Trying to Fix this Loss
Title: Trying to Fix this Loss
Pairing: Connor/Stephen
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Angst, that's about it really.
Feedback: Yes, please, what I'm doing wrong and right.
Disclaimer: Not mine, never will be. Neither the show, nor the song the title is from are mine. I am merely borrowing them, this is not for profit!
Summary: Connor breaks.
Spoilers: Episode 4 (The Dodo Debacle) specifically, but all previous as well for random mentions, although to be honest considering the show finished about 4 months ago, not really sure they are still spoilers but there you go.
A/N: As I mentioned in a previous fic, I based Stephen's home on Abby's flat, as it just seems to work in my head. Also as with everything I write this is un-betaed by anyone else, just read through almost obsessively by me, as such there may still be problems, if you spot any, please drop me a line or I look a little bit stupid!
Title is taken from a song by Cillian Murphy called So New from the film Disco Pigs.
You stop just outside the door, feeling the alcohol swim through you, hearing the chink of the bottles in your bag as if through cotton wool, that little niggle that had started as soon as you thought of this plan is back in full force. That little voice screaming that this is a severely bad idea, and you should just go back to Abby's and sleep it off. You ignore it and practically pound your fist against the door.
He answers after about a minute of continued pounding and a muffled conversation through the pine slide door regarding your identity. His eyes are half closed, hair sleep mussed, and his t-shirt looks as if it has been hastily pulled over, his legs are bare and you can see the edge of his boxers below the hem.
"Connor? What the hell? It's two in the morning."
You hardly hear him, brushing past and stumbling to his sofa, knowing it's a case of sit down or fall down, and you'd much rather it be the former, you already have a scuffed palm and shin after a nasty stumble outside the door, and don't really want to aggravate the situation any more than it already will be, by walking nearly a mile on a twisted ankle, and continued picking at the gravel still stuck in the small scratches.
You let the sofa drag you down, knowing you are sitting still doesn't seem to be translating to your head which is ridiculously grateful that Stephen's flat is decorated in muted earth tones, or you'd be reliving the rather disgusting pizza you forced down earlier. Despite this your head still swims, the room looking as if it's shifting and moving in front of you, and it's not the movement that makes you nearly sick, but the knowledge that it really isn't moving. You'd happily welcome unconsciousness now, but know that until you feel human again nothing is going to happen in that department, you'd tried the alcohol, drank three times as much as you normally did, and regretted it almost instantly. Remembering that lesson in school where they told you alcohol was a depressant and you shouldn't think otherwise.
"Connor? Connor, look at me." You feel hands on your knees, and have to force your eyes to follow the lines of muscle to figure out where Stephen's face could be. His eyes look through you, the blue shifting and twinkling in the dim lights he turned on. "Fuck, you reek of alcohol, how much have you drunk?"
You can't answer, just get lost in his eyes you shiver slightly as he slips a hand from your knee and slides your bag over your head, lowering it to the floor, before leaning you forward slightly to slide your coat from your shoulders, pulling it out from under you, when you fall back towards the sofa, and wince as it bunches up at the base of your back, the pin from a badge digging into your skin, through your other layers.
You let your head fall back against the sofa, and fall into sleep.
You wake scant minutes later when the scent of coffee assaults you. Opening heavy lids and not even bothering to lift your head just looking down to see Stephen standing in front of you with a large mug in one hand, a glass of water in the other.
"You need to drink something that isn't fermented." He says as he thrusts the mug at you. Your stomach rolls at the smell, but you manage to gulp down about half of the bitter black coffee.
He places both the mug and the glass on a small table next to the sofa, before sliding down next to you.
"Why?"
"Tom's dead. I as good as killed him." You lean forward, elbows on your knees, head in hands.
"You didn't kill him. The parasite killed him. Nick told you this earlier." His hand falls on your shoulder, like in the kitchen, and you break, tears finally slipping free and falling to the floor.
He hesitates, not knowing what to do, but his hand grips tighter at your shoulder. You smile through the tears as something strikes you, a long forgotten line from a movie, and you turn to him, tear tracks slipping down your cheeks, you lick your suddenly dry lips tasting salt, and mumble. "Fuck me."
"What? No!" He moves to stand his hand slipping from your shoulder, and somehow, though God knows how, you manage to pull all your limbs into cooperation long enough to spin you around and settle firmly on his laps, straddling him on his own sofa. You press your mouths together, waiting for a few seconds as he freezes, before you feel a hand slip around the back of your neck and his teeth nibble at your bottom lip, before his tongue slides between your lips and begins to tangle with yours.
The world suddenly turns around far too quick, when he pulls back pushing you from his lap and scrambling to get up. "What the hell, Connor?"
