Author's Note: So this was meant to be a oneshot, but that's not going to happen because the second half is still beating me up a little bit. The M rating is due to content in that next chapter, which will hopefully be up in a day or so. Of course, reviews never hurt when it comes to speeding up the writing process. But seriously. I worked hard on this one, I'm not sure of it, so like or dislike, please leave some (constructive) feedback on your way out.

I'm playing a little fast and loose with timeframes, but both shows deal with time travel, so I plead creative license. Fringe-wise, this takes place shortly after 'Marionette.' Major thanks to Wheresmyluce, who helped make this fic much better than it would've been otherwise. Some of the Camerah stuff I hint at here is covered in much greater detail in her prequel fic, 'Corners.' So after you're done here, check it out. Or click away from here, check it out, and then read this one. Either way, shoot her some reviews. They made the button so much bigger and prettier now, you know you want to click on it.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, including the title of this fic and the lyrics used blow. They come from a very awesome Damien Rice tune called 9 Crimes.

Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be cheating on you
It's the wrong time
She's pulling me through
It's a small crime
And I've got no excuse

She didn't belong there. That was all Olivia Dunham could think as she sat amidst hoards of rowdy college kids fresh out of finals and ready to celebrate. At a table in the far left corner, a group clad in BU apparel was pushing shot after shot on a skinny kid who seemed primed to throw up at any moment. Not a terribly interesting sight, but better than looking to the far right. The MIT crowd had taken over that area. Between long drags of alcohol, they argued over who'd scored better on an advanced calc exam, and who was most likely to have sex that night. Peter's MIT shirt was still crumpled in a ball next to her dryer. The thought of it made Olivia pick up her drink again.

What it was she kept pouring down her throat, Olivia didn't know. It was hell going in, but she figured that if glass went to mouth enough times, the taste wouldn't matter anymore. If she was very, very lucky, nothing would matter that much anymore. She'd never stepped foot in this bar before tonight, for reasons that were glaringly obvious now that she was here. Skinny BU kid covered his mouth before stumbling from his chair and making an awkward run for the men's room, accompanied by loud fits of laughter from his companions.

Last night Olivia had gone to her normal bar of choice, the one by her apartment, where the servers actually bothered to card their patrons. The man pouring her drink was comfortably familiar. He'd served up her usual without having to be told what that was, and for a few moments Olivia had been able to return his friendly smile. It'd been good until he asked why Peter wasn't with her, said how nice it was to see them together finally. He'd been waiting for that one, he said. They made a great couple, he said. The blonde had downed her drink quickly, not staying for the second that was offered.

Of course he would've gone there with her, of course the barkeep would've known they were seeing each other. Everyone else sure did. Walter must've been thrilled when he found out, Astrid too. They must've thought that Peter and the other Olivia were a great couple, just as the bartender had. Maybe even cute. Everyone could've thought they were cute together. Olivia left her usual bar last night in much the same condition as the kid from BU, fighting desperately not to puke.

The glass went back to her lips, a reflex. This wasn't her kind of place, hadn't been even when she was young enough to be here without feeling conspicuous. But the apartment held no solace either. Just a long list of half-completed tasks, more failed attempts at purging the other Olivia from her life.

Still, the hand that wasn't holding the glass drifted towards her purse. Those walls were hell, but their torments were at least familiar to her now, and Olivia hadn't counted on how hard it'd be to share space with normal, happy people. Happy, albeit drunk and immature. Happy never used to make her this depressed. She was reaching for the money that would clear her tab and allow her to get out of here when the brunette in the leather jacket walked in.

Sarah hadn't liked this place when she passed it on the street, and the up-close view did nothing to raise her opinion. But it came down to a choice between an empty warehouse shared with her son, and a few highly excitable computer geeks, or here. Twenty-plus years factoring in time travel since she could enter an establishment like this without feeling ridiculous, but here had booze, and that was a big deal. The bigger deal was what this bar lacked, what she wouldn't have to face if she stayed for a drink a three.

