Fic: Watermarked (Primeval, Abby/Connor, PG13)
Title: Watermarked
Author: alyse
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Abby/Connor
Rating: PG13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: End of Series 3
Author's Notes: Written as a pinch for
twistedchick for Yuletide 2009, who wanted Primeval with many things, including personality and Abby tending an injured creature. I figured Connor counted for that. I hope you enjoy it,
twistedchick, and Merry Yule!
Many thanks to aithine for the beta.
Summary: Connor turned his head and looked back, tired and drawn but alive and that was the miracle, the only miracle she needed.
-o-
There were needles when they finally made it back home: needles and swabs and - for Connor at least - stitches. Throughout it all, Abby kept glancing towards the door to the small medical facility they had in the ARC, waiting for Danny to miraculously appear. But it seemed like the only miracle she was going to get today was the pair of them finding an anomaly, one that led back to the Forest of Dean.
One that led them home.
She swallowed and looked away from the door, towards where Connor sat on the other bed, reminding herself of what she hadn't lost instead. Connor turned his head and looked back, tired and drawn but alive and that was the miracle, the only miracle she needed.
The doctor stuck yet another needle in her, drawing more blood, and she winced, catching the matching wince reflected in Connor's face. There was blood on his forehead still, dried and dark, and there was dirt on his face and in his hair. The pair of them needed a shower and sleep and food and not necessarily in that order, but what she really needed - really wanted - was to get the pair of them home where she could shut the door behind them, safe and secure.
"All done," the doctor - Jackson, she thought his name was - said, and she stared at him for a moment before reality kicked in, all those little social cues that she was missing, everything that the last couple of days had knocked out of her along with all of her stuffing. She finally found the necessary smile for him and it felt worn around the edges, rubbed thin, but it did what it was supposed to do. He smiled back and walked away, leaving her to it.
They were still busy with Connor and she had to look away when they brought out the needle for him, the needle and the dark thread. She'd done her fair share of stitching up the animals under her care, at least once she'd joined the ARC and vets with sufficiently high security clearance were few and far between, but watching someone else do it to Connor, her Connor, was different. It made her fingers shake and her heart clench, and when Becker walked through the doorway it gave her the excuse she needed not to watch.
"Hey."
Becker's smile wasn't rote and it kicked in immediately, although it looked a little tired and strained. "Hey," he said, and there was genuine warmth in the word, which was weird given that they'd never be best friends. "How are you doing?"
"Still breathing."
"Yes." A shadow passed over his face, so brief she thought she'd imagined it. "That's something to be grateful for, at least." Or maybe not.
"Danny..." she said, keeping her voice low so that Connor couldn't hear her, although from the sudden, urgent silence behind her, heavy with expectation, he was listening anyway. "Is there...?"
"We were hoping he was with you." Becker's words were heavy, too - heavy and slow. "What happened?"
"We got separated. Connor..." She glanced back over towards Connor and he was watching her, his face still, quiet. "Connor was hurt and I wasn't going to leave him. Danny... Danny went after Helen."
"We lost him." Connor's voice cracked and something in Abby cracked right along with it. "I'm sorry, Becker. We lost him."
Becker had never been that easy to read, not for Abby, and maybe she was projecting, but his face now mirrored all of those conflicted things she was feeling. "Don't be sorry," he said, quietly. "The pair of you are back safely and that..." That's all the miracle we need. "That's more than we could have hoped for. I'm going to presume that since we're still here, and the world hasn't ended yet, that he was successful in stopping Helen." He paused for a moment, and the look he gave Abby was almost fierce but for once it wasn't aimed at her. "With any luck he'll have stopped her permanently."
Yes, she thought, matching him for fierceness.
"And Danny?" Connor this time. His voice wavered a little in the middle but he held it together.
"He'll find his way home. I'm sure of it." And Becker sounded sure; it was something to cling to, the possibility of another miracle, another seat of the pants save. "Look, the pair of you. Go home. Get some rest..."
"Things will look better in the morning," she whispered and the smile he gave her this time was tight, understanding.
"We'll have a plan. Just get some rest, okay?" It was as close as Becker was likely to come to gentle with her. She left it to Connor to answer, and he didn't let her down, not now, not ever.
"Okay."
Becker gave her another one of those tight, contained smiles; if he'd been anyone else, anyone not military, there might even have been a hug, more obvious concern, but with Becker this was as close as it got and it was close enough for Abby. He turned on his heel, walking out like he had a purpose, before catching himself in the doorway and looking back towards them. The smile was less contained this time, less guarded. "And, guys? A shower probably wouldn't go amiss."
He had a point.
-o-
"Where are we going?"
Connor was fractured, lost, and from the way he kept touching his forehead - tentatively, with the very tips of his fingers - he had a hell of a headache.
"Home."
"Oh." In the silence that followed, as Connor looked around, lost and confused, she thought of concussion, of Connor flying through the air and landing with a sickening thump, and everything inside her froze a little, icy currents in her veins.
"Connor -"
"Um. I don't think Lester is still here."
"He's probably with Becker, making plans. Why do you...?" And then the penny finally dropped. "Oh."
There was that nervous little twitch of his lips, the one that passed for a smile when Connor wasn't sure how she was going to react. "I... um... All my stuff's at Lester's and... um..."
She was an idiot, she really was. In more ways than one. But it was about time she started to be smart, started using that brain that people kept telling her she had. "Not all of your stuff," she said quietly. "You left most of it at mine, ours, I mean." She stumbled over the words, as she often did with Connor. "It was only supposed to be a few days... I mean... When Jack... stayed."
"Oh." Connor's fingers twitched and twisted together before he reached up to touch his forehead again, where the blood had dried, flaking against his pale skin. "Um..."
She couldn't bear it anymore and reached up to pull them away from his face, tangling them up with hers so that he couldn't poke at the sore spot any more. She didn't - couldn't - look him in the eye; it was easier to talk to his hand, his chest, as she said, "Come on. Let's go home."
-o-
Rex at least was glad to see them, swirling around her head and chittering excitedly. The two Diictodons scrambled around their feet, making those little barking sounds, the ones that always sounded like they were full of joy to Abby. It would be easy to anthropomorphise, to think of them as welcoming home the weary travellers. Maybe they were - both species were pack orientated. It was comforting, on some level, to think of Connor and her as part of their adopted pack.
Family.
Connor sank wearily down onto the seat by the breakfast counter, watching Sid and Nancy tumbling over each other like overgrown puppies. There were dark shadows under his eyes, smudges of dirt on his cheek. His stubble was growing through, dark against his skin, making him look both older and younger all at once. "Hey," she said, resisting the urge to reach out and catch hold of his hand again. "Mind if I shower first?"
He shook his head, exhaustion clear in every line of his body. "Nah. Go ahead. I'll put the kettle on, yeah?"
It sounded so mundane, so ordinary, that it stopped her for a second, caught so suddenly that her foot hovered above the floor. There would still be milk in the fridge. It would still be good.
It had only been a couple of days. Two days, one night, on both sides of the anomaly.
"Yeah," she said, and her voice wavered a little as her foot finally hit the floor. "A cuppa tea would be good."
