"candles on your cake, set the house on fire" (PG; Topher, Sierra)
Title: candles on your cake, set the house on fire
Author: oonaseckar
Pairing/Characters: Topher, Sierra
Rating: PG
Warnings: Swearing and profanity.
Spoilers: 'Haunted' from Season 1
Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any claim in any respect regarding the TV show Dollhouse or any aspect or character thereof.
Word Count: 980 approximately.
A/N Crossposted from my LJ. I have perused comm rules as far as I am able, but me and destructions do not play well together. If I have transgressed then no doubt the mods will rip up and destroy my little fic without requiring any permission from me. Sure, crush my dreams, trample my aspirations... I'm used to it. But can I have an author tag while you do it.
candles on your cake, set the house on fire
'Have a beer and a smoke and don't open your mouth.'
Warsaw Pack, 'War On Drugs'.
No-one wants to be alone on his birthday, right. Real or synthesized. It’s not that big a deal to seek out a little company, feminine company for preference.
Boyd is on assignment anyway so it’s not like it's going to be a buddy night.
Echo’s always number one, obviously, being the most perfect blank slate. And the most convincing lesbian. He always makes them lesbians. It’s just all so much simpler that way. No possibility of mutual sexual tension equals no temptation to make a move equals no having to make ethical choices. Or fail to make them. Plus he often throws a lot of lovely dead cousin Sara in there, so there’s the whole semi-incest Deliverance element. Usefully gross, unless you're so inclined.
Claire used to be his second choice before the whole debacle debacle, probably because she was the most fun, the most natural girl to have a geek guy night in with ever. Echo only took precedence because, well, it was too easy to feel fond of Claire, and that was a potential mess of sticky gumbo.
He knows it's not a good idea. Maybe if he didn't know Adelle knows full well, giving him implied permission... No. There's no way he can blame Adelle, any more than a cat is to blame for all the dead birds on your doorstep. She knows no different. He kind of does: if he thinks about it really rigorously, till his eyes start to ache in his skull.
He finds it hard to grasp ethical concepts, is aware of the skills gap in his resume. Just because it’s HARD, and he’s used to everything coming easily, too easily. He was always the Dick Diver of CalTech. Everything's fun and easy, at least until it's boring as shit. He doesn’t really want to put the labour in, when he could be catching bouquets and accepting accolades for doing what he’d do for entertainment anyway.
So he knows what he's doing, and all of the ways he's a sick boy, but he makes her and mixes her up like a pudding just the same, and then he unwraps his gift for the night. She's perfect, springing up demanding games and beer and joshing him with hard shoulder bumps, the most physical contact he's had in a while. It's all he wants: the other stuff he can pay for elsewhere, and feel a lot less implicated. He'd sooner tell his mother about that, than this.
Slouched on the couch, they make a list of all-time most do-able females ever, and a list of the most terrifying. There is some crossover. ‘Famke’s getting a bit MILFy for the list,’ Sierra opines, arms out and beer precariously upended over her upper lip. She’s talking at the same time. Topher pretends not to notice until he’s mastered it too.
'Fuckin' infidel,' he complains, but makes with the red highlighter.
They fight over Emma Watson’s inclusion, largely because Topher, according to Sierra, is insufficiently picky over hair length. ‘Prior to the urchin?’ She looks amazed. ‘We’ll just skate over your inexplicable lapse of taste there. Now, EllenBarkinJulianaMarguliesSaraGilbert, that’s the top five done,’ she mumbles.
But Topher exercises his birthday right of veto to swap out Ellen Barkin for Julia Stiles. Cue vomiting noises and moose howls of outrage from Sierra.
‘Hey, it’s my birthday,’ Topher reminds her. ‘Everybody gets a birthday wish. Plus I can make her believe I'm Jason Bourne.’
Sierra eyes him sceptically. 'Yeah, because that's credible. There's not enough tequila in the world, bub...'
Topher just puts a finger to his long nose, smiles enigmatically.
He could make her a girlfriend, next time, he thinks. Oh, not for threesome purposes! He isn't sure who he's assuring, reassuring. Himself, maybe. It's always teetering on the edge of dubious. He just can't give it up yet. Maybe a third party would ease the tension. It's not like he'd be implanting girlie make-out suggestions for the evening, which he'd just happen to stumble in on... No. For the dear Lord's sake, no.
Echo would be the ideal candidate, if he was, though.
They fall asleep on the couch, around five a.m. After the drinking game based around the first half season of the eleventh Doctor, glasses up every time Russell T. Davies writes something punchable. Some length of time after the nerd decathlon, where she crushes him like a tiny man in her tiny hand, despite all weighting and allowances. Her triumph is such, he hasn't the heart to tell her of the unfair advantages her print knows nothing of. Way too long after she makes him read her The Green Mile to relax, and he makes her read him Storm Constantine. She protests way more than him, even though it's a totally less embarrassing choice. He likes the chicks with dicks thing and he's not ashamed. With her? It would be silly.
When they wake on the couch, in the artificially synthesized dawn, he doesn't want to say it. The trigger, the question, the one that's followed by an abrupt removal of downloaded information, and waking up on sticky sweaty leather with the mother of headaches. Not knowing a damn thing. With the I.Q. of Edam.
He doesn't want to fuck her, or to remake and rewire her to choose him. He just wants her to stay. Even with what Rossum pay, that he can't afford.
She's not in love with him. He didn't make her that way. But every time he's starting to be a little more in love with her, or some facsimile thereof. Even if it's just from proximity and habit, this is the closest to a human bond he has now.
