Summary: Stephen/Connor, action/humour and established relationship. He could complain that life was never normal but it had its upsides.
Spoilers: Season 1 generally.
A\N: Betaread by fififolle. Written for pirateexchange who challenged me to write Stephen/Connor “get stuck somewhere and are being chased by something mean and nasty. witty banter perhaps? male lovin?”
“Shoot it!” he yelled at Connor.
“What do you think I'm trying to do?! Playing Cowboys and Indians with it?”
“You miss again and we're...”
“Yeah I know, Dino munchies...”
He might have been too hard on Connor but in life or death situations it was kind of hard to stay entirely calm and rational. He tried his best to overcome the thread of panic in his being, knowing that criticism was no good way to handle the resident geek of the team.
“Just...think of it like Space Invaders.”
“WTF? Now is hardly the time to share your love of archaic video games.”
“Try shooting where it's going to be!”
“I'm not psychic!”
Okay, either he'd forgotten that episode or he'd wrongly pegged Connor as a Futurama watcher...
“Give it to me,” he demands, exasperated.
“Maybe later,” Connor whispers, eyes glancing to the side conspiratorially.
“I'm serious,” he says trying not to grin, “Give it to me.”
“If you insist.” Connor holds out the gun, indicating it's fair game, yet whipping it back quickly as Stephen moves his off hand to take it. “Oooh, actually no, I don't think so. Broken arm ring a bell? That's why I get the gun – you can't shoot worth shit with your left.”
Stephen is about to say something back, and he's sure it'd have been a witty retort good enough to make Connor pout adorably but he's put off by what Connor does next. He looks directly at Stephen, a strange confidence exuding from him, straightens his arm out in front of his body and fires. Just like in the movies, that's probably what Connor was thinking - except the recoil makes him stumble and flail for a hold on the back of the jeep. Once he's okay, Connor looks where Stephen is peering amazedly, at the slumped body of the greatly oversized pterosaur that was getting rapidly smaller as they continued driving on.
“Lucky shot,” says Stephen patting him on the back and turning round to tell Nick in the front.
Naturally it's never over when you think it is – just then the top of the roof catches fire. Surely someone ought to have been able to tell they could breath fire!?
Connor mumbles something about a Boss fight and Stephen simply groans. Why can't it ever be simple?
Sometime later they find themselves alone, drudging along a dirt track until the unexpected appearance of these other people. The strangers stared at them, taking in the sight of two shirtless muddy men. Stephen would have found it hard enough to explain under the usual unusual circumstances. It was getting to the point where he'd happily blame the “Dragons” for all the good that'd do, except he'd never had a wonderful vocabulary in the local language.
Maybe it was the already bizarre circumstances that spurred fate on, or he could have been hallucinating after the fall from the Jeep. Either way he hadn't expected Connor to step forward, wearing only the miraculously surviving Chicago-style grey hat and, ironically, Dungeons and Dragons boxers, and begin an amiable conversation in fluent French with a middle-aged couple. He was stunned.
A few minutes later, Connor was tugging at his arm, meeting resistance. Given the spectacular continuance of his earlier successes, Stephen had honestly expected Connor to have prefaced that exchange with some kind of boast. Connor seemed oblivious to any awe though. Bizarrely it was turning out to be a particularly fortunate day...at least intermittently.
“What you looking at me like that for?” asked Connor, obviously thinking he was ungrateful for the assistance.
“I...just...didn't know you could speak French that well.”
“Well, Stephen, there's lots of things you don't know about me still,” he said with a wink and a grin, before tugging again. This time he started moving but going slow so they were at a reasonable distance behind the couple, who kept looking back imploringly. Stephen didn't like to presume they knew no English.
“You're not the only French buff you know.”
Stephen glanced at Connor quizzically – he'd have hardly called his A at GCSE that impressive.
“I hacked the ARC databases,” he said proudly as they strolled. Realising how that sounded he was quick to add seriously, “For security purposes – testing them, unscheduled but still entirely” he motioned a wide sweep with his hands for emphasis, “ENTIRELY like legit.” Connor tapped the side of his nose indicating 'trust me'. It was less than a quarter of a minute later that found him swallowing and quietly explaining further, perhaps slightly guiltily. “Least, they understood perfectly fine once they knew it was me.”
Stephen let that one pass without comment. “So, where are going?”
“Back to their farmhouse – they have a shower.” Connor smiled in a rather dopey way, likely lost in thoughts of warmth for a few seconds, before realising that hadn't been enough information departed. “Oh and rifles! Did I mention they've got rifles?”
“Good to hear - and a shower sounds good too,” Stephen admitted. He did start to worry about the rapidly spreading grin on Connor's face once he'd said that. He raised an eyebrow.
“Showers can be fun too,” Connor said with a waggle of his own eyebrows.
“In your own home perhaps, but that is not polite and not sensible to do out in the middle of nowhere,” chided Stephen, wishing it wasn't so. Things had been fraught so far and he didn't like the idea of saying no. “And aren't you forgetting my broken arm?”
“I know exactly where we are, middle of a French forest, hunting wannabe dragons. Besides we'll make you a sling, I did a St. Johns First Aid course I'll have you know. And where's your famous sense of danger now, eh?”
Connor skipped on ahead, uncaring of how ridiculous he looked, giving Stephen a rather nice view. He both praised and cursed the temptations that came with this job. Perhaps for once they could leave the monster hunting be for a little while, presuming the monsters didn't find them in the meantime. They were probably arguably both in danger of hypothermia and in need of at least a while warming up...
In retrospect, Stephen wished he'd not thought any of that and wondered if there really was anything to jinxes. Fate had a mean sense of humour. The rifles were at least half a mile away from what Connor screamed to him and a brisk run for your life with Connor by his side had not been his desired method for beating the cold.
Still, he'd got to reprimand Connor plenty for his inappropriate suggestions during their week off as they were recuperating from the trauma of that odder than normal mission. Normal was overrated, danger at least meant you felt alive, could enjoy the thrills of surviving – like watching every single episode of your favourite cartoon.