Zaedah's first foray into the fandom of Primeval. ~ Apologies in advance. ~
Presumes an established relationship...
Shades of Velocity
An object in motion tends to stay in motion…
…and Connor Temple rarely strays from this principle. The man has energy that threatens to obliterate a room and Abby Maitland has been the benefactor of his obedience to Newton's Law. The task of tiring him has given direction to her aimless existence. As a result of her Nobel-worthy efforts, Abby has begun falling asleep before him and waking after the sun calls its brilliant child to rise. Thus viewing her lover in a state of respite is an anomaly whose study is relished. Black eyelashes brush his cheeks while the blotted ink of his stubble catches on her fingertips. His breathing falls into a relaxed pattern, alternately taking in the scent of their union and exhaling satisfaction. It's the sound to which she falls asleep.
The soundtrack of God's dreams.
…It happens after wrestling with history. Beneath her diligent gaze, he grows restless with the resurrected stains of their days. Under the pale of twilight's envy, Abby considers what he has named the ghost of trauma that fate caused her to miss. An early misfortune, a keen disappointment that keeps the adult clothed in the layers of hiding youth. One day she will ask. But her touch has learned to yield gently and even in sleep he responds, finding tranquility in the wake of her fingers. And so it is for them now, the water under their bridge having lost its awkward churn, leaving peace from which they daily draw. She will wake later to find his espresso eyes on her and it puts her body on a thermal setting. But not tonight. Because tonight he will not open his eyes.
Her body is tainted with frost.
An object at rest tends to stay at rest…
…and Connor Temple is stubbornly practicing the theory. The man has injuries that threaten to steal what she's bargained away her heart to claim and Abby Maitland has refused to forsake the coldness of waiting. They won't let her climb into the bed with him, concern for the streams of wires pumping life into his still form. The many chemicals drowning in his veins coax Connor far from the pain and further from her. The ventilator stands as a sentinel by the bed, gasping in its mechanical breath, a false rhythm devoid of assurance. She can't fall asleep to this. She can't sleep at all.
She fears what she'll miss.
…A collapsed building has left the esteem-challenged man with debris kisses and structure fire hugs. The faceless lab coats worry over his inability to breathe on his own and Abby bequeaths her own exhalations to him. Her panic lay in the uselessness of her touch to bring him back into the light. Just as her pleas had failed this morning. The crumbling foundation had shifted beneath her feet but he'd heard another voice in the tumbling ruin, a thin shout that every flee instinct convinced her hadn't been real. But Connor had turned back from escape, leaving Abby in the red glare of flames outside to scrape her throat on his screamed name. And the walls had entombed him as he shielded an unknown child.
She'd only love him more if he'd wake.
An object will move when acted upon by an outside force…
…and Connor Temple is fighting that influence obstinately. The man has pain that threatens to return him to sedation and Abby Maitland has to coerce him to down the pills. Hours have passed since his presence lit their home and he's itching to claim the laptop she's put just out of his battered reach. The protests that he's fine are escorted to reality by winces at every breath and she must dredge up a resistance to the puppy eyes. Grudgingly the encapsulated miracles are swallowed and it won't be long. She talks to him of the week he missed during a coma she'll revisit only in nightmares and the lull of her voice joins the drugs in conspiracy, dragging him into sleep.
And she watches.
…There are events in life that forcefully mold the understanding of priorities and her list, frequently a lengthy inventory of needs and wants, has been whittled into the shape of one item. Connor. The daylight sneaking past the curtain blockade stretches yellow fingers to stroke his face as he unconsciously mirrors its intent by reaching for her. In keeping with her promise, she'll never be far. Mindful of every laceration and bruise that will heal under cautious lips, Abby rests a weary head on his shoulder. His sigh is born of discomfort but retains an underlying melody of contentment. Today she will sleep in the fleeting faith that their combined velocity dodges faster than death can sprint.
Even infallible physics won't defeat them.