It was Cameron's fault she'd had to find an escape route, that she needed to run again. Goddamn machines were always making her run. The Tin Miss was little more than a coltan mannequin now, but still she'd managed to back Sarah into a corner. Of course, corners weren't always bad, not when one or the other of them wound up pressed against a wall, but that hadn't happened for a long while now. Ever since the basement of Zeiracorp, all Sarah's corners had been of the metaphorical variety. Translation: the bad kind.

She could've lost both of them that day, the cyborg and her son. Sarah had no illusions about what a close thing it'd been. He'd looked at her, called for her, begged her with his words as well as his eyes. A second's more hesitation and he would've been gone the same as Weaver. Same as Cameron.

"I can't," he'd said once the ball of electricity had disappeared, as if there was still a choice. He'd sounded hollow, gutted. And when Sarah told him that she knew, that he'd done the right thing, she'd said it in much the same tone. John didn't notice. Of course he didn't. Sarah barely needed to hide the truth of her and Cameron's relationship, whatever that'd been.. The notion that his mom was fucking his cyborg bodyguard was so far off John's radar screen that there'd been little need for secrecy.

Sarah didn't know what scared her more, the knowledge of how close she'd come to losing John too, or the fact that she hadn't physically yanked him out of that blue circle of light. In what felt like another life, she'd spoken to Cameron about opening her hands, stepping back, trusting John to make the hard choices. She'd picked a hell of a time to do it, and her own choice at that moment still haunted her. Had she left it up to him because he needed to be John Connor and make the important decisions alone, or because some small, terrible part of her hoped that he'd take the risk, find Cameron, bring her back? Sarah wanted to dismiss the second possibility out of hand, but there was no denying that amidst the overwhelming relief she'd felt when John stayed behind, there was a twinge of pain that couldn't be attributed to seeing Cameron's farewell message scrolling over the monitor.

It wasn't as though it hadn't occurred to her, dragging him out of the sphere of electricity. Not doing so had cost her dearly. It'd also cost her not to go in his place, chase after Cameron herself. But there was Ellison. Savannah. Kaliba. There was work to do here, and the future was John Connor's domain, not hers. And John Conner had made his call, behaving like the man in his father's stories. He'd chosen the future of all over that of one machine, regardless of his feelings for her. In the face of that courage, Sarah could hardly justify tagging along with Weaver, no matter how much part of her might want to. And, as she kept telling herself, Cameron had made her own choice, wouldn't have done what she did if she wasn't certain it was in John's best interest. Sarah reminded herself of that a lot, trying to make it be enough to erase the hurt, the betrayal, the emptiness.

Right or wrong, she and John had made their choices. Sarah was living with hers, even if she had to indulge in a little extra whiskey now and then in order to do that, but John wasn't making things any easier. They talked of Kaliba, Skynet, what was necessary, but beyond that… It wasn't just grief, as Sarah originally thought. After a few weeks of cold shoulders, monosyllabic replies to any question not pertaining to the mission, and one especially bad argument where too many things were said she learned the truth. John was faring even worse than her when it came to accepting the decision he'd made. He didn't want it on his shoulders. He wished that Sarah had held him back, kept him away from the machine that'd stolen Cameron away. Because then it wouldn't have been his call at all, and he could've blamed Sarah for the loss, the pain.

During that fight, when he declared his love for Cameron, Sarah hadn't been surprised by the confirmation of what she'd tried to deny. She'd also tried hiding the bizarre, twisted mixture of pain and jealousy that those words caused. And, with a Herculean amount of effort, Sarah hadn't challenged his assertion. She'd never been sure of her own feelings about the cyborg, what right did she have to question his? All she knew was that Cameron was metal, and she was supposed to hate metal. Then, sometime after she'd bathed herself in radiation to save the machine, it was supposed to only be about sex. The hatred she should feel but didn't, the other things that she definitely shouldn't be feeling, Sarah wasn't ready to deal with any of it And by the time she was ready to start accepting the truth, Cameron was gone

So Sarah did with the pain and anger the same thing she'd done with all the other feelings that the machine had stirred in her. She ignored them whenever possible and focused on the job at hand. John seemed to have adapted the same philosophy. He took on a more active role when it came to planning the destruction of Skynet, but outside of that showed little interest in speaking to her. If there was an upside to this lack of communication, it lay in the fact that Sarah was rarely forced to hear about her son's apparent love for Cameron. When it was mentioned, John must've assumed that the look on her face was derision or disbelief at the idea that he could love a machine. Sarah let him think what he wanted. She'd square off unarmed against a hundred terminators before she admitted to sleeping with and possibly loving the cyborg that John had no doubt thought about sleeping with, and possibly loved.

