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Category: Primeval > Het > Abby/Connor
Characters: Abby Maitland, Connor Temple
Genres: First Time, Humour, Romance
Summary: It's Connor's birthday today, and Abby's been planning it for weeks.
I appear to have acquired a habit of either writing or posting fic on my birthday. And why break with tradition this year?
Many thanks to Temaris and Claire for both the enabling and the read through. The title comes from a Fairground Attraction song. The rest, for better or ill, is all me.
Author's Chapter Notes:
Spoilers: Set just after Season 2, so there are some references to what happens
It's Connor's birthday today, and Abby's been planning it for weeks.
Actually, that's not strictly true. It's Connor's birthday today, and Abby had formed some vague plans around possibly getting some beer in, actually agreeing to watching some really bad science fiction DVDs picked up from Blockbuster without protesting (too much) just to watch Connor enjoying them and maybe cooking Connor something that didn't come from the chippy around the corner.
That had been the plan, but plans change. Things change. The last few months have driven that lesson home to her and driven it home hard. First there was Cutter and his ranting about some woman Abby's never heard of but is supposed to know. Then Connor, actually getting a girlfriend even if she was an evil witch. Especially when she was an evil witch. And then Stephen…
Yes, things change and not always for the better. But deep down, Abby's not averse to changing things as long as she can change them on her terms. She doesn't want casual anymore. Doesn't want 'buddies' or 'mates'. She wants…
She wants 'buddies' and 'mates' and her best friend back, and she wants Stephen back too and Cutter not looking like someone ripped half of him away, leaving the rest a gaping wound that Connor and she just aren't enough to staunch. She wants Connor to smile more, like he used to, and not be still and quiet half the time while the other half is spent frantically energised, like he suspects that's what people expect him to be, what they need him to be.
She wants all of that, with an ache that surprises her. She wants Connor here, home. Happy. Celebrating turning twenty-four like any other young man out there - with too much booze and a kebab on the way home from the pub, or chilling with friends or...
Well, there's another way to celebrate, and it's about time some things changed for the better.
Her and Connor… it's been kind of weird these last few weeks, the way they've been all careful and polite with each other. Strangers moving around the same space, always watching what they say, always watching what they do. It's left her off balance and unhappy and unsure how she could miss someone so much when they're still there, in the same room just an arm's length away.
They used to touch all of the time, her and Connor - nothing in it, at least not on her side, not back then - but now they barely touch at all and she's sick of it. She misses the casual comfort of it, the ache stronger than almost anything, and finds herself reaching out constantly just to brush his fingers or his arm and, once, even his hair. Just for a second, just so she knows he's still there, still breathing. And then her fingers drop and they go back to that space between them, measured in inches and feeling like miles.
She doesn't know what's been stopping her from crossing it, just getting right in Connor's space and never getting out of it again. Caroline - thank God - is off the scene apart from a couple of hesitant (and possibly evil) voicemail messages. Connor deletes them from his phone after only listening to them once. She's sure it's just once, because she watches him do it, silently and an arm's length away. Caroline doesn't try again after the first couple of weeks, which Abby takes to be her finally getting the message. It's just as well because Connor's got a security pin number on his phone and Abby's hacking skills are pretty much non-existent. She'd guess 42, but that's probably too short because these things are normally four digits, so maybe it's 1138 because even she knows enough to know that's a Star Wars film buff reference and that's probably only because she's been spending far too much time with Connor, but after that she'd be stuck. And it's not like she's been thinking about it too often or anything. Really. She hasn't.
Knowing Connor, it will probably be 1138 anyway. She hasn't tried it. Yet. Because if that woman leaves a third message, she will come to know the Wrath of Abby, and this time it will make getting her arse kicked in an abandoned warehouse seem like a walk in the bloody park. She hurt Connor. She hurt Connor and Abby's beginning to realise that she might be a little irrational about things like that.
So it's not Caroline, and she doesn't think it's Stephen, not really, not matter how much it hurts (and it does; it aches and twists and bleeds, for all of them not just Cutter), but things are… they're just different. And if they're going to be different… Well. Abby's going to have a say in it, make sure that things change in the right way for once. She's never been the type to sit around and wait for things to happen to her, not Abby, and she's grown used to having to react quickly to whatever the hell life throws at her, even when it comes armed with teeth and claws.
After that, dealing with Connor should be easy. He's a pussycat, not a sabre tooth, although puppy dog is probably closer to the mark. The Scrappy Doo to her Daphne, Lester called them, which wasn't very fair to Connor, who's nowhere near that annoying. Usually.
