I'll Get You There, Part 2
Title: I'll Get You There, part 2
Author: falco_conlon and worlddescending
Character/Pairing: John Connor/Marcus Wright. Includes most characters from TV and movie verse as well as some OCs as well.
Rating: NC-17 eventually
Warnings: Seeing as this is the Terminator 'verse, there is death, bad language and general unpleasantness. And m/m slash.
Summary: Welcome to the jungle / We take it day by day / If you want it you're gonna bleed / But it's the price you pay
Disclaimer: These characters belong to James Cameron, Josh Friedman and people who are not us. We are also poor. Please don't sue.
Author Notes: This started out as a discussion of PORN. Then came the plot. 30K words later, and we're both awed by the epic. We cherry-picked what we wanted from all over the place here, bringing in movie and TV verse as well as hearts_andminds 'verse.
Part 1
There was a big victory outside of Sacramento. Big. Skynet bombed out. It tasted sweet. The rest of the troops were headed back to base, but John was staying behind to do some more recon; there were always things to be learned. Kyle had stayed back. Bedell was on his way back. Marcus stayed with John. He was useful.
The baby was born, a girl with Kate's eyes.
John wasn't thinking of them. He was looking over the blueprints. What might he have missed?
"Congratulations." Marcus voice was as gruff as ever. His face was stained with soot and blood, and the M16 was slung across his back. "I was thinking," he said, pushing away from the fallen beam he was leaning against, "there might be something inside for this." He held up his hand, gloved, but underneath, exposed Coltan. They hadn't been able to find the right technology to trigger the regeneration of muscle and skin. It made Marcus miss Data.
That got John to look up, at Marcus's hand, at his face. "You want something?"
If Marcus remembered the village, he knew what John's reaction would be. It didn't change, hadn't changed in twenty years.
He gestured for Marcus to come closer, to look at the blueprints too. Where?
He crossed the debris scattered floor and searched for a second, before pointing to the far east section of the compound. "Here," he said, gloved finger pressed to the blueprints. "There were access tunnels leading to a lab that was far enough away it could have been missed by the explosion." Leaned over the blueprint like this and their heads were close, conspirators.
When John turned his head, he could smell the salt on Marcus's skin. And the blood. "You want to go, we go now." We. They would go together.
He stepped back and reached up to wipe a spot of blood off his forehead. There was a bullet in his arm, lodged in the Coltan, and the splatter had hit his face. "Then we go now."
They were both covered in filth and there would be no showers. Shouldering his own rifle, guns in his belt and extra ammunition, John rolled up the blueprints and held them. With a nod, he headed for the far east section.
The area had been swept, but that didn't mean it was safe. It was dark and hot, steam still coming from the machinery as they made their way through.
The rifle was in his hands, but Marcus was at ease. Ears were open, eyes were open. Whatever machines that were left after the blast had left to regroup elsewhere. "How's the baby."
For some reason, the question caught John off-guard. "Good. Eating." There had been some time when the baby wouldn't latch; there was no milk for bottles. It had been scary. But then she did. "Eight pounds, seven ounces." Through what looked like a assembly plant, wide open and oddly silent. It reminded John of Uncle Bob. Nothing left behind. The baby's name was Sarah. He and Kate had fought about that.
They fought a lot these days.
"And how's Kate." Because everyone could hear them fight. And John and Marcus hadn't talked about the kiss the day Kyle got separated. In fact, they barely talked at all anymore. The basics. Kyle had commented on the fact that Marcus and John didn't fight like they used to. They'd gone quiet.
Slanting Marcus a look, John just said, "fine." He pointed to the right. The blueprints said that way. "Blair?" Weren't they polite.
"She's the same," he said, "but I think the mystery is starting to wear off." She'd been fascinated by the machine in him, attracted to it, but it was starting to get to her that he couldn't take the glove off when they fucked. He'd said he didn't mind, but she'd blanched at the idea of cold metal on bare skin.
John glanced at his hand again. He should express sympathy. He couldn't.
The assembly plant gave way to hallways, offices. At the end of the third hallway was the lab, the door closed tight. Another look to Marcus; the door might be rigged. Approach with care.
Marcus shouldered the rifle again, gave John a nod, and hit the door hard with his bulk twice before it swung open. A lab. Tech, cultures in petri dishes. Abandoned. "Look," he said slowly as he stepped inside and started pacing through the lab tables, "I was thinking of asking you for a transfer."
He brought it up at this moment? John was going through the drawers, for files, for anything, gesturing for Marcus to go to the cold storage. "Are you unhappy, Wright?"
"You're unapproachable, Connor," he said, "I can't talk to you anymore. You know it."
Stopping, John looked up at over at him, one eyebrow arching. "What do you want to talk about?" A heart-to-heart in the middle of a Skynet facility. It seemed fitting.
It was the only time they were ever alone, is when they went on these things, these missions that John created for himself that only Marcus could afford to join him on, or, like in this case, when Marcus created them, because he needed to talk to the man. "The fact that two months ago we were about to fuck in your quarters, but we haven't talked about it since."
Oh, that.
Something crossed over John's face and he closed the drawer he was rifling through quietly, and stood upright. There was no one here. No one to walk in. No one to find them. Any marks would be chalked up to battle scars.
Yes, John had thought about that.
He thought about a lot of things. John Connor never forgets Cameron had said, once.
Coming around the cabinet, John moved toward Marcus, into his personal space. "What do you want to talk about?"
Marcus went still for a second before reaching up, cupping the back of John's head in one large hand and covering Connor's mouth with his. The kiss was less frantic than the one two months ago, but there was still the same biting taste.
This isn't talking, John could say, the corners of his mouth even curling up some into the kiss. He cupped Marcus's head too, short cropped hair between his fingers. Without looking, he found Marcus's gloved hand and pulled the glove away, letting it fall to the floor. Then he kissed Marcus harder, feeling stubble not his own scraping him.
The exposed hand curled in the back of John's jacket and they were pressed chest to chest. The hand at the back of his head stroked, rather than clutched, and he was tugging at John's lips. This wasn't something he'd ever imagined would happen. He was straight, always had been, had never felt anything for another man, certainly not like this. But he wanted Connor badly, wanted to see what his skin felt like, what his mouth felt like, how he looked when someone was making him come. The thought was enough to pull a possessive growl from deep in his chest, and then he was pushing John back against the nearest counter, knocking a test tube rack to the floor with a crash.
That smirk was back. Maybe it was the opposite for John. Aside from Cameron, really, and Kate (to a lesser degree), he wasn't. Straight. He didn't say 'careful,' instead pushing at Marcus's jacket, pulling at his shirt. "I cut you open," he said instead. "I wanted you, then."
That earned him a short moan, but Marcus laughed, the sound thick with lust. "Too bad you were seventeen." Marcus flicked the safety one handed on the M16, slid the strap off his shoulder and both the rifle and his jacket hit the floor. "I don't do jail bait." Except that Connor was older than him now.
Older, but some things didn't change. John could feel the metal in his back and it just added to how hard he was. He pulled off Marcus's shirt. There were some small wounds from the fight and there was metal there, too. He touched it, and what he felt, he knew, wasn't right. But he didn't care, kissing Marcus again, hands roaming, inventorying, touching.
His arm was still weeping blood, but he didn't feel the sting of the bullet. One hand was still holding John's mouth to his, but the other slipped up under his shirt in turn, pushing it up as it roamed further. "I should have known," he said when he broke the kiss to get the cloth out of his way, continuing when they were both standing shirtless in a half bombed out lab, the lights dim and the wrong color for human eyes. Marcus, of course, could see fine. "I should have known the metal turned you on."
There was no point in answering that. Marcus's metal hand was cold against his skin and John's mouth was already kiss-swollen, sensitive. He reached between them for Marcus's belt, flipping it open, pulling at the fly of his pants again, but this time there would be no one to stop them. The setting seemed appropriate.
What he felt in his hand, then, wasn't metal though, but warm, hard flesh that he wrapped his hand around and pulled. "You still want that transfer?" He asked, right before sucked a mark into the skin over Marcus's collarbone.
"Not as this moment, no," he said, his grip tightening when John's hand found his cock. "Just a ploy, anyway," he said, breath coming just a little quicker, "to get this started again." He could never leave Kyle. Not for anything.
Yeah, John knew that. (And maybe he was jealous of such dedication to Kyle. Kyle, who couldn't know. Maybe.) He stroked again. Angling his chin up, he whispered right into Marcus's ear. "What do you want?"
"I want to fuck you," he said, the metal hand shifting restlessly against John's cropped hair. "I want to bend you over this desk and fuck your ass."
The heat that shifted through John's body was enough to leave him winded. He leaned back. Insubordinate; he smirked. He didn't care. He never did care. As he looked into Marcus's eyes in the gloom, he let go of Marcus's cock and reached for his own belt instead, pulling it open, and getting his fly open, then, pushing his pants and boxers down. They both had boots on; pants weren't coming off, just down. And he turned around, bending over the desk.
Marcus could kill him now, easily.
But then he wouldn't get to fuck him, would he. He smoothed his good hand up John's back, the other on one muscled ass cheek. The hand slid further up until he could latch onto the back of John's neck. Then, "spit." He held his hand in front of Connor's face, stepping close enough so that his cock was pressed to the crease of his ass, sliding just a little against the smooth skin.
Marcus didn't have saliva? This was going to hurt. Two thoughts right in a row. John spat, smirking, still, then he turned to look over his shoulder at the other man. Part of him was tempted to ask for the metal. But then better sense prevailed; he stayed silent.
He did, but he liked it better this way. He stroked himself with the slick hand before spitting in his palm himself and slicking John's entrance as well. He worked those fingers in, the metal spreading him, and they twisted, bent. Marcus' hips were still rocking slightly, sliding against Connor's ass as he worked the man loose. There was a hum of computers in the room still. Some separate power source from the transformers they blew up to take the place out, but both men were quiet except for the sound of breathing.
Both hands gripping the table edge, John had his eyes screwed tight and he was totally and completely focused on the -- the metal in his body. It was cold; it never got warm. When it hit those nerve endings inside him, he bucked, hissing. His cock was impossibly hard, jerking against his thigh. John Connor was turned on, possibly more than he'd ever been ever in his life.
"God, Connor," Marcus said roughly, "you really do like it, don't you." He bent his fingers again, pulsing them against the soft swell deep inside the other man. "Don't hold those moans back for my sake." No one to hear them. They could be as loud as they wanted.
It wasn't in John to be loud. He'd never been loud. Maybe it was the village, having to be quiet when Derek fucked him and Cameron was next door or maybe it was always keeping secrets. John wasn't loud. He wanted to hate Marcus for being a prick. He wanted to beg for more. He kept silent, but for a groan when that Coltan hit his prostate again and he jerked, back arching.
Marcus removed the hand and pushed forward, leaning down over the man and bracing that metal hand on the lab bench next to his head. It only took one strong thrust of his hips and he was hilt deep, the air leaving him as he felt muscle mold around him, felt John's body clench. Metal, fucking John Connor. How perfect.
Ironic, one could argue.
