushed aside too many things, and now that something better is in front of her she cannot let it slip through her fingers.
Not this time. Not ever again.
_____
“What was it precisely that you wanted to talk to us about, Mr. Ballard?”
DeWitt leans against the edge of her desk, gazing at him evenly. Dominic stands close behind to her right. Langton is a few feet away towards the center of the office, watching them all impassively.
Paul clears his throat. “Remember that little mix-up that happened awhile ago, with the jet that ended up getting grounded?”
DeWitt’s eyes flash, remembering. “Right. We all believed it might have something to do with Alpha.”
“You said you were going to look into it,” Langton adds, intensely interested. “Did you?”
“Yeah, I did. First of all, it doesn’t look like your mystery client that requested that two Dolls was a setup. As far as I can tell, he’s a real guy - an eccentric weirdo, but a real guy. Second of all, I don’t think this had anything to do with Alpha.”
Langton frowns. “It fits with his MO. Using authority figures to cause trouble for the Dollhouse-”
“If you assume there really was a terrorist threat called in,” Paul interrupts.
“There wasn’t?” Dominic asks.
Paul smiles humorlessly. “I called in a few of the favors I actually have left with the Bureau, did some poking around. None of this is official, of course, but it looks like Homeland Security was asked to lock down the airport of behalf of another agency.”
“Whom?” DeWitt demands.
Paul looks straight at Dominic.
“The NSA.”
Almost subconsciously, both Langton and DeWitt follow his gaze. Dominic balks.
“What’s everyone staring at me for?” he asks, equal parts furious and insulted. “You honestly think I had something to do with this?”
“I think we were more hoping you could shed some more light on the situation,” DeWitt offers in her most placating tone.
“I wouldn’t know. It’s not part of anything the Agency was planning last I was still involved.” He seems to recall something, and grimaces. “Though if I had to guess…”
“Yes?” Langton prods, one eyebrow quirking. Dominic sighs.
“One of the things we were trying to do while I was in position here was identify all of the Actives. We thought if we could figure out where the recruits were coming from, that’d put us one step closer to getting at the inner workings of the House.”
DeWitt looks decidedly less than pleased. “The NSA has intelligence on our Actives?”
“I’d give them photographs, fingerprints if I could manage it,” Dominic elaborates. He has the courtesy to look apologetic.
“What good would any of that do?” Paul demands, frowning. “I tried looking up some of your Dolls before: I thought you people had them effectively erased from existence.”
“The NSA has a few more resources than a one-man snipe hunt, Ballard,” Dominic tells him condescendingly. “My guess is they managed to ID at least one or two, then put out some kind of bulletin on them.”
“So when Victor or Sierra, possibly both, tried to go through airport security they got flagged, and the NSA came looking for them,” Langton finishes, understanding.
DeWitt comments sharply, “I thought that the goal wasn’t to bring down the Dollhouse.”
“It’s not. It’s not supposed to be.” Dominic puts his hands on his hips, frustrated. “I don’t know what’s going on here. Obviously the game-plan’s changed since I was involved, once they realized the House was onto them, but I have no way of finding out what it is now.”
Langton’s eyes shift over to him: “Ballard?”
Paul nods. “I can look into it. I mean, I can’t promise anything, but I know some people I can call.”
DeWitt nods as well, crisply. “Do it, then. Anything else?”
“I’d say that’s about it.”
“Very well. Thank you for your time, gentlemen.”
Langton nods in acknowledgement of the dismissal and turns to leave. Paul follows his lead. Dominic starts to join them, but DeWitt stops him: “Just another moment, Mr. Dominic.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Back outside the closed office door, Paul turns to Langton.
“What’s that all about?” he asks. “Is she going to rip him a new one for what he did back then?”
To his surprise, Langton smiles. “Hardly. That’s all water under the bridge. If I had to guess, she’s probably going to try and placate him, tell him it’s not his fault he couldn’t be more help.”
Paul stares at him, disbelieving. “Why would she do that?” he demands.
Langton walks away with a calm expression and an easy shrug.
“If you can’t guess, Ballard, it’s not my place to tell.”
_____
Two days ago he had a nightmare, that he woke up and he was inside one of those glass-covered pods where the Actives sleep.
He had just enough time in his dream to realize what was going on and start panicking before he awoke for real, in his bed.
He got up and started pacing, willing himself to calm down.
