I'll Get You There, Part 3

[not_a_good_man]

Title: I'll Get You There, part 3
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
Part 2



+++++

Bakersfield was a bust but it did garner one thing. A machine. One they could try to reprogram. It would be John's first attempt and he knew how important it was. Or would be. And how much the Resistance (was Jesse out there somewhere?) would hate it.

The body sat in a chair, immobile and dead looking, a man with dark hair and brown eyes. John was bent over the chip, studying it for damage before he stuck it into his computer. No one else knew he was doing this, just Marcus.

"Here goes nothing," he muttered as he stuck the chip into the drive to read it, waiting.

Marcus stood in front of the machine, arms folded and eyes dark. "I'll twist off its head, Connor, if that's things eyes go red." He hated when the eyes went red. His gleamed sometimes, something else tinging the bright blue, but they never went red.

"It can't go red. I have its chip," John answered, watching file after file scroll over his screen, just like when he'd looked at Vick's when he was sixteen. "It's dead, essentially. This is what matters." The chip.

How are you?

I'm not one hundred percent.

Sometimes he still dreamt of losing Cameron.

Truth was, he didn't know where to start with the reprogramming. Not even a little. He needed to find the root drive and go from there. "There has to be a million files here. At least."

"What model is it?" Marcus asked, still watching the dead machine through narrowed eyes.

"I don't know. 800? 850?" John shrugged as he sifted through a system that made no sense to him, trying to work to the root file. "Did Derek ever tell you? In the other universe, this one, I guess, Allison was resistance. Killed after Cameron was modeled after her."

Marcus went rigid and it took him a moment to answer. "I knew about Allison."

Glancing up at him, John took in his posture and then looked back at his screen. "She might be out there, somewhere."

"Maybe," he replied flatly. But Allison wasn't here. And Allison wouldn't know him. And if she was going to be killed. Any thought of Kyle still made him go angry and cold. Marcus had been getting in more fights lately, some that he started, some that he didn't. He didn't want to meet Allison, only to lose her again.

John knew about the fights; there was little he could do. He would ask, beg even. It didn't seem to matter.

A lot of things didn't seem to matter these days. War was hell, he found himself thinking, chuckling softly, mirthlessly. "Ah." Finally. What looked like the root file; he pulled it open. "Okay. Let's see if we can do this."

Four hours later, he held the chip in his hand as he stood on one side of the body and he looked at Marcus. "Be ready." To, well, twist its head off if he'd done it wrong.

Marcus nodded, arms dropping to his sides, loose, ready. "Go on," he said, nodding to the other man, "let's see."

With a deep breath, John bent over, and slipped the chip back into the machine's head.

At first nothing happened.

Then, almost as if jump-started, the machine's eyes did go red. And he looked around, scanning the area, Marcus, then John. And he rose and reached for John's throat.

Okay, then.

Marcus moved before he even had time to think. One arm went around the machine's throat from behind. He grabbed the thing by the wrist and wrenched the reaching arm back. The machine, in reaction, threw itself backwards, connecting solidly with the wall, shaking some things off the shelves. But Marcus still had the breath to grab the thing by the jaw and the back of the head. All it took was some leverage and a swift jerk and he twisted the head off clear from its body, which then crumpled to the floor, sparking. The already blank faced head went still, the eyes flickering out.

After a moment of taking in his utter failure, John looked up and over at Marcus. "Thanks."

"No problem," he said, dropping the head to the ground. "You should get the chip out. Keep examining it."

"Yeah." Sighing again, John bent down, pulling out the chip. This was going to take some time. A lot of it.

So when he finally succeeded nearly two weeks later, he almost couldn't believe it. The machine stood there, waiting for an order, hands even clasped behind his back. John kind of wanted to laugh even, he couldn't believe it. He was exhausted and scrubbed his hands over his head, shaking it. Wow. His eyes skated to Marcus. What do you think?

Marcus was sprawled on the bed they shared, more often than not, hands behind his head and eyebrow raised. "Well, it isn't trying to kill you," he said, "and that's a start."

"No, you aren't, are you?" John asked.

The machine shook his head. "No, sir. I'm a lieutenant in the resistance, fighting against Skynet. My specialty is munitions repair."

