Someone Else's Story
Rating: PG, so tame this one is
Characters: Derek/Sarah, what else?
Timeline: Set an unspecified amount of time after "Today is the Day" part 1, no spoilers for TitD part 2 or later episodes
Summary: There had to be something to balance the future. So she told herself a story.
Note: Apologies in advance. I'm not at all satisfied with this story yet but I'm going out of town for a bit and thought I'd put it up before part 2 aired and made it all AU.
When John was a little boy he loved stories. He’d fall asleep to Sarah’s voice, half-heard, as it painted pictures of battles and bravery and happily-ever-after. His favorite had always been The Wizard of Oz. He loved the strange people and the fantastical terrors. Sarah thought that the stories, with their child-heroes and noble sacrifices, helped him to accept his fate as much as all her training did.
So she told John stories every night until the night he was taken from her. When she got him back, he was too old for stories. But Sarah wasn’t. Some part of her, the part that should have died a decade past, came alive when she held her son’s small, warm body and whispered her stories to life in his sleepy mind. She’d never be the girl with the tight sweater and the too-high heels again but, just before sleeping, she could believe in happier endings.
There was another story John liked even better than The Wizard of Oz. But he never knew it for what it was because she’d been telling it to him before he was born. Sarah told it to herself still when there was no warm body to hold before sleeping. It went like this: Sarah Connor was pretty and nineteen and in love. After one day and one night of blind panic, during which her world turned upside down and the future changed forever, she’d fallen in love with her protector. Together they had made a son who would grow up to save the world. In the end the man died tragically like Quasimodo, like Romeo, like the Tin Soldier.
It was the kind of magic that acted as an antithesis to the horrors that were all too real. She deserved something from him to make up for all that he’d taken. So she made it up.
The truth was, she’d never been in love with Kyle Reese. What she had been was nineteen and scared silly. She hadn’t been in love with him but there had to be something to balance out all the blood and tears and death. There had to be something to balance the future. So she told herself a story.
She tells herself the story often. She’s re-created the world so many times that she forgets the truth more often than not. She never really loved him. Better luck next time, Juliet, no daggers or kisses there’s a war to fight.
Her story served its purpose.
Then Derek showed up like another kind of story altogether. It was a story Sarah didn’t get to write and judging by how often he seemed to get holes punched through him it might be a story she’d only come in for the end of.
This time the bullet was lodged in his hip and had come from Cameron. It was a glitch in her circuits John said. An involuntary movement of her fingers. But there was fear in her son’s eyes and Sarah suspected that Derek had gotten a bullet meant for John. Again. John had been in the garage with the machine, metal anatomy exposed, for twenty-four hours now without pause. He wouldn’t let Sarah into the shed. It was the second time he’d raised a gun against his family in her- its- defense.
Sarah had called Charley to patch Derek up yet again. Sarah had insisted that he not ask questions. Hospitals were required to report all gun shot wounds and Derek was still a fugitive.
Now Derek is in Sarah’s own bed and she’s watching him sleep. She doesn’t know what else to do. She’s watching another Reese slowly kill himself for her son and she doesn’t welcome the déjà vu.
Derek’s breathing changes, he’s gasping himself awake. “Where am I?” He tries to reach for something but his gun arm spasms and his breath grows sharp with pain.
“We’ve already had this conversation.”
Derek shakes his head and presses his eyes closed. “Drugs.” They say at the same time but his is question so she answers.
“You’ve been shot.”
“Yeah, that feels about right,” he replies. Maybe it’s meant to be funny but there is pain in his voice.
“Here,” she says and takes a glass of water from the nightstand. She knows from experience that his mouth will feel full of cotton.
Derek makes to grab the cup with his right arm but it’s been duct taped directly to Sarah’s mattress. He’d been grazed there as well. “Don’t do that,” she says. “You already tore your stitches once. Bled all over my sheets.”
Derek takes the water with his left hand, sips, and clears his throat. “Your fault,” he accuses. “I’m not allowed in here. Remember?”
His eyelids start to flutter soon and Sarah tries to take the water back before it spills. He holds on to the glass. “Dixon do this?” he asks while she’s still leaned over him, fingers wrapped a round the glass.
She’d been expecting the question because they’ve had this conversation before. “Yeah. Charley did it.”
Derek nods. That’s different. “John okay?” He asks.
“Yeah,” she lies because there’s nothing either of them can do about John now.
“You okay?”
“I will be,” she lies because that’s never been an option and he can’t do anything about that either.
