Beat on the Brat

Summary: Five times that Connor Temple should have gone to the hospital and one time that someone finally noticed and did something about it.

AN: I couldn't help but notice the entire time watching this series that Connor acts way, way too much as a meat shield and not once do we ever see him actually get medical attention for it. Not even when he gets clobbered by a dinosaur and drops to the ground with a head injury and that got me thinking…what if he really just took care of all that himself? Just kind of assumed that it came with the territory, assumed that it was no big deal, general do-not-want on hospitals, didn't want to trouble anyone…

Until something happened that was too big to ignore or hide.

Connor's never thought extensively on how it feels to drown. He's done all the statistics on a whim when sleep didn't come easily, the chances of injury on a job like this, and it's always been a risk but he's never seen it coming.

Being trapped underwater with a fifty-four foot long basilosaurus (he knows, he measured it earlier, back before the tranq had worn off) is something he has to admit he didn't take into account quite yet. The animal's upset and still groggy and flailing, and way too big for Connor to feasibly escape from. He thinks, stupidly, that it's a good thing that it doesn't have large fins, at least until a huge tail slams him in the chest.

He's been trying so hard to remember it all, to keep his mouthful of air and not waste energy, but he forgets it all when the blow knocks it all out of him.

Connor gasps under the waves and coughs and the panic begins to sink in. There's no one coming for him; everyone's on the shore. Connor's the only one stupid enough to get in a boat, the only one stupid enough to insist on taking the blowdart. He knows why, because hey, it's fifty-four feet long and kind of pissed off, how could he possibly miss?

He manages to miss, of course he does, and in the process gets tipped out of his rowboat to flail helplessly next to the beast. He can swim, he's not a moron, but it's a little more difficult to keep your cool and remember what your legs are supposed to do when you're trying to not die. The dart's in his hand now because by now he's lost the gun but he manages to keep his hand around it even as the water goes up his nose and slips down his throat and fills his lungs.

He's so boned, he can only think.

Everything's beginning to burn from his chest out and all Connor can see, blurry as it is, is grey mottled skin that takes over everything. He's afraid now.

He's taken his share of bruises and cuts for the job but never faced death quite like this and he's so afraid, and if he hadn't been so disoriented he might have been too scared to remember that he still has the dart, that he still has something he needs to do. Connor's done nothing with his life yet and the only people who are going to think about him if he's gone are the ones who are going to die if he forgets the job he has right now.

Connor's hand bumps up against the animal's side; he's been batted by the tail towards the mouth end like he's made of nothing. Connor Temple, made of nothing. His vision –not him, not right now- swims and the edges blur and the burning gets worse, and he figures that even if he missed from the boat he can't miss now, and Connor swings his hand forward to jab the dart into the massive whale.

That's when his brain takes a backseat and instinct takes over, and Connor's air-starved body scrambles towards the light above and he manages to claw his way through to the surface with a splash, spitting up water and hacking like mad.

Connor's not sure how long it's been or how long he lets himself float on top of the waves in the afternoon sun, bobbing like a buoy. The tranq should last long enough to collect the basilosaurus and it's enough that he's not going down there again. To be honest, Connor's not sure how comfortable he's going to be in the open water after this or in fact any body of water larger than a bathtub. For a long while he can't do anything but take in big gulps of air like he'll never get to breathe again, long enough to put the pieces of his mind back together and eventually start feeling ridiculous.

Swimming back to shore was a ridiculous idea; he'd never make it. Connor'd be better off praying that the waves beached him first before seriously considering it. Hell, he couldn't even see his own boat, the little dinghy that had tipped so easily that he probably wouldn't be able to haul himself back up into.

Connor can't see anyone on shore when he peers over the waves, not Abby or Nick or Stephen, and a cold begins to sink into his bones. It washes away the relief of being alive and reminds him that surviving is only half the battle; he has to get out of the water first—

And then hands fist in his jacket.

Connor glances up when he's able, wide-eyed, and finds familiar faces looking down at him.

