Archive of Our Own

Marcus looked out of place in the high school. He was too old to be a student and too disheveled to be a teacher. His boots were heavy on the hallway floors, scuffed by sneakers and heels too high for the girls wearing them, and his jeans were well worn. He'd been in this time line for two weeks and hadn't had too much opportunity for shopping. It had been searching. Always searching. Connor. Reese. Baum. It was the last one that had hit. John Baum. Actually going to high school. Sarah's influence. Despite everything, the running and hiding, the constant threat of death, John Connor would attend high school god damn it.

Or maybe it was John's attempt at holding on to some semblance of a normal life. Marcus didn't know Sarah, but he did know John and if there was one thing he'd always wanted - it was to not be John Connor.

Marcus paused briefly by each door he passed, glancing in the window - quick scan, no John, move on - methodical and perfect. He never missed a face. It had taken practice, this balance between machine and human, but he'd found it. Scan. Scan. Scan - a pause longer than normal but no that wasn't John Connor, aged seventeen, savior of the human race.

His next scan was cut short, however, at the sound of a girl's scream coming from a classroom two doors up and on the right. Then gun shots. Marcus calculated making it through the door in ten seconds. He did it in five, not bothering with the doorknob. The frame splintered under his shoulder and the door went flying out into the teacher - the terminator - with the gun, knocking his third shot wide, away from John Connor.

John Connor, who was on the floor, staring at the Terminator with the gun with something like disbelief.

After so long, it found them here. Most boring place in the whole fucking world.

You run!

Sarah's words rang in his ears and John got to his feet, ducking as he ran toward the window, breaking it with his shoulder before he went rolling out, not looking back at whoever it was that stupid enough to try to take on a Terminator. He hit the ground with a thud, then got back up and started running again.

The Terminator was up and emptying the gun into Marcus' chest, but he'd been prepared for that. The chamber clicked empty and in an instant, Marcus found himself sailing through the same window John Connor had so wisely escaped through, taking the whole frame with him. He was on his feet in an instant, this time ready for the grasping fists of the machine that had leaped out after them. The shotgun appeared from the back of his jacket, slid out of the holster strapped to his back and Marcus took a step back each time he fired, putting more and more distance between him and the machine - the thing slowed by the blasts, but not stopped. Never stopped.

"The red pickup!" He barked to the boy he was sure was still in hearing distance, "keys in the ignition!"

For John Connor, the idea of not going anywhere with strangers had a special significance. He heard, sure, but for all he knew, it was a trick. The machine. He saw the red pick up and went to the other line of cars, ducking back behind an old Buick, trying to get himself so that he couldn't be seen if someone bent down and looked under the cars (Terminators were nothing if not predictable). He squatted and he waited.

Marcus was out of shot gun shells before long and the terminator, flesh mask mangled and metal skeleton showing, grabbed him by the throat. Marcus bared his teeth, legs kicking, one gloved hand tight around the machine's wrist to keep the thing from yanking his head off, and the other digging in his pocket. "God damn it Connor!" he barked after his gaze flicked sideways to see the red pickup still empty, "get in the fucking car or I'll kick your ass!" Your mother taught you too well. His hand came out of his pocket with a grenade. The pin fell to the ground with a tinkle of metal. Marcus, in two swift movements, shoved it in the terminator's mouth and gave it a quick head butt, strong enough to loosen its grip. He dropped to the ground, twisted and sprinted away.

The explosion was deafening. With a shout, John covered his ears, hunkering down to avoid the glass that came from the Buick's windows shattering. Things had been so peaceful before they blew up. Before Mom had had her gut feeling and they'd left Charlie, his engagement ring sitting on the dresser. That had been John's biggest grief, now replaced by things blowing up and his life being threatened again.

Despite the ringing in his ears, John didn't move, watching for a sign of anything as silence, punctuated by sirens that were getting closer and the random scream. He needed to move. He leaned up for a moment, saw nothing and started to run. Again.

A hand caught him by the back of his jacket, pulling him back into a solid chest with a thud. "I said," a low voice growled in his ear as he was turned back to the pick up, "get in the god damn car, John."

In his panic, John felt like his heart was going to thump right out of his chest. He fought, kicking, punching, slapping, all in an attempt to get away. "I don't know any John. Let me go."

The sirens were getting louder.

"John...." The voice gentled, the arm holding him loosening so he could turn the boy around to look him in the eye. Marcus was, luckily, still intact. The glove covered the only part of him that would give it away. "You sent me back. You sent me here to protect you." His hand was firm on his shoulder. "Get in the truck before that thing gets back on its feet. Before the cops get here."

Come with me if you want to live. John paused, staring at the man who was bleeding. The one who'd gone after the Terminator and was somehow still living to talk about it. "Red pick up," he breathed. "Who are you?"

"My name," he said, bent slightly so they were level, "is Marcus Wright. Now come on." He urged him toward the cab of the pick up.

"Are you going to kill me?" John asked, still a little breathless. He'd appreciate the warning.

He actually smiled. The expression was hardly happy - mostly wry and darkly amused. "No. I'm not going to kill you." He opened the passenger side door. Cops were starting to pull up outside the school. "Get in."

John got in. And he slid right to the floor, too, crouching between the seat and the dash. Yeah, Sarah taught him well. "I sent you back? From when?"

Good boy. "2020," he said as the pick up peeled out of the school parking lot, streaking past two oncoming police cruisers. They didn't give chase. Too occupied with the terminator that was surely on its feet again. "Kyle Reese was sent back to protect your mother. Then the T-800 was sent back to protect you as a child. Now they're both gone..." he turned a sharp right and the tires screamed, "and I'm most useful here." There might have been an edge of resentment in his voice. Marcus grabbed a cell phone off the dash and dropped it into John's hands. "Call your mother. Tell her to leave work. It'll go for her next. Make sure it's really her, first."

"No shit," John retorted dryly. What did this guy, Marcus, take John for, an idiot? But he ignored Marcus's phone and pulled his own from his back pocket, checking to make sure it wasn't crushed, first; good thing he landed on his side coming out of the window. Watching Marcus, he dialed and waited. "Mom?" He said, when he heard her name. "What was Charley's favorite TV show?"

"Charlie's Angels," Sarah rushed out. "John? What's wrong?"

"There's a machine coming for us. I'm not alone. We'll meet you at the house."

He got a click ending the call for his trouble and he put away his phone. "I'm guessing you know where I live?" he asked Marcus.

"Of course." He pulled another hard right toward the house the Connors were most recently calling home. Not for long. "Get whatever you need. You have three minutes." The brakes squealed as the truck came to an abrupt halt in front of the house.

"Ever heard the word 'please'?!" John muttered under his breath as he darted for the house and barreled right into the barrel of his mother's sawed-off shotgun. "Jesus."

"Who is it."

"He said his name is Marcus Wright, from 2020," John told her, changing direction as he headed for his room. He'd barely unpacked. "He said I sent him back."

"You have two minutes."

John rolled his eyes. Maybe Sarah and Marcus would get along. He had his bag and was out in one. Before he could even say "we need to go," Sarah was leading the way out the door to the pick up. Sarah circled to the driver's side, gun pointed at Marcus's head. "Move over, I'm driving."

"That's my mom," John said, grinning just a little as he climbed into the passenger side. "Sarah."

"Pleasure," Marcus said dryly before shifting sideways. He wouldn't fight that battle now. He'd prepared himself for dealing with Sarah Connor. John had helped, too. It was everything he'd been told to expect. The memory almost made him smile, but he didn't have time for fond recollections. "East into the desert. Abandoned bomb shelter I found two days ago. Stocked. Hidden."

Sliding in behind the wheel, Sarah started to drive, tires squealing as she headed north. She kept the gun in her lap, a hand on it. "Give me one reason to trust you."

"Kyle carried your picture everywhere he went after John gave it to him. There was a german shepherd. He almost forgot it when he went back, but I made sure..." Marcus was watching her, but he looked ahead when he trailed off, "I was created by Skynet to infiltrate the resistance and trick John Connor into a trap. It didn't work."

The mention of Kyle got Sarah's attention, her gaze sharp on Marcus. "What kind of trap." Her hands tightened both on the wheel and on the grip of her gun.

"I thought I was bringing him into Skynet HQ to rescue Kyle. But I was being manipulated. I brought him in only to have him almost killed by the first T-800. But I saved his life and then he saved mine. We've been fighting together ever since. Take a right here." He pointed with the gloved hand.

She kept going straight. "So you're a machine." Not like any she'd ever seen.

John, though, was watching. "What's up with this." He touched the glove.

"I am not-" The gloved hand tightened into a fist and he pulled it back, jaw clenching tight. "I was born in Abilene, Texas, 1975. My mother's name was Rebecca. My brother's name was Taylor. I'm not a machine. Do you want the bomb shelter or not?"

With another sharp look, Sarah gestured at the glove. "Take it off." If he had nothing to hide, he'd take it off. Then, maybe - maybe - they'd go to the bomb shelter, when she knew it wasn't a trap.

"Born in - " That made no sense. John stared at Marcus, his mouth hanging open. "But how?"

Marcus pulled the glove off reluctantly and the coltan glinted as he extended his fingers. "I died -" they'd get to the how and why later, "and my body went to Skynet. I have a human brain and a human heart. I have two nervous systems, one machine, one organic. I am not a machine." He cocked his head to look at the woman, eyes sharp, "don't believe me?" The metal hand shot out, caught John's wrist, and pressed the boy's hand to his chest, over his heart.

When he grabbed John, Sarah had the gun and had it cocked and pointed at Marcus in one of his heartbeats, but just as quickly, John raised his free and he waited. And he felt it. Two heartbeats, nearly identical. "Woah." Then to Sarah, "he's not lying."

It took a moment for Sarah to lower the gun, but she didn't uncock it. There was another moment before she spoke. "East to the bomb shelter?"

"East." Marcus turned his head to look at John. After a pause, he released his hand, still watching him - something indecipherable in the look. "We'll be good there for a couple days, until we can figure out where to go next."

They headed east.

In the bomb shelter, that John felt compelled to remind them all smelled like stale cat litter, John sat on a cot and he watched Marcus, avidly. Sarah was doing an inventory of supplies at the other end, but still, he whispered, as if keeping a secret. "Are there others like you?"

"No," he said, sitting across from him, forearms on his thighs as he leaned forward, watching John back just as attentively, "I failed them."

"You were born in 1975, but came back from 2020. You don't look 45. What happened?"

"Skynet," he said, "they woke me up in 2018. I was twenty nine when I died." Marcus leaned back a little. "I don't age. At least...I haven't since waking up."

So that meant there was something like ... some kind of technology to make that possible. John gawped, before shutting his mouth because he looked like a dork. "What happened to your hand?"

"I got in a fight," he said, lips curling up in a slow smirk. Seeing John like this was fascinating. The eyes were the same - always steady, unflinching, but he was so young. Relatively untried. "How old are you."

"Sixteen." Said a little defensively, John sitting up a little straighter. "What kind of fight?"

