Primeval fic: In the Absence of Memory
Title: In the Absence of Memory
Author: SCWLC
Disclaimer: I don't own this and I'm not making any money from it either, more's the pity.
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Sometimes you need to come at things with fresh eyes.
AN: Is an excuse to get to write pr0n, and also because I've always wanted to do an amnesia!fic.
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Stephen slowly blinked, coming awake to the sound of beeping, bleeping and dinging, and the sight of a room done in blinding white with one of those industrially made pictures institutions put on their walls to relieve the unrelieved dullness of the decor while remaining inoffensive.
"Nicely timed, Mr. Hart," said the man beside his bed. Another moment and Stephen realised this man was a doctor. "I'm Dr. Parsons. How are you feeling? Sore, dizzy, headache?"
He thought a moment. "A bit of a headache," he admitted, "Stiff, and my shoulders, between my shoulders is feeling fairly sore. And the back of my head's a bit tender."
"Nothing else?" the man asked.
Stephen considered the question. "Not that I can think of. Where am I? I mean, which hospital? And why?"
Eyes widening a bit, the doctor said, "You're in University College Hospital in London, and that's not a good sign. What's the last thing you recall?"
It wasn't a good sign, he supposed, but thought back. "I was leaving my flat, heading for my car to go in to work. I heard someone behind me, and then . . ." he shook his head. "Was I assaulted?"
"I really can't tell you, Mr. Hart," the doctor said. "Not because I don't want to, but because I honestly don't know." Then he pulled out a pen light, flashing it in Stephen's eyes. "Now, you'll pardon me, I have to ask these sorts of questions of anyone who may have had a head injury or other issue involving the mind or brain."
"Can't wait for that," Stephen told him dryly. "Fire away."
"Alright. Before we start, I need to tell you to try to remember these three words for later. Pony, summer and lake."
That earned the doctor a disbelieving and sardonic look. "Right. Pony, summer and lake."
He was ignored on that score, and the doctor said, "Okay then, first question, date of birth?"
"February 19th, 1975."
"Where's your flat located?"
Stephen gave the address. The doctor quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn't say anything, making a note on the chart. "Subtract twenty-seven from one hundred."
"Seventy-three."
"What's the date, last you checked?"
"I've been unconscious for a while, then?" Stephen inquired.
Dr. Parsons nodded. "Nearly two weeks."
That really was bad. "It was the 11th of October."
"Year?"
"1999."
"Last question, what are the three words I asked you to remember at the start?"
That took a moment, then Stephen said, "Pony, summer and . . ." he thought again, "Lake."
Dr. Parsons took a deep breath and said, "Well, we'll need to do some scans of your head, Mr. Hart, but you seem alright physically, more or less. There is one problem, and it's particularly why we need those scans, and why we'll be calling in someone from the hospital's psychology department."
"What do you mean?" Stephen demanded, sitting bolt upright. "Why?"
"I'm afraid," the man said, looking regretful, "That you have amnesia Mr. Hart. Because the date when you were brought in was the 12th of May, 2007."
"What?" Stephen asked, disbelieving. That was eight years. He'd just . . . lost eight years? He was . . . thirty-two?
The man looked at him, sympathy written all over his face. "I'm sorry." He handed Stephen a newspaper. "You can check the date yourself."
Numbly he looked at the top of the paper. 24 May, 2007
"I'll give you a minute, but I should warn you, your friends and coworkers have been coming to visit you every day. I suspect they will not be put off. I'll warn them you're suffering from amnesia, but they seem to be an insistent lot." Then the doctor's face softened a bit more. "Do you need anything? I promise you, we will do our best to get to the bottom of this and get you better."
Shaking his head, Stephen finally dredged up the words, "Not at the moment. When will you start the tests?"
"As soon as I can get them scheduled, hopefully later today." Stephen nodded, silently watching the doctor leave, then opened up the newspaper, because he'd lost eight years and had no idea what was going on. Had he completed his degree and viva? Where was he working? Had he been married? Married and divorced? Who were his friends? Were they still the same as they once were? Just because he had no ring on his hand didn't mean anything, it could have been stolen by a thief after he was attacked, if he was attacked.