"You all right, Connor?" Nick asks as he and Stephen pull him on board and he's too weak to make it easier for them, and Abby's kneeling next to him and asking him questions but he doesn't hear them with the drums going in his head, muffled with water and waves.

"I got her," Connor offers breathlessly and displays his empty hands. "She's—I got her. She's down—"

"We know," Nick interrupts almost gently, "There's a crew on the way to intercept her now."

Oh, he thinks. Of course there is. Of course there is. Stephen starts talking to someone on his mobile and Connor wants to pay attention but he can't focus like he should, and he lets Abby focus on Nick for her instructions the way she needs to.

He'll be alright, he tells himself, thankful for the boat under his hands and feet, even when the shivers start up and every movement brings on a head rush and he still hears through a bubble. He's grateful then, for possibly the first time, that right now they don't seem to expect much from him because he doesn't have anything he can offer.

Connor doesn't know what they think. Cold and wet, probably. There's no way that anyone could know how much water he spat out, how much his chest hurts now from seawater and from the giant fluke that he tries to consider irrelevant.

The fear he'd pushed away in the water comes on full force and then the shakes aren't from cold at all and Connor's grateful that the mission isn't finished because he doesn't want anyone to see him like this.

Later, when he's back in Abby's apartment, he'll wash the salt out of his hair and examine the massive, purpling bruise blooming across his chest. Breathing hurts and he thinks that there might be a cracked rib or two in there when he prods around it. Nevertheless, it's late and he doesn't want to go see a doctor and in the end he wraps his ribs, stays away from the ocean for the foreseeable future, and shows up to work the next morning right on time.

It takes Connor a less than a second to realize that he's in horrible pain and more than three to realize that he's screaming.

It feels like someone's jabbed a pickax straight into his head, a pickax in the form of a high-pitched wail that comes from an animal way too small to make such a horrible noise before it runs off, and maybe Connor's answering shriek of pain is a subconscious attempt at revenge. Whatever it is, it hurts and no amount of pressure on his ears is enough to help. There's a wetness on his palms when he pulls them away and Connor almost doesn't want to look.

Doesn't want to look and see red but morbid curiosity wins out in the end.

Connor looks.

It's not blood but a thick orange-y substance that can't be anything but earwax and he swears, only to stop short.

It's like swearing inside a fishbowl or with a glass set over his ears. He can hear, sort of, but it's muffled and bubbly and quiet and really, really freaky. He tests this out with what he thinks is a normal speaking voice that ends up sounding like a whisper. Connor experimentally taps a foot on the tile. Nothing, he can't hear it at all.

He can feel the impact, can feel the vibration, but he doesn't hear a thing.

What he does hear is a shrill scream from another part of the building and Connor ignores what he was doing and makes a run for it in the direction he thinks it's coming from. He finds Abby there, cringing and clutching at her ears.

"Ow!" she mutters through gritted teeth, "Ow, ow, ow."

"Are you alright?" Connor asks and pushes aside the strange feeling of not hearing his own voice in favor of hoping that whatever he's got, she doesn't. After a few seconds, Abby removes her hands and shakes her head from side of side as if making sure that all of the parts are in proper order.

"I…I think so," she says finally and rubs at the sides of her head. "That's not fun."

No kidding, Connor thinks. Still, it seems like she's better off than he is.

"Which way did it go?"

Abby frowns and shoots him an unreadable look.

"Why are you shouting?"

Connor closes his mouth, absently rubs his ears.

"Sorry," he makes an effort to lower his voice back to a normal level, "It got me too. Head's ringing a bit." More than a bit but there's no need to mention that. There's a job to do, not to mention that the pain that nearly buckled him has abruptly left. If it's gone, no problem, he'll just have to wait for his hearing to fix itself.

No problem.

They end up catching the creature with, of all things, a net and Stephen's noise-cancelling headphones and everything turns out fine, even when Connor can't tell where sounds are coming from and he wakes up in the nights following with leaking ears. No one else seems to be having the problems he is; everyone else can hear just fine, no one except him has to deal with the church bells in his head and dizzy spells and feeling like he's underwater all the time.