He knows this is real, that this is reality, but he doubts anyone could fault him if every once in a while he wonders and worries. Not after what’s happened to him. Not after where he’s been.
He doesn’t have the nightmare again, exactly, but for some reason it’s the first thing he thinks of when he awakes suddenly, in the middle of the night.
He wraps his arm around Adelle a little tighter and he stares up at the ceiling and he draws deep breaths, one after the other, like if he gets enough air into him it’ll somehow ensure that it’s real.
He knows he isn’t an imprint. He knows his memories and feelings aren’t fake.
He can feel shrewdly certain in this for reasons of sheer common sense if nothing else. The truth is just too damn convoluted to have been programmed. That spaz Topher couldn’t make half this up if he tried.
But the thought still lingers, nagging in the back of his head. He doesn’t think it’s ever going to go away.
“Laurence?” Adelle shifts, voice thick with sleep, eyes fluttering. She tilts her head to look at him, concerned as she touches the side of his face. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he says, and in that moment he feels relief because he knows it’s the truth.
He’s real, and she’s real, and here they both are.
He moves his hand up along her shoulder, brushing her hair and one side of her cheek.
“Just a bad dream. It doesn’t matter.”
_____
Paul waits in the park, watching the clock.
At the exact time he put in his note, the man he’s waiting for appears.
“This had better be damn good, Ballard.”
Paul grins snidely. “Happy to see you too, Tanaka.”
The other man glowers, and then tilts his head up to give a pointed glance at the old carousel behind them. Paul shrugs.
“I figured it was less cliché than going to the pond to feed the ducks.”
With an irritated sigh, Tanaka whips off his sunglasses. “I don’t know why I even decided to show up. Let me guess, this has to do with your mysterious Dollhouse again?”
“Not so mysterious. Not anymore. But don’t worry about that.”
Paul holds up his hands in a placating gesture.
“I just want to pick your brain for awhile, ask a few questions, and then I’ll get out of your hair.” Tanaka looks unconvinced, so he promises: “Hey, it’ll save you a lot more time in the long run. Or would you rather I create another commotion trying to get answers on my own?”
“Alright. You have successfully piqued my interest.” With a slight roll of his eyes in surrender Tanaka begins walking along slowly, and Ballard falls into line beside him. “What do you want to know, that only I can tell you?”
“The NSA. I know you’ve worked with them before, cooperated on past investigations.”
“Yeah. So?”
“So, I’m trying to figure out just what exactly their deal is.”
Tanaka stops walking to look at him. “First the Dollhouse, now the NSA? What’s next, Ballard? Black helicopters? You going to try and break into Area 51?”
“Just humor me, okay? Say the Dollhouse is real, and that there’s a connection.”
“Between the Dollhouse and the NSA?” Tanaka grunts. “Sadly, I’ve heard you come up with crazier theories. Not that that’s saying much.”
Paul frowns. “The National Security Agency is supposed to be for gathering foreign intelligence. They’re an organization of cryptographers, data crunchers, computer geeks…what would they want with the Dollhouse?”
“Hypothetically speaking?” Tanaka offers, dry. “The NSA that turns in its mission statement to Johnny Q. Public and the NSA that’s actually in operation are not the same thing. First of all, they’re only supposed to rely on us to gather local intel. But you know just how well different federal agencies play ball together.”
Paul snorts. “So they have their own field agents,” he infers. “Highly trained?”
“The average NSA agent is, in fact, your number-crunching computer geek. An NSA special agent on the other hand, well, they’re right up there. See, it’s their job to collect the information the other agents have to analyze. And they’ll do anything to get it, be it steal, spread their legs, or kill.”
He glances at Paul. “All of this is off the record, of course,” he says, nonchalant. “And entirely unconfirmed.”
“Of course,” Paul returns coolly. They keep walking. “But the NSA is into technology, is what you’re saying. Local and abroad. Which is what they want with the Dollhouse.”
“Sure, Ballard, the Dollhouse.” Tanaka’s voice drips with sarcasm, blatantly mocking him. “By all means.”
Paul ignores him. After a moment he says, “Have you ever heard of an agent named Dominic?”
Tanaka blinks and then, as Paul watches in astonishment, he actually gives a knowing chuckle.
“Dominic,” he says meaningfully, almost to himself. He turns his head to give Paul a wry smirk. “Which one did you meet?”
Paul just stares at him blankly. Tanaka’s smirk only grows wider as he continues.