If John suspected anything at all, it would be because of the body. She'd capitulated too easily when he argued that they couldn't burn it yet. For all the rationality John had shown in that basement, he wouldn't hear of the endo being destroyed, and Sarah, knowing damn well how weak it was, hadn't done much in the way of debating him. So for months now they'd been stowing a metal body that was useless, even if the chip did fall into their hands again. Sarah couldn't pretend to understand John's explanation of how Cameron's fuel cell kept the torn, ragged flesh from deteriorating any further, but she got the basics. There'd be no rotting, and no regeneration either. Cameron's body was what it was, and every day they kept it added exponential amounts of risk to an already precarious situation.

If John questioned her lack of resistance, she assumed he put it down to deference for his feelings. Which wasn't untrue. It was just that his feelings weren't the only ones she was taking into account.

But Sarah could only justify her cowardice for so long, and recently she'd been hinting that the waiting period was coming to an end. She doubted it was coincidence that John began corresponding with the MIT students around that time.

The verbal grudge matches that should've been fought over Cameron's body were more than made up for when John spoke of dangling that body in front of them as a recruitment tool. Three computer buffs, best and brightest among the best and brightest. John got their attention by demonstrating his hacking skills, and held onto it with tales of advanced technology and destruction that kept the students glued to their computers. Sarah was livid when she found out what he'd been doing.

"You have to trust me, Mom. This is the right thing to do. We need programmers-"

"No. We need soldiers."

"Yeah. Soldiers and techies. Like it or not this is a war based on tech, brought on by tech. Think about it. What's a soldier going to know about programming time displacement equipment? No time travel, no Kyle Reese. No Kyle Reese, and you're dead. It's not just me, Mom. You die, they win."

She hated it when he used her own words against her.. "These people worship technology, progress, the next big upgrade. And you want to give them access to the greatest, most destructive technology ever created. It's too risky."

"How many times are we going to have this conversation? Everything we do is a risk. Everything. We won't win if we don't take chances, and we sure as hell won't win if our 'resistance' is us, Ellison, and a traumatized six-year-old." A pause then, long and heavy. "I stayed here because I had to. That's what I'm supposed to do, right, be here to fight Skynet? Because if fighting means sitting here spinning wheels and talking about risk then…"

"Then?" Sarah prompted, unsure she wanted to hear the answer.

"Then I made a mistake. A bad one."

Sarah had nothing to say after that. No counterargument, nothing better in the way of a plan. So she was left with nagging reservations, and Ellison was left with Savannah as the Connors and what remained of Cameron made the drive to Boston to rendezvous with John's could-be recruits.

The students viewed Cameron's endoskeleton with a healthy amount of fear, which Sarah more than approved of. But she saw something else on their faces too. The same burning excitement she'd seen in Andy Goode's eyes, before Derek shut them permanently. And even after he'd learned the truth, Sarah had still caught glimpses of that same look on Miles Dyson's face.

It didn't matter to them that the being they were all likely to have wet dreams about was created by the entity that wanted to wipe out all traces of human existence. They saw the robotics and the rest was obliterated by Star Wars fantasies.

Able to do little more than hover and glare while John showed off the inner workings of Cameron's body, she tried to emulate her son's strength. It hurt him, treating Cameron like the higher-level version of a frog in a biology class. Sarah saw this, but knew she was the only one. The students were too caught up in the thrill of discovery to notice John's discomfort, and John was too caught up in his task to let that discomfort turn to anguish.

For Sarah, there was no refuge in the practicalities. The best she could do was load her weapon over and over, handling it with an ease that terrified the budding geniuses. Of course, that'd been the desired effect, but once John really got into talking tech gibberish with the group, nothing penetrated the haze, even a terrorist wielding a gun not six feet away from them.