He didn't answer her and, when she looked over, his eyes had drifted shut, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand with his elbow planted firmly on the countertop. She swallowed, everything getting tangled up in the lump that formed in her throat, and turned away.
-o-
He was still there when she came out of the bathroom, her hair wet and curling around her ears. The kettle was still cold, empty, and she filled it at the kitchen sink, listening to the hollow sound the water made as it splatted against the base.
It was the sound that woke Connor up and he started, blinking at her blearily over the breakfast bar when she walked towards him, the lino on the kitchen floor cold against her feet.
"Sorry," he said although what he was apologising for escaped her. "I must have dozed off."
"I suppose that explains the snoring," she teased but he didn't smile, not the way he usually would. He didn't even protest that he didn't snore. No banter. No back and forth. Instead he just blinked at her again, still not quite with it.
She looked away, busying herself with placing the kettle firmly on its base and switching it on. "Shower's free," she said, letting the words slip out slowly and firmly, like if she kept control on them she'd keep control of everything.
He was still blinking at her, half-asleep, when she turned around again. "Oh," he said and his face furrowed, like he was having to concentrate just to follow on the conversation. "The doctor told me I couldn't get my stitches wet." A frown followed the words, something that was more unhappy than confused, something wistful and wanting. "I really wanted to wash my hair." His fingers drifted up towards his hairline again but they stopped at her look, hovering inches away from his hair. The wistful look became mournful.
"You could have a bath," she suggested and the blood rushed to her face, which was stupid when she thought she was well past the age for blushing and it had never been the kind of thing she'd done anyway.
"Yeah," he said. And then, more firmly: "Yeah." But his fingers twitched again before he stilled them.
He smelt of blood and dirt and sweat, of pain and a sleepless night. Now that she was clean, it was more obvious to her than it had been when she'd had the smell of her own fear to mask it.
"You could..." she said and hesitated, even now. Even after everything. He didn't respond or give her his normal quizzical look whenever she started and didn't finish something. It was strange how that - how the not Connor of that - meant she could finish. "You could leave your boxers on," and he blinked at her again, a frown forming between his eyebrows and a question forming on his lips. She beat him to it, the words tumbling out over each other like they were Sid and Nancy on a tear. "And... I could wash your hair."
Once the words were out, she swallowed, already worried that they were venturing into that territory she'd told him she didn't want to go, where things were weird between them, weirder even than normal. But he didn't say anything. He simply watched her, any surprise smothered by exhaustion before it could slip past his defences.
"If you want," she said when he still didn't say anything, and the colour rose to his cheeks, slowly at first, but then coming in a flurry until it bloomed across his face, down his neck, to the roots of his hair.
He looked away, his lips parting as he worked out what to say. And then he looked back at her, resolute and scared like he always was when he faced down anything for her sake.
"Okay," he said. He swallowed and it was clear that he wasn't quite able to believe that he'd just said it. "Okay," he said again. "Thank you."
-o-
The bathroom was still steamy from her shower, blurring her reflection in the mirror above the sink and making everything a little out of focus, a little unreal. The air was warm but her hands still shook as she poured a little bubble bath into the water and watched it foam underneath the taps, vanilla and cinnamon scented.
The door opened behind her, letting in a momentary draft, but she didn't turn around until it closed again.
Connor had stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers. She'd seen him in no more than this before, back at their old flat when the thermostat had been set higher and the pair of them had been less self-conscious. But that had been before things got all weird between them, when she could look at Connor and simply pigeon-hole him in the 'friend and nothing more' category. Before Connor had told her he'd never let go, that he loved her.
Before she'd kissed him and changed everything.
He gave her a nervous little smile, folding his arms over his chest and shifting in position. It wasn't until his gaze darted away, skirting her own and staring around the room as though he was going to find something there - anything - to temper the awkwardness that she realised she'd been staring at him, saying nothing, for long moments.
She cleared her throat, not knowing what to do with her hands or what to say. In the end she settled for saying nothing, her own face flushing in a way that had nothing to do with the heat rising from the bathwater. She turned away and fussed with the taps instead, swirling the water around with her hand to mix it and test the temperature - not too hot and not too cold. The bubbles bloomed and popped, clinging to her fingers and her wrist.
"Okay," she said eventually, aiming for even. It came out low and throaty, and the heat rushed up her neck again, into her cheeks. At least the words were steady - she had that much to be grateful for. "It's ready."
When she looked up at Connor, he was just standing there, his arms still folded across his chest, hands tucked neatly away underneath, and his cheeks red. He tried to smile, but it slid away from his face leaving the nervousness clearly visible. It made it easier somehow - that Connor was nervous, unsure. Skittish.
Skittish she could deal with.
"Are you leaving your t-shirt on?" She kept her voice gentle but the blush across his cheeks deepened anyway. His hands darted down to the bottom of his shirt and twisted in the fabric helplessly, fingers getting all tangled up. The look he gave her was half-embarrassed and half-beseeching, and she looked away, turning back towards the bath deliberately to give him some privacy.
A soft sound of pain from behind her caught her attention but she didn't turn back around again until it was followed by a more plaintive, "Ow." Connor laughed, breathlessly, his t-shirt caught around his head when she looked, all of his movements slow and pained. "Apparently this isn't as easy as..."
"Okay... Just..." She tucked her hands underneath the fabric, rolling it up and stretching the neck so that she could ease it over his head. "Here you... oh. Connor." There were bruises on his back, just forming - dark red and purple stains on his skin, over his shoulder blades, at his waist, still visible through the dirt that smudged his torso. "No wonder you hurt."
"Yeah. Guess I should stop falling out of trees, right?"
"That would help," she said dryly, the words catching for a second in her throat. "I've got some arnica. That might help as well."
He nodded, his hair sticking up everywhere. "Thanks," and his voice was gravelly with exhaustion.
"Okay. You..." He stared at her blankly and she made a little abortive gesture towards the tub. "Um..."
"Oh. Right." He flushed again, starting jerkily forward, all fingers and thumbs and colt-legged awkwardness. It took her a second to realise that at least some of that was due to the stiffness of sore muscles, and the fact that his ankle was still paining him. He didn't shake off the hand she put on his elbow to steady him, just looking at her gratefully. Anyone else might have taken it as a threat to their masculinity or something, but Connor had never reacted like that. It made a pleasant change, one that had required some mental adjustment on her part. She was so used to fighting every step of the way for some acknowledgement that she was useful, equal, that Connor had thrown her, and still did.
And it wasn't that he wasn't male. How could she doubt that when he still left the toilet seat up sometimes, in spite of her nagging?
Now that he was settling himself down into the water with a soft hiss - now that she could look, unobserved - she could see that he wasn't as skinny as he'd been when they first met. He'd filled out nicely; she shouldn't be thinking that, not when he was hurt. Not when this whole thing between them was awkward, but it was difficult to miss when he was there, wearing hardly anything in front of her, the water swirling around the taut lines of his body.
There were scratches on his back as well as the bruises; small little cuts left by bark or tree litter. None of them seemed infected; it was automatic to check that, just like it was automatic to reach out and touch his skin, to steady him with the same calm, comforting presence that soothed the animals she dealt with every day.
