Author's Note: this seasonal tale features the Alternate Universe characters from my story "Something Else" but takes a different turn into yet another alternate time line from Chapter 10 of SE onwards. You don't have to have read that, but it helps. Wait... why haven't you read it yet? You'll get round to it later? Okay, you're forgiven, for now! So what gives with this story? Here's a quick SPOILERY summary: John Connor never properly met up with Cameron in 1999, so continued to run with his mother Sarah, who sadly passed away in December 2005. One year later, Cameron finally made her way into his life, changing it somewhat dramatically. Despite having been settled in LA for almost a year, a disagreement between them led to him once more striking out alone. The only clue he left behind was that he was heading to Canada - not enough for Cameron to trace John without drawing unwanted attention to him. In Something Else, John headed north for only a short time before turning back for his reconciliation with Cameron. However, what if John had indeed gone to Canada? Maybe this...
SOMETHING ELF
Disclaimer: I don't own these wonderful TSCC characters, just wish I did.
Chapter One: Christmas (Baby Please Come Home).
Somewhere in Canada: Monday, December 24th 2007.
John Connor woke with a start. It was quiet... too quiet. Grabbing his handgun from under the pillow, he leaped out of bed and made his way to the window. Cautiously he eased one of the curtains aside. The sun had risen on another day, revealing the reason for the unusual silence: a heavy blanket of snow had settled on the town overnight, covering everything as far as the eye could see in fine white powdery crystals.
As someone raised in the warmer southern climes of the American continents, he was unaware of the sound-deadening effect of heavy snowfall. The landscape had changed dramatically from that of the day previous; where it was once a host of differing shades of green and brown and gray, now it was uniformly white. The child inside him felt the urge to rush out and do something in the freshly laid carpet of snowflakes. What that something was didn't matter; anything would be fun.
Drawing the curtain back fully, he took in more of the vista. The front yard of the property he was currently residing in had taken on an unfamiliar air. The tree that had looked decidedly dead now appeared to be full of spring's blossom. The usually ugly metal trash can nestling by the side fence now looked like an immobile R2-D2. And wait, what was that? A snowman? The kids from downstairs must have been up early to make that, he decided. But what kid wouldn't be up early on a snowy morning like this?
His journey from L.A. to this house had been a long and slow one; he'd zig-zagged across many states, all the while maintaining his northbound heading. The cheap old Volvo wagon he'd bought in Vegas had not lasted long, but at least it got him into Canada. After that it was a matter of trains, buses and finally a spot of hitch-hiking. The last was from a long-distance trucker, who'd dropped him off in the middle of town, before heading home to his own family for Christmas.
So John found himself living in this attic room, part of, yet separate from the family below. That family was Mary Watkins and her two boys, Ivan and George. Her husband was absent, working away from home; maybe he'd get home for Christmas, maybe not. Either way, they needed the money a lodger could provide.
John had overheard a conversation between the children the day before. They'd been warned by their mom, seemingly for the hundredth time, that they were forbidden from playing in the nearby forest. They talked of the hermit living there, or at least as much of the legends and rumors that they'd heard in school as they could recall. The discussion became ever more heated but ended with the older lad warning his younger sibling that the man was a notorious axe murderer, who chopped up foolish children after luring them into his den in the woods. The little boy ran screaming for his mother, who admonished her oldest son in terms that Sarah Connor would have been familiar with. That's life, John had mused. Pulling back from the window, he mentally congratulated the kids on their snowman-building skills.
Having washed and dressed, John was going to pour himself a coffee in the kitchen but then thought better of it. He planned to spend Christmas Day and the following week hunting in the forest the old-fashioned way, using a longbow, though perhaps not too medieval; his bow was made from modern composite materials. This relatively silent method of killing was a skill he had learned in the jungles of South and Central America, but he had gotten rusty since those youthful endeavors. Additionally, his unfamiliarity with the frozen wastes he had abruptly relocated to meant that he had much to learn. Just as when he had been dumped in the desert to fend for himself by his bodyguard, the reprogrammed terminator calling herself Cameron Phillips, he would need his wits about him to survive. He corrected himself: now he would need all of his wits; back then he had her. Although she'd called their trip into the Californian desert a vacation, it was anything but. However, all the time he was out there he knew, at the back of his mind, that she wouldn't let him starve. She would do anything for him, so he'd always had a cushion to fall back on. When he got to brooding, which was often, he wished that he still had that support: times like when he was trying to find a tasty, healthy meal; or watching their favorite TV show; or, he admitted most reluctantly, at night. He'd become used to having her around, even with all that tension in the air. Coming-to every morning with that warmth behind him on the bed, it was kind of comforting. He'd even gotten over that thing of waking to find her looking down on him, something that once had creeped him the hell out. He was sure that it was why she laid down next to him, though she claimed to have other reasons. It reassured her, she'd said. Like a terminator needed reassuring! But yeah, when he stopped being a jackass, she became easier company.
