Title: The Devil You Know
Author: Morgan72uk
Pairing: DeWitt/Dominic
Rating: R I think - for some violence, some sex, language
Spoilers: For season 1
Disclaimer: Yes, well – clearly I own nothing. Not even my house.
Summary: Sometimes rescue is a relative concept.

Notes - Posting this because, well - I have to. But I am a little nervous. I would really appreciate knowing if it works.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4


The safe house turned out to be a sleek and elegant apartment with all the comforts of home and all the security of a small fortress. It also had the knack; common to all the Dollhouse properties Dominic had been in, of hiding in plain sight. So much so that he'd have missed the entrance entirely without his companion's warning. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of people walked past the doorway every day without giving it a second look, certainly without realising that between the high end designer stores stood a safe house for one of the most secret operations in the world.

He was damn sure it hadn't been on the books when he'd been Head of Security; which meant it was either a new acquisition, or it still wasn't on the books. Knowing Adelle DeWitt the way he did - he wouldn't have ruled out the latter.

But the car was off the street; there were sophisticated security devices all around them, not to mention a small, well-stocked weapons locker that meant he didn't have to worry about his diminishing supply of ammunition. The roof terrace from the living room struck him as incongruous, until he realised that it gave an unrivalled view of all the possible entrance points to the building. He could easily get to like the place, if only he wasn't going to be stuck here for the next 40 hours with his mortal enemy.

Talking of DeWitt, she headed straight for the tray of drinks and poured herself a glass of vodka. He'd been watching her since they got out of the car and she was being careful, economical with her movements and she still looked pale. But in the soft light of the living room he could see the cut on her cheek, the scratches and dried blood on her arms and legs.

"I'm going to try to find a first aid kit," he told her.

"Under the sink in the bathroom," she supplied, without looking up from her drink.

“You've been here before," he remarked, drawing the obvious conclusion.

"Rossum uses the apartment, on occasion," she offered, the kind of half answer he'd come to expect from her.

"You planning on telling me how badly hurt you are - or are you just going to keep drinking until the pain stops?" It was the kind of thing he would never have dreamt of saying to her once upon a time. But things were different now.

"There isn't that much alcohol here," she responded smoothly. But he just kept staring at her and she sighed, "I have bruised ribs, my head aches but my vision is fine and I'm not nauseous. A bullet scratched my arm, not one of yours this time, it stings but the bleeding seems to have stopped. Oh and someone pushed me through the remains of some windows, lots of old glass and timber. I have scratches, cuts and exposure to more germs than I really want to think about. I need a shower, a change of clothes and the rest of the vodka. I'd prefer it if you didn't try to kill me."

"We don't always get what we want," he responded and then remembering how she described the Dollhouse to potential customers he added, "or even what we need."

After that he supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when she took the gun she'd appropriated into the bathroom with her.

***
Adelle regretted the destruction of her dress, but it couldn't be helped. The blood had dried like glue and she had to bite her lip when she pulled it free - which only started the bleeding again.

She hadn't been entirely honest with Dominic, a fact that wouldn't surprise him at all. Her head was throbbing and the bullet wound was more than a scratch. But she wasn't at death's door either - she'd survived worse.

The shower helped some and the vodka took the edge off - but she knew she couldn't spend the next two days in the shower or indeed drinking herself into a vodka-induced stupor. It occurred to her that perhaps she should have picked a safe house with more rooms. As convenient as this place was, it wasn't the largest of apartments - with only one bedroom for a start. While perfectly adequate for one person, it was possible for two people to share the space, providing they were on good terms. Unfortunately she and Mr Dominic could hardly be described as such, they had issues enough to fill all of the rooms and then some.

She wiped away the steam from the bathroom mirror and gazed at her reflection. God, when had she got so old, so tired? She remembered dressing earlier that evening - slipping on the silk dress, feeling confident and alluring. She'd been determined to look her best, not really because of the date but because she was going to be socialising with old colleagues and she hadn't wanted them to think she'd let herself go.

She supposed that events had overtaken her on that score. The chances of her fellow guests remembering what she'd been wearing when she'd been abducted at gunpoint in the middle of dinner were slim to none.