Sarah had been thinking of escape from the moment the trio of whiz kids made their appearance. She stayed as long as she could, assuring herself that there was no imminent threat to John, and then she needed out. Cameron laid open, the near-ecstasy that caused in John's new associates, it was too much.

She'd been ready to make her exit when John bent down and his shirt rode up. Where there should've been a gun under that material, there was nothing. "John."

He glared. So did she. The battle of wills lasted all of five seconds before John gave up, meeting her in the shadows and speaking as quietly as possible. "You shouldn't have done that. I'm supposed to lead these guys someday and you-"

"You want to talk to me about undermining your authority? Fine. First, talk to me about being unarmed. In a place we don't know, with people we don't know." Sarah kept her voice low, but did nothing to hide the anger permeating it.

"I need them to trust me, Mom. Doesn't work so well if I'm waving a pistol in their faces."

"Trust is earned. And you didn't seem to have a problem when I was the one waving the gun."

"Would it have mattered if I did? Anyway, now they're too scared of you to try anything."

"I see. So your great leadership strategy is to play good cop/bad cop with your mother."

"Mom-"

Cutting him off with a shake of the head and another long look, Sarah removed her gun, handing it to him butt-first. "You bring a gun. Always. And you make sure these people know that we know where they live. If they plan on leaving this building with a Skynet souvenir-"

"They're not…you're leaving?"

"I'm leaving," she confirmed relinquishing the keys to the SUV. "I can walk. Try not to hit anything."

"Walk where? Mom, you should take the gun."

"You're right. You're absolutely right. But I can't. And I can't be here to watch every move you make, because it won't always be that way. Search them. They leave here with nothing, they say nothing about what went on here. Straight back to the hotel when you're done, I'll meet you there later."

And now here she was, packed into a relatively small area with a bunch of drunken, unfamiliar people. Without a gun. As she stepped further into the swarm of humanity, Sarah visualized Cameron's reaction, were she awake to comment on the situation. The Tin Miss would throw her version of a fit, showing as much anger and frustration as she was capable. Side-stepping a tall kid bearing a tray of shots Sarah pictured John's name on that screen at Zeiracorp. John's, not hers. And despite the fact that she'd been the one who insisted on secrecy, insisted on all the rules and barriers of their relationship, Sarah got a cruel jolt of pleasure from imagining Cameron's distress. But Cameron wasn't capable of distress or any other reaction. She was just skin and metal now, without any higher functions. John would have to haul her onto a dolly and wheel her back to the vehicle. It was a painful thought, but satisfying as well. Painful because of what Cameron had been reduced to, satisfying because part of her relished the idea of John doing the heavy lifting alone. Punishment, for not carrying a weapon.

Sarah was pondering the notion that she really was a horrible mother when she spotted the blonde at the end of the bar. A moment's consideration and Sarah had made her decision, ignoring the twinge of apprehension and something else as she crossed the room.

"You mind?" she questioned after a perfunctory hello. The spot Sarah meant to take would still leave an empty barstool between them, but she asked anyway. When everyone else was lumped together in one group or another, with the blonde surrounded by a bubble of empty space, she felt it only right to get approval. Even if the other woman had irked Sarah by keeping her from the perfect vantage point, the spot from which all exits and potential danger zones were visible.

"Not at all."

Nodding an acknowledgement, Sarah settled down (as much as she ever did that), ordering the drink she'd wanted since leaving L.A. the day before. Between sips of tequila, she sized the other woman up, telling herself it was the same as always, the same as she did with almost everyone that came within her sightline. Unlike almost everyone, this woman caught Sarah in the act, locking gazes with her before performing a similar assessment.

It should've bothered her, being subjected to her own treatment. But Sarah felt no unease when she met those green eyes. Maybe because of the reflection she saw there. A shared eye color didn't cover it, nor the fact that the blonde was the only one here even close to Sarah's age. The eyes, the bearing, everything about her spoke of heaviness. Sarah doubted it was noticeable to the average passerby, but as someone who'd spent most of her life trying not to be crushed under the weight of her demons, Sarah had a way of seeing the signs in others.

