Dollhouse fic: A Chance Encounter; PG-13
Title: A Chance Encounter (or The First of Five Times the Senator's Son and the Head of the LA Dollhouse Accidentally Meet)
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Adelle DeWitt, Prewett!Laurence Dominic, Margaret Bashford
Words: 1, 684
Summary: She never expected to see him again- it’s the sole reason why she’s presently flabbergasted (and no, it isn’t because of the observation that he seems to be very dashing in a tuxedo)
Notes: Sequel to The Senator's Son; written for scifiland
Author's Note: Not beta'ed and bound to be riddled with mistakes. Written initially for myself because I needed fluff, but left in the WIP folder because I couldn't finish it. However, I had to "dust" it out, so to speak for the Love, Actually challenge at scifiland. Happy Valentines Day. And enjoy? IDEK anymore. lol
“Goddamn it.” The man she had bumped into mutters the words angrily. Her eyes automatically close as droplets of wine fly to her cheeks.
“I am so sorry.” She says in response, quickly recovering from the mishap. A dark red splotch begins to spread against the white dress shirt, “Your shirt.” She adds in dismay, looking up to see a familiar face scowling at her, “…Mr. Prewett.”
Laurence Prewett made it very clear, the first and last time they met, that he wasn’t interested in availing the services of the Dollhouse. The conviction in his voice was absolute and from their short meeting, she’s certain that he isn’t the type who likes changing his mind once it’s set.
The very angry glare disappears and astonishment registers on his face when he recognizes her, “Ms. DeWitt.”
For what seemed like an eternity, they stare at each other as though they’re the only people in the room. She never expected to see him again- it’s the sole reason why she’s presently flabbergasted (and no, it isn’t because of the observation that he seems to be very dashing in a tuxedo). And apparently, so did he.
“Your shirt will be ruined if we don’t find a remedy for that stain.” She says, finally.
He briefly glances at his chest, “Yeah, we probably should.” He replies.
She snatches a glass of water from a passing server and leads him to a corner of the ballroom, near the open bar. He manages to grab a clean table napkin (without the need for her to tell him) from… somewhere.
“Fancy seeing you here.” He remarks, as she carefully pours the cold water on the tablecloth.
“I was invited.” She simply answers. Margaret Bashford has been a regular client of the LA Dollhouse even before she became the head of the house. This is the first time she has ever attended the Bashford fundraiser. “Margaret’s a friend.” She adds. Nothing in her tone or expression suggests that the older woman’s a client.
“I see.” He says in an equally blank tone.
Mr. Prewett stands incredibly still as she dabs the cloth on his shirt. She ignores the fact that they’re too close to each other, or that the heels she’s wearing makes them almost at eye-level. She can smell the very subtle scent of his aftershave and she can feel his breath on her skin. She doesn’t mind at all.
He clears his throat. She glances at him and finds a pair of deep, blue eyes watching her intently.
“May I?” he asks, holding out his hand. “I think I can manage this.” She gives the napkin to him and he gives her a polite nod before turning his attention to the wine stain.
She looks at the throng of people in the middle of the room. “And how about you?” she asks. She’s curious to his connection to Margaret, “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Andrew Bashford was a close friend of my father’s.” He replies, referring to Margaret’s departed husband, “She went to the funeral.”
The late Senator Jackson Prewett passed away six months back. He died a happy man, with his (late) wife by his bedside. Topher did a good job cobbling the three imprints together (“I had to make sure India wouldn’t jump the old man in the bed.”) and their Active performed excellently, despite the broken wrist.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” She tells him earnestly.
He nods his head, “Thanks.” It wasn’t quite a mumble, but doesn’t look up from what he’s doing.
After a few seconds, he puts down the tablecloth on the bar and straightens up.
“I think the dry cleaners can take care of this.” Mr. Prewett states. They’ve managed to make the dark red blob on his chest turn into a very light pink. Even the most amateur dry cleaning company can make that shirt good as new.
“You can send your bill to me.” She offers.
He shakes his head, “It’s not necessary.”
“Oh, please.” She allows a small smile appear on her face, “I insist.”
He gives her a considering look. The corner of his lips tugs upward, “Well. Since you insist.” He replies with a hint of amusement.
She gives him a smile as they both take a seat by the bar, looking at the people mingling about. A blanket of silence falls upon on as they observed everybody.
She tilts her head and observes him. From their short meeting, she could presume that he is uncomfortable with being a Prewett-the name, the legacy and the responsibility it entailed. She knows he doesn’t want to be determined (probably even associated) by the family he came from (or, in his point of view, the family that adopted him).