"Sixteen. Jesus Christ." Marcus gave a bark of a laugh and leaned back against the wall, hands on his thighs. "A fight with your Uncle Bob. Or his predecessor anyway. A fight saving your ass."

Uncle Bob. That got John's attention. "So, uh, thanks. I guess. Is that how I know you? In the future? You were taking me to save Kyle?"

"I thought I was. In the end it's how it worked out. But when I woke up, I didn't know what I was, or what had happened. I thought I was human. I met Kyle first and then I found you." Marcus was still smirking, head cocked again, "you wanted to take me apart. But we made a deal. I would get you into Skynet and you wouldn't kill me. Turned out Skynet was watching the whole time, they wanted you to come, but they didn't count on me interfering."

"On not being a machine." John listened, see, always. He was always paying attention. "Then I sent you back here. Why you?," he asked, pulling his legs up, arms resting on his knees.

"That," Marcus said slowly, "I'm not sure I can answer right now." The smirk faded into a smile, something more real, something sincere. "But you trust me."

Marcus paused, licking his lips. "Maybe I was your last real line of defense, but you don't actually spend a lot of time thinking about your own safety. Not in the future. It's all about keeping you alive now."

Before John could answer, Sarah appeared at the door, looking at her son. "You need to eat." She held up a can. "Ravioli."

"In a can." And John wrinkled his nose and sighed, getting to his feet to go over and take the can which was already opened, with a spoon stuck in it. He looked over at Marcus and held out the can. "Do you eat?"

"Rarely," he said, "but thanks. It's all yours." Marcus turned his eyes up to Sarah. They flicked over her quickly. Tracking. Tracking. "I don't expect you to ever trust me. But I'm what you've got right now."

She looked at John, then at Marcus, nodding down the hall. They could talk while John ate. She moved, fully expecting him to follow, her arms crossed over her chest. "You're here to protect him? Nothing more? Does that mean more are coming for him?"

He pushed to his feet, boots still heavy on the metal floor - too heavy - and followed her. "Of course," he said as he came to a stop, "they're always coming for him. You know that. You've always known it. It doesn't matter how long it's been. They always come." He set her with a steady gaze. "There's no stopping Judgment Day. There's only preparing."

Sarah's jaw froze and her eyes flicked away to the wall. "So what am I supposed to do?" She asked, her voice low, words spit through her teeth.

"You survive," he said easily, "what have you ever done? You're not so naive as to expect answers from me, Sarah. Come on."

Somehow, she had expected him to know more, since he came from ...

So, Sarah shook her head. "We go east. We out run them. We hide. We wait it out, then. We hide."

"Why hide?" John asked from the doorway, fork halfway to his mouth. "Hiding just postpones the inevitable. You were supposed to stop it." Which sounded like an accusation, but it wasn't. "You didn't. I think we should fight."

Marcus turned his head to look at the boy and that indecipherable smile was back. "How do you propose we do that?"

John shrugged at him. "We take what you know and stop things before they start. Like, if you know where a headquarters is, we figure out what it is now and we ... stop it." Seemed pretty self-explanatory to him.

Sarah's jaw grew tighter. "That's not exactly keeping you safe."

"It's not my job to stop Skynet," Marcus said in agreement, "it's my job to make sure you survive past judgment day."

"So what?" John asked them both. "We just keep running. Always running. That sounds like a whole lot of fun."

"John - "

"Like I said," Marcus said, all but cutting Sarah off, "there is no stopping it. Running will keep you alive. Sabotaging skynet headquarters won't. I don't really care how bored you are with hiding. I care about keeping you breathing."

Expelling a frustrated breath, John turned on his heel and disappeared down the other end of the bunker. Sarah watched him go. Her shoulders fell a little bit and she bit back her sigh, not looking at Marcus.

"Stay," he said, turning and disappearing after him before Sarah could protest. Marcus came to a stop just behind the boy, arms folding steadily, "everyone runs John, in the future. Difference is you'll be doing it your whole life so you'll be real fuckin' good at it. You keep looking for a way out. There isn't one."

"So, what? We just hang out, moving from place to place til Judgment Day comes? We don't fight?!" John turned, glaring up at Marcus. "Yeah, real brave."

"It isn't about being brave," he said, "until we have to be. Right now we don't have to be brave, we just have to be smart." He set his hand on John's shoulder. "You'll get your share of fighting, kid."

John sighed and Marcus could tell he had to fight to shrug Marcus's hand off (to risk leaning into the touch). "Great."

~~

They were smart. They stayed at the bunker for five days before Sarah thought it prudent to move. Loading the truck up, the took off east again, into Nevada. As much as John wanted to see Las Vegas, it wasn't smart to endanger others, so they ended up in the desert, in a cabin with one bedroom and a tiny kitchen. John stared out the window, pretending to ignore Sarah and Marcus. Sarah set up armaments in the cabin, getting Marcus to punch holes in the drywall to hold the guns and then plastering over them. She mentioned school to John, who ignored her.

Marcus was sitting on the threadbare couch, boots kicked up on a crate. "You ever been hunting," he asked, arms folded over his chest, "white tailed deer. Good way to pass the time."

John huffed, not answering, arms pulled tighter around himself. It had been years since his mom had taken him hunting to show him how to use a gun.

"Come on." He thumped to his feet, swiping a rifle from off the mantle piece, "it's good. Clears your head. Fresh food." Marcus looked down at him. "Come on. On your feet, Connor."

He got a patented teenager's eyerolled groan of discontent, but John stood up and glared. "It's the middle of the afternoon. Don't deer, like, hibernate during the afternoon?" He didn't look at his mom who leaned against the doorway, watching them.

"Hibernate? Jesus, Connor, you need to get out more." Marcus swung the rifle under his arm and started to the door. "You wanna sit around in the cabin all day, fine, but I feel like moving." The days were getting shorter, afterall, and afternoons didn't last as long as they did in the summer.

Glancing over at Sarah, John huffed again when she shrugged, raising an eyebrow. She was no help. He stomped into his boots and got his jacket and his gun and followed Marcus out. "When was the last time you went hunting?" He asked the man's back.

"Nineteen eighty nine," he said as he crunched through the dry brush. It was warm out - not hot - but warm enough.

John was eight. Where was he? It took a while to remember. He followed, walking in Marcus's footsteps. "Did you get anything?"

"All the time," he said, "I'm a hell of a shot." It would be quite a walk out into the desert, out to where the deer would feel safe. He knew John knew how to be quiet. "You ever had venison?" Marcus glanced back at the boy. Sixteen, huh? Fucking weird.

"Yeah." John had eaten most everything in his time. To be ready, right? Always to be ready. "Are we going to dry some if you shoot something?"

"What is this if bullshit?" he asked with a short laugh, glancing back again, "you calling my shooting into question?"

What was that? A hint of a smile on John's face?! Wonders never would cease. "So far, you're just talk. I'm just saying."

"Smart ass," Marcus said with a rough scoff. "The hell I'm just talk. The fuck you know about what I have and haven't done." He hefted the rifle in his grip.

"It was an observation from the time we've been together, Marcus," John said, a brow arched. "Geez, you're touchy."

"M'not..." he cut himself off with a gruff hrumph and kept walking, muttering something about exactly-the-same-at-sixteen-as-he-is-at-forty.

John snickered. "Where are we going, anyway?"

"Down into that ravine," Marcus said, pointing to where the land dropped off not too far in front of them, "they'll be grazing down there, out of the sun." John's laugh made the corner of his lips twitch up.

"Into the ravine, yeah. That sounds like a bad joke," John told him, but walked into the tall grass as quietly as he could, following any sound and stopping when he heard something moving against dead wood.

Marcus came to a stop in front of him, glancing back. He pointed down to the edge, then held that finger to his lips. A few more silent steps forward and they could look over. Two white tailed deer were nosing in the sparse grass at the bottom. It wasn't much of a drop, and it was greener down there. It was obvious water came through here during the wet season, a favorite spot for animals looking for something to eat. Marcus sank carefully down to one knee and lifted the rifle to his shoulder. "Unless," he whispered so quiet you could barely hear it over the soft crunch of the deers' hooves, "you wanna take the shot."

With a raised brow, John glanced over at him and shouldered his rifle, looking down the barrel and aiming at the side of the neck. He took a deep breath and he fired. The sound crackled over the land and the other deer bolted as the target fell in a heap. Then he looked at Marcus again. Well?

"Nice," he said, letting his gun come down. The rifle went back over his shoulder and he tugged the leg of his jeans up to draw a broad knife. "Won't mom be proud." Two steps and Marcus was off the edge, landing with a solid thud that shook a fine layer of red dirt off the walls of the ravine. The deer was bleeding out a few feet from him.

John was slower to follow, stricken by the blood that flowed over the ground, feeling his stomach turn over slowly. He shouldn't have shot the deer; it wasn't like the animal was coming for him. Shit.

Marcus looked up at him. "Hey, it's all right. It's still about survival, John. We didn't kill this deer for sport."

"We weren't starving either," John told him, gruffly, frowning. "We had food. We have money. I thought you said this was fun." He sounded like a surly child.

"Maybe, but we can still use it. Dry it. Preserve it. Emergency stash." Marcus pushed to his feet, knife held carefully in a loose grip, "John, you're gonna have to get used to blood, necessary or otherwise."

"Yeah. I know." That didn't mean John had to like it; he looked off into the distance, then back to Marcus. "Are you going to dress it here or back at the cabin?"

"I was gonna do it here." He was watching him carefully and after a brief pause reached out to set the hand against John's throat. "You all right?" He'd seen that look plenty of times.

Jerking at the touch, John blinked almost owlishly at Marcus. "Yeah," he said quietly, gruffly. "Fine." His gun was in the crook of his arm and his hands were stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. "Just not really big on killing things."

"No, you wouldn't be." He let his hand drop and turned to lift the deer's head and cut his throat, "lucky for you, I'm not half bad at it." He didn't look up as he worked.

John watched him in a gaze that Marcus could probably feel. "Lots of practice?" He asked. But it wasn't snarky or anything like that. He was quiet, voice low.

He paused. Then there was a crack of bone and the knife was working its way through the deer's neck. "Enough."

His stomach turning over again, John cleared his throat and took a deep breath. "Do you like it here? Like this? Rather than where you were?"

"Rather than..." Marcus almost laughed as he looked up at the boy, "rather than what, where I came from? Or...where I grew up. Which are you talking about?"

Face flushing, John shrugged. "The future. Where you were from. Or Texas or whatever. I was just making conversation. You don't have to make fun of me."

"I'm not," he said as he went back to the deer, "I'll tell you, but you gotta promise you won't mention it to your mother. She'll trust me even less."

"I can keep secrets," John said, trying not be offended.

"I know," he said, smiling to himself, "I trust you, John. I'm just making sure." Marcus sat back before pushing the deer further onto its back. "I was executed. Lethal injection. That's how I died."