He thinks that maybe, after a week, he should get it looked at but the next day he notices marked improvement and puts it away, especially when not ten minutes later they get a ping on another anomaly.

Connor tightens the screws in his head, tries to remember his indoor voice, and hopes that the situation will get loud.

It's three in the morning that Connor wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing hard and shallow and with a stabbing pain in his head. He fumbles with the bandage he'd applied earlier that afternoon, feeling around with unsteady fingers just in case the injury's bleeding. It's not, he's relieved to find, but that doesn't alleviate the hurt.

The knot's still there and he lies back, shuts his eyes, tries to calm his racing heart.

Everything's okay, he tells himself. Just a bad dream he can't remember, the stress of the day catching up with him.

The bandage was enough surely, he thinks, wincing at the memory. Or rather, wincing at the lack of memory.

Connor doesn't remember the flight itself but apparently it was glorious. He remembers eating breakfast this morning, bowls of cereal for him and Abby while she made up a plate of scrambled eggs for them both. He remembers clocking in, checking on all of his tech, saying hello to some of the animals in the ARC, being called a scruffy ragamuffin by Lester.

Anything after that is kind of a blur, the kind of blur that means he remembers a grand total of nothing. Connor remembers coming to on a warehouse floor with Abby hovering over him, panicked and near tears, and he remembers saying anything he can think of to make her feel better. It was all a pack of lies anyway, that he was fine and that he didn't hurt at all, and what were they doing again?

That last question was more honest than he wanted it to be but Abby fills him in anyway, relieved that he's not knocked entirely loopy.

Connor feels loopy though and every time he goes to sleep he wakes up feeling worse than he started, jerking awake but feeling groggy and disoriented every time. In the end he drags himself off the sofa and wanders into the kitchen. Rex is sleeping on the kitchen table and Connor gives him an absent pat on the head as he passes on the way back to the couch.

Abby's got a nice couch, he thinks. Nice everything, really. Nice flat, nice pets, nice face and personality and— And Connor's definitely loopy.

He makes another round from couch to kitchen, fully intending on grabbing a snack. That's a bad idea, Connor's head swims, and the next thing he knows he's on his knees in the middle of the tile, throwing up everything he'd eaten that day.

"Oh, Jesus," he groans more than a bit miserably, squinting his eyes shut and shifting away so that he doesn't have to look at it, "That is disgusting. So much for cheeseburgers."

And then he hears the scritch-scratch of claws and the flutter of wings and an excited chirp.

"Oh hey, Rexie, what are you—oh god, oh god please stop," Connor stretches out a hand to try and shoo the reptilian pigeon away from the wreck on the floor but it's not use. The lure of what Rex apparently sees as a midnight snack is too strong and all Connor can do is close his eyes again and roll over. "I have officially lost all respect for you, buddy. We are having a long talk in the morning when I don't go cross-eyed every time I look at you. You hear me?" Rex scuttles closer to him and he inches away again. "Nope. Don't even talk to me. I see how it is."

He is incapable of dealing with this.

It's three in the morning, Connor can't get off the floor, his head feels like it's going to explode, and he can't even get the pet dinosaur away from the puddle of vomit on the floor.

God.

What if it makes him sick? What if it makes Connor sick again? What if Rex eats it again? …Abby will kill him. Possibly kill Rex after quarantining him, but then she'll definitely kill Connor. It's inevitable, and he has to get up off this floor. Somehow.

Except that right now, Connor can't make his limbs work the way he wants to and all he can seem to do is lay there. Eventually, he puts himself together long enough to swipe at the floor with a rag that gets immediately tossed in the trash, gargles with the emergency mouthwash under the sink, and drags himself back to the sofa. It's blessedly soft.

Connor loves this couch. Sleep comes quickly then, possibly too quickly, but Connor's too tired to worry about it. He ends up curling up on the cushions in the smallest ball he can manage, doesn't bother with the comforter pooled on the carpet, and only wakes when he hears Abby making breakfast.

He opens his eyes just in time to see her greet Rex and to see him give her cheek a swipe with his tongue.