Regret busting loose of the old ball and chain? he asked himself. No! Needed to get free, rely on my own instincts, on my own resources. On myself. She was right about needing to be prepared for the war to come though, and this was what he was doing out in the back end of beyond. Wasn't she a resource though? No, Cameron was more than that, she was something else...
"Crap! Let's hit the diner one more time," he decided. He pulled on a fleece and thick windbreaker, then positioned a woolen beanie on his head before venturing outside. As he stepped gingerly onto the fresh snow covering the path, his new landlady called out to him.
"Morning, John!"
He turned, to see her bearing down on him with a shovel in hand. "Hey, Mary! Wanna hand with that?"
"Do you mind?" she asked, smiling gratefully.
"Not at all," he said, taking the proffered tool. John started on the task, but after a few moments, pointed to the snowman standing like a sentry in the front yard. "Nice job the boys did there," he said.
Mary looked puzzled. "That wasn't them; they're in back building one right now. I wouldn't let them out front that early."
"Right," John said. It was his default answer: agreement, yet non-committal.
"It's probably the kids from the next street; their parents let them out all hours. I don't let the boys play with wild children like that."
"Yeah, probably right," John said, hoping it answered both of her points. "Maybe it was the postman?" he ventured.
"No, he doesn't come 'til gone nine, later this time of year," Mary replied.
"Oh," John said, shrugging. Soon he had reached the sidewalk. Mary returned to take the shovel off him, but was called back by a shout from the younger of her two sons.
"Mommy, have you got a carrot for Frosty?" he inquired in a high-pitched voice, full of excitement.
John couldn't remember being that pumped up about anything at that age. "Yay, Mom! Another Kalashnikov variant to field strip, clean and reassemble; I'll pass on the Legos, don't worry about fun or anything like that." He shook the warped memory out of his head; he didn't know about Legos as a youngster. Not that he knew much now, but still...
Wonder what Cameron would have gotten me this year?
The thought flashed through his mind like a thief in the night, unannounced and leaving him feeling like something was missing. "Crap!" he muttered dismissively, then followed Mary out back to admire the boys' handiwork; not bad, but not at all like the one out front, which had seemed almost like a person frozen in place. The oldest boy, Ivan, was putting the finishing touches to their joint creation, placing the carrot his mom had retrieved from her kitchen into the middle of the snowman's face. They had used a couple of stones for the eyes, several smaller ones for a smiley mouth. John hadn't noticed what eyes the snowman out front had worn; another thing to check out.
The slushy snow around the snowman's base was badly disturbed, a scar on the idyllic landscape made as the boys had rolled the three large balls of snow into place to create him. It occurred to John that the one out front had been pristine, as was the snowfall surrounding it. Could it have been built while the snow continued to fall, covering the tracks of whoever made it? Hmm.
He bade his farewells and headed back to the front of the house. His stomach flipped when he saw that the object of his curiosity had gone. The only trace left of the snowman, now seeming to John more mysterious than ever before, was a small pile of snow, surely not enough to have made the figure he had seen. He could see a small pair of footprints leading away from the site, heading for the town. He followed them, treading carefully as he made his way down the slippery, sloping road toward the diner where he had intended to have a hearty breakfast. The footprints merged with many others on Main Street, leaving him no further clues. He decided to refuel himself before investigating the mystery further.
Soon he was safely ensconced in a seat in Mean Ol' Moe's, waiting for the waitress to shuffle over. The diner wasn't really called "Mean Ol' Moe's," the sign outside actually proclaimed "Moe's Diner" in bright blue neon; it was just that the first owner had been called Moe, and legend had it that he was as mean as Ebeneezer Scrooge, or so John had been told on his first visit to the modest establishment, when he had been buttonholed by Chuck, the town drunk. He had been rescued on that occasion by Rachel, the waitress who now hovered over him.