It sure was; John programmed that in. Now he just needed to find Uncle Bob. Part of him wanted to sit down and cry. They had to introduce the machine to the ranks and capture more and reprogram them. He was behind schedule. (Part of him just wanted to climb into bed with Marcus and forget everything. Or try anyway.)

He went over and pulled the chip out, and the machine went limp again and John went over to Marcus, climbing over him. "I did it."

"Yeah," he said, frowning as he brought his arms down around the other man, "you did. You don't seem pleased."

"Oh, fuck. I'm pleased. Make no mistake. I'm just ... exhausted." But not that exhausted, see. There were orders not to disturb him except for emergencies. "We need to introduce that guy to the troops. That'll go well, I'm sure." Except not.

No, probably, considering many of them hadn't even accepted him. "Worry about it tomorrow," he said, settling his head back in the pillows, watching him through hooded eyes. "Have you eaten yet today?"

Food? John was caught up looking at Marcus. And wanting. He didn't even realize he hadn't eaten.

The machine was deactivated, but John couldn't help but think that it was watching them. It probably didn't surprise Marcus that that just made John harder.

++++

When they sent Derek back, it wasn't any better, but it was easier. Derek wanted to go, to save Kyle. The machines weren't any more accepted, but they were a reality. A few went bad; that was a reality too. After the light of the time bubble faded, John stood for a long time, arms crossed over his chest.

Marcus stood a few feet behind him in his usual spot, just waiting on the fringes, John Connor's ever present guardian angel. He tended to stay back when they were with other people, knowing most weren't any more fond of him than the full machines that strode the halls. But one by one, the other lieutenants went off to attend to various duties, until it was just Marcus and John. "Are you all right," he asked quietly.

There was a hesitation before John shook his head. "No, I'm really not." He didn't look at Marcus.

He stepped up to stand next to him, his hands folded over his broad chest. He knew the feeling. Marcus set a hand on John's shoulder. He needed to talk to him. Kate had approached him. He was pretty sure she knew, but now was really not the time.

It wasn't. Their daughter was getting older; John spent what time he could with her. But he was fighting, he was trying to give Sarah a future. And Derek still didn't remember the village. It shouldn't have hurt, but it did. He turned, closing his eyes and letting himself lean into Marcus's body.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, wrapping one arm around John's shoulders, hand to the back of his head. He turned his own head to speak against John's temple. "But John...we have to do something about Kate."

"That sounds ominous," John chuckled out, dryly. The goosebumps ran down his back just from that little bit of touch. "What do you suggest?"

"I'm serious," he said earnestly, hands coming up to frame his face, "Sarah isn't a baby anymore. It's one thing that you and Kate don't spend nights together much, but it's starting to get obvious where you are spending nights."

"I can't get a divorce, Wright. There aren't judges, remember? What do you want me to do?" It wasn't like John got off on hurting Kate. It just... didn't work. "You want me to tell her ... what?" He didn't even know.

"We need to tell her something." We, not you. "Maybe you can't get a divorce, but it's not like a marriage is legally binding these days. Can't you...separate? For her sake." And for mine. "It's just that I'm pretty sure she knows."

"We have separated." Except without talking about it. Talking about it was ... difficult. Better avoided. But John knew it. He knew Marcus was right. He nodded and sighed. He'd talk to her. If she knew, then, well, it'd be pretty simple, wouldn't it? Simple and admitting that once again, John failed. God, he was tired.

"Come on," he said, still stroking his head, "let's go back. It's been a long night. And we still have to talk about the trip east." It was time to move. Each day saw less and less machines. Reports came in all the time of people going weeks without spotting metal. But Skynet was still there. The country was a big place.

The trip east. The idea made John even more tired. He thought of what Cameron said once.

It's lonely being John Connor.

She was right, for reasons she would never know. He nodded at Marcus. It was time to go. They had a lot to do.

+++++++++++

Marcus didn't flinch when his boot crunched over something that sound horribly like bone. It could have been a particularly thick stick, as this area had once been forested, but it was doubtful. Bones were more plentiful these days. The convoy was a good ten miles back, neatly hidden from aerial view, but he and Connor were scouting ahead. The sun had set, but there was still more ground to cover, and they hadn't had too much trouble from metal, so they'd agreed it was worth it to keep going.