Connor remembers exactly where that tongue was just a few hours prior and cringes.

"You alright?" she asks, "What's the face for?"

He shakes his head and feels his brain pulse behind his eyes.

"Nothing," he replies, "It's nothing." Apparently Abby can see something in his face because she comes over and kneels down to look him in the eyes.

"You sure? Maybe you ought to stay home today; you look terrible." Connor must look pathetic because she looks about two seconds away from reaching out to feel his forehead. He grumbles a little and bats her hand away.

"It's fine," he says and drags himself off the couch, grabbing a bundle of clothes on the way. "I'm out in five."

"You're not going to eat breakfast?"

Connor pauses, watches Abby laugh when Rex licks her cheek again. The decision is obvious.

"Sorry, I'm not hungry. I'll see you at the ARC."

Connor is officially a common criminal.

He doesn't satisfy himself with stealing paperclips and staples, oh no. He aims higher than the petty larceny of office life, because at this point in time he's divested at least three first aid kits of their bandages, antibacterial cream, and cotton balls. It's not like he's doing anything that's against the rules; he's pretty sure that no one's going to give him hell unless it's over him bleeding all over the floor (which may have happened before, or would have if he hadn't cleaned it up), but there's something about it that feels sort of illegal.

It's just…well, he seems to get hurt a lot and while it's never too serious, Connor figures that some band-aids are something's he's entitled to.

It doesn't lessen the feeling of doing something wrong, though, and his goal this time is a roll of gauze; a bandage isn't big enough for the cut in his shoulder and he wasn't looking forward to yanking a plaster off of the livid purple bruise blossoming around it anyway. He's had it for a week and it's not healing as well as it should. There's a border of angry red around it and it burns every time he moves. He's been keeping it covered but it keeps opening every time it starts to heal.

"What are you doing?"

Connor freezes and looks towards the door. Lester stands right in the middle of it, staring at him with a look on his face that says that Connor had best start talking.

"I…er. Needed a plaster?"

Lester's eyebrow twitches and he eyes Connor, then glances to the way he's stuffing bandages into his pockets.

"Looks more like a Halloween costume to me. Going as a mummy, are you? How about a sarcophagus to go with it?"

"No, it's just—" Connor stammers, "I just—" he cuts off. He doesn't feel like explaining to Lester of all people why he needs it, much less that at any moment his shoulder is going to start bleeding through the old t-shirt he has wrapped around it underneath his jacket. "I'll just go."

He doesn't meet Lester's eyes as he finishes stuffing his pockets like a criminal and shuffles out the door. Hopefully it'll be a few days before the next anomaly.

Connor's hands are still twitching four hours later.

Playing electrician is a new one, he thinks wryly and wishes that he could even be surprised. If he had been a betting man, he would have put all his money on being electrocuted by a prehistoric monster eel or something, not by the misguided efforts of Jenny and a live wire.

I'll go and check it out, he'd said. I know what I'm doing, he'd said. Don't worry, I'm fine, he'd said.

Every single one of those statements had been a lie, especially that last one.

What choice had they had, though? It wasn't like Nick Cutter would have known what to do, and no way in hell was he sending Abby and her credit and a half of Intro to Electro-he-didn't-remember go up there and try her luck. No way, not a chance.

This one had been all Connor.

Connor and technology was Connor at his most useful. He wasn't athletic like Stephen and god only knew he couldn't shoot a gun to save his life (that one had been tried and tested and proven correct), and it wasn't like trouncing everyone he knew at the Friday night pub quiz was going to earn him any points.

Connor had to pull his weight so this one was on him.

He regretted that mentality the instant the cable had snapped and slipped. It would have hurt someone because Connor hadn't had the time to warn them. So he did the only thing he could and grabbed hold of the wire. He'd blacked out and slipped himself, coming to about ten feet lower than he'd started.

A red, shiny burn streaked his palm.

It seemed so innocuous, considering the agony it had sent him into.

Abby suggested, tight and high-voiced, that maybe he should go to the hospital. That was a long fall, she says, and he could have broken something. Connor wants to laugh, the broken, half-hysterical kind that isn't happy at all. She doesn't know. No one does.