Then the moment passed, eye contact was broken as they turned back to their drinks. Sarah was aware of the blonde without feeling threatened. She felt the other woman's awareness of her, without being troubled by it. She'd made enough people fear her over the years, she knew when someone was on edge in her presence. The other woman wasn't nervous exactly, and neither was Sarah. But there was a charge of something in their semi-secluded area, that part couldn't be denied. Sarah, of course, did her level-best to ignore it.

It was Olivia who broke the stalemate, though she didn't do so immediately. Discussions with strangers weren't her style, but the newcomer sparked her interest, enough that she'd chosen to stay and finish her drink. She knew she was taking a risk, the other woman had an air of guardedness that Olivia recognized in herself. But, as Walter had already established, there wasn't much that scared her at this point, especially after the events of the last few months. "Sorry if I'm intruding. I just couldn't help noticing that one of these things is not like the other."

Sarah might've brushed her off if not for the girl that'd just exited the women's bathroom near the back of the bar. The resemblance to Cameron wasn't stunning, but the body type and hair color were similar enough that Sarah needed the excuse to look away, to think different thoughts. "Don't you mean two?" she asked, offering her companion another nod. Suddenly, she liked looking at this woman. Sarah might see elements of her own reflection there, but there was nothing to remind her of Cameron. At the moment, that was all the reason she needed to give the blonde her attention.

"Guess I do," Olivia replied, returning the nod. "Olivia."

"Sarah."

The pause before Sarah's reply would've been imperceptible to someone who hadn't spent a good portion of her adult life interrogating suspects. "Sarah. Nice to meet you."

"Olivia. Same to you. I'm here on business, needed a break. If there's a better place closer to my hotel, I didn't find it. What's your excuse?" she asked, not unkindly.

"Same as yours, more or less. Needed a change of scenery."

"And this was the best you could find?"

The wry smile directed her way was a bit forced, but not fake. Olivia returned it in what she imagined to be a very similar fashion. Quicker with a smile. That's what Peter said when he talked about the differences between her and her doppelganger. Quicker with a smile. Less intense, So Olivia tried for a smile, tried for less intensity, hating herself a little bit for making the effort. "So. What's the business that drove you to Boston's little slice of hell?"

She couldn't be a waitress tonight. In another bar, next to Carl Greenway, she'd been a one-time computer student. Cameron had also been in the bar that night. In a short skirt and a leopard print top. Bent over a pool table. Not long after that, they'd had sex for the first time. Sarah tried convincing herself it was coincidental, then tried harder not to think of Cameron at all. "I work with computers."

"Sounds interesting."

"I hate it." That earned her a genuine laugh, something that made Sarah feel unaccountably proud of herself, even as she tried not to notice the tiny lines that started at Olivia's nose and ended at her lips. They'd been invisible up to now, until the blonde gave a real smile. Cameron had those same lines, also invisible if she wasn't smiling. Cameron hadn't smiled often enough, and Olivia seemed like she didn't have that many reasons to smile herself. "So Olivia. What do you do when you're not checking out the scenery in this little slice of hell?"

Olivia's smile faltered, just for a moment. She sipped her drink, an easy cover tactic. She didn't want to be Special Agent Dunham tonight. She'd told Peter before how people reacted once they knew of her occupation. The top two choices seemed to be a repressed sort of panic, like they suddenly expected to be arrested, or endless questions about things like how many people she'd killed, or the technical accuracy of The Silence of the Lambs. She didn't know Sarah, but she was willing to bet that the results wouldn't be good if honesty came into play. Besides, she was sick of being Agent Dunham, sick of the endless looks from her colleagues, different mixtures of pity and discomfort. Mostly, she was sick of the fact that Peter was one of the only people who knew her well enough to use her first name.

"I thought she was you, Olivia."

Must not have known her that well after all.

"Olivia?"

God. There was concern in that voice, and it should've irritated her because everyone was concerned for her lately. Instead of frustration, Olivia felt a kind of wonder at how good her name sounded coming from Sarah's lips. Clearly she'd had too much to drink.

"I work in a lab," she said, barely qualifying it as a lie. She spent more time in the Harvard lab than she did at headquarters. "Science stuff." Fortunately, her need to abandon Special Agent Dunham had been strong enough that she'd worn khakis and blouse instead of the usual power suit. That would've given away the game.

