Fic post: Data Collection
Aug. 29th, 2018 07:11 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
enemyofperfectSo here's a little fic that I wrote almost three years ago, revised more than two years ago, and only just got around to uploading this week. Story of my fannish life, I guess. But better late than never!
Title: Data Collection
Fandom: Person of Interest
Characters: Harold Finch, the Machine, Grace Hendricks
Rating: Mature Themes
Contains: Inanimate pronouns for artificial superintelligences, canon-compatible matchmaking, awkward conversations with a Machine that sees everything.
Word count: 1,241
Summary: The first time the Machine flagged explicit pornography for Harold's attention, he thought it was confused by the use of handcuffs and floggers.
Read on the AO3, or here!
The first time the Machine flagged explicit pornography for Harold's attention, he thought it was confused by the use of handcuffs and floggers. "It's an understandable mistake," he told it, once he'd quickly minimized the video. "But remember when we talked about acting?"
The Machine brought up a still that left very little doubt as to the physical reality of the sex act being portrayed. "Yes, yes, I'm not questioning that," Harold said, closing the window entirely this time. At mid-afternoon on a Thursday, the park wasn't especially crowded, but he really had very little desire to attract the attention of passers-by. "But the other elements--that's a sort of acting that a number of people practice, very frequently for no audience at all. It might look violent, but as long as all the participants are willing, it's not a crime. You could think of it as a kind of private game." And then, after they'd gone over a few different ways of trying to determine the presence or absence of consent, he'd thought the matter was settled.
Several days and an assortment of highly specialized niche markets later, Harold had to admit that perhaps the Machine was simply curious about sex. "I'm not sure what to tell you," he said, feeling a little helpless. In hindsight, his amusement when the time had come for Nathan to explain certain facts of life to young Will had been slightly insensitive. "You already know that many people find it strongly motivating. If you're looking for an explanation of the appeal, I'm afraid it's one of those things that doesn't really translate."
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the Machine had produced a multivariate framework for understanding humankind's diversity of sexual interests--profoundly multivariate, given that it rapidly scrolled through several screens and gave no signs of running out. "I stand corrected," Harold said dryly. "But if you're already an expert, why are you asking me?"
There was a brief pause, as if the Machine was hesitating--or, far more likely, their conversation had become a momentary casualty of network congestion--and then it replied, QUANTITATIVE RESEARCH IS NOT ALWAYS ADEQUATE.
"Well, that's true enough." Harold sighed. "So, what is it that you want to know about these...exceptionally messy hockey players?"
Eventually, the Machine's interest seemed to die back down, and although there were a few new images burned into Harold's mind that he doubted he'd ever be able to unsee (and even one or two he didn't want to), he filed it away as just another wobble in the ongoing learning curve of his creation. Compared to the months-long ordeal that was the Machine's struggle to understand humor, and its all-too crucial cousin, irony, the embarrassment factor of a few inconveniently timed screenings of visual erotica was hardly worth a moment's thought.
And there were always new anomalies to deal with, new and interesting challenges to explore.
#
More than three years Harold and Grace had been together, and the integration of their morning routines was still a dynamic work in progress, a creative hotbed of unexpected conjunctions and exciting happenstance. Harold could not for the life of him find his shoes.
"Maybe Izzy ate them," Grace called from the bathroom--unlikely, since each shoe was larger than the small dog's head, but anything seemed possible at this point. "What's the weather supposed to be like?"
Harold gave up on footwear for the time being and cast about for a computer instead. "It's been warm the last few days," he said, unhelpfully: he remembered now the same weather report she was undoubtedly thinking of, which had expressed uncertainty as to whether a cold front should be expected. That had been shortly before they went to bed, and suddenly he could see exactly where his laptop was: on the end table beside the couch downstairs, where he'd put it to make room for Grace to rest her feet. But there was Grace's sleekly overhyped notebook, charging on the floor beside the bed.
"I just need to know how to dress," she said, voice raised a little higher as she started the shower running. "You can pick something out for me, can't you? It's just for running around outside, so don't worry if there's paint--" The shower curtain rattled shut.
Her browser was always a little slow to start--a consequence of her innate curiosity and reluctance to close interesting tabs--and Harold was gazing peacefully through the screen when it finally remembered where it had left off, a circumstance which probably contributed to his shock when the video loaded.
