TITLE: Not Well Enough Alone
RATING: M
AUTHOR: Castellan Craft
WARNINGS: Sexual content
TIMELINE: Set during the Pilot.
SUMMARY: "Sarah Connor found she didn't keep herself company all that well. Alone with her own thoughts also meant alone with her own guilt… and her own ghosts."
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Originally drafted for takethewords "Vagina Fest: Round Two" over on Livejournal, the main focus of which was women and sex. I don't even know how I get dragged into these things sometimes. Made for valhallalilly's prompt: "TSCC – Sarah – Alone." This reposting has only minor edits from the original submission. Much hemming and hawing was had as to whether I even should repost or just let it sit buried in the many pages of that Fest. Well, I guess someone out there might get a kick out of this, so why not?
DISCLAIMER: I think I'd have a stroke if I magically one day found I owned any of the rights to this franchise, but until then have no illusions of ownership.
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Sarah Connor had forgotten just how much she hated being alone.
Those happy months in Nebraska had obviously made her too complacent.
Looking back, those sleepless nights she'd stay up with one arm curled around her young son and her other cradling a rifle were draining but easiest. There was nothing to think about except keeping her eyes open, the annoyingly persistent insects of the South American jungles, and the pulse of her son a constant reassurance under her fingers.
Even the later nights spent beside men she couldn't care less for were more bearable. She'd played every role for them over the years; whether they wanted a lover, a whore, or just someone to dominate, it didn't matter much. Sarah would wear any façade until they'd outlived their usefulness. At least she always got something out of it, whether in knowledge or material needs, and it was an effective distraction from this damnable quiet.
With her son too old to tolerate her hovering, with the shadier dealings and men taking advantage of her far behind, and with no men like Charley being too kind to her for their own good, Sarah Connor found she didn't keep herself company all that well. Alone with her own thoughts also meant alone with her own guilt… and her own ghosts.
This wasn't the first night that Sarah could almost feel Kyle's arms around her when she closed her eyes. Almost feel the roughness of his scarred skin in the twist of the sheets. Almost stroke some firm release from her own flesh. But not quite.
Her hands never tired: if they could stand the abuse of a weapon's recoil for hours on end, the softness at her fingers now would never wear them down. The heat even helped fend off the stiffness for a time.
The silence was almost tangible, and Sarah didn't once break it. The better circumstances under which she'd learned to hold her tongue were motivated by the thin canvas of a tent that separated her and a mildly dashing gun runner from the rest of their troupe. The worse circumstances boiled down to never giving some bastards the satisfaction of even the slightest sound. Now it was just habit even though there was little need to hold back and bite down on the quiet gasps.
This wouldn't be the last time she would try to satisfy a need that had only been met once fully 15 years ago. It wouldn't be the last time she'd fall asleep unfulfilled. And it certainly wouldn't be the last time she'd wake in the morning with standing tears of guilt: Sarah always cursed the sleep riddled mind that had for just a moment convinced her that a young soldier with kind eyes, who wanted nothing more then to give his life for her, didn't have to.