You Lose By Holding Back [2/3] - Primeval - Becker/Connor
Title: You Lose By Holding Back [2/3]
Pairing: Becker/Connor, Connor/Others (established Abby/Connor)
Word Count: 4761
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Dub-con by way of sex pollen, scientific nonsense.
Previously: Part One
A/N: I really, really love tropes.
Summary: Connor is bitten by a creature in heat, and the hormone in the bite leaves him needing sex every six hours. Trying to help a friend out, Becker has to fight his own feelings.
With Connor still absent, it is surprisingly easy to avoid him for a few days - long enough for Becker to clear his head and gain some much-needed perspective. Matt accuses him of being off his game, and Jess watches him with doe-eyed worry, but he is able to deflect their concern with a few sarcastic remarks. It's an excellent armour; he only wishes that it worked as well as creatures as it did on co-workers.
By the following Monday, Connor is back on duty. He smiles a little less than usual, and there is constant exhaustion on his face, but other than that he is exactly how everyone expects him to be - endlessly enthusiastic about their work, and competent in a slap-dash kind of way.
There's no sign of the illness. Becker doesn't think that that means it's gone.
Connor and Abby both manage to keep out of his way at work in a way that ought to be impossible for such a tight-knit team, but between creature incursions and Connor's odd lab work with Philip, there just isn't time to corner them.
That makes it either a relief or a curse when he ends up staking out a sealed anomaly with Abby. It's difficult to tell which particular emotion is stronger in this instance.
At the moment, however, it's mostly awkward. Abby won't look at him. Won't talk to him. Just sits and stares at the anomaly, her face blank, her mind elsewhere.
Becker clears his throat, far too quietly to attract her attention - even if the thought is there, the will isn't. "How is he?" he rasps. It sounds as if he hasn't drunk in years.
Abby's eyes are like razors when she looks at him, as blue as an electric sky. "Connor?" she asks.
Who else? Becker could reply, but he values his life: he just nods.
"He's..." A sigh bursts from her and she shakes her head, looking away from him. "He's exactly how you would expect him to be."
"He's taking it badly?"
"No. That's the problem." Abby runs her fingers through her hair, tugging at it for a moment before she lets go. "He keeps saying he's fine, that there's no problem - like this is normal."
The tension in her shoulders looks as if it is apt to snap at any moment. Becker looks down at his gun, counting the seconds and waiting for the right words to spring into his mouth. They won't come.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I can't leave him. He needs me." There's an inherent criticism there, whether Abby means it or not. She's staying: Becker left. One of them is the bad guy here. "He's not okay. He's just- He's Connor."
As answers go, it isn't the clearest, but Abby returns her gaze to the anomaly and Becker can see the physical shift on her face as she closes herself off from him again. It's like watching a door slam down in front of him, hard and metal and impossible to penetrate. She is more distant than she was even when trapped in the past.
Nodding to himself, he tells himself that he deserves it, he's earned it. He focuses his attention on the anomaly once more, and struggles to stop thinking at all.
*
The building is empty of the public - thank god for bank holidays - but the roaring and screams of the creatures roaming the corridors prove that this place is far from peaceful. There's a pack of them, large with sharp claws and razor teeth, and they're getting hungrier by the second.
The problem, of course, is that the team rushed in here with a plan.
To be more precise, Connor rushed in without a plan. Becker rushed in after him.
And now they're hiding in the janitor's closet, with cleaning supplies and large boxes filled with toilet paper around them, while the pack hunts outside to find them. Becker's gun is lying outside in the hallway, borrowed as a brief chew-toy.
Time is passing too slowly. Someone should have come to rescue them by now.
The seconds are like an executioner's axe. Becker's eyes dash towards Connor: again, again, again.
"I've got fifteen minutes," Connor reassures him, catching his eye. They've been in here for two hours already, with the creatures lunging for the door whenever they try to escape. It's ridiculous. Becker is a trained soldier. He isn't supposed to get trapped in closets.
"We'll get you out of here," Becker promises. He edges towards the door, touches the handle - and instantly hears a snarl from the other side. The door rattles as a heavy weigh slams against it, but the lock holds. Becker retreats, and looks around the cupboard once more for something that might help.
Nothing has magically appeared since he last looked.
"Becker, they'll come for us," Connor assures him. "They know where we are."
It's true, yes, but it's been hours already - something is wrong, not just with them. There must be a problem preventing help from getting here. The ARC is stretched too thin. It's inevitable that something is going to go wrong. The creatures have so far shown little interest in breaking down the door, lying in the corridor outside like sated lions until they are disturbed, but that doesn't mean that they will stay docile forever.
And there is, of course, the more pressing problem, the ticking time bomb in Connor's veins, the deadline creeping up on them, and Becker can tell what is going to happen, can feel the anticipation coiling like a snake in his groin. There's a part of him that can't wait, and that part makes his hands restless, makes him fidget and twitch and look at his watch.
Seconds pass. They sit together, slumped against the back wall, waiting for something to happen, knowing that it has to.
"You don't have to do it, you know," Connor says, as rescue starts to seem less and less likely. "I mean, I'll be fine. It's not like I'll die or anything."
"You'll be in pain," Becker states. He knows. He's seen it. "I can't sit back and allow that to happen."
"This isn't something you have to rescue me from," Connor says quietly. He looks at his hands instead of at Becker. "I know what it's like. If this had been Abby, and it had happened to her back when I was just thinking about her, I don't know... I honestly don't know what I would have done."
"You love her," Becker says. "You would have done what's necessary."
And he doesn't 'love' Connor. It's not as simple as that, not as pure. There's something primal about it, something that's all need and jealousy and hunger, and it's almost too much for him to take. Too much to fight.