"Oh my good lord," he said, feeling an immediate surge of mortification at viewing pornography on Grace's computer--except, no, it was Grace's pornography; surely she wouldn't mind--except she would mind, that was even worse: it was Grace's pornography, and he was looking at it-- In a moment of irrational panic, he backspaced out, but that only showed him an entire selection of erotica; clearly he was not thinking this through. Or maintaining very good control of his fine motor coordination, evidently, because his fingers, unbidden, spasmed on the keys again--
Harold stared, utterly arrested, as a new video began to play. As quickly as he could, he hit pause.
It didn't matter if it played or not: he knew what happened next. He remembered the exact arch of the woman's neck, and the way the man lowered his head to brush his lips against it.
He had never known what site the clip was from, only that it was the most memorable of a vivid and varied miscellany, but as he raised his eyes to the address bar, he was distracted by an icon beside it--the bookmark button, star-shaped, and already lit.
Almost without willing it, he clicked: edit this bookmark.
It was the only item in that folder.
It was the single most erotic scene Harold had ever seen captured in any medium--or participated in, prior to meeting Grace.
They were so, so happy together. Of course he'd known that Grace was one in a million from the very start--
Or one out of more than eight million living within the city per the latest census, as the case might be.
A noisy sputter of plumbing brought him back to himself. Grace wasn't done with her shower yet, but when she was, she'd need to get dressed. The shelter she volunteered at was holding a special event for the children today.
When Grace emerged, freshly scrubbed and dabbing with a towel at her hair, her notebook was exactly as it had been, and Harold had set out a layered outfit appropriate to the cooler temperatures currently predicted. A smile broke onto her face when she saw what he'd selected. "You say you're not an artist, but you have such an eye for color, Harold."
"It isn't difficult," he demurred. "You've filled your wardrobe with things that go together." He was trying very hard to concentrate on tying his shoes and swallowing his heart back out of his throat.
She dropped a kiss on top of his head before beginning to dress. "Sometimes I still can't believe how well we fit," she said, and his heart thudded again, overburdened by a welter of emotions more complex than he could decipher.
I can.
Title: Data Collection
Fandom: Person of Interest
Characters: Harold Finch, the Machine, Grace Hendricks
Rating: Mature Themes
Contains: Inanimate pronouns for artificial superintelligences, canon-compatible matchmaking, awkward conversations with a Machine that sees everything.
Word count: 1,241
Summary: The first time the Machine flagged explicit pornography for Harold's attention, he thought it was confused by the use of handcuffs and floggers.
Read on the AO3, or here!
The first time the Machine flagged explicit pornography for Harold's attention, he thought it was confused by the use of handcuffs and floggers. "It's an understandable mistake," he told it, once he'd quickly minimized the video. "But remember when we talked about acting?"
The Machine brought up a still that left very little doubt as to the physical reality of the sex act being portrayed. "Yes, yes, I'm not questioning that," Harold said, closing the window entirely this time. At mid-afternoon on a Thursday, the park wasn't especially crowded, but he really had very little desire to attract the attention of passers-by. "But the other elements--that's a sort of acting that a number of people practice, very frequently for no audience at all. It might look violent, but as long as all the participants are willing, it's not a crime. You could think of it as a kind of private game." And then, after they'd gone over a few different ways of trying to determine the presence or absence of consent, he'd thought the matter was settled.
Several days and an assortment of highly specialized niche markets later, Harold had to admit that perhaps the Machine was simply curious about sex. "I'm not sure what to tell you," he said, feeling a little helpless. In hindsight, his amusement when the time had come for Nathan to explain certain facts of life to young Will had been slightly insensitive. "You already know that many people find it strongly motivating. If you're looking for an explanation of the appeal, I'm afraid it's one of those things that doesn't really translate."
Almost before the words were out of his mouth, the Machine had produced a multivariate framework for understanding humankind's diversity of sexual interests--profoundly multivariate, given that it rapidly scrolled through several screens and gave no signs of running out. "I stand corrected," Harold said dryly. "But if you're already an expert, why are you asking me?"