“The Deputy Director of the NSA, the second most powerful person in the agency and the most powerful civilian, is a man named Mitchell Dominic. He’s been with them virtually his entire career, and is considered to be one of the best at what he does. He’s the one in charge of all the highly-classified critical missions. Most of the special agents report to him. If, and I frankly cannot believe I’m saying this, your Dollhouse does indeed exist and the NSA is looking into them, then he would most likely be your man.”
He tilts his head significantly. “Mitchell Dominic has two children: an older son named Laurence, and a stepdaughter named Nicole. They are both NSA special agents. From what I hear, they’re some of the best their agency’s got. They report directly to him.”
Paul can feel his eyes growing wide as the realization he hits home.
He remembers the young girl he saw, Dominic’s handler; the one Dominic had said could “take care of herself”. Didn’t he call her Nicole?
“Both his kids are agents, and they work for him?” he repeats, making himself focus on the present. “But that’s-”
“Not nepotism.” Tanaka holds up a warning finger, cutting him off. “Believe me. They wouldn’t be where they were if they hadn’t earned it. No, that’s not the kind of man their father is.”
“Oh yeah?” Paul asks. “What kind of man is he?”
Tanaka smirks humorlessly. “Let me tell you something I once heard from one of my contacts at the NSA. He said if Mitchell Dominic had been part of the intelligence community during the Nixon administration, then Watergate would never have happened.”
“Because he’s just that honest,” Paul finishes.
Tanaka laughs. He puts his sunglasses back on.
“No, Ballard,” he corrects him: “Because if he was in charge, he would’ve made damn sure nobody got caught.”
_____
He isn’t in her bed every morning, quite. But it happens often enough they’ve made a routine.
Her alarm goes off. They awake and slowly disentangle.
Usually she turns off the alarm herself, as it’s on her side of the bed, but sometimes she finds herself acting the part of the petulant schoolchild refusing to be woken; she shuts her eyes tighter and clings to him in stubborn determination, face pressed against his skin. When this happens he eventually reaches past her, rolling over her slightly, with the faintest of grumbles as he shuts it down.
She gets out of bed with as much dignity as can be managed, grabbing her robe and leaving him behind.
She showers first. He goes second.
Sometimes he helps her dress, fastening a difficult necklace clasp or a zipper that’s hard to reach. Sometimes she lingers in the bathroom, watching him shave.
They have breakfast together, light conversation. He has a tendency to get half-lost in the newspaper, which amuses her exactly as much as it annoys.
They drive in separately. She’s not quite sure why.
She supposes it makes them feel slightly more restrained, in that they at least bother with keeping up appearances.
“Good morning, Mr. Dominic.”
“Good morning, ma’am. Having a pleasant day so far?”
“Indeed I am, Mr. Dominic. Thank you for asking. And yourself?”
“Very nice indeed, ma’am.”
“Ah, excellent. Good to hear.”
Somewhere close, Topher is making a face and heavily rolling his eyes.
She shoots him a warning look, and he scatters.
_____
“So, what’s the story?” Langton asks. “Did you find out anything?”
They’re gathered back in DeWitt’s office again for one of their group briefings. Topher’s there as well: evidently DeWitt wants to talk to him afterwards about some upgrade he’s suggesting for his equipment. He hangs off in the corner, slurping a juice-box obnoxiously.
Paul ignores him. He folds his hands behind his back and sets his shoulders straight.
“Yes and no,” he says. “I wasn’t able to find any answers about what the NSA is up to currently. But I did find out a few things about their history.”
Dominic snorts, unimpressed. “All of which I probably could’ve told you myself.”
Paul looks at him evenly. “Yeah,” he says, slowly, “but somehow I don’t think you would have.”
Dominic glares at him.
“Are you accusing me of withholding information? Why? What good would that do me?”
Topher’s head whips back and forth between Paul and Dominic as they speak, his eyes riveted and his mouth never leaving his straw.
Paul continues, “For starters, there’s that agent that was acting as your handler; the girl who looked like she still could’ve been in college.”
“Oh, for…” Dominic makes a sound of disgust. “What is it with you, Ballard? Everywhere you go, you have to find yourself another damsel in distress? I told you she could take care of herself!”
“Yeah, you did,” Paul says sharply. “What you didn’t tell me, though, was that she was your stepsister.”