He twitched and then relaxed. She hesitated for a second, wondering if she'd gone too far, crossed over one of those multitude of trip wires that made everything about relationships and men so complicated. She was never quite sure where they were, making every single step a careful negotiation of the terrain, but then Connor didn't seem to realise that they were there at all the way he blundered through them sometimes, both too close to her and too far away at once.
"Okay?" she asked, and it was about everything.
He sighed. "Yeah." It came out on a breath and she took it as permission, dipping her hand into the water and then smoothing it up over his back. She kept it gentle, washing away the mud and the grime, and his head dipped forward as he let out another soft sigh.
Something tightened in her throat at the trust in that, prickling behind her eyes so that she had to sniff, tilt her head back.
"Shower," she said quickly, covering it, and he raised his head, trying to turn around to look at her as she pushed herself to her feet. "Just..."
He'd turned around to face the front again when she turned back, fussing with the shower head to make sure that the stream of water was fairly focused and growing warmer. His head was bowed again, the nape of his neck bare and vulnerable, and it made her heart ache, forcing her to swallow around that lump in her throat again.
"Here," she said, and her voice was gentler than the tone she usually used with him, "tilt your head back so I don't get water on the stitches."
He hummed a little under his breath, just an acknowledgement that he'd heard, as though the fact that he did as she asked wouldn't have clued her in to that. The cut - the worst of the cuts, the one that had required the doctor's needle - was on his forehead, just past his hairline. She smoothed the hair back with the palm of her hand, muttering a small, "Sorry," when he winced, his face creasing. The strands of his hair were stiff with dirt, dust from a long dead world, and dried blood.
It was easier to focus on the routine of it, the steady movement of the shower head so that the water streamed down over his dark hair until it was flattened, seal-like, against the curve of his skull. She used the other hand to shield the cut, cupping her fingers and palm around it so that the water played over her hand, warm against her skin rather than his.
The water flowed down over his shoulders, rust red at first, and she swallowed again, resisting the urge to just drop the showerhead, pull him closer to her, even wet as he was. It was a stupid thing to want, wasn't it, when there were other things - practical things - that needed to be done instead?
Done first.
He leant into her touch, swaying fractionally as the lines of his face settled into a blank mask of exhaustion. But there was peace there, too, all of the fear washed away along with the dirt and the blood, and she curled her fingers against his scalp, feeling him, warm and present, under her touch.
She turned the shower off, letting it drop into the bathwater and lathering up her fingers instead. She slid them into the tangle of his wet hair, easing her way through the strands rather than tugging and taking it slowly so that she didn't hurt him. He was leaning into her touch more obviously now, and she wasn't going to hurt him. She couldn't.
"Okay?" she whispered again but he didn't answer this time. His eyes were closed, his face slack with his fingers curled loosely against his knees, relaxed and trusting her. His hair was softer now that most of the dirt and the blood was gone, and the wet strands clung to her fingers; she slowed her tempo, indulging herself, just for a moment, sliding her fingers through his thick hair, tracing the outlines of his skull, which was so fragile, so vulnerable to everything life threw at them.
He sighed again, and it brought her back to herself, the blood rushing to her face even though he wasn't looking at her, questioning what she was doing. She fumbled for the showerhead again, but she left the fingers of one hand in his hair, unwilling - unable - to let go of him entirely.
"Okay," she said again. "If you tilt your head back..."
He did as she asked, just like he always did, and she aimed the jet of water carefully, sluicing away the shampoo bubbles so that they ran down his head, over his shoulders and back. When she'd rinsed his hair to her satisfaction, she played the water over his back, keeping her touch gentle as she washed away the remaining dark smudges of ancient dirt that still clung to his skin, the ones she missed earlier. She couldn't linger over it as long as she wanted, not without Connor noticing it and asking questions she didn't want to answer, wasn't sure she could if he asked.
"I think you're done," she said, and he sighed, stretching and opening his eyes to blink at her, sleepy and content. And then he flushed a little, looking away again, rubbing his hands on his knees nervously.
"Okay."
"Do you need a hand..."
"I'll be fine." Another one of those twitchy smiles, the ones that asked nothing because he expected nothing.
"Do you want me to fetch your dressing gown?"
He blinked again, appearing to be caught off-guard by the question, and then he frowned, his brain obviously trying to work something out. "I think it's at Lester's."
"Oh." He still wasn't asking for anything but she owed him - more than owed him - well, everything. "I'll... I'll see if I can get it in the morning, okay?" It took a second for it to sink in, past Connor's exhaustion and the headache he had, and then he smiled again, more genuinely this time, all the pleasure of that small statement clear on his unguarded face, at just knowing that this was home again. With her. "Towel do for now?"
"... Yeah. Um... sure."
She helped him out of the tub, not waiting to be asked and trying not to make it obvious that she'd noticed his wet skin, the way his boxers clung to him.
"Do you..."
"Um. Could you...?"
They both stammered to a halt, Connor standing there dripping, in his boxers, shaking a little - cold or tiredness she couldn't tell.
"I need to, um..." He made this vague little gesture, and it took a second for her to cotton onto what he wanted. Her face flamed again as she fumbled for the towel hanging over the radiator and handed it to him, earning herself a grateful smile as he wrapped it around his waist. He seemed to be all fingers and thumbs and it wasn't until he glanced up at her from underneath his wet hair that she realised - again, a fraction of a second too late - that she was making him uncomfortable.
"Oh, right. Um..." She turned her attention to the medicine cabinet over the sink, where she kept the arnica and the antiseptic cream. When she shut the door again and caught his reflection in the mirror on it, he had his back to her. The bruising was clearer now as he bent down to fuss with his towel, brought out by the heat of the water. She watched him for a moment, knowing he wouldn't catch her looking, not this time.
He bent down further, slipping his wet boxers off from underneath his towel, and the blood rushed to her face again and stayed there. She leant her forehead against the cool of the mirror and closed her eyes, counting to ten and waiting for her heartbeat to slow, the warmth in her cheeks to fade, giving him that much privacy at least.
"Okay?" she asked eventually. "Can I turn around yet?"
There was a brief pause and then she heard a little snort of laughter. "Yes. I'm decent."
"Well. As close as you get, I suppose."
When she turned around he was smiling at her, and if it was blurred around the edges a little, dragged down by his headache and his tiredness, it was all the sweeter.
"What are you trying to say? That I'm not decent?" It was an attempt at a joke, at least, and she smiled to acknowledge it even as something in her chest grew tight and hot.
"No, Connor," she said softly, "You're always decent," and he flushed again, the colour staining his chest as well as his cheeks and his neck.
"Are you...?" She took a deep breath and waggled the tube of arnica at him. "You ready for this?" and he smiled at her, a quick little one that hurried away again.
"Depends. Is it going to hurt?"
"No," she promised him, and she'd keep it if it killed her. "Doesn't sting. Just... stops it bruising a little, that's all. Takes some of the heat out of it."
"I think it might be a bit late for that," he said, but then he shrugged, wincing slightly as the move pulled at his sore muscles. "It's worth a try, I suppose."
She watched as he bit at his lip, the water from his hair dripping down onto his shoulder, rolling down his chest and again, the silence stretched on for a moment too long.