"...oh." John's eyes got big again and he stared. Again. "Because you ... killed someone?" And somehow, he thought, Skynet thought Marcus was a good choice. That actually said a lot.

"Two cops," Marcus said. The work was messy. He would need to change. His hands and pants were bloody. "I was a junkie and a crook." He pushed to his feet to step over the deer and start work on the other side. The skin was coming off quickly. "You understand why Sarah shouldn't know?"

"Yeah." Obviously. "What are you now?" John asked, still watching. "You seem to have a list of things you aren't."

"I'm your friend," Marcus said as the skin came away. He would leave it here for the coyotes. "I'm your lieutenant. I'm a member of the resistance. I'm Kyle Reese's best friend..." He stood to face him.

"And you have two hearts and a metal hand." John looked right back at him, not backing down. "I trust you, Marcus, I'm just ... asking questions is all." He probably asked too many questions, he realized. There wasn't a lot to do in the cottage.

"It's all right. What else are you suppose to do? Your whole world is full of people you don't know and who you aren't supposed to trust." He crouched again. "This is the messy part." Time to gut the deer.

~~

Back at the cottage, John helped Marcus freeze part of the meat and get the other parts ready for drying and cooking or whatever. Even he had to admit that it smelled good roasting (Marcus did this, not his mom, who couldn't cook anything, really, besides pancakes). And John didn't tell Sarah anything.

~~

Before the first snow came, though, Sarah thought it was time to go. She was sure of it, in fact, pacing from one end of the cottage to the other, staring out all four windows. "We've been in one place too long."

Ever since Charley, that seemed to have been her mantra. John sat in a chair and glowered at her. "There's no point. We're safe here."

"We haven't moved. If he could find you, then someone in the future knows you're here and it's time to move," Sarah said, hands on her hips. "We'll leave in an hour."

"In an hour, huh?" Marcus was flipping through a magazine. It wasn't particularly interesting, but it was something to do. If Sarah thought she was the only one who was restless, she was kidding herself. John might have wanted stability, but Marcus was bad at sticking around. He had been ever since he'd left home at seventeen. "What's the rush, Sarah? It's kind of cold out at night these days. We aren't on the grid."

"We're on somebody's grid somewhere." The machines always came. They always came and they never stopped. "Are you arguing with me?" She asked him. Really?

He laughed and glanced up at her, nodding. "Yeah, Sarah, I'm arguing with you. I get that it doesn't happen often, but you shouldn't looked so shocked. It's not very humble."

"And you think we should stay here." Both of Sarah's eyebrows were up, lost in the hair that covered her forehead.

"I think we would be smart to move soon," he replied, still nodding slowly, "but it would be better if I could go out tonight and find a better place. We're weakest in transit, visible - and if we're doing it, I wanna have a destination in mind. We could do it here if we had web access, but...." he shrugged, glancing at John, "what do you think?"

What John thought was evident in how he slumped in the chair, arms tight around his chest. He was sulking. Sarah rolled her eyes. "Get on your computer and see what you can find. Farther east, or northeast. Maybe Montana."

"Montana??!" John slumped lower.

"Montana's good," Marcus mused in agreement, "not a hell of a lot of people. Not a whole lot to do - " he glanced at John again and he might have actually looked amused, knowing this was John's worst nightmare, "cowboy boots."

The boy's scowl said it all. He hated the idea, hated Montana, hated Marcus and this whole situation.

"Research. We'll leave tomorrow, dawn." And Sarah disappeared into the bedroom to start packing.

~~

Marcus didn't sleep much. On the nights he did rest, it was a doze. Tonight was not one of those nights. He was outside, standing against the side of the house, shotgun in hand, looking out over the desert at night. An owl was hooting in the distance, and there was the occasional coyote, but other than that, it was silent. Which was why it was so easy to hear the footsteps around the corner of the cabin. His heart sank, but he hefted the gun and strode around the corner. He got one shot off before the terminator had him by the throat, slamming him into the side of the cabin.

"Sarah!" he barked as he shoved back, getting the inch of air he needed to send the machine flying back with a solid kick to the diaphragm, "John! Truck! Now!"

Sarah appeared first, unloading the shotgun into the machine who staggered back with each shot, but didn't stop. She didn't expect him too. It was just to get John into the truck safely, then she started running too. "Don't waste time," she told Marcus as she started to dash.

"Waste time?" he snapped as he stepped between the trunk and the terminator, earning a hard blow to the jaw for his troubles, "fuck you, don't waste time." Grateful. Real fucking grateful. Marcus twisted to avoid another blow, lighter on his feet than the machine. He had to be - he wasn't nearly as strong - but the shotgun was useless other than as a tool to bludgeon the terminator over the head with, which he did. Once it regained its balance, it grabbed him by the throat again. Drawing back one thick fist, it paused for just a split second and Marcus' eyes went wide. He twisted his whole body to the side to avoid the blow to the heart. "Shit!" He broke the thing's grip and kicked it away again, scrambling back, caught off balance from the surprise, "shit!" Marcus rolled to his feet and was sprinting to the truck when the spray of bullets caught him across the back. He threw himself forward, half landing in the truck bed, but didn't waste anymore time. "Go! Go!"

Sarah gunned the engine and sprayed the machine with gravel. Thanks to Marcus's tweaking of the engine, they gained speed quickly though and left the Terminator behind. After a couple of miles, John yanked open the window separating the cab and the bed of the truck and shouted over the wind, "Are you okay?!"

"God," he groaned as he pulled himself further up onto the truck bed, unable to roll onto his back, "damn it." He dragged himself up further and when he looked up at John, there was blood on his lips. "He got a lung."

"Jesus. Can you ... " John didn't even know. "Heal yourself?" But without waiting for an answer, John ducked in, shouting at his mom that they had to stop.

She shouted back that they would stop when they were at least six hours away.

"Shit." John pushed his head out the window again. "Can you make it?"

"I need you..." he pushed up until he was half sitting, "I can feel it...one of the bullets it's lodged. I need you to get it out."

"In the back of a moving truck?!" John groaned. "This is a bad idea." But he pushed himself through the window, landing in a heap next to Marcus. "Mom! Avoid the holes, okay?!" Then he got a look at Marcus. "Shit." He touched the torn shirt and checked Marcus's face. "Does it hurt?"

"Yeah, yeah it fucking hurts." He kept himself propped up with one arm while he dragged the bloodied and ruined shirt over his head, "I can feel it...lodged in against the shoulder blade and my collarbone. It's the only one." A thin knife was flicked out of his pocket and handed over to John, "I'll be fine, I just need it out."

"I've never done this, let alone on a moving truck," John reminded him, but he took the knife, catching himself as he was jostled forward by a bump in the road. "MOM!"

"I'm trying!"

John sighed and took a deep breath. "Okay. Sorry in advance. You know." He reached for Marcus's good shoulder and braced his weight that way, then he looked at the wounded shoulder. "Just the one?"

"The others went through. I won't start healing until they're all out. A machine can't get blood poisoning. I can." Even shot up, and his back was torn to shreds - the occasional glint of metal was obvious through the blood - Marcus was a good thing to brace against. Even when Sarah hit the occasional bump he barely moved. Marcus rolled his shoulder up and dropped his head. "It's just...a little close to my spine so don't go slicing through anything."

"Yeah, cuz that was my plan. To just kind of cut you up." John rolled his eyes. Another deep breath, though, and he leaned in, peering into the bullet hole before he started to work the knife in. "Geez," he whispered as the knife sank in easier. "This is seriously gross."

Marcus gave a rough, humorless laugh. He had a grip on the edge of the side of the truck bed and he could feel his fingers making smell dents. "Not fun on this end, either." There was another jolt and Marcus clamped down on a pained cry, the sound strangled and angry instead.

"Sorry! MOM!"

"Do you want to drive?!" Sarah shouted back. "I'm doing the best I can."

With a huff, John went back to what he was doing, trying to be quick to lessen the collateral damage. He could feel the knife tip hit metal and for some reason, he tensed up. "Okay," he said. "Hold on." And he adjusted the angle to start to try to pry the bullet out.

"You don't have to be that careful," Marcus told him, still shouting over the engine and the wind, "it's gonna take more leverage. Brace yourself."

"But don't sever your spine. Got it." John rolled his eyes and he leaned in, close enough so that the wind blew the hair from his forehead into Marcus's face and he pried. Even to himself, it felt like it hurt.

Another strangled cry left him and his fist came down onto the truck bed. Another dent. He would never get used to it, no matter how many times John pried metal out of him, he never got used to it. But then he felt the pressure that was weighting down his shoulder release and the bullet clattered down between them. Marcus turned his head, meeting John's eyes, inches apart. "Not bad for your first time."

"Thanks," John breathed out and he leaned back, giving them a bit of distance between them both. "Now you heal? Just like that?" This wasn't something they'd talked about before now, despite his seemingly incessant questioning.

"It takes them longer than it takes me," he said, pushing up and bracing himself against the back of the cab. It would be a little while before he could sit back against anything, "so yes. Just like that. By tomorrow I'll be fine." Marcus paused, still watching John. "You should get back in the cab. We've got a long drive ahead."

John reached for the bullet casing and slid it into his pocket, then he sat back, next to Marcus, cleaning his knife on his t-shirt before handing it back. "Guess we're going to Montana."

~~

Putnam, Texas. Six months on the road and they end up forty miles east of Abilene. Marcus wasn't sure how it had happened. Was he the one who'd suggested Texas? Was he the one who'd told them Fort Worth was too big? Was he the one who'd said Putnam? He'd once fucked a girl who'd worked in Putnam. Yesterday they'd driven by the diner she'd worked at. But this was 1997. 1997 he was...22. He'd slept with her when he was 26. Few years. Maybe she was there. But if it was 1997, one thing was certain....Taylor Wright was in Abilene.

He'd stopped talking. He'd never talked much before now, but he just went silent. Every night he felt the pull. He could be there and back in three hours with time to spare. He could do it. He could see his brother. Maybe even help him. But Marcus staved off those pipe dreams for a week. Putnam was a small town, but not miserable. There was some good food, a movie theater. There were things he could use to pretend, for John, that things were normal.

Then it rained and the smell of water on dry earth was too reminiscent of growing up in a redneck Texas town for him to stand it. He had to go. He just had to see. He had to make sure Taylor was real and not some fucked up nightmare he'd left behind. So just after one, Marcus slipped out the door, Beretta tucked into the back of his jeans, and climbed into the truck.

It started up quietly and pulled out into the night. Credit John in that he was quiet enough that Marcus didn't seem to notice him hunkered down in the bed.

It was about an hour drive, and Marcus took it fast. Abilene was bigger than Putnam, but not by much. They drove by tractor depots and steakhouses. If there was a wrong side of the tracks in Abilene, Marcus was headed straight for it. He came to a stop, the engine idling, outside a rundown house that had been converted into apartments. The whole street was dilapidated, cars rusting out in the lawns and windows boarded. Marcus turned off the engine and climbed out, moving to stand in front of the house for a long time, just watching. There were lights on inside, and the sound of music, but he didn't move.