They only saw the slip, think he's blinking dazedly from having the wind knocked out of him. And just like that, Connor kind of wants to cry instead. He hurts all over, like an ache and a burn had a baby and that satanic pain-baby's sitting on every inch of him.

Christ, he hurts.

"I'm okay," he says, "Nothing's broken." That's not a lie even though Connor kind of feels broken right this second. Abby frowns at him and opens her mouth to argue and Connor interrupts her by swinging to his feet. His vision goes grey around the edges and he sways but stays standing. Christ, he hurts, but grits his teeth. "See?" he asks, pretending to be cheerful and not like he's doing everything he can to keep from trembling. "I'm totally fine."

Abby doesn't quite believe him; it's written all over her face as good as if she'd said it. Connor repeats himself.

The last person he wants to look pathetic in front of is Abby; she ranks right up there with if not higher than Cutter on Connor's list of people he respects, which is really more of a list of people he'd kill for or break out of prison. Hell, Connor'd break Stephen out, even though he doesn't like him most of the time. It's a short list.

"I'd break you out of prison," he blurts out and Abby fixes him with an unreadable look, kind of like she thinks that he's a crazy person.

"I broke you out of prison two weeks ago," she replies.

It's not the same thing though, Connor thinks despairingly. It's not the same but he can't tell her why, because Abby is strong and smart and better even when she's tripping over Rex in the mornings and getting beaten by Connor at the pub quiz every Friday. It's not the same because she can be a hero without it being a big deal.

He can't tell her why it's not the same but he knows it just as well.

Four hours later, Connor's hiding the shaking in his hands by typing furiously, leaning closely into the screen like he's focused instead of blurry. He wouldn't buy his act but apparently it's good enough for everyone else, because he manages to stay on his feet through the whole thing and only drops when he can get to a chair. It's easy enough to pass off as soreness from a long fall and Connor fends off Cutter's offer to check his pupils.

He'll be alright.

Connor doesn't sleep at all that night. It's like something's crawling around inside his skin (up his fingertips, past his elbow, itching up through his shoulder) and he can't settle down and his heart races and slows by turn, and maybe he should have taken the offer of a doctor when he had the chance.

He ends up eating a six-pack of chocolate pudding with Rex and watching infomercials until it's time to get up in the morning.

Connor's early.

He's been up for hours already, mostly because he doesn't know how to sleep on his stomach and even if he could, the only thing he can tolerate on his back right now are the loosest of t-shirts and not an iota more of pressure. Sleep was impossible.

The burns are intolerable. Almost.

Worth getting, though, because if he gets flung like a rag doll inside a burning building it means that someone else doesn't and they're more important than he is in the long run. So the thing is, it's worth it. It doesn't negate the way he hurts, though, and no amount of awkwardly-applied burn cream is enough to ease the heat.

Connor leans forward, away from the seat back, and tries to focus on the computer screen. He takes a swig from his water bottle and tries not to pull at his skin. He doesn't even know how it looks, not completely. What he could see in the mirror, licking at his back and curling over his shoulders was red, shiny, and angry. The top layer's gone entirely, sloughed off by heat, and he assumes that it looks like that all over.

If it does, he doesn't know what he's going to do.

"Good mor—oh, hello," Cutter walks through the door and looks like he expects to see someone else and not Connor, twenty minutes early and hunched over his computer screen.

"Morning," he replies, turning his head without moving.

"You okay?"

"I'm okay," Connor says, "Just didn't sleep well."

Well, it's not a lie.

The door slams open again with a clatter about ten minutes later and this time it's Abby who bounces in, scarf twined around her neck.

"Connor, you didn't wait up for me," is the first thing out of her mouth and he feels bad because they normally go in together except that this morning he didn't think that he could manage the trip without flinching. Abby's got the eyes of a hawk sometimes especially when Connor desperately doesn't want her to notice anything, and he really, really doesn't want to her to notice him now.