John did cry out when Marcus fucked into him. Too much, too tight, too hard. "Oh, you fucking asshole." God. It took a second before he could even catch his breath, and when he did, he pushed back against Marcus's hips. Move!
"Likes the metal," he murmured in John's ear as his hips began to piston into him, hitting him hard each time, "and likes it rough. We've got a bright future, Connor."
There was no way John could respond to that, verbally. He braced himself on the table, feet far apart, toes curled inside his boots. It was a good guess on Marcus's part, the rough thing. Lucky guess. After a minute, he let go with one hand to fist over his cock, face contorted with the vicious pleasure of it.
"Fuck you feel fucking incredible." Marcus stayed close, enjoying this in a way he hadn't thought. Initially, fucking John might have been about power, about proving how much bigger and stronger he was, but in the end John was a warm body. Marcus liked John. Respected him, even. And now he'd pressed his forehead to the back of his neck, his hands softening on the man's hips, pumping into him smoothly.
The change of rhythm, of pressure, coaxed a groan from John as he reached back with his free hand, fingers running along skin that was warm. Fuck, it'd been ... so long, since he'd done this. Twenty years. He'd nearly forgotten how good it was. His cheek was against the table, eyes still closed. "Yes," he whispered. Oh, God, yes.
He kissed over the top of his spine, the back of his shoulders. His fingers curled against John's hip, flesh against flesh, and the other hand curled against the table, metal on metal. He was panting as he moved, the sound soft and rhythmic, and he angled up, trying to brush his prostate on each thrust. "Fuck...John..." his voice equally soft, too caught up in this to be surprised at how gentle they were being.
When he found the right angle, the sounds John made got higher, tighter, and he wasn't a soldier in this moment, he was a man, intimately linked with another man. This, no matter the where, was right. "Christ, Marcus," he groaned out, hand moving on himself more tightly. "Oh... Christ."
Marcus gripped the back of his head, turning it, lifting him slightly off the lab bench so he could kiss him. John's mouth was hot, lips pink and swollen from previous kisses. Marcus wanted the tangle of tongues, the wet slide and the bite of teeth. Each push of his hips coiled the heat in his groin tighter and tighter and he was still panting, even as his kissed John.
The angle was bad, John's neck already ached, but he held on, kissed Marcus back, just as wanting. Something to make this matter, to cement it. Marcus was the perfect mix. Metal and very real, very human, man whose control was slipping too. A few more pulls at his cock, right at that sensitive part right under the head, and John came, his vision behind his eyes going white as he shuddered, body clenching around the invasion.
"Nnnyes..." Marcus let his mouth go, John's body straining underneath him. He was clenching in pulses around Marcus' cock as he came, muscle spasming, and it triggered his own orgasm. He spilled himself deep, keeping himself pressed in with his hips flush with John's ass. It felt too good. He gasped as the tension left his body, only just managing to catch himself before he collapsed on top of Connor completely.
It was back to that silence, the hum of machinery and two men breathing for a long time. When John finally did push Marcus off, out of him, it wasn't far. Just enough so he could turn around, so they could look at each other face to face, sated, with their pants around their ankles. Another kiss then, slowly, but just as deep. Just like when he was seventeen, John licked over his lower lip when they separated. "You find what you were looking for? Wright?" He asked.
"Yeah," he said with a nod, "even if I don't remember why we came in the first place..." his arm had settled around John's waist, not wanting him to go far.
Taking Marcus's exposed hand, John held it in his between them. "We might be able to fix this, if you want. And we need to get the bullet out." The lab was good place to do that. The latter definitely, the former, only if Marcus wanted.
"I don't know," he said, looking the hand over, "I might kind of like it." He met the other man's eyes. "It's a good reminder."
The corner of his mouth turned up as John felt that wave of heat rush through him. "We'll get the bullet out, then. Head back." Back to base. Back to Kate (and Blair). He kissed Marcus again. A promise.
Marcus didn't let him pull away from the kiss so quickly. He smiled, a rare expression, against his mouth. This was the first time since Allison that Marcus had actually felt comfortable with another person like this. Talking to Kyle was one thing, and he'd told the boy everything. But he wasn't sleeping with Kyle, and it was different. Blair...he couldn't tell Blair much.
It was like John was seventeen again and Marcus was ... however old Marcus was and always would be. It was, except for the setting, like they were back in the village, and John felt a pang in his chest. Things would be be explained. Worked out. Somehow. They had to be.
In another minute, he pulled away a bit more, pulling his pants up to hunt for some tweezers. He got Marcus to sit and got a stool, pulling his wounded arm up so he could fish the bullet out. Deja vu, all over again. He smiled.
"It's strange," Marcus said, quietly, sitting once he'd got his pants up again, not bothering to do them up. "I remember it all perfectly. It's like it never happened, but it's all..." he reached up and tapped his temple, "recorded. Like video."
"For a long time, I didn't remember, but I would have these dreams," John answered, bent low, peering into the wound before dipping the tweezers in. "Then one day, it was like it was all just ... back." A glance up at Marcus. "I keep waiting to find Derek. He has to be here, somewhere."
Marcus was quiet for a long time. "I'm sorry." He tensed at the tweezers, but his pain threshold went up each time he got wounded. It worried him sometimes, that he barely felt these things anymore. "You're going to have to pry it out. It got lodged in the Coltan."
Tweezers weren't going to cut it. Pliers were what was needed. Those were in a drawer, too, and John reached in again, getting the round and giving Marcus an apologetic look before pulling. And just like twenty years before, he moaned as well, as the metal casing came free and he held it up. "What're you sorry for?" There was a cloudiness to his eyes that took a moment to clear.
Marcus was watching him intently. "You've lost more family," he said, "and...I'm sorry I didn't keep a better eye on Kyle that night. I should have been more careful."
"Everybody dies for me." John's smirk was wry, dark. "I know how Bedell dies, in one universe already. But you." The bullet lands on the metal table with a clatter as he meets Marcus's eyes again. "Except you. You... might not die."
"Oh, trust me Connor," he said, his hand coming up to cradle his head again. "If I die, it's not going to be for you."
There is an odd kind of peace that came with that statement. John leaned in and pressed his mouth to Marcus's again and this time, he could taste something of himself on the other man's tongue.
"Come on," Marcus said once the kiss broke again, "we should get back."
With a nod, John stood. They dressed again, arming their weapons. There were no machines to be found on their way out. There wasn't anything. The plant was dead.
++++++
Marcus wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten here. Here, of course, was in a remote bunker in Northern California, curled in a pile of old blankets and pillows with John Connor, both in various states of undress. The sweat on his body was cooling quickly, sending a chill over him, and he dragged the other man just a little bit closer. They were far from headquarters, and even though Star and Kyle were sleeping just a few rooms down, Marcus figured they had plenty of time for this, quiet companionship, the hard muscle of Connor's body half draped over his.
Any kind of time was taken, utilized, savored. There was an ache in John's body and he had Marcus's exposed hand, looking at it (truthfully, fondling it), running the metal along his fingers. It was rare he felt this kind of peace. He was in no hurry to move. They were here one or two more days before going back to base. Small victories. A step forward for every step back. Nevermind that. Peace. His palm, his fingers were pressed flat to the Coltan hand. They were nearly the same size.
"What is it?" Marcus asked, reluctant to break the silence, but confident that it was an all right question to ask, "about it that's so fascinating to you?"
"I don't know." It was an honest answer, too, unguarded, John's voice soft, not barking orders. "It shouldn't be there. This should be bone. But it's not. It's almost indestructible and ... " He bent one of Marcus's fingers. "It's genius. Put skin over it, and no one knows." Turning, he looked into Marcus's face. "It's ... perfect."
It's cold. That's good, right?
That's perfect.
"Too bad it wants to kill you," Marcus said quietly, curling the hand into a fist. "Not this specifically, but in general." Marcus cocked his head to the side, looking vaguely concerned, but leaned in to kiss him, noses brushing, tugging at his lower lip.
"In general, yeah." And John grinned. This was simply a fact of John's life. The sun rose, and set (somewhere) and machines wanted John Connor dead. He closed his eyes into the kiss, letting himself get lost there, just for the moment. Savoring.
There was the screech of a metal door being pushed open and they moved, fast, instinctive like always, and even naked but for the unbuttoned shirt around his shoulders, he pointed his gun.
"You're in my territory," came the voice and in walked Derek Reese.
John's gun wavered.
"Jesus Christ." Marcus, whose pants were half on, rolled to his feet, putting himself in front of John, as he usually did. See, Marcus could take bullets. John Connor couldn't. "Reese." They'd both begun to think that Derek didn't exist in this world. Kyle never talked about him, and Marcus was afraid to ask, not wanting to cause the kid more pain.
"Yeah?" Derek's eyes moved between them both. "I don't know you."
Jesus Christ, he was mostly naked, but John seemed unable to move. "John. Connor. Derek?"
"Good for you, you know my name. Connor, huh? I've heard of you." Derek's eyes moved to the other. "And you?"
"Wright," he said, keeping his eyes on the newcomer, "Marcus Wright. What the hell do you mean, in your territory. Didn't know there were boundaries."
"I'm responsible for this area, from I-10 to Sacramento and you're here. Any missions should've been run by me and you didn't run them by me. But you succeeded, I see. So." Derek's eyes flicked down, and back up. "We can talk. When you're dressed."
"Kyle." John said, still staring. "Kyle is with us."
Nearly out the door, Derek turned back around. "... Kyle. Is with you."
John nodded.
"Get dressed. I'll be outside."
Marcus turned when Derek disappeared, the shock clear in his eyes while the rest of his face remained impassive. "What do you wanna do?" he asked quietly.
"Maybe it's a trap." John had to consider this. "It might be a machine." On the other side of the door. A trap. Derek! Who didn't know who John was but for his name. Christ. He found his pants, got dressed, shouldered his gun before he looked at Marcus again. "Ready?"
Marcus hefted his own rifle once he was dressed, the glove back in place. "I'm going first, Connor." As usual, even though Marcus often had to remind him. He flicked the safety off the M16, shook his head clear, and pushed out into the hall.
About twenty rifles were trained on them. John recognized almost all of them as the kind of rifles that could tear Marcus's head off. Just like Derek had taught him. It was his turn to step in front. "I am John Connor. We are here to fight Skynet."
"Of course you are. With a machine." Naked. Derek's face said that, if he didn't verbalize it. "John Connor fights against machines, not with them."
"We have Kyle. He can vouch for us, if you don't believe us." John's voice was as even as he could make it. If Derek didn't know him? Didn't believe him? Maybe he'd believe Kyle. His chest felt too tight.
"This gun?" Derek nodded toward one of the rifles pointed at Marcus specifically. "Will shear your head from your body. If you have Kyle? Get him."
John turned, meeting Marcus's gaze in an instant. Don't move. He put his own guns down and his hands up, and he went to get Kyle.
"Kind of a show off," Marcus said easily as he handed his M16 over, "aren't you." He didn't take his eyes from Derek, tracking. Always tracking. Recording.
"Pragmatic. I like my head where it is." Derek kicks the rifle away. He barely blinked.