John watched him, leaning flush back against the back of the cab so that he could remain unseen at least for a little while longer. Whatever was in that house was what had kept Marcus so quiet for so long?

After what felt like hours, the front door opened with a bang. Two people stumbled out, one clearly drunk, the other holding him up. Marcus straightened. The pair were loud, talking and laughing with each other as they stumbled down the steps. It wasn't until they were only a few feet from him that they looked up and came to a stop. In the dim light pouring out from the open door, one looked startlingly like Marcus - not quite as tall, much skinnier, almost as though he was wasting away. His hair was longer and he was unshaven. Tattoos covered his bare arms.

"What the hell-" He let his drunken friend go and he tumbled to the ground, laughing, "Marcus? What the fuck are you doing here?"

"Got out," was the gruff response. The man, Taylor, laughed, hands to his head.

"Got out. Got out?"

Marcus just nodded. "Hey, Taylor."

The resemblance was startling and John pressed himself closer to the side of the truck, sliding down some to watch. Marcus's brother? Something like that? The name sounded familiar.

Leaving the drunk out on the sidewalk, Taylor clapped a hand on Marcus' shoulder and guided him up toward the house. They disappeared through the door just as Taylor was speaking. "Jesus, you go straight in prison or somethin'? You're fuckin' huge, man..." The door slammed shut.

The party continued on as though nothing had happened. Music changed, people came and went, but Marcus didn't reappear. The three hours he'd allotted himself were quickly running out. It would be 3:30 soon. A bird sang weakly, sleepily, but was silenced by the sudden report of a handgun. There was a shout, a crash, another gun shot and seconds later, a crumbled body came flying through the front door, wood splintering out around him when he landed. Two more guys, bleeding, followed, and then Marcus, limping hard, but upright. There was a gash above his brow, and after him, four more men, including Taylor, all with guns aimed at Marcus.

Without thinking, John was moving, vaulting over the side of the truck and running to place himself between Marcus and the guns, his hands up. "Don't. Don't shoot."

Marcus stared at him in horrified shock. "Wha-"

"Hey, Mark, what's this?" one of the men laughed, gun still lifted, "your new piece you brought with you from prison?" The other men chuckled and Marcus made a noise of frustration before lunging forward. The guns flew from the hands of two of the men while the other stared in shock. It was Taylor who pulled the trigger again. It caught Marcus in the arm and he stumbled back a step before turning to stare at his brother.

"John," Marcus said, starting to take a few steps back. A few of the men he'd knocked down were starting to get up, eying John as the less dangerous target - however foolish that might have been. "I want you to get in the truck. Do what you have to to get through them, but get in the truck."

"They have guns. They're shooting you!" In case Marcus seemed to be missing that fact. There was a moment's pause, then John did do what Marcus said, though, letting Marcus cover him as he ran for the cab of the truck, into the driver's seat. Shit, Marcus had the keys, so he bent down, using his jackknife to pull off the ignition cover and hot wire the car.

Marcus rolled his eyes and dealt quickly with the two men who'd crawled to their feet. Fist to the solar plexus, side of the hand to the junction of throat and shoulder, knee to the head. Until it was just Taylor left. Just Taylor, still holding his gun. Marcus was still moving backward slowly.

Behind him, the truck roared to life as John gunned the gas. He threw the truck into reverse and cranked the wheel so that he ended up in the middle of the lawn, between Marcus and the guy with the gun. Taylor. "Get in!" he shouted.

"What are you?" Taylor asked, breathless and bleeding. He never got a reply. Marcus turned on his heel and climbed into the truck.

"Drive."

John drove, glancing over at Marcus every now and again as he did. They were a few miles away, back toward Putnam when he finally asked, "that a relative?"

"My brother," he said as he shrugged off his jacket and flicked out his knife. He had to get the bullet out of his arm. There was another in his leg. He wrenched the tip of the knife deep, hissing in pain, and after a moment the bullet flicked out onto the dashboard. "God damn it." He stuck the knife in the dash and ripped open the leg of his pants.

"Seems like a real winner," John told him dryly as he settled back into the seat a little bit, finally putting his seatbelt on. "What happened inside the house?"

"Forgot that the guys I hung out with are assholes." Marcus grabbed the knife again and started work on the bullet in his thigh. This one would take a while to heal. He'd limp for a few days. Damn it. "Why the fuck did you follow me?"

"You were leaving in the middle of the night, all mysterious. You're supposed to protect me. I wanted to find out where you were going. Why you were so quiet," John told him as he looked out at the road. "I know now."

"I thought..." Marcus said through gritted teeth as he pried at the bullet, "maybe...I don't know. I could help him. I could do something. Right now, 1997, I'm serving my first stint in prison. I told him I got out early and went upstairs to...catch up. There was a man who I owed money. He got angry and it went from there."

"First stint?" Another thing John wouldn't tell Sarah.

"Drugs," he said, "I went in for possession." Marcus gasped as he got the second bullet out and doubled over for a moment. The bullet rolled a bit on the floor by his foot. "Your mother is going to fucking kill me. You're all right, right? No scrapes or bruises?"

"I'm fine." John glanced over at Marcus's leg, his face. "Are you okay?"

"He's done a lot of things," he said slowly, "I was in prison cuz he left me when the cops raided the house. He got me on meth. But he's never shot me before." Marcus wiped the blade clean and flicked it shut.

John couldn't even imagine. Having no close family, he'd always wanted connections. But not connections that shot at him. "You're not going back, right?"

"No," he said as he leaned back in his chair, "I'm not going back." He would never see his brother again.

Sarah was waiting at the door when they got back and she stormed up to the car, yanking the passenger side door open. "Care to explain?"

"Nothing you wanna hear," he said as he hauled himself out of the seat. He'd stained the upholstery a dark red and he was already pulling his shirt off as he limped up toward the house. He needed a shower. "I didn't take him with me. He followed."

Marcus didn't get to hear the rest of that discussion, but later John poked his head into Marcus's room, leaning on the doorjamb. "You alright? Not passed out or anything?"

He was sprawled on his back, hands behind his head. "I'm fine. Did I get you in trouble?" his arm and leg were both wrapped, both scraps of cloth stained bright red instead of the dark burgundy in the car.

Coming into the room enough to lean on the wall, John shrugged. He'd been in worse. "She worries," he felt the need to say, defending his mom.

"Of course she does," he said, "besides, I did a stupid thing. I don't know why I thought that would be a good idea."

"He's your brother." Somehow, like a cat, John kept creeping closer. "Were you guys ever close?"

"We lived together for a long time." Marcus was watching him carefully, eyes a little dark. "He was my best friend when we were little. My mom kicked us both out. I didn't have anyone else in the world. He was my big brother. I didn't know how to live on my own."

"And now you live with us." Which is far from alone, even though the Connor household was a quiet one. "Do you ever wish you didn't?"

"No," he said, pushing up onto his forearms, "I do what I need to do to protect you." The hint of resentment was back, although it was unclear where it was directed.

It was strong enough too, to sting; John flinched back a step. "... I just wanted to make sure you were all right," he said. "Get some rest."

"John." He reached up and took John's arm in a loose grip. "I wanted to stay with you. I didn't want to come back here. I didn't want this to be my job. But I was the one, you said. I had to do it because I was the one who could keep you alive, who could keep you going after-" He cut himself off and his hand dropped away.

"After?" John frowned, stepping close again. "After what?"

Not yet. He's not ready yet. "After Judgment Day." Marcus kept his gaze.

John Connor knew when someone wasn't telling him something, too. He sighed, though, not pushing the issue. "I don't understand why future-me does what he does. But I'm sorry if you didn't want to go."

"You do what you do because you're the one person who's thinking about what's happening in the past as much as the future. You can't just work in the present, like every other soldier." Marcus licked his lips, aware that John was watching that action.

"But it doesn't seem to matter," the boy said, indeed watching, wide eyes dark. "It doesn't seem to change anything."

"It's changing all the time. We're always finding out new intel, things in the future that are different because of what we're doing here and now. But the details aren't what matter." Marcus sat up carefully, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He jerked his head to the side, gesturing for John to sit. "And you aren't alone in it."

The bed creaked as John sat, bracing himself on his arms as he looked down at their feet instead of Marcus. "We've just been running," he told Marcus. "That's all we've been doing. How are we learning things?"

"I need you to trust me," he said, his hand coming up to the boy's shoulder. "Can you do that? I need you to shoulder this weight."

"Of course I trust you," John answered gruffly, peering over at him. "What aren't you telling me?"

"There's a lot I'm not telling you, John. There's a lot I can't tell you." He gave his shoulder a squeeze. "I'm sorry."

John sighed again, but he nodded. What was new? "Will you tell me eventually?"

You'll find out eventually. "Yes." Marcus lifted his hand from his shoulder and it hovered for a short moment next to his cheek, but Marcus pushed to his feet. "You should get a few hours sleep. We're going to have to move again, because of what I did."

"Great." John stood, though and he walked slowly to the door. "I'll see you in the morning," he noted, at the door.

~~

A year of running. Marcus stood on the balcony of their small apartment in Boston. It was cold. His breath frosted in front of him and he inhaled sharply. They didn't spend much time in the cities, but it had been quiet for a long time. Months since the last machine had been on their tail. Big world. Lots of room to hide in. But something else was coming. He was just waiting for it to show up on their doorstep. Waiting for Sarah to find him because she wouldn't go to John. Not with this one.

It was a week before she did, but she did come to him, when John was at school in a class of five thousand students under a new name. She was even smaller curled into herself, arms tightly crossed over her chest. "They found something." She wasn't looking at him. "Treatment starts tomorrow. I ... need someone to drive me home." It pained her, clearly, to admit that.

"They found something," he repeated slowly, turning to look at her. "What did they find, Sarah?"

She turned even further away from him, her profile drawn. She'd lost weight. "I've been tired." It would of course, be more than that to get her to go to the doctor, though. Extreme fatigue. "They ran tests. It's a form of leukemia. Fast treatment ensures the best ... chance for survival."

"When do I pick you up?" he asked, arms folded in a mirror of her stance. He knew all of this, of course. Maybe he should have told her, but ultimately it wouldn't matter. Sarah Connor dies. Beaten by lukemia after years of fighting for her life against killer machines.

"The appointment's at nine." Sarah turned away, only to say, over her shoulder. "John won't know."

"No," he said, still watching her. "John won't know. But John will have to, eventually." Will you tell me eventually? Marcus wouldn't have to.

"Not yet." When Sarah had it beat, then John could know. Forty percent survival rate.

"No. Not yet. We'll make him carry this one too." Marcus turned back to look out over the city again.

"What exactly does that mean?" She turned back, glaring daggers into his back. "What is the point of telling him?"

Marcus shrugged. "What's the point of putting it off longer than a few days? You find out how bad it is, you find out if the treatment is effective, and then you tell him." It wasn't an order, but it was firm.

"And have him worry." Sarah shook her head. "No." He was firm, she was firmer. "He doesn't need to know." Unless she got worse.

