"How did you find him?"
"He called me, keyed in the old distress code. He wasn't talking; I had to call a friend to get a lock on his location."
Sarah had rarely been more thankful for Peter's old contact network, or for Olivia. It was the blonde asking the questions, saying the things that were trapped behind the lump in Sarah's throat.
"Has he been awake?"
"In and out. Briefly. He's been really out of it. But he's going to be okay."
Peter had been waiting for them in the driveway, in spite of the cold. John's bike was there, turned on its side. It didn't look overly damaged but the sight still caused Sarah's chest to constrict as she breathed in the chill air. Peter was in front of her, leading them to his front door. Olivia was right at her side, but not even that closeness was enough to calm Sarah's jagged nerves. Peter halted with his hand on the knob, half-turning to address her. "Listen to me. It looks worse than it is. Try to-"
Sarah moved without a word, barely managing any level of restraint as she made her way around him and threw the door open. The couch in the living room folded out and Walter was leaning over it now, partially obscuring her view of her son. The older Bishop turned at their arrival, his face a picture of sadness and sympathy. "Sarah."
Sarah ignored him, crossing to John and the sofa in an impossibly short time. Walter backed off some, which was good because Sarah didn't know for certain that she wouldn't have shoved him aside otherwise. Her breath hitched and her steps faltered as she got a proper look at her son. John was covered with a blanket but his shoulders were bare and visible. They were covered in bruises and road burn, deep red gashes marring his skin. There were lacerations on his cheek, his forehead. The left side of his face was starting to swell, as if he'd taken a blow there.
Olivia stood back with the others but she was still close enough to see the endless lacerations and stretches of black and blue when Sarah sat down at the edge of the sofa, lifting the blanket and partially uncovering John's upper torso.
"He's got a few cracked ribs," Peter stated. "His left knee is pretty banged up but nothing's broken there. He's going to need to baby it for awhile though, otherwise we would've moved him up to my room. There's a concussion too, but things would've been a lot worse if he hadn't been wearing a helmet."
Olivia bit her lip as she watched Sarah push the hair away from John's eyes, revealing the cuts and scratches there. Needing to look in a different direction, her gaze fell to the kitchen, the table within. John's clothing was in a pile there. His black leather jacket was specked with grime and blood. His helmet sat nearby and Olivia noted that it's visor was broken. Worse was an understatement. John wouldn't be worse without a helmet, he'd be dead. Walter followed her eye line and then moved towards the table. "I think I'll just store these upstairs for now," he said quietly, taking the helmet and tattered clothes in his arms.
Olivia had half a second to be surprised by the gesture, the awareness that it represented. Then Sarah was speaking and Olivia's eyes went straight to the boy on the couch.
"John?" Sarah said quietly. The sound of his breathing was different. Under all the bruising she could see him starting to twitch. "John," she repeated, halting the movement of her fingers as her breath caught, anxiety threatening to choke her again. His eyes were slow in opening. When green finally met green, one pair was blurry, confused. John frowned up at her, the action making the cuts on his face look worse.
"Mom?" The word came slow, drawn out by the effort of forming it. John made a move to lift his right arm, touch the place on his skin where her fingers had been. It hurt too much. Everything hurt and he didn't know why. Panic made him gulp in air, and that hurt too. He hated the choked noise of pain that fell from his lips but there was nothing he could do to hold it back.
"John. You're okay, just be still." Sarah encased his hand in one of hers, resuming the stroking of his forehead with the other. She was trying to soothe away the pain lines there, without much success.
"What happened?" John asked, fingers tightening convulsively around those of his mother. "Mom?"
Panic laced his voice and Sarah lowered hers in response, hoping to calm him. A selfish part of her almost wanted the concussion to be more serious. Just bad enough to make him forget the events leading up to it, just enough that they could return to their normal level of dysfunction. For a moment, that almost seemed possible.
She was talking quietly, John knew that. His mom's voice still seemed loud in his ears. He couldn't quite focus on her. When he tried, the thudding in his head turned into a roar. He felt dizzy even though he was lying down. He'd crashed his bike but he was okay, everyone was here with him. As she said that, John finally noted the others in the room, the concern on their faces. Some part of his brain made the connection to the Bishop house. His mother catalogued his injuries and somehow hearing them listed like that made him hurt more. Worse, he was missing time. So much that he couldn't even establish what his last clear memory was. His breathing sped up and the throbbing in his ribs increased.
