You Lose By Holding Back [3/3] - Primeval - Becker/Connor
Title: You Lose By Holding Back [3/3]
Pairing: Becker/Connor, Connor/Others (established Abby/Connor)
Word Count: 4271
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Dub-con by way of sex pollen, scientific nonsense.
Previously: Part One :: Part Two
Summary: Connor is bitten by a creature in heat, and the hormone in the bite leaves him needing sex every six hours. Trying to help a friend out, Becker has to fight his own feelings.
When morning comes they go once more, with Connor's face pressed against the pillow and Becker stifling groans against the nape of his neck. He makes breakfast for them both afterwards and watches Connor with a wary eye, waiting for something, looking for a sign.
"I'm alright," Connor says. "You're watching me like I'm about to explode."
Becker looks down at his eggs and tries to control his gaze. "I'm trying to work out what's happening," he admits. "What are you up to?"
He knows without looking up that Connor's smile will be bright and it won't reach his eyes. There will be a hollow fist at its heart. "I'm not up to anything. You know me."
"Unfortunately," Becker mutters, and maybe this time the twitch of amusement on Connor's face might be a little more genuine. "I'm worried, Connor. That's all."
"Well. Don't be. I'm fine."
"You just slept with me behind Abby's back. Twice."
"Abby knows what I have to do," Connor mumbles.
"Is that what it was about?" Becker can remember the way that they took their time, exploring and laughing together. He remembers the way that Connor had sighed his name; it hadn't been a chore, it hadn't been work, it hadn't been a cure. "Just another quick shag to make the pain stop?"
He sees the way that Connor's jaw clenches, and he watches the way that he breathes in through his nose, nice and slow. "I love Abby," Connor says. "I always have."
Becker nods. That much is painfully clear. "But?"
"I... I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing any more and I don't know what I want or what she wants or anything. I don't know anything."
Reaching out, Becker places his hand over Connor's. He isn't surprised when Connor flinches away, but it still hurts. "I want you. I think I've made that clear." He knows that he has been as blunt about that as he could possibly be. Connor can't not know, now. "But that's not the point. You and Abby, whatever's going on there, it should be sorted out before this goes any further. If you want it to."
Connor rubs his hand across his face, looking as stunned as if someone had slapped him and ran off. Anxiety makes Becker's stomach clench, but he's used to handling danger. It's usually a physical, dinosaur-centred threat instead of an emotional one, but right now he would happily face down a Spinosaurus.
"It's going to be alright. We'll sort everything out," Becker promises, as if he can see a solution. Sometimes, lying is an essential part of protecting someone.
Connor nods, but he hardly seems to be listening. "We ought to get to work," he mutters. "We'll be late."
Nodding, Becker allows the matter to drop. They listen to the radio on the drive to work and Connor chats as if everything is normal. If he fidgets or bites his fingernails more than usual, Becker turns a willingly blind eye.
*
Abby corners him in the locker room, while he is shirtless and his hair is still wet from his shower: he decides, later, that she must have done it on purpose. She knows far more about tactics than she lets on.
"You'll take care of him, won't you?" she asks.
The harsh metal in her voice makes it sound like an accusation. Becker freezes, holds his breath, and waits to see what happens next.
"I'm not angry at you," Abby insists. She steps forward as she says it, as if she's closing in for a punch. It makes it difficult to believe her. "You're helping out. That's good. But - Promise me you won't hurt him."
Becker's mind spins. He wants to run to find Connor immediately to work out what is going on, but he doesn't dare to move an inch. Abby's eyes are like raw lightning. "I won't," he promises, and he's surprised by the choked rasp in his voice. He clears his throat before he speaks again. "I would never."
"I'll lock you in with the mammoth if you do," Abby warns. Her voice trembles when she speaks and Becker wants to punch something: the wall, the creatures, Connor himself. Abby doesn't deserve any of this.
"He hurt you," Becker points out. "What are you going to do to him?"
He can't imagine her locking Connor away with dangerous creatures, but something tells him that Connor might deserve it. Yet all she does is shake her head, her shoulders raised defensively. "It wasn't him," she says. "The thing that bit him, that's to blame."
Becker doesn't want to agree, but he nods anyway. Saying that it is all to do with the creature removes responsibility - and he doesn't want to think that last night was all about the poison. Connor had been there with him, long before the pain had taken hold. Connor had kissed him, wanted him, thrown caution to the wind.
He holds his tongue. Abby is hurting and he isn't going to poke an open wound.
"I'm sorry," he says, but she shakes it away.
"It's not your fault," she says, even if there are acidic tears in her eyes. "None of this was ever supposed to happen."
He thinks he preferred the anger to the pain. He could have easily handled a good punch or two. Bruises are neat, even when they're ugly. They heal quickly.
Abby leaves without waiting for him to reply - and he's glad for that, with the knot in his throat and the confusion spinning in his mind, he wouldn't know what to say to her. He's rapidly losing track of how he is supposed to make things better.