"I'm not about to go twisting heads off," Marcus assured him with a wry smile, "not in my spare time, anyway."
"Derek?" Kyle's voice rang down the hallway and the young man came jogging toward them, pushing his way through the circle of men around Marcus. He placed himself in front of the ex-con, hands up and eyes worried. "Derek..."
Marcus took a step back, head ducked. If they really were brothers, than this was a reunion that was a long time coming. He glanced up at John, brow furrowed.
"Kyle." For a moment, everyone saw the mask slip from Derek's face. He gave Marcus one more glance and then focused on Kyle, searching the boy's face. "You know this thing?"
"He's not a thing, Derek, he's a man. He's saved my life. He got me out of Skynet HQ. He protects John Connor." Marcus was still watching John. "Trust me Derek. C'mon." Kyle was searching his brother's face, all at once ecstatic and terrified. Down the hall, Star was standing behind John, looking alarmed at the number of people pointing guns at Marcus. "C'mon, Derek," he said again, "it's me."
John reached back for Star, so she could take his hand as Derek looked at Kyle unblinking.
"I lost you. In Topanga Canyon. I came back but you were gone." His jaw worked. "What did I teach you when we were kids." Never trust. Test. Always.
"Baseball, Derek, don't be an asshole." Kyle stepped forward and put his hands on Derek's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I had to move. They were coming hard and...by the time I could afford to wait around there were a hundred miles between us." Kyle gave him a shake. "Derek. That's John Connor over there. This is Marcus Wright."
"And John Connor saved a lot of your men's lives today," Marcus pointed out, "in case you'd forgotten in the rush of the threatening me." Kyle sent him a look and Marcus shrugged.
Another moment passed, another icy look at Marcus and Derek stepped closer still, his hands coming up to Kyle's shoulders. "Fuck, I thought I'd lost you." And with that, the Reese boys were reunited. John was blinking, hard, jaw firm, as Derek hugged Kyle, tight.
After a few minutes, the troops were dismissed and John found himself at a table with Derek, Kyle, Marcus and Star, boiled water in front of them and something Derek was calling cowboys breakfast. Stale breakfast cereal in baby food.
It was the most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted in his life. And that was saying a lot.
"You took them out here." Derek pointed to the map. "We took them out here. That leaves this area." He circled his finger.
"We can surround them," John answered, looking at the map. "If there are buildings there, we move, set up points to attack, and go."
Marcus was distracted, watching the two of them work. There was something like anxiety building in his gut, and he didn't know why. But it was John, and the way he watched the elder Reese, still John Connor, but hanging on Derek's every word. He would let them plan, let them decide. It had never been his strong point. He hadn't touched the food either, which wasn't unusual for him. But he could feel Star and Kyle watching him carefully. "Couldn't be that many left," was all he added, "the compound we took out was small."
"Of course they're small," Derek didn't bother looking at Marcus. "We've been doing our job." Back to the map. "Here and here are buildings. Here and here. Here." Each was marked with an 'x.' "Move into position tonight?"
Here, John was older than Derek. Time was folding into itself. This is when they meet, then. His fortieth birthday was coming. Derek was there for that, he told John. After they sent Kyle back. His own stomach felt heavy. Kyle already had the picture (and didn't John feel like shit doing that). "Tonight," he agreed. He needed to get Derek alone. See if he remembered anything. Anything at all.
He didn't and he got tired of John asking about someplace called Haurvatat. Sir.
John was crouched in the bombed out building, watching for HKs and he could feel Marcus next to him. "Say whatever it is you're going to say," he told him. "You're ... hovering."
"What happened between you two in the village," Marcus asked without looking at him.
There was a beat before John answered and when he did, it was quiet, almost defeated. Maybe he sounded a little like he was seventeen again. "We were lovers." He looked over at Marcus's profile. It wouldn't take much to put two and two together.
"Your...uncle," he said slowly, still looking out at the sky, everything back lit by the compound that was still burning. Everything was burning these days, it seemed. The entire world was on fire. "But he doesn't remember the village."
"No, he doesn't." And he might or might not later. "Shit." Whatever he was going to say was set aside. The battle was on.
Six hours later had John hissing at Marcus, "easy!" No matter how often he did it, getting stitches without anesthetic hurt like a bitch. "Are you judging me now?"
"For fucking your uncle?" he asked as he sewed up the gash in Connor's leg. "Maybe a little." Marcus paused in the stitching and put his hands down, looking up at Connor. "But I get it. Even if it's..." he shook his head and went back to work. And maybe he was a little jealous, but that was beside the point. Marcus shrugged. "It's none of my business."
"For the record, he fucked me. Ouch." John gritted his teeth. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"
Marcus tied the thread off and wiped the needle on his pants before tucking it away again. "And if he shows up one day, and does remember, like I did. What then, Connor?" He sat back on his heels, crouched in front of the other man, looking up at him.
"I have to send him back," John said by way of answer. "If he remembers," if, "then it might be when he's sent back." Even as they fought, there were techs back at base trying to beat Skynet to the punch the technology for time travel. They might even be able to keep from sending Kyle back, though John doubted it.
"But if he remembers," he said, "and he's still here. Now." The truth was, Marcus didn't really want him to answer that, because he was fairly certain he knew what the reality was, even if he didn't think John would answer honestly. "Then what?" Because despite the fact that they never talked about it, they were fucking. A lot. Like bunnies, some people would say. Except that no one knew.
No one knew and no one would know. That much had never changed. John was used to it, even if Kate and he were living together for appearance sake and nothing else. He watched Marcus's face. "I guess I'll deal with that, then." No we, then. Just I.
"What the hell does that mean?" he asked, finally shifting to look at him.
"What would you do, Wright?" John all but rolled his eyes. "This is my issue, not yours."
Marcus pushed to his feet and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands clean on the blood. "Fine. You'll deal with it, then. Forget I said anything."
"Christ. What -- Marcus, wait." It wasn't like John was going to be chasing after him. "What do you want me to say? He doesn't remember. There's no point in getting ... in ... in being a kid about this."
"Being a kid?" Marcus looked a bit incredulous, but shook his head, holding a hand up before turning away. "Forget about it Connor. Get some rest." They were leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning, as soon as it was light enough to see. Machines had the advantage at night, but in the sunlight, things were fairly even. Not that it mattered to Marcus. He could see fine in the dark.
"I was talking about me!" John called after him and flopped to his back. Fuck it. Fuck it all. His leg was throbbing and he put his arm over his eyes.
+++++++
Kyle was gone and there was nothing Marcus could do about it. It wasn't that he was pissed that Connor had sent him back, more that he was pissed that he'd sent him back when there wasn't really a way for him to get home. Not yet, anyway. They were still working on it, but this mission was urgent. Kyle had insisted. Marcus had done his best to convince the kid to refuse, but he was older now, not so easy to influence. The night he'd gone, Marcus hadn't left his quarters. He wouldn't have been able to look John in the face. They hadn't done much talking, or much anything, since finding Derek up North and reuniting the two brothers. Marcus had actually thought about seeking Derek out. The man didn't like him at all, but Kyle's trust had meant that Derek at least accepted the fact that Marcus was solidly on their side.
He left his room with his expression still storm cloud dark. People passing the other way in the tunnel stepped aside and watched him pass as he made his way to Derek's quarters, but a conversation between two young soldiers caught his ear.
"...never coming back and he knows it," one was saying to his friend. The friend nodded.
"You heard he keeps bothering the technicians, asking when Reese will be able to come back? Reese is good as dead."
They, clearly, had forgotten that Marcus' hearing was better than most. The last word had barely gotten out of the kid's mouth before Marcus had him on the ground, knee in his stomach and fist connecting with his face. It wasn't something he was prone to so much anymore, violent outbursts. Or at least, not on humans, but every so often he made it very obvious why he'd been locked up on death row.
People swarmed in immediately, pulling at him, to little avail. John was fetched, pushing through, just as Derek did. They both yanked at Marcus, amid all the shouting. "Stop it!" John shouted right in his ear. "Stop it!"
It wasn't working. Of course it wasn't working. Marcus was too strong. It took a rifle butt to the back of his skull. John pushed Derek away. This wasn't his issue. The whole time, from the corner, Star watched with dark, sad eyes.
When Marcus woke up, he was chained to a chair again. John was sitting in the only other furniture in the room, a straight back chair, slouched low, ankles crossed. He was asleep.
He started and the chains rattled, alarming him even more. He shot upright and his head spun. Marcus slumped back against the chair and closed his eyes. He could feel the blood caking at the back of his head. The glove was gone and he wasn't quite sure how that could have happened without some one deliberately taking it off, as if to prove a point.
When the chains rattled, John awoke with a start, rubbing over his face before he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He just looked at Marcus. "What was that all about? Making everyone distrust you?"
"I got angry," he said distractedly, looking down at the iron cuffs around his wrists. "Would have done the same without the metal."
"And been in the same situation." To John, Marcus being a machine was a kink. It wasn't who Marcus was. (And yes, he knew that was weird.) "What got you mad?"
"Fucking kid," he said snarling and tugging on the chains, "talking about Kyle like he was dead, like he was never coming back. Are you just going to sit there and leave me like this?"
They were locked in, by John's orders. After a moment, he walked over, behind Marcus and unlocked the chain. The irony didn't escape him. Here they were, back like this. He came back around, pulling his chair around and straddled it backward. "Kyle can't come back, Marcus."
Marcus rubbed at his wrists. "Yet, Connor. It's the only reason I didn't break your neck for doing it. They'll figure out a way."
Looking down, John didn't speak. Marcus was quick; he didn't need to say anything.
When John remained silent, Marcus looked up at him. "Connor." His stomach was beginning to twist unpleasantly. "Connor!"
Another moment, and John got up, pounded on the door and asked for something. He was handed a tape recorder and the door was locked back as he came back. He sat again, and hit "play."
What should I tell you about your father...?
Over the voice, the voice of one Sarah Connor, John said, "Kyle Reese is sent back to 1984 to protect Sarah Connor from a T-800. They have one night together, then Kyle dies, defending my mother before the Terminator is destroyed." His eyes were dark, unfathomably sad as he looked over at Marcus. "Everyone dies for me."
Marcus had gone still, watching the old tape player. John's voice sounded faint, as though coming from very, very far away. Sarah's voice was an eerie chorus in the dank room. Marcus blinked. "You knew this," he said stiffly, "and you still sent him back?"
"You said it yourself, Wright. If I don't, I 'blip out of existence.' It has to be done. I didn't have a choice." John clicks off the recorder and sets it aside, his head down.
"You don't have a choice?" he asked, voice rising steadily, "you don't have a choice? Everyone dies for you, Connor, and you think you don't have a choice?" He lunged forward and caught the other man by the shoulders, shaking him. "You fucking murdered him! You murdered him!"
"Marcus, stop it." John's voice was firm. Honestly, he deserved this. "Stop it, Marcus! What would you have me do?! What should I have done, huh, Marcus?! My mother dies, I'm never born, what then, Marcus?! WHAT THEN?!" His voice was hoarse as he shouted back. "They'll come in here and hit you again, if you don't get yourself under control!"