"Hey," Peter said, stepping forward a bit as he noticed John's distress. "Easy, John. Easy. We might have to throw some training wheels on that bike, but you're okay. And the sweats you're wearing are mine, not Walter's, so try to relax."
Jeans. He'd worn jeans this morning. They were dirty; he'd grabbed them from a pile of laundry that should've been done days ago. Why had he done that? He had vague recollections of urgency, the need to run. But from what, what had the threat been? Then something occurred to him and his eyes went wide. He sat up too fast and it hurt and his mom's hands were on him, trying to ease him down. "Where's Savannah? Where is she? Is she okay?"
Olivia steeped closer this time, answering before Sarah could. Even as she cringed in sympathy for John, some part of her warmed at his concern for Savannah. Whatever strains background and purpose and parentage had put on their relationship, they loved each other. That was irrefutable, unchanging. "She's okay, John. She's still with my sister. She's fine."
John nodded even though it made his head hurt, some of the tension leeching out of his frame. He didn't know why but he'd suddenly flashed on Savannah as a child, trembling in his arms as they fled from the Weaver house. He'd run from something, run hard and fast. Savannah's absence had set him to thinking that whatever had been chasing him might've caught up with her.
"Oh and don't worry, John, I'm here as well."
Peter shook his head as his father came down the stairs, rejoining the group huddled around John. "Thank you, Walter; I'm sure that makes him feel much better."
It did actually, in a way John couldn't explain. He couldn't explain any of it, nothing made sense. And somehow that hurt more than the physical stuff. "Mom?" He kept saying her name, couldn't help it. He was waiting for her to make sense of it for him and she wasn't. She was still trying to lay him back against the cushions and he fought her, clinging on and pulling her close, burying his face against her shoulder. His brain hit on an image of Uncle Bob, how his mother had destroyed the machine in that factory, how he'd felt wrecked in every way possible. He'd felt like that after they burned Cameron too, but there'd been no comforting embraces then. They'd simply walked away from each other, avoiding contact until the next morning. John's head ached with the pain and frustration of some memory trying to claw its way to the surface, but he couldn't hold on to it, couldn't pull it up. For lack of a better option, he tightened his grip on his mother.
Sarah held him carefully, doing her best to avoid bringing him more pain. She'd done enough of that for one day, though John didn't seem to remember. Sarah wished Olivia was in front of her instead of behind, wished she could meet her lover's gaze over her son's shoulder. She wanted to ask for something but she wasn't sure what, other than forgiveness. She'd caused Olivia pain too and the blonde had been pretending not to feel it ever since John fled. And that only made Sarah feel worse.
John frowned into the brown leather of his mother's jacket. There was a hesitance in her hold, a stiffness John didn't understand. He wanted to attribute it to her awareness of his physical state, but somehow that didn't click in his head. He thought of the factory again, how she'd stood there and let him cry despite worries about the police. Then his mind was on Zeiracorp, the moments immediately after the time bubble disappeared, taking any chances he had of rescuing Cameron with it. He'd told his mom that he couldn't go and she'd nodded, said she knew. But he remembered something else, something that had previously been lost in the maelstrom of emotion surrounding that day. She'd nodded understanding and there'd been relief on her face but there was also…disappointment? How was that possible? She'd hugged him then, not caring that Ellison was there, or about the alarms that were blaring everywhere, the shriek of sirens. Her hold then had been the same. So unsure, so unlike her.
And then John knew why.
It hit him all at once, a flood so painful and intense it made him sick. He was careening through the air, off the bike and into a wall of agony. He had been wearing jeans from that dirty pile of laundry. The one his mother must've tried to take.
The way she'd taken any chance he'd had with Cameron.
That wasn't right. He knew it wasn't right but didn't care. What she'd done, that wasn't right either. The picture. He'd run because of the picture. Then he'd remembered how much he hated that, hated himself for doing it as long as he had. He'd come back to try and be a man, some semblance of the man his mother had trained him to be.
"I ran because I was fucking a goddamn machine. John's machine."
She'd said more than that but those were the words that mattered, the ones that beat endlessly against the confines of his mind, making John feel as though his skull would split. He was spinning again, falling through icy air that burned at his lungs. He pushed out of his mother's hold, cursing the pain and his weakened state.