Dominic freezes. Both Langton and DeWitt stare. There’s a spluttering sound as Topher chokes on his juice.
“Your stepsister is a spy too?” he exclaims disbelievingly. Then he backtracks with: “Wait…Dom has a stepsister?” He tilts his head, curious. “Is she cute?”
“Topher-” Dominic begins with a growl.
“Why didn’t you say anything?” Paul demands, butting in. Dominic looks back at him, eyes narrowing darkly.
“Because I didn’t think it was any of your business, that’s why.”
“You didn’t think it was any of our business, that you knew the exact identity of one of the agents coming after the House?” Langton puts in.
“What difference does it make that I’m related to her?” Dominic retorts.
“And I suppose you didn’t think you needed to mention either, that your father is the NSA Deputy Director,” Paul adds.
There’s dead silence in the room as everyone absorbs this information, and Dominic hunches his shoulders under the weight.
“…Whoa.” Topher’s fingers waggle, his hands waving uncontrollably. “Whoa, okay, wait just one minute here.” He gapes at Dominic. “You’re a spy, your stepsister’s a spy, and your dad’s a spy too? I mean, what the heck does your mom do?”
“She’s dead,” Dominic snaps.
Topher winces. “Oh. Sorry.”
After a moment though, he goes, “Um. Was she killed for being a spy?”
“Topher.”
“What, Boyd, geeze - I’m just asking!”
“Enough,” DeWitt says sharply, causing all to fall silent.
She raises her head, meeting Dominic evenly in the eyes. “Why did you never say anything?”
“Ma’am, I…I honestly thought it didn’t matter,” he says, almost pleading. “I could list off for you every agent I know, but that wouldn’t tell us anything about how or why they’re going after the Dollhouse.”
“Perhaps not.” DeWitt’s voice is even, so tense it’s brittle. “But I find it personally astounding that in all this time, you never once thought to mention that the people you were asked to turn against were also your family.”
There is a pause.
Dominic isn’t really looking at anything as he states, wearily, “I didn’t think it was important.”
No one seems to have anything to say, after that.
_____
His apartment isn’t as nice as hers, obviously. It’d be pointless to even try and compare.
He keeps a decent enough place, on the salary she’s been paying him for the past three years. Still, the difference in lifestyle between the head of a branch of a major corporation, and a former chief of security turned security consultant is a pretty big one.
He isn’t surprised that it takes awhile before she expresses an interest in spending the night at his place instead of hers.
Frankly, he’s a little surprised she showed any interest at all.
But everything’s clean and there are no incriminating photos anywhere, and if she has an opinion of the state of his décor she’s polite enough not to say anything.
Besides, all she’s really there for is the bed. He knows he’s got a nice enough bed.
In the morning, he carefully extracts himself and goes to the kitchen, trying not to make noise.
He doesn’t remember why he even has a waffle-iron (he probably could, if he tried - Nicole’s always given him the most random presents - but he doesn’t want to think about that). The first batch comes out burned because he forgets to grease it first. And he knows Adelle prefers her eggs sunny-side-up, but she’ll just have to cope with scrambled because he’s never been able to figure out how not to break the yolk.
“Laurence?”
He whirls around to find her standing there, hair slightly rumpled, giving him an incredibly bemused expression. He puts down the spatula he was poking at the frying pan with.
“What,” he smirks, “surprised?”
Glancing at the mess spread out across the countertops, she says dryly: “That anyone could make such an elaborate disaster area from such a small amount of ingredients? Most definitely.”
But she’s smiling as she says it.
“Okay,” he admits, with good-natured grousing; “so I’m not exactly ‘homey’-”
“No.” She takes a step closer, slipping her arms around his waist. “But I think it’s wonderfully meaningful, that you’d even try.”
She looks up at him and he gazes back down at her, and after a moment he leans in to kiss her on the lips.
When they separate though, he groans, remembering. “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Teabags. I was gonna get some, but I forgot-”
He trails off as, smiling secretively, she goes over and finds where she left her purse the night before. She pulls out a small box of instant tea.
Then she comes back over, reaching past him to open up the cabinet and put it right next to where he keeps the coffee.
He stares at it for a minute. “Well, now.”
“After all, you aren’t the only one capable of planning ahead,” she reminds him.
He smiles back at her. “No,” he agrees.
_____
“How’s it going in here?” Paul asks.