You feel sick, your stomach churning with renewed vigour, head swimming. You finally manage to pull the room back into focus long enough to locate Stephen, which is difficult as he's pacing on the opposite side of the little table in front of you, obsessively running his hand through his hair, you smile slightly when one hand goes to his lips and touches them gently, but he catches you looking and drops it to his hip, resuming his pacing. It's making you dizzy. You lick your lips slowly, trying to stare right into his eyes, and the smile grows when he stumbles slightly, he tastes of coffee, not as bitter as the stuff you drank but not far off. "Ok, so you'll fuck around with everyone else, but not me, right, that's comforting." You fall back onto the sofa, trying to stop the spinning and contemplating giving it up for a lost cause.
"I'm not fucking around with anyone else. What are you talking about?"
"I saw you, in the kitchen, the looks you shared with Nick, the knife thing with Helen. Even Abby when you were bitten, and I know you remember it, I saw the way you looked at her. And don't tell me that it's just male bonding with Captain Ryan, I'm not blind, or stupid. In fact I think the only one you haven't flirted with is Claudia. Look, anyway, I need to feel something. And to quote High Fidelity, it's either that or I stick my hand in the fire." You stop, unable to believe you a) got that all out without vomiting on the carpet, and b) Stephen hasn't clocked you one.
"I'm not doing anything with anyone. Seriously Connor, it would ruin the team. Also, never had you pegged as a High Fidelity person, not enough explosions or aliens for you, I'd have thought."
"John Cusack, he's a legend." You say as deadpan as you can manage. Trying to get coordinated enough again, so you can pull your coat on, pick up your bag and just leave, maybe curl up in a corner and never come out. You finally manage to lift your head, and go to reach for your bag, before realising Stephen's moved it to stand below the coat stand by the door.
"What are you doing?" Stephen asks, stopping his pacing for long enough to get the words out before resuming his frantic criss-crossing of the rug.
"Leaving." You reply simply, managing to lever yourself to the edge of the sofa, and tensing your legs for the final push to that seemingly unattainable goal of standing.
"I'm not letting you anywhere in this state, you can sleep on the sofa. I'll get you some blankets and a pillow." He goes upstairs, eyes flitting, almost nervously, back to you at every step.
It's the perfect opportunity, you push up, swaying slightly at the sudden movement and start towards the door. You don't hear him come back downstairs, so when his hand grabs your arm you start, nearly falling over in the process, and swaying dangerously. He huffs a small breath and begins to tow you towards the stairs.
"What are you doing?" You mutter, trying your hardest to stay standing and nearly failing as you stumble practically every other step.
"I'm gonna sober you up. Movie stylee." He smirks back at you, before beginning the highly treacherous stairs that seem to loom large, you're pretty sure you should be able to manage stairs at your age, but find yourself scuppered by leaden limbs and swishy vision.
"What?" You manage to stutter out, before you realise you've made it to the top of the evil mountain of stairs, and he deposits you, rather roughly, on his bed, you bounce slightly on the mattress and watch the world sway, dangerously close to falling off a stationary object, which you are pretty sure is the height of rudeness.
You hear a tap running for a few seconds, and still can't manage to make any connections between what he said and what he's doing. That is right up until he walks back into the bedroom, reaching over to you and towing you towards his white and red bathroom, when it finally twigs and you try and struggle, but you're no match for him sober and he easily tows you to the sink and pushes your head into a basin full of cold water, you struggle for breath for a few seconds before he pulls your head back, for the first time in your life grateful you have long hair, twists you round and deposits you on the closed toilet seat. "There. Better?"
You blink at him slowly, feeling water drip down your face and soak into your top. But surprisingly the shock seems to have scared the alcohol away or something, because it's still there but you feel more human. He reaches towards you slowly. "Better get you out of these wet clothes. Sorry I had to do that." He looks mildly contrite, but not too contrite, far too smug for that really you suppose, and you barely move as nimble fingers slip buttons from button holes and slide your shirt off, before pulling your tank and undershirt over your head, using a little urging to get you to lift your hands. You shiver when cold air hits your damp skin, and he hands you a large t-shirt, which you let fall to the floor as he leans slightly closer, your hand finds it way back round to the nape of his neck and you pull him the remaining inches to press your lips back together. Letting your tongue sweep between his slightly parted lips and tangle with his, sighing with relief with he kisses back, arms going around you and pulling you to you feet and flush to his body.
You pull back slightly when air becomes an issue, resting your foreheads together. "Please, fuck me." Your voice is pleading, rough from alcohol, and you feel wrung out, just wanting to feel this one thing.
"Are you sure?" He sounds worried, caring and so fucking calm that for a split second you feel angry that he can be this fucking calm in this situation, when you're practically holding yourself together with spit and hope.