"Sarah, he worries anyway. He's carrying the weight of the entire human race on his shoulders and he does it without complaint. You owe him the truth." His fingers flexed on the bar of the balcony. "It's not mine to tell, but I owe him the truth, too."

"He's not your son. He's not your son." Sarah scowled at him one more time before going into her bedroom and closing the door, not coming out until it was nearly dinner time. John watched her, but she didn't say a word and her look to Marcus was clear. This wasn't his truth to tell.

~~

Marcus waited. Months had passed. They'd stayed in Boston and John had begun to ask questions. Sarah wasn't getting better and the chemo didn't help her strength. But it wasn't his truth to tell. He and John talked - he tried to explain as best he could what he did in the future, what kind of person he became, why he made the decisions he made, and there was a kind of closeness there. But there was still so much he held back. John was seventeen now. The time was quickly coming where he wouldn't be able to hold those truths back any longer, not after this particular revelation.

So he waited outside Sarah's bedroom, sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees head bowed.

Sarah had taken John inside a half hour before. It was quiet, though Marcus of course, could hear hushed voices. And when John came out, he had his shoulders hunched up to his ears and his head ducked to hide behind his hair. He didn't look at Marcus, instead going to his room, shutting the door behind himself quietly, but firmly.

She came to stand at the doorway and she just stared at Marcus, not speaking.

"All the pain he suffers," Marcus said, meeting her eyes, "he says he remembers looking in your eyes, just now, and thinking all of that was nothing compared to what you suffer." I wanted to be strong for her. Marcus pushed to his feet and turned to go to John's door, to knock, feeling Sarah's eyes in his back.

"Go away," John said through the door, his voice low and craggy.

Marcus slipped in anyway, shut the door behind him, stood with his back against the varnished wood. He didn't say anything, didn't move. He barely even looked at John. Just stood there, hands at his sides.

Turning so that his back was completely to Marcus, John scrubbed at his eyes and sniffed, hard, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "How long have you known?"

"Since 2018," he said, head still dropped, "I've known longer than your mother has."

"I meant now," John growled. "How long has she known and not told me?"

"Months," he said, voice even, but tight. He still wouldn't look up, even though John had his back turned.

"I knew it." John's voice fell to a rough whisper and he dropped his face into his hands. "She's dying," he said and didn't bother to hide the fact that he was crying. "My mom is dying."

Marcus took two steps forward until he could sit next to him on the bed. "Yeah," he said quietly, "she is." He didn't know what to say other than that. Didn't know what to do other than sit. He'd seen John cry before. He could remember holding him. But this was different. This John was too young for this - too young for any of it, the machines, the loss, the death that surrounded him at every turn. The death he couldn't escape.

Sarah was all John had had for most of his life. Sure, there was Charley for a while. Now there was Marcus, but that didn't count. Now he was losing his mom. "How much longer? She said she didn't know."

"If she does know it's her truth to tell." Marcus turned, shifting, and pulling one leg up onto the bed so he was facing John. A hand came up to slowly rest on his shoulder. "I can't tell you what she doesn't want told, but you can make her. You can make her see why she should."

"I don't think she was lying to me," John answered, wiping at his face again, this time with the back of his hand. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, not shrugging off Marcus's hand. "I just don't want her to suffer."

"No," he agreed. More than she already has. "I don't..." he took a deep breath and his grip on John's shoulder tightened, "I don't have anything to help...nothing to say or do. I'm sorry."

No, John would go through this and feel more alone than he would ever remember feeling in his life. As Sarah got sicker, though, she and John grew closer. She allowed her defenses to go down and they would sit for hours and talk, until she was too tired, or too sick to go further. No hospitals, not until the very end, though. That was what she wanted and John always did try to do what Sarah wanted.

The first time John came to Marcus was the night after they had scattered her ashes into the ocean, saving one small container for Kyle's grave. He didn't knock, but walked into the room, sat down next to Marcus and didn't say anything but to reach for his hand.

It was startling. John didn't usually initiate contact with anyone, much less his half-machine protector. The apartment was silent except for the hum of the refrigerator. John's hand was warm. Marcus turned his palm up so their fingers laced and the touch was so familiar he couldn't help his sharp, almost-silent inhale.

"I thought so." John looked down at their hands rather than at Marcus's face. He'd cut his hair, no more hiding behind it, his face clear and open, even if lined with a grief he hadn't yet fully expressed. "I could tell."

"I didn't want to leave you," Marcus said, watching John, not their hands. He looked the same and still so, so different. "But you made me."

"Because I'm the only one who thinks of the future and the past. I remember." John remembered everything. Gradually, he did look up, though, into Marcus's eyes. "Do you love me?"

"Yes," he breathed, closing his eyes. "I do."

"Do I love you?" Marcus can feel John's fingertips ghosting over his face.

This earned him a rough laugh. Marcus took a deep shuddering breath. "Yes," he said, "you do."

"Okay." John's hand curved around Marcus's jaw. "I think you should kiss me, then."

"John..." he started hesitantly, eyes still shut. He shook his head slowly, even as he leaned into the touch. This wasn't why he was here. This wasn't why he'd been sent back. Was John Connor at seventeen the same as John Connor at forty? He could remember times when John had been like a father to him. He could remember times when he'd been that protective of John. The switch in ages was confusing - enough to make him pause, make him think about it.

"Marcus - " If Marcus wouldn't, John would. His fingers dug into Marcus's jaw and John leaned forward and he pressed their mouths together. It was his first kiss.

Something snapped in his head and Marcus found himself with an arm wrapped tight around John's shoulders, pulling him against his chest. The kiss, however, stayed soft. He wouldn't push that. He couldn't. It would feel like sacralige. Instead he tipped his head, letting his lips part slightly, tongue tracing along the line of John's full bottom lip. It was so familiar it made his heart ache.

It made John shiver, obvious to Marcus in how he was being held. John was clumsy at first, unsure of what to do. He licked at Marcus's mouth, though, making low, hungry noises, eyes nearly shut but for slits. When he pulled away, just a few inches, he was flushed, mouth open, lips swollen, eyes dark.

"Shit." Marcus let his arms drop. His eyes came open. "You've...there's never even been any girl..." how could there be? They never stayed in any place long enough for John to make friends, much less meet anyone.

"Don't make fun of me," John nearly pleaded. His mother was dead and he was alone save Marcus; he wasn't sure he could handle it. "Teach me."

"I'm not making-" Marcus squeezed his eyes shut, grinding his gloved fist into one temple. He leaned in, pressed his cheek to John's, his breath coming quick. "I want you...so badly. I don't want to hurt you."

A flush ran through John's body and he shuddered, eyes closing, but he didn't move. "You won't hurt me," he whispered. "If you love me, show me how." His hands were fisted on his lap to keep from touching.

Jesus. "It's been...two years..." his hand came up, sliding over John's throat, pulling back to look into his face. Marcus licked his lips, wondering just how moral this was, but not really caring. They were alone in the world, but for each other - just as Marcus had known it to be, before coming back to 1997. He leaned in, kissing the boy again, the hand - the warm, human hand - sliding up into his hair.

It made John feel weak and he moaned into the kiss, hands finally reaching out, grabbing first Marcus's shirt, then pressing to his body, warm under the material. Inside his boots, his toes curled and he leaned forward to try to deepen it, to chase the sensation.

Hands dropped to ease John's jacket off his shoulders, letting it drop to the bed. The material of his t-shirt was thin. He could feel the contour of muscle and bone - more bone here than he was used to, not the fully grown man's body he'd gotten to know as though it were his own, each inch of skin, each joint, each hair. Marcus broke the kiss again, exhaling softly, forehead pressed to John's, and shrugged his own jacket off. It was heavier and dropped to the floor with a muffled thump.

Everywhere Marcus touched was chased by goosebumps; John shivered again. "Please," he whispered, looking at Marcus close up before he canted his chin forward and kissed him again. "Marcus."

"I don't know what you want," he murmured, both hands sliding over narrow hips. His jeans were rough under Marcus' fingertips. He ducked his head, breathing heavily.

"Touch me." John urged Marcus's hands up, under his shirt, over his skin. He tugged, too, at the glove covering Marcus's metal hand. "Take it off. Touch me."

His laugh was more of a moan. "John Connor," he said softly as he worked the glove off one handed, "you don't change at all." His next kiss urged John back into the bed. The request had been so familiar that Marcus couldn't be hesitant in obliging it. Metal met hot skin and he worked the boy's shirt up, off his arms.

The shock of metal against skin made John gasp and blush as he felt his already-hard cock twitch harder. He helped discard his shirt and ran his hands down Marcus's arms, seeing the differences in their skin tones, focusing on that to keep from losing it and embarrassing himself.

"All right?" Marcus asked as he shifted over him, eyes gleaming in the dim light, careful not to scrape too hard with the metal. He let much of his weight rest on the younger man under him, blanketing him, anchoring him. It was about protection as much as it was need. It always was, every time. He fought off the darkness he could see gathering behind John's eyes every time someone died.

"Yeah," John breathed out and almost automatically, his legs spread and wrapped around Marcus's hips. It felt right as he cupped his face and pulled him closer again, for a kiss. He was getting better, he was learning. The heat of skin against skin made him buck.

"Fuck." Marcus moaned into his mouth and after a moment of returning the kiss, sending his tongue deep into John's mouth, reminding himself of his taste, he broke it long enough to pull his shirt over his head as well. It joined their other clothes as Marcus returned to the kiss, needing it like it was air. He'd missed this so badly - every day, like he was missing a limb. This closeness with John, it was what sustained him.

It made John feel greedy and exposed, lost and found all at the same time, and he kissed Marcus back hungrily. His hips rocked of their own accord, gaining him some friction, enough to leave him breathless, keening softly.

Marcus was working on their pants. One arm braced his bulk over John, the other hand, the human hand, between them. Metal fingers wound into John's hair, tipping his head the way Marcus wanted, chin up, straining back so his body pulled in a taut line. John's pants came open easily, the flick of a button. Marcus' belt clinked and the sound was loud over their mingled breath. He paused in the kiss, forehead pressed to John's cheek as he looked down between them to work John's jeans open, his own already sliding down his hips.

John's breathing sped up, his heart rate too. He clung to Marcus's shoulders, eyes screwed tight shut to try to keep from splintering apart. The muscles in his legs were corded, too, his body feeling traitorous, tight and hot, his heels scrabbling in the bed for purchase. "Marcus," he didn't realize he was chanting. "Marcus."

"Easy." His breath was quick, but controlled. Benefit of age, he supposed. Marcus pushed up to see him better. Skin flushed and wriggling like that, it was hard for him to move slowly, but he rose up to his knees and tugged on John's pants, urging him to lift his hips so he could get them off. "Just breathe."

Easier said that done when it felt like his skin was trying to turn itself inside out. John was able, though, to kick off his boots and pants, leaving him in boxers and socks. He shivered, suddenly, feeling cold, his chest rising and falling as he tried to breathe.

