Not Exactly Sir Galahad, Survivors, Abby/Tom
Time to reveal what I got up to for Yuletide - Madness treat first!
Title: Not Exactly Sir Galahad
Fandom: Survivors
Rating: PG-13
Words: 840
Characters: Abby Grant, Tom Price
Summary: Tom's no knight in shining armour, but he's a damn good lieutenant.
Notes: Written for Yuletide 2013 for AJ
Disclaimer: Survivors and the characters belong to the BBC and other folk. I just torment them even more than their creators.
“Abby! What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m here to rescue you.”
“Do I look like I want for rescuing, woman?”
“Jesus Christ, Tom. Shut up and get in the damn van.”
. . .
“I told you we had to go back. Ow! Look at this lab. We can… we can synthesize all the vaccine we need now.”
“And save the world.” Tom pushed her back down onto the bench. “Yeah, I got it. Now sit the fuck down so I can get this bandage on you.”
“I’ve got it. Go, help Al with Naj. Please, Tom. I’ve got it.”
. . .
“Dammit.”
“That bandage is coming loose again, innit? Told you you should have let me fix it.”
Abby shrugged his hand away.
“I’m fine. I’ve got it.”
“Suit yourself.”
. . .
“Abby.”
“Mmmm?”
“Abby?”
She looked up. “Sorry, what?”
“You need to go to the canteen. A new group’s been spotted coming in on the M4.”
“How many?”
“More than we can take.”
“Shit.”
“They’ve got kids with them.”
“Shit!”
“Want me to deal with it?”
Tom watched her face crumple slightly, then harden.
“I can handle this.”
. . .
“Did you get them all vaccinated?”
Tom gave the barest hint of a nod as he dropped to a crouch beside her chair.
“Any news of other groups?”
Abby’s expression was hard to look at: a mix of hope and fear.
“No.”
At that, relief, quickly hidden. Tom let it pass. Abby needed to believe in the parts they played. She was compassion, caring. He was pragmatic, cynicism. She helped every refugee who came across her path, recorded every sad story and tracked every hope-fuelled lead. He calculated rations and mouths to feed, then shut the lights and turned the key in the lock while folk passed by.
“They came all the way from the coast, yeah?”
“Yeah. Main roads most of the way, though. No new ground covered.”
“Damn.” She slumped back into the cushions.
“Why don’t you go see Peter?” He suggested. Her face softened into the expression he liked best, then tightened again.
“Not yet.” She sat straight again, looking down at him. “Give me the details of the group so I can update the map.”
Tom shook his head but said nothing. Rising, he took her hand and helped her stand. She stepped past him and he let her lead him from the room.
. . .
“How’s Naj?”
Abby jumped slightly. Tom ducked his head, as much of an apology as she’d ever expect from him.
“He’s on the mend. Anya says it’s just a common cold. Something he picked up from the Bristol refugees.”
“Anyone else sick?”
Tom’s question was general, but she knew what he meant.
“Peter’s fine.” She looked away from his unblinking stare. “So am I.”
His body seemed to uncoil at her words. He dropped into his usual crouch beside her chair.
“Right. What’s on the list for today?”
. . .
“Tom?”
He froze mid-reach when his brain recognized the voice. Anyway, these days the gun was in the nightstand, not under the pillow.
“Tom?” she asked again.
“What is it, Abby?” He sat up, wished he hadn’t. The cold air from the corridor raised goosepimples across his chest.
“I’ve been thinking…”
When she didn’t continue, he leaned back on his elbows.
“Get in, close the door. You’re letting the heat out.”
Her body, a shadow against the doorframe, stiffened at his curtness. He expected her to push back, make some argument.
Abruptly, Abby moved. She stepped into the room and closed the door silently. Before Tom could react, she was sitting on his bed facing him, one leg hitched up, her thigh warm against his hip.
“I couldn’t sleep.” As if it were an explanation.
“Because you’ve been thinking?” His sarcasm was softened by the warmth of her as she shifted closer.
“Because I’ve been thinking,” she agreed. Her hand fluttered over his chest, then pressed more firmly as it slid up to his shoulder.
“Of?” Tom leaned into her grip. He shifted his weight to one side, using his free arm to reach for her. Carefully, he grazed his hand across her knee, feeling cool skin stretched tight over sturdy bones. The essence of Abby. She pushed her leg up into his fingers. The pressure was immediately matched by a tightness in his groin.
Abby’s fingers dug into his shoulder muscles. Her nails were sharp, raising points of pain that had Tom biting his lip. His hand closed on her thigh as she leaned into his chest.
“Of you. Of what you do for me.”
Her free hand wrapped around his wrist. For a moment, Tom was afraid she was going to pull his hand away. He found he was holding his breath.
“Of what you could do for me.” She pulled with both hands. Tom’s fingers and lips met wet warmth at the same moment.
. . .
“Abby! What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m here to relax you.”
“Do I look like I want for relaxing, woman?”
