"Raise the Meek" for Raptor_Moon (Primeval Secret Santa)
Title: Raise the Meek.
Author: Keenir.
(with beta by Babnol)
Characters: Sarah Page, Connor Temple.
Pairings/Ships: Sarah/Connor.
Warnings:
.--This occasionally stumbles into crackfic territory, but never for very long - I tried to keep it serious as much as possible.
.--I’m also trying to use little-used (by me) English words.
.-a very drunk dave.
Occasion: Primeval Denial Secret Santa
Recipient: Raptor_Moon
Prompt: Lester or Connor or Abby in a wintery setting with someone for a romantic interest, some hurt comfort and an anomaly/prehistoric creature in the mix. Happy Ending, please.
Rating: PG-13 to be on the safe side.
Spoilers: Series 3.01-3.04, the s1 & s2 finales.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the canon characters, nor the canon creatures, nor the anomalies. And yes, this is the same frozen-over future I’ve used in other ficathon entries.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to Joe and Curia Regis for their help with the prompt. A big thank you to Mustangcandi, who mentioned the chemistry I would use in this. Thanks to my friends in the _Queen of Swords_ fandom, who explained the idea of hurt/comfort to me - the H/C scene is in your honor (and you may find it familiar). And a just-as-big thank you to all my friends…just for being my friends.
Translation: acidophile = acid-lover (type of bacterium). Psychrophile = cold-lover.
link
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cold focuses the mind wonderfully. Never really noticed Sarah before, Connor admitted to himself as they trundled along through the snowfield, breathing the oxygen-rich air. I was always looking to Abby for a sign, an indication that she liked me - there were a few, but looking back on it all, I can’t help but wonder if she was playing with me, never letting me get too close, but not letting me go away either.
Connor sighed. Now Sarah - which was as far as he got before tripping, probably over his own two feet, since there were no concrete slabs or tree roots present. “Ow,” he said, trying to downplay it.
Without a word of protest or complaint, Sarah brought herself down to hold Connor’s foot in her hands. “We need to do this,” she told him as she slid off his shoe and sock, and felt his ankle and lower calf for any injury. Her face was apologetic enough that saying ‘Sorry’ would have been redundant.
The binding of straight things that looked remarkably like long #2 pencils, well that was done with an accomplished speed that suggested this wasn’t Sarah’s first time doing First Aid. But then…
Connor couldn’t help but notice that Sarah’s hands weren’t going away, that her fingers lingered tantalizingly on his calf. He swallowed, trying to work up the courage to say something. “You think that’s a tree?” he blurted out before his coherent mind lost itself in the smooth caress.
Looking at him, Sarah blinked, then turned her head - away - to see what Connor had noticed. There, on the horizon, she noted. It *does* look a bit tree-like. While she recalled Professor Cutter’s reports that said there were no plants in this epoch, Sarah also knew, Something has to be making all the oxygen in this air. “Lean on me, Connor,” she said, helping him up.
Together, they hiked to the horizon, his arm around her shoulder. Strictly purely for support, you understand.
* * *
In the seas, there was faunal turnover. The seal family, origin of truly humongous marine beasts - massives as a group - was losing watery ground to the salps, hugely distant cousins. Backbones were no longer as successful as urchordates. The number of massives species was dropping, millennia by millennia. Only three remained by this point, and they were the hugest of the massives, and two of them ate salps.
On land, by sharing and cooperating, a minor clade was enjoying a renascence. By bringing acidophiles and other bacteria inside their bodies, the slime molds - by now true psychrophiles - were able to grow larger and more ornate than ever before.
* * *
Overall, it looked like a Christmas tree. If your trees tended to be the height and breadth of a football field, varying from opaque to transparent flecked with green tips. And quibbling in the soft warm(ish) equatorial breeze.
And, ringing the mid-section - “Anomalies,” Connor said.
“At least five of them,” Sarah said, rather enjoying how Connor’s hand felt on her shoulder.
“And oh no,” Connor said, noticing what was scraping and nibbling at the slime-covered clay rocks at the foot of the tree.
