一道 (ichi·dou)  

ichidou:

Epsilon dreams in lines of code. Set during S10E17. So this episode basically took all of my headcanon and made it easily translatable to canon. This was how I interpreted it. I’ve had the first line in my head since last week, but I’m glad I waited to write the rest of the fic.

Epsilon dreams in lines of code.

He sees patterns reflected in everything, from the tap-tap-tap of the medics circling the table, checking over the flesh that isn’t his (except it is, now, they’re one and the same) and the hum of the lights above, the subtle frequency that he shouldn’t be able to detect.

He paints pictures in numbers and letters, in loops of functions and parameters, each one spiralling into inevitable failure. He can do it — he has all the pieces, all the variables, all the answers — and yet every single iteration returns errors that slice through every firewall he puts up.

He should— he should be able to do this, he knows he can find the right constructor, he just needs more time, only the Director keeps coming back before he can finish, before he can see every possible conclusion to its end result, and it’s out there, he knows, it’s not impossible ( he is logicragecreativity there is nothing he can’t do ) but he can’t reach it—

Wash’s mind is too small. He’s not a row of memory banks allocated just for him, room enough to spread out and drain every bit of power he can from them, he’s just bone and flesh and blood and he’s weak, too weak to do what he has to ( he has to save her he can’t let her die not again not again ) but he won’t give up, he won’t—

He still has time. He just needs Wash to understand.

( even the dead wait dreaming for salvation )

He reaches out the only way he knows how — in databanks, in twice-backed-up copies, in files and folders clustered close to his intangible heart. He translates encryptions into emotions, recordsets into recollections, and it’s not perfect ( she was, but only to him ) but it carries the essence of her, the little he has left—

( stop it, put that thing down )

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#larissa is my favorite writer when it comes to these two characters #like #ever #of all time #there i’ve filled my shitty of all time joke quota for the day

;o; that is incredibly flattering, thank you. Thanks for the reblog, and I’m glad you liked it!

Epsilon dreams in lines of code. Set during S10E17. So this episode basically took all of my headcanon and made it easily translatable to canon. This was how I interpreted it. I’ve had the first line in my head since last week, but I’m glad I waited to write the rest of the fic.

Epsilon dreams in lines of code.

He sees patterns reflected in everything, from the tap-tap-tap of the medics circling the table, checking over the flesh that isn’t his (except it is, now, they’re one and the same) and the hum of the lights above, the subtle frequency that he shouldn’t be able to detect.

He paints pictures in numbers and letters, in loops of functions and parameters, each one spiralling into inevitable failure. He can do it — he has all the pieces, all the variables, all the answers — and yet every single iteration returns errors that slice through every firewall he puts up.

He should— he should be able to do this, he knows he can find the right constructor, he just needs more time, only the Director keeps coming back before he can finish, before he can see every possible conclusion to its end result, and it’s out there, he knows, it’s not impossible ( he is logicragecreativity there is nothing he can’t do ) but he can’t reach it—

Wash’s mind is too small. He’s not a row of memory banks allocated just for him, room enough to spread out and drain every bit of power he can from them, he’s just bone and flesh and blood and he’s weak, too weak to do what he has to ( he has to save her he can’t let her die not again not again ) but he won’t give up, he won’t—

He still has time. He just needs Wash to understand.

( even the dead wait dreaming for salvation )

He reaches out the only way he knows how — in databanks, in twice-backed-up copies, in files and folders clustered close to his intangible heart. He translates encryptions into emotions, recordsets into recollections, and it’s not perfect ( she was, but only to him ) but it carries the essence of her, the little he has left—

( stop it, put that thing down )

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In which Church lies in bed and thinks about certain differences between himself and his boyfriend.

Prompt was “bodytype swap.” This was as IC as I could get it but it’s still utterly ridiculous and absurd. But hey, I wrote it for fun.

But, uh. If you thought the last one was ridiculous and absurd, this is much, much worse.

It’s not that he’s jealous, exactly. Leonard Church doesn’t get jealous— at least, not over things as meaningless as appearances. Sure, he’s never been all that fit, but that’s just what comes with spending so much time buried in old books and piles of term papers to read, and honestly he has better things to do than spend all his time working out.

(That, and Allison had put him to shame for so many years that he’d simply stopped bothering.)