“Jesus Christ, Tom. Shut up and get in the damn bed.”
Title: Not Exactly Sir Galahad
Fandom: Survivors
Rating: PG-13
Words: 840
Characters: Abby Grant, Tom Price
Summary: Tom's no knight in shining armour, but he's a damn good lieutenant.
Notes: Written for Yuletide 2013 for AJ
Disclaimer: Survivors and the characters belong to the BBC and other folk. I just torment them even more than their creators.
“Abby! What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m here to rescue you.”
“Do I look like I want for rescuing, woman?”
“Jesus Christ, Tom. Shut up and get in the damn van.”
. . .
“I told you we had to go back. Ow! Look at this lab. We can… we can synthesize all the vaccine we need now.”
“And save the world.” Tom pushed her back down onto the bench. “Yeah, I got it. Now sit the fuck down so I can get this bandage on you.”
“I’ve got it. Go, help Al with Naj. Please, Tom. I’ve got it.”
. . .
“Dammit.”
“That bandage is coming loose again, innit? Told you you should have let me fix it.”
Abby shrugged his hand away.
“I’m fine. I’ve got it.”
“Suit yourself.”
. . .
“Abby.”
“Mmmm?”
“Abby?”
She looked up. “Sorry, what?”
“You need to go to the canteen. A new group’s been spotted coming in on the M4.”
“How many?”
“More than we can take.”
“Shit.”
“They’ve got kids with them.”
“Shit!”
“Want me to deal with it?”
Tom watched her face crumple slightly, then harden.
“I can handle this.”
. . .
“Did you get them all vaccinated?”
Tom gave the barest hint of a nod as he dropped to a crouch beside her chair.
“Any news of other groups?”
Abby’s expression was hard to look at: a mix of hope and fear.
“No.”
At that, relief, quickly hidden. Tom let it pass. Abby needed to believe in the parts they played. She was compassion, caring. He was pragmatic, cynicism. She helped every refugee who came across her path, recorded every sad story and tracked every hope-fuelled lead. He calculated rations and mouths to feed, then shut the lights and turned the key in the lock while folk passed by.
“They came all the way from the coast, yeah?”
“Yeah. Main roads most of the way, though. No new ground covered.”
“Damn.” She slumped back into the cushions.
“Why don’t you go see Peter?” He suggested. Her face softened into the expression he liked best, then tightened again.
“Not yet.” She sat straight again, looking down at him. “Give me the details of the group so I can update the map.”
Tom shook his head but said nothing. Rising, he took her hand and helped her stand. She stepped past him and he let her lead him from the room.
. . .
“How’s Naj?”
Abby jumped slightly. Tom ducked his head, as much of an apology as she’d ever expect from him.
“He’s on the mend. Anya says it’s just a common cold. Something he picked up from the Bristol refugees.”
“Anyone else sick?”
Tom’s question was general, but she knew what he meant.
“Peter’s fine.” She looked away from his unblinking stare. “So am I.”
His body seemed to uncoil at her words. He dropped into his usual crouch beside her chair.
“Right. What’s on the list for today?”
. . .
“Tom?”
He froze mid-reach when his brain recognized the voice. Anyway, these days the gun was in the nightstand, not under the pillow.
“Tom?” she asked again.
“What is it, Abby?” He sat up, wished he hadn’t. The cold air from the corridor raised goosepimples across his chest.
“I’ve been thinking…”
When she didn’t continue, he leaned back on his elbows.
“Get in, close the door. You’re letting the heat out.”
Her body, a shadow against the doorframe, stiffened at his curtness. He expected her to push back, make some argument.
Abruptly, Abby moved. She stepped into the room and closed the door silently. Before Tom could react, she was sitting on his bed facing him, one leg hitched up, her thigh warm against his hip.
“I couldn’t sleep.” As if it were an explanation.
“Because you’ve been thinking?” His sarcasm was softened by the warmth of her as she shifted closer.
“Because I’ve been thinking,” she agreed. Her hand fluttered over his chest, then pressed more firmly as it slid up to his shoulder.
“Of?” Tom leaned into her grip. He shifted his weight to one side, using his free arm to reach for her. Carefully, he grazed his hand across her knee, feeling cool skin stretched tight over sturdy bones. The essence of Abby. She pushed her leg up into his fingers. The pressure was immediately matched by a tightness in his groin.
Abby’s fingers dug into his shoulder muscles. Her nails were sharp, raising points of pain that had Tom biting his lip. His hand closed on her thigh as she leaned into his chest.
“Of you. Of what you do for me.”
Her free hand wrapped around his wrist. For a moment, Tom was afraid she was going to pull his hand away. He found he was holding his breath.
“Of what you could do for me.” She pulled with both hands. Tom’s fingers and lips met wet warmth at the same moment.
. . .
“Abby! What the hell are you doing?”
“I’m here to relax you.”
“Do I look like I want for relaxing, woman?”
“Jesus Christ, Tom. Shut up and get in the damn bed.”