There was a brief pause, as if the Machine was hesitating--or, far more likely, their conversation had become a momentary casualty of network congestion--and then it replied, QUANTITATIVE RESEARCH IS NOT ALWAYS ADEQUATE.
"Well, that's true enough." Harold sighed. "So, what is it that you want to know about these...exceptionally messy hockey players?"
Eventually, the Machine's interest seemed to die back down, and although there were a few new images burned into Harold's mind that he doubted he'd ever be able to unsee (and even one or two he didn't want to), he filed it away as just another wobble in the ongoing learning curve of his creation. Compared to the months-long ordeal that was the Machine's struggle to understand humor, and its all-too crucial cousin, irony, the embarrassment factor of a few inconveniently timed screenings of visual erotica was hardly worth a moment's thought.
And there were always new anomalies to deal with, new and interesting challenges to explore.
#
More than three years Harold and Grace had been together, and the integration of their morning routines was still a dynamic work in progress, a creative hotbed of unexpected conjunctions and exciting happenstance. Harold could not for the life of him find his shoes.
"Maybe Izzy ate them," Grace called from the bathroom--unlikely, since each shoe was larger than the small dog's head, but anything seemed possible at this point. "What's the weather supposed to be like?"
Harold gave up on footwear for the time being and cast about for a computer instead. "It's been warm the last few days," he said, unhelpfully: he remembered now the same weather report she was undoubtedly thinking of, which had expressed uncertainty as to whether a cold front should be expected. That had been shortly before they went to bed, and suddenly he could see exactly where his laptop was: on the end table beside the couch downstairs, where he'd put it to make room for Grace to rest her feet. But there was Grace's sleekly overhyped notebook, charging on the floor beside the bed.
"I just need to know how to dress," she said, voice raised a little higher as she started the shower running. "You can pick something out for me, can't you? It's just for running around outside, so don't worry if there's paint--" The shower curtain rattled shut.
Her browser was always a little slow to start--a consequence of her innate curiosity and reluctance to close interesting tabs--and Harold was gazing peacefully through the screen when it finally remembered where it had left off, a circumstance which probably contributed to his shock when the video loaded.
"Oh my good lord," he said, feeling an immediate surge of mortification at viewing pornography on Grace's computer--except, no, it was Grace's pornography; surely she wouldn't mind--except she would mind, that was even worse: it was Grace's pornography, and he was looking at it-- In a moment of irrational panic, he backspaced out, but that only showed him an entire selection of erotica; clearly he was not thinking this through. Or maintaining very good control of his fine motor coordination, evidently, because his fingers, unbidden, spasmed on the keys again--
Harold stared, utterly arrested, as a new video began to play. As quickly as he could, he hit pause.
It didn't matter if it played or not: he knew what happened next. He remembered the exact arch of the woman's neck, and the way the man lowered his head to brush his lips against it.
He had never known what site the clip was from, only that it was the most memorable of a vivid and varied miscellany, but as he raised his eyes to the address bar, he was distracted by an icon beside it--the bookmark button, star-shaped, and already lit.
Almost without willing it, he clicked: edit this bookmark.
pre-Raphaelites
wikipedia AGAIN
candles
and by candles I mean sex
best
very best
special occasions only
It was the only item in that folder.
It was the single most erotic scene Harold had ever seen captured in any medium--or participated in, prior to meeting Grace.
They were so, so happy together. Of course he'd known that Grace was one in a million from the very start--
Or one out of more than eight million living within the city per the latest census, as the case might be.
A noisy sputter of plumbing brought him back to himself. Grace wasn't done with her shower yet, but when she was, she'd need to get dressed. The shelter she volunteered at was holding a special event for the children today.
When Grace emerged, freshly scrubbed and dabbing with a towel at her hair, her notebook was exactly as it had been, and Harold had set out a layered outfit appropriate to the cooler temperatures currently predicted. A smile broke onto her face when she saw what he'd selected. "You say you're not an artist, but you have such an eye for color, Harold."
"It isn't difficult," he demurred. "You've filled your wardrobe with things that go together." He was trying very hard to concentrate on tying his shoes and swallowing his heart back out of his throat.
She dropped a kiss on top of his head before beginning to dress. "Sometimes I still can't believe how well we fit," she said, and his heart thudded again, overburdened by a welter of emotions more complex than he could decipher.
I can.