Had Helen left her husband for him? Could this have been Nicholas Cutter?
He shook his head. That was completely mad and stupid. It was eight years later, he couldn't assume anything about anyone. He refocussed on the newspaper, looking into who was PM now and what party held the majority, seeing what scandals there were about and even reading the entertainment gossip section for clues about what was happening in the world.
After that was exhausted, he'd found the bed he was on had buttons to control the television and he switched to that, paging through idiotic daytime interview after idiotic daytime interview. Finally he found actual news and watched the details of some parliament spending scandal or other until he was startled by the door swinging open and a blond man striding up to his bed. "Stephen?" the man asked. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, his hair standing on end and shadows under his eyes.
"Yes," Stephen replied. "I'm sorry to have to ask this, but . . . did the doctor catch you?"
The man frowned. "No. I didn't stick around, I figured I'd avoid that blithering idiot and left Connor to listen. He enjoys silly minutiae."
"Then you won't know," Stephen said. "Because . . . I have amnesia," he stated baldly. There was nothing else he could do but simply say it. "And I have no idea who you are."
The man turned rather white and staggered into a chair at Stephen's bedside. "You don't remember . . ."
"I've lost about the last eight years," he said carefully.
"Oh, that's not good," said a voice from the door. A younger man, about Stephen's age -- no, younger than Stephen, because he was eight years older than that now, stood there, with a bleach blonde woman next to him. "Cutter, maybe you'd best not-"
"Eight years?" Cutter, oh shite, said.
A deep breath. "Cutter? As in Nicholas Cutter? Helen's husband?"
Now the woman spoke. "Cutter, maybe you really shouldn't be here. I mean, with . . . er . . ."
"The whole Helen thing," the dark haired man provided helpfully.
Cutter, oh shite, glared at them ."Stephen has been my student and then my assistant for eight years, Temple. I know him best, and I very much doubt you'd manage to remind him of much that's familiar except how much you annoy him."
Temple flinched and the woman shot a look that was equal parts sympathy and anger at the man, "Cutter!"
"No. Now go and . . ." he waved a hand. "Talk to the doctor or something."
The pair exchaged looks, but did as they were told, leaving Stephen alone with the man whose wife he'd had an affair with, and who, it seemed, might well know that. Suddenly, listening to Helen's assurances that her marriage was over seemed like, perhaps, not Stephen's smartest move. He had to say something, though. "So, I . . . wound up your student? Assistant? How did that happen?"
"Helen vanished," the older man said, baldly.
"Vanished?" Stephen gasped. "What?" Beautiful, clever, brilliant and sexy Helen? Just . . . gone?
Nicholas Cutter gave a bitter laugh. "Yes, vanished. Left me . . . both of us," he said with a sudden, swift and angry glare at Stephen that made him flinch away. "For her bloody . . ." He trailed off. "I can't tell you about it right now, but I will as soon as I can." Then he seemed to shake something off. "Then the university chose to drop you in my lap." A sudden smile startled Stephen. It was a joyful grin, friendly and warm, with shared years of regard behind it. "One of the best things that ever happened to me."
The next couple hours were full of stories about the pair of them, best mates it seemed. The whole notion baffled Stephen, even more so when Cutter would suddenly glare at him in anger over something, possibly the affair, possibly something else, he couldn't tell. It would have gone on longer, Cutter clearly after telling him everything that had happened in the last eight years down to the smallest detail to spark his memory, when the man's mobile went off. "Hell," he said. "I've got to go. I'll be back as soon as I can."
Then he left and Stephen was left feeling more confused than before. The man cared about him, but hated him. Thought the world of him, but couldn't stand the sight of him. Wanted to be there every minute and also clearly wanted to hit him. If he hadn't needed a psychologist before, he'd need one now.
He's taken by porters to have his head scanned and X-rayed and scanned and tapped and poked and prodded and eventually he's seriously considering doing a runner just to get away from these people who are clearly part leech with the way they're taking his blood.
Once it's all done he's dragged back to his room where he's left alone for seconds before the monotony is broken by some woman named Jenny Lewis, who's sort of snide and awful, and then the most acerbic man he's ever seen in his life, fictional characters on the telly included.