*
Before he leaves for the day, he makes a conscious effort to find Connor - even though Connor has been avoiding him all day, even though he knows that Philip fucked him at lunchtime, his turn on the rota. Becker has even managed to pretend that he hadn't notice the smug smile on Philip's face for the rest of the afternoon, the loose-limbed contentment that stopped him from being quite as over-bearing as usual.
Becker finds Connor in the laboratory, sitting on a stool with his shirtsleeve rolled up his arm. There is a woman in a white coat drawing blood from him, but Connor is chatting to her as if he doesn't even notice the invasion.
When Becker enters, he slips in and stands near the doorway, holding his tongue and waiting for the procedure to be over. He has to fight back the instinctive toe-curling reaction at the sight of a needle: for a man who's handy with a gun, he's never managed to get over that gut reaction. The twitch of a smile on Connor's face implies that the paling of his skin is highly noticeable.
He doesn't come any further into the room until the needle-wielding scientist is well out of the way and Connor has a little plaster on the inside of his elbow. A quick glance at Connor's bare arm shows a series of small bruises, little puncture wounds slowly healing. Becker hadn't noticed them the night before. He had been rather thoroughly distracted.
"Abby came to see me," Becker says, after they've tried out the awkward small talk. Connor looks down, asks how she was, and there's more than one answer to that: "Upset. Angry. Hurt. What happened?"
Connor picks up a pen from the bench top and clicks it repeatedly. "She broke up with me," he says, before he frowns. "Or I broke up with her. I'm not quite sure which one, actually."
"It was a mutual thing?"
"Well. It was mostly me failing at being a boyfriend, to be honest. We just both gave up at the same time." He frowns, a little line forming down the centre of his forehead. "It's weird, y'know. I've been in love with her for - what? Five years now? We survived in the Cretaceous for a year together. This all feels a bit anticlimactic."
Becker nods. It's better this way, he thinks, than something uglier down the line, but that doesn't mean that this can be easy. Connor still won't look at him, fiddling with his pen instead, and for a brief moment Becker wonders if this is the sort of moment where he is supposed to hug Connor to make him feel better, before he dismisses that idea entirely. Somehow, healing sex seems less awkward.
"Are you alright?" he checks.
Connor shrugs. "Not really." He pauses, before he says, "I kind of don't have anywhere to stay tonight, though. One bedroom apartment. Might be kind of weird if I turn up to share the bed." He cringes, shoulders raised, but Becker allows himself to relax: here is one problem that he really can help with.
"You can stay at mine," he offers. "It's no problem."
He has a couch, or Connor can share the bed with him if he's comfortable with it; they can work the details out later, once the dust has settled, once they can work out what shape 'normal' is going to take.
*
After they've talked it over, they shift the rota so that Becker can handle all of Connor's poisoned requirements: sex four times a day. It's more exhausting than Becker would have imagined, but he tries not to complain. He isn't the one whose asshole is being pounded, after all. Connor is definitely worse off.
As a flatmate, Connor is a tyrant: completely messy and utterly inconsiderate, as if he doesn't even see the chaos that drops around him. Becker has to get used to damp towels dumped on the floor and dishes abandoned haphazardly wherever they are finished with. By the time Connor has been in his apartment for a day, it looks as if a herd of teenagers have moved in - and, surprising himself, Becker doesn't mind it. He might sigh as he tidies up, and he shoots Connor the kind of glare that could kill a lesser being, but he can handle it.
"Let us know if you need any help," Lester tells him when he takes over the rota. Lester's face is purposefully blank, and the least scathing that Becker has ever known. "We need you alert, not worn out."
"I won't allow this to impact my professional performance," he promises, shoulders straight, chin raised, but there's something that feels like a giggle caught in his chest. He worries that spending too much time with Connor might be rubbing off on him.
"You'd better not," Lester says, but it's the only warning that he seems inclined to give. He waves his hand in the direction of the door out of his office. "Go, then. Don't you have lizards to chase?"
Becker doesn't, actually. The ARC is abnormally quiet today, and in a way he's glad for that. A peaceful ARC means that there are no creatures on the prowl in the outside world; no deaths, no messes to clear up.
It adds to the windowless, airless atmosphere of the ARC, though, and it feels as if everyone is waiting for something to happen, as if there is something lurking beneath their skin that just won't allow them to rest. Connor is in his lab, Abby is in the menagerie, Jess is glued to her computers and Becker has lost track of where Matt has got to: skulking around somewhere or other, no doubt. He's awfully good at that, Becker has noticed.
At lunch time, he meets Connor in the locker room and takes him into the showers, allowing the water to pour down with steam misting around them while he takes him just before the pain comes. Connor gives himself over in deep gasps and needy moans, and they spend the rest of the afternoon with damp hair. At the end of the day, he meets Connor when it's time to go home. He drives; Connor takes the passenger seat. They stop for food unless Becker feels like cooking, and they fuck again either before or after they eat. They watch television together, fighting over the remote, and Becker goes for another shower before they get into bed. In the small hours of the morning, Connor will wake him up by desperately shaking his shoulder, before straddling him and sliding down, eased and experienced by now. It won't take long for both of them to come, and while Becker sleeps he keeps Connor in his arms. In the morning, it starts all over again.