"Okay," she said eventually, mustering up a smile for him, one that said she hadn't been staring, really. "I'll... um, just a sec." There was another towel over the radiator, and she pulled it free, cradling the warmth of it in her hands for a moment before she pressed it to the side of his neck.
He swallowed, his eyes dark and wide as he looked down at her, and then he licked at his lips nervously. "Thanks," he said, and again it came out all gravelly. "Um..."
"Your hair's wet," she said, moving the towel to pat at the ends of his hair where it curled against the skin of his neck. "I'd better dig my hairdryer out, make sure you don't get that cut wet."
"Okay." It came out a little more squeaky this time, a little more Connor. His eyes were still wide but there was something other than surprise in them. Something that looked like hope.
She should recognise that look by now - Connor, hopeful but not pushing it, never pushing it.
She pulled the towel away and - after a moment when it hung in her hands between them, as weirdly awkward as the silence - she pushed it into his hands.
"Here," she said. "I'll just... the kitchen?"
She didn't give him time to do more than nod, looking a little confused. The confusion was nothing new, not when Connor had to deal with her changeable moods. Not when sometimes she didn't so much weave through the trip wires as leap over them only to then leap straight back, so that she wasn't the one caught up in the fallout of the resulting explosion.
Like she was leaping back now, heading into her bedroom and leaving Connor to make his own way to the kitchen.
Her hairdryer was right where she left it, and she curled the wire around her free hand, standing there for a moment while she tried to find her courage. It was easier than she thought it would be, than it had been before. Easy when she had the picture of Connor's face, pale and still and smeared with blood, to keep in her mind and propel her forward, into action.
"Hey."
She thought for a second he'd started to doze off again, perched as he was beside the kitchen counter, his elbow resting on it again, just like earlier, and his face cradled in the palm of his hand. But he said, "Hey," not opening his eyes, not immediately.
"How's your head?"
He snorted again, a little breathless with laughter. "Never had any complaints yet," and it took a second for her to catch on, only the sly smile that was forming on his face clueing her in.
"Funny."
"Not quite so decent now, eh?" He opened his eyes and they were aware, if tired.
"Hmmm," was all she said, coming to stand beside him. The hairdryer clattered down onto the counter. "A regular dirty boy."
He laughed again. "Clean," he protested. "Had a bath, remember?"
Yes. And: he's naked under that towel she thought. The heat didn't just flare in her face this time, but coursed through her body, until her fingers tightened around the creams she still held. She covered it by clearing her throat, taking the top off the antiseptic cream first. "Here. Just..."
He took her cue, the little hand gestures she made when she couldn't vocalise it, and spun - carefully - around on the stool, until he was leaning on the counter, his back towards her. The scratches weren't too bad now that she'd cleaned them - some of them nothing more than red lines on his skin. His shirt and jacket must have protected him from the worst of it, but she smeared some ointment on her fingertips anyway, rubbing it carefully along the worst of them, the ones that looked like the skin had actually broken.
"Okay? Not too sore?"
"No," he said, but he twitched anyway, easing out the cricks in his back and neck.
He turned back to face her while she screwed the top of the antiseptic back on. She could have stepped backwards and put some distance between them - and she would have done just yesterday, before they'd lost Danny, even if that loss was - would be - only temporary. Before Connor had fallen and her heart had thought it would shatter with him.
She realised now that she'd made her choice back in the Cretaceous. She'd made her choice, and once Abby made one, she didn't turn back.
She stayed where she was and reached past him, the fabric of her top brushing against the skin of his arm as she reached for the arnica cream instead. He didn't move or pull away but she thought she caught a sudden intake of breath, of hope maybe.
She could have made him turn away again, but she didn't. It was easier not to say anything, just to squeeze some of the white cream onto her fingers, smooth it over the curve of his shoulder, down the line of his shoulder blade, reaching around him to do it.
She leant forward, close enough to feel the heat now rising from his body -from the warmth of the bath and just from Connor himself - and he was watching her, his breath just as warm against her skin.
His fingers settled on her waist, warm and tentative; she started but they stayed there as she leant forward again, more cream on her fingers. She slid it down between his shoulder blades, lightly at first and then more firmly as his breath hitched, her fingers uncurling until the flat of her palm skimmed over his skin, no mistaking that it was a caress. Not even by Connor.
He took in a deep breath, his head drooping forward until his forehead was resting against her shoulder. His fingers twitched against her side, flexing then tightening as she slid the fingers of her free hand up into his hair, curling against the soft, prickly skin of the nape of his neck, matching him breath for breath, in and out. Breathing him in with each soft inhalation.
They stayed like that for long moments, her cheek resting against the dark of his hair, before he let out another soft, shuddering sigh and pulled away from her. She let him go, not wanting to push him now when she'd spent so long pushing him away, but he didn't go far. Just far enough to look at her, his eyes - as dark as his hair - tracking over her face, searching for something she hoped he'd find.
He did; this time he was the one who leant forward, but he hesitated at the last second, so close that she could feel each breath he took as it puffed out against her lips. It was left to her to bridge the small distance left between them, which was only fair when she was the one who'd maintained it up until now.
His mouth was warm as well, warm and dry, and his lips were a little chapped. She leant in closer, her hand falling to his knee as she pressed herself against him, and thought, again: he's naked under that towel.
The heat that hit her this time was hard and fast, low in her belly, high in her chest and she deepened the kiss, tracing the outline of his lower lip with her tongue. He let out a soft sound, one she wanted to hear again and again, that she wanted to swallow down and hold inside her. He slid his arm around her waist, tugging her closer, and then...
"Ouch," he murmured against her lips, pulling back just far enough for her to catch his wince. "Sorry..."
"No," she said softly. "Don't be." She met his gaze squarely, not missing the hope and the fear in his eyes, and reached up to brush the hair away from his forehead again, letting her fingers linger for a moment. "I'm not." She let the strands of his hair, so soft now, slip slowly through her fingers and there was no way Connor could miss this caress either. "It's still wet," she said. "Do you still want me to dry it?"
He nodded, silent but watching her, and his fingers were back against her waist, just resting there, like he couldn't quite bear to let go of her entirely. She didn't blame him for that.
She didn't move away from him, but reached past him to slide the plug of the hair dryer into the socket in the wall. When she pulled back, clutching the hairdryer in one hand, he was still there, just inches away, just watching her. She smiled and he echoed it, shifting position on the stool to something more comfortable as she flicked the switch on the hairdryer itself.
Nothing happened and Connor's eyes widened fractionally again.
Abby sighed, hitting the base of it with the palm of her hand a couple of times, harder each time, until it whirred into life.
"It's not been the same since you put it back together," she grumbled and he let out a laugh, low and quiet, his whole body shaking with mirth. The look in his eyes was wide awake now, wide awake and joyous.
"I'll get you a new one," he promised.
"Yeah. You've said that before," she said absently, all of her attention focused on aiming the hairdryer at his damp hair, and on avoiding all those places where he might be sore enough for the hot air to be painful. She lifted the hair from his scalp with her fingers, fanning them out, leaning in so that his breath gusted warmly against the skin of her neck and his fingers slid over her side.
"This time I mean it," he murmured.
Yes, she thought. So do I.
