Primeval fic: Coping Mechanisms

[stealingpennies]

Title: Coping Mechanisms
Characters: Becker/Lester
Rating: NC-17

Word count: 3,360
Warnings: Not Denial Friendly
A/N: Fred has undoubtedly forgotten providing the prompt Becker/Lester - What time do you call this? The ribbons are a bit frayed and wrapping’s coming undone but here is your unbirthday fic. With best wishes. It was meant to be fluffy pwp. The pwp bit probably still applies.

Huge thanks to Fififolle who provided the drinks and much else besides. All remaining errors are mine.

*



COPING MECHANISMS
Lester thinks he’s saving Becker but perhaps it’s Becker who is saving Lester

Lester rarely lay awake at night thinking about the things he should have said, mainly because he nearly always said the right thing at the right time.  No matter how awful the occasion or how difficult the words. This was what he got paid for. And Lester was very good at his job.

Tonight was different.

Tonight he was lying in bed running through a dozen different scenarios where he said something different, reacted in a different way - anything to change the final result that had Becker walking out of his office having tendered his resignation.

Blue ink on cream paper.

Every avenue led to the same ending, like a maze with only one possible exit no matter which direction you started out from. And since Lester was invariably honest with himself he knew that even if he could roll back time he would react in exactly the same way, with polite acceptance and formal good wishes. Then he would watch Becker walk out through the door because to do anything else was unfair on Becker and, when it came down to it, simply more than Lester was capable of at the moment.

Sarah Page was dead.

Sarah, with her forthright gaze and air of calm confidence, her easy way of moving through life, sure and certain that she belonged. Sarah, who was friendly but reserved, she gave only so much of herself and now even that was gone. Lester looked for grief but found only emptiness.

Dr Sarah Page. 1981-2011. Long dark hair, brown eyes, scent of sandalwood.

What was her favourite colour? What did she like to watch on television? Her favourite book? Did she favour milk or dark chocolate?

Each month Lester signed off the supply sheets for the 42 creatures that comprised the current occupants of the menagerie. Blessed with an eidetic memory, if he closed his eyes he could visualise every catalogue item and financial request that comprised the running of the ARC right down to the type of screw fittings  needed for the toilet doors - Hinge-Tite chrome 4.5 x 4mm.  He didn’t know how Sarah Page took - had taken - her coffee.

There had been so many losses over the years. Somewhere Lester had stopped letting anyone in. A decree absolute was proof of that. Irreconcilable differences, he’d let the divorce go through uncontested.

One more gone, another link cut. There would be forms and formalities. HR would have to make another death in service payment.

Sarah knew the risks. Lester had respected her too much to refuse her a field position but he had chosen badly. Losing Sarah had lost Becker and, because he was honest, Lester acknowledged the loss of the living man cut far deeper than that of the dead woman. It wasn’t a pretty truth. But it was the truth all the same. Ultimately Sarah’s death and Becker’s resignation were his fault.

Sarah had made her choice and taken a risk. Of course Becker could not see it that way. As far as he was concerned this was one more failure. One more person Becker had failed to protect.

And Becker did know how Sarah Page took her coffee.

In retrospect Lester should not have been surprised that Becker was hit so hard.  With Danny, Connor and Abby missing, Sarah and Becker had inevitably become closer. They were not exactly friends because both had that layer of reserve that the other was not quite the right personality to penetrate but they had the familiarity of colleagues that have gone through difficult times together. They had history and a shared loss.

Sarah had died calling Becker’s name.

Lester didn’t even try to make that better. Standing in Lester’s office, Becker had the glassy-eyed impenetrability of a shock victim. Watching impassively, Lester had a sudden mental vision of himself hitting Becker again and again, watching the blood pour between his fingers as that perfect face dissolved into a pulpy mess, and all the while Becker still did not react. The image scared him with its visceral intensity. Lester sometimes wondered what his own face betrayed under its mask of professionalism and if you could peel that away, would there be was anything left or just layers and layers of surface artifice and then nothing?

“I failed,” said Becker simply.

“You tried,” he said to Becker, because there was nothing else he could say, and then the trite platitude. “It wasn’t your fault.”