He shifted the P90 in his grip and paused at the top of a ridge to scan. Nothing. Miles of nothing. According to the maps, they were where Colorado had once been. Many of the mountains had been leveled by the machines looking for minerals, but there were still heights, and he could see, it felt, for forever in every direction, his eyes tracking the horizon.

John hadn't expected this. It felt like a fist in his gut. He'd never been to Colorado, but hell, everyone knew the Rockies. Skynet even took that from them and the hate he felt surging in him flushed his face. He was tired (he was always tired these days). Between that, and Marcus's scan, somehow he missed the sound behind them, only stiffening when they heard the safeties click off. Shit.

Hands up, he turned. If it was machines, they were outnumbered and dead. (He thought it was a bad sign that the idea brought a drizzle of relief.) There were men, a number of them, with their guns pointed.

Not machines.

"Who's in charge?" He asked. "We're Resistance."

Marcus turned as well, slinging the P90 back over his shoulder and letting his hands hang slack at his hands. He watched the men calmly, letting John do the talking. Generally it was best to keep his mouth shut, and his hand covered. Marcus' reputation didn't tend to precede him as John's did. They wouldn't know he was a machine.

"We know who you are," the man in the front said gruffly, and with that there was a brief salvo of bullets, all aimed at Marcus. He hadn't been expecting it, and the force of the impact was enough to knock him off his feet. He landed hard on his back, skidding down a few feet on the loose earth. He could feel each bullet as it lodged in the Coltan, and was already, even as he stared wide eyed up at the dark sky, gasping for air, assessing the damage. Two in his chest, one in his shoulder, one had passed between his ribs, another in his thigh.

"No!" John rushed, pushing himself between the guns and Marcus's body, turning to put his hand up as he skidded, his other arm and most of his body draped over Marcus. "Nononono. If you know who I am, you won't do this." Jesus Christ! How many bullets?! How many?! Staring at the men, and the guns still pointed at them, he hissed out the question over his shoulder, "Are you all right?"

It took him a moment before his brain would let him talk, too busy making sure that everything was, in fact, all right, but he nodded once, shortly. "Yeah," he said, voice hoarse, "yeah. Yeah. Shit."

"Don't get up," the first man said, clearly to Marcus, "we're putting you in a truck. We're taking you back to base. We know about you, John Connor, and your machines."

What? They come all the way to this?

We're waiting.

For me to mess up?

No. For you to be human.

John took a deep breath. "You put him on a truck, I'm going with him." With Marcus's assurance that he was all right, he stood. "Who the fuck is in charge here?! Goddamnit. We're fighting Skynet. Not each other!"

"We're fighting Skynet, Connor. Apparently you're keeping them as pets." The man sneered as the sound of a truck neared them. A large jacked-up pick up appeared over the ridge and skidded to a stop a few feet from them. A few of the men lowered their guns and started toward Marcus to move him into the truck.

"You're going to need more than three," he said in a low voice, not moving. He was losing a lot of blood, and it was evident in the strength of his voice. "Better if I walked."

"Get back." John raised his gun, thumbing off the safety, pointing it at the soldiers. "Get. Back. Or I will shoot you in the faces."

Time was folding in on itself again. Holding the gun, pointing it at his mother, Derek, Charley. Protecting Cameron. In the middle of Colorado, protecting Marcus.

It seemed fitting.

Who would shoot John Connor? This was always his advantage, wasn't it? He wasn't above exploiting it.

The men hesitated, and the man who was doing the speaking made a sound of frustration. "Fine! But get him in the truck."

Marcus started pushing himself to his feet, wobbly, but able to stand. His shirt was stained with blood, as were his fatigues. It was enough to have their captors staring. They were used to the machines standing after bullets hit them, but they weren't used to the blood. "Assholes," he muttered as he handed the P90 over.

John hooked his arm around Marcus's waist to help him, to check, to make sure that he got there all right. What the fuck. Heads were going to roll. Under his breath, he said to Marcus, "Talk to me."