The End
Author: alyse
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Abby/Connor
Rating: PG13
Warnings: None
Spoilers: End of Series 3
Author's Notes: Written as a pinch for
twistedchick for Yuletide 2009, who wanted Primeval with many things, including personality and Abby tending an injured creature. I figured Connor counted for that. I hope you enjoy it,
twistedchick, and Merry Yule!
Many thanks to aithine for the beta.
Summary: Connor turned his head and looked back, tired and drawn but alive and that was the miracle, the only miracle she needed.
-o-
There were needles when they finally made it back home: needles and swabs and - for Connor at least - stitches. Throughout it all, Abby kept glancing towards the door to the small medical facility they had in the ARC, waiting for Danny to miraculously appear. But it seemed like the only miracle she was going to get today was the pair of them finding an anomaly, one that led back to the Forest of Dean.
One that led them home.
She swallowed and looked away from the door, towards where Connor sat on the other bed, reminding herself of what she hadn't lost instead. Connor turned his head and looked back, tired and drawn but alive and that was the miracle, the only miracle she needed.
The doctor stuck yet another needle in her, drawing more blood, and she winced, catching the matching wince reflected in Connor's face. There was blood on his forehead still, dried and dark, and there was dirt on his face and in his hair. The pair of them needed a shower and sleep and food and not necessarily in that order, but what she really needed - really wanted - was to get the pair of them home where she could shut the door behind them, safe and secure.
"All done," the doctor - Jackson, she thought his name was - said, and she stared at him for a moment before reality kicked in, all those little social cues that she was missing, everything that the last couple of days had knocked out of her along with all of her stuffing. She finally found the necessary smile for him and it felt worn around the edges, rubbed thin, but it did what it was supposed to do. He smiled back and walked away, leaving her to it.
They were still busy with Connor and she had to look away when they brought out the needle for him, the needle and the dark thread. She'd done her fair share of stitching up the animals under her care, at least once she'd joined the ARC and vets with sufficiently high security clearance were few and far between, but watching someone else do it to Connor, her Connor, was different. It made her fingers shake and her heart clench, and when Becker walked through the doorway it gave her the excuse she needed not to watch.
"Hey."
Becker's smile wasn't rote and it kicked in immediately, although it looked a little tired and strained. "Hey," he said, and there was genuine warmth in the word, which was weird given that they'd never be best friends. "How are you doing?"
"Still breathing."
"Yes." A shadow passed over his face, so brief she thought she'd imagined it. "That's something to be grateful for, at least." Or maybe not.
"Danny..." she said, keeping her voice low so that Connor couldn't hear her, although from the sudden, urgent silence behind her, heavy with expectation, he was listening anyway. "Is there...?"
"We were hoping he was with you." Becker's words were heavy, too - heavy and slow. "What happened?"
"We got separated. Connor..." She glanced back over towards Connor and he was watching her, his face still, quiet. "Connor was hurt and I wasn't going to leave him. Danny... Danny went after Helen."
"We lost him." Connor's voice cracked and something in Abby cracked right along with it. "I'm sorry, Becker. We lost him."
Becker had never been that easy to read, not for Abby, and maybe she was projecting, but his face now mirrored all of those conflicted things she was feeling. "Don't be sorry," he said, quietly. "The pair of you are back safely and that..." That's all the miracle we need. "That's more than we could have hoped for. I'm going to presume that since we're still here, and the world hasn't ended yet, that he was successful in stopping Helen." He paused for a moment, and the look he gave Abby was almost fierce but for once it wasn't aimed at her. "With any luck he'll have stopped her permanently."
Yes, she thought, matching him for fierceness.
"And Danny?" Connor this time. His voice wavered a little in the middle but he held it together.
"He'll find his way home. I'm sure of it." And Becker sounded sure; it was something to cling to, the possibility of another miracle, another seat of the pants save. "Look, the pair of you. Go home. Get some rest..."
"Things will look better in the morning," she whispered and the smile he gave her this time was tight, understanding.
"We'll have a plan. Just get some rest, okay?" It was as close as Becker was likely to come to gentle with her. She left it to Connor to answer, and he didn't let her down, not now, not ever.
"Okay."
Becker gave her another one of those tight, contained smiles; if he'd been anyone else, anyone not military, there might even have been a hug, more obvious concern, but with Becker this was as close as it got and it was close enough for Abby. He turned on his heel, walking out like he had a purpose, before catching himself in the doorway and looking back towards them. The smile was less contained this time, less guarded. "And, guys? A shower probably wouldn't go amiss."
He had a point.
-o-
"Where are we going?"
Connor was fractured, lost, and from the way he kept touching his forehead - tentatively, with the very tips of his fingers - he had a hell of a headache.
"Home."
"Oh." In the silence that followed, as Connor looked around, lost and confused, she thought of concussion, of Connor flying through the air and landing with a sickening thump, and everything inside her froze a little, icy currents in her veins.
"Connor -"
"Um. I don't think Lester is still here."
"He's probably with Becker, making plans. Why do you...?" And then the penny finally dropped. "Oh."
There was that nervous little twitch of his lips, the one that passed for a smile when Connor wasn't sure how she was going to react. "I... um... All my stuff's at Lester's and... um..."
She was an idiot, she really was. In more ways than one. But it was about time she started to be smart, started using that brain that people kept telling her she had. "Not all of your stuff," she said quietly. "You left most of it at mine, ours, I mean." She stumbled over the words, as she often did with Connor. "It was only supposed to be a few days... I mean... When Jack... stayed."
"Oh." Connor's fingers twitched and twisted together before he reached up to touch his forehead again, where the blood had dried, flaking against his pale skin. "Um..."
She couldn't bear it anymore and reached up to pull them away from his face, tangling them up with hers so that he couldn't poke at the sore spot any more. She didn't - couldn't - look him in the eye; it was easier to talk to his hand, his chest, as she said, "Come on. Let's go home."
-o-
Rex at least was glad to see them, swirling around her head and chittering excitedly. The two Diictodons scrambled around their feet, making those little barking sounds, the ones that always sounded like they were full of joy to Abby. It would be easy to anthropomorphise, to think of them as welcoming home the weary travellers. Maybe they were - both species were pack orientated. It was comforting, on some level, to think of Connor and her as part of their adopted pack.
Family.
Connor sank wearily down onto the seat by the breakfast counter, watching Sid and Nancy tumbling over each other like overgrown puppies. There were dark shadows under his eyes, smudges of dirt on his cheek. His stubble was growing through, dark against his skin, making him look both older and younger all at once. "Hey," she said, resisting the urge to reach out and catch hold of his hand again. "Mind if I shower first?"
He shook his head, exhaustion clear in every line of his body. "Nah. Go ahead. I'll put the kettle on, yeah?"
It sounded so mundane, so ordinary, that it stopped her for a second, caught so suddenly that her foot hovered above the floor. There would still be milk in the fridge. It would still be good.
It had only been a couple of days. Two days, one night, on both sides of the anomaly.
"Yeah," she said, and her voice wavered a little as her foot finally hit the floor. "A cuppa tea would be good."