"Science stuff," Sarah repeated, right eyebrow lifting higher than her left..

Interesting. Not many people would've called her on that, though Sarah hadn't actually accused her of dishonesty. Olivia was good at telling stories, told them to Ella every time her niece stayed the night. Before that, she'd told them to Rachel, to distract her sister from the sounds of their mother getting beat to hell in the next room. Sarah was good at telling stories too. Olivia sensed she'd had a lot of practice.

"Interesting science stuff?" Sarah asked. Scientists were civilians. Civilians didn't know their exits the way this woman did.

"Understatement, but yes." Olivia paused, considering. "I actually needed a bigger change of scenery than just this bar. Just got back from vacation." Good a way as any to describe being trapped in an alternate reality.

"Vacations are good. Rest, relaxation."

"Yeah."

"Doesn't seem like you got much of that," Sarah observed, noting the bags under Olivia's eyes.

"Doesn't seem like you ever do," Olivia countered, keeping her tone light. It was nice talking to Sarah. Even if they were playing a potentially dangerous game with rules that weren't quite defined.

Shrugging, Sarah brought her glass to her lips for the first time since their conversation started. The desire to drink had become far less urgent. "The Sandman and I don't like each other very much."

"You ever see a doctor about that, try some pills?"

"Don't like pills. Don't like doctors. Dreamt I went to a sleep clinic once," Sarah added, not sure why she was doing it. "Didn't help."

"You dreamt about sleeping?"

"Weird, isn't it?"

"I've seen weirder. And I'm not too fond of drugs myself." Walter and Bell's Cortexiphan trials. Being groomed to save the world when she was still a child. Part of her would always hate Walter for that, maybe more than Bell because she hadn't been forced to hear the other man's rationalizations time after time. Olivia picked up her drink again.

The conversation tapered off after that. A few more silently acknowledged lies were exchanged, a few more small bits of truth, and then silence fell between them. It was a different kind of quiet than the one that followed their initial meeting though. Comfortable, not fraught with an unnamable tension. They finished their drinks at the same time, leaving Olivia with a choice she didn't want to make. She'd been sitting here too long. She had work in the morning, always assuming Broyles didn't pull one of his patented middle of the night call-ins. She couldn't stay, but this place she'd been so eager to leave was suddenly much more appealing. And that scared her almost as much as the prospect of returning to her empty, tainted apartment.

In an effort to buy time, Olivia retreated to the bathroom after getting assurances from Sarah that her seat would still be there when she returned. Then she was staring at herself in the mirror, wondering at how desperate and lonely she must've become. There hadn't been another woman in her life since college, and until tonight she'd been fine with that. Briefly, she considered shooting her own reflection

"You keep your backup gun in your purse, don't you? I keep mine in my jacket."

She should've learned something from almost getting killed having to fumble for a weapon. But Olivia couldn't stand the thought of taking up any of her habits, even the good ones. Foolish and irrational yes, but so were the thoughts she was having about her new drinking buddy.

When Olivia returned, she found that said drinking buddy hadn't kept her end of the bargain. "Thought you were my keeping seat safe," she said, eyebrows raised.

Sarah, who'd chosen to steal the barstool she'd been charged with protecting, brought a fresh drink to her lips and hoped her reaction to that last word hadn't been blatantly obvious. "What better way to do than to keep it occupied? Besides, I got rid of the Russian Studies major with the acne problem who wanted to buy your next drink."

"Always did hate Tolstoy. Dare I ask how you got rid of him?" Olivia wondered about that flash she'd seen in the other woman's eyes, the momentary tensing of the shoulders. She didn't ask though. The rules they'd followed tonight weren't clearly laid out, but questioning that flash of emotion still would've gone against them. That much Olivia did know.

Suddenly the bartender was there, setting another glass next to Sarah.

"I bought your next drink," she explained. "Peace offering?"

To hell with it. Putting aside her doubts the same way she'd put aside her curiosity all night, Olivia set her purse on the empty stool that'd separated them, taking a place next to Sarah. She pretended not to notice the thrill of excitement that came when her knee brushed against Sarah's thigh.