A/N: This story was written for the Primevalathon community over on LJ. The prompt from Wilde_Shade was: Can I have something creepy? Please? Pretty please? I'm a terrible person, and would adore some manipulative!Phillip. Rough non-con/dub-con would rock my pervy little world. Nothing terribly melodramatic, but dark!fic would be welcome. I love Abby/Connor though and hurt/comfort done right makes me all squishy inside. Happy/hopeful ending would be more than welcome so long as there's no cheesy sexual healing.

WARNING: This story contains violence, torture, and m/m non-con. If that is not your thing, then don't read it. However, it is still an Abby/Connor story at heart, so I hope you'll give me the benefit of the doubt. It is very clear in the story what is happening, but it is not overly porny or excessively graphic. This is a serious subject matter that I tried to address with some degree of decorum. I hope you enjoy the story. Please read and review.

Disclaimer: Primeval and its characters belong to Impossible Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended.

Misplaced Trust

Chapter 2

Connor's head was pounding. "Abby?" he called. No answer. A strange clanking occurred with each minute movement he made. Where was he? Where was Abby? Nausea continually washed over him until he had to try and expel it. He rolled on to his side and that sent him over the edge. He retched again and again, culminating in dry agonizing heaves. Connor had finally managed to get his eyes open and, as he took in his surroundings, all his memories came flooding back.

Philip! Philip had betrayed him. He wanted to take control of the anomalies for his own selfish gain, not stop them. Connor was locked in a small stone enclosure. The clanking had come from chains that were secured to his wrists and ankles and anchored to the stone wall. They were made of heavy iron and were already rubbing a red ring into his skin. What was Philip playing at? He reached into his back pocket. No black box. He checked his other pockets. Nothing. No mobile, no wallet, no keys, no detector, not even the ring around his neck was there. He rested his head back on the concrete floor. His head really hurt. His eyes alighted on a tiny window high up and out of reach. There was no light coming in. In fact, there wasn't much light at all, just a small amount seeping in around the solid metal door.

Well, he had certainly got himself into a fine predicament this time. No matter what, he couldn't help Philip. He would not help him! Gah! How could he have been so stupid? He should have listened to Abby. He tried to pull himself into a seated position. It took a lot of effort due to his continuously pounding head. He closed his eyes to try to alleviate some of the discomfort.

Connor jumped when he heard the door open. His eyes snapped open as in walked Philip Burton, two guards and a man who looked strangely like a doctor.

"Good evening, Connor," greeted Philip brightly. Connor stared back mutely at him, feeling fury rise in him. Philip took notice of the puddle of sick not far from where Connor sat. "Ah, yes, unfortunately, the drug you were injected with does have some unfortunate side effects. Are you feeling better now that it's leaving your system?"

"Go to hell," Connor spat at him.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. That's really not what I was hoping to hear from you. But then again, you've only been awake for a bit. I suppose the full gravity of your situation hasn't sunk in quite yet." Philip looked Connor dead in the face. "It will, and you will see things my way. How long that takes, and how… uncomfortable it is will depend entirely upon you, though."

At these words, Philip turned his attention to the doctor and gave a silent nod. The guards moved as one and seized Connor's arms and legs. They manhandled him into position so that he was stretched out on his back on the floor of the cell. He struggled and squirmed, thrashing against the men holding him. The doctor knelt down next to the immobilized prisoner. He pulled out a syringe and two vials of chemicals.

"Philip, please. What are you doing? Just let me go. I won't tell anyone what's happened. You can make this right. Just stop this. Please!"

Philip watched him intently as the doctor prepared the injection. "Relax, Connor. We're just going to make you a little uncomfortable for a while. I'm not going to kill you. You're far too important. So, we'll have to work around that. Since you have clearly made up your mind against me, I'll just have to convince you otherwise. Help you see the error of your ways. I've tried being deferential with you, now it's time to take the gloves off."

The doctor pulled out a pair of surgical scissors and, while the two guards kept iron grips on his wrists and ankles, deftly cut the sleeve of Connor's shirt open from wrist to collar. He sliced easily through the long sleeve of the dark grey undershirt and the short rust colored outer shirt.

"Please," Connor begged. The doctor picked up the syringe and an alcohol swab. He cleansed a point on Connor's shoulder and the positioned the syringe. "No, no, no, no, no. Please. Ahhh!" The doctor pushed the needle into the muscled flesh and depressed the plunger. Connor hissed and whimpered. The two guards released him and he pulled away from them sitting up against the wall and drawing his knees up to his chest. His right hand instinctively went up and covered the sore spot on his left arm where the injection had been given. His shirt hung open, exposing his arm and upper chest. "What did you do? What did you put in me?"