The routine is exhausting.
*
They put up with it because they don't particularly have any other choice. It's difficult, but after a while it becomes normal: sex four times a day, fitting work around it. Connor complains from time to time and Becker is careful to be as gentle as he can, but it's easier than he had imagined. Normality always wins out.
In the back of his mind, there is always that quiet, niggling voice that whispers to him, telling him to be thankful for Connor's accident: it tells him that he wouldn't have any of this without that poison, that Connor and Abby would still be happily together and he would be left by himself, as it should be. He is profiting from this casualty, and he should feel far more guilty about it than he does.
There's more to it than the sexual requirements. Connor sleeps in his bed; they share meals; they bicker and cuddle like real couples to. There's more to it than the poison. There has to be.
(Yet there's that voice, always, telling him the truth, telling him how the dice have really fallen.)
They've been together for weeks when he first overhears the news, crowed by Philip to Lester in yet another part of their perpetual one-up-manship, like it's a game, a winning play on a chess board.
"It was all quite simple once we broke it down, of course." Becker can't see his face, but he can imagine the shark-sharp grin on Philip's face. "No bother at all."
"And it works? There are no side-effects?"
"You sound disappointed, Lester."
"Connor's a valued member of the team. Sometimes." Lester clears his throat. By this point, Becker is listening in so hard that it's a surprise he hasn't strained a muscle in his ears. "Forgive me for being cautious."
"He's fine. We'll keep an eye on him and watch out for any mishaps. In the meantime, I'd suggest some positivity. I've just brought normality back to this place. A 'thank you' might be in order."
Lester seems unwilling to play into Philip's request, blustering instead, but Becker tunes out of the conversation when it seems that he isn't going to pick up any more details. He takes a glance at the screens around Jess's workspace, and wanders away when it seems that there isn't any danger on the horizon just yet.
He finds Connor in Philip's lab, and enters despite knowing that he isn't supposed to enter he doesn't back off. He slips inside and finds Connor sitting at the lab-bench, staring at a pair of tightly topped vials.
Becker clears his throat and Connor looks up obediently, the glazed look in his eyes showing that his thoughts had been a long way from here. He smiles at Becker, and moves towards him, his hands skimming over Becker's hips before settling in a light grip. "How's your morning been?" he asks: no world-shattering admissions of progress.
Becker frowns, but he gives a report, detailing his morning and all of the routine that he has wandered through. He doesn't mention the conversation that he overheard.
Connor doesn't mention it either.
It's difficult to pay attention to anything throughout the day, knowing that something is different, knowing that something is wrong. Connor doesn't say a thing during their lunchtime fuck, riding on Becker's cock as if everything is normal, and Becker doesn't dare to ask a single question. He clings onto Connor's hips and flips them over half-way through, driving into Connor's body as if this might be his last chance. He steals frantic kisses from Connor's mouth and memorises the taste, just in case something's happened, just in case this is the last time.
Afterwards, Connor cleans up and still doesn't mention anything - so Becker tries to convince himself that there's nothing to tell, that he misheard the conversation or interpreted it incorrectly. The logical part of his brain knows that those are open lies, but he can attempt to squash that down if that is what Connor needs him to believe.
On the drive home, Connor taps his fingers against the passenger's window of Becker's car as the streets crawl past. "Want to go out for dinner tonight?" Connor asks, the question bursting out into the silence. "I'll pay."
Becker frowns, but wets his lips and carries on. "Are you trying to woo me, Connor? Flowers would do," he breezes, daring to smirk. "I'm a sure thing, I assure you."
"I'm trying to be a gentleman," Connor says - and he's starting to smile now, at least. "The least you could do is be a bit ladylike."
"I'll wear my best bonnet."
He sees Connor hide a smirk and he smiles to himself as he drives, allowing Connor to pick the restaurant as they head into town instead of straight home. There is an uncomfortable buzz in the centre of his chest, but he tries to ignore it in the interests of having a good, easy night. He might be too tense to make proper conversation, but Connor is able to pick up the slack, talking into the silence as if he doesn't notice that anything is wrong. Connor might be unobservant at times, but he isn't dim; Becker would guess that he can sense that something is different about him, but he's choosing not to follow up on it. No doubt he has his reasons, Becker thinks, telling himself not to question it. As a soldier, it should be easy.
It's not.
There's nothing, no word at all, throughout their quick shag after dinner, or during the drive home, or while they watch television together in the evening. It is only at night, when Becker is brushing his teeth in front of the mirror, that Connor approaches with a worried look on his face. He lurks in the doorway, hanging back. Becker notices that he has his shoes on, even if he usually spends his time in the flat in just his socks, purposefully sliding about on the wooden flooring.
"There's something I should tell you," Connor says, picking at the edge of the door handle. Becker stops brushing, hunched over the sink, and looks in the mirror. He can already feel that sick churning in his stomach. "Probably should've told you earlier, actually, but I couldn't work out how. I just... It's Philip. Well, his scientists. They think they've worked it out."