“It’s going,” Topher responds. He slouches further in his chair, clearly resenting the fact he even has to talk to him. Paul sighs.
“I meant, did you have any luck gaining access to the NSA database?” he elaborates.
“I don’t know if you’re aware of this, Mister Former-FBI-Man Ballard, but the NSA is an intelligence agency - one whose whole basis for being is, pretty much, computer data and technology and super-advanced code?” He rolls his eyes, shrugging with his hands. “It’s a bit more complicated than pushing a few buttons!”
“I thought you were supposed to be some kind of technological genius,” Paul remarks.
“Ah, you’re trying to play to my ego. You’re learning.” Topher grins smugly. “But no, even for a certifiable super-brain like yours truly, hacking the NSA super-computer is just a little beyond me.”
“So you’ve got nothing,” Paul says, disappointed.
“Didn’t say that, exactly.” Topher taps a few keys, bringing up some files on his screen. “I did get these: personnel records. Did a master search for the surname ‘Dominic’ and lookee here, we’ve got three - Laurence, Mitchell, and Nicole.”
Topher pauses, offhand: “It’s still kinda hard to imagine Dom even having a family. I always pictured him sprung fully-formed from the earth, all suited-up and scowl-y.”
“Did you get anything interesting from the files?” Paul stands behind his chair and bends to peer over his shoulder.
Topher shoots a pointed withering glare at the invasion of his personal space.
“Eh, not…really,” he speaks with great reluctance. “That’s the problem with these federal agency databases; half of what you actually can access is never the full story.” He taps another key, bringing up Dominic’s file. “See? It’s been sanitized. We’ve got case numbers that are meaningless without any context, and entire sections that have been redacted and stamped with a big bold ‘classified’.”
Topher waves a dismissive hand at the screen.
“I’m sure anything we could actually get out of this, Dominic could just tell us himself.”
“He didn’t tell us about his father or his stepsister,” Paul reminds him. Topher nods slowly.
“Okay…true. But you kinda have to admit, it is a little awkward. I don’t know of I’d be so eager to gab about it either if my former spy-brethren also just so happened to be my-”
“Bring up Nicole’s file,” Paul commands.
“Um, what, am I talking to myself here?” Topher mutters. “Would it at least kill you to ask politely?”
Paul looks him in the eye. “Please.”
“Why, it’s my pleasure,” Topher complies with a voice that’s falsely over-sweet. “Here you go.”
Just like her stepbrother, not much of Nicole’s full profile remains. There is a picture though. Paul nods.
“Yeah, that’s her.” She doesn’t seem quite so young here, brown hair pulled back and the lapels of a suit jacket just visible at the edge of the frame. Perhaps not surprisingly she doesn’t look a thing like Dominic; the only thing they have in common is blue eyes. Even then hers are the wrong shade of blue.
“You ever hear of Mossad?” Paul finds himself asking Topher.
The tech screws up his eyes, thinking. “Uh, they’re somebody’s secret service, right?”
“Israel. From what I’ve heard, they’re known for this sort of thing - whole families being recruited into the spy game: parents, children, spouses and siblings. Never really thought I’d see it with an American agency though.”
“Spooky,” Topher offers, sounding bored.
“Can you bring up their father’s file?”
“Sure, but I’m telling you, it’s a no-go.” Topher shakes his head, typing. “I’ve already looked at these, and Papa Dom’s is even less forthcoming than those of his brood. No big surprise, considering how long he’s been working for these guys.”
Topher’s right - there’s barely anything there to go on. But like the others, at least there’s the picture.
The Deputy Director of the NSA stares straight ahead of him, mouth set into a firm line, as if he can see right through them.
“I give you: Laurence Dominic in about thirty years, with a bit more starch,” Topher quips, noting the family resemblance.
Paul barely hears him. He looks carefully at the photo of Mitchell Dominic, studying his expression, or lack thereof.
He has a feeling that this is a dangerous man to be the enemy of.
There’s just something about him - he seems like the type that doesn’t ever flinch.
_____
It’s interesting to think, that despite everything they don’t really know all that much about each other.
It’s because they kept their relationship as what it was for so very long, she supposes. They never really moved much beyond small-talk; in fact, they all but made a point of it.
Things like where the other grew up, what they studied in school, favorite vacation spots or religious affiliations or hobbies; all the minutiae most people make a point of collecting from one another in the early days of a relationship, as if part of some requisite fact-finding mission…they know almost none of it.