That's why, when their time is up and Connor's breathing tightens with pain, it is too, too easy to kiss him again. It's different from the first time. Now, when his fingertips drag over Connor's jaw and their lips brush together, Connor surges forward, the pressure against their mouths so tight that it almost aches. Becker's eyes slide closed and he feels it, the exact moment that he allows his morality and emotions to fall away. It's like there's something breaking inside his chest.
They slip down to the floor and in a distracted tangle they get rid of their trousers, groaning as skin presses against skin. Connor is limp beneath him, but Becker takes him in hand with no hesitation, exploring and pumping his cock. Connor breathes his name, and there's something sweet about it, something perfectly broken. Becker brushes his mouth against Connor's full lips, knowing that they don't have time. They aren't making love, as much as he might want to pretend that they are. This is a military operation, a task of guardianship.
There are also the bored creatures outside to keep in mind.
He eased Connor over and onto his knees; the pained hiss and whimper as he moves is enough to make Becker's conscience flinch, as if he is doing it himself. "Check my pocket," Connor instructs. He sounds winded, as if someone has punched him in the chest.
Fumbling into Connor's jeans for him, Becker finds several sachets of lube inside, dropping them onto the floor in his fumbling hurry to get it out. He tries not to think about the implications of the stash, tries to think about all of the people that Connor has had to be with, how many people have helped him out with this pain. His hands are steady and firm as he rips open the packet and smears lube over his already aching cock.
The lube is watery and slick as he pours it out onto his fingers, slipping and sliding when he reaches between Connor's cheeks to probe at his hole. Two fingers slip inside with ease, and Connor gives a sigh of relief at the intrusion, like he's finally getting what he's been waiting for. He is relaxed despite the instinctive, poisonous pain, and it's easy to prepare him: "Don't worry about it - I'm fine. Great," Connor tells him. "Trust me."
And Becker does (has) trusted Connor with his life and more in the past. He eases his fingers out of Connor's ass and takes his word for it, taking himself in hand and aligning himself with Connor. One short push is all it takes for the head to pop inside, then slide deeper, the sound of Connor's long groan rumbling throughout the entire room. It sends a shiver down Becker's spine and he barely manages to restrain the sounds that want to escape from his open mouth.
He withdraws slowly, but it's impossible to keep up a pace like that when Connor is tight and panting beneath him. Becker has slept with men before, brief fumblings in the dark and nothing more, and it hasn't been like this. It hasn't been painfully perfect, everything that he wants but can't have.
Hand reaching beneath Connor, he takes hold of his cock and squeezes, starting up a fast rhythm once he has the tension just right. Connor says his name, over and over, like an appeal to a benevolent god, and it makes Becker's chest swell with pride, makes his balls tingle and draw close before he slams in hard and comes, spilling out into Connor in record time.
He knows that it's over, that his task is done, but even once he's withdrawn he can't back away, easing Connor onto his back and then leaning down. "Tell me if this isn't okay," he urges, but Connor doesn't protest at all when he descends, taking the tip of his cock into his mouth. The head is salty with precum as Becker tongues against the slit, before ducking lower to take more of it in.
He sucks and swallows and his head bobs, taking Connor further and further inside, but it hardly takes any efforts before Connor is twisting beneath him, as tight as a coil, and coming with a cry into Becker's mouth. Semen floods over his tongue and Becker pulls back, swallowing it with little other option. The taste clings to his mouth. He pants to get his breath back, and his worried gaze flickers back to Connor again and again, unable to stay away for long.
"Are you alright? Does it still hurt?" he checks eventually, his words shorter than usual, clipped. His mind is racing and he isn't yet sure where his thoughts are going to land.
Connor looks dazed as well, his fingers fumbling as he hurries to redress himself, wriggling back into his tight jeans as Becker averts his gaze. "It's fine," he says. "It passed, like it always does."
There's a hard, bitter twist in his voice, almost like an accusation - not aimed at Becker, not exactly, but at the world at large, as if it's done this to him out of malicious intent.
"Thanks," he continues, after clearing his throat. "You didn't have to do that."
"Connor, I-"
"No. I mean. You didn't have to make it good." Connor's cheeks are reddening, as if talking about it is worse than doing it. "Whether or not I, y'know, get off... It doesn't make a difference."
Becker nods, unsure if this is a criticism or not. Maybe he overstepped his boundaries; maybe he should have known to leave Connor alone. "Who usually does it now?" he asks, although he knows that he doesn't really want to know, that this isn't information that he can handle. He still needs to ask; he needs to hear. Maybe Connor needs to tell him.
His answer is a clumsy shrug. "I dunno. Lester, Matt, Philip. Some of the other soldiers - they pitch in?" He gives a laugh like broken glass. "It's just work, right? It's like an injection."
"It shouldn't be like that."
"I'm working on it. I'm trying to isolate what's going on, how it all works. If I can break it down enough, maybe I'll be able to work out a cure."
Becker nods, but he isn't counting on it. Connor is the smartest person that he knows, buried beneath his easy smiles and his hats, but that doesn't mean he's a scientist. It would be easier if they could farm this out to someone else, to a team of white-coated professionals who could blitz through the work - but resources are too tight and this secret is too precious.
"In the meantime," Connor says, his face brightening as he locks everything into a tight box in the back of his brain, "We're still stuck in here."
Becker glances warily at the door. "That we are," he agrees, "unless you feel like wrestling a pack of creatures to get out."
"Bare handed? Maybe not."
"Then we'll just have to wait."