It’s different with Wash, though. He’d appreciated the male form before they’d started this thing of theirs, sure, but never quite this much, and certainly not with this close a view. Sexuality itself had always been a non-issue, with Church — Allison had simply swept into his life and dragged him along with her, and it had been Wash’s dogged persistence that had won over in the end, not the breadth of his shoulders. (Not that he minded those. Not at all.)

But the fact remains that Wash is that much broader, that much stronger, and Church can’t help but compare the two. It’s how he is with everything, how he’s always been, ever since he’d entered in his first school science fair and come second place — a feat he’d sworn to surpass in everything he did since.

Wash isn’t the kind of guy who’s overly concerned with the way he looks, Church has found. Sure, he takes care to clean himself up and look neat, but he only dresses up when he really wants to impress someone. (He always did dress better for Church’s class.) It’s what’s underneath that Church is more interested in, and he never can seem to keep his hands off Wash when they’re alone, exploring the smooth planes of muscle and that perfect little dip at the small of his back.

Wash has a swimmer’s physique, and it shows. He’s lean and solid, each muscle built up just enough, and there’s a certain grace to the way he moves both in the water and out. For all that they’re about the same height, Church can’t help but feel much smaller against him, never having filled out quite as much nor put effort into it since.

He can’t help but remember all the things Allison used to call him — scrawny, bony, all elbows and knees — and though it was something he’d come to expect from her, he’s never gotten anything of the sort from Wash. If anything, Wash seems to go out of his way to help Church along, whether by carrying his books on the way to class or picking up groceries for him. It’s not that Church needs the help — it’s just that the less time he spends worrying about such trivial things the more he has for his work.

(And for all that he’d loved about her, Allison had never understood that.)

And yet, here he is, curled up against Wash’s side, one strong arm wrapped around his shoulders to keep him close. Wash looks perfectly content like this, and it makes Church scowl all the more. He doesn’t have to worry about this — he’s fine, the idiot. The stupid, horribly attractive idiot.

Church sighs. Wash keeps snoring.

It’s kind of cute, really.

(Church wonders what the hell happened to him.)

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After the disastrous match between Carolina and Tex, Wash tries to understand just what had gone wrong. Set after S10E15.

This, uh, was not the fic I sat down to write this morning, but it’s what came out.

Wash doesn’t understand.

They tell him it’s okay, because he can’t understand right now— he doesn’t have an A.I., and he doesn’t know what the headsplitting pain feels like for himself— empty echoes of a woman’s name reverberating in his skull. He has nothing but confusion and his usual stubborn naivete, and it’s enough to be there for them, right now.

(But it scares him, because he’s never seen York this shaken up, and even North looks worried, more than Wash knows he’ll admit to.)

He’s been half-listening to South yelling through the walls for about twenty minutes now, about how there’s no goddamn way North should be worried for her getting an A.I. after what’d they just seen, and he understands the danger. Wash is good at understanding, it’s just that he trails behind the others sometimes and takes longer to get there. He knows A.I. implantation is a risk, but he’s seen what they can do on the field, and he knows they’re worth it.

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Prompt from Zeus - teacher/student fic with Director/Wash. AU as hell, and I’m pretty sure there is nothing remotely IC about it, but, uh. I had fun writing it? She gave me a couple other prompts under this pairing; I’ll probably write them within the scope of this AU.

Wash still doesn’t know why he’s in this class — he just needed something to fill his math reqs, that’s all, and how he’d landed in advanced theoretical calculations is anyone’s guess. He spends more time in the library than in his room, these days, poring over pages and pages of meaningless calculations, and fuck if they don’t make the slightest goddamn bit of sense.

It’s only when he gets a D back on the first exam that Wash swallows his pride and goes to see Dr. Church in person, intending to apologize for how badly he’s doing and maybe grovel a little to see if he’ll at least curve it. All he’s heard about Dr. Church is that he’s hard on his students, that he doesn’t cut anyone any slack, but there’s something about the way the professor looks at him that seems to calm him down, somehow.

“I assure you, David. You will do well in my class, even if I have to see to it myself.”

He touches Wash’s shoulder, squeezing just a shade more than can really be called familiar, and it sends a shiver down his spine, one that sticks with him long into the afternoon.

His study sessions move from the library to Dr. Church’s office, and each one ends up being a little more casual than the last. Church isn’t all that much older than Wash, just having finished up his postdoctoral work a couple years ago, and his hair’s starting to go gray around the edges — stress, Church says, and a few too many unruly students — but there’s something about the distance behind his gaze that speaks to something Wash doesn’t dare bring up.