"Talk to me," he said as he moved back over him, "I missed you." Marcus turned his face into his throat.

"I've been right here," John whispered. Perhaps, though, Marcus meant the other him, the future-him and in an instant, John felt unreasonably and irrationally jealous. "I w - I want you. Marcus, but I don't ...." He leaned into the touch. He didn't know what to do, how to react to the desire pooling at the base of his spine.

"It's all right, you don't have to know." The cloth of John's boxers was smooth against his skin as they slid over his hips. Marcus shifted carefully so John could kick them off as well. "Nothing to worry about," he murmured as he let his hand roam, "not in this moment, not in this room." He spoke against John's lips, the words a kind of promise. "I've got you now. I've got you thirty years from now."

And somehow, that was the most comforting thing John had ever been told. Ever. He felt heat rise in his face, behind his eyes, and he fought it back.

When Marcus touched him, though, he groaned, low in his chest, hips rising up off the bed. "Oh. God."

Marcus pulled his bottom lip into his mouth as he watched John react. He shifted again so he could slide that hand, the human hand, between his legs. His fingers wrapped slowly around John's cock, thumb brushing the velvety tip. "Do you believe me?"

"I believe you." The words came out a husk. It was too much, all of it and he arched up off the bed and felt himself spill between them. He flushed bright red with his climax and embarrassment, turning his face away.

It wasn't that Marcus was laughing. He turned John's face toward him with one hand and bent to kiss him warmly. "It's all right," he said into his mouth, "it's all right."

"Shut up." John wanted to wriggle away, but he was pinned down. He closed his eyes instead, letting himself feel the kiss. "... what about you?"

"I'm good," he said, hiding his smile in John's throat, "I'll be fine."

"Stop it." John shoved at him for real. "You don't have to be a dick about it."

"I'm not. John." Marcus held him tighter. He managed to get the smile back, hiding it, before pushing up to smooth a hand over his hair, "I mean it, it's all right. You don't even wanna know about my first time."

Except John did. Maybe it would make him feel less like a tool. Brows still knit together in a scowl, he looked up at Marcus.

"Girl was way too old for me," he said, still combing fingers through his hair, "I don't think she stopped laughing once." Marcus ducked his head and kissed over his jaw. "She kept calling me cutie. I was fifteen for chrissake and she kept calling me cutie. Lost my hard-on so fast it was like she dumped ice water on me."

Caught in the touches, John kept his own eyes closed to focus on what Marcus was saying. "... were you cute?" He asked, voice a husky smile-sound. "A cutie?"

"I was a fucking punk." He laughed quietly. "I thought I was hot shit until she took her top off. I'd never seen tits in real life before. I nearly had a heart attack."

And at that, John snorked out a soft laugh. "Were they nice?"

"Were they nice," he scoffed, "they were fucking sculpted by Michelangelo. They were perfect." Marcus pulled up again to smile softly at him. "You can imagine my surprise when you were the one who got me hotter than any pair of perfect tits ever had."

And John blushed again, looking down at Marcus's chest, at his fingers tracing patterns there. "How'd I do it?"

"After a fight," he said, voice softening, eyes going a little distant, "we were both shot up. I was shredded. You chewed me out for not keeping a closer eye on Kyle and I shut you up with my mouth. But when you kissed me back I lost my nerve and punched you in the jaw." That had been a messy week.

"Awesome first time," John noted wryly. He touched Marcus's face, gently, for the look in his eye. "I bet I didn't like being punched in the jaw." He traced Marcus's jaw with his fingers, the curve of bone and the prickly stubble over it.

"No, you were pissed," he said, leaning into the touch, "especially since I kissed you first. But you cut me some slack. I was a homophobic son of a bitch. Fucking terrified."

John's brows drew together again. "You aren't scared now," he whispers and he draws Marcus down to kiss him again. He's seventeen; his recovery time is minutes, even with the sticky mess between them. "Show me how I touched you."

Marcus indulged the kiss for a long minute, the scent of their bodies, of sweat and sex and John strong in his nose. "M'not scared," he agreed as he used his bulk to roll them carefully. He kicked his boots off once John was sprawled over him and they landed heavily on the floor. His pants followed. "After a week of me avoiding you, you ordered me into your quarters and sat me down and told me I had to get my shit together or something would have to change." Marcus let his head fall back to the bed as he looked up at the boy. He took John's hand in his metal one and guided it between them, letting John's fingertips brush the hard length of his cock. "I said I didn't want anything to change and we ended up on the bed with your hand down the front of my pants."

Marcus's cock was hot and big. John gasped as he wrapped his hand around it, stroking slowly, feeling the skin that felt silky over hard flesh. The metal was a cold contrast. "Like this?," he asked, pulling again. "This is how I touched you?"

His head strained back, lips parted and eyes shut. "Yeah," he said roughly, "like that. God, John..." His hands slid over the expanse of smooth skin of John's back and sides. Warm fingers dropped lower, to the crease of his ass. Marcus gripped the firm curve of muscle as he shifted under John's weight. "You told me that it was all right to want you. You told me that nothing was the same in this world I'd woken up in, that there were a lot of things to be scared of, but this was not one of them."

"I'm not scared," John whispered, feeling his own desire welling almost impossibly in his hips. His cock strained, jerking. "... do you want to ... ?" That was what happened, right? Marcus would fuck him. He groaned just at the thought.

"Yeah," he said, forcing his eyes open - the green so dark it was almost black - and nodded, "I really do. I'm not sure it's such a good idea."

"Why not?" John had read some, knew less. "I ... I want to, too."

"I could really hurt you," he said, "without...we don't have lube." Marcus shook his head, but his hands were still roaming, still stroking.

"Oh." John tightened his grip on Marcus's cock, watching as his hand moved over it, how red it was getting, how it leaked precome. "I want to make you come."

"You're gonna..." he groaned, hips lifting into the grip. "You could blow me." He would not say no to that.

What? That got John blushing again and he stammered out a sound. " ... I don't know how," he said, but instinctively, his tongue ran over his lower lip as he looked down at Marcus's cock.

"You don't gotta know how," he said as he pushed up onto one forearm. Marcus' hand came up to curl in the boy's hair. "You wanna make me come?"

Something flashed in John's eyes and he nodded again. Then, tentatively, he slid further down Marcus's legs and he bent down. The smell of musk made his mouth water. He looked up at Marcus, then back down at his cock and took a deep breath before giving the slit an unsure lick.

Fingers curled tighter in John's hair. "Shouldn't have cut it," Marcus said gruffly, still watching him, "would have had more to hold onto."

Huffing out a laugh, John shook his head and licked again, the taste sharp on his tongue. He'd seen a few pornos and he held Marcus's cock at the base and tried sucking on the head.

"Christ, yeah, Connor, that's it." Marcus' back arched as he shifted again, the sheets cool against hot skin. He was stroking John's head, eyes trained on his mouth, lips parted. His breath was coming quick again, ragged in his throat.

Encouraged, John took in more, feeling it slide against his tongue, feeling how it's hot and hard. Already, the taste was something he liked, bitter as it was. He bobbed his head until he felt Marcus's cock bump against the back of his throat and he swallowed hard as to not gag.

"Careful," he said roughly. But the sight was driving him crazy. It was tough - which was hotter? John Connor at seventeen, or John Connor at forty? Luckily he didn't have to choose. His palm slid soothingly against the back of John's neck even as the muscle of his abdomen tightened, orgasm lingering tauntingly low in his groin. "You don't have to take it all."

John couldn't imagine being able to take it all. He gripped what he couldn't and tried not to embarrass himself (again). He sucked, watching how the muscles in Marcus's legs tightened and felt the power that came with that. It was heady.

He was slick with John's spit now and Marcus pushed up further so he could cover John's hand with his own. With the head of his cock still in John's mouth, he urged him to stroke. "Like that," he murmured, chest heaving slowly.

Like that. John did that, matching the movement of his hand to the movement of his head. He was a fast learner and his breath caught in the back of his throat each time he felt Marcus's cock twitch.

"Oh fuck." He fell back again and this time it was the metal hand tight in John's hair, the other curling in the sheets above Marcus' head. "God, John. Close...keep going, keep-" He groaned through gritted teeth, orgasm shaking his bulky frame.

John coughed, pulling back to wipe a hand over his mouth, even as he still held to Marcus's cock. He hadn't quite been ready for that and he could feel spatters on his chin and cheeks. But he looked up at Marcus's face, at the expression there and felt powerful.

"Shit." His hands fell away and he caught his breath for a moment before looking back down at the boy. "Oh god damn..." he groaned, pulling John back up his body, "fuck, you look good like that." He reached out sideways and caught his shirt so John could wipe his face.

It was sticky and kind of gross. John wiped it away, then pressed close to Marcus again, trying to ignore his erection, his hand on the other man's chest. "I did okay?," he asked, looking up; his throat felt scratchy.

"Hell yeah you did okay." Marcus wrapped both arms around the boy. He ducked his head, kissing him warmly, licking the taste of himself out of John's mouth. "What can I do for you?" He could feel John hard against his thigh still. The recovery of a seventeen year old. If only.

"I don't know." For all the grief of the day; hell of the last year, John, for the moment, felt infinite. They had time.

~~

They moved not even a week later, heading back west, a vague goal of finding Kyle's grave in mind. But at some point, they got lube at some Walgreen's somewhere.

They stopped for a while in Joliet, just north of I-80. The apartment was shitty and drafty, but it was inconspicuous and had a big bed. John thought about that a lot since that first time, his gaze on Marcus more often than not hungry. He'd touch, grab, want, ask without words.

Marcus always gave in. This particular occasion had meant the kind of making out you did for hours that he hadn't indulged in since high school. The kind where your hands roamed everywhere, where you learned intimately every inch of the other person's mouth, you memorized their taste. He was sprawled comfortably on the bed, the blankets mussed, but clothes mostly still on, John straddling his hips. The need in the younger man had been almost startling, but it made sense. He was surprised John hadn't fucked around more often, even at his age, considering how often death stared him in the face. Every time they lost someone, Marcus had always sought John out, always needed the reassurance that yes, they were both still alive.

Alive in how fevered he felt, John swore he could feel the blood moving in his veins. He had his chest against Marcus's, kissing him like he needed the air Marcus breathed. He was getting better; smoother, more skilled in how to touch, to make Marcus make low sounds, too. "I want you to," he whispered, guiding Marcus's hand back, over his ass. "I want you."

"Yeah," he said, letting his head drop back to look up at him through dark hooded eyes. His fingers slid along the crease of his ass through his pants. "All right." First time for everything. John was so hot, almost like he was sick. "Get up. The lube's on the table."

With a physical effort, John got to his feet, fetched the small tube and brought it back. He'd made Marcus go in and buy it as he sat in the car; the idea of being killed while getting KY was more than John could bear, he'd hidden in the car. But he handed it to Marcus and, gaze not leaving his face, he started to pull off his clothes.