He senses her gaze and turns to glance at her. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he merely stares back at her with an inscrutable expression on his face.
For the second time tonight, the party and the sea of people around them are momentarily forgotten. Despite the unreadable air (and the unwelcome aura that comes with it), he makes it surprisingly easy for her to focus on him.
“There you are.”
Their moment is broken and they both turn towards the source of the voice. Wariness slightly mars their hostess smile upon seeing the two of them together.
“I see that you two have met.”
Adelle shakes her head, “I accidentally bumped into Mr. Prewett.” She says, in a somewhat untailored manner, “Wine on his shirt.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Ms. DeWitt graciously helped me get rid of the stain.” he stands up and shows Margaret the faint blemish in the middle of his shirt, “It’s like it was never here.”
The older woman stands in front of them with an air of skepticism. For a small percentage of her clients, availing of the Dollhouse’s services for romantic engagements is a blow to the ego; they don’t have anyone real in their life to love them so they created someone who would. For that small percentage, they don’t want to have the unforgettable date, or the mind-blowing sex-they want companionship, someone to listen to them, someone who loves them for being themselves. Margaret belongs to this group.
“Adelle’s work for Rossum is fascinating.” Margaret states, emphatically.
Mr. Prewett looks at her first. “We actually haven’t gotten to that part yet.” He replies, shrugging as he attends to Margaret. “We were having fun staring at each other.” He tells Margaret with unexpected candor.
Margaret laughs, her relief almost palpable. Mr. Prewett smiles, which somehow makes him appear younger.
“Well, I’m glad you had a bit of fun with Laurence.” She tells her, “I was worrying no one might want to bid on him tonight.”
“Really?” Mr. Prewett asks in mock disbelief.
“You’re a bit of a snob.” Adelle watches as Margaret pats Mr. Prewett’s cheek in a maternal gesture, “Something you definitely got from Jackson.”
“Bidding?” Adelle asks.
“I’m auctioning off eligible bachelors, Addie.” Margaret answers, “It’s why I was so determined to make you come here.”
“I might have missed that bit on the invitation.”
Margaret rolls her eyes, “Now, if you don’t want to bid on strange men, you can bid on Laurence. I want your money, Addie. It’s for a good cause.”
Adelle merely responds with a smile.
“Come on now, Laurence. We start in a few minutes.”
Mr. Prewett turns to her to bid goodbye before finally being ushered away by Margaret. She takes a glass of wine from a passing server and stays seated on her chair. Minutes later, the lights dimmed and Margaret appears on stage, announcing the start of the auction.
There were four other men auctioned off before Mr. Prewett (the highest bid so far has been $2500). When Margaret introduced him, there’s an obvious chatter of approval within the crowd. She stands up from her chair and goes to the floor. She might not bid, but she wants to hear what everybody in this gathering thinks of Laurence Prewett.
The starting bid was a hundred dollars. And contrary to Margaret’s belief, his snobbishness added his worth in the auction.
She overhears one woman comment that he’s the only Prewett son good in everything (“And when I say everything, I mean everything, if you know what I mean.”). She overhears another saying that he’s a catch, except that he’s not into politics (“If you don’t have any aspirations to become a politician’s wife, go for him. If not, go for the brother.”). A matronly woman remarks that he’s very on top form (“I like men in tiptop shape.”).
Adelle sips the wine and looks back to the stage. Mr. Prewett seems uncomfortable with all the attention. As the bid goes up, his eyes search the crowd. He seems to be looking for someone.
“We’ve got two thousand? Anyone?”
“Twenty-one hundred!” The matronly woman beside her says in a loud voice.
When his eyes meet hers, she notices a subtle change in his posture. She watches him through the rim of the wineglass. He shoots her an imploring gaze.
“Twenty-three hundred!” Margaret announces.
“Twenty-eight hundred!” The woman beside her replies.
“Anyone?”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
“Twenty-eight hundred, going once…”
Mr. Prewett’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Going twice…”
He raises a brow at her before looking away.
“Three thousand five hundred.” She says in a clear, smooth voice. She looks at the woman beside her and gives her a challenging look and then to Margaret, who’s clearly pleased. The amount is measly compared to the price of one engagement, but Margaret seems delighted at the prospect of taking money from her.
“We have thirty-five hundred.” Margaret makes a dramatic pause. Mr. Prewett’s stance slightly eases when it appears that no one wants to go higher than her amount.
He looks at her again. This time, it’s her turn to raise a brow.
“Going once… going twice… and sold, to the lovely woman in blue.”
She takes another sip from her wine glass as an easy grin appears on Laurence Prewett’s face.