And her.
"Get out." It was barely a whisper, but he knew she'd heard.
Sarah let him go, knowing he'd be shoving her away with much more force were he capable of it. It was too much to hope for, that he'd magically forget. Things like that happened only in soap operas, though parts of this situation didread like one of the stupid daytime shows she used to race home for as a teenager. "John…" John what? There were no words, especially not with this many ears around to hear them.
"Get out," he repeated, louder this time. He wasn't looking at her. One of his hands squeezed tight against the knee that didn't feel like it had been crushed. "I don't want you here."
Peter and Walter tried to calm him. They probably thought he was confused or delirious. He wasn't confused. For the first time in years, things made a sick, twisted sense. Olivia said his name and he almost screamed at her. John wondered how she dealt with it, knowing that the lover before her had been made of hard metal. Everyone else was talking to him but his mother had stopped. All that time telling him how dangerous the machines were, how stupid it was to treat them as humans. All while she'd been performing the most basic, human act with one of them. With Cameron.
She wasn't talking but she wasn't leaving either, and this time he couldn't be the one to do it. So he did the only thing he could, took the only avenue left to him.
"Get the hell away from me," he snarled, green eyes icy as they met those of his mother.
They drove home in silence, Sarah refusing to meet Olivia's gaze. The Bishops were confused as hell but assured the women that John would be fine recuperating at their home until he became more clear-headed. Olivia was actually worried about that, about what would happen if John went days without contacting Sarah, passing the time by entertaining the worst possible thoughts of his mother.
She maneuvered the vehicle with exceptional caution on the return trip. Whether this was a reaction to John's crash or a way of atoning for the countless traffic laws she'd breached on the way to Peter's, Olivia didn't know. Regardless, getting home took longer than usual but when they pulled into the driveway Sarah remained unmoving. Olivia watched her for long moments, observed Sarah's blank stare. The brunette's hand was clenched tight against the center console and Olivia thought about covering it with her own before rejecting the idea. Instead she waited, kept watching. It didn't take long, what she sensed would happen next. Sarah bit at her lower lip, a gesture that stirred something primal within the blonde in spite of their situation. Then the trembling started. Just a few twitches at first that soon became full-on spasms which wracked Sarah's whole frame. Her breathing grew harsher as she choked on pain and tears, and Olivia couldn't help thinking of the Cortexiphan treatments. This was how it was with those too, a slow, gradual loss of Sarah's fight for control. She'd gladly face a thousand more of Walter's most painful dosing sessions if they would take the place of what she was feeling now, Olivia knew that without asking.
"I could've lost him."
The brunette's voice was a raw, ragged gasp, barely audible despite their close proximity. "You didn't," Olivia asserted with quiet firmness. "You haven't lost him." This time she gave in to instinct, covering Sarah's fingers on the console. They were cool and unmoving.
Sarah met her lover's gaze for the first time since leaving the Bishops. "You don't know that. This is different." She wasn't talking or thinking of John's physical state, at least not solely. She was remembering Cameron lifting her as if she weighed nothing, stitching up her shoulder so John would be spared from seeing the full effects of the bullet. She'd known even then that she would lose him, maybe even realized it would be to the machine she was pouring her heart out to. She'd tried so hard to spare him from knowing of her actions with Cameron, had fully intended on taking the secret to her grave if it came to that. Now it didn't seem to matter much if death separated them. She'd already lost him. Not to Cameron, but to her own weakness.
Sarah let go of a sob and Olivia's throat tightened, along with her grip on the brunette's hand. Wordlessly, Olivia squeezed Sarah's fingers in a well-known signal. Sarah fought for a few seconds before letting Olivia pull her as close as she could with the console between them. The position was awkward, the angle wrong. Sarah sobbed into the black leather of Olivia's jacket, her grip almost painful as her fingers tightened and released. Olivia stroked the other woman's hair, used the pads of her thumbs to take away tears that seemed to fall forever. "He loves you. John loves you. So much. That doesn't go away, it doesn't change. Not ever. This will pass. It will. It's not always going to be like this. It'll pass."