Marcus smirked and dropped the tube on the bed before pushing up. He undid his pants and kicked them off, his socks following. His shirt had been lost somewhere in the apartment. They didn't go out a lot. "It's funny. I get two first times with you."

Just about to ask what he meant, John said instead, "Your first time, too. With me?" When his clothes were off, he climbed back onto the bed, unselfconscious, before lying on his back. "Who did who, first?"

"I fucked you," he purred, rolling to the side so he was propped up over John, tangling one leg with his, "over your workbench. Until you came."

The words and visual it created made John shudder and groan, rocking his hips to get some kind of friction. "I want it. I want ... I want you to fuck me til I come," he whispered out, the words sounding foreign on his tongue, but the sentiment clear and true.

"That's the plan." Marcus lifted up until there was enough room for him to roll John onto his stomach. He sank back down, letting him feel his weight, letting him feel warm breath on his throat. "You've only been in me once," he admitted softly.

"When?" John asked, his cheek pillowed on his hand as he looked up at him. The idea felt foreign even as Marcus said it. But he shivered nonetheless.

"The night you send Kyle back," he said, stroking a hand down the curve of his ass, "it wasn't easy. I need...taking care of."

Oh. John watched him, even as goosebumps trailed after Marcus's touch. "Now you're taking care of me," he said, reaching back to touch Marcus's face.

"It's how it usually goes," he said as he kissed behind John's ear, a gesture that would be habit in a few years. Marcus smiled and grabbed the lube, holding himself up over John, half on his knees. "Little cold, at first." The stuff was slick on his fingers and he sat back further so he didn't have to brace himself. The metal settled against John's ass, spreading him, before two slick fingers pressed against the tight ring of muscle, cool, but warming quickly.

The cold and the hot and the new sensation all made John fist his hands in the sheets, toes curling too. "Oh, my God." Cold yes, but also fingers going where they'd never been. He couldn't help but draw up tight.

"Shit, you are gonna have to relax," he said with a rough, laughing gasp. John was like a vice around his fingers. The lube was smooth enough, however, that he could twist a little, using that unnatural strength to spread them just barely. "Remember to breathe."

"Remem- " Easier said than done; John felt like he was being pried apart and he grit his teeth together. "We do this a lot?" he asked, face contorted. "It feels like it's impossible."

"It gets better." He said with another laugh. "Take a deep breath, John. Relax." He would have to, or it would be impossible. Marcus pulled away to apply more lube and started in on the long process of getting John loose enough to take him. He bent to kiss over his spine as he worked two fingers back into him, twisting and scissoring them slowly, gradually getting more and more room to move.

As he did that, it wasn't as if it got less weird, but there were shoots of pleasure that came with what Marcus was doing, enough that John didn't entirely lose his hard-on and his hips bucked each time Marcus hit that place. And he tried to remember to breathe.

It felt like eons but eventually Marcus was able to hit that spot with more ease. He bit his lip as he worked, painfully turned on by the sight of John writhing underneath him. His fingers found the delicate swell that was making him wriggle so much and he began to stroke. "Your reward," he said with no small amount of amusement.

"Oh ... shit." Shit, shit shit! It wasn't -- John didn't know it would feel like that. He bucked off the bed, cock dragging on the sheets and it felt like he was going to come. "Marcus, Marcus, Marcus, please."

He backed off, stroking John's back. "It's still gonna hurt," he warned, "so uh...don't worry about coming yet." Marcus bit his lip a little, head cocked to the side as he watched his fingers slide back in, "but you look fucking fantastic."

"Just -- Marcus." John groaned as he held to the covers with white knuckles. "Just do it already." The talking about it wasn't helping.

Marcus chuckled and pulled back again. He took himself in his hand, guiding the head of his cock to John's entrance. He braced a hand in the small of his back. "All right," he said, relenting, pressing forward, "deep breath."

John pulled the air into his lungs, but it didn't help. It felt like he was being torn in two and his teeth clacked together around a strangled sound. "Ngggh." He reached back, heel of his hand pushing at Marcus. No more, stop. Stop.

Marcus froze at the press of John's hand. He pulled away carefully, leaning forward over the boy. "I'm sorry," he said, sounding worried, "Are you all right?"

"You're -- just." John took another deep breath. "You're just really big. Just - " With another breath, he no longer felt like he would shatter. "Okay."

"Okay?" he slicked more lube onto himself, before pressing forward again. "It passes," he murmured as he shifted carefully, slowly, "I've got you."

John let his head drop to the bed, eyes shutting and he concentrating on his breathing, on Marcus having him, holding him. On being together, no one else in the world caring. That was comforting.

His chest was heaving by the time he seated himself. Marcus had to lean forward to brace himself on the bed, the metal hand tight on John's hip. "All right?" he asked again. He could feel himself pulsing inside the younger man and it took all he had not to move.

It was funny how the metal worked to ground John. It never failed to do that, actually. He was able to nod, jerkily, as he got used to the fullness. "Do it, Marcus."

When he pulled out again, it was smooth, but tight. He groaned roughly, his eyes rolling up into his head. He didn't move too far, though, and so it was easier when he pushed back hilt deep. "God, fuck..." he was already panting.

It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't amazing like John had expected it to be somehow. It was supposed to be ... he didn't know. But at least he wasn't dying.

If Marcus hadn't been so distracted, he might have guessed what John was thinking. As it was he was just holding on. All the same, it was instinct to urge John's hips up some, changing the angle so when he pushed deep, he could brush that same elusive swell. He wanted to make the boy buck again.

"Ah!" Oh, wow. Oh, wow. John's hand slapped against the headboard with that movement. "Marcus!" Do that again.

He smirked and started a slow pace into John's body. He stayed deep, not pulling away too far, so it was a steady pulse of pressure. He bent his head to kiss over his shoulders, then the spot behind his ear once more.

It didn't take long for John to be reduced to a quivering, shaking mass of sensations. Resting his weight on one elbow, John reached down, rubbing at the erection that was trying to come back. "Oh, my God, yes. My God, yes," he gasped, losing himself. "Yeah, Marcus, yeah."

With the hand still slick with lube, Marcus took over for him, calloused fingers circling his cock and stroking in time with each shallow thrust. "That's right, Connor. Fuck, yes." He gritted his teeth, laughing in delirious pleasure. "Fuck, push back."

And John did as the pressure gave way to something else, something John wasn't prepared for. He dug his hands into the bed and pushed back and when he did that, something amazing happened. The pleasure grew and he couldn't help the noises he made.

"I love you," he was moaning, trembling on that edge, but dragging himself back. "God, Connor..." His pace sped, hips slapping rhythmically against John's ass. He was torn between fucking him and wanting to touch him, hold him, kiss him. One could wait, however. The other could not.

There wasn't any more pain, there was only pleasure that whited the edges of John's mind. With the hand on his cock, he was surprised he'd lasted as long as he did and even then, his orgasm caught him off-guard. He shouted, his whole body bucking.

It took Marcus another minute of thrusting hard into John's body for him to come. He groaned loudly when he came, spilling himself deep, muscle cording and jerking. His heart was thudding so hard in his chest he was sure John would be able to hear it. He slumped, fighting to keep from crushing John with all his weight, and ended up propped over him, still buried deep, his forehead dropped to the back of John's head.

Still panting, sweat beading at his brow, John had his eyes closed and was lying in his own mess. But Marcus felt warm and solid over him. I've got you. And Marcus had yet to let him down.

~~

His mother had only ever told him where Kyle was buried in general terms. So, when they both stood at the entrance to the mammoth pauper's graveyard, John pretty much thought he was going to cry. Acres and acres of stones that just had dates on them, nothing more. He held a small container of his mother's ashes in his hand and just stared.

Marcus stood next to him, hands loose at his sides, but his body was rigid with tension. There was a part of him, deep in his core, that still hadn't forgiven John for sending Kyle back, but it wasn't something he would ever mention. "1984," he murmured, "we need to find the plots for 1984." It was more to himself than John, and he stepped forward, striding out into the yard to see what they could find.

After a moment, John followed. So much death. All around them, death. People who didn't even warrant names on the stones.

Judgment Day, he reminded himself, wouldn't be that much different. It would be worse. Millions of people, dead.

The grass was green under their feet and they found the stones that started to say 1984 on them at the bottom of a sloping hill. There looked to be hundreds of them. There was no way to know. John shouldered past Marcus up to one stone in the middle of the row on the hill and he gestured. "We'll say it's this one," he said. Why not? It wasn't, he realized hollowly, like it mattered.

"Are you sure?" Marcus asked, setting a hand on his shoulder, "we could try and be more precise..." A part of him needed that. Kyle Reese had been the truest friend Marcus Wright had ever had.

"I don't know how we could." Turning to him, John shrugged, face more than a little hopeless. "We can't stay here long; you know that. If there's any place they'll be looking for me, it's here. We have to ... I don't know ... decide. And go." Yes, he was Marcus's friend, but he was John's father.

Marcus turned his eyes out over the graves again, looking just this side of desperate. "I always asked how...and why. I never asked where. But you wouldn't have known where. No one will ever know where." How could no one know where? You know what makes us different from the machines? We bury our dead... Marcus squeezed his eyes shut tight as though hoping for a different picture when he opened his eyes. Kyle's face was branded on the inside of his eyelids, his picture perfect memory making it impossible for the grief of that loss to ever dim. It was always knife sharp. But no one will come to bury you.

"Marcus." This time, it was John's turn to rest a hand on his shoulder. "We can't stay here." He laced his fingers with the hand closest to his, the metal one, and he upended the container, letting the ashes scatter, mostly into the wind, over two or three graves. A sob surprised its way out of his throat before he could swallow it back. "She loved him most of all."

His other hand came up to his face, covered his eyes, hid Marcus' grief. Soft glove over metal tightened its hold in John's grip. Marcus' shoulders shook once. Kyle's face as he last saw it - telling him where he was going, what he was doing, why he was doing it. He chose me ,Marcus. Out of everyone he chose me to protect his mother. He'd hated John for it. That little part of him, hidden away, the part that fought the machines for Kyle Reese, not for John Connor.

John looked out over the stones. His jaw hurt from clenching it. The wind picked up and he said, in a whisper, "We have to go."

"I can't go," he said, pulling at his hand, "I have to find him. I have to make sure someone knows. I have to make sure someone remembers."

"Marcus, you can't." John grew louder. "You can't. You can't do soil samples over very grave here. We have to go. It isn't safe here. For either of us."

You took him from me. The words were on his lips, but Marcus just turned from the graves. Specks of Sarah's ashes were still drifting over the grass. He remembered the taste of Serena's lips and licked his own. So that's what death tastes like.

"Marcus... " John tugged on his hand. "We have to go."

"I know!" he barked, starting off toward the gate, "I know we have to go!" He couldn't help being this angry. He couldn't help this reaction to loss he always had. When he watched the cops shoot his brother, he'd lost it. It was what sent him to death row - loss. Maybe, maybe if John hadn't sent him back in time, it would have been what had destroyed Marcus all together - loss.