A few minutes later she thinks he’s asleep when he says, “You don’t have to sit there.”
Sarah smiles and says, “You’re not allowed in here, remember? You need supervision.”
If he were anyone else he’d make a joke about how she’d just wanted to get him in her bed. But that wasn’t how they were. From a distance, what they were should have been a fairy tale. That they had even met flew in the face of everything she always said about fate. It was impossible and inevitable. They were meant to be but never quite fit the way you want your tragic heroes to fit. She’d had a son by a man sent across time to protect her. He was the last survivor of four soldiers to come through time and uncle to her fatherless son.
It was more than the makings of a story, it was the makings of a miracle. But not all miracles end with happily ever after, angels of death and crucifixion come to mind.
Sarah rubs a hand across tired, gritty eyes. She walks to the bathroom and washes her face. In the mirror she sees a woman grown creased with fear and pain, a woman whose son could end a war or start one. She turns off the light. She pulls the blanket back from her bed. There are no sheets on it anymore. She lies down beside him, near his good shoulder, and drapes an arm across his stomach. Without a word he puts his good left arm around her shoulders. His breath sounds loud in her ears. When she tips her face up he kisses her. Just once. The kiss lingers like good bye even though she'll stay the night.
It’s nothing, just an acknowledgment that if things were different maybe they’d be something like this. Maybe there would be clean sheets on the bed instead of bloody ones in the bathroom. Maybe he could hold her. It’s nothing, just a nod, just a polite gesture that they’ve both noticed that the war had made them wrong and if things were different, if anything but the war could matter maybe they could be something that did.
In an hour or so he’ll wake up again and ask where he is because he’s been shot and this is not what they do. Maybe if things were different… . But then, if things were different, she'd be a waitress and he'd be a child. She'd bring him pancakes in diner one day and he wouldn't have enough cash to tip her.
Instead they have this. They watch each other's backs. They fight the war. They die for John Connor. Most days it's Hell but that doesn't mean it's not the best of all possible worlds.
For now Sarah’s tired and he’s finally succumbed to the drugs. His hand on her arm is heavy, his chest under her hand is rising and falling steadily. Tomorrow they’ll pretend nothing happened but for now Sarah’s almost asleep and he, at the very least, is a warm body.
End
Characters: Derek/Sarah, what else?
Timeline: Set an unspecified amount of time after "Today is the Day" part 1, no spoilers for TitD part 2 or later episodes
Summary: There had to be something to balance the future. So she told herself a story.
Note: Apologies in advance. I'm not at all satisfied with this story yet but I'm going out of town for a bit and thought I'd put it up before part 2 aired and made it all AU.
When John was a little boy he loved stories. He’d fall asleep to Sarah’s voice, half-heard, as it painted pictures of battles and bravery and happily-ever-after. His favorite had always been The Wizard of Oz. He loved the strange people and the fantastical terrors. Sarah thought that the stories, with their child-heroes and noble sacrifices, helped him to accept his fate as much as all her training did.
So she told John stories every night until the night he was taken from her. When she got him back, he was too old for stories. But Sarah wasn’t. Some part of her, the part that should have died a decade past, came alive when she held her son’s small, warm body and whispered her stories to life in his sleepy mind. She’d never be the girl with the tight sweater and the too-high heels again but, just before sleeping, she could believe in happier endings.
There was another story John liked even better than The Wizard of Oz. But he never knew it for what it was because she’d been telling it to him before he was born. Sarah told it to herself still when there was no warm body to hold before sleeping. It went like this: Sarah Connor was pretty and nineteen and in love. After one day and one night of blind panic, during which her world turned upside down and the future changed forever, she’d fallen in love with her protector. Together they had made a son who would grow up to save the world. In the end the man died tragically like Quasimodo, like Romeo, like the Tin Soldier.
It was the kind of magic that acted as an antithesis to the horrors that were all too real. She deserved something from him to make up for all that he’d taken. So she made it up.
The truth was, she’d never been in love with Kyle Reese. What she had been was nineteen and scared silly. She hadn’t been in love with him but there had to be something to balance out all the blood and tears and death. There had to be something to balance the future. So she told herself a story.
She tells herself the story often. She’s re-created the world so many times that she forgets the truth more often than not. She never really loved him. Better luck next time, Juliet, no daggers or kisses there’s a war to fight.
Her story served its purpose.
Then Derek showed up like another kind of story altogether. It was a story Sarah didn’t get to write and judging by how often he seemed to get holes punched through him it might be a story she’d only come in for the end of.