"I'm all right," he said, trying not to lean too much on the other man. "Just need to stop the bleeding. They didn't hit anything important."

"Shut up!" came the rough bark as Marcus hauled himself up into the truck bed. He was immediately yanked back and manacles clamped around his wrists with chains attached to the truck bed. He snorted and rolled his eyes.

There was no point in fighting. John just sat across from him. It was becoming a trend in their life. Chains.

Too bad they weren't kinky.

Okay, so maybe he chuckled a little bit. Just a little.

At the HQ, he stormed in, Marcus leaning on him while not leaning on him and he demanded to be taken to the one in charge, to whom he proceeded to ream, using any number of four-letter words.

It became clear that his choice to utilize reprogrammed machines wasn't a popular one.

No shit.

When they were finally left alone, though it was clear that there were men with guns on the other side of the door, John got Marcus set down. "We need to get those bullets out of you."

"They're starting to sting," he said dryly as he leaned against the wall, head dropped back and eyes shut, "shit, John. This isn't good..."

"What was your first clue?" John even smiled a little. It'd taken threatening even to get a pair of pliers. "Our men will be here in the morning." There weren't any reassuring words. None. He had to adjust the light and bent down to start pulling the bullets out.

Marcus dug his fingers into the floor, one leg curling up as he fought with the inevitable pain. There were some things that didn't hurt at all anymore, but fresh bullet wounds weren't on that list. "Maybe I should go back to California," he said quietly, "I don't know if I'm going to cause anything but trouble for you."

"Are you breaking up with me?" It was a lame joke, but it hid more. John didn't look up. He didn't give Marcus a chance to answer. "Don't go. Fuck them all." One casing clanked on the table. Four more to go.

"What if my presence means they don't obey you, John?" he asked, trying to keep his breathing calm, "I can't undermine you."

"If they don't obey me? ... They don't obey me." Looking at the big picture, the fight was nearly over. The idea of actually doing this without Marcus was ... unthinkable, John found. "Hold on." He had to dig deeper for the bullet in Marcus's thigh. "Maybe they don't need John Connor anymore," he heard himself say.

Marcus cried out once before he could clamp down on it, eyes gleaming bright, as close to red as they ever got, and his jaw clenched. The gloved hand dug into the floor so tightly the cement cracked. "Wouldn't that be nice," he said in a rush of an exhale.

John smirked, just a little as he finally got a hold on the bullet, and he tugged. "Do you ever think about it? What happens after?"

"After what?" he asked, letting his head drop back and his eyes shut again, "After this is over? John. I didn't know you were so naive."

That got John to look up and something crossed over his face. "No."

"I don't see how this will ever be over," he said, still not opening his eyes, "sometimes I can't even believe we're still fighting, there are so few of us left." He paused, reconsidering that. "There are so few of you left."

Oh. For some reason, John had thought Marcus was going to pull an Uncle Bob. His heart had twisted hard at that idea, enough to leave him short of breath. "We're going to win."

"What are we winning?" he asked, cracking an eye open, "a nuked planet, anarchy. Maybe we'll win and just...run out of food." He gave a rough, humorless laugh. "Starve to death."

With a twist, John got the bullet out and tossed it onto the table. "What do you want me to say? Tell those people out there to just give up? Fuck. You can be a prick. Not like you need to eat, anyway."

He grunted in pain and turned his head away. "Maybe not, but those people out there just put five bullets in me, so I guess I'm not feeling charitable."

For a moment, John let his head fall, his chin to his chest and he closed his eyes. "Do you really believe that?"

Marcus didn't answer for a long time, still staring off to the side. "No," he said finally, dully, "I don't."

Maybe he was lying. Frankly, John didn't care. But to believe they were doing this for this long for nothing made him want to shoot himself (yeah, he thought about it). He paused for a moment before answering. "Okay."

The bullets in Marcus's chest were going to be tricky. "You need to lie down."

Marcus took a deep breath and tugged his ruined shirt over his head before lying back. There were some glimpses of metal through the torn flesh. "When I was fifteen, I would have thought getting shot and surviving was cool."

