Summary: "In light of recent events," he said, "I think it's time you learned to use a gun, ma'am." Two scenes that bookend the series. [Dewitt x Dominic]
Fondle My Trigger, Blame My Gun
Her office door opened, and only recognizing the sound of Mr. Dominic's step kept Adelle from flinching as she turned in her chair.
She'd never seen him this disheveled, shadowed jaw and rumpled suit, hands held behind him in an exhausted mockery of his usual stiff posture. He'd changed his shirt, she noticed, but she could still see dark blotches on his jacket cuffs. She wondered briefly whose blood it was, but the list of possibilities was too long. She didn't get all the way through it before he spoke.
"In light of recent events," he said, avoiding the word Alpha and all it had become in the last seventeen hours, "I think it's time you learned to use a gun, ma'am."
"I know how to use a gun, Mr. Dominic." She waved to the drawer of her desk where she kept her 9mm.
"No, I mean a gun." He pulled a huge automatic rifle from behind his back in a movement that would have been absurdly overdramatic if it weren't for the serious look he wore and the disaster they'd just lived through. His gaze never wavered from her face.
"Ah." She examined the weapon, noting the familiarity with which he held it. "I suppose you're right." She raised her eyes back up to his. "Shall we set a time next week? I'm sure Judith—"
"No. Now." His hands tightened on the rifle, and it required no effort on her part to read his meaning. In case he comes back.
Without a word, she stood and waved for him to lead the way. They wound through the halls of the Dollhouse, dark at this hour. All unnecessary personnel had been sent home, the dolls—the ones who were left—locked safely in their sleep pods. The only other people moving about were the expanded security patrols. Every man and woman on their payroll who could handle a firearm was there that night. No one spoke.
Mr. Dominic led her down to the bowels of the Dollhouse, where she rarely ventured. They passed the wardrobe, the handlers' locker room, the armory, and Mr. Dominic opened the door to a small firing range she'd forgotten they had. It was a narrow room, tucked between the armory and a janitorial closet. There was only one target, only room for one shooter at a time. She turned to Mr. Dominic and, in this one instance, waited for his instruction.
His expression hadn't changed from the moment he appeared in her office. The fierce determination that always lay just beneath his surface was on full display. The radio clipped to his belt crackled as someone checked in, and Mr. Dominic turned the volume down with a snap of his wrist.
"Take off your shoes," he said, gesturing toward her heels with the barrel of the gun. "Until you're used to how much these things kick, you want your feet flat on the ground."
She complied, slipping out of her heels and setting them neatly in the corner out of the way. When she turned back to him, she was surprised at the new angle, at the difference three inches made in their interaction. She adjusted the tilt of her head and held out her hands for the gun.
"This is an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle. Magazine, pistol grip, empty cartridges eject here." He touched each part of the gun as he named it, then handed it to her.
It was heavier than she expected, and she lifted it to her shoulder and turned to face the target fifteen yards away. Mr. Dominic stepped up behind her, close enough that the muscles in her back tensed as the fabric of his open jacket brushed against her.
"Hands here and here," he said, adjusting her grip. "Tuck the stock in good and firm. The snugger you can hold it against you, the less the kick will affect your aim."
His voice was quiet, only a few inches from her ear, and she couldn't keep her eyes from flicking sideways. She focused on her breathing and tried to ignore his.
He placed one hand against her shoulder blade, wrapped the other around the rifle, and pressed the two together. "Like this." His palm was warm through the thin material of her dress.
She analyzed her balance, shifted her feet, and turned her head just enough to give him a questioning glance. "Well?"
He nodded. "Good. Aiming's the same as a handgun, only instead of looking down your arm, you're looking down the gun." There was a pause while she breathed, and then he said, "When you're ready."
Before he'd finished his sentence, she pulled the trigger, and a bullet exploded out of the gun. She absorbed most of the kick, but it rocked her back slightly on her heels, bringing her into contact with Mr. Dominic's chest. His hands caught her waist, steadying her.
She lowered the gun slightly and squinted at the target. A small, neat hole had appeared in the vicinity of the paper man's liver.
"Not bad." Mr. Dominic's tone was overly brisk, and his hands left her waist in a sudden, jerky movement. "That'll take someone down."
The cold of the concrete floor seeped up through her feet, and she felt a purely animalistic pang at the loss of his warmth. She shoved it down, covering it with anger, and lifted the gun. She aimed, fired, and nicked a paper lung.
She lowered the rifle in frustration and pushed her hair out of her face. And then Mr. Dominic was at her side, his chest brushing against her shoulder as he stretched out a hand and lifted the gun back up toward the target.
"Good," he said, but his voice had changed, roughened. "Again."