No one he actually knows comes to visit, his parents are out of the country and can't make their way back. And he's thirty-two now, shouldn't be feeling desperate for the reassurance of Mum and Dad, except that he's not. He's not because he can't remember anything past twenty-four and the face in the mirror is strange to him, because it's older and tireder and he can see the smallest hints of wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes when he squints.
He gets visits over the next week from Cutter and the blonde woman whose name is Abby, from the Jenny Lewis person and a bunch of people he hasn't the foggiest notion who they are. Nothing reminds him of anything, the doctor telling him that whatever happened to his head needs time to heal, and that his memory should come back in time.
Stephen doesn't see anything more of the younger man named Temple until the day he's discharged. "I'm really sorry," Temple tells him apologetically. "But everyone else can't make it, and I'm the only one that's free." There's a bitter undertone there. Something about the reason why he's free and the others aren't sits poorly with Temple, makes him grin falsely and his jaw clench. But he's friendly and undemanding, and the first person to talk to Stephen about something other than what he can't remember. Temple just chatters on about Star Wars and video games Stephen's never heard of, thinks may not even have existed in 1999, and generally fills the dead silence with something that's not a sort of anger-and-guilt-inducing reminiscence.
They pull up to a building in a nice part of London, and Temple says, "Here we are. Cutter says it's 312."
Now that he has the chance to be alone, he'll take it. "Thank you." He gets out of the car, crosses the street and heads up to the third floor, into the flat and looks around. There's nothing there. If he didn't know better, he'd say it was a showpiece of some sort, except that he can find small signs about that make it sure it's his. One or two small photos of his parents, him and Cutter, Helen.
He's circling around the flat, restlessly searching for something that feels familiar, when the mobile in his pocket rings. It takes him several tries to figure it out, the technology's changed from the late 90s in some small ways and he'd never needed one then anyhow. Then he sees that the display says that the call's from Cutter.
He chooses not to answer it.
Visited every day by these people, Stephen felt more and more isolated and lost. Again, Temple doesn't come to visit, and he's forced to ask everyone why, until Abby finally answers. "Cutter thinks Connor shouldn't come by. He thinks that since you don't like Connor he won't help, and I think he's worried Connor'll say something . . . wrong."
"Wrong how?" Stephen asked. Wondering why they're worried about Temple - Connor in such a way.
Abby shrugged, but the whole business piqued Stephen's interest, and he looks up the one person he'd seen since he woke up and found out he'd lost all that time, that he thinks of as some sort of a peer. Because he's still twenty-four mentally, and it might be nice to spend some time with a bloke who doesn't keep trying to make him remember constantly. It wasn't that Stephen didn't want to remember, but he also didn't want to spend the forseeable future struggling to do so.
So, he rung Connor, having discovered that, despite his reputed dislike of the other man, he still had the number on his mobile. "Hello?" came the cautious answer.
"Connor, right?" Stephen asked.
"Yee-ees," Connor said hesitantly. "Is something up?"
"I was just wondering if you'd like to head out to a pub, maybe have a pint and watch the game?" he asked.
There was a pause. "You're a fan of Chelsea or Liverpool?" Connor finally asked.
"Everton, actually," Stephen admitted, "But I'm going a little mad trapped in here."
Another pause. "And you're not asking Cutter -- what am I saying?" Connor said with a snort. "He only watches the Rangers." Then he named a pub Stephen was familiar with, Stephen agreed, and they hung up. Finally having something to do besides pacing did him a world of good, however. He got to the pub just as the match started, staking out a good seat to see the screen from, and waved Connor over when the other man appeared in the door.
They settled in and watched the game, comfortably. Stephen decided to cheer for Chelsea just because, and Connor, just because he'd taken Chelsea, obligingly supported Liverpool for the match, and they argued amicably about the merits of the offense and defence of the teams, discussing the refereeing and arguing about calls made and penalties. It was fun, and Stephen felt more positive than he had since he'd woken from his coma.