Stealing herself she started to take inventory of the damage that had been done to her body that evening. The cut on her cheek wasn't deep but she cleaned it carefully, shuddering at the thought of the dirt and grime that it had been exposed to.

Her hand shook for a moment as she moved onto the scratch from the bullet. She had to put the antiseptic wipe down as she faced the fact that Laurence Dominic was in the next room, that he had saved her life, but that she had no idea whether he was also planning to kill her.

She couldn't allow herself to spend too much time thinking about that, it would solve nothing. Instead she focussed on cleaning the cuts on her arms and legs. None of them were too deep but when she removed a sliver of glass from a cut on her thigh she started to be concerned that it might not be the only wound with glass in it. She turned around and tried to examine her back, quickly realising there was no way she'd be able to check the damage there herself. The idea of asking him for help wasn't an appealing one - but neither was waiting.

The presence of a television had provided an opportunity to catch up on the news - not to mention all manner of inconsequential snippets of information that he'd despise under normal circumstances.

But he'd started with the basics. Knowing what day, month and year it was turned out to be something of a triumph when a few hours ago your entire existence had been contained on a computer system, presided over by the adult equivalent of a badly behaved 3 year old with ADHD and poor impulse control.

But it was safer to think about the months that were blank, than to let himself think about Adelle who, for reasons passing understanding, he had not killed.

Caught up in the urgency of their escape there had been moments when he had simply forgotten the bitterness and anger over what she had done to him and responded to her as he'd done in the best days of their working relationship. Once or twice he thought she'd remembered before he had. So if seeing for himself all that he'd missed helped him to remember what had been done to him and at whose behest, then so be it.

"I need your assistance," he turned at the sound of her voice and nearly dropped his glass of whiskey. She was wrapped in a soft towel, barefoot, hair falling in damp curls around her face. The intimacy of the moment was in danger of going to his head far more effectively than the alcohol.

Only belatedly did he realise that she didn't look too pleased to be asking anything of him. She turned without waiting to hear his response and he winced at the sight of the bruises and scratches on her back - realising what she needed his assistance with.

He followed her into the bathroom, noticing the way she kept the gun within reach even as she turned her back to him and lowered the towel far enough for him to see the damage the glass had done amidst the rapidly darkening bruises from the beating she'd received.

This was fine, she was standing in a small bathroom, practically naked, while a man she couldn't afford to trust examined her injuries. If ever there was a moment to wish for the calm, competent presence of Dr Saunders this was it.

But Dr Saunders wasn't available and Dominic was at least both quick and deft. His hands ran over the scratches carefully before he reached for the tweezers and told her to keep still.

How long had it been since anyone had touched her? Clearly the answer was too long if the brush of his fingertips against her spine had her trembling like this. She kept her head down so he couldn't see anything untoward in her expression and it needed all her considerable self-control not to react when he took a wipe and ran it over her back.

Did his hand linger too long over the delicate warmth of her skin? Was touching her with nothing between them just too much of a temptation? He tried to think about the searing chaos of the moment in the chair and the darkness he'd seen in her expression. But his brain rebelled, it was too much and also nothing at all.

"There," he said - stepping away, his voice sounding hoarse.

"Thank you." Only when she wouldn't look at him did he realise that she'd felt something too and he bit back a laugh that bordered on hysteria. All the times he had made himself not think about this, all the stupid, pointless barriers they'd erected and this was how they ended up - with the time and space to do whatever they wanted and more reasons than ever not to.

***
He managed to hide his surprise when she emerged dressed in dark pants and a vest - functional clothing that while comfortable looked nothing like anything he had ever seen her wear. Instead of commenting he took her place in the bathroom, stripping off and diving into the shower. He left his gun within reach and tried not to think about whether she would still be there by the time he was finished.

He wished he could say that the shower felt special or meaningful given how long it had been since he had last taken one. But though the water was hot and the pressure strong there was nothing more than that to it - perhaps he was expecting too much, or perhaps he'd lost the ability to feel anything at all.

He could hear Adelle moving around as he towelled himself dry. Among the clothes in the closet there was a clean t-shirt that fitted him and as he pulled it on only briefly did he regret the absence of his own suits. Idly he wondered what had happened to his possessions, to his apartment, but he wasn't planning to ask.