Marcus' eyes were gleaming, but he was too angry to cry. "I'd take it," he said hoarsely, "if it meant keeping him and losing you. You fucking bastard." But he was clinging to John now, not shaking or grabbing, and he knew that if he thought about it too closely, he would collapse. "You fucking bastard, I promised him. I promised him."
"He wanted to go," John said, but it was a whisper. He'd been manipulating the boy for months now and he hated it. Hated it. His arms came around Marcus's neck and he pulled him as close as he could. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
It was on the second sorry that Marcus' knees gave out and he sank to the floor, bringing John with him. He couldn't speak. If he did, he'd sob, and he didn't know what actually crying would open up in him, he didn't know how he would ever be able to stop.
"Marcus, I'm sorry." John had his arms around Marcus's shoulders and he shifted to where his head was on his shoulder and he kissed the bare skin of his neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered over and over again, his own eyes red-rimmed and cloudy.
"He can't be dead," he moaned, sinking lower, as though he just didn't have any strength left. "He can't be dead." His fingers went slack in the back of John's shirt and the slid down his back slowly, the will to move bleeding out of him. "I let him down. I promised I wouldn't let anything happen. I promised."
So did John. So did Derek. Marcus didn't break his promise, John did. Marcus didn't kill Kyle, the Terminator did. John put him there to be killed, of course. John still held on, his arms shaking with the effort of the tight embrace. "You know you didn't. You didn't."
"No," he said quieter, sinking down and pulling away until he was bent forward, forehead to the dirty cement floor. "NO!" His fist came down hard and a crack ran quickly to the corner of the room. In the silence that followed, there was a knock on the door and a concerned lieutenant stuck his head in.
"Everything all right, sir?"
"Stay out unless I tell you otherwise!" Barked and the lieutenant backed out quickly and shut, and locked, the door.
Sitting crosslegged on the floor, John feels like his head was too heavy for his neck and his chin lands on his chest. Fuck, he was tired. Exhausted.
He never asked to be John Connor. Marcus asked him what choice he had. None. He never had a choice. Not once he was born. He ran a hand over the back of Marcus's head, resting it on his neck.
"John..." he said after a long silence, his voice hoarse with grief, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."
"Stay with me," came the answer. "Stay with me and fight. We took the communication grid down. The war's nearly over. Marcus...." John paused for a moment, then said, "I need you." Not we, I.
"You don't need me," he said dully, not looking up, "you've still got Derek." Maybe they could just switch him off. What use was he, in the end. More of a liability, than anything else.
Derek had been fighting with them for six months. He was a good fighter, strong. This wasn't John's Derek. "No, Marcus," he said again, quietly. "I need you. I --" It was hard to admit, to make oneself weak. "I ... need you. Please." Nearly a whisper, John's head still down, eyes up under heavy lids.
There was another long silence, but Marcus pushed up until he was kneeling in front of the other man, face drawn, looking just as tired as Connor. One hand came up to fist in the front of his shirt. "You didn't murder him," he said finally, "...even if you'd told him..." he choked and turned his head away for a moment, "even if you'd told him the truth, he would have still gone."
"I know." Low, dead. John did his job well, didn't he, painting his mother as a near-Madonna like creature. The fist in his shirt got him to his knees too and he didn't fight it anymore, falling into Marcus, kissing him hot and open and deep. Comfort of the basest kind.
"John," he said into his mouth after a long moment, sounding younger than thirty, even if he wasn't really that since he'd stopped aging, "John, I'm sorry."
At that, John shook his head. There was no place for sorry. Their world didn't allow for sorrys, even if he apologized so much himself. He pressed his hands to the sides of Marcus's face and held on, kissing him again. The door, the world was locked away. All there was was their pain and their ultimate fucked-up whatever it was between them. No apologies.
"Here?" Marcus asked as his hands returned to John's sides, sliding up under his shirt. It had been a while since they'd been together, but god did he want it.
John answered by way of pulling his shirt off, over his head. He'd left his guns outside. And he reached for Marcus's shirt. Now. Here.
Marcus let him get it off before his arms slid back around the man. His mouth found John's throat, seeking out a particular spot he liked, just behind his ear. He pushed a hand down the back of John's fatigues, nuzzling into him, a bit uncharacteristically, but appreciative, and affectionate.
It made John shiver, it made him want. Weak. The metal against his skin only made him weaker still, cock hard and throbbing between his legs. An arm still around Marcus's neck, his other he used to start to tug at his fly, pulling open his belt, the button, getting the zipper down.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, needing direction, needing someone to give him just the tiniest bit of structure because the news of Kyle's death was enough to shatter him into a million pieces. He'd never be able to put himself back together again, unless he got help.
Something sparked in John and he looked up, eyes clearing, and narrowing. "Lie back." His hand was in the middle of Marcus's chest. "Lie back." That way, he could pull Marcus's pants down, not away, but down (what was new?) and wrestle his own pants down, suck on two fingers and look at the other man as he reached down, palmed over his balls and circled the tight pucker he found back there.
His legs bent at the touch of slick fingers and Marcus shifted on the cold ground, back arching just a bit. He kept his head up, meeting John's eyes, the metal hand curled against the back of his head. That was what he needed, he realized, to be taken care of for a little bit. A strange sense of gratitude filled him as John touched him. It wouldn't be so strange. Connor was nearly as big as he was, even if he'd never weigh as much, but it wasn't disproportionate or anything. Besides, who wouldn't feel safe in John Connor's hands?
Ask Kyle Reese.
John shook that thought away and pushed a finger inside Marcus Wright, half-man, half-machine. He could feel the metal against his skin and it grounded him. The heat around his finger made his skin feel too tight, made his cock even harder. Somehow, for being John Connor, he'd always ended up a bottom. Except for today. He pushed the finger in, crooking it as he pulled it out, knowing what that did to him, wondering what it'd do to Marcus. What would he feel?
He felt a finger pulling at him, brushing at skin he hadn't known could be sensitive, and it made him jerk. His head thunked back against the floor and he closed his eyes, fingers curling hard against John's head. He wish he could get his boots and pants off, wanting his legs spread wider, but that had never been an option.
To make the whole world vanish for an hour, maybe two? That idea was a dream, but one that John had regularly. No, not an option. He leaned in, though, brushing his mouth against Marcus's, eyes open, as he pushed that finger in again. It was tantalizing and intimate and oddly clinical how he watched for reactions; not unlike when he was seventeen. I cut you open and I wanted you then. Some things didn't change.
One finger became two, twisted and spread.
"Fuck," he moaned, leaning up into the other man's mouth, but keeping his eyes squeezed shut tight, "John..." Connor would have him squirming, soon. It felt too good, quick rushes of heat every time John bent or twisted the digits. He licked into his mouth, breathing hard through his nose.
If he'd opened his eyes, he would've seen John smirk, dimple creasing one cheek. Power. Such power this was. Two fingers became three and that was enough; they never had enough time to linger. He pulled enough clothes away, spit-slicked himself and as he pushed in, he leaned down, tugging on Marcus's lower lip with his teeth, a distraction for them both. The heat - the heat - was intense, the tightness making him moan, low, growled, from his chest.
"Ahh!" Marcus had never bottomed before, and the pain was sharp, biting needles into his skin, but then John was pushed deep, filling him. He could feel his body mold around the other man, adjusted to the alien sensation, information flooding his brain. "God, yes, please. John." Iron bound arms wrapped around Connor, holding him close, clinging.
It was not something he'd felt before; Marcus holding so tightly, as if losing John might break him apart. So many people needed a John Connor, the John Connor, so few people needed John, the man. It made it harder for John to breathe, made his heart beat harder, made him lever up onto his elbows to thrust slowly, deeply, aware of the pain he might be causing, but need overrode it. He was weak.
Marcus would have argued that if he'd known John was thinking it. As it was, he could only feel John, only wanted to feel John. He moaned his name again, kissing over his jaw and throat. He'd never wanted anyone like this, at least, not since Allison, but it didn't matter because John was here now. The cement was cold and rough against his bare back, scraping, but fuck so good. His legs curled around John's hips.
The way Marcus said his name, the way his body held onto John's. Unlike a woman in so many ways. Better in so many ways. Hot and tight and the metal of Marcus's hand digging into his skin, all of it.
Is that what you want, John?! What are you?! We fight the metal, we don't -- Get out of my sight.
Kate, pushing John away, finally, for the last time, when he'd dared trying to explain something. Anything. Months ago, now.
His rhythm grew sloppy, uneven, faster. Oh, God, yes. This. This was what he wanted.
He was gasping into John's ear, whimpering, clawing at the back of his head. "John!" He didn't care how loud they were being. Derek knew. At a certain point, they should shift into that time where everyone knew, but no one said anything. "I'm-..." god he was close, cock twitching between them.
He was? There was a surge of something hot, like power, running down his spine, pooling there, urging John to fuck in harder, deeper. "Fuck, Marcus," he hissed out. "Fuck!" It felt too good, it felt too -- everything. It felt like the sound of skin against skin was ringing off the walls around them. "Come on!"
His moan echoed loudly. Marcus' back arched, pushing up off the floor as his head strained back. He was clawing at the man's back, moaning his name continuously as his body clenched and tensed around him. It wasn't long after that that he came, from John inside him alone, from the heat that having him, holding him, generated. Marcus spilled himself over his abdomen, grunting through clenched teeth.
"Oh, Christ," John gritted out. The clench alone took his breath away, made his heart feel like it was stopping. Add that to the metal he could feel biting into his back and a few erratic strokes later, he was coming too, hips stuttering through it before he let himself collapse over Marcus, face in his neck as he panted, one hand wrapped protectively, firmly, over the top of Marcus's head. "Fuck," he breathed out with something like awe.
His limbs felt like jelly, but he kept his arms around the other man, holding him against his chest as he gasped for air. "Can we not..." he said in between gasps, "wait such long stretches in between this time?"
The question made John laugh, a soft sound muffled by Marcus's skin. "Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, Wright?"
"What?" he asked, turning his head away, embarrassed, "no."
"It was a joke." Holding himself up on his elbows, John looked down at him, at his profile, as he felt himself go soft, start to slip out. Damn. "There's no one else. Just you."
Marcus looked up at him from the corner of his eye. "Well, the kid outside knows it's just me, anyway." If he hadn't run away already.
"What?" Oh. John shook his head. He didn't care, not really. "Just don't get all mushy on me, Wright," he teased, as he pulled his hips back and fell with a grunt to lie on his back next to Marcus, a dimple showing before he sobered and looked over. "You okay?"
He was quiet for a long minute, looking up at the ceiling. "No," he said finally, "I'm really not."
Between them, John found Marcus's hand and held it, their fingers lacing together. "Tomorrow, we go to Bakersfield." The fight was narrowing. They were close. They couldn't stop. "You up to it?"
"Yeah, you know I am." He lifted his hips and wriggled his pants back up, feeling just a bit sore, which he didn't mind.
"Okay."
So much for cuddling.
Continued here
Author: falco_conlon and worlddescending
Character/Pairing: John Connor/Marcus Wright. Includes most characters from TV and movie verse as well as some OCs as well.