Olivia only became aware that she was employing the same language she used to get Sarah through the Cortexiphan treatments after the immediate storm started to abate. The tears slowed and the shakes began to ease. Still Olivia felt that Sarah pulled away too fast, didn't give herself enough time to come back together. She didn't argue though when Sarah eased away from her. The twist of the brunette's lips was barely there but still managed to convey sadness, apology, gratitude and bone-deep weariness. Olivia looked away as Sarah brushed the hair out of her eyes and wiped at her face.
They entered a house that seemed unnaturally quiet with both John and Savannah away. Though she knew it was for the best that the redhead was gone, some part of Olivia still wished for her presence. The girl could sometimes calm Sarah in way that she, Olivia, simply wasn't capable of. It was late and she resisted the urge to make that check-in call Sarah had requested before everything spun into a new level of awfulness. Instead she followed Sarah's lead, carelessly dumping her coat on the sofa. Dimly she noted that if the redhead were here she'd be pissed as hell since the women scolded her for doing that very thing at least once a week. From the corner of her eye Olivia caught another slight tremble in Sarah's frame moments after the woman discarded her jacket. "Cold?"
Sarah shrugged, despite the sharp edge of worry in her lover's tone. "More like numb."
Olivia wasn't sure if the honesty in that response pleased her or increased her concern. "There's some hot cocoa left over from when Savannah asked for it at New Year's."
Sarah actually smiled at that. It was wry and weak but it was there. "Thanks. Think I need something a little more grown-up tonight."
The smile Olivia gave in return was wider, more genuine. The question had been a test. Sarah's insistence on something stronger than hot chocolate kept the blonde from going into complete panic mode. She frowned at the mess of guns that still took up most of their kitchen table but said nothing. Whatever comfort Sarah found in taking apart the firearms, she'd need it more than ever after tonight.
Sarah cleared space at the table for the bottle of whiskey and the glasses Olivia set down beside it. The brunette took a seat as she slammed her drink and went for a refill while Olivia remained on her feet, sipping hers at an only slightly slower pace. The night had been hellish on both of them, but Olivia was grappling with things that Sarah wasn't. Things Sarah herself had hurled into her lover's path.
"Dammit," Olivia swore, setting down her glass. "Forgot to reset the alarm when we came in."
Olivia was in the process of remedying that problem, but she had to pass by Sarah to get to the living room. Sarah made a quick decision, resolving that the alarm could wait given the small armory they were surrounded by. "Hey," Sarah whispered, grasping Olivia's upper thigh as the blonde made to move past her. When Olivia started to turn and face her, Sarah slid up from the chair in a quick, fluid motion Cupping Olivia's cheek with her free hand, Sarah kissed her hard. Thoroughly. Swallowing Olivia's gasp, Sarah let up just enough to give the other woman some oxygen. Then she kissed her again. It was softer this time but just as passionate.
Olivia gasped as Sarah's tongue stroked hers, did it again when the hand on her leg went higher, squeezing at her hip, skimming along her ribcage, finding an unusually ticklish spot near her left shoulder. Sarah tasted like want and whiskey, like she had that first night. Sarah was kissing her like she had then, like it was the first and last time such a thing would happen. They both tasted of liquor and sadness and they were coming together after a near-miss, surrounded by guns. Like old times but so completely different.
When she finally pulled back Sarah let one hand drift to the base of Olivia's neck. She was wearing Sarah's Christmas present, the necklace with the shimmering green stone. While the fingers at the back of Olivia's neck brushed against the chain, Sarah used her free hand to brush a thumb against the rare piece of green that matched her lover's eyes. "I didn't mean what I said earlier," Sarah stated, making certain that she had direct contact with those green orbs.
"I know that," Olivia whispered. She'd known hours ago, as soon as the words were out. The kiss had confirmed it. It was the same now as then, filled with all the same feelings even if they hadn't been near as strong that first night.
"No, you don't know. Not everything. Because I don't know everything. Maybe you're right, maybe Cameron meant more to me, did more for me than I want to admit. I don't know because you are right about one thing. My feelings for her, what they were, how deep they were, that was never clear, especially not after she left."
Olivia nodded stiffly, swallowing the lump in her throat and attempting to lower her eyes so Sarah wouldn't see the hurt there, the resignation. But Sarah wouldn't allow it. Abandoning the stone around Olivia's neck, the brunette cupped her lover's cheek, easing up gently until the blonde's gaze was once again level with hers.