His weird routine of listening to story after story, implicit demands that he remember, continued. But now that he'd broken the ice with Connor, he felt like he had a real mate. Eventually Connor almost shyly asked Stephen if he'd like to try picking up running again. "I know you used to run every morning," Connor said, "But I tend to run on the university track in the evenings. You want to come along?"
Stephen agreed, and the sensation of going running was maybe the most familiar thing he'd felt so far. The easy rhythm of left and right, timed to his breathing, made him feel relaxed and easy. Connor to his side, matching him stride for stride, felt good and right.
These bits and pieces let him begin to reclaim his life, but whatever his job was, no one would tell him, what he did with himself every day remained a mystery. It was apparently classified by the government, but what the government wanted with Cutter, Stephen, an admitted geek like Connor and an animal behaviourist, he didn't know. The only thing he knew was that, of all of them, it was Connor he felt most comfortable with, because Connor was just another of his fellow post-graduate students and was happy enough to talk about animals and evolutionary theory, bringing him journals to catch up on things with and going over changes in current theory with him.
He still was quite going mad from the relative inactivity, and Connor one day took one look at him, frowned, and asked, "Have you been out to the gun range lately? We weren't at all close before, but you used to head out every day as far as I know."
Another feeling of rightness hit, and he said, "No. I'd begun to wonder if I'd quit or . . . I don't know."
Connor nodded, then said, "Can you give me a half hour? I need to swing by somewhere to pick something up, and then I know a good place. Or at least, it's where you tend to go."
He was as good as his word. Stephen's happily aiming down the range with a pistol, the smooth action as comforting as the running with Connor. Then the surprise. Connor reached down and handed him a rifle. When he was done with that, a shotgun. Somehow, somewhere, Connor had got ahold of a pile of different types of guns, and Stephen got to play with them all. He was grinning by the time he fired off the last round. "You want a turn?"
And the easy smiled turned to a blank sort of mild ire. "I'm not very good at it for all I've been checked out in theory, and it's never been a priority for me to know."
It could have been interpreted to mean that Connor had never thought it important, but something in the brittleness of his face and tone made Stephen think it was more that someone, maybe even him, had ignored requests for Connor to learn. "Well, no time like the present, if you'd like."
"Oh, okay," Connor said hesitantly, and followed him in.
Connor had no aptitude for it, that much was apparent. He didn't like the loud noise, he flinched at the recoil as it pressed on his wrists, he kept forgetting to hold his stance and his hand-eye coordination seemed like something needing a lot of work. But he was determined and had improved on what he was doing by the end of the first session.
Stephen had figured out by the end of that session that he loved stepping in close behind Connor and correcting his stance, nudging Connor's hip forward with this own, pressing himself to Connor's back as he slid a hand around Connor's to adjust the angle on the gun.
Having discovered this, and with nothing else to do, he set himself to wooing Connor Temple. A week later he ran out of patience, and while they were watching the follow-ups to Walking with Dinosaurs in a marathon viewing session, he interrupted Connor's ranting about the poor quality of the CGI by kissing him.
Connor paused, seemingly confused, but when Stephen didn't let up, he melted into the kiss, responding just the way Stephen had hoped. They sank back onto the couch, hands sliding up under t-shirts, Connor's mouth sliding down to Stephen's neck and latching on to suck at his pulse point. Stephen slipped his hands down to Connor's arse, squeezing at the delightfully tight muscle there before sliding back up, and down into Connor's underwear to do it again. Connor squeaked into his mouth, startled, but began a deliciously slow rocking movement of his hips against Stephen's. It was brilliant.
He spared a thought for Helen, but she wasn't there, clearly hadn't been for nearly a decade, and Connor was. Connor, who didn't even seem to realise how brilliant and sexy he was. All the better for Stephen, who suddenly wanted Connor all to himself.
Their movements were getting more urgent, and Stephen got between them to pop the buttons and lower the zips on both their trousers, hearing himself groan as he felt the slide of Connor's cock against his own. It took a minute to get a grip on them both, because the moment he got his hand on Connor, the other man's hips had snapped forward with a pleasing sort of urgency. But he got his fingers around them, pressing them together and making Connor's eyes roll in his head before he dove forward to kiss Stephen.