Philip watched him closely for a few moments, as if waiting for something to happen. And then Connor felt it. A pounding started in his head while at the same time intense cramps and a powerful wave of nausea slammed into his stomach. He groaned and curled in upon himself, sliding over onto his side, both arms held tightly against his stomach. He moaned and rocked himself in an effort to stave off the bile he felt rising up in his throat. He couldn't do it; he leaned forward and vomited again. His stomach was already mostly empty from lack of food and his earlier bout with nausea. Still, cloudy yellow bile poured from him and when there was no more stomach acid he dry heaved again and again. His head pounded and sweat dripped off of him. He shivered violently as chills wracked his body. He looked up and met the icy cold eyes of Philip Burton.

"I won't bore you with the details, but basically one of the chemicals will keep awake for the next several hours, and one will make you very ill for the next several hours. You should know, Connor, that this is only step one." Philip stood up from where he had crouched down in front of Connor. He left the room along with his guards, not even bothering to look back.

The doctor took out his stethoscope and checked Connor's heart rate. "Take a deep breath, please," he asked. Connor was panting from the nausea, vomiting and intense headache. He spat and attempted to do as the doctor asked. As he did so, another brutal wave of nausea swept through him. While Connor convulsed with more dry heaves, the doctor smiled down at him. "Excellent. Exactly as your response should be with that combination of meds in your system," he said as he put away his stethoscope.

The doctor left and the door was locked behind him. Connor was left on his own curled up in a fetal position, rocking to trying to ease his discomfort. For hours the wave upon wave of nausea, cramps, vomiting and constant headaches kept him huddled on the floor in his own filth. He desperately hoped that someone would find him; hoped that rescue would be swift in coming.

Over and over he kept coming back and asking himself the same question. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have not seen right through Philip. Abby had. Abby. She must be so worried about him. Or maybe he'd done enough that she didn't even care anymore. He was so stupid. How had he let Philip charm him like that? He'd been so blinded by the man's persona and charisma, by the idea of Philip Burton. He should have listened to Abby. No wonder she'd thought him such a groupie. It wasn't funny anymore. Philip clearly had malicious intentions and Connor had played right into them. God! How could he have been so stupid, so blind? Round and round his contemplations went, always returning to the same self loathing line of thought.

As the light in his cell began to increase, he glanced up at the window high above him. It must be dawn, he concluded. The door opened to his cell and he flinched involuntarily. A food tray was set in front of him: water, cheese, crackers, an apple, and a cup of chicken-noodle soup.

"Eat, or we'll force it down your throat," the man growled in warning before locking the door and walking off.

Connor listened for the man's footsteps to have fully retreated before crawling over to the food. He was really hungry but he was terrified they'd just make him sick again. His painfully empty stomach betrayed him. He started with the crackers and then the apple. He finished with the soups and nibbled on the cheese. He swallowed the whole glass of water in almost one go. Connor once again curled up in a ball and tried to sleep.

Connor woke abruptly when the door creaked open again and Philip, his thugs, and the doctor came in again. Connor sat up and stared back at Philip. The guards took hold of him again and stretched him out like before.

"Please. Not again, please," he begged, though his struggles were much reduced.

"I told you, this doesn't end, and will only get worse until you have a… let's say… change of heart."

"You'll never get away with this, Philip. They will find me, and then you'll pay. You can't possibly think you'll actually succeed. You can't control the anomalies. You can't! I've seen the future, it doesn't work!" He cried out again as the injection was given once again in his left shoulder. This time, the doctor didn't even stay.

!*!*!*!*!*!*!*!

The cycle was repeated day in and day out: injection, sick, eat, sleep, injection. He usually got to see the rising light of dawn before they brought him his food and let him sleep. He guessed it had been about five days, but he really couldn't be sure. He had reached the point where he whimpered and cried through the entire sick period, but he refused to cry in front of Philip and his men. Days ago they had cut the other sleeve of his shirt open so as to alternate the injection sites. His clothes were ragged and filthy. The chains on his wrists and ankles had worn the flesh underneath completely raw.

Connor gritted his teeth and steeled himself against another day of torment. He lay passively on the floor for them to come in and hold him down. It didn't come. He grew more and more paranoid as he waited for the door to open. When it finally did, he was so panicked that he backed all the way up against the wall and huddled in a little ball. He was so worked up from the change in his routine, that he was now beyond terrified.

Philip came in and, wrinkling his nose against the smell, crouched down in front of Connor. "Hmmm, clearly this is getting us nowhere. My god, you stink. You simply cannot stay in those clothes any longer. I'd offer you a change of clothes, but I don't think I have anything in your… smaller size." Philip shrugged.

Connor was confused. What did Philip mean by that?

Philip stood and addressed his men. "Take him. Make sure he's cleaned up before you start the next phase."