"But that doesn't matter. Because my feelings for you, those have always been clear. I love you. You, not Cameron. Because whatever else we had or could've had, it wasn't this, it couldn't have been."
"Because Cameron was a machine."
"No," Sarah refuted. That had always bothered her, the fact that Cameron's origins hadn't bothered her enough, hadn't stopped what happened between them. The core of the issue wasn't made of metal, though Sarah knew damn well that it should be. "Because she wasn't you. She could never do what you have. With me. For me. It's just you, Olivia. That doesn't change. Nothing and no one changes that. Not ever."
Olivia tried to speak, couldn't for a long time. Briefly she thought of Jacksonville, of Peter telling her that no one else could do what she could right before he tried to kiss her. But the context was different, the connection was different. She'd loved him once, probably could've kept loving him if she hadn't become a pawn in Walternate's war. But he wasn't Sarah.
"Tell me you know," Sarah pressed. "I need to know that you know that." She didn't mention the transplant, but that hardy meant it wasn't on her mind. Assuming John was still willing to do his part, the procedure was tentatively set for sometime in the next couple of weeks. Sarah could handle the threat of death, very possible when her body's defenses were about to be totally trashed. Death was familiar but the worry that she could leave with Olivia questioning the depth of her feelings, that was unacceptable.
Olivia thought she knew what Sarah was thinking, wished she could prevent those thoughts from infecting her own mind, twisting her stomach in knots. Fighting to keep the whiskey down, Olivia pulled Sarah tight against her, holding on as if that alone would be enough. "I know. And I also know that you're going to be fine. You, John, all of us. It's all going to be fine."
Olivia wasn't usually one for blatant denial of the bad possibilities but if their positions were reversed Sarah couldn't say that she'd react any differently. Besides, the blonde's closeness made her feel somewhat better even if the words were tinged with desperation. So Sarah grazed her lips over Olivia's neck while trying not to think about the number of times she'd held John like this, with this same primal desperation. Holding him close hadn't kept John from slipping away from her though, and all the wishful thinking in the world couldn't stop Sarah knowing that it probably wouldn't help her either.
John gripped the sink with one hand. His left knee was screaming, shaking under his weight but he made no attempt to fix that. His hair was wet from the shower he'd spent too long taking and the soft material of his borrowed Harvard t-shirt seemed to burn and scratch against his injured back and chest. The room felt hot and hazy with steam and John used his free hand to wipe condensation from the mirror. The cuts and scratches to his face were healing but still visible. They seemed to stand out too much and John wondered if the concussion wasn't worse than Walter had thought. He stared at his reflection, running a slow hand through his hair. He remembered the church, how much of his hair had ended up in the sink after Cameron tried to kill him. She tried to kill him and his mother demanded her destruction and instead of listening, he'd held a gun on his mom. He kept them from destroying Cameron and then Cameron said that he couldn't be trusted. But at some point after that she'd trusted Sarah enough to…
It was too screwed up for comprehension, even by Connor family standards. Running his tongue over his teeth, John stopped at one near the back, on the right side of his mouth. The asshole at the bar had loosened it for him during their fight and coming face-first with the pavement at roughly twice the speed limit hadn't helped things. It hurt every time he got near it but John jiggled it with his tongue anyway. Then he tightened his grip on the sink and brought his free hand to his mouth. He grimaced and sucked in air as he pulled. The pain was a bitch but he ignored it, wincing as the molar came away from his gums. He flushed the tooth down the toilet and spit out the blood he hadn't swallowed.
After rinsing his mouth John exited the Bishops downstairs bathroom, making annoyingly slow progress to the couch that had become his bed. For now it had been returned to its regular position. He'd just levered himself down to the sofa when a buzzing noise hit his ears. Scowling at the empty living room, John grabbed his cell from the arm of the couch, shaking his head at the number. God, she'd called him more than his mother had. Hoping that answering one of them might do something to reduce the phone stalking, John took the call. He never got a chance to offer a greeting.
"What the hell did you do?"
John fought a losing battle with an uncharacteristically strong anger towards Savannah. The kid was so like his mother, sometimes in the worst possible ways. "Had an accident with the bike. And hi to you too."
Sarcasm was answered with sarcasm. "I heard that part. Thought you might be dead though. Lose your phone?"
"I was in the shower."
"For a week?"
