Title: Tears
Author: gryfndor_godess
Pairing: Dominic/DeWitt
Rating: PG
Warnings: N/A
Spoilers: Spy in the House of Love
Disclaimer: I do not own any part of "Dollhouse," nor am I affiliated in any way with Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc., etc.
Summary: She doesn't allow herself to cry a second time.
Word Count: 970ish

Notes: It's my first time posting! I finally gave in and allowed myself to write fanfic, even though I didn't want to until the season ended. I deeply appreciate any comments and constructive criticism!


Tears

She doesn’t allow herself to cry a second time.

Her sobbing after receiving the telephone call was plenty, if not one time too many. Mr. Dominic did not deserve her grief. Besides, she didn’t have Roger- Victor- to comfort her anymore.

* * *

At first it was an easy resolution to keep. She was in so much shock after the bullet wound she didn’t know if she could have cried if she’d wanted to. She’d felt like the Snow Queen in the fairy tale who had ice for a heart- or did she have no heart at all? She didn’t remember, and it didn’t matter. The point was, she was solid, immovable, implacable.

“Do it.”

Maybe a stone statue would be a better simile. Unlike ice, stone couldn’t melt.

* * *

The first morning after Mr. Dominic went to the Attic was a shock. She expected Mr. Langdon- indeed, she had arrived at work early to prep him on his new duties- but her breath still caught when the knock came on her office door. It was a forceful, uncontrolled hammer. Nothing like the firm, reserved taps Mr. Dominic made, the taps that were so perfunctory she knew it would never occur to him that he wouldn’t be admitted.

So, yes, it was a shock, and yes, she had to force herself to smile politely at Mr. Langdon when he entered (his suit was creased, she noted, and his tie didn’t match either the shirt or the jacket). If her smile was more of a grimace, Mr. Langdon didn’t comment.

It wasn’t until later in the day, when she bent to pick up a dropped pen (Mr. Dominic would have swooped forward to retrieve it for her) and winced as her stitches pulled, that Mr. Langdon asked, with entirely too much sympathy in his deep voice, “How are you holding up, Ms. DeWitt?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” she snapped, more sharply than she intended to, and she gave him another grimace-smile as she carefully sat behind her desk.

“I didn’t mean only your wound,” said Mr. Langdon.

Really, did he and Dr. Saunders coordinate this intra-office therapy, or were all her employees so fixated on emotions? she wondered irritably. She never had that sort of problem with Mr. Dominic.

“I’ve lost employees before, and I’ll lose them again,” she said shortly. “It’s nothing I’m unaccustomed to.”

“Can you ever become accustomed to putting someone in the Attic?” said Mr. Langdon quietly. Not for the first time it occurred to her what a kind face he had- the kind of comforting, pragmatic face that would have served him well as a police officer. Right now he wore that look of unease he got when the Dollhouse’s practices became even more morally ambiguous than usual.

Not that there was anything ambiguous about Mr. Dominic. He was a spy, and spies certainly didn’t get second chances in the Dollhouse. Mr. Dominic had known that as well as she did.

“The Attic is an unfortunate but necessary part of the Dollhouse,” she said, in the kind of clipped, emphatically British tone that said this conversation was over. “Now, tell me the progress on our actives’ engagements.”

* * *

A week passes, and then another. The ache in her side diminishes but the strange pain in her chest does not. Whenever she hears Langdon’s thumping knock, her shoulders slump a little. She can’t walk by Topher’s lab without flashing back to that day. She relives it over and over: the light, the intelligence, the soul extinguished from those blue eyes staring into her.

In an instant.

At these times her eyes begin to itch and she has to hurry away at a brisk, undignified pace and tell herself it’s only the fluorescent lights making her blink.

She often can’t sleep and finds herself reading late into the night, until her eyes close from exhaustion and all she sees is black, instead of bright, terrible blue. She falls asleep lying on her back, the fingers of one hand splayed over her scar.

* * *

“Come in,” she says in answer to the tap on her door.

He enters. “Good morning, ma’am.”

“Good morning, Mr. Dominic.”

He looks more handsome than usual in a crisp suit that is so pale blue it is almost white. It emphasizes the
robin’s egg color of his eyes. She never compliments his attire because it just wouldn’t be professional, but she always notices the little things.

“And how are we today?” she asks.

He approaches, takes his seat in the chair in front of her desk when she gestures at it, and tells her about the day’s engagements. Everything is running smoothly, and he finishes his explanation with a rare smile, the unique Lawrence Dominic smile that carries a hint of smugness and is almost a smirk.

Because he knows he is good at his job, she thinks. And he is proud. She likes a man who doesn’t feign modesty.

“Very good, Mr. Dominic,” she says, smiling at him in return. They stand. No one would have been able to tell who moved first. He goes straight to the door and holds it open for her as he does every day when they set off on their round. This is her favorite part of the day. Strolling the halls with Mr. Dominic- he always starts one step behind her and somehow ends up at her side by the end of their route- she feels like they are rulers protecting their domain, proudly surveying the fruits of their combined labor.

Yes, she and Mr. Dominic are a fine partnership. It’s the one aspect of her endlessly problematic and risky job that never causes her uncertainty.

* * *

Every morning her cheeks are wet when she wakes.