Title: A Collection of Drabbles (Part 5)
Fandom: Dollhouse
Pairings/Characters: Includes: Topher/Adelle, DeWitt/Dominic, Adelle
Rating: T
Spoilers: Up to Epitaph: Return
Disclaimer: Dollhouse does not belong to me.
Author's Notes: I seem to have accumulated a number of drabbles that I don't think I've posted here specifically. They've all been written for different occassions, but most for whedonland. Each part contains five drabbles. Some are exactly 100 words, others are over.

Topher, Adelle, Epitaph 2

'You're not coming back,' she realises, and Adelle feels like her heart's breaking into pieces, crumbling to the floor along with the dreams of the two of them side by side. iTopher!/i her mind screams. She wants to cry, to rave, to lock him up and refuse to let him go. She can't let him go, not when she just got him back. It's not fair.

But that's the point, she supposes. None of this is fair. And this is the price they will pay for their sins. He will die and she... she will struggle on without him. This is their reward.

/

DeWitt/Dominic, Pre-/During-Series

They're the couple everyone wants to be. Striding through the halls of the Dollhouse side by side, arms swinging (occasionally touching), awesome clothes and matching expressions of scorn and detachment. There's this aura around them; they seem to just exude cool.

Sometimes he leans in too close to hear what she's saying when he could easily be a few inches back. Sometimes she laughs when he cracks a joke, and her eyes light up as she watches him.

Judith thinks they might just be the most perfect thing that ever existed, though she might be a bit biased. Still, there's something about DeWitt and Dominic that, she thinks, anyone would see that they're meant to be.

/

Dominic, Epitaph

He screams, just to hear the sound escape his throat. Just to prove he's still alive. He's still here. He's still fighting. And right now there's half a dozen butchers wanting to take a bite out of him. He jumps up onto a ledge and empties a cartridge into the air for the thrill of it. He should be worrying about the limited amount of ammo they have left or about the butchers he should be aiming at but he's so high right now he doesn't give a fuck.

He jumps off the ledge, shouts again, and then takes off through the trees. The butchers give chase, but they're thick and awkward, lumbering along. He runs, his blood pumping in his veins and pounding in his ears. He feels alive. He feels more alive than he has in years. He speeds up, zipping through the trees. The butchers have long fallen behind. He's running just for himself now. Just for himself and the exhilaration of being free.