Becker already knows what 'it' is, but he leans over to spit into the sink, just to give himself an extra moment to think. Turning around, he knows that it still wasn't nearly enough time. "What is it?"
"The cure. Or, I mean, they say it's not a 'cure', exactly, but it'll slow things down. Make it hurt less, and come less often. A lot less often."
Becker tries to ignore the sense of disappointed panic in his chest - because he knows that that isn't the right reaction. This is good news; it's what they've both wanted. It's what is best for Connor.
"How 'less often'?" he asks cautiously. His expression is as controlled as he can make it.
Connor rubs the back of his neck and shrugs with the other shoulder. "I dunno, exactly. Maybe once a week, a little less?"
That is a drastic reduction, and even with the sense that this is going to allow Connor to slip away from him, back to Abby where he belongs, Becker smiles. This is exactly what they've needed: a break, a return to normality. He couldn't have expected, or even wanted, Connor to stay like this forever. Physically, neither one of them could have coped.
"That's good," he says eventually, nodding with far more enthusiasm than is needed at all, or than he would ever be able to naturally convey. Connor's eyes widen. "Really good."
"Yeah," Connor says. "I actually knew for most of the day, just didn't say anything. I mean. I should've - that was a shitty thing to do. I'm sorry, y'know."
"It's alright." Becker crosses his arms over his chest. It makes him feel manlier - and slightly more able to have this conversation. "I actually already knew."
"You did?"
"Sort of. I overheard Lester and Philip talking about it. They're terrible gossips."
Connor's mouth bursts in amusement, but it lasts less than a second. "So you knew what I was doing the whole time? It's creepy, isn't it?"
"What?" Becker gets the feeling that he's missing the point.
"I didn't tell you. I let you shag me without telling you that you didn't have to do it any more."
Becker nods slowly. The remorse still doesn't make sense: "It was... sweet of you, Connor." That's not the right word, not at all, but it's the closest that he can get. "Kind."
Connor is looking at him as if he's started talking Martian (although, considering how much time he spends watching sci-fi, Connor would probably be able to speak any number of alien languages) before he frowns. "I thought you'd want to stop," Connor says, speaking slowly as if he isn't sure if Becker can understand him. "This, me and you, it's not necessary any more, and you didn't even want to get into it in the first place, not really. I get that. And I figured you'd want me out of here pretty quickly after I told you, so I thought I would put it off for a day or so."
Becker thinks, without a doubt, that Connor might be the smartest idiot that he's ever met.
"You have a very selective memory," he informs Connor as he walks forward. "Do you remember why I didn't want to get mixed up in this in the first place?"
Connor frowns, and Becker dares to step right in front of him, placing his hands on his hips to ease him forward. Flush together, there's something about the physical way that Connor fits against him that makes Becker respond, as if there is a creature in his chest that can only respond to Connor's presence.
"I wanted you," Becker reminds him, when Connor doesn't seem able to answer. "Very badly."
"I remember," Connor says. He's staring determinedly at Becker's neck, as if raising his gaze the last inch or two is just too much work. "I just- Y'know. After everything..."
Connor can be an idiot at the best of times.
In some cases, Becker has discovered, the best remedy is to kiss him to force him to shut up.
Lips soft, he trails them over Connor's parted mouth, gentle as he swallows Connor's worries. He is waiting, still, for Connor to come to his senses and push him away. He expects hands on his chest to shove him backwards, but instead Connor's palm comes to rest against the nape of his neck, holding him close. They're captured, both of them.
Becker hasn't felt safer in years.
*
"Let's pull a sickie," Connor groans when Becker's alarm clock goes off the next morning. He rolls onto his front, one arm sprawling lazily over Becker's stomach.
Becker curls his arms around him, after flailing loosely towards the alarm to shut it up. Connor is pliant and heavy-limbed at this time of day, fighting against the sunlight. "Technically, you're cured. That's the opposite of ill."
"I have a headache. The plague." Connor shuffles closer, pauses, and allows a smirk to appear on his face. "My arse hurts."
Becker snorts laughter through his nose. "I claim full responsibility for that one."
Yet they hadn't had sex last night after Connor had given him the news. They had kissed instead, slow and careful, before lying in with each other, with no agony forcing the pace. When they tired, they had drifted to sleep in a bed with unstained sheets.
"I mean it. Let's take the day off. You must have tons of annual leave."
"We can't just 'take a day off'. The fabric of the universe is likely to fall apart without us on scene."
Connor shoves at his shoulder, making no impact at all. "If the world starts ending, they can call us," he protests.
Becker wonders what Abby will make of that (what Connor will think of what Abby makes of that) and he knows that there might be some uncomfortable confrontations in their future. He strokes his fingers along Connor's arm thoughtfully and nods: they can cross that bridge when it appears. In the meantime, he wants every second that he can get, every moment that he will be allowed to relish.
"I'll let Lester know," he says, reaching for the phone. Never let it be said that he isn't brave.
At his side, Connor groans and starts to roll over to go back to sleep. Becker keeps a hand on his heated skin as he makes the call, watching with a soft gaze - there's still a part of him that is waiting for the trick ending, convinced that he isn't going to be allowed his own happily ever after.
