Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: My first attempt at T:SCC fic.

These Things for Sure

He learned to accept it so long ago that the words were more like a mantra for him now. Nothing could change it, and no matter what he tried to do to stop it, he knew those words would become real, and he knew they would mean everything.

He died, John. He died for you. We all die for you.

For you. That was the part he heard over and over in his head during every single mission, every maneuver, every day, every night, every time he looked in a mirror. For you. Always for John Connor.

"Acceptable casualties" was a phrase his advisors liked to throw around to make the means that justified the ends seem a little more neat and tidy, but John Connor had never liked that phrase. It wasn't clean or blameless; there was no righteousness behind the words.

No amount of planning or strategy could stop his people from falling to the machines, and though every single human soul that died in this struggle – no battle was won without loss, no victory ever truly a celebration – weighed on him as if he'd killed them himself, he persevered in the fight because he had to. It was expected of him. It was who he was, and he never forgot it, no matter how many scars lined his face. No matter how thick his beard had become.

She watches as Sarah walks to the window and peers out into the sunlight to see her son and his uncle get out of the truck. Striding quickly toward the house, Derek rubs his forehead [behavior archive: Derek Reese: he is fatigued] and John follows dragging his feet and looking down [behavior archive: John Connor: he is upset]. Sarah smiles slightly, indicating relief. She told John's mother as soon as she returned home the night before that the T-888 had been destroyed (she left out the words "John is safe" knowing from repeated behavior from both Connors that Sarah would only respond with "no one is ever safe"), but visual confirmation of John's wellbeing is preferred in most situations, even Cameron agrees.

She watches the woman closely and notices Sarah take in a quick breath while still looking out the window. John has stopped walking and briefly looks up at his mother through the window before bowing his head once more and turning around to walk back towards the truck [behavior motive: John Connor: unknown, requires explanation].

Derek comes through the back door with a bang and a scrape and a sigh. The nod he and Sarah exchange is familiar [behavior archive: S. Connor/D. Reese: meaning: mission accomplished] and he crosses the room to the refrigerator to get a beer without a word. He drinks slowly and deeply while keeping his eyes trained on her. Glare is the correct term for his action and she files a scan of his face into one of her social archives under 'hostility.' The three of them are silent for the moment, but Sarah's increasingly sloped brow suggests she'll speak soon, her demeanor implying a calm rather than agitated delivery.

"He's okay?"

"He's fine. You don't have to worry." Sarah scoffs at his last word.

"Right." [sarcasm – redirect to: personality archive: Sarah Connor: she does not stop worrying about John]

"John is still outside," she says as a statement rather than a question.

Derek responds to John's mother instead of Cameron. "I think he just needs a minute," he pauses and repeats, "He's fine." [personality archive: Derek Reese: repetition – he knows he is not being truthful but desires the lie to be truth]

Without any further analysis, she vacates the room in favor of the one next to it and moves to look out the back door. She sees John sitting on the ground against the wooden shed with his feet flat on the ground, knees up and arms draped over them. He stares at the dirt in front of him and she turns her head five degrees to the right to better listen to the conversation coming from the kitchen.

"He did good last night. The triple-eight is ash and Bedell is where he should be. Score one for Team Connor," says Derek.

"Then why is he sitting outside by himself?"

She watches as John drags his palm across the dirt and holds it up in front of his face to examine it.

"He's a kid. Isn't this how they're supposed to be? Withdrawn and moody?"

"He hasn't been a kid for a while now. Maybe he never was." There is a pause and she hears a door opening and a bottle cap clink before a hiss.

John closes his hand into a fist in front of his face and she sees him carefully set it on the dirt beside him.

"No, you're right. I saw your son grow up a little these past few days." She hears Derek gulp three times. "I saw the John Connor I fought for back there. The John Connor Kyle and hundreds of other heroes followed with absolute faith. You should be proud."

John's fist hits the ground again and again. She doesn't wait for Sarah's response.

Exactly 22 seconds later she is standing approximately one foot in front of John Connor and looking down at him. His arms are around his knees now and his left hand, some blood and dirt on the knuckles, is holding his right. When he neither moves nor acknowledges her presence, she tilts her head to the side [John Connor does not see you or is ignoring you – solution: confront and move to his level]. She tilts her head to the other side [strike confront: move to his level only].

Quickly planted next to him, she duplicates his posture. Cameron does not speak or look anywhere but straight ahead and observes that his only movement has been to breathe. She scoots two inches to the right so that their arms are now touching.

John draws in and lets out a deep breath and turns his head slightly towards her for less than a second [contact made – do not speak until he does]. They both resume their eyes front posture, breathing softly [human vitals: John Connor: heart rate elevated] for exactly 89 seconds in silence [contact failed – verbal confrontation suggested. memory archive: John Connor: verbal confrontations upset rather than comfort 67% of the time – suggestion: physical comfort].

Cameron leans over and rests her cheek against John's shoulder as she lets a sigh escape her lips.