This time the bullet was lodged in his hip and had come from Cameron. It was a glitch in her circuits John said. An involuntary movement of her fingers. But there was fear in her son’s eyes and Sarah suspected that Derek had gotten a bullet meant for John. Again. John had been in the garage with the machine, metal anatomy exposed, for twenty-four hours now without pause. He wouldn’t let Sarah into the shed. It was the second time he’d raised a gun against his family in her- its- defense.
Sarah had called Charley to patch Derek up yet again. Sarah had insisted that he not ask questions. Hospitals were required to report all gun shot wounds and Derek was still a fugitive.
Now Derek is in Sarah’s own bed and she’s watching him sleep. She doesn’t know what else to do. She’s watching another Reese slowly kill himself for her son and she doesn’t welcome the déjà vu.
Derek’s breathing changes, he’s gasping himself awake. “Where am I?” He tries to reach for something but his gun arm spasms and his breath grows sharp with pain.
“We’ve already had this conversation.”
Derek shakes his head and presses his eyes closed. “Drugs.” They say at the same time but his is question so she answers.
“You’ve been shot.”
“Yeah, that feels about right,” he replies. Maybe it’s meant to be funny but there is pain in his voice.
“Here,” she says and takes a glass of water from the nightstand. She knows from experience that his mouth will feel full of cotton.
Derek makes to grab the cup with his right arm but it’s been duct taped directly to Sarah’s mattress. He’d been grazed there as well. “Don’t do that,” she says. “You already tore your stitches once. Bled all over my sheets.”
Derek takes the water with his left hand, sips, and clears his throat. “Your fault,” he accuses. “I’m not allowed in here. Remember?”
His eyelids start to flutter soon and Sarah tries to take the water back before it spills. He holds on to the glass. “Dixon do this?” he asks while she’s still leaned over him, fingers wrapped a round the glass.
She’d been expecting the question because they’ve had this conversation before. “Yeah. Charley did it.”
Derek nods. That’s different. “John okay?” He asks.
“Yeah,” she lies because there’s nothing either of them can do about John now.
“You okay?”
“I will be,” she lies because that’s never been an option and he can’t do anything about that either.
A few minutes later she thinks he’s asleep when he says, “You don’t have to sit there.”
Sarah smiles and says, “You’re not allowed in here, remember? You need supervision.”
If he were anyone else he’d make a joke about how she’d just wanted to get him in her bed. But that wasn’t how they were. From a distance, what they were should have been a fairy tale. That they had even met flew in the face of everything she always said about fate. It was impossible and inevitable. They were meant to be but never quite fit the way you want your tragic heroes to fit. She’d had a son by a man sent across time to protect her. He was the last survivor of four soldiers to come through time and uncle to her fatherless son.
It was more than the makings of a story, it was the makings of a miracle. But not all miracles end with happily ever after, angels of death and crucifixion come to mind.
Sarah rubs a hand across tired, gritty eyes. She walks to the bathroom and washes her face. In the mirror she sees a woman grown creased with fear and pain, a woman whose son could end a war or start one. She turns off the light. She pulls the blanket back from her bed. There are no sheets on it anymore. She lies down beside him, near his good shoulder, and drapes an arm across his stomach. Without a word he puts his good left arm around her shoulders. His breath sounds loud in her ears. When she tips her face up he kisses her. Just once. The kiss lingers like good bye even though she'll stay the night.
It’s nothing, just an acknowledgment that if things were different maybe they’d be something like this. Maybe there would be clean sheets on the bed instead of bloody ones in the bathroom. Maybe he could hold her. It’s nothing, just a nod, just a polite gesture that they’ve both noticed that the war had made them wrong and if things were different, if anything but the war could matter maybe they could be something that did.
In an hour or so he’ll wake up again and ask where he is because he’s been shot and this is not what they do. Maybe if things were different… . But then, if things were different, she'd be a waitress and he'd be a child. She'd bring him pancakes in diner one day and he wouldn't have enough cash to tip her.
Instead they have this. They watch each other's backs. They fight the war. They die for John Connor. Most days it's Hell but that doesn't mean it's not the best of all possible worlds.
For now Sarah’s tired and he’s finally succumbed to the drugs. His hand on her arm is heavy, his chest under her hand is rising and falling steadily. Tomorrow they’ll pretend nothing happened but for now Sarah’s almost asleep and he, at the very least, is a warm body.
End