In the end trying was not enough. There would be no more rescue missions. It was simply too dangerous. There had been too many deaths. Sometimes the needs of the many outweighed the needs of the few. And damn Connor with his stupid film quotes. That was the last thing Lester needed, hearing Temple’s Yorkshire burr in his mind. As if the diictodons weren’t enough of a daily reminder.

Sleep was far away. Lester’s hand drifted down to his crotch, anything to drive away the demons of thought, but after a few fumbling pulls he gave up, still only half hard. There were too many images swirling around in his mind and all of them stubbornly, painfully real and out of reach. Without the fantasy it was just Lester in a too-big bed and his own hand and that wasn’t enough. It brought neither comfort nor release.

Not screwed after all, eh James?

In the meantime there was a neatly handwritten piece of paper and footsteps echoing down the hall.

After a sleepless night, Lester dressed carefully, choosing a red silk tie and silver cufflinks, and arrived early to the office to take stock. This was his breaking point, the final link, he had lost so much he could not lose Becker too.

He would not.

He signed the closing statement of Sarah’s file and consigned it to the out tray. Bureaucracy in extremis. There were worse methods of survival.

*

Inclination said move at once.  Intellect said wait. Lester fought a battle with himself and came to a compromise he could live with. He gave Becker 72 hours. That should, he reasoned, be enough to get over whatever initial shock treatment Becker was administering to himself - get drunk, have a fight, or get laid - and bring him back to a state where he could be reasoned with.  Suicide he was certain was not on the list of options. Becker would not repay one death with another.  In fact, Lester lasted only half that time. He knew where Becker lived and some not-so-discreet questioning of the Special Forces team had revealed the name of a pub.

“Tell him he’s messed up the rota,” said Jackson, who was team leader in Becker’s absence.  He paused and then added, “He didn’t listen to me but he might listen to you.”

Lester went home and got changed first. This was not an official visit. There was no need for a tie.

He found Becker at The Admiral’s Rest in Fulham.  It was mid-afternoon but the last diners were just finishing their lunches and there was a sprinkling of business people and some of the more intrepid tourists who had made it out of Leicester Square and the West End. Becker occupied a corner table. He had a beer bottle clasped between his hands and was looking into space. There was no actual ‘do not disturb’ sign in front of him but there may as well have been.  The tables around him were noticeably empty.

Off-duty Becker, Lester noted, was very similar to the on-duty version, in black trousers and top with his hair neatly slicked back. The main difference was the obvious absence of guns. And even then Lester assumed Becker had a weapon or two hidden somewhere.

Lester paused at the bar and ordered two double Bell’s before going over. He pushed one glass towards Becker and sat down.

Becker looked at Lester and the glass. He put down the beer bottle and picked up the spirits. “Your good health,” he said, ironically.

Lester raised his glass and drank. Becker did likewise.

“Absent friends,” countered Lester, holding up his glass a second time. Animosity was always a good starting point for some home truths but Becker didn’t rise to the bait. He simply clinked glasses and swallowed.

For a while they sat in silence. Lester was sorting his options. Becker did not appear to be drunk, but neither was he entirely sober.  That much was clear. Just how much should Lester push? Would an unwilling Becker be better than no Becker at all?  What had seemed clear in the planning was now cloudy and indistinct.

Becker eyed him as he fought his internal conflict. It was obvious he knew why Lester was here. No point beating about the bush, Lester would just say what he had come to say as soon as he had come up with a suitable opening. Becker saved him the trouble by speaking first and asking the question directly. He seemed tired, but more together than when Lester had seen him last.

“What exactly do you want from me, Lester?”

“I want you to come back to the ARC. We need you,” replied Lester. Good, that was good, simple and unequivocal.

Becker quirked an eyebrow, a familiar gesture that shouldn’t make Lester’s stomach clench but did. “We?”

“I need you.”  The admission cost, more so as Becker reacted with a snort of laughter.

“There’s a turn-up. James Lester admitting he needs anything beyond more funding. I didn’t think you did people.”

“You’re not thinking at all,” snapped Lester. “Or you wouldn’t say something so asinine. My role calls for me to manage people. If there’s some other way of leading a facility numbering hundreds without ‘doing people’ I’d like to know it.”