Rating: NC-17 eventually
Warnings: Seeing as this is the Terminator 'verse, there is death, bad language and general unpleasantness. And m/m slash.
Summary: Welcome to the jungle / We take it day by day / If you want it you're gonna bleed / But it's the price you pay
Disclaimer: These characters belong to James Cameron, Josh Friedman and people who are not us. We are also poor. Please don't sue.
Author Notes: This started out as a discussion of PORN. Then came the plot. 30K words later, and we're both awed by the epic. We cherry-picked what we wanted from all over the place here, bringing in movie and TV verse as well as hearts_andminds 'verse.
Part 1
There was a big victory outside of Sacramento. Big. Skynet bombed out. It tasted sweet. The rest of the troops were headed back to base, but John was staying behind to do some more recon; there were always things to be learned. Kyle had stayed back. Bedell was on his way back. Marcus stayed with John. He was useful.
The baby was born, a girl with Kate's eyes.
John wasn't thinking of them. He was looking over the blueprints. What might he have missed?
"Congratulations." Marcus voice was as gruff as ever. His face was stained with soot and blood, and the M16 was slung across his back. "I was thinking," he said, pushing away from the fallen beam he was leaning against, "there might be something inside for this." He held up his hand, gloved, but underneath, exposed Coltan. They hadn't been able to find the right technology to trigger the regeneration of muscle and skin. It made Marcus miss Data.
That got John to look up, at Marcus's hand, at his face. "You want something?"
If Marcus remembered the village, he knew what John's reaction would be. It didn't change, hadn't changed in twenty years.
He gestured for Marcus to come closer, to look at the blueprints too. Where?
He crossed the debris scattered floor and searched for a second, before pointing to the far east section of the compound. "Here," he said, gloved finger pressed to the blueprints. "There were access tunnels leading to a lab that was far enough away it could have been missed by the explosion." Leaned over the blueprint like this and their heads were close, conspirators.
When John turned his head, he could smell the salt on Marcus's skin. And the blood. "You want to go, we go now." We. They would go together.
He stepped back and reached up to wipe a spot of blood off his forehead. There was a bullet in his arm, lodged in the Coltan, and the splatter had hit his face. "Then we go now."
They were both covered in filth and there would be no showers. Shouldering his own rifle, guns in his belt and extra ammunition, John rolled up the blueprints and held them. With a nod, he headed for the far east section.
The area had been swept, but that didn't mean it was safe. It was dark and hot, steam still coming from the machinery as they made their way through.
The rifle was in his hands, but Marcus was at ease. Ears were open, eyes were open. Whatever machines that were left after the blast had left to regroup elsewhere. "How's the baby."
For some reason, the question caught John off-guard. "Good. Eating." There had been some time when the baby wouldn't latch; there was no milk for bottles. It had been scary. But then she did. "Eight pounds, seven ounces." Through what looked like a assembly plant, wide open and oddly silent. It reminded John of Uncle Bob. Nothing left behind. The baby's name was Sarah. He and Kate had fought about that.
They fought a lot these days.
"And how's Kate." Because everyone could hear them fight. And John and Marcus hadn't talked about the kiss the day Kyle got separated. In fact, they barely talked at all anymore. The basics. Kyle had commented on the fact that Marcus and John didn't fight like they used to. They'd gone quiet.
Slanting Marcus a look, John just said, "fine." He pointed to the right. The blueprints said that way. "Blair?" Weren't they polite.
"She's the same," he said, "but I think the mystery is starting to wear off." She'd been fascinated by the machine in him, attracted to it, but it was starting to get to her that he couldn't take the glove off when they fucked. He'd said he didn't mind, but she'd blanched at the idea of cold metal on bare skin.
John glanced at his hand again. He should express sympathy. He couldn't.
The assembly plant gave way to hallways, offices. At the end of the third hallway was the lab, the door closed tight. Another look to Marcus; the door might be rigged. Approach with care.
Marcus shouldered the rifle again, gave John a nod, and hit the door hard with his bulk twice before it swung open. A lab. Tech, cultures in petri dishes. Abandoned. "Look," he said slowly as he stepped inside and started pacing through the lab tables, "I was thinking of asking you for a transfer."
He brought it up at this moment? John was going through the drawers, for files, for anything, gesturing for Marcus to go to the cold storage. "Are you unhappy, Wright?"
"You're unapproachable, Connor," he said, "I can't talk to you anymore. You know it."
Stopping, John looked up at over at him, one eyebrow arching. "What do you want to talk about?" A heart-to-heart in the middle of a Skynet facility. It seemed fitting.
It was the only time they were ever alone, is when they went on these things, these missions that John created for himself that only Marcus could afford to join him on, or, like in this case, when Marcus created them, because he needed to talk to the man. "The fact that two months ago we were about to fuck in your quarters, but we haven't talked about it since."
Oh, that.
Something crossed over John's face and he closed the drawer he was rifling through quietly, and stood upright. There was no one here. No one to walk in. No one to find them. Any marks would be chalked up to battle scars.
Yes, John had thought about that.
He thought about a lot of things. John Connor never forgets Cameron had said, once.
Coming around the cabinet, John moved toward Marcus, into his personal space. "What do you want to talk about?"
Marcus went still for a second before reaching up, cupping the back of John's head in one large hand and covering Connor's mouth with his. The kiss was less frantic than the one two months ago, but there was still the same biting taste.
This isn't talking, John could say, the corners of his mouth even curling up some into the kiss. He cupped Marcus's head too, short cropped hair between his fingers. Without looking, he found Marcus's gloved hand and pulled the glove away, letting it fall to the floor. Then he kissed Marcus harder, feeling stubble not his own scraping him.
The exposed hand curled in the back of John's jacket and they were pressed chest to chest. The hand at the back of his head stroked, rather than clutched, and he was tugging at John's lips. This wasn't something he'd ever imagined would happen. He was straight, always had been, had never felt anything for another man, certainly not like this. But he wanted Connor badly, wanted to see what his skin felt like, what his mouth felt like, how he looked when someone was making him come. The thought was enough to pull a possessive growl from deep in his chest, and then he was pushing John back against the nearest counter, knocking a test tube rack to the floor with a crash.
That smirk was back. Maybe it was the opposite for John. Aside from Cameron, really, and Kate (to a lesser degree), he wasn't. Straight. He didn't say 'careful,' instead pushing at Marcus's jacket, pulling at his shirt. "I cut you open," he said instead. "I wanted you, then."
That earned him a short moan, but Marcus laughed, the sound thick with lust. "Too bad you were seventeen." Marcus flicked the safety one handed on the M16, slid the strap off his shoulder and both the rifle and his jacket hit the floor. "I don't do jail bait." Except that Connor was older than him now.
Older, but some things didn't change. John could feel the metal in his back and it just added to how hard he was. He pulled off Marcus's shirt. There were some small wounds from the fight and there was metal there, too. He touched it, and what he felt, he knew, wasn't right. But he didn't care, kissing Marcus again, hands roaming, inventorying, touching.
His arm was still weeping blood, but he didn't feel the sting of the bullet. One hand was still holding John's mouth to his, but the other slipped up under his shirt in turn, pushing it up as it roamed further. "I should have known," he said when he broke the kiss to get the cloth out of his way, continuing when they were both standing shirtless in a half bombed out lab, the lights dim and the wrong color for human eyes. Marcus, of course, could see fine. "I should have known the metal turned you on."
There was no point in answering that. Marcus's metal hand was cold against his skin and John's mouth was already kiss-swollen, sensitive. He reached between them for Marcus's belt, flipping it open, pulling at the fly of his pants again, but this time there would be no one to stop them. The setting seemed appropriate.
What he felt in his hand, then, wasn't metal though, but warm, hard flesh that he wrapped his hand around and pulled. "You still want that transfer?" He asked, right before sucked a mark into the skin over Marcus's collarbone.
"Not as this moment, no," he said, his grip tightening when John's hand found his cock. "Just a ploy, anyway," he said, breath coming just a little quicker, "to get this started again." He could never leave Kyle. Not for anything.
Yeah, John knew that. (And maybe he was jealous of such dedication to Kyle. Kyle, who couldn't know. Maybe.) He stroked again. Angling his chin up, he whispered right into Marcus's ear. "What do you want?"
"I want to fuck you," he said, the metal hand shifting restlessly against John's cropped hair. "I want to bend you over this desk and fuck your ass."
The heat that shifted through John's body was enough to leave him winded. He leaned back. Insubordinate; he smirked. He didn't care. He never did care. As he looked into Marcus's eyes in the gloom, he let go of Marcus's cock and reached for his own belt instead, pulling it open, and getting his fly open, then, pushing his pants and boxers down. They both had boots on; pants weren't coming off, just down. And he turned around, bending over the desk.
Marcus could kill him now, easily.
But then he wouldn't get to fuck him, would he. He smoothed his good hand up John's back, the other on one muscled ass cheek. The hand slid further up until he could latch onto the back of John's neck. Then, "spit." He held his hand in front of Connor's face, stepping close enough so that his cock was pressed to the crease of his ass, sliding just a little against the smooth skin.
Marcus didn't have saliva? This was going to hurt. Two thoughts right in a row. John spat, smirking, still, then he turned to look over his shoulder at the other man. Part of him was tempted to ask for the metal. But then better sense prevailed; he stayed silent.
He did, but he liked it better this way. He stroked himself with the slick hand before spitting in his palm himself and slicking John's entrance as well. He worked those fingers in, the metal spreading him, and they twisted, bent. Marcus' hips were still rocking slightly, sliding against Connor's ass as he worked the man loose. There was a hum of computers in the room still. Some separate power source from the transformers they blew up to take the place out, but both men were quiet except for the sound of breathing.
Both hands gripping the table edge, John had his eyes screwed tight and he was totally and completely focused on the -- the metal in his body. It was cold; it never got warm. When it hit those nerve endings inside him, he bucked, hissing. His cock was impossibly hard, jerking against his thigh. John Connor was turned on, possibly more than he'd ever been ever in his life.
"God, Connor," Marcus said roughly, "you really do like it, don't you." He bent his fingers again, pulsing them against the soft swell deep inside the other man. "Don't hold those moans back for my sake." No one to hear them. They could be as loud as they wanted.
It wasn't in John to be loud. He'd never been loud. Maybe it was the village, having to be quiet when Derek fucked him and Cameron was next door or maybe it was always keeping secrets. John wasn't loud. He wanted to hate Marcus for being a prick. He wanted to beg for more. He kept silent, but for a groan when that Coltan hit his prostate again and he jerked, back arching.
Marcus removed the hand and pushed forward, leaning down over the man and bracing that metal hand on the lab bench next to his head. It only took one strong thrust of his hips and he was hilt deep, the air leaving him as he felt muscle mold around him, felt John's body clench. Metal, fucking John Connor. How perfect.
Ironic, one could argue.
John did cry out when Marcus fucked into him. Too much, too tight, too hard. "Oh, you fucking asshole." God. It took a second before he could even catch his breath, and when he did, he pushed back against Marcus's hips. Move!