"Lost its lustre, huh?" John's smirk was muted, but there. He straddled Marcus's hips, got the light closer and bent down. "When I was fifteen, I thought ... I don't remember what I thought was cool. The Smiths, maybe."

"You were one of those then, huh?" Marcus stretched one arm up above his head, pulling the line of his side tight. He was quiet for a moment. "You remember taking me to Data's to fix my hand, and I was panicking and you got me talking about what bands I liked to calm me down?"

"Oh, shit." Chuckling, John nodded. "I remember. And if you say 'emo fuck,' I will kick you when you're down."

"Kid," he said, a smirk in his voice, "I'm too old to know what emo is. I've got a good fifteen years on you, remember?" Except those fifteen years had been spent dead, waiting to be woken up, in a Skynet lab.

"Kid. I'm your elder now." He didn't really forget that. John met Marcus's gaze for a moment before concentrating on what he was doing, careful now. So careful. "What, you didn't like the Smiths?"

"No, I was just remembering," he said, trying not to flinch away from the pliers. "All those bands I named, I only liked them because my brother liked them." It was the first time Marcus had mentioned his brother since the village.

"You lied?" John was amused. Another thing from the village came back to him.

I cut her open. She was perfect. He'd told Marcus about Cameron. Now here he was inside Marcus's chest. "Careful," he said. "I'm inside you. Tell me the truth now. Favorite bands."

Marcus struggled against a rush of heat at John's words. "I wasn't lying. They are my favorite, but they're my favorite because my brother liked them. I did everything he did. It was fucking pathetic." He gave a rough laugh.

"He must've been a hell of a man." There it was. John bent closer, angling the pliers. "You don't talk about him, much."

"He was barely a man," he said, hissing against a sharp sting. "He was a loser who could barely take care of himself, much less his younger brother."

"So, you did everything he did why?" John grasped and pulled, slowly this time, slowly. Careful. Not having brothers, there was no way he could understand.

"Because he was my brother," he said, rolling his eyes up to look at the ceiling.

"Oh, okay." John's eye-roll was nonexistent but there in spirit. "If everyone jumped off the cliff, would you jump too?" The bullet landed on the table; he gusted out a breath, relieved.

Marcus shrugged, clearly unwilling to talk about it anymore. His relationship with his brother wasn't exactly something he was eager to discuss, and because he'd been the one to bring it out, he dropped it. But it did, however, make him realize just how little John knew about his past. "One left, right?"

"Yeah." Before he went back in, John leaned down and forward, pressing a quick, but firm, kiss to Marcus's mouth. Back to work.

A bit surprised by the kiss, Marcus stared at him for a short moment. "Never knew my dad," he explained before he lost the impetus to do so, "mom kick me out when I was seventeen. My brother was all I had, and my brother was a junkie and a crook." And so, Marcus was too.

And after how many years, John was learning about Marcus's family. It seemed fitting as he was reaching into the man's chest. "Do you miss him?" Adjusting the lamp again, John bent down even loser, nose practically to Marcus's chest. Shit, this was going to be tricky. "Your brother."

"Sometimes," he said, looking down at John as he worked, "most of the times, no. He uh..." Marcus dropped his head back and closed his eyes. "He got me on meth, and I wanna blame him for how my life turned out, you know? But I can't, really."

"We all make choices." Abstractly as John worked deeper. "Meth, huh. That's heavy." Said the one who only ever did pot or drank in the village. Getting high with Harry. God, he hadn't thought of that in years.

"Yeah, small town Texas. We were a bunch of rednecks." He closed his eyes. "Sometimes I'm scared to tell you things about myself before...any of this."

"After all we've done." All of it, the fucking and the fighting and all that? John looked up at him. "You can tell me anything." After all, Marcus knew ... everything about John. The best, and the worst.

"I was never the kind of man you are, John," he said, shaking his head, "I was a coward, a junkie and a murderer."

"What kind of man am I, Wright? I had no childhood, I fucked my uncle and I get off on your metal hand, am about half-way hard because I've got your chest open. I'm in no position to judge now, am I?" John's expression was wry.

Marcus wanted to give him a shake. He'd never hurt people like Marcus had, but he was sure John would come up with something in an effort to prove him wrong. "Have you got the damn thing or not?" he asked, referring to the bullet.