"The usual, John?" she asked. After two days she'd obviously decided that he wasn't going to venture out of his comfort zone, food-wise.
"Uh, yeah," he replied, looking up at her round, cheery face. Then he had a thought, a memory really. "Um, wait... Can I get strawberries with those pancakes?"
Rachel screwed up her face scornfully. "At this time of year? Way out here?" She rolled away chortling to herself. Likely she'd be regaling the other regulars with the story all day, if not all of what remained of the year. "Crazy newcomers, right?" she would say. They'd turn and look at him, shaking their heads, not hiding their grins. "Yep, crazy hippies," they'd concur. Everyone from south of the Canadian border was a hippie, the townsfolk had long since decided. Or a Californian, as if there was a difference. All that and more he had learned from hanging out in Moe's Diner and the Two Shots bar across the way. He still hadn't rooted out the origin of the bar's name, but it was something to look forward to after his forthcoming sojourn into the forest. It's the simple things, he thought wryly.
As he slapped a couple of Canadian notes down on the table he smiled appreciatively at Rachel. Even though she was gonna be laughing at his supposed stupidity for the foreseeable future, she reminded him of his mother, as most waitresses did.
"Loved the pancakes, Rachel!" he said, by way of lessening his shame.
"Don't thank me, thank the new short order cook," she replied.
"New?" John was curious: it seemed he wasn't the only newcomer in town.
"Yeah. Troy called in sick, said he knew someone who could fill in, sent her up this morning. She has a secret pancake ingredient."
"Yeah?" John said, drawing the word out slowly.
"Yup: puts vanilla in. Seems you're the only one that's taken to it in a big way; no-one else has mentioned it."
Her side-long glances at the other customers told him that he had only dug himself deeper into the mire when it came to public humiliation. But something else was really niggling at him.
"What's she look like, this new cook?" he asked.
"Cute, young, brunette. Not as good looking as I was ten years ago, but then, who is, right?" She winked at one among her admiring audience of male customers.
"Nobody, Rachel, nobody," the forty-something swarthy-faced guy said. John couldn't recall his name, another mistake that would get him a tongue-lashing from Sarah Connor; "No detail is too small!" she'd frequently shrieked at him, like his own personal drill instructor. "Yes, Mom! No, Mom!" he'd meekly replied, unsure which answer was correct.
He shook himself out of his reverie. "She still in back?" he said to Rachel, though he didn't wait for an answer, pushing past her into the kitchen.
"Wait," she called, but again he ignored her. The kitchen was empty apart from Juanita, the other regular cook.
"Can't come in here, mister," she said, waving a spatula at him.
"The new girl, where is she?" he said, not pausing in the slightest at the threat presented by the kitchen implement or its bearer.
"Stepped outside for a smoke, back in five," Juanita said. "You really can't be in here," she added as she intercepted his path to the rear exit. "Go out front, then take the alleyway," she offered in what she thought was a helpful way.
"Right," John said.
"Yeah, on the right," she said.
"Eh?" John was momentarily puzzled by her repetition, then got it. "Okay, thanks." He walked briskly out of the diner, then broke into a trot as he rounded the building. He easily found the rear exit. There were plenty of squashed cigarette butts there, under the snow, but none were fresh. As if a terminator would smoke, he thought. But maybe to blend in? She was here, he knew it now. Cameron. She'd found him, and quickly too, something he'd thought impossible. They never do give up, right? Um, yeah. So where was she?
"Where are you?" he yelled.
"Right here, buddy."
He whirled around at the sound of the voice. It was Chuck, red-faced as usual, though not from the cold. John pushed him away, but not too forcefully. The old drunk staggered but did not fall, used to being unsteady on his feet. John started to run, but was careful not to slip on the snow. Once more he followed the small set of footprints, this time leading out of the alley onto Main Street. As before, once there they merged with many others, including his own. He looked up and down the road, yet couldn't see anything out of place; nothing familiar either, though. It struck him that he'd missed Cameron more than he'd cared to admit, even to himself; certainly more than he was expecting, and now that he'd had a tantalizing hint that she was still there for him, he desperately wanted to see her, to take in that quirky smile, those beseeching eyes, her unending inquisitiveness, her forthright manner when the crap hit the fan, her smell, the way she'd shake out her hair, the shapely curve of her body as she leaned over to get something out of the oven... Jeez!