So if things are going to change, she's going to be the one to change them, starting with her plans. The plan for Connor's Birthday Mark II is much simpler then the first plan, much more direct. She's tired of things just happening to them, so now she's going to happen to Connor.
Knowing Connor, he won't even see her coming. He'd better not object either, not with the way he's been chasing after her for over a year. And if he's been chasing, that means that she won't so much be throwing herself at him as… letting him catch up for once.
That's the new, improved plan, and she's busy putting it into motion.
There's wine breathing on the table - just a bottle of reasonably priced red, nothing flash, nothing too heavy. She's lived with Connor for almost a year. She knows he's a lightweight and she doesn't want him drunk, not tonight, not matter how tempting it is. Connor's an affectionate drunk, and cute - cuter - with it. When he's had a couple, everyone's his best friend, especially Abby who probably really is his best friend these days. But there's a squirmy thought in the back of Abby's head that if they have more than a couple of glasses Connor might start thinking… well, that she had her beer goggles on or something. As though she couldn't drink him under the table and then stay sober enough to put him to bed.
And that sets up a squirmy thought again, but it's not a bad squirmy. More a sort of tingly until she focuses, pulling her belt tighter and concentrating on triple checking everything.
There's something tasty in the fridge, ready to put into the oven. Something quick and simple and it's possible that she might have cheated and popped into Marks and Spencer's on her way home. She knows where her strengths lie, and it's not in the kitchen. Connor can cook but he's not going to cook tonight. Not in their kitchen, anyway.
She stifles a grin, recognising the giddiness in the thought. Her heart is beating faster, and she places her hand over it, feeling the warmth of her skin, already flushed. When she pulls her fingers away again, they brush over her robe - Connor's robe. It's big and warm on her and the smell of him clings to it but in a good way, not in an 'it needs a wash' way. It's a little scratchy against her skin, but that just makes it better, makes every inch of her shiver and tingle.
She knows that Connor's not exactly good at picking up nuances and she's leaving nothing to chance. She's wearing Connor's robe and she's not wearing anything underneath it. Even Connor should get the message from that, and as these things go it's definitely more practical than the alternative. She loves Connor, she really does and she's finally accepted that, but with the best will in the world, while he might be rendered speechless by the idea of her in sheer black underwear or something just as cliché, she doesn't want to ruin the mood by having him fumble to undo her bra straps.
Besides, if she stood there in her underwear he might just think she'd run out of clean clothes or had turned the thermostat up for her lizards again rather than that she was doing her very best to seduce him. For a really, really smart guy, he can be amazingly thick sometimes. And that can be annoying but also… kind of cute.
Yeah. She definitely loves him.
She's getting a little impatient now, small shivers running through her. She hasn't put anything in the oven yet because part of her is hoping that they won't get as far as dinner. Just in case, she's also pulled out the leaflet for the local pizza parlour out as well, as a backup plan. It's quick, it's cheap and she quite fancies the idea of Connor and pizza in bed when they've worked up an appetite.
Another grin, but this time there's nothing to hold it back, not that she really wants to. She's double and triple checked everything and she can only wait, nothing to distract her until she hears it - the sound of his key in the lock.
It's now or never. Her stomach is fluttering, butterflies and more, and her heart is beating hard and fast but this is Connor, Connor who loves her and God only knows what she did to deserve that.
She can hear him clattering up the stairs, sounding suddenly so Connor-ish that he'd put a herd of elephants - mammoths even - to shame. It just makes her sort of melt inside, soppy item that she's become where he's concerned. She takes a deep breath and eases open the loose knot of her belt. It slides apart easily, and her hands move up to the lapels, pulling the robe off, letting it slither down over her skin until it's caught on her elbows and she's framed by the dark red fabric. She looks good - she should do. She's practiced the move in the mirror a couple of times, just because she wants this to be perfect for him.
"Abby," he calls again, and she waits a little impatiently - and a little nervously if she's honest - for his head to appear above the banister. Her heart is pounding and her mouth is dry and there's a little voice in her head suggesting that perhaps she'll end up looking less like Venus rising from the waters and more like someone who's completely desperate and maybe even a little tacky. She swallows, throws her shoulders back. Hell, if she's going to come across as desperate and a little tacky, she's going to do it with style.
She takes another deep breath, holding it as Connor bounds up the stairs. His hand appears first, ever present fingerless gloves sliding easily over the metal railing. Then his hat, jauntily perched on top of his head, and finally his face, turning towards her with a smile.
He stops dead, eyes widening and smile faltering and she's not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing and please let that be a really, really good thing. His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. He swallows, brown eyes sweeping up and down her form and…
And there's another face, just behind Connor's, round cheeks and round glasses and round eyes.