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Adelle DeWitt, Prewett!Laurence Dominic, Margaret Bashford
Words: 1, 684
Summary: She never expected to see him again- it’s the sole reason why she’s presently flabbergasted (and no, it isn’t because of the observation that he seems to be very dashing in a tuxedo)
Notes: Sequel to The Senator's Son; written for scifiland
Author's Note: Not beta'ed and bound to be riddled with mistakes. Written initially for myself because I needed fluff, but left in the WIP folder because I couldn't finish it. However, I had to "dust" it out, so to speak for the Love, Actually challenge at scifiland. Happy Valentines Day. And enjoy? IDEK anymore. lol
“Goddamn it.” The man she had bumped into mutters the words angrily. Her eyes automatically close as droplets of wine fly to her cheeks.
“I am so sorry.” She says in response, quickly recovering from the mishap. A dark red splotch begins to spread against the white dress shirt, “Your shirt.” She adds in dismay, looking up to see a familiar face scowling at her, “…Mr. Prewett.”
Laurence Prewett made it very clear, the first and last time they met, that he wasn’t interested in availing the services of the Dollhouse. The conviction in his voice was absolute and from their short meeting, she’s certain that he isn’t the type who likes changing his mind once it’s set.
The very angry glare disappears and astonishment registers on his face when he recognizes her, “Ms. DeWitt.”
For what seemed like an eternity, they stare at each other as though they’re the only people in the room. She never expected to see him again- it’s the sole reason why she’s presently flabbergasted (and no, it isn’t because of the observation that he seems to be very dashing in a tuxedo). And apparently, so did he.
“Your shirt will be ruined if we don’t find a remedy for that stain.” She says, finally.
He briefly glances at his chest, “Yeah, we probably should.” He replies.
She snatches a glass of water from a passing server and leads him to a corner of the ballroom, near the open bar. He manages to grab a clean table napkin (without the need for her to tell him) from… somewhere.
“Fancy seeing you here.” He remarks, as she carefully pours the cold water on the tablecloth.
“I was invited.” She simply answers. Margaret Bashford has been a regular client of the LA Dollhouse even before she became the head of the house. This is the first time she has ever attended the Bashford fundraiser. “Margaret’s a friend.” She adds. Nothing in her tone or expression suggests that the older woman’s a client.
“I see.” He says in an equally blank tone.
Mr. Prewett stands incredibly still as she dabs the cloth on his shirt. She ignores the fact that they’re too close to each other, or that the heels she’s wearing makes them almost at eye-level. She can smell the very subtle scent of his aftershave and she can feel his breath on her skin. She doesn’t mind at all.
He clears his throat. She glances at him and finds a pair of deep, blue eyes watching her intently.
“May I?” he asks, holding out his hand. “I think I can manage this.” She gives the napkin to him and he gives her a polite nod before turning his attention to the wine stain.
She looks at the throng of people in the middle of the room. “And how about you?” she asks. She’s curious to his connection to Margaret, “I didn’t expect you to be here.”
“Andrew Bashford was a close friend of my father’s.” He replies, referring to Margaret’s departed husband, “She went to the funeral.”
The late Senator Jackson Prewett passed away six months back. He died a happy man, with his (late) wife by his bedside. Topher did a good job cobbling the three imprints together (“I had to make sure India wouldn’t jump the old man in the bed.”) and their Active performed excellently, despite the broken wrist.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” She tells him earnestly.
He nods his head, “Thanks.” It wasn’t quite a mumble, but doesn’t look up from what he’s doing.
After a few seconds, he puts down the tablecloth on the bar and straightens up.
“I think the dry cleaners can take care of this.” Mr. Prewett states. They’ve managed to make the dark red blob on his chest turn into a very light pink. Even the most amateur dry cleaning company can make that shirt good as new.
“You can send your bill to me.” She offers.
He shakes his head, “It’s not necessary.”
“Oh, please.” She allows a small smile appear on her face, “I insist.”
He gives her a considering look. The corner of his lips tugs upward, “Well. Since you insist.” He replies with a hint of amusement.
She gives him a smile as they both take a seat by the bar, looking at the people mingling about. A blanket of silence falls upon on as they observed everybody.
She tilts her head and observes him. From their short meeting, she could presume that he is uncomfortable with being a Prewett-the name, the legacy and the responsibility it entailed. She knows he doesn’t want to be determined (probably even associated) by the family he came from (or, in his point of view, the family that adopted him).
He senses her gaze and turns to glance at her. He doesn’t say anything. Instead, he merely stares back at her with an inscrutable expression on his face.