But they get along on more levels than either one expected, and though Wash really has no mind for math or the high-level science that fascinates Church so much, they end up in spirited discussions about history, philosophy, and all the politics either of them can stand well into the afternoons.

It’s the kind of intellectual camaraderie Church hasn’t felt since he left graduate school, even if it’s on an entirely different level — he’s more intelligent than Wash, certainly, but his student has a surprising thrist for knowledge, and it’s not long before they start meeting in the coffeeshop by campus instead of in the tiny office Church has to squeeze into.

(Wash is a coffee connoisseur, Church finds, and though he’s never given much care to the taste of his coffee so long as it has as much caffeine as physically possible, Wash’s insistence on trying out all sorts of blends gives him some appreciation for it over time.)

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ichidou:

He knows she’s not Allison, but the Director has always had trouble remembering that when it comes to Agent Texas, especially when she slams him down against his desk before he can protest.

For all that their relationship fascinates me, I’d never actually written it out. This was my attempt at exploring just how fucked up they are, with many thanks to Sabrina for the beta. Contains dubcon, pegging, and robot sex. Obviously NSFW.

He knows she’s not Allison.

With Allison, it was never about fucking — it was about digging into flesh with razor-sharp teeth, biting into the crook of his neck as she dug nailmarks into his chest, always just shy of drawing blood unless she was in the taste for it. It was about owning him in every sense of the word, of making him bend to her and take whatever she offered, just for the promise of another brush of her soldier-rough fingers over his scientist-smooth skin, and he’d loved every minute of it. For all their differences — for all the ways that brought them to this, yet another argument turned into the slam of her hips into his, she’d still give him a roll of those gorgeous green eyes afterwards and tell him what a fucking moron he was for leaving his papers strewn all over their apartment, again.

(And it was okay, because he had her, and no matter how annoyed he’d been at the moment, he’d never, ever understood how much those stupid arguments meant until it was far too late.)

With Allison, there had been something there — something intangible, no matter what bruises she left on his hips, no matter how badly their place would get trashed after a fight, and no matter if they both found it difficult to put what was they had into soft, emotional words instead of snarled curses. There was always later to figure it all out: when things settled down, when he wasn’t swamped with post-graduate work and she wasn’t being called away for one maneuver or another. There had just been the quiet, when things were calm, when she’d steal all the covers and leave him freezing save for the warmth of the cat curled up against his stomach.

(And he knows it was love, but he hadn’t known what love was until it was gone.)

But Texas isn’t Allison.

She has her voice, the easy gait of her steps, each one strong and sure and unfaltering, the speed of her punches (and a hundredfold on top of that, because she won’t fail, she won’t get hurt, she’ll be safe), the same dry sarcasm dripping from every word, and she’s close, but not quite.

Church has learned to make do.

Texas doesn’t tear at him the same way Allison did— instead of breaking his arm she could crush his bones if she pushed too hard, but the echoes of her are so strong that he doesn’t care. He bends for her just as easily as he ever did to Allison, and if he breaks— well. At least it’ll have been worth it.

Texas is no gentler than Allison ever was, not that he’s wanted anything different, but it’s been a long time since he’s been shoved over his desk as a gloved hand works his belt open, fingers curling over his shaft through his underwear, and his knees aren’t what they used to be. She’s laughing, though, that metallic chuckle that’s so goddamn close to what he remembers that the pain slips out of his mind entirely.

“Can’t believe you still wear the same stupid fucking tighty-whiteys,” she sneers, just like she used to, and he loves her for it all the more. “What are you, twelve?”

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shamelessly reblogs this because of tonight’s episode and gives no fucks

texelations:

ichidou:

He knows she’s not Allison, but the Director has always had trouble remembering that when it comes to Agent Texas, especially when she slams him down against his desk before he can protest.

For all that their relationship fascinates me, I’d never actually written it out. This was my attempt at exploring just how fucked up they are, with many thanks to Sabrina for the beta. Contains dubcon, pegging, and robot sex. Obviously NSFW.

He knows she’s not Allison.

OMG

This is so amazing, it’s not even the NSFW part either. Just, so much about the way the past and his memories manifest in her just tear little snarls out of his soul. And how much he wants it but he just can’t have it, and it’s too close for comfort when he does.

Unghhughg’

Just perfect

Oh man, thank you. C: That’s what I was going for, really - to really get into Church’s head and see it all from his perspective, and then take it from there to show just how fucked up it all is. I’m glad you liked it!