She's not sure who moves the fastest - whether it's her scooting backwards, pulling the robe up haphazardly as she tries desperately to cover herself up, or Connor suddenly snapping out of his daze, hand coming up to cover his friend's eyes as he pushes Duncan - yes, Duncan, she remembers the name and now it's going to be seared forever in her memory and, God, could this be any more embarrassing? - back down the stairs.
There's muttering and the door slamming - she thinks - and she really hopes that Duncan's on the other side of it rather than heading back upstairs to make awkward conversation now that she's no longer naked. She doesn't know, didn't quite catch what was said because it was drowned out by the constant litany inside her head of, 'Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. Oh. Shit.'
Connor's head appears above the banister again, hat pushed back and eyes still wide and wild.
"Um," he says.
Yes, Connor, that was really helpful, she thinks. She's still got the robe wrapped tightly around her, fingers clenched in the fabric and her heart is hammering in her chest.
"Is that my robe?"
She's going to kill him. She loves him, but he is so dead. There's dense and then there's Connor and…
She doesn't think she's ever been so embarrassed in her life.
She doesn't say anything, just glares at him, and his eyes drift away from hers, down towards her chest before what little sense of self-preservation he has kicks in and he drags his gaze up again to somewhere over her left shoulder.
"So," says Connor, a little high pitched. "That was Duncan…"
"Yes," she grinds out through gritted teeth. "So I gathered."
Connor winces. "Sorry. I… it's my birthday today."
The sarcasm is lost on Connor, who finally looks back at her, keeping - she's pleased to note - his eyes firmly above collar bone level. "We kind of have a tradition - me, Duncan and… well, Tom really, only this year... Kind of a beer and games night, you know?"
"Yeah, um…" She should have checked. She didn't think… she was so used to it just being her and Connor, it had never occurred to her that perhaps Connor had plans of his own.
"He's… um… we've had a rain check until tomorrow." Connor's almost as red as she must be, still avoiding her eyes. "I'm sorry." He winces again, face twisting in embarrassment, coming slowly up the last few steps until he's standing at the top of the stairs, fingers wrapped around the post, which now has most of his attention. "I should have checked. I never thought that you might have…" His eyes dart to the left, where the wine is open on the table and there are flowers in the vase. "… plans."
He gives her one of those looks of his, head tilted, watching her from under his lashes. "Anyway, you… you look nice. So… I take it you're… um… expecting someone?"
"Yes, Connor." His face falls, a moment of stillness that hurts in spite of the fact that she's still a little pissed off at him for something that's not his fault. "I was planning on entertaining West Ham."
"Really?" He takes another step forward, his expression now morphing towards hopeful because that's Connor - the Connor she knows anyway, the one that's always, always upbeat and optimistic, not the strange one she's been sharing a space with recently who's been so subdued. He's like one of those inflatable punching bags, the ones that bounced back up again no matter how hard you hit them. Normally, anyway. "That's funny. Never figured you for WAG material."
"Ha ha." He smiles at her, dimples flashing and her heart twists again because that smile just does something to her. "Happy birthday, Connor."
He glances at the table again, takes in the fact that she's dimmed the bulbs to something a little warmer, less bright. Finally takes in the fact that she's wearing his robe… and nothing else. She can see it click, see the bright hope dawning in his eyes and it goes some way towards making up for her hideous humiliation. Providing she never, ever has to set eyes on Duncan again.
"West Ham, eh?" he asks, familiar cocky smile reasserting itself. There's something watchful in his eyes, though, almost like he wants to believe it but can't quite make himself, not just yet. "Thought you had taste, Abby."
She snorts. "In case you hadn't noticed, Connor, I'm throwing myself at you." There's no point in hedging around. Being Connor, he sometimes needs hitting over the head with a two by four before the message finally sinks in.
"Yeah?" He edges closer, fingers coming up to catch hold of the belt now wrapped firmly back around her waist. His smile is blindingly bright, catching his eyes, lighting them up. "That right?"
She's not sure what she expects - probably for him to just pull the robe open to get another look at her, because Connor doesn't exactly have a firm grip on subtle. And she's not actually convinced he's ever seen a girl naked before - at least not in the flesh and probably not before five minutes ago, so she can understand the temptation.
He doesn't though. Not right then. He tugs her closer, his eyes still doing that hopeful thing, the one that makes her melt, makes her want to kiss him until he moves from hope to certainty.
