Disclaimer: Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles belongs to Fox, not me.
A/N: While I was watching episode 22 (Born to Run) of the second season, I had an idea. What if, when Cameron told John to climb on top of her, cut her open, and feel the (cold) metal under her breast plate, things went a little differently? This is what I came up with.
The Watcher
Cameron stared back at John as he sat, straddled on top of her. The knife was still in his right hand, forgotten, if only for a couple of moments. His left hand held a fist-full of the covers. He found himself leaning closer to the cyborg, his face a few scant inches from hers. A hundred thoughts swirled madly around his mind. 'What the hell am I doing? Why isn't she stopping me?' His body seemed to be disconnected from his mind, and the questions that ought to have brought his actions to a screeching halt, had no effect.
But maybe John was like a train. What if he pulled away, only to somehow derail? If he didn't go forward, he'd never know……'Never know what?!' his mind's voice screamed. 'She's not real! Given the chance she'd kill you just because she can!' But that voice went unheeded. John's body kept sinking down onto hers, like she was a magnet he was inexplicably drawn to.
All the while Cameron's dark eyes watched him. She said nothing, made no move to get away. Just watched. His mouth finally met hers. Cameron's lips were soft, pliable, almost as warm as a real girl's would be. John wasn't sure how much time passed before he realized how hard her body was beneath him, and he began to notice an odd, metallic taste in his mouth, as though he had been sucking on a coin. Then the logical, reasonable, part of him kicked in, and he jerked away from Cameron. He retreated to the end of the bed, feeling his cheeks flush, his heart hammering wildly in his chest, and his breath coming in short pants.
Cameron appeared completely calm as she sat up. "You're bleeding," she informed him. John glanced down at the hand that gripped the knife, and saw that it had sliced a diagonal slash across his palm. His hand was covered in his own blood, some of it already drying. When he looked back up, he met Cameron's gaze. She was watching him again, this time wearing an expression of that was almost predatory, the way a cat might watch a tiny, helpless mouse. John shivered, leaped out of the bed, and fled the room. Fled from what he had done to her. From what he had done to himself. From everything that she was, and everything that she wasn't. Fled from all that he didn't truly know about her.
Cameron was still, listening to John's rapid footsteps. Then she reached forward and took the knife he had left behind. She raised it to her own palm, and cut deeply. She watched her blood flow slowly over the sides of her hand, dripping onto the covers. 'Yes, John. I bleed just like you......'