“Ouch,” said Becker without intonation. “Did I hit a nerve? What do you care what I think?”

Lester ignored this and tried again. “The ARC, Becker, the project is bigger than we are as individuals.  The ARC needs you. If you give up now it’s like saying that all the sacrifices that people made for the anomalies were not worth it. What would it take to make you come back?”

“What would you do?” asked Becker, ignoring the first half of Lester’s speech entirely. He took another sip of whisky. It was impossible to read his expression beyond polite interest and mild amusement. They might have been strangers exchanging polite pleasantries. Except they weren’t strangers. And the pleasantries were not polite.

“Anything.”  Lester chugged back his own whisky.

“Anything? Now there’s a thought.”

Suddenly Lester was out of patience. “Yes, Becker, anything. I’ll swing from a bloody chandelier with my ankles round my neck if it makes you reconsider, because, despite what you think, the ARC needs you. Your men need you. I need you. Is that clear enough?” He signalled to the bar for a refill and when it came he drank it quickly.

Becker watched him still with that unfathomable expression.  He finished his drink, placed the glass down gently, and stood up. So that was it. The taste of failure was bitter in Lester’s mouth.  He’d given too much of himself away and for nothing. He wished he hadn’t bothered. Becker gave him a half-smile and made a sweeping gesture with one hand. “Are you coming?”

“Is there a point?”

“Well, I don’t have a chandelier but I’m sure we can improvise.”

*

Becker’s flat had not been purchased on whatever it was Her Majesty paid her forces. But then Becker had never pretended to be anything but the private school, followed by Sandhurst, boy that he was.  Lester hovered in the hallway, unsure of which direction to take. Becker solved his dilemma by leading him into a stylish room furnished with a blue leather sofa and matching chairs. There were a few tasteful ornaments but no excess clutter.  A wide screen television was affixed to the wall. Connor would approve, thought Lester, taking in the size of the screen, before he could drown the thought.

Becker was watching him again with that considering look. Lester experienced a moment of fear of not being in control of the situation. He masked it by going on the attack.

“No guns?”

“Signed them all back.”

Lester huffed a laugh. “That means nothing.”

Becker smiled back, his first natural grin. “There are guns but I’m not planning on using them at the moment - on me or on you.”

“Chandelier?”  Lester thought he might as well know where he stood. Or swung.

“Keen,” said Becker. “I suppose it’s lonely at the top.  It’s funny, I never imagined actually doing this with you. I didn’t think you were open to that kind of suggestion.”

But you did imagine it with someone, Lester thought. How ridiculous to be jealous of a shade.

“So why now?”

Becker shrugged, a fluid movement that Lester couldn’t help noticing showed off the muscles in his shoulders and chest.  “You’re the only one who’s offering at the moment,” he said and then, taking in Lester’s expression of disbelief, “You’re the only one who might possibly understand.”

That made sense. Lester felt that way too. With the added enhancement that this was Becker. God knows Lester wasn’t exactly a saint and Becker was one of the most physically attractive men he had ever met. Self-confidence had never been an issue but this was one area where Lester had just never dreamed he was in with a chance. Becker had just said as much himself, hadn’t he? But still.

“I have a caveat,” he said, quietly.

“Little late for that,” replied Becker.

Lester pinched the bridge of his nose, realised what he was doing, and dropped his hand. He faced Becker full on because this was important. “I won’t play substitutes for you. It has to be me.”

Becker nodded. “It’s you. Now take your own advice, James.” His voice was oddly gentle. “This is us and only us.”

“Hilary.” The name felt odd on Lester’s tongue.

“I prefer Becker.”

“So do I,” admitted Lester. “Becker it is.”

Lester had never paid for sex but he imagined that this must be very much like the beginnings of an encounter with a prostitute.  Still, what had he expected? That they would pretend to be lovers, carried away with the moment? Becker led the way to the bedroom and began to get undressed, methodically folding his clothes as he did so. Lester did likewise. Apparently they were both incurably neat. He was sure that Becker never dropped his towels on the floor or left his washing up in the sink until later. He wished he could stop thinking. If only for a moment.

Becker’s hands were in his hair, smoothing and petting. Oh, that was unexpected and surprisingly good.