"Yeah, sorry about that," he apologizes. Guilt spikes and twists in his chest at the lie even though he is sorry. "I didn't get as much done yesterday as I would have liked."

Which isn't a lie, because he'd been halfway through the program when they got the ping and never got the chance to go back to it. Abby looks mollified and comes up behind him to look at the screen. Not that she'll really get what he's working on, they both know, but it's the principle of the thing and Connor's happy that she takes the time to care even though she won't understand.

What he doesn't expect to come along with the bright, unsuspecting smile is for her to clap her hand firmly to his back in a friendly smack. The impact knocks him breathless and Connor seizes with pain and a burning heat that explodes under his skin, curls in on himself, and ends up falling completely out of his chair to almost cower on the floor.

"Connor?! Connor!" Abby drops with him and her hand hovers over him, not touching. Cutter's on his feet and hurrying around the table to join them, "Are you okay? What's wrong?"

He can't even speak. Connor digs his fingers into the cheap, office-building carpeting and tries to not sob; what comes out of his mouth instead is a high, animalistic whine that he doesn't recognize as his. There's a gentle tug at the fabric at his back and this time he does sob and slaps Cutter's hands away.

"Don't—don't touch," he demands and tries not to sound like he's begging instead, "God. Oh my god. Please don't touch."

"The hell is this?" Cutter's voice is tight and worried and Connor's gratified even as his brain screams no, no, no. Palms flat on the floor, he tries to pull himself into a sitting position but it's no good; every movement hurts. Touches that would normally be no heavier than whispers brush over him and feel like knives.

"Ow, ow, ow, stop," Connor insists, "I'm okay, I just need a minute. I promise, I'm okay."

Connor is a liar and Connor is not okay.

"Stephen, a medic. Now," Cutter orders and dazedly, Connor hadn't even realized that the man had even been there. He looks up just in time to see his back go out the door. Abby continues to hover, clearly fretting and distressed. "Hang on, I just need to—" And without warning Cutter's lifting the collar of Connor's t-shirt to peer underneath it. When he pulls away, he's start white and looking sick to his stomach.

"What is it?" Abby asks and Cutter doesn't answer, just turns to Connor and says, low and furious,

"We are talking, later, about just how much of an idiot you are and just what you're reasonably expected to give up for this job." Miserable and twisted up with a mixture of guilt, inadequacy, and a dollop of self-loathing, Connor presses his face into the carpet and tries not to think, tries to turn his brain off.

"Connor, that's not from…" Abby's pale and horrified, "That's from yesterday? That's from yesterday," she confirms, "You told me you weren't hurt, You just said it was your hands. You stupid, stupid…you promised me."

Because Connor had shown her what was easy, let her patch up his hands because that was what she could see. Because he always knew that she'd look like that if she knew and he never wanted to see it. Because he knew that she'd remember how it had come about, because if it hadn't been him then it would have been her instead.

And he doesn't know how to tell her that it's worth it, that he'd do it again, that he doesn't regret it. He doesn't know how to tell her that it's okay when she won't listen.

Connor can't look her in the eyes, though, and instinctively flinches when he sees her hand coming towards his face. Abby's never hit him before, nothing more than the occasional, irritated punch to the shoulder that he always laughs at, but there's always a first time for everything. Instead of landing a blow, however, the hand that Connor knows could do so much damage lands on his cheek, stroking down his jawline, up to his temple, down again.

"I'm sorry," he offers. He is sorry. He's sorry that he's hurt her but not that it's happened.

"You're such a shitty liar," she replies, sounding almost choked.

Connor doesn't have the heart to remind her that for so long she's been falling for them and that that of all things hadn't been a lie.

When the medic gets there, she ends up having to cut his shirt off except for a small scrap that's sticking to the wound. Cutter goes quieter and quieter by the second through the process and Abby doesn't take her hand away, like she's trying to comfort herself as much as Connor.

No one says anything when he grabs her hand and holds tightly until they're both white-knuckled.

