Disclaimer: I don't own the Terminator franchise...

Author's Note: hehe... Hi everyone! I apologize for the... *cough* eight month wait... but this chapter was a bitch to write. I just couldn't get it started, I must have four different versions on paper, and once I got the first half down (that was around May, I think), the second half decided to evade me too. I finally forced myself to finish, and I'm comfortable with it, but there's something still... sad about it.

Thanks to everyone who's been reviewing in the meantime; it means a lot to know that people are still interested in how this story ends. Please enjoy!


(And this is what I choose when it's all left up to me)

Is this what I'm supposed to do?

Is this how it's supposed to work out?

Is doing this really the only way?

A mirthless chuckle escaped his throat.

Don't kid yourself, Johnny. You know it is.

He wrote a side note to the lead engineer on the edge of the schematic before handing it off to the man on the other side of the table.

But what if it doesn't work? What if it's the wrong time to—?

"Anything else, sir?"

You're the one who decides when the time is right. Haven't you learned anything?

"That'll be all, Private. You're dismissed."

"Yessir."

You know that you're the one to start the whole chain reaction. He sighed through his nose and shuffled through the blueprints before him. So man up and do it.

"Sir?"

He turned in his seat and met green eyes.

"What is it, Captain?"

Even Derek knows that it's right.

"You called for me, sir?"

That and he can't wait to be rid of her…

"I need you to do something for me, Parker."

I need you to trust me.

"Anything, sir."

John couldn't suppress the ironic smirk that crept to the corner of his lips. You wouldn't say that if you knew…

"I need you to find someone for me."

A flash of recognition in his eyes. A nod of the head, small, indiscreet.

I'm sorry, Derek…

"When do you want me to leave?"

"As soon as you're ready."

He nodded again and turned to leave.

"Captain."

An expectant look from a war-lined face.

"You know what to do."

And I hope you forgive me for making you the one that has to do it.

Derek nodded again.

"You're dismissed, Captain."

He watched him leave, then turned back to the table and pulled another schematic from the pile.

I told you you'd have to be the one to find Kyle and get him ready. You knew you'd be it. Even after you said you wouldn't… but it had to be you. We both knew that. The second this thing is working, he has to be ready.

"Sir, the recon team from the north sector is back."

"Send them in."

A lieutenant and a corporal filed into the room, their eyes glancing down at the table top for a split second before meeting his. John searched their faces for any trace of what they were about to tell him.

Please tell me you failed. Please say you couldn't get to them, that they were damaged, anything…

Please say we can't finish this goddamn thing.

"How'd it go, Corporal?"

"We salvaged two engines, sir."

He kept his head down, pretending to be engrossed in the blueprint.

Fuck…

"That's good news. Any men lost?"

"No, sir."

He looked up and smiled, almost meaning it. "Even better." He nodded his head, both to them and to the man at the door.

"You're all dismissed."

A mumbled "Yessir" and the shutting of the door preceded her voice.

"John?"

His eyes shut and he took a deep breath.

It hurt when she was around the project. Every day they progressed, every new development they made, every step closer they came to success, was a day and a step closer to losing her.

"Cameron, I thought I said—"

Her hands rested on his tense shoulders and he relaxed almost instantly, a sigh escaping his throat.

"I know. But I haven't seen you for hours."

There was resignation in her voice. It hurt her, but she knew that it was necessary. For the project, and for him.

But you're pushing her away, you idiot. When you need her the most, you're—

"I know, I'm sorry. It's just…"

What shit excuse can you give her, Connor? What's gonna be good enough?

"…I've been busy."

Good one.

She nodded, though he couldn't see it.

"You want me to go."

No. Don't leave. Please…

"I'm sorry, Cam. I gotta work. I gotta figure this out."

"John?"

I mean it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm such an ass. I need you—

She laid a kiss on his cheek.

"I love you."

He turned in his seat and met her brown eyes, and then he pulled her down and pressed his mouth against her soft lips, apologizing in the only way he could.

I'm so sorry…

His tongue ran along her bottom lip.

I'm sorry for starting this.

His arms went around her waist and he pulled her to his lap where she lightly sat.

I'm sorry for keeping you away.

Her mouth opened to him and he plunged his tongue inside, tasting her.

I'm sorry that this is my only option.

He kissed her hard, relentlessly, desperately clutching her to him.

I'm sorry that I have to do this…

She pulled away and smiled sadly at him, and he squeezed her hand so hard it would've broken if she had been anyone — anything — else.

Her eyes said she understood what he was trying to say, and she squeezed back.

"I don't wanna do this," John choked out. "I don't want to—"

"I know. But John, don't you see?" Her voice was a soft whisper, like she was consoling a child.