It should be a far more terrifying prospect than it is, especially with how awkward the air between them has been for the past few weeks, but it surprises him how comfortable he feels. Considering what they'd just done, and the condom wrappers and spilt lube littering the floor, Becker expects his words to fail him and Connor's face to flush. Instead, Connor says, "Want to play I Spy?" mournfully, and Becker's mouth twitches with a smile, feeling more at ease than he has in days.
*
Life reverts back to its bizarre version of 'normal'. Becker doesn't help out with Connor's condition, but he doesn't have to avoid Connor as if he has the plague either. They're not friends, not exactly, but they're back to whatever they were before - close colleagues, closer than they would be in any other workplace, but nothing more than that.
Becker doesn't know if that's enough, not when he can remember the feel of Connor's skin beneath his hands, his lips against his own, that hungry shared kiss. It had been different before. Perfunctory oral sex had been enough to haunt his mind, but this... Being with Connor this time had felt like it was more than a chore for Connor, as if he had wanted to be there as much as Becker had. Self-delusion, he knows. Connor is with Abby; he loves her, desperately. He's loved her for far longer than Becker has been on the scene, and it's good. They are good.
Yet there's something in Becker's chest, something angry and bitter, that burns when he sees Connor retreats into Lester's office. The blinds are drawn with a sharp snap, and Becker turns his head away, staring at the computer screens over Jess's shoulder with an intensity that hurts his eyes. The colours blur in front of him until he can't see a thing.
"You're hovering," Jess observes, glancing up at him. "I don't mind it or anything, but... You're hovering."
An uncertain smile plays on her lips as she looks up at him, sweet and shyly confident. He can see the admiration in her eyes and wishes that he had fallen for her; she's the kind of girl that he could imagine a life with.
"I'll move," he says, with an unconscious glance towards Lester's office. The ugly beast in his chest scratch along his ribs, roaming and wishing that he would let it escape. "Sorry."
"No. No, it's fine. I like it. It's - It's nice." Smiling, she settles her gaze back on her computer screen, fingers flying. "Besides, you'll get the best view of Lester's office from here. That's what you're looking for, right?"
Becker's eyebrows rise. For a second, it is very tempting to lie, but he clears his throat. "I'd consider standing right outside the door, but it might give them a fright."
"Just don't try walking in on them," Jess advises. "I did that once by mistake. Not a pretty sight."
It's stuck in his head like a horror movie, Lester bent over Connor's body in focused exertion, his face flustered and red and his braces slipping down from his shoulders, neatly pressed trousers dropped to his ankles. It feels like the kind of image that he will never be able to escape from, harsh like a physical assault. Shaking his head does nothing to dislodge it.
"They'll be done in a minute. It's like clockwork." She tweaks a setting on her computer and then looks back at the map, roaming to check for anomalies. "I have no idea how Abby puts up with it. I don't think I could."
Becker nods without saying anything, holding his tongue because he knows that he can't reply to that; he can't take part in the gossip, and he hates knowing that what Connor is going through is common knowledge throughout the ARC, something to be discussed and shared. It makes him a character in a soap opera, someone unreal without feelings. It makes it easier to forget what lies beneath. Not with Jess, not her, but the others - the soldiers, the scientists, the staff who aren't on first-name terms with Connor but who know the stories anyway. Their lives are too exciting not to talk about.
A minute later, the door to Lester's office opens and Connor slips out, red-faced and crumpled. Head down, he makes for the bathroom without catching anyone's eye or offering a single goofy smile. Becker's eyes track him the entire way, the sound of Jess's typing a dull background.
He slips away, trailing Connor without remembering to say goodbye to Jess. She doesn't seem to notice anyway, absorbed in her work. Becker slips into the bathrooms just after Connor, to find him bent over the sink, splashing water onto his flushed face. At the swinging of the door he looks up, meeting Becker's eyes in the mirror. Becker can see the signs of sleeplessness on his face: dark smudges under his eyes and a paler pallor than usual.
Becker leans against the wall near the doorway, and watched as Connor finished cleaning himself up.
"Want to go out for a drink tonight?" Becker asks, mouth moving without his brain being involved. Connor's spine stiffens. "A friendly drink. That's all."
No sex or blowjobs, I promise, he could add, but he thinks that it's implied.
In the mirror, he can see the cautious smile that twitches on Connor's face, shallow dimples appearing in his cheeks. "Why not?" he says. "I could do with a night out."
They both could, Becker thinks, but the anomaly alarms ring before they can make any further plans, and the pair of them propel themselves into action - adrenaline pumping, normality resuming for another few hours.
*
Becker doesn't have a 'local', but if he did it wouldn't be this. The pub is dark and shadowy, with the smell of stale beer lingering in the air. There are a few assorted groups of men in shady corners and the bar top is sticky with spilt drink.
Connor, predictably, loves it.
Becker, on the other hand, contemplates whether or not it is feasible to hold his breath for the entire visit. At this stage, he's not sure whether the fumes or the oxygen deprivation would be worse for his health.
"I've not been in a pub in ages," Connor says, as they slip into a dark corner with a quiet table. "Not since, y'know, that case by the sea. Which you weren't even there for, skiver."
"I had a reasonable excuse."
"Nah, we all know you had your heels up, watching Loose Women and eating cereal right out the box."
"You caught me," Becker gives in. "I'm a secret slacker. Don't tell Lester."
"You think I would dare?" Connor's smile is bright enough to make any man's heartache: simple and sweet and alive. He shines like the sun. "Let's make a rule, alright? Just for tonight, no work talk. No anomalies, no dinosaurs, definitely no poison talk. What d'you think?"