"Likes the metal," he murmured in John's ear as his hips began to piston into him, hitting him hard each time, "and likes it rough. We've got a bright future, Connor."
There was no way John could respond to that, verbally. He braced himself on the table, feet far apart, toes curled inside his boots. It was a good guess on Marcus's part, the rough thing. Lucky guess. After a minute, he let go with one hand to fist over his cock, face contorted with the vicious pleasure of it.
"Fuck you feel fucking incredible." Marcus stayed close, enjoying this in a way he hadn't thought. Initially, fucking John might have been about power, about proving how much bigger and stronger he was, but in the end John was a warm body. Marcus liked John. Respected him, even. And now he'd pressed his forehead to the back of his neck, his hands softening on the man's hips, pumping into him smoothly.
The change of rhythm, of pressure, coaxed a groan from John as he reached back with his free hand, fingers running along skin that was warm. Fuck, it'd been ... so long, since he'd done this. Twenty years. He'd nearly forgotten how good it was. His cheek was against the table, eyes still closed. "Yes," he whispered. Oh, God, yes.
He kissed over the top of his spine, the back of his shoulders. His fingers curled against John's hip, flesh against flesh, and the other hand curled against the table, metal on metal. He was panting as he moved, the sound soft and rhythmic, and he angled up, trying to brush his prostate on each thrust. "Fuck...John..." his voice equally soft, too caught up in this to be surprised at how gentle they were being.
When he found the right angle, the sounds John made got higher, tighter, and he wasn't a soldier in this moment, he was a man, intimately linked with another man. This, no matter the where, was right. "Christ, Marcus," he groaned out, hand moving on himself more tightly. "Oh... Christ."
Marcus gripped the back of his head, turning it, lifting him slightly off the lab bench so he could kiss him. John's mouth was hot, lips pink and swollen from previous kisses. Marcus wanted the tangle of tongues, the wet slide and the bite of teeth. Each push of his hips coiled the heat in his groin tighter and tighter and he was still panting, even as his kissed John.
The angle was bad, John's neck already ached, but he held on, kissed Marcus back, just as wanting. Something to make this matter, to cement it. Marcus was the perfect mix. Metal and very real, very human, man whose control was slipping too. A few more pulls at his cock, right at that sensitive part right under the head, and John came, his vision behind his eyes going white as he shuddered, body clenching around the invasion.
"Nnnyes..." Marcus let his mouth go, John's body straining underneath him. He was clenching in pulses around Marcus' cock as he came, muscle spasming, and it triggered his own orgasm. He spilled himself deep, keeping himself pressed in with his hips flush with John's ass. It felt too good. He gasped as the tension left his body, only just managing to catch himself before he collapsed on top of Connor completely.
It was back to that silence, the hum of machinery and two men breathing for a long time. When John finally did push Marcus off, out of him, it wasn't far. Just enough so he could turn around, so they could look at each other face to face, sated, with their pants around their ankles. Another kiss then, slowly, but just as deep. Just like when he was seventeen, John licked over his lower lip when they separated. "You find what you were looking for? Wright?" He asked.
"Yeah," he said with a nod, "even if I don't remember why we came in the first place..." his arm had settled around John's waist, not wanting him to go far.
Taking Marcus's exposed hand, John held it in his between them. "We might be able to fix this, if you want. And we need to get the bullet out." The lab was good place to do that. The latter definitely, the former, only if Marcus wanted.
"I don't know," he said, looking the hand over, "I might kind of like it." He met the other man's eyes. "It's a good reminder."
The corner of his mouth turned up as John felt that wave of heat rush through him. "We'll get the bullet out, then. Head back." Back to base. Back to Kate (and Blair). He kissed Marcus again. A promise.
Marcus didn't let him pull away from the kiss so quickly. He smiled, a rare expression, against his mouth. This was the first time since Allison that Marcus had actually felt comfortable with another person like this. Talking to Kyle was one thing, and he'd told the boy everything. But he wasn't sleeping with Kyle, and it was different. Blair...he couldn't tell Blair much.
It was like John was seventeen again and Marcus was ... however old Marcus was and always would be. It was, except for the setting, like they were back in the village, and John felt a pang in his chest. Things would be be explained. Worked out. Somehow. They had to be.
In another minute, he pulled away a bit more, pulling his pants up to hunt for some tweezers. He got Marcus to sit and got a stool, pulling his wounded arm up so he could fish the bullet out. Deja vu, all over again. He smiled.
"It's strange," Marcus said, quietly, sitting once he'd got his pants up again, not bothering to do them up. "I remember it all perfectly. It's like it never happened, but it's all..." he reached up and tapped his temple, "recorded. Like video."
"For a long time, I didn't remember, but I would have these dreams," John answered, bent low, peering into the wound before dipping the tweezers in. "Then one day, it was like it was all just ... back." A glance up at Marcus. "I keep waiting to find Derek. He has to be here, somewhere."
Marcus was quiet for a long time. "I'm sorry." He tensed at the tweezers, but his pain threshold went up each time he got wounded. It worried him sometimes, that he barely felt these things anymore. "You're going to have to pry it out. It got lodged in the Coltan."
Tweezers weren't going to cut it. Pliers were what was needed. Those were in a drawer, too, and John reached in again, getting the round and giving Marcus an apologetic look before pulling. And just like twenty years before, he moaned as well, as the metal casing came free and he held it up. "What're you sorry for?" There was a cloudiness to his eyes that took a moment to clear.
Marcus was watching him intently. "You've lost more family," he said, "and...I'm sorry I didn't keep a better eye on Kyle that night. I should have been more careful."
"Everybody dies for me." John's smirk was wry, dark. "I know how Bedell dies, in one universe already. But you." The bullet lands on the metal table with a clatter as he meets Marcus's eyes again. "Except you. You... might not die."
"Oh, trust me Connor," he said, his hand coming up to cradle his head again. "If I die, it's not going to be for you."
There is an odd kind of peace that came with that statement. John leaned in and pressed his mouth to Marcus's again and this time, he could taste something of himself on the other man's tongue.
"Come on," Marcus said once the kiss broke again, "we should get back."
With a nod, John stood. They dressed again, arming their weapons. There were no machines to be found on their way out. There wasn't anything. The plant was dead.
++++++
Marcus wasn't quite sure how he'd gotten here. Here, of course, was in a remote bunker in Northern California, curled in a pile of old blankets and pillows with John Connor, both in various states of undress. The sweat on his body was cooling quickly, sending a chill over him, and he dragged the other man just a little bit closer. They were far from headquarters, and even though Star and Kyle were sleeping just a few rooms down, Marcus figured they had plenty of time for this, quiet companionship, the hard muscle of Connor's body half draped over his.
Any kind of time was taken, utilized, savored. There was an ache in John's body and he had Marcus's exposed hand, looking at it (truthfully, fondling it), running the metal along his fingers. It was rare he felt this kind of peace. He was in no hurry to move. They were here one or two more days before going back to base. Small victories. A step forward for every step back. Nevermind that. Peace. His palm, his fingers were pressed flat to the Coltan hand. They were nearly the same size.
"What is it?" Marcus asked, reluctant to break the silence, but confident that it was an all right question to ask, "about it that's so fascinating to you?"
"I don't know." It was an honest answer, too, unguarded, John's voice soft, not barking orders. "It shouldn't be there. This should be bone. But it's not. It's almost indestructible and ... " He bent one of Marcus's fingers. "It's genius. Put skin over it, and no one knows." Turning, he looked into Marcus's face. "It's ... perfect."
It's cold. That's good, right?
That's perfect.
"Too bad it wants to kill you," Marcus said quietly, curling the hand into a fist. "Not this specifically, but in general." Marcus cocked his head to the side, looking vaguely concerned, but leaned in to kiss him, noses brushing, tugging at his lower lip.
"In general, yeah." And John grinned. This was simply a fact of John's life. The sun rose, and set (somewhere) and machines wanted John Connor dead. He closed his eyes into the kiss, letting himself get lost there, just for the moment. Savoring.
There was the screech of a metal door being pushed open and they moved, fast, instinctive like always, and even naked but for the unbuttoned shirt around his shoulders, he pointed his gun.
"You're in my territory," came the voice and in walked Derek Reese.
John's gun wavered.
"Jesus Christ." Marcus, whose pants were half on, rolled to his feet, putting himself in front of John, as he usually did. See, Marcus could take bullets. John Connor couldn't. "Reese." They'd both begun to think that Derek didn't exist in this world. Kyle never talked about him, and Marcus was afraid to ask, not wanting to cause the kid more pain.
"Yeah?" Derek's eyes moved between them both. "I don't know you."
Jesus Christ, he was mostly naked, but John seemed unable to move. "John. Connor. Derek?"
"Good for you, you know my name. Connor, huh? I've heard of you." Derek's eyes moved to the other. "And you?"
"Wright," he said, keeping his eyes on the newcomer, "Marcus Wright. What the hell do you mean, in your territory. Didn't know there were boundaries."
"I'm responsible for this area, from I-10 to Sacramento and you're here. Any missions should've been run by me and you didn't run them by me. But you succeeded, I see. So." Derek's eyes flicked down, and back up. "We can talk. When you're dressed."
"Kyle." John said, still staring. "Kyle is with us."
Nearly out the door, Derek turned back around. "... Kyle. Is with you."
John nodded.
"Get dressed. I'll be outside."
Marcus turned when Derek disappeared, the shock clear in his eyes while the rest of his face remained impassive. "What do you wanna do?" he asked quietly.
"Maybe it's a trap." John had to consider this. "It might be a machine." On the other side of the door. A trap. Derek! Who didn't know who John was but for his name. Christ. He found his pants, got dressed, shouldered his gun before he looked at Marcus again. "Ready?"
Marcus hefted his own rifle once he was dressed, the glove back in place. "I'm going first, Connor." As usual, even though Marcus often had to remind him. He flicked the safety off the M16, shook his head clear, and pushed out into the hall.
About twenty rifles were trained on them. John recognized almost all of them as the kind of rifles that could tear Marcus's head off. Just like Derek had taught him. It was his turn to step in front. "I am John Connor. We are here to fight Skynet."
"Of course you are. With a machine." Naked. Derek's face said that, if he didn't verbalize it. "John Connor fights against machines, not with them."
"We have Kyle. He can vouch for us, if you don't believe us." John's voice was as even as he could make it. If Derek didn't know him? Didn't believe him? Maybe he'd believe Kyle. His chest felt too tight.
"This gun?" Derek nodded toward one of the rifles pointed at Marcus specifically. "Will shear your head from your body. If you have Kyle? Get him."
John turned, meeting Marcus's gaze in an instant. Don't move. He put his own guns down and his hands up, and he went to get Kyle.
"Kind of a show off," Marcus said easily as he handed his M16 over, "aren't you." He didn't take his eyes from Derek, tracking. Always tracking. Recording.
"Pragmatic. I like my head where it is." Derek kicks the rifle away. He barely blinked.
"I'm not about to go twisting heads off," Marcus assured him with a wry smile, "not in my spare time, anyway."
