"Connor looked at Abby, and while she knew there was a similar look in her own eyes, the bitter, painful grief in his dark, soulful eyes almost made her flinch." Two days after Cutter's death, and Abby's getting worried about Connor. He's been recklessly throwing himself in harm's way, he doesn't say as much as he normally does, and the little banter and jokes wash right over him. To top it all off, he's afraid to cry around the team - she's not sure if he's allowed himself to really cry at all. She decides to do something about it before something bad can happen...

AN: IDK why, but is spazzing on this chapter and the next. :| I'm not sure why, but I hope it stops dissapearing soon.

Two days. Two days since tragedy had once again struck their little group, torn a hole in their core team that had become a family of sorts. Diminished. Cutter was gone. Dead. And while all of them, even Becker and Sarah, who hadn't been on the team as long, felt the loss like a blow, Abby had a feeling that it was Connor who had been hit hardest. He'd been there when Cutter had died, and the one time she'd gotten Connor to say anything to her about it, he'd mentioned that Cutter had asked him to sit with him. The look in his eyes when he said that, the strain in his voice, told her that he felt guilty. She didn't know how to assure him, because he knew, on a rational level, that it wasn't his fault - she assumed so, at least, because he got angry or upset or both whenever Helen was mentioned - but survivor's guilt was a very real thing, and Connor was a very good man.

She was worried about Connor, to be completely honest. None of them really had sat down and talked about Cutter, like people do after a death. Like at Stephen's funeral, he'd been cold, distant and numb and silent at Cutter's. He'd been asked to say something about Cutter, had even managed to make a speech, but then mid-word, his voice cracked and he fled.

She'd found him drunk, at the nearby pub, hours later.

These were not good signs, at all. So none of them really talked about it, but she knew she'd hidden in the ladies' toilets to cry, as had Sarah, and while a composed exterior was expected of Becker, and Lester had never really liked Cutter per se, both of them had seemed a lot less distant, softer edges and gentler attitudes. But Connor - he hadn't been crying - not at home , not in the gents' (she'd asked Becker to spy for her), not in the burnt-out remains of Cutter's office. Well, that last one wasn't quite true. Sarah had said she'd walked in on Connor crying, sitting in front of the artifact, more than once already. But as soon as he realized he was being watched, he wiped them away and went about his business as usual. He didn't cry in front of her, she didn't cry in front of him.

When he didn't look totally numb, or was pretending he was completely fine by throwing himself recklessly into heroic situations more often than usual, he looked like a little lost puppy.

So, she was worried about her flatmate, the man she was deeply in love with already, even if she couldn't bring herself to admit that to anyone, including herself, and that's why Abby Maitland was standing outside the pub, at night, looking for him.

Earlier that evening, they'd come home exhausted from another day dealing with anomalies - she would've thought the frequency of anomalies leading to the early or late cretaceous would interest, intrigue, Connor, but he'd been too busy getting himself into danger again - and she'd plopped down on the sofa, whilst Connor trudged silently into the kitchen and turned on the kettle. She called out to him, "Conn, Star Wars is on the tele! Want to watch?" - and received no reply. Confused, Abby got to her feet, and found Connor sitting on the counter, clearly struggling not to cry. She went over to him, putting a hand on his shoulder. He didn't shrug her away, so she spoke. "It's okay to cry, Connor."

He'd given her a pained, anguished look, shook his head roughly, shoved past her, and left the flat. He'd called over his shoulder in a strained sort of voice that he was going to the pub.

In and of itself, that wasn't a huge deal. Connor was an adult, could make his own decisions for himself. But he was a horrible lightweight when it came to drinking, and a worse sort of drunk, and he was upset. The least that would happen would be him stumbling in at some forsaken hour of the night, falling asleep, and waking up with a massive hangover. The worst... Well, that was why she was here, to stop him from doing this before something bad could happen.

There! There he was, sat forlornly at the bar with his chin in his hand, elbow propped on the wood surface, a few empty glasses of something-or-other scattered around him already, and a full one in his other hand. Abby bit her lip thoughtfully, wondering how to go about this. She sighed, shook her head a moment, and entered the pub. She ignored a few clearly drunken men at one of the tables who wolf-whistled at her, heading straight for the bar stool next to Connor. Abby slipped onto her seat and watched Connor for a moment. He didn't even notice her: he wasn't drinking the new glass, merely running his thumb along a chip at the top and sliding it around absently on the bar, leaving a trail of sweat from the cold glass along the surface, little spots of water that sparkled in the dim lighting. He was caught up in his own thoughts, and she hoped he wasn't intoxicated yet. She cleared her throat, and Connor jerked suddenly as if he'd been electrocuted, turning towards her with wide eyes.

"Abby!"

"Yes, Connor, I do know who I am." She commented dryly. He blinked, blinked a second time, and his eyes narrowed.

"What're you doing here, Abbs?" His words were very slightly slurred, and now that he was over his surprise, he was avoiding meeting her eyes; she frowned.

"Making sure you-" She poked him in the chest. "-don't do anything stupid. Which includes drinking everything the bar has to offer." He just stared at her silently. "For one thing, I doubt Lester would be happy with the bill." She added, grinning. Connor smiled a tiny bit, but looked down at the glass in his hands.

"How'd you know I 'acked his account?" He murmured to her, wary of the barman walking over. The other man looked at her, raising his eyebrows in a silent question. She smiled at him, and shook her head.