In the end, Becker thinks it may have been the best idea that their miniature genius has ever come up with. It might make him nervous, palms sweating, but they settle down easily enough - discussing high school experiences and Becker's time in the army, Connor's aborted attempt at getting a tattoo and Becker's father's horror when he dropped out of the football team. He misses school; Connor doesn't. Becker was popular there; Connor wasn't.
"You should've come to my school," Becker says. "I could've watched your back."
"Yeah, right. You'd have been the one shoving my head down the loo," Connor answers, nudging his ankle beneath the table. Becker nudges back, and when they stop they leave their legs where they are, comfortably tangled. Becker can feel the heat of Connor's leg through the material of his jeans, and it feels better than anything more explicit would have. He relaxes further against the bar's couch.
He teases Connor and Connor fights back, a light in his eyes that shows the ticking of his brain. He's too fast, but Becker can keep up with him. He's always been able to.
"It's getting late," Becker points out, after the night has worn on. The old and hunched regulars have left, and the group of girls who had briefly been flanking the jukebox have left in a cloud of giggles hours ago. Now, the barman stands behind the counter with his eyes on the television screen across the bar.
Their glasses are empty, but they aren't anywhere near drunk. Becker refuses to let his control down that much - just in case. Connor's smile is easy, but that's a sign of contentment rather than inebriation. "Want to take it back to yours?" Connor offers.
"Won't Abby mind?" Becker asks, careful with his words. He doesn't know what is happening there, not exactly, but he can tell that something is not quite right between them. A lot of somethings, actually.
Connor begins to wriggle into his jacket, trying to shrug at the same time. "She's going to be mad at me whether or not I stay out late," he says. "I'm kind of resigned to it."
"Trouble in paradise?" Becker asks, getting to his feet.
Connor's smile is already cracking; Becker starts to regret getting onto this topic at all. He should have known better.
"Is it paradise when one of you is shagging around?"
"It's not as if you have a choice."
"Don't think that really matters. I'm still doing it." Connor's jaw clenches, and Becker's eyes are drawn to the muscle there, to the soft patch of skin barely dusted with stubble. "I dunno. It doesn't feel good, doing this to her. Doesn't feel fair."
Becker can't argue with him. It's hard enough for him to watch it happening and he has no claim to Connor, no excuse for the bitter knot that forms in his chest when he thinks about it. "Have you talked to her about it?" he asks, walking slowly towards the exit of the pub with Connor.
Connor shrugs. "We don't actually talk about much at all these days," he says. "Definitely not that."
They lived together, worked together too. Images of frosty dinners and stilted conversations spring into his mind - yet another hardship that he doesn't know how to rescue them from. He's starting to get the impression that he isn't nearly as good at being their soldier as he would like to be.
They amble towards his apartment, walking close enough for their shoulders to brush. "I probably can't stay long," Connor says when Becker leads him inside. "My nightly appointment, in it's an hour or so."
Heading for the kitchen to see if he has anything to offer him, Becker frowns for a moment until the meaning hits him and his stomach twists. He won't ask who it is that Connor will be seeing this time, now that his six-hour window has passed. It is dark outside and the moon has been out for hours, but someone must be on the night shift, someone must be waiting for Connor.
His hand lingers on the fridge door; he could offer, he knows. Connor is right here and it would save a lot of trouble to simply offer to do the job. Simple, professional, and they could watch television together afterwards, pretend that they are friends and that nothing is strange here. They could lie. They could act. It might even be easy.
He pushes the thought from his mind before it can go any further, but when he closes the fridge with two chilled bottles of beer in hand there is a presence behind him. Turning, he finds Connor so close that he could just stretch his fingers out to touch him. A moment later, he doesn't have to. Connor closes the gap himself, his hand pressing against the nape of Becker's neck so that he can pull him close and kiss him. Becker's mouth barely moves but he doesn't have to - Connor does all of the work, his tongue licking past Becker's defences with ease.
Fumbling, Becker reaches back in order to place his bottles on the kitchen counter. With his hands free he can reach for Connor's hips and drag him forward, lost already. "Connor," he breathes against the needy onslaught of Connor's mouth. "What are we doing?"
It isn't time yet for Connor to have become lost in the poison. The pain can't have started. He's here and he's thinking clearly and he's still in Becker's space, he's still kissing him senseless, and this time it is him.
"Connor," Becker groans again. He's fighting against the temptation to turn them around so that he can thump Connor back against the fridge; his willpower won't last forever. "What's going on?"
"I just-" Connor nips at his bottom lip, holding onto the front of Becker's shirt to keep him close. "I dunno. I want to do this."
"Are you hurting?" Becker asks. "Has it come early?"
"No, no. It's nothing like that. It's just me."
Becker's breath shivers with anticipation, because that is the kind of thing he has wanted to hear for a long time. His head drops down until his forehead sits against Connor's shoulder; he needs a way to clear his head, but that isn't going to happen, not like this, not with Connor's body so warm against him. "Call in," he says, eyes screwed shut. "Tell them I'll handle it for tonight. After this, though, we have to talk."
"You really want to have a heart-to-heart over this?" Connor asks, and Becker can hear that overtone of bemusement in his voice. He has Connor in his arms, warm and willing; Becker can't explain it either. He needs everything to be settled. Living in this constant flux isn't good for anyone involved. There are too many soft emotions on the line.
Becker growls out Connor's name and is rewarded - punished - when Connor pulls away to retrieve his phone from his jacket pocket. His eyes linger where they shouldn't, his gaze explores, and he knows that there are a thousand reasons why he shouldn't allow this to happen. He ought to be strong enough to realise when a friend is falling apart, and turn him away.
He's not.
He accepts that.
And when Connor's phone is tucked away once more, Becker has no issues with guiding him eagerly towards his bed.