"You, mister, are very, very lucky," the medic (named Julia if her nametag is to be believed) chides when she's finished wrapping him up. It's a neat, clean job, neater than Connor could ever have managed by himself and for the first time in ten hours he's comfortably numb and about to be drugged to the gills. "You just barely missed third degree." Connor blinks slowly on the sofa, still in a cooling haze, and doesn't reply. Julia turns to the rest of his team, arms crossed over her chest. "I want him sent home. No gallivanting until I see him again and give the okay.

Connor thinks that he ought to protest but Abby speaks before he can.

"He lives with me; I can keep an eye on him." She looks to Cutter and Stephen. "I can do the same things at home that I do here unless there's a ping."

Connor wants to say that he doesn't need anyone keeping an eye on him, but he's pretty sure that he's the minority on this one and that he'll be vetoed before he even finishes.

"Very good. Make sure he stays relaxed, lots of fluids. These burns can get nasty." Julia scribbles something in a pad of paper, rips it off, hands it over. "Here's a prescription for an antipyretic, more of the painkillers that I'll be dosing him with in two shakes, and something that should help with that residual nerve damage. Change the bandages twice a day—"

"Did you just say nerve damage?"

The room goes silent.

"Yes," the medic says calmly like she's talking about the weather, "There appears to be some leftover from something that happened a while back. It's probably been slowing down his reflexes for a while now, probably making him a little twitchy—"

And suddenly, Abby's swinging to her feet like a girl on a mission, flinty-eyed, to take the prescription.

"A list," she says shortly, "I want a list of all the things you can find that aren't older than this job. I am then going to memorize it, laminate it, and then use it in every argument for the foreseeable eternity. You hear me, Connor Temple? Forever." Her voice shakes the tiniest bit like she's going to cry instead. He doesn't answer, mostly because he might actually fall asleep before he gets back to the apartment except that he doesn't want to go back.

He needs to be here, to do his job, to finish his program, to…

"I can't—"

"Lemme tell you, sweetie, you're not doing anything that doesn't involve you drinking lots of water, sleeping, medicating, or watching trashy television." Connor takes the pills that he's offered and downs them. He very pointedly doesn't look at any of them. Abby stands there and seethes long enough that Julia gives in. "The most immediate problem of the burn damage, obviously," she ticks off on her fingers, "The nerve damage. Evidence of cranial contusions, untreated cuts and scrapes that really should have gotten stitches. Probably some deep-tissue bruising but I can't say for sure. Either way, there will be no more adventuring until I say so. Am I quite clear?" It's a good thing that Julia seems pretty used to stunned silence. "I'm quite serious," she directs to the lot of them and watches Connor succumb to the painkillers. "I know the job has its risks; we all do. But the kid is a train wreck and not a new one either. I'm not trying to step on anyone's toes but you need to look out for him because if you don't, then next time he might not come back from it. He shouldn't be getting hurt like this and if he is, then maybe someone should ask him why."

Face unreadable, Cutter steps forward and hands Abby a set of keys.

"Take the truck; I'll be by to pick it up later." That done, he leans down and encourages Connor off the couch, avoiding the bandages.

"No, no," Connor mutters, "I can—"

"Not a chance," Cutter interrupts and manhandles him carefully out the door and into the truck.

Connor's asleep before the key touches the ignition.

The world comes into focus slowly.

Connor gets his hearing back before he can open his eyes and amidst the noise of the mundane he can hear a familiar voice at the forefront. His brain is sluggish and takes too long to register the voice as Abby's as well as the fact that he's on his stomach on a familiar sofa. For a few minutes he doesn't try opening his eyes, just lets himself soak in the words he's only half-hearing.

She's not talking about anything important; just simple things like the weather, Rex. Stuff that he can listen to but doesn't have to think about. It feels like his head is stuffed with cotton balls and he wonders if it's the meds he took because he doesn't remember anything past Cutter setting him into the seat.

Connor groans a little and tries to stuff his face into the space between the cushions.

"Did'ya get the number on the truck that hit me?" He grumbles and Abby abruptly stops her steady stream of chatter.

"No, but I've got Julia's on speed dial," Abby replies and Connor opens his eyes enough to see that she's sitting on the floor in front of him with the remote control on top of a book on top of Rex who's asleep on her lap. "How are you feeling?"