It was brilliant and Connor's hands under his t-shirt just made him tighten his grip to an appreciative groan from his partner. Faster and harder until finally they were both coming and Stephen collapsed on top of him with a happy sigh. For a few minutes they just lay there, Stephen having managed to partially edge his way over so as not to just sprawl atop Connor.
Then Connor began to wiggle away, and Stephen sat up, letting him, coming face to face with Connor, whose face said it all. For some reason, this had been a mistake. "What's wrong?"
"I shouldn't . . . we shouldn't have done that," Connor told him.
Stephen frowned. It had been brilliant and Connor had been willing, "Did I . . . why not?"
"Because you don't like me," Connor told him.
That was ridiculous. "What do you mean?" he demanded. "I wouldn't have done that if I didn't."
Shaking his head, Connor explained. "Maybe now, but normally . . . there's a reason everyone keeps telling you that you and I don't get along, and you . . . before, you thought I was some sort of gormless idiot, and I am a bit. But when you get your memory back you'll regret this, and it'll be my fault for letting you."
"That's ridiculous. I kissed you first-"
"And you're not in your right mind, Stephen," Connor said firmly. "You can't remember the last eight years, and for all that I like you, don't have so many friends I'll turn down the chance of a new one if it's offered, I know this won't last." There was sympathy and empathy in his face and eyes as he said, "I'm sorry."
And that was that. Connor never said another word and Stephen didn't press, although he wondered what sort of person he'd been that he'd dislike Connor so much.
Two days later, his mobile rang and Connor, sounding faint and hurt said, "Stephen, I need your help. I . . . fuck. I need the you from before you lost your memory, but please. I'm at Battersea Park, by the pond. I know you've got a gun at your flat, tranqs, grab them and come out. Hurry, please."
A growl sounded down the line, and then it went dead. He was sprinting out the door, stuffing weapons and ammunition into a bag as he ran. He arrived there to find a small pack of wolves there, but ones unlike anything he'd ever seen or heard of. They were circling a tree, snapping at it, and Stephen breathed a small sigh of relief when he saw Connor, white-faced, clearly hurt, but alive and clinging to the branches out of reach of snapping jaws.
Stephen didn't even have to think as he snapped up the tranq gun Connor had told him to bring, firing off a shot, reloading and firing again. It brought the animals' attention to him, but as two of their number lay unconscious, they paused, confused and snuffling at them. It gave him time to load up and shoot twice more in quick succession. There were only two left by then, and Stephen was able to get around them, running for Connor's tree and swinging up into the branches. "Where they hell did they come from?" he asked. "I've never heard of a wolf -- or any other canid like that."
"'S'not a wolf," Connor slurred out. "Mesonyx. Eocene predator. They used it as a model for the andrewsarchus."
Stephen stared. "They're extict."
"They are," Connor agreed.
The whole notion was so insane as he reloaded, taking the fifth one down, that he stared at Connor a moment and said, "Did someone manage to recreate Jurassic Park in the last eight years? Is that the top secret thing that needs people like Abby and Cutter?"
"Not exactly," he was informed. "I wasn't supposed to tell you, you're supposed to either remember on your own or let Lester cut you from the program, but I couldn't get through to anyone else. They're not answering."
"This is crazy," Stephen said. He finally got the last shot. "There are prehistoric things roaming about and we're just . . . what? Coralling them? Where are they coming from, anyhow?"
Connor groaned. "I'll show you when I'm down and have my leg fixed up."
"Right," Stephen agreed. There was a copiously large first aid kit in his car, and Connor was soon more or less fixed up and using a funny-looking device with a long antenna to track something. "This way," he told Stephen. "It's a prototype, but I'm just as glad to have a chance to test it now before I have to show it to Cutter and the others." He looked a tad bitter. "They don't always think my 'puttering' s'worth much."
He was led to a hovering glow hidden in a copse of trees and staggered as the full force of his memories struck.
"Stephen?" Connor was kneeling beside him, ignoring his very painful bite to do so, checking his vitals. "Stephen? You alright?"