“A dave,” Sarah said, not liking it any more than he did.
The dave stopped eating, lifted its head, looked at them…and went back to nibbling. And tripped over its four feet without having taken a step in any direction, belching when it hit the ground.
The wind didn’t favor them, as it carried the smell of the burp to their noses. “Drunk?” Connor asked.
Sarah nodded, not liking that smell.
“Acidic soils like this…NADH and NAD+ run their conversions.” Question is, is this just reduction - like with rust - or are the slime molds generating ATP out their collective wazoo?
“And thereby generate a strong enough alcohol to make daves tipsy,” Sarah said, long-accustomed if a wee bit out of practice at simplifying scientific data for public consumption. Speaking of which, “Now all we need are eggs.”
“Eggs? For eggnog,” he said, glomming on quick.
No, I just feel like having eggs. Maybe it’s the runny look of the tree.
As she thought that, the dave stumbled over to the crest of one hill, where it ass-over-teakettled to the bottom, picked itself up, and - Sarah thought as she and Connor watched it from the hilltop - It would be singing to itself if it could sing.
“Too much alcohol for his body weight,” Connor said. Admittedly not the sort of thing one considers testing when they were eating people and about to help commit world domination.
“Seems so,” Sarah said. And, with a smile, “And what’s this about eggnog? I never had it growing up.” We put all our alcohol in the pudding.
“Oh. I, er, I mean…I thought you…”
Sarah looked at him. “What do you think I celebrate?” she asked him teasingly, playing with him - and hoped he could see that.
“Uhhh,” Connor said, trying to think of an answer that neither assumed anything, nor was wrong.
“With you,” she answered for him, leaning into him.
Connor very nearly fell down again at that. Nobody’s ever told me that. And as his mind was pulled from shock by the headily pleasant feel of Sarah against him, Connor wondered, “D’you think there’s a local analogue of mistletoe around?”
She smiled, told him, “We made our own luck - we can do this too,” sounding to Connor like she was purring, which did all sorts of things to his insides.
And they went from there, but the story ends here, to keep from becoming NC-17 with all the cuddling and spooning and
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The End
Author: Keenir.
(with beta by Babnol)
Characters: Sarah Page, Connor Temple.
Pairings/Ships: Sarah/Connor.
Warnings:
.--This occasionally stumbles into crackfic territory, but never for very long - I tried to keep it serious as much as possible.
.--I’m also trying to use little-used (by me) English words.
.-a very drunk dave.
Occasion: Primeval Denial Secret Santa
Recipient: Raptor_Moon
Prompt: Lester or Connor or Abby in a wintery setting with someone for a romantic interest, some hurt comfort and an anomaly/prehistoric creature in the mix. Happy Ending, please.
Rating: PG-13 to be on the safe side.
Spoilers: Series 3.01-3.04, the s1 & s2 finales.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the canon characters, nor the canon creatures, nor the anomalies. And yes, this is the same frozen-over future I’ve used in other ficathon entries.
Acknowledgements: Many thanks to Joe and Curia Regis for their help with the prompt. A big thank you to Mustangcandi, who mentioned the chemistry I would use in this. Thanks to my friends in the _Queen of Swords_ fandom, who explained the idea of hurt/comfort to me - the H/C scene is in your honor (and you may find it familiar). And a just-as-big thank you to all my friends…just for being my friends.
Translation: acidophile = acid-lover (type of bacterium). Psychrophile = cold-lover.
link
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cold focuses the mind wonderfully. Never really noticed Sarah before, Connor admitted to himself as they trundled along through the snowfield, breathing the oxygen-rich air. I was always looking to Abby for a sign, an indication that she liked me - there were a few, but looking back on it all, I can’t help but wonder if she was playing with me, never letting me get too close, but not letting me go away either.
Connor sighed. Now Sarah - which was as far as he got before tripping, probably over his own two feet, since there were no concrete slabs or tree roots present. “Ow,” he said, trying to downplay it.
Without a word of protest or complaint, Sarah brought herself down to hold Connor’s foot in her hands. “We need to do this,” she told him as she slid off his shoe and sock, and felt his ankle and lower calf for any injury. Her face was apologetic enough that saying ‘Sorry’ would have been redundant.