"Hold still." He had to twist some to pull the bullet from the Coltan, but it came free and John dropped it on the table. "There. Happy? I need to get the one in your shoulder. You can go back to feeling sorry for yourself, now, if you'd like."

"Don't," he said, shaking his head, "I'm allowed to feel sorry for myself when I'm having lead twisted out of my chest, all right?" Marcus sat up suddenly, eyes narrowing sharply.

"Does that go for me, too?" John dropped the pliers for a minute and rubbed over his face. "I am so fucking tired. I am ... So tired." He just sat on Marcus's hips for a moment, even as Marcus sat up, his shoulders slumped forward. "I think of giving up every fucking day. Every single fucking day I want to give up. You know what keeps me going?" He wasn't looking at Marcus, but at the far wall, uncaring if they were being listened in on or not.

Marcus sighed heavily and reached up to drag his gloved hand down the back of John's head. He leaned forward, pressing his forehead to the other man's. "I'm sorry."

"Do you want to know what keeps me going, Marcus?" John asked, voice lowered to a whisper, his eyes closed, savoring the contact.

He wasn't sure he did, but Marcus just nodded a bit, keeping himself close. He kept his eyes open, watching Connor.

"I have this ... dream." For lack of a better word. Not that John slept long enough to dream most days. "That there's this ... lake somewhere that hasn't been shitted up. And a house, right there on the lake." It's stupid. The only time he's lived near the water was when he stayed at Charley's house. Charley, who died defending him. "And it's quiet. And it's just --"

Fuck, he was tired. Something balled up in the back of his throat and it took a few times to clear it. His voice was husky as he went on. "And it's just you and me. And it's ... quiet."

Marcus swallowed hard. He continued to stroke the back of John's head, clinging to him as much as he was holding him. "We'll get there," he said in a low voice, "I'll get you there, Connor."

It was stupid. It was the daydream of a seventeen year old boy who didn't yet know war. It was normal.

Stupid.

But it was what John thought of. And Marcus knew, then.

"I need to get that bullet out of your shoulder."

"Hey," Marcus said, tugging John's head up so he had to look at him. "I'll get you there."

The truth was that they probably wouldn't ever see anything like that. For who knows how many reasons. And John didn't think he could cry anymore; it'd been years since he had. But he was selfish, too, and he didn't care if there were cameras. He kissed Marcus, hard, deep, wet. And for a moment, he knew peace.

Marcus wasn't even thinking as far as cameras. He inhaled sharply as he returned the embrace, his fingers digging into his scalp. He pulled back after a long minute. "Get this fucking bullet out of me, all right? I know it turns you on, but it stings."

"The bullet doesn't turn me on," John corrected. He pushed Marcus to lie back, moving so he could roll to his side. That was the easiest one to remove. Each of the wounds had alcohol poured into them, then they could sit. John could pull Marcus's glove off, too, stuffing it in his pocket before closing his eyes.

Marcus curled the hand around John's as they just sat. He let the sting of the alcohol fade, concentrating on getting those holes closed before anything could get them infected. Nasty thing about still having real flesh. It could rot just like any human's. "Think they're watching?" he asked quietly.

John's eyes opened and he looked around, scanning the walls and ceilings. "Do you see anything?" It was hard to tell.

Marcus turned his head, then nodded once. "Above the door." He pointed with his good hand. "Probably not doing you any favors right now, John."

Groaning, John shook his head. It figured. It just really figured. He couldn't muster the energy to care, though. "We get out tomorrow, we go, we don't look back." Maybe, he found himself repeating internally. Maybe the resistance didn't need John Connor anymore. But if he didn't fight --

Never mind. Moot point.

Marcus smiled. "We'll figure out what we wanna do tomorrow," he said, nodding, "but I gotta sleep if I wanna close these holes up."

"Sleep, then." It just took some scooting down to be on their backs. John stared at the ceiling for a while before closing his eyes.

When his men come, there's not much talking, but there are plenty of accusatory looks. Whenever John looked at someone, they'd look away. This wasn't doing him any favors, no. Marcus followed him out. And they didn't look back.

Continued here