"Yes," he said. Now that his memory was back, there was a talk he had to have with Connor, but first the mesonyx. "I've got a trolley in the car's boot. I'll see if I can't load them up to shove them back through and you try to contact the ARC again."
Connor's smile was bright, but after these past weeks, getting to know him better and the slightly fragile person underneath, Stephen could see the hint of sadness, because Connor had just lost a mate at that moment. "You've got your memories back! Brilliant!"
He came back to find Connor had limped his way back to the predators, was playing PR admirably, informing people that these were a rare southeast Asian sort of wolf, closely related to something Australian, "And everyone knows all the animals are weird down there," that had escaped from a private zoo. He complained and whinged as they got them onto the trolley and shoved them through, but Stephen suddenly recalled a dozen more times he'd wanted to kill Connor for it, and realised something he'd never noticed, that Connor was doing his share of the work, more than he ought, given that he was slowly bleeding through the bandaging on his leg.
They'd just finished when Cutter, Abby and the SFs showed up, Jenny trailing after them. "Connor!" snapped the PR woman, "You were not supposed to bring Stephen to an anomaly site-"
Stephen cut her off. She might remind Cutter of his semi-imaginary girlfriend, but he found her irritating quite often as she swanned about in her designer clothing and high heels as though this was an afternoon with the Queen. "You mean, when none of you would answer while he was bleeding out in a tree?"
Then they all noticed that Connor had a bloody bandage on his thigh, a claw mark down his cheek and looked pale as death. Abby began to fuss, and Cutter looked appropriately chastened. "Maybe we should set up a line to the SFs directly," he commented idly. "Just in case one of us is trapped like that again. You know, instead of hoping someone gets ahold of the rest of the team." The SFs set up a perimeter, and Stephen pulled Nick aside. "You do realise that being bitter at me about Helen didn't help a damn thing while I was trying to remember things?"
"So, you remember?" Nick said. "Stephen, I . . . I'm sorry. I was just so angry about Helen, and I shouldn't let that get between us, because frankly, our friendship is clearly more important than a marriage she was happy to walk out on."
"I'm sorry as well," Stephen said. "I should have come clean when she first came back. It's just . . . it had been so long, and we all thought she was dead, there didn't seem any point in ruining things." Now that he remembered, he wanted more than ever to have things right between them. "I'll say this too. I think I'm past Helen now."
"Oh?" Nick grinned, the first really friendly moment between them for a long while. "Am I going to hear about this one?"
"Eventually," Stephen told him.
It took some manoeuvring, but he managed to get the responsibility to drive Connor home, and instead of heading to Connor and Abby's flat, he headed for his. Connor had been half-dozing from the painkillers and woke up fully when Stephen switched the engine off. "Whassat? Why're we here?"
"Because I want to talk, I want to do it in some privacy, and I don't think Abby fussing over you will provide that," he said.
Connor swallowed, his face becoming blank in a clear effort to hide his feelings. "What's to talk about?" Connor asked. "If it's about us being mates, don't worry, I'm not thinking you'd want that now that you're back to normal, and if it's about us shagging, well, I'm not that stupid, Stephen. I know you've got your sights set higher than someone like me."
"And this is why we need to talk," Stephen said, forcing Connor out of the car and into his flat.
Once Connor was ensconced on the same sofa they'd shagged on, Stephen put on tea, because Connor shouldn't be mixing alcohol with painkillers, he was out of coffee and Connor would want to be alert for the conversation, and because it gave him something to do. "What do we need to talk about, Stephen?" Connor asked. "Because I'd really like to get back to repressing if you're just going to go for overkill on making sure I know to leave you alone."
"We need to talk, Connor, because I don't want you to leave me alone," Stephen explained.
He'd thought at times that Connor could look gormless, but clearly he hadn't know the degree to which the geek could, because the slack jaw and wide eyes brought the whole concept to a new level. "Wha'?" he asked.
He raked his hands through his hair. He hated 'talks'. He preferred to get on with things and not waffle on about feelings and commitment and all that drivel. But clearly Connor needed things spelled out, always did, and because he wanted Connor, he'd make this sacrifice. "First, why would you think someone needs to set their sights higher than you?"