"Kind of like I got hit by a truck."

"Sounds about right. I stopped by the chemist on the way; you've got some pills to pop in about four hours."

Connor lets himself relax against the cushions and thinks, not for the first time, that he loves this couch. They're silent for a good while, Connor with his mental cotton balls and Abby with a blissfully unconscious dinosaur.

"Why did you do it?" Abby finally asks. "Why didn't you tell me? You didn't have to lie to me." There's a touch of a plea in her voice and Connor doesn't even want to look at her.

"I didn't want you to get hurt," is all he can offer. Because he doesn't know how he can keep people safe any other way. Because he doesn't want to be blamed in the end. Because he never wanted this to happen. Because he never wanted to make anyone feel like this.

"It doesn't…it doesn't make it better," she whispers, "It doesn't help." She cuts off, rubs her temples. Shifts Rex off her lap to turn around and pillow her chin on her arms. "Look. I don't—we're partners, right? We're on the same team, right?"

Connor frowns and furrows his eyebrows. They're practically nose to nose and all too serious.

"Well, yeah. Of course."

Abby reaches out and pokes him in the cheek.

"That means that you need to rely on me. That means that I can get hurt sometimes too. That means that I can protect you sometimes too."

But it's not the same, he thinks.

She's not finished.

"You're not…you're not replaceable, okay? I know I talk a lot of shit but I don't want to find another Connor Temple. So don't do that anymore." She sounds so earnest and Connor hates it. He doesn't flinch but closes his eyes as if to hide from them instead. He doesn't know how to do this.

He doesn't know how to tell her that he can't.

"Abby…"

"I know what you look like when you lie now," she barrels on without waiting for him to finish, "So I'll know if you do. So don't even try. Don't...just don't."

Connor can't promise her that. He could but he doesn't want to make a promise he can't keep, because he can't say it won't happen again. It might. Hell, it probably will, because Connor is a lot of things but persistent is at the top of the list. He leans forward a few inches to rest his forehead against hers.

"I won't lie to you," he says eventually, "And I'll try to not be an idiot."

It's not a promise because Connor Temple is an idiot who loves his team and would break them out of prison in a second. But he can try and there's no lie in that.

"I can live with that," Abby drops her eyes closed and they sit like that for longer than either of them could have foreseen. It's strangely intimate, not a hug or a kiss but something warm and quiet and comfortable. Connor likes the closeness.

Rex chirps, suddenly, and the mood breaks. Abby leans back and Connor goes limp on that familiar sofa. The drugs aren't entirely out of his system and he's suddenly tired again, and Abby rocks back on her haunches.

"Bedtime, Connor?" she asks with a crooked half smile and he half-heartedly shakes his fist at her.

"But if something happens down at the ARC—"

"Sleep," Abby tells him firmly. "If something happens, I'll let you know. But you're off duty until Sergeant Julia says so, no bones. It'll be okay. Get some rest."

She makes a good argument to Connor's sleep-addled brain and it's good enough that he doesn't protest to the blanket that gets draped on top of him like he's a small child or to the dinosaur that curls up on his head. He feels very safe for a reason he can't pin down for what feels like the first time in a very long time.

"In the name of honesty, can I tell you something?" Connor speaks suddenly, all the while covering up a yawn.

"Yes, of course, anything," Abby perks up. Connor lets the sides of his lips tilt up.

"One time I had a concussion and I threw up on your kitchen floor. Rex ate it and licked your face in the morning and I didn't say anything."

Abby's face goes slack and she glances from Connor to Rex, back to Connor, back to Rex as if trying to sniff out a lie. The look of shock eventually becomes something very close to horror and she stares at Rex on Connor's head, appalled.

"You…" she starts, extending a pointing fingers towards her pet, "You are disgusting. You hear me? Disgusting."

"That's what I said," And that's the last thing out of Connor's mouth before he's rolling over and dropping off to sleep.

He loves this couch.

AN2: Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed this, please leave a review and let me know~