"I'm fine; if I want anything I can always borrow Conn's beer, right?" Connor stuck out his tongue at her, and she laughed.

"Oh, get 'er a beer, me boss' payin' for this anyway!" He suggested to the barman with false cheer in his voice; she could tell the grin on his face wasn't genuine, wasn't a Connor-ish grin. It was cold and brittle and she didn't like it on her flatmate's face.

"Connor, Lester's not going to be happy about this. Why don't you pay for it yourself? We both make more than enough." She asked him, leaning towards him curiously. The barman shook his head and walked away to get her a beer, and she didn't say no. Connor's expression looked even more strained, if possible. "Nevermind, Conn, it's alright." She said quickly. His shoulders dropped, the lines of tension left him, and he shook his head.

"I want to tell you..." A long pause, she left it alone for a few moments, quietly thanking the barman as he handed her the drink. "Me dad died when I was little. Me mum had always been a little... odd in the 'ead. But after his death, it began getting worse. Not very quickly, and for a while we didn't know, because we didn't expect it... I was fourteen when she got diagnosed with Alzheimer's." He said softly. "I pay for the nursing 'ome she lives in and the care. It's easier, in the long run, ta use Lester's funds. 'e knows about me mum. Matter o' face I think Lester knows more 'n I do about everyone who works in the ARC." He finished, a more genuine grin flashing on his face for a moment.

"Wow... I'm sorry, Conn... I can't... I mean... Must be horrible." He nodded sadly. "If you ever need company, if you visit her sometime. I'll go with you, if you'd like." Abby told him. He looked at her in surprise, a question obvious in his dark eyes. "I mean it."

"Thanks, Abby." He said softly, smiling at her. It was more like him this time. Another question was bugging her; she was pretty sure it was connected to his feelings about Cutter, and while it might be painful, it was probably the best thing she could do for him right now.

"What happened to your dad, Connor?"

And he was distant fro mher again. He'd never had walls up, had floated along in his childlike way and slipped past her walls, gotten into her heart. He'd never had his own walls, not that she knew of, at least. But he was closed to her now, eyes nearly black and unreadable; he'd turned away form her a little.

"It was me own fault." He whispered. She leaned closer, putting a hand on his shoulders, comforting him. He smiled at her quickly, and then his face fel again. Not quite closed off, that was a start.

"Conn…"

"No…. I was faffing off, we were crossing the street and he told me not to run ahead of him. I didn't listen. I thought I was so cool, with a new haircut, new backpack with superman on it… The driver hadn't stopped at the stop sign. Just went straight on through, like it didn't even exist." Abby was holding her breath, uncomfortably aware that not only had Connor been so close to dying at such a young age, he'd witnessed his own father's death. "And… I was… I was in the way. I would've been hit… B-but m-my da'…" Connor's face was scrunched up, fighting the tears that were escaping his hold. She wondered, slowly letting out the breath she'd been holding. She pulled him close, slipping off of her chair, and holding him tight when he wrapped his arms around her and sobbed into her shoulder. "He pushed me outta th' way, and 'e g-got… got hit instead, instead of me." Connor cried into her shoulder.

"And that's why Cutter's death hit you so hard?" She felt more than heard his mumbled, 'mhm'. Abby felt her own tears escaping her control, and let them, crying with Connor now.

"He was- was like me da'… It was like I 'ad another chance to have a father figure in me life. And I messed up again." He mumbled. She shook her head, then gripped his shoulders and shook him.

"No, you listen to me Connor Temple." Both of their eyes were red-rimmed, cheeks damp with tears still falling, and her shirt was a little damp. He looked at her, numbly, but with a touch of surprise in his eyes. Wariness followed.

"Wha'?" His voice was so quiet. Connor looked at Abby, and while she knew there was a similar look in her own eyes, the bitter, painful grief in his dark, soulful eyes almost made her flinch.

"You did not mess up. You were a child, your father wouldn't have been happy if you'd been the one to die, Conn. He saved you, it wasn't your fault he got hit, it was the driver's fault. You couldn't have done anything about the driver skipping the stop sign. And Cutter- Helen shot him, directly in the chest, Connor. Even if you'd gone against his wishes, Nick still would've died, there was absolutely nothing you could have done. His death is not your fault, do you hear me? The best thing we can do is…" She wiped away some tears from her stinging eyes and sighed. "We need to continue on, do what we do best, continue Cutter's legacy. Make him proud of us, not sad that we're falling into a pit of despair." She told him. Connor took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded, looking at her. His eyes seemed lighter, not as weighed down by the self-conflaggration and grief he'd been holding in.

"Thank you."

"I miss him too, and it's okay to be upset, Conn." She said softly, blinking away a few remaining tears.

"Abby, can we go home?" He said in the same quiet voice. It was an improvement at least from before. This wasn't over; they still had a lot ot talk about before things would be okay, but for now, it was alright. Maybe things would be easier now. She could hope. Abby nodded, smiling a little in response to the small smile slowly forming on her flatmate's lips. He pushed the still-full glass of beer away – Abby pushed her own half-empty glass away as well – and she put an arm around his waist as they left the pub together. It wasn't a permanent solution, she knew. A few words would not get rid of his insecurities and survivor's guilt. But it would be enough to help them begin to heal, maybe.