The binding of straight things that looked remarkably like long #2 pencils, well that was done with an accomplished speed that suggested this wasn’t Sarah’s first time doing First Aid. But then…
Connor couldn’t help but notice that Sarah’s hands weren’t going away, that her fingers lingered tantalizingly on his calf. He swallowed, trying to work up the courage to say something. “You think that’s a tree?” he blurted out before his coherent mind lost itself in the smooth caress.
Looking at him, Sarah blinked, then turned her head - away - to see what Connor had noticed. There, on the horizon, she noted. It *does* look a bit tree-like. While she recalled Professor Cutter’s reports that said there were no plants in this epoch, Sarah also knew, Something has to be making all the oxygen in this air. “Lean on me, Connor,” she said, helping him up.
Together, they hiked to the horizon, his arm around her shoulder. Strictly purely for support, you understand.
* * *
In the seas, there was faunal turnover. The seal family, origin of truly humongous marine beasts - massives as a group - was losing watery ground to the salps, hugely distant cousins. Backbones were no longer as successful as urchordates. The number of massives species was dropping, millennia by millennia. Only three remained by this point, and they were the hugest of the massives, and two of them ate salps.
On land, by sharing and cooperating, a minor clade was enjoying a renascence. By bringing acidophiles and other bacteria inside their bodies, the slime molds - by now true psychrophiles - were able to grow larger and more ornate than ever before.
* * *
Overall, it looked like a Christmas tree. If your trees tended to be the height and breadth of a football field, varying from opaque to transparent flecked with green tips. And quibbling in the soft warm(ish) equatorial breeze.
And, ringing the mid-section - “Anomalies,” Connor said.
“At least five of them,” Sarah said, rather enjoying how Connor’s hand felt on her shoulder.
“And oh no,” Connor said, noticing what was scraping and nibbling at the slime-covered clay rocks at the foot of the tree.
“A dave,” Sarah said, not liking it any more than he did.
The dave stopped eating, lifted its head, looked at them…and went back to nibbling. And tripped over its four feet without having taken a step in any direction, belching when it hit the ground.
The wind didn’t favor them, as it carried the smell of the burp to their noses. “Drunk?” Connor asked.
Sarah nodded, not liking that smell.
“Acidic soils like this…NADH and NAD+ run their conversions.” Question is, is this just reduction - like with rust - or are the slime molds generating ATP out their collective wazoo?
“And thereby generate a strong enough alcohol to make daves tipsy,” Sarah said, long-accustomed if a wee bit out of practice at simplifying scientific data for public consumption. Speaking of which, “Now all we need are eggs.”
“Eggs? For eggnog,” he said, glomming on quick.
No, I just feel like having eggs. Maybe it’s the runny look of the tree.
As she thought that, the dave stumbled over to the crest of one hill, where it ass-over-teakettled to the bottom, picked itself up, and - Sarah thought as she and Connor watched it from the hilltop - It would be singing to itself if it could sing.
“Too much alcohol for his body weight,” Connor said. Admittedly not the sort of thing one considers testing when they were eating people and about to help commit world domination.
“Seems so,” Sarah said. And, with a smile, “And what’s this about eggnog? I never had it growing up.” We put all our alcohol in the pudding.
“Oh. I, er, I mean…I thought you…”
Sarah looked at him. “What do you think I celebrate?” she asked him teasingly, playing with him - and hoped he could see that.
“Uhhh,” Connor said, trying to think of an answer that neither assumed anything, nor was wrong.
“With you,” she answered for him, leaning into him.
Connor very nearly fell down again at that. Nobody’s ever told me that. And as his mind was pulled from shock by the headily pleasant feel of Sarah against him, Connor wondered, “D’you think there’s a local analogue of mistletoe around?”
She smiled, told him, “We made our own luck - we can do this too,” sounding to Connor like she was purring, which did all sorts of things to his insides.
And they went from there, but the story ends here, to keep from becoming NC-17 with all the cuddling and spooning and
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The End