Part Three
Pairing: Becker/Connor, Connor/Others (established Abby/Connor)
Word Count: 4761
Rating: NC-17
Warning: Dub-con by way of sex pollen, scientific nonsense.
Previously: Part One
A/N: I really, really love tropes.
Summary: Connor is bitten by a creature in heat, and the hormone in the bite leaves him needing sex every six hours. Trying to help a friend out, Becker has to fight his own feelings.
With Connor still absent, it is surprisingly easy to avoid him for a few days - long enough for Becker to clear his head and gain some much-needed perspective. Matt accuses him of being off his game, and Jess watches him with doe-eyed worry, but he is able to deflect their concern with a few sarcastic remarks. It's an excellent armour; he only wishes that it worked as well as creatures as it did on co-workers.
By the following Monday, Connor is back on duty. He smiles a little less than usual, and there is constant exhaustion on his face, but other than that he is exactly how everyone expects him to be - endlessly enthusiastic about their work, and competent in a slap-dash kind of way.
There's no sign of the illness. Becker doesn't think that that means it's gone.
Connor and Abby both manage to keep out of his way at work in a way that ought to be impossible for such a tight-knit team, but between creature incursions and Connor's odd lab work with Philip, there just isn't time to corner them.
That makes it either a relief or a curse when he ends up staking out a sealed anomaly with Abby. It's difficult to tell which particular emotion is stronger in this instance.
At the moment, however, it's mostly awkward. Abby won't look at him. Won't talk to him. Just sits and stares at the anomaly, her face blank, her mind elsewhere.
Becker clears his throat, far too quietly to attract her attention - even if the thought is there, the will isn't. "How is he?" he rasps. It sounds as if he hasn't drunk in years.
Abby's eyes are like razors when she looks at him, as blue as an electric sky. "Connor?" she asks.
Who else? Becker could reply, but he values his life: he just nods.
"He's..." A sigh bursts from her and she shakes her head, looking away from him. "He's exactly how you would expect him to be."
"He's taking it badly?"
"No. That's the problem." Abby runs her fingers through her hair, tugging at it for a moment before she lets go. "He keeps saying he's fine, that there's no problem - like this is normal."
The tension in her shoulders looks as if it is apt to snap at any moment. Becker looks down at his gun, counting the seconds and waiting for the right words to spring into his mouth. They won't come.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I can't leave him. He needs me." There's an inherent criticism there, whether Abby means it or not. She's staying: Becker left. One of them is the bad guy here. "He's not okay. He's just- He's Connor."
As answers go, it isn't the clearest, but Abby returns her gaze to the anomaly and Becker can see the physical shift on her face as she closes herself off from him again. It's like watching a door slam down in front of him, hard and metal and impossible to penetrate. She is more distant than she was even when trapped in the past.
Nodding to himself, he tells himself that he deserves it, he's earned it. He focuses his attention on the anomaly once more, and struggles to stop thinking at all.
*
The building is empty of the public - thank god for bank holidays - but the roaring and screams of the creatures roaming the corridors prove that this place is far from peaceful. There's a pack of them, large with sharp claws and razor teeth, and they're getting hungrier by the second.
The problem, of course, is that the team rushed in here with a plan.
To be more precise, Connor rushed in without a plan. Becker rushed in after him.
And now they're hiding in the janitor's closet, with cleaning supplies and large boxes filled with toilet paper around them, while the pack hunts outside to find them. Becker's gun is lying outside in the hallway, borrowed as a brief chew-toy.
Time is passing too slowly. Someone should have come to rescue them by now.
The seconds are like an executioner's axe. Becker's eyes dash towards Connor: again, again, again.
"I've got fifteen minutes," Connor reassures him, catching his eye. They've been in here for two hours already, with the creatures lunging for the door whenever they try to escape. It's ridiculous. Becker is a trained soldier. He isn't supposed to get trapped in closets.
"We'll get you out of here," Becker promises. He edges towards the door, touches the handle - and instantly hears a snarl from the other side. The door rattles as a heavy weigh slams against it, but the lock holds. Becker retreats, and looks around the cupboard once more for something that might help.
Nothing has magically appeared since he last looked.
"Becker, they'll come for us," Connor assures him. "They know where we are."
It's true, yes, but it's been hours already - something is wrong, not just with them. There must be a problem preventing help from getting here. The ARC is stretched too thin. It's inevitable that something is going to go wrong. The creatures have so far shown little interest in breaking down the door, lying in the corridor outside like sated lions until they are disturbed, but that doesn't mean that they will stay docile forever.
And there is, of course, the more pressing problem, the ticking time bomb in Connor's veins, the deadline creeping up on them, and Becker can tell what is going to happen, can feel the anticipation coiling like a snake in his groin. There's a part of him that can't wait, and that part makes his hands restless, makes him fidget and twitch and look at his watch.
Seconds pass. They sit together, slumped against the back wall, waiting for something to happen, knowing that it has to.
"You don't have to do it, you know," Connor says, as rescue starts to seem less and less likely. "I mean, I'll be fine. It's not like I'll die or anything."
"You'll be in pain," Becker states. He knows. He's seen it. "I can't sit back and allow that to happen."
"This isn't something you have to rescue me from," Connor says quietly. He looks at his hands instead of at Becker. "I know what it's like. If this had been Abby, and it had happened to her back when I was just thinking about her, I don't know... I honestly don't know what I would have done."
"You love her," Becker says. "You would have done what's necessary."
And he doesn't 'love' Connor. It's not as simple as that, not as pure. There's something primal about it, something that's all need and jealousy and hunger, and it's almost too much for him to take. Too much to fight.