"Derek?" Kyle's voice rang down the hallway and the young man came jogging toward them, pushing his way through the circle of men around Marcus. He placed himself in front of the ex-con, hands up and eyes worried. "Derek..."
Marcus took a step back, head ducked. If they really were brothers, than this was a reunion that was a long time coming. He glanced up at John, brow furrowed.
"Kyle." For a moment, everyone saw the mask slip from Derek's face. He gave Marcus one more glance and then focused on Kyle, searching the boy's face. "You know this thing?"
"He's not a thing, Derek, he's a man. He's saved my life. He got me out of Skynet HQ. He protects John Connor." Marcus was still watching John. "Trust me Derek. C'mon." Kyle was searching his brother's face, all at once ecstatic and terrified. Down the hall, Star was standing behind John, looking alarmed at the number of people pointing guns at Marcus. "C'mon, Derek," he said again, "it's me."
John reached back for Star, so she could take his hand as Derek looked at Kyle unblinking.
"I lost you. In Topanga Canyon. I came back but you were gone." His jaw worked. "What did I teach you when we were kids." Never trust. Test. Always.
"Baseball, Derek, don't be an asshole." Kyle stepped forward and put his hands on Derek's shoulders. "I'm sorry. I had to move. They were coming hard and...by the time I could afford to wait around there were a hundred miles between us." Kyle gave him a shake. "Derek. That's John Connor over there. This is Marcus Wright."
"And John Connor saved a lot of your men's lives today," Marcus pointed out, "in case you'd forgotten in the rush of the threatening me." Kyle sent him a look and Marcus shrugged.
Another moment passed, another icy look at Marcus and Derek stepped closer still, his hands coming up to Kyle's shoulders. "Fuck, I thought I'd lost you." And with that, the Reese boys were reunited. John was blinking, hard, jaw firm, as Derek hugged Kyle, tight.
After a few minutes, the troops were dismissed and John found himself at a table with Derek, Kyle, Marcus and Star, boiled water in front of them and something Derek was calling cowboys breakfast. Stale breakfast cereal in baby food.
It was the most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted in his life. And that was saying a lot.
"You took them out here." Derek pointed to the map. "We took them out here. That leaves this area." He circled his finger.
"We can surround them," John answered, looking at the map. "If there are buildings there, we move, set up points to attack, and go."
Marcus was distracted, watching the two of them work. There was something like anxiety building in his gut, and he didn't know why. But it was John, and the way he watched the elder Reese, still John Connor, but hanging on Derek's every word. He would let them plan, let them decide. It had never been his strong point. He hadn't touched the food either, which wasn't unusual for him. But he could feel Star and Kyle watching him carefully. "Couldn't be that many left," was all he added, "the compound we took out was small."
"Of course they're small," Derek didn't bother looking at Marcus. "We've been doing our job." Back to the map. "Here and here are buildings. Here and here. Here." Each was marked with an 'x.' "Move into position tonight?"
Here, John was older than Derek. Time was folding into itself. This is when they meet, then. His fortieth birthday was coming. Derek was there for that, he told John. After they sent Kyle back. His own stomach felt heavy. Kyle already had the picture (and didn't John feel like shit doing that). "Tonight," he agreed. He needed to get Derek alone. See if he remembered anything. Anything at all.
He didn't and he got tired of John asking about someplace called Haurvatat. Sir.
John was crouched in the bombed out building, watching for HKs and he could feel Marcus next to him. "Say whatever it is you're going to say," he told him. "You're ... hovering."
"What happened between you two in the village," Marcus asked without looking at him.
There was a beat before John answered and when he did, it was quiet, almost defeated. Maybe he sounded a little like he was seventeen again. "We were lovers." He looked over at Marcus's profile. It wouldn't take much to put two and two together.
"Your...uncle," he said slowly, still looking out at the sky, everything back lit by the compound that was still burning. Everything was burning these days, it seemed. The entire world was on fire. "But he doesn't remember the village."
"No, he doesn't." And he might or might not later. "Shit." Whatever he was going to say was set aside. The battle was on.
Six hours later had John hissing at Marcus, "easy!" No matter how often he did it, getting stitches without anesthetic hurt like a bitch. "Are you judging me now?"
"For fucking your uncle?" he asked as he sewed up the gash in Connor's leg. "Maybe a little." Marcus paused in the stitching and put his hands down, looking up at Connor. "But I get it. Even if it's..." he shook his head and went back to work. And maybe he was a little jealous, but that was beside the point. Marcus shrugged. "It's none of my business."
"For the record, he fucked me. Ouch." John gritted his teeth. "It doesn't matter now, does it?"
Marcus tied the thread off and wiped the needle on his pants before tucking it away again. "And if he shows up one day, and does remember, like I did. What then, Connor?" He sat back on his heels, crouched in front of the other man, looking up at him.
"I have to send him back," John said by way of answer. "If he remembers," if, "then it might be when he's sent back." Even as they fought, there were techs back at base trying to beat Skynet to the punch the technology for time travel. They might even be able to keep from sending Kyle back, though John doubted it.
"But if he remembers," he said, "and he's still here. Now." The truth was, Marcus didn't really want him to answer that, because he was fairly certain he knew what the reality was, even if he didn't think John would answer honestly. "Then what?" Because despite the fact that they never talked about it, they were fucking. A lot. Like bunnies, some people would say. Except that no one knew.
No one knew and no one would know. That much had never changed. John was used to it, even if Kate and he were living together for appearance sake and nothing else. He watched Marcus's face. "I guess I'll deal with that, then." No we, then. Just I.
"What the hell does that mean?" he asked, finally shifting to look at him.
"What would you do, Wright?" John all but rolled his eyes. "This is my issue, not yours."
Marcus pushed to his feet and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands clean on the blood. "Fine. You'll deal with it, then. Forget I said anything."
"Christ. What -- Marcus, wait." It wasn't like John was going to be chasing after him. "What do you want me to say? He doesn't remember. There's no point in getting ... in ... in being a kid about this."
"Being a kid?" Marcus looked a bit incredulous, but shook his head, holding a hand up before turning away. "Forget about it Connor. Get some rest." They were leaving at the crack of dawn tomorrow morning, as soon as it was light enough to see. Machines had the advantage at night, but in the sunlight, things were fairly even. Not that it mattered to Marcus. He could see fine in the dark.
"I was talking about me!" John called after him and flopped to his back. Fuck it. Fuck it all. His leg was throbbing and he put his arm over his eyes.
+++++++
Kyle was gone and there was nothing Marcus could do about it. It wasn't that he was pissed that Connor had sent him back, more that he was pissed that he'd sent him back when there wasn't really a way for him to get home. Not yet, anyway. They were still working on it, but this mission was urgent. Kyle had insisted. Marcus had done his best to convince the kid to refuse, but he was older now, not so easy to influence. The night he'd gone, Marcus hadn't left his quarters. He wouldn't have been able to look John in the face. They hadn't done much talking, or much anything, since finding Derek up North and reuniting the two brothers. Marcus had actually thought about seeking Derek out. The man didn't like him at all, but Kyle's trust had meant that Derek at least accepted the fact that Marcus was solidly on their side.
He left his room with his expression still storm cloud dark. People passing the other way in the tunnel stepped aside and watched him pass as he made his way to Derek's quarters, but a conversation between two young soldiers caught his ear.
"...never coming back and he knows it," one was saying to his friend. The friend nodded.
"You heard he keeps bothering the technicians, asking when Reese will be able to come back? Reese is good as dead."
They, clearly, had forgotten that Marcus' hearing was better than most. The last word had barely gotten out of the kid's mouth before Marcus had him on the ground, knee in his stomach and fist connecting with his face. It wasn't something he was prone to so much anymore, violent outbursts. Or at least, not on humans, but every so often he made it very obvious why he'd been locked up on death row.
People swarmed in immediately, pulling at him, to little avail. John was fetched, pushing through, just as Derek did. They both yanked at Marcus, amid all the shouting. "Stop it!" John shouted right in his ear. "Stop it!"
It wasn't working. Of course it wasn't working. Marcus was too strong. It took a rifle butt to the back of his skull. John pushed Derek away. This wasn't his issue. The whole time, from the corner, Star watched with dark, sad eyes.
When Marcus woke up, he was chained to a chair again. John was sitting in the only other furniture in the room, a straight back chair, slouched low, ankles crossed. He was asleep.
He started and the chains rattled, alarming him even more. He shot upright and his head spun. Marcus slumped back against the chair and closed his eyes. He could feel the blood caking at the back of his head. The glove was gone and he wasn't quite sure how that could have happened without some one deliberately taking it off, as if to prove a point.
When the chains rattled, John awoke with a start, rubbing over his face before he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. He just looked at Marcus. "What was that all about? Making everyone distrust you?"
"I got angry," he said distractedly, looking down at the iron cuffs around his wrists. "Would have done the same without the metal."
"And been in the same situation." To John, Marcus being a machine was a kink. It wasn't who Marcus was. (And yes, he knew that was weird.) "What got you mad?"
"Fucking kid," he said snarling and tugging on the chains, "talking about Kyle like he was dead, like he was never coming back. Are you just going to sit there and leave me like this?"
They were locked in, by John's orders. After a moment, he walked over, behind Marcus and unlocked the chain. The irony didn't escape him. Here they were, back like this. He came back around, pulling his chair around and straddled it backward. "Kyle can't come back, Marcus."
Marcus rubbed at his wrists. "Yet, Connor. It's the only reason I didn't break your neck for doing it. They'll figure out a way."
Looking down, John didn't speak. Marcus was quick; he didn't need to say anything.
When John remained silent, Marcus looked up at him. "Connor." His stomach was beginning to twist unpleasantly. "Connor!"
Another moment, and John got up, pounded on the door and asked for something. He was handed a tape recorder and the door was locked back as he came back. He sat again, and hit "play."
What should I tell you about your father...?
Over the voice, the voice of one Sarah Connor, John said, "Kyle Reese is sent back to 1984 to protect Sarah Connor from a T-800. They have one night together, then Kyle dies, defending my mother before the Terminator is destroyed." His eyes were dark, unfathomably sad as he looked over at Marcus. "Everyone dies for me."
Marcus had gone still, watching the old tape player. John's voice sounded faint, as though coming from very, very far away. Sarah's voice was an eerie chorus in the dank room. Marcus blinked. "You knew this," he said stiffly, "and you still sent him back?"
"You said it yourself, Wright. If I don't, I 'blip out of existence.' It has to be done. I didn't have a choice." John clicks off the recorder and sets it aside, his head down.
"You don't have a choice?" he asked, voice rising steadily, "you don't have a choice? Everyone dies for you, Connor, and you think you don't have a choice?" He lunged forward and caught the other man by the shoulders, shaking him. "You fucking murdered him! You murdered him!"
"Marcus, stop it." John's voice was firm. Honestly, he deserved this. "Stop it, Marcus! What would you have me do?! What should I have done, huh, Marcus?! My mother dies, I'm never born, what then, Marcus?! WHAT THEN?!" His voice was hoarse as he shouted back. "They'll come in here and hit you again, if you don't get yourself under control!"