Pairing: Becker/Connor, Connor/Others (established Abby/Connor)
Word Count: 4271
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Dub-con by way of sex pollen, scientific nonsense.
Previously: Part One :: Part Two
Summary: Connor is bitten by a creature in heat, and the hormone in the bite leaves him needing sex every six hours. Trying to help a friend out, Becker has to fight his own feelings.
When morning comes they go once more, with Connor's face pressed against the pillow and Becker stifling groans against the nape of his neck. He makes breakfast for them both afterwards and watches Connor with a wary eye, waiting for something, looking for a sign.
"I'm alright," Connor says. "You're watching me like I'm about to explode."
Becker looks down at his eggs and tries to control his gaze. "I'm trying to work out what's happening," he admits. "What are you up to?"
He knows without looking up that Connor's smile will be bright and it won't reach his eyes. There will be a hollow fist at its heart. "I'm not up to anything. You know me."
"Unfortunately," Becker mutters, and maybe this time the twitch of amusement on Connor's face might be a little more genuine. "I'm worried, Connor. That's all."
"Well. Don't be. I'm fine."
"You just slept with me behind Abby's back. Twice."
"Abby knows what I have to do," Connor mumbles.
"Is that what it was about?" Becker can remember the way that they took their time, exploring and laughing together. He remembers the way that Connor had sighed his name; it hadn't been a chore, it hadn't been work, it hadn't been a cure. "Just another quick shag to make the pain stop?"
He sees the way that Connor's jaw clenches, and he watches the way that he breathes in through his nose, nice and slow. "I love Abby," Connor says. "I always have."
Becker nods. That much is painfully clear. "But?"
"I... I don't know. I don't know what I'm doing any more and I don't know what I want or what she wants or anything. I don't know anything."
Reaching out, Becker places his hand over Connor's. He isn't surprised when Connor flinches away, but it still hurts. "I want you. I think I've made that clear." He knows that he has been as blunt about that as he could possibly be. Connor can't not know, now. "But that's not the point. You and Abby, whatever's going on there, it should be sorted out before this goes any further. If you want it to."
Connor rubs his hand across his face, looking as stunned as if someone had slapped him and ran off. Anxiety makes Becker's stomach clench, but he's used to handling danger. It's usually a physical, dinosaur-centred threat instead of an emotional one, but right now he would happily face down a Spinosaurus.
"It's going to be alright. We'll sort everything out," Becker promises, as if he can see a solution. Sometimes, lying is an essential part of protecting someone.
Connor nods, but he hardly seems to be listening. "We ought to get to work," he mutters. "We'll be late."
Nodding, Becker allows the matter to drop. They listen to the radio on the drive to work and Connor chats as if everything is normal. If he fidgets or bites his fingernails more than usual, Becker turns a willingly blind eye.
*
Abby corners him in the locker room, while he is shirtless and his hair is still wet from his shower: he decides, later, that she must have done it on purpose. She knows far more about tactics than she lets on.
"You'll take care of him, won't you?" she asks.
The harsh metal in her voice makes it sound like an accusation. Becker freezes, holds his breath, and waits to see what happens next.
"I'm not angry at you," Abby insists. She steps forward as she says it, as if she's closing in for a punch. It makes it difficult to believe her. "You're helping out. That's good. But - Promise me you won't hurt him."
Becker's mind spins. He wants to run to find Connor immediately to work out what is going on, but he doesn't dare to move an inch. Abby's eyes are like raw lightning. "I won't," he promises, and he's surprised by the choked rasp in his voice. He clears his throat before he speaks again. "I would never."
"I'll lock you in with the mammoth if you do," Abby warns. Her voice trembles when she speaks and Becker wants to punch something: the wall, the creatures, Connor himself. Abby doesn't deserve any of this.
"He hurt you," Becker points out. "What are you going to do to him?"
He can't imagine her locking Connor away with dangerous creatures, but something tells him that Connor might deserve it. Yet all she does is shake her head, her shoulders raised defensively. "It wasn't him," she says. "The thing that bit him, that's to blame."
Becker doesn't want to agree, but he nods anyway. Saying that it is all to do with the creature removes responsibility - and he doesn't want to think that last night was all about the poison. Connor had been there with him, long before the pain had taken hold. Connor had kissed him, wanted him, thrown caution to the wind.
He holds his tongue. Abby is hurting and he isn't going to poke an open wound.
"I'm sorry," he says, but she shakes it away.
"It's not your fault," she says, even if there are acidic tears in her eyes. "None of this was ever supposed to happen."
He thinks he preferred the anger to the pain. He could have easily handled a good punch or two. Bruises are neat, even when they're ugly. They heal quickly.
Abby leaves without waiting for him to reply - and he's glad for that, with the knot in his throat and the confusion spinning in his mind, he wouldn't know what to say to her. He's rapidly losing track of how he is supposed to make things better.