He didn't answer her and, when she looked over, his eyes had drifted shut, his cheek resting in the palm of his hand with his elbow planted firmly on the countertop. She swallowed, everything getting tangled up in the lump that formed in her throat, and turned away.
-o-
He was still there when she came out of the bathroom, her hair wet and curling around her ears. The kettle was still cold, empty, and she filled it at the kitchen sink, listening to the hollow sound the water made as it splatted against the base.
It was the sound that woke Connor up and he started, blinking at her blearily over the breakfast bar when she walked towards him, the lino on the kitchen floor cold against her feet.
"Sorry," he said although what he was apologising for escaped her. "I must have dozed off."
"I suppose that explains the snoring," she teased but he didn't smile, not the way he usually would. He didn't even protest that he didn't snore. No banter. No back and forth. Instead he just blinked at her again, still not quite with it.
She looked away, busying herself with placing the kettle firmly on its base and switching it on. "Shower's free," she said, letting the words slip out slowly and firmly, like if she kept control on them she'd keep control of everything.
He was still blinking at her, half-asleep, when she turned around again. "Oh," he said and his face furrowed, like he was having to concentrate just to follow on the conversation. "The doctor told me I couldn't get my stitches wet." A frown followed the words, something that was more unhappy than confused, something wistful and wanting. "I really wanted to wash my hair." His fingers drifted up towards his hairline again but they stopped at her look, hovering inches away from his hair. The wistful look became mournful.
"You could have a bath," she suggested and the blood rushed to her face, which was stupid when she thought she was well past the age for blushing and it had never been the kind of thing she'd done anyway.
"Yeah," he said. And then, more firmly: "Yeah." But his fingers twitched again before he stilled them.
He smelt of blood and dirt and sweat, of pain and a sleepless night. Now that she was clean, it was more obvious to her than it had been when she'd had the smell of her own fear to mask it.
"You could..." she said and hesitated, even now. Even after everything. He didn't respond or give her his normal quizzical look whenever she started and didn't finish something. It was strange how that - how the not Connor of that - meant she could finish. "You could leave your boxers on," and he blinked at her again, a frown forming between his eyebrows and a question forming on his lips. She beat him to it, the words tumbling out over each other like they were Sid and Nancy on a tear. "And... I could wash your hair."
Once the words were out, she swallowed, already worried that they were venturing into that territory she'd told him she didn't want to go, where things were weird between them, weirder even than normal. But he didn't say anything. He simply watched her, any surprise smothered by exhaustion before it could slip past his defences.
"If you want," she said when he still didn't say anything, and the colour rose to his cheeks, slowly at first, but then coming in a flurry until it bloomed across his face, down his neck, to the roots of his hair.
He looked away, his lips parting as he worked out what to say. And then he looked back at her, resolute and scared like he always was when he faced down anything for her sake.
"Okay," he said. He swallowed and it was clear that he wasn't quite able to believe that he'd just said it. "Okay," he said again. "Thank you."
-o-
The bathroom was still steamy from her shower, blurring her reflection in the mirror above the sink and making everything a little out of focus, a little unreal. The air was warm but her hands still shook as she poured a little bubble bath into the water and watched it foam underneath the taps, vanilla and cinnamon scented.
The door opened behind her, letting in a momentary draft, but she didn't turn around until it closed again.
Connor had stripped down to his t-shirt and boxers. She'd seen him in no more than this before, back at their old flat when the thermostat had been set higher and the pair of them had been less self-conscious. But that had been before things got all weird between them, when she could look at Connor and simply pigeon-hole him in the 'friend and nothing more' category. Before Connor had told her he'd never let go, that he loved her.
Before she'd kissed him and changed everything.
He gave her a nervous little smile, folding his arms over his chest and shifting in position. It wasn't until his gaze darted away, skirting her own and staring around the room as though he was going to find something there - anything - to temper the awkwardness that she realised she'd been staring at him, saying nothing, for long moments.
She cleared her throat, not knowing what to do with her hands or what to say. In the end she settled for saying nothing, her own face flushing in a way that had nothing to do with the heat rising from the bathwater. She turned away and fussed with the taps instead, swirling the water around with her hand to mix it and test the temperature - not too hot and not too cold. The bubbles bloomed and popped, clinging to her fingers and her wrist.
"Okay," she said eventually, aiming for even. It came out low and throaty, and the heat rushed up her neck again, into her cheeks. At least the words were steady - she had that much to be grateful for. "It's ready."
When she looked up at Connor, he was just standing there, his arms still folded across his chest, hands tucked neatly away underneath, and his cheeks red. He tried to smile, but it slid away from his face leaving the nervousness clearly visible. It made it easier somehow - that Connor was nervous, unsure. Skittish.
Skittish she could deal with.
"Are you leaving your t-shirt on?" She kept her voice gentle but the blush across his cheeks deepened anyway. His hands darted down to the bottom of his shirt and twisted in the fabric helplessly, fingers getting all tangled up. The look he gave her was half-embarrassed and half-beseeching, and she looked away, turning back towards the bath deliberately to give him some privacy.
A soft sound of pain from behind her caught her attention but she didn't turn back around again until it was followed by a more plaintive, "Ow." Connor laughed, breathlessly, his t-shirt caught around his head when she looked, all of his movements slow and pained. "Apparently this isn't as easy as..."
"Okay... Just..." She tucked her hands underneath the fabric, rolling it up and stretching the neck so that she could ease it over his head. "Here you... oh. Connor." There were bruises on his back, just forming - dark red and purple stains on his skin, over his shoulder blades, at his waist, still visible through the dirt that smudged his torso. "No wonder you hurt."
"Yeah. Guess I should stop falling out of trees, right?"
"That would help," she said dryly, the words catching for a second in her throat. "I've got some arnica. That might help as well."
He nodded, his hair sticking up everywhere. "Thanks," and his voice was gravelly with exhaustion.
"Okay. You..." He stared at her blankly and she made a little abortive gesture towards the tub. "Um..."
"Oh. Right." He flushed again, starting jerkily forward, all fingers and thumbs and colt-legged awkwardness. It took her a second to realise that at least some of that was due to the stiffness of sore muscles, and the fact that his ankle was still paining him. He didn't shake off the hand she put on his elbow to steady him, just looking at her gratefully. Anyone else might have taken it as a threat to their masculinity or something, but Connor had never reacted like that. It made a pleasant change, one that had required some mental adjustment on her part. She was so used to fighting every step of the way for some acknowledgement that she was useful, equal, that Connor had thrown her, and still did.
And it wasn't that he wasn't male. How could she doubt that when he still left the toilet seat up sometimes, in spite of her nagging?
Now that he was settling himself down into the water with a soft hiss - now that she could look, unobserved - she could see that he wasn't as skinny as he'd been when they first met. He'd filled out nicely; she shouldn't be thinking that, not when he was hurt. Not when this whole thing between them was awkward, but it was difficult to miss when he was there, wearing hardly anything in front of her, the water swirling around the taut lines of his body.
There were scratches on his back as well as the bruises; small little cuts left by bark or tree litter. None of them seemed infected; it was automatic to check that, just like it was automatic to reach out and touch his skin, to steady him with the same calm, comforting presence that soothed the animals she dealt with every day.