For the second time tonight, the party and the sea of people around them are momentarily forgotten. Despite the unreadable air (and the unwelcome aura that comes with it), he makes it surprisingly easy for her to focus on him.
“There you are.”
Their moment is broken and they both turn towards the source of the voice. Wariness slightly mars their hostess smile upon seeing the two of them together.
“I see that you two have met.”
Adelle shakes her head, “I accidentally bumped into Mr. Prewett.” She says, in a somewhat untailored manner, “Wine on his shirt.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Ms. DeWitt graciously helped me get rid of the stain.” he stands up and shows Margaret the faint blemish in the middle of his shirt, “It’s like it was never here.”
The older woman stands in front of them with an air of skepticism. For a small percentage of her clients, availing of the Dollhouse’s services for romantic engagements is a blow to the ego; they don’t have anyone real in their life to love them so they created someone who would. For that small percentage, they don’t want to have the unforgettable date, or the mind-blowing sex-they want companionship, someone to listen to them, someone who loves them for being themselves. Margaret belongs to this group.
“Adelle’s work for Rossum is fascinating.” Margaret states, emphatically.
Mr. Prewett looks at her first. “We actually haven’t gotten to that part yet.” He replies, shrugging as he attends to Margaret. “We were having fun staring at each other.” He tells Margaret with unexpected candor.
Margaret laughs, her relief almost palpable. Mr. Prewett smiles, which somehow makes him appear younger.
“Well, I’m glad you had a bit of fun with Laurence.” She tells her, “I was worrying no one might want to bid on him tonight.”
“Really?” Mr. Prewett asks in mock disbelief.
“You’re a bit of a snob.” Adelle watches as Margaret pats Mr. Prewett’s cheek in a maternal gesture, “Something you definitely got from Jackson.”
“Bidding?” Adelle asks.
“I’m auctioning off eligible bachelors, Addie.” Margaret answers, “It’s why I was so determined to make you come here.”
“I might have missed that bit on the invitation.”
Margaret rolls her eyes, “Now, if you don’t want to bid on strange men, you can bid on Laurence. I want your money, Addie. It’s for a good cause.”
Adelle merely responds with a smile.
“Come on now, Laurence. We start in a few minutes.”
Mr. Prewett turns to her to bid goodbye before finally being ushered away by Margaret. She takes a glass of wine from a passing server and stays seated on her chair. Minutes later, the lights dimmed and Margaret appears on stage, announcing the start of the auction.
There were four other men auctioned off before Mr. Prewett (the highest bid so far has been $2500). When Margaret introduced him, there’s an obvious chatter of approval within the crowd. She stands up from her chair and goes to the floor. She might not bid, but she wants to hear what everybody in this gathering thinks of Laurence Prewett.
The starting bid was a hundred dollars. And contrary to Margaret’s belief, his snobbishness added his worth in the auction.
She overhears one woman comment that he’s the only Prewett son good in everything (“And when I say everything, I mean everything, if you know what I mean.”). She overhears another saying that he’s a catch, except that he’s not into politics (“If you don’t have any aspirations to become a politician’s wife, go for him. If not, go for the brother.”). A matronly woman remarks that he’s very on top form (“I like men in tiptop shape.”).
Adelle sips the wine and looks back to the stage. Mr. Prewett seems uncomfortable with all the attention. As the bid goes up, his eyes search the crowd. He seems to be looking for someone.
“We’ve got two thousand? Anyone?”
“Twenty-one hundred!” The matronly woman beside her says in a loud voice.
When his eyes meet hers, she notices a subtle change in his posture. She watches him through the rim of the wineglass. He shoots her an imploring gaze.
“Twenty-three hundred!” Margaret announces.
“Twenty-eight hundred!” The woman beside her replies.
“Anyone?”
A murmur ripples through the crowd.
“Twenty-eight hundred, going once…”
Mr. Prewett’s gaze doesn’t waver.
“Going twice…”
He raises a brow at her before looking away.
“Three thousand five hundred.” She says in a clear, smooth voice. She looks at the woman beside her and gives her a challenging look and then to Margaret, who’s clearly pleased. The amount is measly compared to the price of one engagement, but Margaret seems delighted at the prospect of taking money from her.
“We have thirty-five hundred.” Margaret makes a dramatic pause. Mr. Prewett’s stance slightly eases when it appears that no one wants to go higher than her amount.
He looks at her again. This time, it’s her turn to raise a brow.
“Going once… going twice… and sold, to the lovely woman in blue.”
She takes another sip from her wine glass as an easy grin appears on Laurence Prewett’s face.