When he returned to the living room he found her out on the roof terrace, her attention fixed on the view. Her pose, one hand on her hip, gaze abstracted, prompted another of those half pleasant, half painful memories. How often had he seen her stand before her office windows like that?

She didn't look round at the sound of his footsteps, but she was surprised when he came to a halt beside her. The distance he had once maintained in her presence was gone now - a salient reminder that she didn't know who he was anymore - if she ever had. She tried to remember how his betrayal had hurt, how his scorn and contempt for her had cut more deeply than any bullet or knife.

"How do you imagine this is going to work?" She asked at last, when his presence at her side and the silence that lay between them became oppressive. She risked a glance at him, his attention was focussed on the view as well; but his expression was a familiar one. She'd always been able to tell when Mr Dominic was angry - apparently the ability had not deserted her, which meant that perhaps not everything between them had changed.

"I return you to the House when the lock down ends. Until then we wait it out here - providing whoever arranged your abduction doesn't make another attempt."

"It's not that simple."

"Think of me as a bodyguard - a temporary employee. Someone to ignore as much as possible - you should be able to manage that." She lowered her gaze at the hint of scorn and stuck to the point.

"It's normal to trust the people charged with your protection." His lips twisted into a smirk.

"I'm not planning on shooting you in your sleep, if that's what you’re worried about. I'd want you to see it coming."

"Hardly reassuring,"

"Under the circumstances it's the best I can offer, ma'am." He didn't move, but his hands were curled tightly into fists and she wondered what it meant that he could become angry so easily, how much of a part she had played in that. She wasn't sure that her motives were entirely pure when she continued.

"I don't know what you expected me to do; you were a spy. You of all people must realise how impossible it is to offer your loyalty to two masters. You can't have believed I would have been convinced that the NSA's interest was benign, that your presence within my organisation was not a threat. You can't possibly be that naive!" There was something satisfying about challenging him like that, though she didn't expect him to answer. "I assume in your business you can spy, lie, cheat, deceive, dissemble as much as you have to, but the defining value of your work must be loyalty to your agency - otherwise it's all just worthless. Which meant you were a risk to the house, one I couldn't afford not to deal with."

He held himself rigid, determined not to give into the anger, which was only fuelled by the hypnotic pull of her voice as she levelled her accusations. She was angry too - he could hear it, see it - knew it in a way he wouldn't trust himself to explain.

"Go to bed," he told her starkly, "sleep, don't sleep - I don't fucking care, just get away from me Adelle, now!" The violence was in him and he doubted his control over it. She hesitated only for a moment - long enough to raise her chin to look him dead in the eye. Her eyes had always been expressive and looking into them now he saw so many things; there was anger, a healthy dose of fear but something else too, something he was certain was mirrored in his own expression - arousal.

It spiked in him - heat and urgency coiling low in his stomach and he didn't know if he could restrain himself from reaching for her and just taking - but somehow he held the need in check until she turned her back and walked away.

He waited until he heard the bedroom door close behind her before he retrieved the whiskey and took a long swallow. She was right and he hated it, but she was wrong as well. His loyalty had been unravelling before he was caught, the threads of it fraying like old rope. And she'd been the reason.

****
In the still, grey light of dawn Laurence Dominic leant against the bedroom wall, his arms folded across his chest as he watched Adelle DeWitt sleep.

He'd only just come inside, having spent the last hours of darkness sitting on the roof terrace, a single glass of whiskey for company. He'd been wary of seeking his escape in alcohol; it was too easy, too convenient. But the darkness had helped - as had the air around him, even if was as polluted as hell. It was a good place to think and he was a man with a great deal on his mind.

The darkness and the musing had forced him to admit that the common thread in the confusion of his existence was his desire for her. That link between feelings he had experienced before and was experiencing now made sense in a way very little else did, resonating with him more powerfully than almost everything else had. Only when he was even marginally comfortable with that truth had he come looking for her.

He hadn't been standing there for long and it wasn't a surprise when she stirred, somehow aware of the discordant presence in the room. He watched as her eyes opened and she pushed herself up - searching out the source of the disturbance.