Instead, however, they are very familiar with all the little things one can only absorb through time. Quirks and annoyances and petty habits - how he prefers his coffee with sugar but no cream and how she always picks the radishes out of her salad.
The odd things, she’s discovered, that tend to often be the source of more argument and dissolution than any disagreement over politics or childhood sweethearts over could.
Still there is that bothersome, almost amusing sense that they’re somehow going about this backwards. She can read his every mannerism like a book but she doesn’t even know his middle name. They’re somewhat sheepishly stuck retracing their steps now, going back and filling in all of the blanks.
It’s a train of thought similar to this she’s stuck on, as she lies awake in the cross-haze of rising evening and fading afterglow, feeling his thumb idly rub a pattern on the side of her arm.
She almost believes he might’ve dozed off, until he asks, “What are you thinking about?”
“I was just realizing,” she replies, murmuring; “you never speak about your family.”
He stills, ever so slightly. After a moment he goes, sardonically, “Well, I think you might be aware of the reason for that.”
She sighs a little. “Even so.” She moves so that she’s peering up at him, meeting his eyes. “You never even mentioned you had a stepsister.” Her tone is somewhat dry as she continues pointedly, “You think that might’ve somehow come up in three years’ worth of casual conversation.”
There’s a pause as he meets her gaze, frowning. He draws a breath.
“I made a point not to talk about anything that could’ve put suspicion on me,” he says. “That includes family.”
“How?” she demands, accusing. He gives her a look.
“Oh, you’ve got a sister, really?” he says in a mock-conversational tone. “What does she do for a living?”
“I suppose,” she concedes the point. She settles down again, making herself comfortable. “Still, now that your secret’s out of the bag, I think I could stand to know a little more.”
He’s silent again for quite some time. “Is it only out of interest in me that you ask?”
Now his is the tone that’s pointed.
She closes her eyes, the hand that rests upon his breast halfway curling into a fist.
“I won’t lie by saying there isn’t an air of self-preservation about it,” she states honestly, revealing what she’s certain he’s already as much as guessed. He knows her too well, after all. “Your relatives are also part of the very group that’s currently putting my organization in danger.”
“So, you want to know more about me, but if it also means getting info about your enemies as well, that only helps,” he sums, sarcastic, with a narrow smile.
“There’s no need to be so-”
“No. Forget it.” He cuts her off, closing his eyes as he lets out a deep breath, all the malice going out of his expression. “Sorry. Never mind. What do you want to know?”
Him giving up the defensive so abruptly leaves her temporarily at a loss.
Finally, she goes, “Your father.”
“Ah.” Some of the twist comes back into his mouth, evidently expecting this: “Figures.”
She takes another moment to choose her words carefully before continuing. “You said before the NSA had already gathered some basic information about the Dollhouse, before you were sent in. That meant your father had at least some idea of what he was getting you into; of what could happen if something went wrong.”
Her voice goes very soft.
“I suppose I’d just like to know what sort of man it is, that could send his own son into a situation like that.”
He takes a pause of his own before speaking. “It wasn’t like that.”
She looks at him, frowning, confused.
“The Dollhouse was a critical assignment,” he states flatly, his tone completely matter of fact. “Top priority. It was crucial nothing go wrong. For that, he sent in his best agent.”
She feels an odd chill, both at what he’s saying and the manner in which he says it. “He compartmentalizes you so easily?”
He closes his eyes again, actually chuckling.
“That’s a funny question, coming from you.”
It isn’t the same thing, even remotely. “He’s your father.”
“And my boss.” His voice drops to a murmur, “At least, he was.”
Her heart sinks, but before she can say anything, he opens his eyes and looks at her as he adds lightly, “Now you’re my boss.”
She can’t resist smiling back. “Indeed.” Her hand sneaks up, rubbing the side of his neck. “Not to sound overly confident, but I daresay you’ve found yourself an improvement?”
He laughs. “You could say that, sure.”
She climbs on top of him, pressing her lips against his as he rubs the middle of her back.
After a moment, the kiss deepens. She slips her legs around his waist, rocking against him in a specific sort of way.
“Ahh.” He breaks for air with a groan, eyes screwed shut as a heated expression comes across his face. “Are you trying to tell me something?”
She smirks primly, hands curling around his shoulders as she leans forward, straddling him.
“Why, Mr. Dominic,” she murmurs, “how ever did you guess?”