Another one shot commission I wrote for a friend on Tumblr.

Rising Tides

It seemed strange and yet so familiar for the young soldier to be where he was, surrounded by sand on a beach that couldn't find warmth even on the sunniest day of the year … which just happened to be 2029. Though he couldn't be too sure, because it didn't seem like 2029.

Sure, John Connor was dressed in fatigue pants, grimy motorcycle boots, a stitched overcoat, with a silver wing on his sleeve, and a bandanna. But he didn't think he was still in the future, because in the future there were no beaches, nuclear blasts had raised the tides and most coast cities where overflowed with sea water, setting new boundaries.

But in this place his old boots puffed and crunched underneath soft ivory sand, fine grained, like a dream. Out over the water was a beautiful sunrise just touching the bottom of the sky, a swirl of purple and orange, blanketing the last of the night. Even if it was last call for the stars, a few hold outs still twinkled, reflecting off the crystal blue water that roared peacefully in the distance.

Ahead of him sat a rock, a lone bolder amidst the flat surface, it was big and black, covered in crater marks that made it seem more like a bee hive, then a rock. There was something about it, a strange sense of interest that drew John toward it. Like it was a magnet, or something else … some sort of beacon calling to him, that he felt in his blood, a sixth sense.

Moving over the flat paradise, he approached the rock, but found that his attention wasn't drawn to the rock, but to the ocean, the foaming tide, washing up over his boots. For the first time John realized that his boots where actually brown, the grim coming off. In his reflection he saw the little sparkles in the water, making everything seem more magical … if he actually … you know … used that word … ever.

"Beautiful isn't it?"

He smirked at the voice. He knew it wasn't the rock that was drawing him, it was her. The girl of his dreams … the one he saw in every state of his mind. Had it been years ago … he might have shot at her a "How would you know?" in a bad attitude to chase it. But after all these years and everything he's seen. He couldn't take this mutual sight they were seeing together away from himself or even … her.

Cameron wore a simple white bikini top, with a matching shall around her waist. A tropical flower was in her hair, and John thought for a second that she looked like she was on vacation. For some reason it made John mad for a second. Here he was turning over rubble, losing friends and comrades every day, and here she was having fun.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She turned her head, expressionless. "Waiting for you." There was nothing but deadpan honesty in her voice. Emotions welled deep inside him, he had found her … after all these years, after all these miles, all these scars, and wounds … she was here. Doing what came natural to one another … waiting for the other to catch up.

Water sloshed as he made a B-line toward her, lifting his boots up and sinking them back down into the soft soaked grains. Cameron watched from her perch, till he was below her.

"I can't swim." She blinked at his expecting face.

"I'll carry you."

"Can you?" She seemed doubtful.

"I have everywhere else for seven years … what's two more seconds?" He smiled.

She was a lot lighter then he remembered, but the last time he had her in his arms he was sixteen, drunk, swinging her around, singing … the last time he went to a party at Morris's house. Then Cameron was more confused than amused. But now the grown man wasn't drunk, at least not drunk on alcohol, he was drunk on her, on how she felt in his arms, how he needed her. She was his prize … his …

"So close and yet so far." Cameron said to him

He turned to her. "What?" He asked. He started to notice the water was rising.

"You've spent many years looking for me, John … and yet you can't admit it." She said, arms undraping from his neck.

"Admit what?" He felt the wetness around his knees.

She smiled sorrowfully. "You know what." She turned her head.

Now the water was around his waist. "That I love …" He paused.

She looked down into the water. "Why are you here, John?" She asked, the water kissing her bare back.

"To save you!" He started to panic.

"Why?" She pushed.

"I … Because I …" The water engulfed her body, up to her chin.

"It's okay John … I understand." She said disappearing.

"NO!"

John Connor was on his Knees on the hard wood floor, clawing desperately at the rug and wood as if digging through water, fingers bleeding from splinters.

"Don't leave me!" He yelled. "I … I can face it … I know I can … Come Back!" He begged in sobs.

"John?"

The voice was soft and sobering and he was no longer on a beach or even outside. He was shirtless and in black training pants. Next to him was a four poster queen, recently slept in, sheets tossed violently in a nightmare. There was a dresser with two duffle bags on his other side, and nothing else in the room, but an empty bookshelf.

"John?"

A lithe figure knelt in front of him, sleek and graceful. Her skin was peachy and eyes a sobering mocha. A cape of dark hair pushed a strap off her pink nightgown, a black lace fringe just above smooth thighs. Bloody hands found her face, much to Cameron's confusion.

"John?" She said again.

"Yeah …" He blinked, breath heavy, cupping her cheeks.

She didn't seem to mind or notice. "You hurt your fingers." She said.

He scoffed a sobbed chuckle. "Yeah …" He acknowledged.

Her gaze didn't leave him. "Doesn't it hurt?" She asked.

A tear of relief stung his stubled cheek. "There are worst hurts in this life …" He rubbed a bleeding thumb on her cheek bone.

She seemed to ponder it a moment. "I guess testicular removal by teeth remains the worst." She stated innocently.

He half sobbed, half laughed at her. "You're right." He never felt more relieved to hear her complete misunderstanding of the situation in his life. He pulled the girl in an embrace, tucking her to him tightly. "You're right." He chuckled in tears against her chest.

She never said a word … never asked him what it was that morning that tortured him so. She never asked, not once, not ever. She just let him have her, let him cradle to her. It was what she would always do.

Always make it better, always let him use her as a crutch …

Always protect him.