He twitched and then relaxed. She hesitated for a second, wondering if she'd gone too far, crossed over one of those multitude of trip wires that made everything about relationships and men so complicated. She was never quite sure where they were, making every single step a careful negotiation of the terrain, but then Connor didn't seem to realise that they were there at all the way he blundered through them sometimes, both too close to her and too far away at once.
"Okay?" she asked, and it was about everything.
He sighed. "Yeah." It came out on a breath and she took it as permission, dipping her hand into the water and then smoothing it up over his back. She kept it gentle, washing away the mud and the grime, and his head dipped forward as he let out another soft sigh.
Something tightened in her throat at the trust in that, prickling behind her eyes so that she had to sniff, tilt her head back.
"Shower," she said quickly, covering it, and he raised his head, trying to turn around to look at her as she pushed herself to her feet. "Just..."
He'd turned around to face the front again when she turned back, fussing with the shower head to make sure that the stream of water was fairly focused and growing warmer. His head was bowed again, the nape of his neck bare and vulnerable, and it made her heart ache, forcing her to swallow around that lump in her throat again.
"Here," she said, and her voice was gentler than the tone she usually used with him, "tilt your head back so I don't get water on the stitches."
He hummed a little under his breath, just an acknowledgement that he'd heard, as though the fact that he did as she asked wouldn't have clued her in to that. The cut - the worst of the cuts, the one that had required the doctor's needle - was on his forehead, just past his hairline. She smoothed the hair back with the palm of her hand, muttering a small, "Sorry," when he winced, his face creasing. The strands of his hair were stiff with dirt, dust from a long dead world, and dried blood.
It was easier to focus on the routine of it, the steady movement of the shower head so that the water streamed down over his dark hair until it was flattened, seal-like, against the curve of his skull. She used the other hand to shield the cut, cupping her fingers and palm around it so that the water played over her hand, warm against her skin rather than his.
The water flowed down over his shoulders, rust red at first, and she swallowed again, resisting the urge to just drop the showerhead, pull him closer to her, even wet as he was. It was a stupid thing to want, wasn't it, when there were other things - practical things - that needed to be done instead?
Done first.
He leant into her touch, swaying fractionally as the lines of his face settled into a blank mask of exhaustion. But there was peace there, too, all of the fear washed away along with the dirt and the blood, and she curled her fingers against his scalp, feeling him, warm and present, under her touch.
She turned the shower off, letting it drop into the bathwater and lathering up her fingers instead. She slid them into the tangle of his wet hair, easing her way through the strands rather than tugging and taking it slowly so that she didn't hurt him. He was leaning into her touch more obviously now, and she wasn't going to hurt him. She couldn't.
"Okay?" she whispered again but he didn't answer this time. His eyes were closed, his face slack with his fingers curled loosely against his knees, relaxed and trusting her. His hair was softer now that most of the dirt and the blood was gone, and the wet strands clung to her fingers; she slowed her tempo, indulging herself, just for a moment, sliding her fingers through his thick hair, tracing the outlines of his skull, which was so fragile, so vulnerable to everything life threw at them.
He sighed again, and it brought her back to herself, the blood rushing to her face even though he wasn't looking at her, questioning what she was doing. She fumbled for the showerhead again, but she left the fingers of one hand in his hair, unwilling - unable - to let go of him entirely.
"Okay," she said again. "If you tilt your head back..."
He did as she asked, just like he always did, and she aimed the jet of water carefully, sluicing away the shampoo bubbles so that they ran down his head, over his shoulders and back. When she'd rinsed his hair to her satisfaction, she played the water over his back, keeping her touch gentle as she washed away the remaining dark smudges of ancient dirt that still clung to his skin, the ones she missed earlier. She couldn't linger over it as long as she wanted, not without Connor noticing it and asking questions she didn't want to answer, wasn't sure she could if he asked.
"I think you're done," she said, and he sighed, stretching and opening his eyes to blink at her, sleepy and content. And then he flushed a little, looking away again, rubbing his hands on his knees nervously.
"Okay."
"Do you need a hand..."
"I'll be fine." Another one of those twitchy smiles, the ones that asked nothing because he expected nothing.
"Do you want me to fetch your dressing gown?"
He blinked again, appearing to be caught off-guard by the question, and then he frowned, his brain obviously trying to work something out. "I think it's at Lester's."
"Oh." He still wasn't asking for anything but she owed him - more than owed him - well, everything. "I'll... I'll see if I can get it in the morning, okay?" It took a second for it to sink in, past Connor's exhaustion and the headache he had, and then he smiled again, more genuinely this time, all the pleasure of that small statement clear on his unguarded face, at just knowing that this was home again. With her. "Towel do for now?"
"... Yeah. Um... sure."
She helped him out of the tub, not waiting to be asked and trying not to make it obvious that she'd noticed his wet skin, the way his boxers clung to him.
"Do you..."
"Um. Could you...?"
They both stammered to a halt, Connor standing there dripping, in his boxers, shaking a little - cold or tiredness she couldn't tell.
"I need to, um..." He made this vague little gesture, and it took a second for her to cotton onto what he wanted. Her face flamed again as she fumbled for the towel hanging over the radiator and handed it to him, earning herself a grateful smile as he wrapped it around his waist. He seemed to be all fingers and thumbs and it wasn't until he glanced up at her from underneath his wet hair that she realised - again, a fraction of a second too late - that she was making him uncomfortable.
"Oh, right. Um..." She turned her attention to the medicine cabinet over the sink, where she kept the arnica and the antiseptic cream. When she shut the door again and caught his reflection in the mirror on it, he had his back to her. The bruising was clearer now as he bent down to fuss with his towel, brought out by the heat of the water. She watched him for a moment, knowing he wouldn't catch her looking, not this time.
He bent down further, slipping his wet boxers off from underneath his towel, and the blood rushed to her face again and stayed there. She leant her forehead against the cool of the mirror and closed her eyes, counting to ten and waiting for her heartbeat to slow, the warmth in her cheeks to fade, giving him that much privacy at least.
"Okay?" she asked eventually. "Can I turn around yet?"
There was a brief pause and then she heard a little snort of laughter. "Yes. I'm decent."
"Well. As close as you get, I suppose."
When she turned around he was smiling at her, and if it was blurred around the edges a little, dragged down by his headache and his tiredness, it was all the sweeter.
"What are you trying to say? That I'm not decent?" It was an attempt at a joke, at least, and she smiled to acknowledge it even as something in her chest grew tight and hot.
"No, Connor," she said softly, "You're always decent," and he flushed again, the colour staining his chest as well as his cheeks and his neck.
"Are you...?" She took a deep breath and waggled the tube of arnica at him. "You ready for this?" and he smiled at her, a quick little one that hurried away again.
"Depends. Is it going to hurt?"
"No," she promised him, and she'd keep it if it killed her. "Doesn't sting. Just... stops it bruising a little, that's all. Takes some of the heat out of it."
"I think it might be a bit late for that," he said, but then he shrugged, wincing slightly as the move pulled at his sore muscles. "It's worth a try, I suppose."
She watched as he bit at his lip, the water from his hair dripping down onto his shoulder, rolling down his chest and again, the silence stretched on for a moment too long.