"Hard, fast, slow, soft, anything please." You press back into the kiss hard enough that you both stumble a few steps, and he seems to take the hint, leading you back to the bed, and falling to it pulling you down on top of him, still locked together in this kiss, which is slowly growing more and more passionate. You press yourself down flat against him and moan when he instantly rolls you both over, one hand going down to undo your belt and the button and zip on your trousers. Pushing them down far enough to slip a hand into your boxers.
You moan into his mouth when his hand, still cool from the dunking, slips around your cock, your hips bucking towards him, and you feel the matching hardness through the thin fabric of his boxers pressed against your thigh.
He pulls away, shushing your moan, as he slips to his knees to slide your shoes, socks and trousers off, before hooking his fingers into your boxers and drawing them down slowly, eyes locked to your erection as it bobs up. He seems to speed up at that point, wrenching his top over his head so fast, you'll be unsuprised if he complains of friction burns in the morning, before slipping his boxers down and stepping out of them. Standing and looming over you on the bed, he looks magnificent and you wonder why you've never done this before, then realise that according to your psyche he's been screwing everyone else, that would be why you've not done this before. He pushes you up the bed bodily, leaning over you, gasping when your cocks brush together fleetingly. He presses himself closer, resting himself atop you and resuming the kiss, one hand groping on his bedside table and coming back to drop a tube and foil wrapper next to your head. He pulls himself away slightly, and you can see his lips purse to ask you if you're sure again, and you decide to cut him off at the pass.
"Just do it."
He does, sitting back to rest on your thighs eyes raking over you slowly. He moves back a bit settling himself between your thighs, before reaching over you to grab the lube, condom and a pillow which he shoves under your hips, before spreading your legs even further apart, exposing you to his gaze. You watch him wet his fingers, shivering when he trails them down your cock over your balls and towards your entrance, running the tips around the edge for what seems like an age, before slipping one long slender finger inside you. You moan at the intrusion, pushing back to get more, suddenly frantic for him to be inside you burning the pain away.
He doesn't rush, taking his time, sliding another finger in to rest alongside the first. Free hand stroking over the rest of your body, quieting you when you try to beg and moan for more, pushing yourself harder and harder onto his hand, only when he's got three fingers in you comfortably, and you are near ready to scream with frustration, does he finally slip his hand from your body, ripping open the condom packet and rolling it over his cock. Slicking himself, he moves back over you, urging you to wrap your legs around his hips, you feel the head at your entrance and push yourself down, groaning as he slides deep with one stroke, arms wrapping around your shoulders and pulling you back so you're straddling his hips, wrapped around him tightly.
He starts a slow rolling thrust, rubbing over your prostate constantly as you shudder in his arms. Fingers stroking over your back and shoulders, mouth moving over your throat, slight nips and licks sending you higher, you slide your hands up to his shoulders and use them as leverage so you can rise and fall faster and faster, you're practically slamming yourself onto his lap, before his hands wrap themselves around your hips and he forces you to still, pressed hard onto his cock, panting slightly. You reach up to flick sweat soaked hair from your face and end up staring deep into his eyes.
"You're going to hurt yourself."
"I deserve it." It slips out before you can stop yourself, and once you've said it you don't want to take it back. You let your eyes fall away from his gaze and lock onto his navel.
"Connor." You don't look up, can't look up, but his hand on your chin forces you to, pulling your head up and holding it still so you can't look away from his eyes. "Connor, it is not your fault, it was not your fault and it never will be. And if this is just some form of punishment, then I don't want any part of it."
You feel the tears welling up before you can stop them, falling over your cheeks and onto your chest, and you slump in Stephen's grip. The hand on your chin lets go and you find yourself pulled into a tight hug. You head tucked into the crook of Stephen's neck, and he lowers you slowly to the bed, one hand wrapped around your back and the other gently stroking your hair.
It's only after a few minutes that you realise he is still buried to the hilt inside you, and somehow, by some miracle you are still hard. You clench around him, smiling through the tears at the groan he lets go. The hand that was in your hair slips between the two of you, where he is lying over you, and wraps around your cock, stroking slowly as he resumes his thrusting with your face still buried in his shoulder. The tears have slowed but not stopped and you are slightly heaving for breath, you moan and shake and curse when it finally becomes too much and you spill over his hand and your stomach. Hearing his grunt as he thrusts deep one last time and comes hard.
He slides out moments later, tying off the condom and dropping it in the bin next to the bed, as you try and unlock your ankles from behind his back, listening to the groaning of your hips and knees, you're going to feel it in the morning and you don't care. You move stiffly as he pulls the sheet out from under you and throws it over the both of you, pulling you close in the warmth, one hand back in your hair, stroking it back from your face.
"Ok, so at least you don't have to sleep on the sofa." He smiles.
"Thank you for... Thank you for everything, including telling me to duck earlier." Your smile is watery but you manage a small one.
"You're very welcome. Go to sleep."