That's why, when their time is up and Connor's breathing tightens with pain, it is too, too easy to kiss him again. It's different from the first time. Now, when his fingertips drag over Connor's jaw and their lips brush together, Connor surges forward, the pressure against their mouths so tight that it almost aches. Becker's eyes slide closed and he feels it, the exact moment that he allows his morality and emotions to fall away. It's like there's something breaking inside his chest.
They slip down to the floor and in a distracted tangle they get rid of their trousers, groaning as skin presses against skin. Connor is limp beneath him, but Becker takes him in hand with no hesitation, exploring and pumping his cock. Connor breathes his name, and there's something sweet about it, something perfectly broken. Becker brushes his mouth against Connor's full lips, knowing that they don't have time. They aren't making love, as much as he might want to pretend that they are. This is a military operation, a task of guardianship.
There are also the bored creatures outside to keep in mind.
He eased Connor over and onto his knees; the pained hiss and whimper as he moves is enough to make Becker's conscience flinch, as if he is doing it himself. "Check my pocket," Connor instructs. He sounds winded, as if someone has punched him in the chest.
Fumbling into Connor's jeans for him, Becker finds several sachets of lube inside, dropping them onto the floor in his fumbling hurry to get it out. He tries not to think about the implications of the stash, tries to think about all of the people that Connor has had to be with, how many people have helped him out with this pain. His hands are steady and firm as he rips open the packet and smears lube over his already aching cock.
The lube is watery and slick as he pours it out onto his fingers, slipping and sliding when he reaches between Connor's cheeks to probe at his hole. Two fingers slip inside with ease, and Connor gives a sigh of relief at the intrusion, like he's finally getting what he's been waiting for. He is relaxed despite the instinctive, poisonous pain, and it's easy to prepare him: "Don't worry about it - I'm fine. Great," Connor tells him. "Trust me."
And Becker does (has) trusted Connor with his life and more in the past. He eases his fingers out of Connor's ass and takes his word for it, taking himself in hand and aligning himself with Connor. One short push is all it takes for the head to pop inside, then slide deeper, the sound of Connor's long groan rumbling throughout the entire room. It sends a shiver down Becker's spine and he barely manages to restrain the sounds that want to escape from his open mouth.
He withdraws slowly, but it's impossible to keep up a pace like that when Connor is tight and panting beneath him. Becker has slept with men before, brief fumblings in the dark and nothing more, and it hasn't been like this. It hasn't been painfully perfect, everything that he wants but can't have.
Hand reaching beneath Connor, he takes hold of his cock and squeezes, starting up a fast rhythm once he has the tension just right. Connor says his name, over and over, like an appeal to a benevolent god, and it makes Becker's chest swell with pride, makes his balls tingle and draw close before he slams in hard and comes, spilling out into Connor in record time.
He knows that it's over, that his task is done, but even once he's withdrawn he can't back away, easing Connor onto his back and then leaning down. "Tell me if this isn't okay," he urges, but Connor doesn't protest at all when he descends, taking the tip of his cock into his mouth. The head is salty with precum as Becker tongues against the slit, before ducking lower to take more of it in.
He sucks and swallows and his head bobs, taking Connor further and further inside, but it hardly takes any efforts before Connor is twisting beneath him, as tight as a coil, and coming with a cry into Becker's mouth. Semen floods over his tongue and Becker pulls back, swallowing it with little other option. The taste clings to his mouth. He pants to get his breath back, and his worried gaze flickers back to Connor again and again, unable to stay away for long.
"Are you alright? Does it still hurt?" he checks eventually, his words shorter than usual, clipped. His mind is racing and he isn't yet sure where his thoughts are going to land.
Connor looks dazed as well, his fingers fumbling as he hurries to redress himself, wriggling back into his tight jeans as Becker averts his gaze. "It's fine," he says. "It passed, like it always does."
There's a hard, bitter twist in his voice, almost like an accusation - not aimed at Becker, not exactly, but at the world at large, as if it's done this to him out of malicious intent.
"Thanks," he continues, after clearing his throat. "You didn't have to do that."
"Connor, I-"
"No. I mean. You didn't have to make it good." Connor's cheeks are reddening, as if talking about it is worse than doing it. "Whether or not I, y'know, get off... It doesn't make a difference."
Becker nods, unsure if this is a criticism or not. Maybe he overstepped his boundaries; maybe he should have known to leave Connor alone. "Who usually does it now?" he asks, although he knows that he doesn't really want to know, that this isn't information that he can handle. He still needs to ask; he needs to hear. Maybe Connor needs to tell him.
His answer is a clumsy shrug. "I dunno. Lester, Matt, Philip. Some of the other soldiers - they pitch in?" He gives a laugh like broken glass. "It's just work, right? It's like an injection."
"It shouldn't be like that."
"I'm working on it. I'm trying to isolate what's going on, how it all works. If I can break it down enough, maybe I'll be able to work out a cure."
Becker nods, but he isn't counting on it. Connor is the smartest person that he knows, buried beneath his easy smiles and his hats, but that doesn't mean he's a scientist. It would be easier if they could farm this out to someone else, to a team of white-coated professionals who could blitz through the work - but resources are too tight and this secret is too precious.
"In the meantime," Connor says, his face brightening as he locks everything into a tight box in the back of his brain, "We're still stuck in here."
Becker glances warily at the door. "That we are," he agrees, "unless you feel like wrestling a pack of creatures to get out."
"Bare handed? Maybe not."
"Then we'll just have to wait."