"Okay," she said eventually, mustering up a smile for him, one that said she hadn't been staring, really. "I'll... um, just a sec." There was another towel over the radiator, and she pulled it free, cradling the warmth of it in her hands for a moment before she pressed it to the side of his neck.
He swallowed, his eyes dark and wide as he looked down at her, and then he licked at his lips nervously. "Thanks," he said, and again it came out all gravelly. "Um..."
"Your hair's wet," she said, moving the towel to pat at the ends of his hair where it curled against the skin of his neck. "I'd better dig my hairdryer out, make sure you don't get that cut wet."
"Okay." It came out a little more squeaky this time, a little more Connor. His eyes were still wide but there was something other than surprise in them. Something that looked like hope.
She should recognise that look by now - Connor, hopeful but not pushing it, never pushing it.
She pulled the towel away and - after a moment when it hung in her hands between them, as weirdly awkward as the silence - she pushed it into his hands.
"Here," she said. "I'll just... the kitchen?"
She didn't give him time to do more than nod, looking a little confused. The confusion was nothing new, not when Connor had to deal with her changeable moods. Not when sometimes she didn't so much weave through the trip wires as leap over them only to then leap straight back, so that she wasn't the one caught up in the fallout of the resulting explosion.
Like she was leaping back now, heading into her bedroom and leaving Connor to make his own way to the kitchen.
Her hairdryer was right where she left it, and she curled the wire around her free hand, standing there for a moment while she tried to find her courage. It was easier than she thought it would be, than it had been before. Easy when she had the picture of Connor's face, pale and still and smeared with blood, to keep in her mind and propel her forward, into action.
"Hey."
She thought for a second he'd started to doze off again, perched as he was beside the kitchen counter, his elbow resting on it again, just like earlier, and his face cradled in the palm of his hand. But he said, "Hey," not opening his eyes, not immediately.
"How's your head?"
He snorted again, a little breathless with laughter. "Never had any complaints yet," and it took a second for her to catch on, only the sly smile that was forming on his face clueing her in.
"Funny."
"Not quite so decent now, eh?" He opened his eyes and they were aware, if tired.
"Hmmm," was all she said, coming to stand beside him. The hairdryer clattered down onto the counter. "A regular dirty boy."
He laughed again. "Clean," he protested. "Had a bath, remember?"
Yes. And: he's naked under that towel she thought. The heat didn't just flare in her face this time, but coursed through her body, until her fingers tightened around the creams she still held. She covered it by clearing her throat, taking the top off the antiseptic cream first. "Here. Just..."
He took her cue, the little hand gestures she made when she couldn't vocalise it, and spun - carefully - around on the stool, until he was leaning on the counter, his back towards her. The scratches weren't too bad now that she'd cleaned them - some of them nothing more than red lines on his skin. His shirt and jacket must have protected him from the worst of it, but she smeared some ointment on her fingertips anyway, rubbing it carefully along the worst of them, the ones that looked like the skin had actually broken.
"Okay? Not too sore?"
"No," he said, but he twitched anyway, easing out the cricks in his back and neck.
He turned back to face her while she screwed the top of the antiseptic back on. She could have stepped backwards and put some distance between them - and she would have done just yesterday, before they'd lost Danny, even if that loss was - would be - only temporary. Before Connor had fallen and her heart had thought it would shatter with him.
She realised now that she'd made her choice back in the Cretaceous. She'd made her choice, and once Abby made one, she didn't turn back.
She stayed where she was and reached past him, the fabric of her top brushing against the skin of his arm as she reached for the arnica cream instead. He didn't move or pull away but she thought she caught a sudden intake of breath, of hope maybe.
She could have made him turn away again, but she didn't. It was easier not to say anything, just to squeeze some of the white cream onto her fingers, smooth it over the curve of his shoulder, down the line of his shoulder blade, reaching around him to do it.
She leant forward, close enough to feel the heat now rising from his body -from the warmth of the bath and just from Connor himself - and he was watching her, his breath just as warm against her skin.
His fingers settled on her waist, warm and tentative; she started but they stayed there as she leant forward again, more cream on her fingers. She slid it down between his shoulder blades, lightly at first and then more firmly as his breath hitched, her fingers uncurling until the flat of her palm skimmed over his skin, no mistaking that it was a caress. Not even by Connor.
He took in a deep breath, his head drooping forward until his forehead was resting against her shoulder. His fingers twitched against her side, flexing then tightening as she slid the fingers of her free hand up into his hair, curling against the soft, prickly skin of the nape of his neck, matching him breath for breath, in and out. Breathing him in with each soft inhalation.
They stayed like that for long moments, her cheek resting against the dark of his hair, before he let out another soft, shuddering sigh and pulled away from her. She let him go, not wanting to push him now when she'd spent so long pushing him away, but he didn't go far. Just far enough to look at her, his eyes - as dark as his hair - tracking over her face, searching for something she hoped he'd find.
He did; this time he was the one who leant forward, but he hesitated at the last second, so close that she could feel each breath he took as it puffed out against her lips. It was left to her to bridge the small distance left between them, which was only fair when she was the one who'd maintained it up until now.
His mouth was warm as well, warm and dry, and his lips were a little chapped. She leant in closer, her hand falling to his knee as she pressed herself against him, and thought, again: he's naked under that towel.
The heat that hit her this time was hard and fast, low in her belly, high in her chest and she deepened the kiss, tracing the outline of his lower lip with her tongue. He let out a soft sound, one she wanted to hear again and again, that she wanted to swallow down and hold inside her. He slid his arm around her waist, tugging her closer, and then...
"Ouch," he murmured against her lips, pulling back just far enough for her to catch his wince. "Sorry..."
"No," she said softly. "Don't be." She met his gaze squarely, not missing the hope and the fear in his eyes, and reached up to brush the hair away from his forehead again, letting her fingers linger for a moment. "I'm not." She let the strands of his hair, so soft now, slip slowly through her fingers and there was no way Connor could miss this caress either. "It's still wet," she said. "Do you still want me to dry it?"
He nodded, silent but watching her, and his fingers were back against her waist, just resting there, like he couldn't quite bear to let go of her entirely. She didn't blame him for that.
She didn't move away from him, but reached past him to slide the plug of the hair dryer into the socket in the wall. When she pulled back, clutching the hairdryer in one hand, he was still there, just inches away, just watching her. She smiled and he echoed it, shifting position on the stool to something more comfortable as she flicked the switch on the hairdryer itself.
Nothing happened and Connor's eyes widened fractionally again.
Abby sighed, hitting the base of it with the palm of her hand a couple of times, harder each time, until it whirred into life.
"It's not been the same since you put it back together," she grumbled and he let out a laugh, low and quiet, his whole body shaking with mirth. The look in his eyes was wide awake now, wide awake and joyous.
"I'll get you a new one," he promised.
"Yeah. You've said that before," she said absently, all of her attention focused on aiming the hairdryer at his damp hair, and on avoiding all those places where he might be sore enough for the hot air to be painful. She lifted the hair from his scalp with her fingers, fanning them out, leaning in so that his breath gusted warmly against the skin of her neck and his fingers slid over her side.
"This time I mean it," he murmured.
Yes, she thought. So do I.
The End