*
Before he leaves for the day, he makes a conscious effort to find Connor - even though Connor has been avoiding him all day, even though he knows that Philip fucked him at lunchtime, his turn on the rota. Becker has even managed to pretend that he hadn't notice the smug smile on Philip's face for the rest of the afternoon, the loose-limbed contentment that stopped him from being quite as over-bearing as usual.
Becker finds Connor in the laboratory, sitting on a stool with his shirtsleeve rolled up his arm. There is a woman in a white coat drawing blood from him, but Connor is chatting to her as if he doesn't even notice the invasion.
When Becker enters, he slips in and stands near the doorway, holding his tongue and waiting for the procedure to be over. He has to fight back the instinctive toe-curling reaction at the sight of a needle: for a man who's handy with a gun, he's never managed to get over that gut reaction. The twitch of a smile on Connor's face implies that the paling of his skin is highly noticeable.
He doesn't come any further into the room until the needle-wielding scientist is well out of the way and Connor has a little plaster on the inside of his elbow. A quick glance at Connor's bare arm shows a series of small bruises, little puncture wounds slowly healing. Becker hadn't noticed them the night before. He had been rather thoroughly distracted.
"Abby came to see me," Becker says, after they've tried out the awkward small talk. Connor looks down, asks how she was, and there's more than one answer to that: "Upset. Angry. Hurt. What happened?"
Connor picks up a pen from the bench top and clicks it repeatedly. "She broke up with me," he says, before he frowns. "Or I broke up with her. I'm not quite sure which one, actually."
"It was a mutual thing?"
"Well. It was mostly me failing at being a boyfriend, to be honest. We just both gave up at the same time." He frowns, a little line forming down the centre of his forehead. "It's weird, y'know. I've been in love with her for - what? Five years now? We survived in the Cretaceous for a year together. This all feels a bit anticlimactic."
Becker nods. It's better this way, he thinks, than something uglier down the line, but that doesn't mean that this can be easy. Connor still won't look at him, fiddling with his pen instead, and for a brief moment Becker wonders if this is the sort of moment where he is supposed to hug Connor to make him feel better, before he dismisses that idea entirely. Somehow, healing sex seems less awkward.
"Are you alright?" he checks.
Connor shrugs. "Not really." He pauses, before he says, "I kind of don't have anywhere to stay tonight, though. One bedroom apartment. Might be kind of weird if I turn up to share the bed." He cringes, shoulders raised, but Becker allows himself to relax: here is one problem that he really can help with.
"You can stay at mine," he offers. "It's no problem."
He has a couch, or Connor can share the bed with him if he's comfortable with it; they can work the details out later, once the dust has settled, once they can work out what shape 'normal' is going to take.
*
After they've talked it over, they shift the rota so that Becker can handle all of Connor's poisoned requirements: sex four times a day. It's more exhausting than Becker would have imagined, but he tries not to complain. He isn't the one whose asshole is being pounded, after all. Connor is definitely worse off.
As a flatmate, Connor is a tyrant: completely messy and utterly inconsiderate, as if he doesn't even see the chaos that drops around him. Becker has to get used to damp towels dumped on the floor and dishes abandoned haphazardly wherever they are finished with. By the time Connor has been in his apartment for a day, it looks as if a herd of teenagers have moved in - and, surprising himself, Becker doesn't mind it. He might sigh as he tidies up, and he shoots Connor the kind of glare that could kill a lesser being, but he can handle it.
"Let us know if you need any help," Lester tells him when he takes over the rota. Lester's face is purposefully blank, and the least scathing that Becker has ever known. "We need you alert, not worn out."
"I won't allow this to impact my professional performance," he promises, shoulders straight, chin raised, but there's something that feels like a giggle caught in his chest. He worries that spending too much time with Connor might be rubbing off on him.
"You'd better not," Lester says, but it's the only warning that he seems inclined to give. He waves his hand in the direction of the door out of his office. "Go, then. Don't you have lizards to chase?"
Becker doesn't, actually. The ARC is abnormally quiet today, and in a way he's glad for that. A peaceful ARC means that there are no creatures on the prowl in the outside world; no deaths, no messes to clear up.
It adds to the windowless, airless atmosphere of the ARC, though, and it feels as if everyone is waiting for something to happen, as if there is something lurking beneath their skin that just won't allow them to rest. Connor is in his lab, Abby is in the menagerie, Jess is glued to her computers and Becker has lost track of where Matt has got to: skulking around somewhere or other, no doubt. He's awfully good at that, Becker has noticed.
At lunch time, he meets Connor in the locker room and takes him into the showers, allowing the water to pour down with steam misting around them while he takes him just before the pain comes. Connor gives himself over in deep gasps and needy moans, and they spend the rest of the afternoon with damp hair. At the end of the day, he meets Connor when it's time to go home. He drives; Connor takes the passenger seat. They stop for food unless Becker feels like cooking, and they fuck again either before or after they eat. They watch television together, fighting over the remote, and Becker goes for another shower before they get into bed. In the small hours of the morning, Connor will wake him up by desperately shaking his shoulder, before straddling him and sliding down, eased and experienced by now. It won't take long for both of them to come, and while Becker sleeps he keeps Connor in his arms. In the morning, it starts all over again.