But maybe that's what this was. Was he being childish?

"This is how it has to be."

He shook his head violently, feeling angry tears in his eyes.

Way to man up, Connor. You're not fifteen anymore.

"I don't know if I can do this, Cam. I can't—"

She smiled that sad smile again and cupped his cheek in her hand. "I know. But you knew this would happen eventually."

He stared at her, anger starting to creep in from the recesses of his mind. How could she be so calm? How could she be so goddamned calm?

Didn't she get it?

Didn't she understand that this was killing him?

"It doesn't matter," he said, his voice tense. "It doesn't matter if I've known my whole damn life. It doesn't change the fact that I don't want to do it."

She nodded. "You're going to miss me."

A long time ago, he would've resented her for her bluntness. He would have denied the statement, would have told her how stupid it was even if it was such a blatant fact. He would have ignored her, or have left the room, or would have left the house. He would have pushed her away, shut her out, run from her and the truth.

A long time ago, he didn't have to admit that she was right.


Three weeks later…

The message was sent to him over the radio.

"It's ready."

A mere two words, but they might as well have been the finger that pushed the button that made Skynet self-aware, the way he dreaded them.

He had been sitting at his desk, not working, just thinking about things. About the young man he had just spoken to, who was so different from the boy that he had saved from Century. About the food rations that were running low, and about the team he would have to send out to retrieve more. About the Terminator lying on the mattress in the next room, who was pretending to be asleep for his sake.

He had turned his head slightly, listening to the silence, closing his eyes and sighing through his nose. He didn't want to be sitting there, waiting for the news to come; he dreaded the moment when his radio would break silence.

That was why, when it finally did and a tinny voice told him, "It's ready," John Connor didn't respond at first. He simply stared at the speaker, willing himself to believe that he hadn't heard it, that it was his imagination, that he was just sleeping and this was the same nightmare he'd been having every night since he'd come up with the plan…

But it was reality, and John Connor picked up the handset and said without emotion into it, "Good."

The handset fell from his grip, the sound of it hitting the desk loud and painful to his ears. But he wasn't hearing it. His mind was buzzing.

Without thinking about it he stood and went to his room, stopping in the doorway and leaning against the frame. She was lying on the mattress, on her side, her knees pulled up and one hand curled near her chin. Her hair was spread on the pillow; her skin looked pale in the harsh glare of the lights.

A vice went around his chest, tightening painfully.

He stepped into the room, moving silently, and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand near her bare foot.

How many times had she walked around his house barefoot in the middle of the night, keeping a silent vigil over him and his mother?

He crept onto the bed, laying down gently beside her, watching her face, her soft relaxed features.

How many nights had she spent doing the same thing? Watching him sleep?

He reached out a hand and touched her cheek; brown eyes snapped open and met his. A smile graced her lips. He tried to smile back.

How many times had she caught him off guard just by smiling at him?

She took his hand in hers, and he leaned forward and kissed her lips, wanting to tell her how much he loved her, but unable to find the words.

How many times had he struggled for them before? How many times had he found himself unable to tell her everything he wanted to?

She kissed him back, opening her mouth to him, seeming to say that she knew.

How many times had she known? How many times had words not been needed?

How many times would he be grateful to her for knowing? For understanding? For simply being there, even when he couldn't tell her that he needed her to be?

He pulled her to him, closing the distance between them, wondering once more at how small she was and how easily she could tear him apart if she wanted.

How many times had he wished that she would, just so he wouldn't have to be where he was now?

Hands traveled over skin, pulling away clothes and bringing them closer together. Skin moved against skin, breaths caught, words of love were murmured against warm flesh.

He needed this, he needed her. He needed her to be there, to make him human. To make him feel. How was he supposed to feel without her there?

"John…"

He kissed her lips, tasting salt. But he didn't care if he was crying. He was glad he was.

Because it meant that he was still human.

He was sending her away. He was purposefully sending her away from him. He was being cold and calculating and doing what was best for the survival of the human race.

But he was crying, and he was still human.

"I love you," he said to her as they lay there together. "I love you…"

She whispered that she knew, that she had always known. That she would know even when he sent her away. That she wouldn't really know why she knew, but that it couldn't be erased from her memory. That she would know even before his younger self knew. That she would help him learn. That she would help him to be human, and to forget when he wasn't.

She whispered that she loved him, too.

And John Connor held her to him, and began counting down the days until he — at fifteen or a forty — would hold her again.


(Author's Note: There is an epilogue that is already written, it just needs to be typed. Can you believe that its over?! Please REVIEW!!!)