Everyone gets a birthday wish. That doesn't mean they wish for anything smart.
Author: oonaseckar
Pairing/Characters: Topher, Sierra
Rating: PG
Warnings: Swearing and profanity.
Spoilers: 'Haunted' from Season 1
Disclaimer: I do not own nor make any claim in any respect regarding the TV show Dollhouse or any aspect or character thereof.
Word Count: 980 approximately.
A/N Crossposted from my LJ. I have perused comm rules as far as I am able, but me and destructions do not play well together. If I have transgressed then no doubt the mods will rip up and destroy my little fic without requiring any permission from me. Sure, crush my dreams, trample my aspirations... I'm used to it. But can I have an author tag while you do it.
candles on your cake, set the house on fire
'Have a beer and a smoke and don't open your mouth.'
Warsaw Pack, 'War On Drugs'.
No-one wants to be alone on his birthday, right. Real or synthesized. It’s not that big a deal to seek out a little company, feminine company for preference.
Boyd is on assignment anyway so it’s not like it's going to be a buddy night.
Echo’s always number one, obviously, being the most perfect blank slate. And the most convincing lesbian. He always makes them lesbians. It’s just all so much simpler that way. No possibility of mutual sexual tension equals no temptation to make a move equals no having to make ethical choices. Or fail to make them. Plus he often throws a lot of lovely dead cousin Sara in there, so there’s the whole semi-incest Deliverance element. Usefully gross, unless you're so inclined.
Claire used to be his second choice before the whole debacle debacle, probably because she was the most fun, the most natural girl to have a geek guy night in with ever. Echo only took precedence because, well, it was too easy to feel fond of Claire, and that was a potential mess of sticky gumbo.
He knows it's not a good idea. Maybe if he didn't know Adelle knows full well, giving him implied permission... No. There's no way he can blame Adelle, any more than a cat is to blame for all the dead birds on your doorstep. She knows no different. He kind of does: if he thinks about it really rigorously, till his eyes start to ache in his skull.
He finds it hard to grasp ethical concepts, is aware of the skills gap in his resume. Just because it’s HARD, and he’s used to everything coming easily, too easily. He was always the Dick Diver of CalTech. Everything's fun and easy, at least until it's boring as shit. He doesn’t really want to put the labour in, when he could be catching bouquets and accepting accolades for doing what he’d do for entertainment anyway.
So he knows what he's doing, and all of the ways he's a sick boy, but he makes her and mixes her up like a pudding just the same, and then he unwraps his gift for the night. She's perfect, springing up demanding games and beer and joshing him with hard shoulder bumps, the most physical contact he's had in a while. It's all he wants: the other stuff he can pay for elsewhere, and feel a lot less implicated. He'd sooner tell his mother about that, than this.
Slouched on the couch, they make a list of all-time most do-able females ever, and a list of the most terrifying. There is some crossover. ‘Famke’s getting a bit MILFy for the list,’ Sierra opines, arms out and beer precariously upended over her upper lip. She’s talking at the same time. Topher pretends not to notice until he’s mastered it too.
'Fuckin' infidel,' he complains, but makes with the red highlighter.
They fight over Emma Watson’s inclusion, largely because Topher, according to Sierra, is insufficiently picky over hair length. ‘Prior to the urchin?’ She looks amazed. ‘We’ll just skate over your inexplicable lapse of taste there. Now, EllenBarkinJulianaMarguliesSaraGilbert, that’s the top five done,’ she mumbles.
But Topher exercises his birthday right of veto to swap out Ellen Barkin for Julia Stiles. Cue vomiting noises and moose howls of outrage from Sierra.
‘Hey, it’s my birthday,’ Topher reminds her. ‘Everybody gets a birthday wish. Plus I can make her believe I'm Jason Bourne.’
Sierra eyes him sceptically. 'Yeah, because that's credible. There's not enough tequila in the world, bub...'
Topher just puts a finger to his long nose, smiles enigmatically.
He could make her a girlfriend, next time, he thinks. Oh, not for threesome purposes! He isn't sure who he's assuring, reassuring. Himself, maybe. It's always teetering on the edge of dubious. He just can't give it up yet. Maybe a third party would ease the tension. It's not like he'd be implanting girlie make-out suggestions for the evening, which he'd just happen to stumble in on... No. For the dear Lord's sake, no.
Echo would be the ideal candidate, if he was, though.
They fall asleep on the couch, around five a.m. After the drinking game based around the first half season of the eleventh Doctor, glasses up every time Russell T. Davies writes something punchable. Some length of time after the nerd decathlon, where she crushes him like a tiny man in her tiny hand, despite all weighting and allowances. Her triumph is such, he hasn't the heart to tell her of the unfair advantages her print knows nothing of. Way too long after she makes him read her The Green Mile to relax, and he makes her read him Storm Constantine. She protests way more than him, even though it's a totally less embarrassing choice. He likes the chicks with dicks thing and he's not ashamed. With her? It would be silly.
When they wake on the couch, in the artificially synthesized dawn, he doesn't want to say it. The trigger, the question, the one that's followed by an abrupt removal of downloaded information, and waking up on sticky sweaty leather with the mother of headaches. Not knowing a damn thing. With the I.Q. of Edam.
He doesn't want to fuck her, or to remake and rewire her to choose him. He just wants her to stay. Even with what Rossum pay, that he can't afford.
She's not in love with him. He didn't make her that way. But every time he's starting to be a little more in love with her, or some facsimile thereof. Even if it's just from proximity and habit, this is the closest to a human bond he has now.
Everyone gets a birthday wish. That doesn't mean they wish for anything smart.