The routine is exhausting.
*
They put up with it because they don't particularly have any other choice. It's difficult, but after a while it becomes normal: sex four times a day, fitting work around it. Connor complains from time to time and Becker is careful to be as gentle as he can, but it's easier than he had imagined. Normality always wins out.
In the back of his mind, there is always that quiet, niggling voice that whispers to him, telling him to be thankful for Connor's accident: it tells him that he wouldn't have any of this without that poison, that Connor and Abby would still be happily together and he would be left by himself, as it should be. He is profiting from this casualty, and he should feel far more guilty about it than he does.
There's more to it than the sexual requirements. Connor sleeps in his bed; they share meals; they bicker and cuddle like real couples to. There's more to it than the poison. There has to be.
(Yet there's that voice, always, telling him the truth, telling him how the dice have really fallen.)
They've been together for weeks when he first overhears the news, crowed by Philip to Lester in yet another part of their perpetual one-up-manship, like it's a game, a winning play on a chess board.
"It was all quite simple once we broke it down, of course." Becker can't see his face, but he can imagine the shark-sharp grin on Philip's face. "No bother at all."
"And it works? There are no side-effects?"
"You sound disappointed, Lester."
"Connor's a valued member of the team. Sometimes." Lester clears his throat. By this point, Becker is listening in so hard that it's a surprise he hasn't strained a muscle in his ears. "Forgive me for being cautious."
"He's fine. We'll keep an eye on him and watch out for any mishaps. In the meantime, I'd suggest some positivity. I've just brought normality back to this place. A 'thank you' might be in order."
Lester seems unwilling to play into Philip's request, blustering instead, but Becker tunes out of the conversation when it seems that he isn't going to pick up any more details. He takes a glance at the screens around Jess's workspace, and wanders away when it seems that there isn't any danger on the horizon just yet.
He finds Connor in Philip's lab, and enters despite knowing that he isn't supposed to enter he doesn't back off. He slips inside and finds Connor sitting at the lab-bench, staring at a pair of tightly topped vials.
Becker clears his throat and Connor looks up obediently, the glazed look in his eyes showing that his thoughts had been a long way from here. He smiles at Becker, and moves towards him, his hands skimming over Becker's hips before settling in a light grip. "How's your morning been?" he asks: no world-shattering admissions of progress.
Becker frowns, but he gives a report, detailing his morning and all of the routine that he has wandered through. He doesn't mention the conversation that he overheard.
Connor doesn't mention it either.
It's difficult to pay attention to anything throughout the day, knowing that something is different, knowing that something is wrong. Connor doesn't say a thing during their lunchtime fuck, riding on Becker's cock as if everything is normal, and Becker doesn't dare to ask a single question. He clings onto Connor's hips and flips them over half-way through, driving into Connor's body as if this might be his last chance. He steals frantic kisses from Connor's mouth and memorises the taste, just in case something's happened, just in case this is the last time.
Afterwards, Connor cleans up and still doesn't mention anything - so Becker tries to convince himself that there's nothing to tell, that he misheard the conversation or interpreted it incorrectly. The logical part of his brain knows that those are open lies, but he can attempt to squash that down if that is what Connor needs him to believe.
On the drive home, Connor taps his fingers against the passenger's window of Becker's car as the streets crawl past. "Want to go out for dinner tonight?" Connor asks, the question bursting out into the silence. "I'll pay."
Becker frowns, but wets his lips and carries on. "Are you trying to woo me, Connor? Flowers would do," he breezes, daring to smirk. "I'm a sure thing, I assure you."
"I'm trying to be a gentleman," Connor says - and he's starting to smile now, at least. "The least you could do is be a bit ladylike."
"I'll wear my best bonnet."
He sees Connor hide a smirk and he smiles to himself as he drives, allowing Connor to pick the restaurant as they head into town instead of straight home. There is an uncomfortable buzz in the centre of his chest, but he tries to ignore it in the interests of having a good, easy night. He might be too tense to make proper conversation, but Connor is able to pick up the slack, talking into the silence as if he doesn't notice that anything is wrong. Connor might be unobservant at times, but he isn't dim; Becker would guess that he can sense that something is different about him, but he's choosing not to follow up on it. No doubt he has his reasons, Becker thinks, telling himself not to question it. As a soldier, it should be easy.
It's not.
There's nothing, no word at all, throughout their quick shag after dinner, or during the drive home, or while they watch television together in the evening. It is only at night, when Becker is brushing his teeth in front of the mirror, that Connor approaches with a worried look on his face. He lurks in the doorway, hanging back. Becker notices that he has his shoes on, even if he usually spends his time in the flat in just his socks, purposefully sliding about on the wooden flooring.
"There's something I should tell you," Connor says, picking at the edge of the door handle. Becker stops brushing, hunched over the sink, and looks in the mirror. He can already feel that sick churning in his stomach. "Probably should've told you earlier, actually, but I couldn't work out how. I just... It's Philip. Well, his scientists. They think they've worked it out."
Becker already knows what 'it' is, but he leans over to spit into the sink, just to give himself an extra moment to think. Turning around, he knows that it still wasn't nearly enough time. "What is it?"