It should be a far more terrifying prospect than it is, especially with how awkward the air between them has been for the past few weeks, but it surprises him how comfortable he feels. Considering what they'd just done, and the condom wrappers and spilt lube littering the floor, Becker expects his words to fail him and Connor's face to flush. Instead, Connor says, "Want to play I Spy?" mournfully, and Becker's mouth twitches with a smile, feeling more at ease than he has in days.
*
Life reverts back to its bizarre version of 'normal'. Becker doesn't help out with Connor's condition, but he doesn't have to avoid Connor as if he has the plague either. They're not friends, not exactly, but they're back to whatever they were before - close colleagues, closer than they would be in any other workplace, but nothing more than that.
Becker doesn't know if that's enough, not when he can remember the feel of Connor's skin beneath his hands, his lips against his own, that hungry shared kiss. It had been different before. Perfunctory oral sex had been enough to haunt his mind, but this... Being with Connor this time had felt like it was more than a chore for Connor, as if he had wanted to be there as much as Becker had. Self-delusion, he knows. Connor is with Abby; he loves her, desperately. He's loved her for far longer than Becker has been on the scene, and it's good. They are good.
Yet there's something in Becker's chest, something angry and bitter, that burns when he sees Connor retreats into Lester's office. The blinds are drawn with a sharp snap, and Becker turns his head away, staring at the computer screens over Jess's shoulder with an intensity that hurts his eyes. The colours blur in front of him until he can't see a thing.
"You're hovering," Jess observes, glancing up at him. "I don't mind it or anything, but... You're hovering."
An uncertain smile plays on her lips as she looks up at him, sweet and shyly confident. He can see the admiration in her eyes and wishes that he had fallen for her; she's the kind of girl that he could imagine a life with.
"I'll move," he says, with an unconscious glance towards Lester's office. The ugly beast in his chest scratch along his ribs, roaming and wishing that he would let it escape. "Sorry."
"No. No, it's fine. I like it. It's - It's nice." Smiling, she settles her gaze back on her computer screen, fingers flying. "Besides, you'll get the best view of Lester's office from here. That's what you're looking for, right?"
Becker's eyebrows rise. For a second, it is very tempting to lie, but he clears his throat. "I'd consider standing right outside the door, but it might give them a fright."
"Just don't try walking in on them," Jess advises. "I did that once by mistake. Not a pretty sight."
It's stuck in his head like a horror movie, Lester bent over Connor's body in focused exertion, his face flustered and red and his braces slipping down from his shoulders, neatly pressed trousers dropped to his ankles. It feels like the kind of image that he will never be able to escape from, harsh like a physical assault. Shaking his head does nothing to dislodge it.
"They'll be done in a minute. It's like clockwork." She tweaks a setting on her computer and then looks back at the map, roaming to check for anomalies. "I have no idea how Abby puts up with it. I don't think I could."
Becker nods without saying anything, holding his tongue because he knows that he can't reply to that; he can't take part in the gossip, and he hates knowing that what Connor is going through is common knowledge throughout the ARC, something to be discussed and shared. It makes him a character in a soap opera, someone unreal without feelings. It makes it easier to forget what lies beneath. Not with Jess, not her, but the others - the soldiers, the scientists, the staff who aren't on first-name terms with Connor but who know the stories anyway. Their lives are too exciting not to talk about.
A minute later, the door to Lester's office opens and Connor slips out, red-faced and crumpled. Head down, he makes for the bathroom without catching anyone's eye or offering a single goofy smile. Becker's eyes track him the entire way, the sound of Jess's typing a dull background.
He slips away, trailing Connor without remembering to say goodbye to Jess. She doesn't seem to notice anyway, absorbed in her work. Becker slips into the bathrooms just after Connor, to find him bent over the sink, splashing water onto his flushed face. At the swinging of the door he looks up, meeting Becker's eyes in the mirror. Becker can see the signs of sleeplessness on his face: dark smudges under his eyes and a paler pallor than usual.
Becker leans against the wall near the doorway, and watched as Connor finished cleaning himself up.
"Want to go out for a drink tonight?" Becker asks, mouth moving without his brain being involved. Connor's spine stiffens. "A friendly drink. That's all."
No sex or blowjobs, I promise, he could add, but he thinks that it's implied.
In the mirror, he can see the cautious smile that twitches on Connor's face, shallow dimples appearing in his cheeks. "Why not?" he says. "I could do with a night out."
They both could, Becker thinks, but the anomaly alarms ring before they can make any further plans, and the pair of them propel themselves into action - adrenaline pumping, normality resuming for another few hours.
*
Becker doesn't have a 'local', but if he did it wouldn't be this. The pub is dark and shadowy, with the smell of stale beer lingering in the air. There are a few assorted groups of men in shady corners and the bar top is sticky with spilt drink.
Connor, predictably, loves it.
Becker, on the other hand, contemplates whether or not it is feasible to hold his breath for the entire visit. At this stage, he's not sure whether the fumes or the oxygen deprivation would be worse for his health.
"I've not been in a pub in ages," Connor says, as they slip into a dark corner with a quiet table. "Not since, y'know, that case by the sea. Which you weren't even there for, skiver."
"I had a reasonable excuse."
"Nah, we all know you had your heels up, watching Loose Women and eating cereal right out the box."
"You caught me," Becker gives in. "I'm a secret slacker. Don't tell Lester."
"You think I would dare?" Connor's smile is bright enough to make any man's heartache: simple and sweet and alive. He shines like the sun. "Let's make a rule, alright? Just for tonight, no work talk. No anomalies, no dinosaurs, definitely no poison talk. What d'you think?"