Seeing the relief on his mother's face is just too much for him. Her eyes are bright and she's almost smiling, and he can see, even from this distance through glass, what makes his mother so unbelievably scary: faith. If her faith wasn't in him he might be able to laugh about it and compare her to those fanatics who truly think the Martians are coming for them. It might be funny if it was somebody else, but this is his life and it was deadly serious even before he was born.

He knows hiding is cowardly, but going in that house right now and doing anything but shutting himself away from all those questioning pairs of eyes would be near enough to physical pain. Though he would never tell anyone, John thinks about the coward's way out a lot. He could run away, get to Mexico, hop a boat to South America and completely disappear. Let the world burn. Or better yet, let someone else save mankind. One person would be much harder to track than four, or if Cameron came with him… no. He only lets his mind go that way when he's really feeling sorry for himself. He's never thought of himself as brave, but really, is it any less cowardly to stay and face a future you have no control over?

Sitting against the shed and looking at the dirt seems to be as acceptable an escape as he is allowed, and he wonders what other sixteen years olds have to escape from. It's a beautiful sunny day in a world not destroyed and run by machines, and he feels guilty that he can't even enjoy it.

He has to remind himself to appreciate every little mundane thing like it's a treasure, like he deserves it. When he looks at his uncle, he knows none of them could begin to deserve what they have, and yet he still wants to fight so that they can. Most of the time.

John puts his hand on the ground and feels its texture and coolness before bringing his hand up in front of his face. He looks at the dirt and then his hand. This hand will save, he thinks looking at his dirty palm. This hand has killed, and it closes into a fist.

We all die for you.

He knew before he asked what had happened to Bedell. Maybe he just needed Derek to say it, to make it all real. He both hates and loves him for that, for treating him like an adult. But most of the time he wishes his uncle would forget he is John Connor and just see him as Kyle Reese's son, no destiny required.

He notices the pain in his hand before he realizes what he's doing. Hand going up in front of his face, he opens his fist painfully to see the blood on his knuckles caked with dirt. He grasps his right hand with his now stinging left and reminds himself that some things can never change.

And then there are shoes suddenly in front of him. Purple shoes. Only one Baum wears purple shoes and without having to strain himself too much, he makes no move to acknowledge her. If it's not important or life threatening, she'll go away, and he will be able to mope in peace.

Before he can contemplate the threat to his life that might have caused her to seek him out, she's sitting beside him and shifting close enough to touch him. What the hell is she doing? As if he ever has the answer to that question.

He waits for her to say something, but instead she puts her head on his shoulder and sighs as if she too is feeling some sort of emotional strain.

"What are you doing?" he asks with a slight shake to his voice.

"I'm empathizing." He lets that sink in good and proper. "Your comfort depends upon my understanding, so this is the most effective gesture to convey both comfort and understanding."

Rather than trying to figure her out, he lets himself relax and lean into her. Yes, most effective, he thinks and smiles after a few moments. They sit together silently and she takes his bloodied hand in hers.

"You're not even going to ask what happened?" he says after a moment.

"You punched the ground repeatedly." She brushes her fingers lightly over his knuckles.

"No, I mean what happened to me yesterday."

She straightens up and looks him in the eye. "I know what happened. You had to be John Connor."

He blinks at her and lets out a breath. Understanding isn't just a gesture to convey for her. "Yeah, whoever that is."

She puts his hand in his lap and stands up. "He's you. Don't forget that," she says and turns to walk back towards the house.

She could still hear the men celebrating all the way from the meeting room, and she sat up on the couch as he appeared in the doorway and leaned on the frame – or where the frame should have been. Wiping his chin and neck with a dingy towel, he smiled at her as he tilted his head up and turned it from side to side.

"Better?" he asked while stroking his chin. She didn't respond and simply stared at him. Frowning and arching an eyebrow at her, John put on his best perplexed face.

"Yes, less scratchy." Cameron smiled brightly at him and he chuckled. One hand stretched out towards him, the other patted the cushion beside her. His face lit up and he smiled as if he were a kid on Christmas morning looking at a pile of presents with his name on all the tags rather than a girl on a make-shift couch in a closet-sized room.

He sat next to her and she immediately folded her legs up under herself and leaned against him. With a sigh his arm went around her and she rubbed her forehead against his jaw before nestling her head on his chest under his chin. This peaceful moment was rare, but they savored it for a few minutes while they had the chance.

"This is nice."

"It is, but we have to go. There is only an eleven minute window today." Neither of them moved. "You said we have to do it soon."

He shifted nervously and tightened his arm around her. "You don't have to go back. You could stay," he whispered as if she wouldn't be able to hear him.

"You don't mean that. You said we have to do it soon."

"I know, but what if I'm wrong? What if I'm doing the wrong thing?"

She shrugged off his arm and sat up to look at him. "You're not."

"How do you know?"

"Because you're John Connor."

He smiled thoughtfully and kissed her lightly. "Don't worry. I haven't forgotten."

End.