The drive back to the small roadside motel was tense and quiet. John let them into the room and took out the gun he'd been carrying, not looking over at Marcus. He kicked off his boots and shrugged off his jacket, all before he finally said, "I lost people too, you know." Quietly, his voice low and sounding as tired as he felt.

"Of course you have," he said, voice tight, "Jesus, John. I'm not...this isn't because I think you don't understand." He bent forward, dragging fingers through his hair. He sank down onto the couch, springs straining under his weight.

Turning, John leaned against the chipped wood dresser. "So, tell me why you're so angry," he said, arms crossing over his chest.

"It doesn't matter," he said, bending to tug his boots off instead of looking up at John. "It's not worth it."

John sighed. "Fine." He turned away again, and started to put his boots back on, reaching for his coat and the gun again, tucking it into the back of his pants. "I'm gonna go get food. I'll bring some back for you." And he headed for the door.

"No." Marcus pushed to his feet and in two strides, was across the room in front of him. "You don't go out alone."

Eyes narrowed as he glared up at him, John reached around for the doorknob. "I want to go out. Get out of my way."

"You're not going out alone," he said, "either you stay here and I get the food." Marcus caught his wrist, "or I put my shoes back on and I come with you."

Two years now of doing everything together. John shouldn't have been surprised that sometimes it grated. "Fine." He turned away, tugging at the hold on his wrist. "You go."

Marcus dropped his grip, looking vaguely surprised. Then a flash of something else crossed his face, but only and instant, and then he was turning to go out the door. Hurt.

When Marcus got back, John was sitting at the head of the bed, his knees pulled up, elbows resting there and his head was lolled to the side, eyes closed. He was sound asleep. In his hand, though, was a picture of him and his mom, taken when he was younger, about thirteen.

The groceries he'd brought almost dropped before he saw John's chest rise and fall. He was situated so strangely, such an odd way to fall asleep, that for a split second, Marcus was sure he was dead. He set the bag down on the dresser before crossing to the bed. He'd been prepared to still be angry. He'd been prepared for a fight. Clashes weren't uncommon with him and John. But this was different. This John...it was his John, but not. He was a boy, but hardly a boy. Marcus smoothed a hand over his hair before bending to press a kiss to his forehead. "You should get under the blankets..." Marcus began to ease the picture out of his hand, "get undressed."

Jerking awake abruptly, John reacted first, then came aware, nearly punching Marcus in the jaw. "Shit," he grunted instead, blinking awake. "Shit." When his vision cleared, he looked up at Marcus, face somber. "I miss her."

Marcus jerked away, catching John's fist, but releasing it quickly. His breath picked up for a moment, but then his shoulders sank. His eyes shut. Marcus turned to sit on the edge of the bed. "I know."

"Why were you so angry before?" John asked, all the fight gone from his posture and his words. "Was it because of Kyle?"

"Yes," he admitted quietly, "you did it without telling me. You knew you had to. I would never have let you send him back knowing he would die in 1984. Even if..." Marcus hands flexed and he shook his head. No. It wasn't worth it, even if he'd all but said it already.

"Even if it meant I'd never be born." No, John didn't need Marcus to finish that sentence. Hurt knifed through him, causing his breath to catch. "That must be why I didn't tell you." If John knew that, why would he tell Marcus? "I'm sorry."

"You have to understand, John," he said slowly, not looking up, "Kyle was...before I even knew what had happened to the world, he saved my life. He was everything to me. Until things changed between us, he was the only reason I was fighting at all. I wasn't...rational when it came to him. I don't blame you for what happened, not really. How could I? He would have gone, even if he'd known what would happen to him. But..." he choked, squeezing his eyes shut tight, "God, I hated you so much that night."

"So, what did you do?" John remembered what Marcus had said. That that was the one time that Marcus had let John in. But how did they get there? What led up to that? How did they get there?

"I still needed you," he said, "and not because I didn't have anyone else. Because I loved-..." He caught himself, frowned, and restarted, turning his head to look up at John, "because I love you. I need you. Whenever something was bad, I turned to you and the night Kyle was gone wasn't any different."

Unfolding his legs so he could lean forward, John cupped Marcus's jaw and he studied him up close. In the time they'd been together, John had matured, his face growing leaner, lined just slightly. Marcus hadn't changed. "I'm here. I won't let you down."

"No. You never have." Marcus leaned into the touch, eyes shutting even as the grief that had settled there spilled up into the twist of his brow. "John, I'm sorry. I didn't want to tell you any of that."

"Why not?" John shrugged. "It's the truth, isn't it? I deserve to know the truth." His thumb traced circles in the stubble on Marcus's cheek. "What else should I know?"

"Nothing," he said, shaking his head, eyes still shut, "there's nothing more." Marcus took a deep, shuddering breath. "I wish we could have found it..."

It was easy, despite Marcus's weight, to pull him in. John wrapped his arms around his shoulder and held on. They didn't have anyone else, either of them. No one else in the world. Earlier, that thought would've depressed him. At this moment, it comforted him.

~~

When Judgment Day finally came, they were in a bomb shelter in Boulder, Colorado, food stacked up a foot deep, weapons too. They'd prepared for six weeks, but John couldn't say he was entirely ready. Because he was terrified.

There was something horrible about just waiting. For a long time Marcus had let himself entertain fantasy after fantasy of saving entire cities. Of stopping this. But he knew it was coming. No matter what they did - what computers they destroyed or how much research they stopped - it was coming. There was nothing they could do except sit and wait, two out of a very small group of people who knew to prepare.

It felt like murder, as though he was dropping the bombs himself.

The eve of the day Marcus knew to be Judgment Day was a pleasant one. The air in the mountains was clear and looking out over the trees had him forget, for all of two seconds, why they were there. Not really feeling the cold, he stood out in shirt sleeves, arms slack at his sides. They probably wouldn't even feel the affect of the bombs until at least a day later. Would they see them? Would they feel the impact? Would there be news of the Holocaust?

John had fisted his hands in Marcus's shirt and kissed him out there in the air that smelled like pine, feeling, for a brief heady moment, entirely free. It didn't last long, but when the radio signals from the west started going out the next day, he could remember that feeling; he tried to hold on to it. Tried and failed. He missed Sarah acutely and he went to boot up the computer. They had things to do.

It had all come to this and all he knew deep down was that he wasn't ready. He'd never be ready. He was twenty-eight, but he felt eighteen.

"In a year," Marcus said, his voice following the thud of the bomb shelter hatch closing behind him as he stepped up to stand behind John at the computer, "you'll be older than me..." They hadn't actually spoken to each other about what was happening around them. They had prepared without naming what they were preparing for.

"Only because you don't age," John answered with a small smile as he began to scan the news sites. This talk actually soothed him in a way he couldn't explain. "Which makes you a freak."

Marcus bent to press a kiss behind John's ear. "That's me." His hands slid over John's shoulders as he straightened, up to rest against his throat. "Anything?" They had to talk about it, as soothing as pretending was. The pretending wouldn't be able to last long.

"Feeds out of New York are talking about blasts. There's nothing coming from California." Without even being aware of it, John leaned into the touch; the cool metal on one side countering the warm, human flesh on the other. He refreshed the page. There it was; he pointed to the screen.

CNN was calling it Judgment Day.

No, there was no more time for pretending. John turned around and he looked up at Marcus. Twelve years and before that, sixteen. And it all came down to this. When he stood up, he and Marcus were the same height. They had been for eight years; John had a last minute growth spurt when he turned twenty. "I'll never say this again," he vowed, but he said it then. "I'm really fucking scared."

"I'll never say this again." Marcus nodded once. "I'm probably more scared than you are, and I've already been in this world once before."

So, John held Marcus's face in his hands for just a moment, and then he said, "guess we should get to work."

Behind them, the computer screen showed "Page Not Found." The internet went down.

The next day, all phone service was gone and they were running on generators.

A month later, they went up, gas masks on, to see what there was to see. In the distance, a haze still spread over the sky, and everything was varying shades of gray.

Two months later, they started for LA.

Keep your eyes on the road. This wasn't going to be a jaunty road trip. They would see people. They would see dead people, dying people, people begging for help. You described the world to me Marcus had told him the day before they left, When I showed up it was a wasteland. But after the bombs dropped, immediately after, it was a blood bath. The terminators weren't on the streets yet. That was coming. The hills outside of LA looked down onto what was left of the city. Blood and rubble. Bones. The smell of waste and fear.

Marcus pulled the mask off his face when they stopped and looked out over the landscape. This was vaguely familiar. "This is ground zero," he said, looking to John, "we have to be careful of the radiation. You have to be careful of the radiation."

There was only so much they could do about that. To wait until it was safe would mean waiting years and they didn't have years. John kept his gas mask on and his rifle ready. He was nauseous. Sick to his stomach from the smell, even through the mask, and from fear. "We find a place here, then."

"It starts slow," he said, looking back out over the city, "but you gather people. Bit by bit, they come to you. There's some food left at first. People can organize, even if they don't know what they're organizing against. But when the machines show up..." Marcus cocked his head to the side, "you know how to kill them - so people trust you."

Shot to the back of the skull or take the chip from their temple. Yeah, John knew. He'd had practice over the years, on every machine that had come after them. "We need to leave clues, then." As they'd discussed. A way for people to find them. Something SkyNet won't know to look for. Something subtle. Strips torn from a red t-shirt, tied around something.

"Blood means resistance," Marcus said, as though reading his mind, "and the radio. You get on the radio. It might have been hard luck that sent the machine back to kill Sarah, but you're...good at this. People trust you."

"You sound like a gypsy fortune teller," John told him, and Marcus could hear his smile even if he couldn't see it. The radio is in the trunk of the car and they have to make sure it doesn't melt; they only have one back up.

They had no choice but to be ready.

That night, John reached for Marcus. It seemed as if everything and everyone was dead, even if they weren't. Survivors were still hiding, sheltered God knew where (if there was a God). Marcus, half-man and half-machine was brilliantly alive.

He was gathered close. It was cold and their shelter was sparse, but Marcus was always warm. He could hold John to him and let him be scared, even if they weren't going to admit to that anymore. The sky was still lit red from fires that burned endlessly in the city and Marcus looked down at the man lying against his chest. "I've got you, all right?"

"I know."

There were a finite number of things he knew. But that, John knew. "Do you love me?" he asked, knowing well the answer.

"I love you," he said, nodding, shifting his grip on the man, "I always have." Marcus half turned, reaching up to slide one dirty hand over his hair. "We travel more tomorrow, we keep spreading the word, all right? Everywhere we go, we tell people what to expect."

"And expect people to think we're fucking insane." Yeah, John knew that. "Marcus, I love you, too."

"These people, John, they've seen the world end. But it won't be long before they know it's only going to get worse." He shifted again, winding one leg with John's, "I know you love me."

No more talking. No more pretending, but no more talking. He'd be doing enough of that in the weeks and years to come. The world would get worse. But they would fight. No fate, after all, but what they made. John moved, pulling Marcus over him a little more until they were breathing the same breath.