Marcus' eyes were gleaming, but he was too angry to cry. "I'd take it," he said hoarsely, "if it meant keeping him and losing you. You fucking bastard." But he was clinging to John now, not shaking or grabbing, and he knew that if he thought about it too closely, he would collapse. "You fucking bastard, I promised him. I promised him."
"He wanted to go," John said, but it was a whisper. He'd been manipulating the boy for months now and he hated it. Hated it. His arms came around Marcus's neck and he pulled him as close as he could. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
It was on the second sorry that Marcus' knees gave out and he sank to the floor, bringing John with him. He couldn't speak. If he did, he'd sob, and he didn't know what actually crying would open up in him, he didn't know how he would ever be able to stop.
"Marcus, I'm sorry." John had his arms around Marcus's shoulders and he shifted to where his head was on his shoulder and he kissed the bare skin of his neck. "I'm sorry," he whispered over and over again, his own eyes red-rimmed and cloudy.
"He can't be dead," he moaned, sinking lower, as though he just didn't have any strength left. "He can't be dead." His fingers went slack in the back of John's shirt and the slid down his back slowly, the will to move bleeding out of him. "I let him down. I promised I wouldn't let anything happen. I promised."
So did John. So did Derek. Marcus didn't break his promise, John did. Marcus didn't kill Kyle, the Terminator did. John put him there to be killed, of course. John still held on, his arms shaking with the effort of the tight embrace. "You know you didn't. You didn't."
"No," he said quieter, sinking down and pulling away until he was bent forward, forehead to the dirty cement floor. "NO!" His fist came down hard and a crack ran quickly to the corner of the room. In the silence that followed, there was a knock on the door and a concerned lieutenant stuck his head in.
"Everything all right, sir?"
"Stay out unless I tell you otherwise!" Barked and the lieutenant backed out quickly and shut, and locked, the door.
Sitting crosslegged on the floor, John feels like his head was too heavy for his neck and his chin lands on his chest. Fuck, he was tired. Exhausted.
He never asked to be John Connor. Marcus asked him what choice he had. None. He never had a choice. Not once he was born. He ran a hand over the back of Marcus's head, resting it on his neck.
"John..." he said after a long silence, his voice hoarse with grief, "I don't know what I'm supposed to do now."
"Stay with me," came the answer. "Stay with me and fight. We took the communication grid down. The war's nearly over. Marcus...." John paused for a moment, then said, "I need you." Not we, I.
"You don't need me," he said dully, not looking up, "you've still got Derek." Maybe they could just switch him off. What use was he, in the end. More of a liability, than anything else.
Derek had been fighting with them for six months. He was a good fighter, strong. This wasn't John's Derek. "No, Marcus," he said again, quietly. "I need you. I --" It was hard to admit, to make oneself weak. "I ... need you. Please." Nearly a whisper, John's head still down, eyes up under heavy lids.
There was another long silence, but Marcus pushed up until he was kneeling in front of the other man, face drawn, looking just as tired as Connor. One hand came up to fist in the front of his shirt. "You didn't murder him," he said finally, "...even if you'd told him..." he choked and turned his head away for a moment, "even if you'd told him the truth, he would have still gone."
"I know." Low, dead. John did his job well, didn't he, painting his mother as a near-Madonna like creature. The fist in his shirt got him to his knees too and he didn't fight it anymore, falling into Marcus, kissing him hot and open and deep. Comfort of the basest kind.
"John," he said into his mouth after a long moment, sounding younger than thirty, even if he wasn't really that since he'd stopped aging, "John, I'm sorry."
At that, John shook his head. There was no place for sorry. Their world didn't allow for sorrys, even if he apologized so much himself. He pressed his hands to the sides of Marcus's face and held on, kissing him again. The door, the world was locked away. All there was was their pain and their ultimate fucked-up whatever it was between them. No apologies.
"Here?" Marcus asked as his hands returned to John's sides, sliding up under his shirt. It had been a while since they'd been together, but god did he want it.
John answered by way of pulling his shirt off, over his head. He'd left his guns outside. And he reached for Marcus's shirt. Now. Here.
Marcus let him get it off before his arms slid back around the man. His mouth found John's throat, seeking out a particular spot he liked, just behind his ear. He pushed a hand down the back of John's fatigues, nuzzling into him, a bit uncharacteristically, but appreciative, and affectionate.
It made John shiver, it made him want. Weak. The metal against his skin only made him weaker still, cock hard and throbbing between his legs. An arm still around Marcus's neck, his other he used to start to tug at his fly, pulling open his belt, the button, getting the zipper down.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, needing direction, needing someone to give him just the tiniest bit of structure because the news of Kyle's death was enough to shatter him into a million pieces. He'd never be able to put himself back together again, unless he got help.
Something sparked in John and he looked up, eyes clearing, and narrowing. "Lie back." His hand was in the middle of Marcus's chest. "Lie back." That way, he could pull Marcus's pants down, not away, but down (what was new?) and wrestle his own pants down, suck on two fingers and look at the other man as he reached down, palmed over his balls and circled the tight pucker he found back there.
His legs bent at the touch of slick fingers and Marcus shifted on the cold ground, back arching just a bit. He kept his head up, meeting John's eyes, the metal hand curled against the back of his head. That was what he needed, he realized, to be taken care of for a little bit. A strange sense of gratitude filled him as John touched him. It wouldn't be so strange. Connor was nearly as big as he was, even if he'd never weigh as much, but it wasn't disproportionate or anything. Besides, who wouldn't feel safe in John Connor's hands?
Ask Kyle Reese.
John shook that thought away and pushed a finger inside Marcus Wright, half-man, half-machine. He could feel the metal against his skin and it grounded him. The heat around his finger made his skin feel too tight, made his cock even harder. Somehow, for being John Connor, he'd always ended up a bottom. Except for today. He pushed the finger in, crooking it as he pulled it out, knowing what that did to him, wondering what it'd do to Marcus. What would he feel?
He felt a finger pulling at him, brushing at skin he hadn't known could be sensitive, and it made him jerk. His head thunked back against the floor and he closed his eyes, fingers curling hard against John's head. He wish he could get his boots and pants off, wanting his legs spread wider, but that had never been an option.
To make the whole world vanish for an hour, maybe two? That idea was a dream, but one that John had regularly. No, not an option. He leaned in, though, brushing his mouth against Marcus's, eyes open, as he pushed that finger in again. It was tantalizing and intimate and oddly clinical how he watched for reactions; not unlike when he was seventeen. I cut you open and I wanted you then. Some things didn't change.
One finger became two, twisted and spread.
"Fuck," he moaned, leaning up into the other man's mouth, but keeping his eyes squeezed shut tight, "John..." Connor would have him squirming, soon. It felt too good, quick rushes of heat every time John bent or twisted the digits. He licked into his mouth, breathing hard through his nose.
If he'd opened his eyes, he would've seen John smirk, dimple creasing one cheek. Power. Such power this was. Two fingers became three and that was enough; they never had enough time to linger. He pulled enough clothes away, spit-slicked himself and as he pushed in, he leaned down, tugging on Marcus's lower lip with his teeth, a distraction for them both. The heat - the heat - was intense, the tightness making him moan, low, growled, from his chest.
"Ahh!" Marcus had never bottomed before, and the pain was sharp, biting needles into his skin, but then John was pushed deep, filling him. He could feel his body mold around the other man, adjusted to the alien sensation, information flooding his brain. "God, yes, please. John." Iron bound arms wrapped around Connor, holding him close, clinging.
It was not something he'd felt before; Marcus holding so tightly, as if losing John might break him apart. So many people needed a John Connor, the John Connor, so few people needed John, the man. It made it harder for John to breathe, made his heart beat harder, made him lever up onto his elbows to thrust slowly, deeply, aware of the pain he might be causing, but need overrode it. He was weak.
Marcus would have argued that if he'd known John was thinking it. As it was, he could only feel John, only wanted to feel John. He moaned his name again, kissing over his jaw and throat. He'd never wanted anyone like this, at least, not since Allison, but it didn't matter because John was here now. The cement was cold and rough against his bare back, scraping, but fuck so good. His legs curled around John's hips.
The way Marcus said his name, the way his body held onto John's. Unlike a woman in so many ways. Better in so many ways. Hot and tight and the metal of Marcus's hand digging into his skin, all of it.
Is that what you want, John?! What are you?! We fight the metal, we don't -- Get out of my sight.
Kate, pushing John away, finally, for the last time, when he'd dared trying to explain something. Anything. Months ago, now.
His rhythm grew sloppy, uneven, faster. Oh, God, yes. This. This was what he wanted.
He was gasping into John's ear, whimpering, clawing at the back of his head. "John!" He didn't care how loud they were being. Derek knew. At a certain point, they should shift into that time where everyone knew, but no one said anything. "I'm-..." god he was close, cock twitching between them.
He was? There was a surge of something hot, like power, running down his spine, pooling there, urging John to fuck in harder, deeper. "Fuck, Marcus," he hissed out. "Fuck!" It felt too good, it felt too -- everything. It felt like the sound of skin against skin was ringing off the walls around them. "Come on!"
His moan echoed loudly. Marcus' back arched, pushing up off the floor as his head strained back. He was clawing at the man's back, moaning his name continuously as his body clenched and tensed around him. It wasn't long after that that he came, from John inside him alone, from the heat that having him, holding him, generated. Marcus spilled himself over his abdomen, grunting through clenched teeth.
"Oh, Christ," John gritted out. The clench alone took his breath away, made his heart feel like it was stopping. Add that to the metal he could feel biting into his back and a few erratic strokes later, he was coming too, hips stuttering through it before he let himself collapse over Marcus, face in his neck as he panted, one hand wrapped protectively, firmly, over the top of Marcus's head. "Fuck," he breathed out with something like awe.
His limbs felt like jelly, but he kept his arms around the other man, holding him against his chest as he gasped for air. "Can we not..." he said in between gasps, "wait such long stretches in between this time?"
The question made John laugh, a soft sound muffled by Marcus's skin. "Are you asking me to be your boyfriend, Wright?"
"What?" he asked, turning his head away, embarrassed, "no."
"It was a joke." Holding himself up on his elbows, John looked down at him, at his profile, as he felt himself go soft, start to slip out. Damn. "There's no one else. Just you."
Marcus looked up at him from the corner of his eye. "Well, the kid outside knows it's just me, anyway." If he hadn't run away already.
"What?" Oh. John shook his head. He didn't care, not really. "Just don't get all mushy on me, Wright," he teased, as he pulled his hips back and fell with a grunt to lie on his back next to Marcus, a dimple showing before he sobered and looked over. "You okay?"
He was quiet for a long minute, looking up at the ceiling. "No," he said finally, "I'm really not."
Between them, John found Marcus's hand and held it, their fingers lacing together. "Tomorrow, we go to Bakersfield." The fight was narrowing. They were close. They couldn't stop. "You up to it?"
"Yeah, you know I am." He lifted his hips and wriggled his pants back up, feeling just a bit sore, which he didn't mind.
"Okay."
So much for cuddling.
Continued here