"Where are you!" he shouted again, uncaring if the whole town thought him a fool.
"Right here, behind you. As I always am," a soft voice spoke to him. He whirled around, slipping slightly in the snow, but there she was, catching him, steadying him. She looked earnestly up at him, possibly worried about his reaction, though as it turned out unnecessarily. As he was held by her strong arms, he pulled her in tighter, closer. If she'd needed to breathe, she would have found great difficulty so doing, so tight was his embrace.
"Don't leave," he said. It never occurred to him, the irony of his demand: he was the one to leave her originally, but he was only thinking of the here and now; she'd disappeared on him twice this morning, and now he was holding on to her as if his life depended on it. And maybe it did.
"I won't," she said.
"I love you," he said simply.
There was no hesitation in his voice, no sense that it was a trick. Cameron didn't need to bio-scan him to decipher this; she just knew it to be true.
"I know," she replied. She smiled slightly, then added, "I love you too."
"That's some secret ingredient you put in them pancakes, honey," Rachel said from behind the reunited partners, "but they don't cook themselves. You wanna get your ass back in the kitchen? We got orders to fill."
Cameron turned to the waitress. "Just one minute more?" She got a reluctant affirmative nod in reply, then moved her attention back to John. "Kiss me?"
He paused to consider if it was a question or a demand, then checked himself: Like, who cares? His lips met hers, and months of tension and disagreement melted away like the snow under their feet. When they pulled apart no further words of apology or affirmation needed to be uttered: they understood each other fully.
"I should finish my shift, if we're gonna be staying here," Cameron said, glancing in the direction that Rachel had gone.
"Uh, yeah. Want me to wait around for you?" John said.
Cameron smiled faintly. "You got anything better to do?"
John smirked. "Not right now. In a few years, maybe one or two things, but my schedule's pretty free today."
"Good. Wait inside, I'll send you over another coffee."
John nodded and smiled, doing as she asked. While waiting, to pass the time he read the local paper cover to cover, engaged in some good-humored banter with a couple of the natives and finally ate a small sandwich for lunch. Eventually he got up to stretch his legs and was quickly joined by his erstwhile companion. She linked her arm in his, perhaps to ensure he didn't get any ideas about making another run for it. As they exited the diner, Rachel wolf-whistled at the pair. Cameron ignored it, John cringed with embarrassment. As they headed away, he asked Cameron how she had found him.
"I got a phone call. It was a female voice, saying that you were staying in this town, at 471 Maple Avenue."
"And you came, just on that? No other evidence? It could have been a terminator, you realize that, right?"
"Yes, it could have been a trap, that is why I studied the whole area for a day."
"You got caught under the snow last night."
"Yes."
"You made for a nice snowman," John said, squeezing her hand.
"Snow man?"
"Don't get picky, I was paying you a compliment."
"Oh. Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
"I won't."
"Right..."
After some moments of silence, they had reached the start of Maple Avenue. 471 was the last house on the street, older and completely different in style to its neighbors.
"So, when did you get the call? You musta been driving like non-stop to get here so fast."
"Non-stop? No." She shook her head slightly. "I had to stop for gas," Cameron clarified.
John paused in mid-stride, she did likewise. Cameron studied him carefully. He seemed about to rebuke her, but he contained himself and smiled slightly, though it was more of a grimace. Better than him shouting at me, like back in L.A., she decided.
"Of course you did," John agreed as they resumed their walk, "but when did you get the call, 'cause if you've been here a day..?"
"Friday morning. How did you find this house?"
"I'd hitched a lift, the guy dropped me off in Main Street. First thing I saw was a card in the window of the grocery store: 'Cheap room to let, short term no problem' it said. I called the number, thirty minutes later I'm laying back on the comfiest bed I've had since... well, since I left L.A." His mind wandered for a second to thoughts of himself and Cameron testing the comfort of the bed when he snapped back sharply. "Wait, wait, wait! I got here Saturday. How the hell could someone tell you I'd be here? I mean, exactly here? Before I even got here?" He pointed to the ground at his feet to add emphasis to his remark.