Lester forced his mind back on track and tried to remember how these things were meant to work. He needed to take charge. There really should be a checklist.

“I believe it’s customary to kiss,” he said, putting his hands on the flawless skin newly revealed to his lustful gaze. Becker’s body was as perfect as his face, from the patch of dark hair on his chest running down to his groin, to the perfectly delineated muscles. Lester ran his fingers across the warm flesh, delighting in the contact. It had been so long.

“We wouldn’t want to break with custom,” agreed Becker, allowing himself to be touched. He seemed pleased but unsurprised by Lester’s reaction. Lester assumed it was a common phenomenon. He would have been more affronted by false modesty.  And Becker’s physical perfection was as much the product of hard work as nature’s gifts. Lester said as much as he bent his head forward to lick a stripe along the slightly salty skin of Becker’s chest.

Lester was talking too much. Babbling almost, and he wasn’t even sure what he was saying. Too many things were crowding into his mouth trying to force their way out. It was frightening, this loss of control. He must have looked distressed as Becker suddenly wrapped both arms tightly around him and pulled him close.

“Your voice is made for sex but right now I can think of better uses for your mouth.”  That was better, Becker’s mouth on his stopped the flow of words. It would be nice not to be the final arbiter after which everything stopped. Becker could take charge. Just this once. Lester could trust him.

Becker kissed with the same kind of skill he showed on the firing range, a sort of single-minded determination. This was good. Lester allowed himself to let go.

Becker’s cock was firm and thick. Lester ran his finger over the slit and gathered up the fluid to taste. He followed his fingers with his mouth taking in as much as possible. This would stop the words escaping. But then Becker pushed him back against the bed and carried out his own explorations.  Lubed fingers stretched and opened him. It hurt and felt good at the same time. Becker watched him with each movement changing the depth and angle according to his gasps.

Becker fucked him like it meant something. Who knows what? Perhaps it was just the warmth of another body. His arse would be sore tomorrow. It would be a small price to pay.  It had been so long since he had felt anything at all.

Lester’s orgasm took him by surprise, hot come shooting over his hand and chest as his body surrendered to pleasure. He could feel Becker spurting inside him. He wished they didn’t have to use a condom.  He would have liked Becker’s come spilling inside him, filling him up, plugging the emptiness.

“What do you think happens when you die?” he asked as they lay side-by-side.

“I think you’re dead,” said Becker. “But until there’s proof there’s hope. We have to go on believing no matter what the odds.”

Maybe it was a lie. But it was a lie they both clearly needed to believe. Lester closed his eyes, physically sated, mind blessedly empty.  Under the covers he sought Becker’s hand and held it tight. Becker did not move away.

*

Becker was asleep. Lester gathered his clothes silently, a skill honed from years of early morning rising with his wife - ex-wife - and tiptoed out. He did not know what would happen now but he did know that Becker would have to make his own choices and if he chose to walk away from the ARC then Lester would have to accept it.

London was still waking as Lester made his way along the Edwardian terraces and towards the Tube. The newspaper vendors and dog-walkers were already out. The relentless traffic queues were just building up. He made his way home.  The diictodons were scratching at door of the kitchen begging for food.

“Sorry, it’s late,” Lester told them as he diced a cabbage because now, apparently, he’d become one of those people who talked to their pets out loud. What next? They’d be sending each other sentimental greetings cards, no doubt.

There was work to be done. Life went on.

*

Becker was dressed in black. He walked into Lester’s office without knocking. He looked perfect. He always looked perfect.

“Becker,” said Lester, looking up from his laptop screen.

Becker did not return the greeting. His words were seemingly random. “Black with two sugars. Coronation Street but she said it was Panorama. Milk chocolate, every time.”

Something slid into place. Lester allowed himself a blink that lasted a few seconds longer than usual. He opened his eyes and watched Becker. There was the answer he was looking for. One small link re-forged, made stronger. There were many things he could say but instead he opened a side drawer and retrieved a small folded sheet of notepaper, dropping it on the desk in front of him.

Becker followed the movement with his eyes.

A bell rang. Shift change was underway.

“You’re late,” said Lester, eyeing the clock on the wall. “What time do you call this?”

Becker didn’t reply. But he picked up the note as he left the room.

**