She froze when she saw him and he half expected her to reach for the gun on the bedside table. But she didn't move, just looked back him in exactly the same way he was gazing at her - irresolute, torn between desire and destruction.

He didn't know he was going to be the one to break the impasse until she pushed her hair back and the sight of the dark curls caressing the long, pale column of her throat tipped the balance.

She didn't blink as he crossed the room to stand before her, his strides were long and even though his blood raced, urging him on. She looked up at him - not surprised, not afraid - certainly not angry. He wasn't angry either, it was the first time in hours he could say as much. He had no idea who he was, but he knew what he wanted.

Neither of them would be able to say who moved first - but she reached up as he leaned down and somewhere in the middle lips brushed, gently at first, but then with more intent.

The weight of his body pressed her down onto the bed, her bruised ribs protested but she didn't care – heedless, reckless, and giddy with need; there was no way she was giving this up.

Clothes were removed, his more quickly than hers and she wouldn't like to say which of them was more desperate - but it was the good kind of desperate, the kind when something mattered.

She was greedy to touch him, so much so that her response to being touched in return was almost a surprise. But trails of heat spread in the wake of his hands and mouth and her body was clamouring for more before her brain had really caught up.

They negotiated control as seamlessly as they'd negotiated their way around the House in the old days. He didn't doubt for a single moment that she was in charge - but she didn't feel the need to exercise that power, letting him lead and responding with ardency that meant more than it should.

There wasn't an ounce of reverence or deference in the way he touched her and he moved with such effortless grace that she didn't give a second thought to control, although the low, choked sound he made when she slid his fingers to just the right spot gave her shivers.
It wasn't perfect, first times seldom were in her experience - but it was damn good and if she had known that he could kiss like that she would definitely have done something about one of the distracting thoughts she'd had about him over the years.

He wouldn't have been surprised if the world had stopped turning - but he didn't care. He was buried deep inside her, gritting his teeth and pressing his fingertips hard into her hips as he slowed everything down, drew out and then slid back in; deeper still.

He couldn't even remember the last time he'd had sex, but he knew with absolute certainty that it had been nothing like this. Sometimes he had needed to escape - to take refuge in the body of a woman he fooled himself into believing wasn't quite a stranger. But even though he'd deceived himself he had never gone so far as to tell himself it had meant anything. Whereas this was replete with meaning - whether they liked it or not.

He moved once more, watching her eyes open and then flutter closed again. Her hands slid over his shoulders and down his arms, squeezing the muscles tensed to bear his weight, seeking a purchase he absolutely wasn't going to give her.

The catch in her breathing, the little fluttering movements around him told him she was close. He dipped to taste the sweat slicked skin at her throat, his hand grasping a breast squeezing firmly as he picked up the pace, driving back in as the low cry escaped her.

It was a sight to behold, Adelle DeWitt in glorious disarray and coming for him.

He lost control after that - the need to finish overpowering and the low, breathy murmuring in his ear only spurred him on.

Breathless and dazed they lay together - a tangle of complex emotions amid the sound of laboured breathing. He ran his hand over her hip, his lips finding her shoulder. She curled into his embrace and let her fingers twine with his where they rested.

"We have 41 hours," she said quietly. There was no response he could possibly make to that, but when she looked over her shoulder at him he nodded. He didn't need her to spell it out - they could shut the world out, hide away here together - but only for these short hours. It wasn't enough - but it was what they had.

He sighed, breathing in the scent of the two of them together and resisting the pull of sleep. He hadn't slept yet, wasn't sure he really wanted to try - not when he didn't know what would populate his dreams, or if he would ever wake again.

But he'd reckoned without the woman lying beside him, who pulled the sheets up around them and then shifted so she could look at him, stroking her hand over his face. "Go to sleep Laurence," she said quietly, her eyes sad - as though she knew exactly what he feared. There was a hint of steel in her voice that told him this wasn't the moment to disobey her orders, so let his eyes slide shut; focusing on the warmth of her body and the feel of her breath trickling over his skin. It was an article of faith to sleep in her embrace after everything - he hoped she understood that because he knew he wouldn’t ever be able to find the words to tell her.

TBC