Fic: This Time We Have (Primeval, Sarah/Becker, G)
Title: This Time We Have
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Sarah Page/Captain Becker
Rating: G
Spoilers: Series 3
Disclaimer: It's all Impossible Pictures and ITV
Summary: Sarah has left her mark on Becker and his flat. He doesn't mind at all.
Author Notes: My first Primeval fic, because I love Sarah/Becker and hope you will too.
Crossposted at primeval_fanfic and fanfiction.net
Sarah had become a presence in Becker's flat, even when she wasn't actually there.
There were at least two changes of her clothes, button-down shirts and crisp matching trousers, smart jackets and piles of hair ties. Just in case they were called in suddenly to the ARC and she had no time to go home to change. Tangled up in the sheets were the clothes she sometimes slept in.
Whenever she used his shower, she left behind the faint smell of almonds. And a couple of bottles on his bathroom shelf. He studied the labels, but he never asked. Her extra aspirin bottle was hidden behind his mirror, for the headaches after days spent reading tiny fine print or interpreting engravings in frantic attempts to decode and unlock the latest mystery of what had come through an anomaly. On those days, she usually made herbal tea and sliced herself thick chunks of cake (seed for good days, chocolate for bad) to fuel and pacify herself. The tea bags were stored beside his coffee, which she drank in the mornings before work.
There were books everywhere now. Piled on the window sill, propped open at a certain page, spread out carefully like art on the carpet, or spilling out from under the bed, just waiting to trip him up. It made him swear until Sarah rolled her eyes and laughed at him, asking him to hand her that one, would he? There was an interesting translation that could help her crack this particular series of pictograms.
She couldn’t stop bringing her work home. Just like he came home every night stinking of gun oil and sweat. On the worst days, there was blood on his uniform and all over his conscience. Those were the nights that Sarah wrapped herself around him, her hands over his heart, and just breathed. It was when she was still. And Becker closed his eyes and breathed too. Sometimes they even talked about it.
“Don’t you wear anything that isn’t black?”
Sarah’s hair was piled up on top of her head, the sunlight spilling into the room behind her. She was wearing one of his old training shirts, worn around the edges and full of stuff that didn’t wash out. She held a magazine, her favourite escape. Becker shook his head, enjoying the view. His shirt was the only thing covering her body and was doing an excellently bad job of it.
“It’s a good look, but you need some variety,” she told him.
“Curiously, we didn't cover that in training.”
“Good thing you've got me then.”
Becker smiled. He could smell coffee brewing and any minute now, both of their phones would ring with news of the latest emergency. There were no weekends off in their line of work and no guarantees. His radio was within easy reach and so was Sarah.
“Yes,” he moved suddenly, freeing the magazine from her grasp and pulling her into his embrace, back onto the sun-warmed sheets that smelled of them both. “It is.”
-the end
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Sarah Page/Captain Becker
Rating: G
Spoilers: Series 3
Disclaimer: It's all Impossible Pictures and ITV
Summary: Sarah has left her mark on Becker and his flat. He doesn't mind at all.
Author Notes: My first Primeval fic, because I love Sarah/Becker and hope you will too.
Crossposted at primeval_fanfic and fanfiction.net
Sarah had become a presence in Becker's flat, even when she wasn't actually there.
There were at least two changes of her clothes, button-down shirts and crisp matching trousers, smart jackets and piles of hair ties. Just in case they were called in suddenly to the ARC and she had no time to go home to change. Tangled up in the sheets were the clothes she sometimes slept in.
Whenever she used his shower, she left behind the faint smell of almonds. And a couple of bottles on his bathroom shelf. He studied the labels, but he never asked. Her extra aspirin bottle was hidden behind his mirror, for the headaches after days spent reading tiny fine print or interpreting engravings in frantic attempts to decode and unlock the latest mystery of what had come through an anomaly. On those days, she usually made herbal tea and sliced herself thick chunks of cake (seed for good days, chocolate for bad) to fuel and pacify herself. The tea bags were stored beside his coffee, which she drank in the mornings before work.
There were books everywhere now. Piled on the window sill, propped open at a certain page, spread out carefully like art on the carpet, or spilling out from under the bed, just waiting to trip him up. It made him swear until Sarah rolled her eyes and laughed at him, asking him to hand her that one, would he? There was an interesting translation that could help her crack this particular series of pictograms.
She couldn’t stop bringing her work home. Just like he came home every night stinking of gun oil and sweat. On the worst days, there was blood on his uniform and all over his conscience. Those were the nights that Sarah wrapped herself around him, her hands over his heart, and just breathed. It was when she was still. And Becker closed his eyes and breathed too. Sometimes they even talked about it.
“Don’t you wear anything that isn’t black?”
Sarah’s hair was piled up on top of her head, the sunlight spilling into the room behind her. She was wearing one of his old training shirts, worn around the edges and full of stuff that didn’t wash out. She held a magazine, her favourite escape. Becker shook his head, enjoying the view. His shirt was the only thing covering her body and was doing an excellently bad job of it.
“It’s a good look, but you need some variety,” she told him.
“Curiously, we didn't cover that in training.”
“Good thing you've got me then.”
Becker smiled. He could smell coffee brewing and any minute now, both of their phones would ring with news of the latest emergency. There were no weekends off in their line of work and no guarantees. His radio was within easy reach and so was Sarah.
“Yes,” he moved suddenly, freeing the magazine from her grasp and pulling her into his embrace, back onto the sun-warmed sheets that smelled of them both. “It is.”
-the end