"I don't know. There seems to be too many coincidences for it to be a trap."
"Really? Seems like there are too many for it not to be," John said forcefully.
"I should clarify; a terminator would not rely on coincidence to set a trap. Putting a card in the window of a grocery store is a long shot. Getting a truck driver to pick you up and drop you here is a possible sign of conspiracy, but that in itself would have presented a better opportunity to kill you than luring you and me to this house."
"Right," John said skeptically. "So dark forces are at work, but they're human not cyborgish?"
"Cyborgish?"
"What did I say about being picky?"
"That didn't sound like a compliment," Cameron said quietly.
John inhaled deeply. "Okay, sorry," he said.
They'd reached 471 Maple, but it looked quite different to only a few hours before. The snow in the front yard looked grayer and the house itself seemed colder. No lights were on, despite the gloom as the winter sun began to set. John strode up the path he had cleared earlier and opened the front door. Inside, the house was empty of life. Their footsteps clattered eerily on the bare wooden floors as they headed for the kitchen. The table and chairs were still placed just as John had seen them before, but were now covered in a thick layer of dust. The fridge that Mary Watkins had reached into for a carrot that morning was bare and gave off a musty smell. He followed the electric supply wire back to the plug on the end, but found it was not connected to the main. He turned to Cameron, started to say something, but stopped on remembering the snowman that the children of the house had built while he shoveled the path. The windows looking out on the back yard were caked in dust and grime and cobwebs, so much so that he couldn't see anything distinctive outside. He unbolted the back door and rushed out, Cameron tracking his every move, alert to possible danger. She drew her Glock from somewhere beneath her over-sized sweater and followed him out into the snow.
John was standing in the middle of the yard. "Where is it?" he yelled.
"Where's what?" Cameron said, after ascertaining that there were no threats nearby.
"The kids' snowman. It was here. Right freaking here! She gave them a carrot to make a nose."
Cameron decided that using a carrot for a nose required further study, but she would keep that for a later time; preferably when she had a computer and internet access. "We should go inside, check your room," she said.
"Yeah," John agreed, taking her hand and trotting back inside. He led the way upstairs to his attic room. His stuff was as he'd left it, resting on the fully-made bed, ready for his intended departure to the forest. "Does this room seem cold to you?" he asked.
"No," Cameron replied. "It is currently fifteen degrees Celsius in here. The rest of the house is no more than three degrees. The water is likely beginning to freeze in the pipes."
"Why is it warmer in here than out there?" John asked, pointing a thumb toward the hallway.
"I cannot say," Cameron replied. She walked around the room, pausing to touch the cast iron radiator on the far side. "It's cold. I can't trace the source of the heat in this room."
"That's odd."
"Yes."
"You don't like things that are odd and that you can't explain," John pointed out.
"No," Cameron said. She tilted her head and scrunched up her face pensively. "Except for one thing," she added.
"Oh? What's that?"
"You," she said.
"Ah!" John chuckled at her joke. "I think this situation calls for an executive decision."
"Yes," Cameron agreed.
"After much consideration, due diligence and lengthy consultation..." John stopped, apparently deep in thought as he lifted the case containing his bow and arrows.
"Yes?" Cameron prompted, interrupting his dramatic pause.
"I think we should get the hell out of here!"
"Good choice," Cameron said, snatching John's back pack off the bed. "Anything else need to go in here?"
John grabbed what he had previously offloaded into the closet and stuffed it into the bag, catching a slight wince from Cameron. She's probably thinking of the ironing, he reasoned. "You bring the Jeep?" he asked. She replied "Yes" as they hurtled down the stairs. "So where is it?"
"Not far from the diner. Want me to get it?"
"No, we'll stick together," he said, leaning closer.
"Okay."
They linked arms again and settled into a fast-paced walk. Reaching the gold SUV, as John buckled himself into the familiar, easy comfort of the Jeep's passenger seat, he wanted to know how Cameron had gotten the cooking job.
"I followed the cook home, knocked him out and tied him up. I imitated his voice to call in."
"Now, where did you get that idea?" John said sarcastically. In reply, Cameron merely raised an eyebrow. "How'd you know I'd be at the diner?" he continued. Cameron started the engine then gave John another look he was well acquainted with. "Okay, dumb-John. I always eat at diners..."