The first brush of his lips against hers is sweet and tentative. When he pulls back a hairsbreadth to look down at her, his gaze is still watchful, maybe even a little wistful. Something twists painfully in her chest again and she pulls his head down, fingers tangled in the ends of his hair and the scent of him surrounding her as she presses her lips against his.
It's better this time, more like a real kiss. She keeps it light at first, gentle until his mouth opens under hers and their tongues touch. It hits her like a jolt, all the way down her body, settling heavily below her stomach, leaving her aching and wanting more.
It's a good ache this time though, one that she knows Connor can make better. All she has to do is get him naked and in her, and she shivers at the thought.
Connor pulls her closer, melting into her, arms around her back, fingers tightening in the fabric of her robe until she's pressed up against him, every inch of her. His hands feel bigger than she thought they would, and she's imagined them on her more than once as she watched his fingers dance over his keyboard. But she's never really appreciated before now the fact that he's almost a head taller than her.
She likes it. It feels good. Beyond good to be held like this, by Connor, Connor's fingers moving up into her hair. Connor's body presses against hers, one hand staying nestled in the small of her back. He's breathing the same air she's breathing, mouth moving slowly over hers, making soft sounds as she kisses him, sounds that leave her wet and wanting.
She knocks his hat off, fingers digging into his scalp while the other hand wraps around his bloody stupid scarf, fingers burrowing in his shirt, clutching him close, closer until she can't tell where she ends and he begins. It's not enough - she wants to crawl inside his skin, have him crawl inside hers. Her leg's wrapped around his, his thigh pressed up between hers and she's rubbing against him like a cat in heat.
The need for air finally wins out and she pulls back, gasping. When she licks her lips she can still taste him and she has to make a conscious effort to release her grip on his shirt. Her fingers are white knuckled before she smoothes them out, lets them press flatly against Connor's chest.
She looks up and meets Connor's eyes again, his pupils blown dark and wide, his mouth slack and swollen.
"So…" His voice breaks on the word, his expression stunned, and she doesn't bother to hide her smile even though she knows she must look like the cat that got the cream.
"So…?" It comes out gravelly, her throat dry and her whole body thrumming with the need for him. It sounds dark and sexy - at least to her - and Connor swallows convulsively.
"Is this…is this my birthday present? Because I have to say if it is? I like it so much better than the game Duncan got me."
She has to laugh, burying her face in his chest, and his arms wrap around her again. She fits perfectly; if he tilts his head he can rest his cheek on her hair. She doesn't need to see his grin to feel it, to picture it even. It will be broad and smug and, most of all, happy.
She loves him and that's all she wants; Connor, happy.
He kisses the top of her head and her grip on him tightens for a moment. So does her throat, her eyes burning a little with everything. She swallows it down, beating the tears back through sheer force of will. He's there and she's there and everything else can go hang for a while.
"Happy birthday, Connor," she says again when she can keep her voice steady. She looks up at him as she says it, and his eyes soften, no longer smug. Now he's looking at her as if she's everything he's ever wanted and, for Connor, that might well be true.
He glances down then back up through his lashes, the move familiar, the way it borders on bashful. One arm stays wrapped around her but he brings up his other hand, just so he can run his fingers down the length of her lapel, watching her carefully as he does so like he expects her to slap him away, even now.
She reaches up and kisses him instead, catching his hand in hers and moving it so that it rests against her bare flesh instead of her robe. His fingers flex against her skin and it's her turn to watch him carefully, taking in the way his eyes follow where her fingers lead. She guides his hand under her robe, down until he's cupping her breast. His lips part, huffing out a gust of air, stunned, like this is amazing, like this is better than any amount of wondrous, prehistoric creatures could ever be.
She pulls her hand away, leaving his there, his fingers warm against her skin, the wool of his glove prickling a little in contrast. He moves his thumb, stroking tentatively over her nipple, and it's her turn to gasp in amazement, to bite at her lip.
It takes him a long second to drag his gaze up from the curve of her breast and meet her eyes again. He takes a deep breath and she sees everything - everything - in his eyes.
He's the whole world to her just then, and she thinks it might be mutual.
He swallows and leans closer to her, closing the gap between them until his breath comes as warm gusts against her face. She turns her head instinctively, and her lips are just an inch from his, so close she can almost taste him when he speaks.
"So…" It comes out slowly, Connor sounding almost drugged with pleasure. His fingers are still stroking feather-light against her skin, leaving goose bumps in their wake. "If this is my present… is it okay to unwrap it now?"
It's more than okay.
Chapter End Notes:
Disclaimer: Primeval and its characters belong to Impossible Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended. This is fanfiction, written solely for love of the show.