A well-worn litany sprang forth as Connor looked at him derisively. "I'm a geek, more interested in dinosaurs than people, mostly, I'm not that attractive, I dress in silly clothes that leave a bad impression, I'm not athletic or funny or interesting since I only talk about geeky things like sci-fi films and video games or dinosaurs, I -"
"Let's start with the dinosaurs," Stephen said. "You know why I can't keep a girlfriend, why Helen was so attractive to me? It's because I'm more interested in dinosaurs and evolution than people." Connor just blinked at him. "I'm not even touching the attractiveness issue, because I'll never convince you that you're bloody sexy and the clothes you pick are just right for you and the gloves are hot."
"Are you sick?" Connor asked, putting a hand on Stephen's forehead to check for fever. "You don't feel warm, but maybe the head trauma's having an effect."
Stephen batted the hand away. "Be serious."
"I am!" Connor protested. "Because that's ludicrous!"
"Why is it ludicrous? You are athletic in your own sphere. Most people don't run as much as we do, but you're damned good at it, Connor. If you weren't athletic, you couldn't."
"I stay in practice for running away," Connor told him grumpily. "I've always stayed in practice for running away. That's all it's for."
Sceptically, Stephen said, "Running away from what?"
"Well, in primary it was from bullies, in high school it was the rugby team and the skip in back of the school, in uni it was those idiots who want to form American fraternities out of clubs and such who'd try to pin me for stupid hazing rituals." Connor shrugged. "People have been trying to run me down m'whole life."
"You're damn good at it," Stephen told him. "My point is, Connor, there isn't some point higher for me to set my sights at." Connor stared at him suspiciously, clearly trying to parse what he was up to. "Connor, you're overthinking the issue."
"How-" But Connor didn't get to finish his question, because Stephen kissed him. Kissed him and didn't let up until Connor had relaxed and begun kissing back. Then his phone rang. "It's Abby," Connor said as he looked at the display. Stephen took the mobile away. "Hey!"
"Abby? Is it anything important? Because Connor's asleep and I'd just rather not wake him now."
"Oh. Okay, I was just worried since he wasn't home yet."
"No problem, I'll tell him you called."
"Thanks."
Connor raised an eyebrow. "I'm asleep?"
"You will be when I'm through with you," Stephen said, scooping Connor up and gently plopping him on the bed to save his leg. Connor was so shocked and indignant he said nothing through the process, but some more kissing, followed by a hand on the rapidly rising bulge in his trousers distracted Connor.
This time they got their clothes off, Stephen happily mapping every inch of Connor's chest, sucking lightly on the fingers emerging from the gloves he'd told Connor to leave on. The only problem was the way that Connor kept trying to reach for him, to sit up and touch Stephen, only jostle his leg. "Lie still," Stephen soothed. "Let me do the work this time."
"But I want-" Connor started in frustration.
"I know, but you're hurt. Next time," he reassured the younger man as he found some lube in a drawer, gently circling around and making Connor moan and writhe. Then one finger, two, God but this was hot and he was hard and Connor's cock looked so brilliant, swollen and leaking, Stephen bent over, trying to distract himself by pulling the tip into his mouth, making Connor shout and clutch at the bed's headboard.
That was so bloody sexy, he gave up, hastily rolling the condom and extra lube on before easing into Connor's arse. Connor's eyes snapped open and his whole body jerked down onto Stephen's cock, hard. "Oh God, Stephen, hurry," Connor moaned.
It was hard to set up a rhythm with Connor's leg, but they managed, and Stephen felt his orgasm rushing up. "Touch yourself," he gasped into Connor's ear. "I want to see." Connor instantly responded, his hand clutching his cock, pumping in time with Stephen's thrusts. Then he shuddered, coming, the moment tightening him around Stephen who couldn't draw it out, didn't want to either, and came harder than he had in a very long time.
When he gathered himself to pull out and get off of Connor, the response was a sleepy snuffling after him, and Stephen chuckled, amused. "I told you you'd be sleeping," he said softly.
"Shut up," Connor grumbled. "I'm basking."
Then, because he was rather shagged out himself, Stephen drifted off to sleep with Connor.
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