"Got it in one," she said, but smiled warmly. As she pulled out onto Main Street, she spotted Rachel exiting Moe's Diner. The waitress in turn noticed them and waved them over. Cameron slowed the car to a halt by Rachel's side, and wound the window down.
"Hmm, you two love birds going off somewhere to get up to something naughty?" the woman said with her trademark exaggerated wink.
"Maybe," Cameron replied in a slow, shy tone. She curled up slightly, feigning embarrassment. Quite effectively, in John's estimation.
"So, the big question is, your place or his?" Rachel said.
"Um, mine," Cameron said.
John leaned over, unconsciously taking Cameron's hand in a tender display of affection. "Say, do you know what happened to Mary and the kids?" he asked.
Rachel scowled. "Mary who?"
"Mary Watkins. Of 471 Maple."
"Jeez, you're going back some. That's pretty ancient history."
"What do you mean?" Cameron said, all affectation gone from her voice.
The waitress noticed this, and herself became more serious. "Mary Watkins an' her kids were murdered by her old man, back in the 1930s. He just went off his head one day. Killed them with poison, then cut up their bodies with an axe, buried them in the backyard."
"What happened to him?" John asked.
"He ran off into the forest. Mounties tracked him, eventually. Committed suicide: shot himself in the head." Rachel's face took on a reflective expression. "Come to think of it, they say he fired twice, first bullet went clean through his skull without doing the deed, but the second one worked better. I think the Mounties did it, myself, but I guess it all adds to the mystery. Brings in the odd tourist still. Mostly in summer though. Is that why you're here?"
"No, never heard of it," John said. "Till now. Anyways, we gotta be going."
"I'll bet you do! Take care – don't do anything I wouldn't do!" The woman waved them off with a final cheery leer.
"Guess that's where the saloon bar gets its name," John said, pointing to it.
"Two Shots. Hmm, and I thought that was your alcohol limit," Cameron said.
"You mean, that's all you'll let me have, or how much I can take?"
Cameron looked over and smiled. "We'll see."
"Before we go, I think we oughtta release the cook, don't you?" John suggested. "If he's not dead all ready?"
"I didn't kill him; I know how you feel about that sort of thing," Cameron said.
John patted her hand and beamed at her. "Slowly but surely, we're getting there," he said.
Cameron filed that away for further deliberation, then realized that file was getting pretty big. She regretted not spending more time recently on deciphering John's cryptic comments, rather than being powered down waiting for the phone to ring.
Having salved John's conscience regarding the well-being of Troy the short order cook, they resumed their journey. They'd reached the nearest main road, and were not far from the highway that headed south when John took Cameron's hand once more.
"You believe in ghosts?" He felt her grip increase just a fraction before she started rubbing the back of his hand with her thumb. "I mean, after today?"
"I believe that some people experience things that they cannot explain rationally," she said.
"Okay, but you saw her this morning, right?"
"Yes."
"Out front, she was right out there with me, handed me that freaking big shovel."
"Yes, she was right out there and it was freaking big."
"So, can you explain it?"
"No."
"Are you gonna put some of your ginormous processing power onto it?"
"At some point. But not right now."
"Oh."
John's hand went limp in hers. She squeezed it again, and adopted a warm, reassuring tone. "Hey, we'll stop at a motel in a couple of hours. Have a hot shower, then maybe do something that Rachel wouldn't do." She hoped that she had achieved the right level of sultriness in her voice.
John's hand in hers indicated that she had. "Something naughty?" he said, hopefully.
"Or something nice," she replied playfully.
"So, do I take it from the southerly direction we're headed, that you don't wanna hang around and do some survival training up here in the Arctic?"
"This isn't the Arctic, but you should know that I don't do cold."
"No?" John inquired.
"No. My joints prefer the warmth of the sun."
"Yeah, mine too," John agreed.
A few hours later, they were safely snuggled up in a warm motel bed.
"It's midnight," Cameron announced, just as John was dozing off.
"It is? Oh well, then, merry Christmas, Cameron," he said, sleepily.
"Merry Christmas, John," she said. Definitely better than last year, she thought, as she gently kissed him.
NEXT: Chapter Two – Do They Know It's Christmas?
In which John & Cameron discover the importance of synthesis, and uncover the past in the present and the future in the past.