She turned her head toward him, drawn by this new proximity, and a rush of want overtook her. Her mind filled with images of her legs wrapped around his waist, his mouth and hands on her skin, her nails against his scalp, his back. Heat rushed through her body, banishing the cold of concrete. It must have shown on her face, because a look of surprise flashed in his eyes, quickly swallowed by hunger. He shifted slightly closer.
It's been a long time coming, she thought, but just as quickly told herself it was simply the adrenaline and stress of the Alpha incident. They needed a release, both of them, and this was the most convenient and mutually gratifying means available.
She wanted to touch him. His hand had already found her hip, and she let the rifle fall to her side as she reached for him.
The door to the firing range opened and one of the security detail, Thompson, burst into the room.
"Mr. Dominic! Are you—oh."
Mr. Dominic straightened and turned toward Thompson so quickly that Adelle felt momentarily off balance, the weight of the rifle in one hand pulling her sideways.
"What is it?" Mr. Dominic snapped, the gun from his holster already in his hand.
"Sorry, sir, but we couldn't get you on the radio." Thompson's eyes flicked toward her, but she'd regained her equilibrium and whatever he saw in her face made him swallow and look back at Mr. Dominic. "We thought…"
Mr. Dominic exhaled in a huff and replaced his weapon. "Nothing's wrong. Go back to your post."
Thompson nodded once and left so quickly he caught his foot on the door. Mr. Dominic gave Adelle an apologetic look and turned the volume of his radio up just enough to be comprehensible.
They stared at each other.
"I—" Mr. Dominic took a step toward her and his hand came up halfway.
Adelle turned away from him. "I think I have the basics down. Perhaps you should resume your duties."
She didn't look at him, didn't relax her painfully straight posture. She hoped he couldn't see how white her knuckles were against the black metal of the rifle.
"Ma'am," he said softly, an understanding, and he left.
The door closed behind him, and she let herself breathe. It was time for another Miss Lonely Hearts engagement. She couldn't afford such displays of weakness.
Adelle raised the rifle to her shoulder and put a round straight through the target's heart.
Adelle wasn't sure how long they'd been traveling when the compound finally came into view. Weeks, maybe even months.
They hadn't been attacked for almost two of those weeks, but Anthony was still limping, Juliet, Romeo, and Foxtrot were dead, and Ballard would never use his right hand again. Adelle adjusted the rifle slung across her back to keep it from bouncing against her hip as she walked. By some miracle, the only new scar she carried was a small cut on her chin from a tree branch.
Caroline's disappointment at her continued survival felt almost tangible on occasion, and Adelle couldn't help sharing the sentiment sometimes. Topher was the only reason she'd come on this journey; if not for him, she'd have stayed with Dr. Saunders and waited for the death throes of the world to become her own.
Caroline stood on a boulder and pointed them toward the compound, a low bunker hiding in the shadow of a mountain. Adelle couldn't find the energy to wonder what it was before the younger woman found it. She moved past Caroline's granite pedestal, Topher's hand firmly in hers, and didn't bother looking up at humanity's savior. They'd agreed to ignore each other as much as possible—Echo's solution, Adelle was sure.
Caroline wanted to kill her before they left, had only to pull the trigger, but Echo replaced the gun in its holster and signaled for Adelle to follow her. They needed Topher, if he could find his way out of his mental prison, and he would go nowhere without Adelle.
Logic and rationalizations. They were how Echo controlled Caroline and kept her on the right path—and how Echo got her way, saved those she felt needed saved, even if Caroline didn't agree.
But Echo's mercy hurt more than Caroline's black-and-white hatred, so Adelle chose to believe the rationalization: she was Topher's minder. No more, no less.
She held his hand, made sure he ate, and lay next to him until he fell asleep at night. She protected him when the mindless mobs attacked, because no one else would. She kept him alive and—she hoped, she prayed, if any benevolent cosmic being existed and would still listen to her—she helped him take tiny steps back toward himself. Getting away from the cities seemed to help. Perhaps the untouched, savage beauty of the mountains reassured him that he hadn't destroyed everything. Even his guilt could not extend to these rocky inclines and the spicy scent of pine.
Hers, on the other hand, rested on every person in the group. She wondered if she would ever stop feeling responsible for their welfare. She doubted it.
They reached the compound the next day, but the relief Adelle expected to feel didn't come. The injured were herded to the infirmary, Priya supporting Anthony's weight, and the others scattered to claim what living space there was. Adelle and Topher were left alone in the compound's main hallway.
"It's cold," Topher whispered. He tucked himself against her side like a child.
"Yes, love," she murmured out of habit as much as comfort. "Let's find somewhere to rest awhile."
He nodded several times, more than was natural, and his chin brushed her shoulder. She led him down the hallway, the shuffling of his shoes against the concrete floor the only sound. The others had been swallowed up by the building.
