Title: The Fall
Chapter: Time & Space - Connor (1 of 5)
Author: Winter Ashby (rosweldrmr)
Disclaimer: Primeval © Adrian Hodges & Tim Haines
Rating: M
Warnings: M Rating is for sexually explicit situations - for realsies.
Time Line: Post Season 3 - Pre Season 4. The lost year.
Summary: She wished she could explain what he meant to her. But she didn't know how or was too afraid, words had always failed her. But she could show him. So she said, "I need this, Connor." When what she meant was 'I need you.' [Connor/Abby]
Authors Notes: I saw an interview with Andrew and Hannah just before Season 4 aired, when they were talking about the year their character's spent in the Cretaceous and the interviewer asked who pursued who. And Hannah said that she always pictured Abby going after Connor. There are a million of these 'lost year' fics, I'm sure. Some that are far better than mine, but this idea of Abby trying to get Connor popped into my head, and I couldn't stop thinking about it.

I tried to stay as true to canon as possible, I think the only liberty I took was, in this fic, Connor and Abby slept together once right after Cutter died and before Connor moved out. More will be explored later.

This fic has been completed but I wanted to do chapters, so I will post one chapter a week for 5 weeks.

TIME & SPACE - CONNOR

"I'm going out for a bit." Abby called, her pack already slung over her shoulder, she didn't even look Connor in the eyes before she ducked out of the nest of thickets they'd managed to cultivate into a shelter.

"Where're you going?" Connor asked the empty nest after looking up from his 'project' a second too late. Connor sighed deeply and hung his head. He'd been working on a spear for a while now, trying to shape a stone into a sharp arrow and widdle a staff. He was trying, but he didn't have the right materials or expertise to make anything that was really effective. At least not yet, anyway.

It'd been six months since they were stranded in the wrong era. Six months since they lost Danny. Six months since he failed Abby. Six months since he'd had a proper bath, or a coffee, or a shag. Well, to be honest, it had been a while longer than six months for that, a great long while. Six months since he'd had access to lotion and the internet then.

Six months since there was hope in Abby's eyes. Six long months of watching her turn into herself, if only to escape him. And she'd done this before, the disappearing thing. She did it about once a month since they'd been here, disappeared for a day, on her own.

At first they fought about it. What if she was hurt or lost? But she had insisted that she needed time, and space - whatever that meant. She'd take off, nothing but anger and frustration in her eyes. And she always came back the next morning, cleaner and more relaxed. So, now when she did it, he didn't even question it.

If that's what she needed, time away from him, then he could do that for her. It was the least he could do. Since he'd failed in every other way.

What good was it to be able to name the creature that was attacking them if he couldn't fight or run or hide or hunt or gather or build a fire?

Connor growled and rubbed his hands over his face. If he was honest, he would admit that he needed a day a month alone as well. If only to relieve the built-up tension. It was such close quarters, it wasn't like sharing the loft had been. At least when they'd lived together they'd had separate beds, separate showers and rooms. And there had been the one time they slept together, even if she thought it was a mistake after, at least it had happened. Now, they slept practically with each other.

Connor couldn't even count how many times he'd woken up over the past six months with Abby curled into his side, clinging to his arms, a leg thrown over his. And always, always, he'd wanted her. He wanted to tell her he still loved her, that he'd do anything for her. That he would protect her and get her home someday. That he'd give anything to kiss her again, to feel her hands on his chest, to run his fingers through her long, now dirty blond hair. He wanted to tell her she was beautiful and courageous, captivating and enthralling. Amazing and inspiring. She was perfect.

And, that, was why he needed some time alone. Eventually it got to the point where he couldn't think, couldn't breathe or live or move without thinking about Abby and sex.

Abby and sex. The thought ricochet around his hopelessly empty mind, rebounding and magnified, it echoed larger back at him. Abby and sex. Sex and Abby.

Oh, he needed this. Back then, with warm showers and different lives and schedules and so many other reasons, mostly frequency, he'd been fine to live with her and not constantly fear what he might do if she didn't put her pants back on after a dip in the stream or brush against him as they got ready for bed. Or when she draped herself over, sometimes almost on top of him while they slept. Like this morning, when he'd woken up from a wet dream, sticky thighs and boxers that clung to his skin and her leg nestled snug, as you please, against his balls. Like her thigh had a right to be there, like she had claim to him and his private bits. And she was blissfully ignorant. Still sound asleep, wrapped around him, like a noose.