"The cure. Or, I mean, they say it's not a 'cure', exactly, but it'll slow things down. Make it hurt less, and come less often. A lot less often."
Becker tries to ignore the sense of disappointed panic in his chest - because he knows that that isn't the right reaction. This is good news; it's what they've both wanted. It's what is best for Connor.
"How 'less often'?" he asks cautiously. His expression is as controlled as he can make it.
Connor rubs the back of his neck and shrugs with the other shoulder. "I dunno, exactly. Maybe once a week, a little less?"
That is a drastic reduction, and even with the sense that this is going to allow Connor to slip away from him, back to Abby where he belongs, Becker smiles. This is exactly what they've needed: a break, a return to normality. He couldn't have expected, or even wanted, Connor to stay like this forever. Physically, neither one of them could have coped.
"That's good," he says eventually, nodding with far more enthusiasm than is needed at all, or than he would ever be able to naturally convey. Connor's eyes widen. "Really good."
"Yeah," Connor says. "I actually knew for most of the day, just didn't say anything. I mean. I should've - that was a shitty thing to do. I'm sorry, y'know."
"It's alright." Becker crosses his arms over his chest. It makes him feel manlier - and slightly more able to have this conversation. "I actually already knew."
"You did?"
"Sort of. I overheard Lester and Philip talking about it. They're terrible gossips."
Connor's mouth bursts in amusement, but it lasts less than a second. "So you knew what I was doing the whole time? It's creepy, isn't it?"
"What?" Becker gets the feeling that he's missing the point.
"I didn't tell you. I let you shag me without telling you that you didn't have to do it any more."
Becker nods slowly. The remorse still doesn't make sense: "It was... sweet of you, Connor." That's not the right word, not at all, but it's the closest that he can get. "Kind."
Connor is looking at him as if he's started talking Martian (although, considering how much time he spends watching sci-fi, Connor would probably be able to speak any number of alien languages) before he frowns. "I thought you'd want to stop," Connor says, speaking slowly as if he isn't sure if Becker can understand him. "This, me and you, it's not necessary any more, and you didn't even want to get into it in the first place, not really. I get that. And I figured you'd want me out of here pretty quickly after I told you, so I thought I would put it off for a day or so."
Becker thinks, without a doubt, that Connor might be the smartest idiot that he's ever met.
"You have a very selective memory," he informs Connor as he walks forward. "Do you remember why I didn't want to get mixed up in this in the first place?"
Connor frowns, and Becker dares to step right in front of him, placing his hands on his hips to ease him forward. Flush together, there's something about the physical way that Connor fits against him that makes Becker respond, as if there is a creature in his chest that can only respond to Connor's presence.
"I wanted you," Becker reminds him, when Connor doesn't seem able to answer. "Very badly."
"I remember," Connor says. He's staring determinedly at Becker's neck, as if raising his gaze the last inch or two is just too much work. "I just- Y'know. After everything..."
Connor can be an idiot at the best of times.
In some cases, Becker has discovered, the best remedy is to kiss him to force him to shut up.
Lips soft, he trails them over Connor's parted mouth, gentle as he swallows Connor's worries. He is waiting, still, for Connor to come to his senses and push him away. He expects hands on his chest to shove him backwards, but instead Connor's palm comes to rest against the nape of his neck, holding him close. They're captured, both of them.
Becker hasn't felt safer in years.
*
"Let's pull a sickie," Connor groans when Becker's alarm clock goes off the next morning. He rolls onto his front, one arm sprawling lazily over Becker's stomach.
Becker curls his arms around him, after flailing loosely towards the alarm to shut it up. Connor is pliant and heavy-limbed at this time of day, fighting against the sunlight. "Technically, you're cured. That's the opposite of ill."
"I have a headache. The plague." Connor shuffles closer, pauses, and allows a smirk to appear on his face. "My arse hurts."
Becker snorts laughter through his nose. "I claim full responsibility for that one."
Yet they hadn't had sex last night after Connor had given him the news. They had kissed instead, slow and careful, before lying in with each other, with no agony forcing the pace. When they tired, they had drifted to sleep in a bed with unstained sheets.
"I mean it. Let's take the day off. You must have tons of annual leave."
"We can't just 'take a day off'. The fabric of the universe is likely to fall apart without us on scene."
Connor shoves at his shoulder, making no impact at all. "If the world starts ending, they can call us," he protests.
Becker wonders what Abby will make of that (what Connor will think of what Abby makes of that) and he knows that there might be some uncomfortable confrontations in their future. He strokes his fingers along Connor's arm thoughtfully and nods: they can cross that bridge when it appears. In the meantime, he wants every second that he can get, every moment that he will be allowed to relish.
"I'll let Lester know," he says, reaching for the phone. Never let it be said that he isn't brave.
At his side, Connor groans and starts to roll over to go back to sleep. Becker keeps a hand on his heated skin as he makes the call, watching with a soft gaze - there's still a part of him that is waiting for the trick ending, convinced that he isn't going to be allowed his own happily ever after.