They passed several open doors, all living quarters or storage, and Adelle wondered how many other people were there, how many lost lambs Caroline had already added to her flock.
A closed door on their right caught Topher's attention, and he stopped. Adelle turned and looked with him through the glass window set in the door. Inside was a lab. It consisted of two computers, their wires and cords tangled together on the floor, a table of electronic equipment, and a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling. In the back corner, covered in a stained blanket, stood something that could only be an imprinting chair.
She expected Topher to recoil, as he recoiled from his own lab at the Dollhouse, but instead he pushed open the door and went inside. Hope leapt into Adelle's throat despite the increased pressure of his hand on hers and the visible shake that had taken over his body. He moved slowly toward the computer, as though it was a strange dog, and pressed a key. The monitor leapt to life and Topher jumped. Words and formulas filled the screen.
"This was Alpha's lab," a voice behind them said. The disdain dripping from the word Alpha sent a jolt up her spine, and she turned slowly toward the door. "Before he disappeared, anyway," Laurence Dominic finished.
He looked at her, but she couldn't read his expression. His face was haggard and lined. His military fatigues bristled with weapons, his hair looked as though he'd been cutting it with a knife, and he hadn't shaved in several weeks. He looked exhausted and wary and alive.
"Mr. Dominic," she said quietly, almost dizzy from the rush of emotion she'd been waiting for since sighting the compound the previous afternoon.
Topher leaned toward the computer screen, pulling her with him and tearing her attention away from her former Head of Security. He muttered a few lines aloud to himself, and his free hand made a tiny, achingly familiar gesture.
"This could work," he said. He let go of Adelle's hand and, in the absence of a chair, sank to his knees before the computer.
She touched his head in wonder, her hand smoothing his hair, and forced back the tears that suddenly burned her eyes. He didn't notice, reading the formulas on the screen in a low babble, and she could hear his own commentary and thoughts mixed in. She took a step back, and a small rustle of cloth reminded her of the other miracle standing behind her. She turned.
"You're alive," Mr. Dominic said.
She swallowed. "Disappointed?"
He didn't answer. Instead he covered the distance between them in two steps. She braced for the violence she deserved, but he merely reached past her face to touch the stock of her rifle.
"An AR-15," he said, a touch of wryness hovering in the corner of his mouth. He stood very close to her, and she started to take a step back to regain their usual professional distance until she remembered there was nothing at all professional about either of them any longer. He lowered his hand, and she relaxed and stayed where she was, head tilted back so she could see his face.
"Yes, well, it turned out I was one of the few people in the group who knew how to 'handle' one. Caroline was less than pleased."
He smirked, and suddenly all she could think about was that night—years ago, now—when he'd taken her down to the House's firing range. Her long-suppressed desire bubbling to the surface, the feel of his hands against her waist, the way his face looked from only two inches away. Then, as now, she could feel the heat coming off him. She'd been so cold for so long.
"I see you found her. Caroline," she said simply to have something to say. She lifted a hand and traced a new scar that ran across his forehead.
As soon as she realized what she was doing, she snatched her hand back and waited for his shock, his disgust. For the hatred that had rolled off him in great, crackling waves the last time she'd seen him. She remembered with excruciating detail what they'd done to each other; she could guess what he'd been through since she last saw him; she couldn't begin to imagine the horrors of the Attic. She knew she looked and smelled like a homeless refugee—exactly what she was—and that of all the men in the world, the one she had the least right to touch in anything resembling an intimate fashion was Laurence Dominic.
But the hatred didn't come. He searched her face for a moment, and then his smirk grew. "Just following orders, ma'am."
She said, "Don't call me ma'am," but the final word was swallowed up when he leaned down and kissed her fiercely.
It was more teeth than lips, and his hand gripped the back of her neck with enough force to leave fingertip-shaped bruises, but she responded instantly and with a ferocity that would have surprised her if this were any other man.
He released her after only a few seconds, but they were both breathing hard. She sank back onto her heels and pried her hands from the fabric of his camouflage jacket. His fingers got tangled in the knots of her hair when he tried to extract them. She could taste blood, but she didn't care.
She felt a grim satisfaction at the conflict in his eyes, knowing she wasn't completely forgiven, that nothing had been forgotten. It was an irrevocable part of them now, betrayal and pain tangled with trust and attraction. They would either move forward or they wouldn't, but she doubted they would ever move on.
Dominic glanced over her head and his face slipped into a familiar mask of annoyance. She turned to see Topher, still on his knees, staring at them with his mouth open.
"What?" Mr. Dominic snapped.
Topher shut his mouth with a click and meekly said, "I need a pen."
Adelle couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed, but the sound of her hope filled the room.
end