Title: Dream To Die
Author: alyse
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Abby/Connor
Rating: PG13
Spoilers: Set between Season 2 and Season 3. No specific spoilers, but includes the Cleaner.
Word Count: ~1,100
Disclaimer: Primeval and its characters belong to Impossible Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended. This is fanfiction, written solely for love of the show.
Author's Notes: I have this thing about Abby and Connor kissing, and I just have to share. Thanks to [personal profile] aithine for the beta read. Title from We Are Mice by Azure Ray.

Summary: Neither of them are mice, to be hunted.


Somewhere between
our hearts and minds
For those with no future
We'll touch hands


Abby's heart is pounding so hard that she thinks that they have to be able to hear her - have to. And if not her heart, then they must be able to hear Connor's, which is beating a rhythm as fast as hers under her palm. She clenches her fingers, clutching at his shirt, fighting the urge to bury her head into his shoulder. Further into his shoulder. It's a childhood thing, something she thought she'd long since left behind - hide her head under the pillow and maybe the monsters will go away.

But in the end she has to watch, just like it seems that Connor has to watch. too. His face is turned towards the vent and he's barely breathing; the dim light steaming through the bars catches his eyes, making them gleam in the darkness.

Something moves outside, throwing shadows over them, and her fingers tighten again until they burn with the pressure of her grip. Connor's fingers are digging into her hip and his breath catches, holds. One beat, two and her lungs are burning. She hadn't realised that she was holding her breath and now that she knows, she can't stop. Can't breathe out in case they hear.

Another movement, something scraping, and she can't help it - she jumps, just a small jerk of her body, but Connor's fingers tighten further on her hip, pressing in to the point of pain. It matches the pain in her fingers and she's caught between the two, trapped, frozen and staring out into the light beyond.

If they look up...

Mice in a maze, the pair of them. That's what she feels like. No, not in a maze. Mice in a wall, watching the cats hunt outside.

Another sound and she can see him now, the man who almost caught them. His face is like a clenched fist and it's familiar and she should have listened to Connor, she should have when he insisted he'd seen the cleaner before. And that's how she thinks of him - the Cleaner - and tries not to think of Nikita, of mafia movies and menace, of bodies in bathtubs dissolving away.

She'll believe Connor next time, she promises. If they ever get out of this.

The Cleaner's face is in profile, head down, phone up against his ear. She can only hear one side of the conversation and it tells her nothing, consisting of 'yes's and 'no's and nothing, nothing that explains what the hell he's doing here, why he drew his gun before Connor hit him with the fire bucket and they ran, ran, ran, terror lending their feet wings.

"There's no sign of them. They must have got out."

Christ. He's talking about them. Whoever he really is, he's talking about them and why does he care? Why is he hunting them?

Who the hell is he?

The Cleaner tilts his head, listening to whoever is on the other side of the phone, and he doesn't look pleased. There's no blood on his face, nothing to show how hard Connor hit him. She remembers blood, remembers watching this man grab his face, blood spurting out between his fingers. That was before Connor grabbed her hand, dragging her away, and they ran, hid, hearts pounding like little mice. She'd be pissed off about that - about the idea that they can be hunted like they were... were... like they were little mice, nothing but vermin - if...

If he looks up - if it occurs to him that maybe, just maybe they are hiding close by - he'll see them.

Connor turns his head, breath ghosting over her scalp and he's shaking. He saved her life and he's the one who's shaking. She presses her fingers flat against his chest, feeling his heartbeat under her hand again. His face presses into her hair.

They should have grabbed the man's gun but he kept hold of it, even after Connor had struck, even with blood streaming down his face.

Why is there no blood now?

He doesn't look up, their cleaner. He pulls his phone away from his ear with a disgusted look and brings up his gun, pulling the slide back to check it. It's a harsh, metallic sound that goes right through her and she presses her face into Connor's shoulder, feeling his arm come around her, pulling her closer.

There's so much they haven't done. So much she hasn't done and she may never get a chance to regret it.

Connor's body is pressed up against hers, all the way along hers, and she brings her hand up until her fingers are resting against his neck. His pulse is rapid there and his skin is warm, flushed with blood. She knows that it's the whole flight or fight response kicking in and she's got no doubt now that Connor will fight. She can feel his breath, hot against her skin, and his fingers press into her, pulling her closer and closer and she's never going to get a chance...

There was so much she wanted to do, so many things she's put off because she was too scared to do them, thinking that there'd always be another day but now she thinks that there may not be.


Oh God, Connor...

She gives into the impulse, burying her face in his neck, and his other arm comes around her, slowly, quietly. He probably thinks she's scared, as scared as him, and she is, she is, but she's also really, really angry.

She's not a mouse. Neither of them are mice to be hunted and if she thought for one second that she'd get the upper hand...

There's another sound from the room and Connor's grip on her tightens. His heart is beating double time now, his breath panting against her ear, hot against her skin. He's so close; if she just turned her head he'd be right there. He's always right there. He's always going to be.

The man moves away, footsteps echoing down the corridor, and Connor freezes against her, caught on the cusp between hope and fear. But the footsteps slow and stop, and she turns her head, lips brushing over Connor's cheek, over Connor's mouth.

She presses her lips to his, breathes for him. The footsteps start again, echoing until she can't tell if they're moving towards them or away.

It doesn't matter; Connor's mouth is moving slowly, minutely against hers, his fingertips pressing against her skin. She breathes for him, he breathes for her; whatever happens, it happens to both of them. She's not giving up now, never giving up the taste of Connor's mouth, the feel of his heartbeat pressed to hers.

She's not giving up. They'll fight and they'll run and they'll win.

The End

September 2017

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