He didn't know why she took off. Maybe she knew he needed this, or maybe she was doing the same thing. Or maybe she just couldn't stand to look at him or be around him one more moment. He didn't know, and he didn't ask. He just waited a good ten minutes before turning his back to the entrance, the half-done spear lay forgotten at his feet.

It only took a seconds before he'd yanked off his trousers and started jerking off. As always, it didn't take too long. Morning wood didn't really count, so it'd been just over a month now, and he was ready. He ached with it. He was desperate, almost frantic. If he timed it right, he could get at least three or four rounds off before Abby came back.

He came in his hand, thinking of Abby. A low grunt was the only noise he made. In the wake of his unsatisfying orgasm, a fiery cool washed over him and settled, like a mist on his skin. God, he'd needed that.

He cleaned up, righted his clothes and went back to work on his spear, but his mind wasn't on it. This kind of thing wasn't really his forte. It didn't take a lot of mental focus to make pointy things. So soon, his mind drifted to other things, other places, other times, other people.

He thought about home, and food and indoor plumbing. He thought wistfully of coffee and toilet paper. He thought of Stephen and Cutter. He thought of Danny and Becker. Jenny and Lester. He thought about college and papers and all the things he'd left half-finished. He thought about his mum, being informed her son was 'lost in action' while she gripped the doorframe and sobbed, open-mouthed, into her palm - the way she'd done when his father didn't come either.

He thought about the future and predators and the paradox of time travel and anomalies. He replayed Doctor Who episodes in his mind and did everything he could to not think about Abby. But, of course, none of that really lasted all that long. His busy, restless brain was woefully equipped to do all that while simultaneously thinking about all his numerous failures.

He thought about that moment in the tree before the flash grenade went off. It was his fault Danny had gone off alone. His fault they were here in the first place. He'd given Helen the artifact, he'd taken them through the anomaly without ever understanding the 'how' or 'why' of it. It'd been foolish and stupid and reckless. And he'd stranded himself and Abby in an age of beasts and unnamed dangers.

She'd stayed for him. Because she felt obligated. God, and he hated himself. The grief and disappointment and pain all mixed together until he was sick with it. Sick with wanting and hating himself. He hated that he was lusting after her like a schoolboy, unable to control himself or stop himself from wanting her, from needing her.

In that way, it didn't last too long before the haze of his first go had worn off and he was left aching and frustrated again. Probably no more than 20 minutes had passed, and he got that familiar urge again.

This time, he was less hurried as he undressed and laid out flat on the blanket they shared, that smelled of her, and began the business of masturbating. It always took longer the second time, and as the months wore on, it became more difficult to find completion, even when he thought or fantasized about Abby. It also didn't help that by that time all the guilt was mixed with lust and it created a terrible mixture where he could only finish by thinking of Abby and openly crying with regret.

It was lust and shame. Wantonness and remorse. Desire and contrition.

He imagined it was probably what catholic schoolboys felt when they whacked off in boarding school with crucifixes on all the walls, watching, judging, reminding them that what they were doing was wrong.

So too was Abby. Her scent, her clothes, her absence, it all reminded him that this was wrong. He was wrong. But still, he pumped his fist and bit his lip.

He conjured images of her dancing in their flat in nothing but a half shirt and her underwear. He thought of her skin, her lips, of what it felt like to kiss her. Her tongue sliding over his, her hands doing this for him.

He was close, but it wasn't enough. He needed more.

He pictured her naked body, the day he'd gone to rinse in the stream and found her already there. Her breasts wet and glistening in the sun, her nipples perked as her hands ran through her longer, tangled hair. Her mouth wrapped around his cock. The one, hurried, depressing time they'd slept together before Cutters funeral, even half dressed and crying, slipping inside her and pressing her back and down had been satisfying, in a heartbroken kind of way. He imagined her calling his name as her head rolled back to meet her shoulders while he ran his fingers up her thighs to bury them inside her wet, hot -

He came again, shuttering, grunting, and thrusting into his hand so hard his hips bucked off the ground and his cum shot across the campsite. He made a garbled sound like grunting and sobbing all rolled into one. His nose ran and he wiped his cheeks with his sleeve. Tears had run down his face as he laid, pooling in the shells of his ears and dripping off his neck. His hair was greasy and matted to his forehead and he was sweating.

He made no move to clean up or dress. Instead, he groaned with relief and promptly fell into one of the only deep and dreamless sleeps he was ever capable of in the Cretaceous.

To be continued...

Next time - find out what the last six months have been like for Abby. And where does she go when she disappears?