In the end, Becker thinks it may have been the best idea that their miniature genius has ever come up with. It might make him nervous, palms sweating, but they settle down easily enough - discussing high school experiences and Becker's time in the army, Connor's aborted attempt at getting a tattoo and Becker's father's horror when he dropped out of the football team. He misses school; Connor doesn't. Becker was popular there; Connor wasn't.
"You should've come to my school," Becker says. "I could've watched your back."
"Yeah, right. You'd have been the one shoving my head down the loo," Connor answers, nudging his ankle beneath the table. Becker nudges back, and when they stop they leave their legs where they are, comfortably tangled. Becker can feel the heat of Connor's leg through the material of his jeans, and it feels better than anything more explicit would have. He relaxes further against the bar's couch.
He teases Connor and Connor fights back, a light in his eyes that shows the ticking of his brain. He's too fast, but Becker can keep up with him. He's always been able to.
"It's getting late," Becker points out, after the night has worn on. The old and hunched regulars have left, and the group of girls who had briefly been flanking the jukebox have left in a cloud of giggles hours ago. Now, the barman stands behind the counter with his eyes on the television screen across the bar.
Their glasses are empty, but they aren't anywhere near drunk. Becker refuses to let his control down that much - just in case. Connor's smile is easy, but that's a sign of contentment rather than inebriation. "Want to take it back to yours?" Connor offers.
"Won't Abby mind?" Becker asks, careful with his words. He doesn't know what is happening there, not exactly, but he can tell that something is not quite right between them. A lot of somethings, actually.
Connor begins to wriggle into his jacket, trying to shrug at the same time. "She's going to be mad at me whether or not I stay out late," he says. "I'm kind of resigned to it."
"Trouble in paradise?" Becker asks, getting to his feet.
Connor's smile is already cracking; Becker starts to regret getting onto this topic at all. He should have known better.
"Is it paradise when one of you is shagging around?"
"It's not as if you have a choice."
"Don't think that really matters. I'm still doing it." Connor's jaw clenches, and Becker's eyes are drawn to the muscle there, to the soft patch of skin barely dusted with stubble. "I dunno. It doesn't feel good, doing this to her. Doesn't feel fair."
Becker can't argue with him. It's hard enough for him to watch it happening and he has no claim to Connor, no excuse for the bitter knot that forms in his chest when he thinks about it. "Have you talked to her about it?" he asks, walking slowly towards the exit of the pub with Connor.
Connor shrugs. "We don't actually talk about much at all these days," he says. "Definitely not that."
They lived together, worked together too. Images of frosty dinners and stilted conversations spring into his mind - yet another hardship that he doesn't know how to rescue them from. He's starting to get the impression that he isn't nearly as good at being their soldier as he would like to be.
They amble towards his apartment, walking close enough for their shoulders to brush. "I probably can't stay long," Connor says when Becker leads him inside. "My nightly appointment, in it's an hour or so."
Heading for the kitchen to see if he has anything to offer him, Becker frowns for a moment until the meaning hits him and his stomach twists. He won't ask who it is that Connor will be seeing this time, now that his six-hour window has passed. It is dark outside and the moon has been out for hours, but someone must be on the night shift, someone must be waiting for Connor.
His hand lingers on the fridge door; he could offer, he knows. Connor is right here and it would save a lot of trouble to simply offer to do the job. Simple, professional, and they could watch television together afterwards, pretend that they are friends and that nothing is strange here. They could lie. They could act. It might even be easy.
He pushes the thought from his mind before it can go any further, but when he closes the fridge with two chilled bottles of beer in hand there is a presence behind him. Turning, he finds Connor so close that he could just stretch his fingers out to touch him. A moment later, he doesn't have to. Connor closes the gap himself, his hand pressing against the nape of Becker's neck so that he can pull him close and kiss him. Becker's mouth barely moves but he doesn't have to - Connor does all of the work, his tongue licking past Becker's defences with ease.
Fumbling, Becker reaches back in order to place his bottles on the kitchen counter. With his hands free he can reach for Connor's hips and drag him forward, lost already. "Connor," he breathes against the needy onslaught of Connor's mouth. "What are we doing?"
It isn't time yet for Connor to have become lost in the poison. The pain can't have started. He's here and he's thinking clearly and he's still in Becker's space, he's still kissing him senseless, and this time it is him.
"Connor," Becker groans again. He's fighting against the temptation to turn them around so that he can thump Connor back against the fridge; his willpower won't last forever. "What's going on?"
"I just-" Connor nips at his bottom lip, holding onto the front of Becker's shirt to keep him close. "I dunno. I want to do this."
"Are you hurting?" Becker asks. "Has it come early?"
"No, no. It's nothing like that. It's just me."
Becker's breath shivers with anticipation, because that is the kind of thing he has wanted to hear for a long time. His head drops down until his forehead sits against Connor's shoulder; he needs a way to clear his head, but that isn't going to happen, not like this, not with Connor's body so warm against him. "Call in," he says, eyes screwed shut. "Tell them I'll handle it for tonight. After this, though, we have to talk."
"You really want to have a heart-to-heart over this?" Connor asks, and Becker can hear that overtone of bemusement in his voice. He has Connor in his arms, warm and willing; Becker can't explain it either. He needs everything to be settled. Living in this constant flux isn't good for anyone involved. There are too many soft emotions on the line.
Becker growls out Connor's name and is rewarded - punished - when Connor pulls away to retrieve his phone from his jacket pocket. His eyes linger where they shouldn't, his gaze explores, and he knows that there are a thousand reasons why he shouldn't allow this to happen. He ought to be strong enough to realise when a friend is falling apart, and turn him away.
He's not.
He accepts that.
And when Connor's phone is tucked away once more, Becker has no issues with guiding him eagerly towards his bed.
Part Three