"It was a long shower."
Savannah scoffed in annoyance before responding. "Why are you there and not here? Why's Sarah such a wreck?"
John glared at a television that wasn't on, knuckles turning white as he held the phone to his ear. "Why don't you ask her?"
"I did, didn't work. Now I'm asking you."
"Asking or accusing?" John retorted. "Why do you assume that this is my fault?" Savannah had been so devoted to his mother for so long. He hated her for that just now, knowing the feeling to be unfair and irrational.
Savannah paused, took a breath that was audible over the line. When her voice came back it was clear that she was making more of an effort. "So tell me then. What's going on?"
John felt like telling her, just to spite his mother, felt like telling her and the Bishops everything, just to make his mom feel part of what he did. He suppressed the urge without knowing why, as he had for days. "Ask mom," he said instead, hanging up before Savannah could respond.
He was being an ass and he knew it. Wasn't Savannah's fault that the period of relative calm they'd been in ever since the Cortexiphan treatments began had been utterly shattered in the two days she was gone. John felt sympathy that led to guilt but none of it was enough to make him call Savannah back. She'd seen her world shift in a bad way in the span of a few days. And in the space of a few seconds, the time it took his mother to speak a handful of words that didn't make sense, John's world fell apart. For nearly a decade so much of his life had revolved around his feelings for Cameron and his relationship with his mother. The good, bad and incomprehensible parts of both, John hadn't realized how much those things still controlled his thoughts, not until all of it fell into the incomprehensible category. Every interaction between the three of them, they all took on new meanings. How much of it had been an act, all those glares and digs his mom threw at Cameron? How much was a ruse to keep him unsuspecting, pathetically unaware of what was happening under his nose?
In a week filled with very little to do besides hurt and think, John still hadn't been able to answer that question. He knew in the part of his brain that wasn't totally consumed with pain and anger that there was only one way of getting the truth, one source of information. He wasn't ready to go down that road, didn't know that he ever would be.
John's unpleasant musings were interrupted by the return of Walter and Peter, both laden down with groceries as they entered the house. John greeted his hosts, forced a smile as Peter held up a bag of the crunchy cheese things he requested. Not that he'd be eating them anytime soon after the impromptu dental surgery he'd just performed. He thought the pain might distract him from everything else but it hadn't. He still felt all the other things and now his mouth was screaming at him. Walter swallowed down what appeared to be a mixture of pills and jelly beans before performing his third check today of John's condition.
"You really must be more careful," Walter admonished as he checked John's pupil dilation. "Have you any idea about the statistical data on motorcycle-related casualties?"
John did, actually. Walter had read him the figures. Twice. He didn't mention that, merely tracked the older man's finger with his eyes, like he'd been told.
"You could have been killed. What if your phone had been damaged in the crash, what if you'd been unable to seek help?"
John had heard all of this enough times that his patience was starting to wear thin, even knowing that all of Walter's points were completely valid. For once. "I was trying to avoid the deer," he said lamely.
"Ah yes, so it was the deer's fault."
"I didn't say that."
"What if you weren't able to make contact with Peter? How would you have felt when that sweet, innocent deer and his friends began feasting on your carcass while you lay rotting in the road?"
"Deer are plant eaters, Walter," Peter said from the kitchen as he put away the last of the groceries. "They usually don't feast on carcasses. And you might want to tone it down some."
"And with all we've been through, son, do you really think that an herbivore developing carnivorous traits is that far-fetched?"
"Fair enough. But until Bambi the flesh eating mutant arrives, could you please attempt to tone it down?"
Walter glared at Peter for another second before turning his gaze back to John. His expression changed then, anger melting in the face of the misery etched across John's features. "It will be all right, John. Peter ran away from home too, you know, even took his bike along with him."
"Walter, he's twenty-three years old, he didn't 'run away from home.' I was six and I rode off on the bicycle you had mom give me the previous year, after you missed my birthday. The situations aren't entirely similar."
"Not entirely, but there are parallels. Remember how I found you after you'd fallen off the bicycle and skinned your knee?"
"It was a sprained ankle, Walter, and I fell because Mrs. Claxton's dog decided to run out in front of me."
"I see. So it was the dog's fault?" When all he got from Peter was an exceptionally sour look, Walter again addressed John. "But you see, Peter and I worked things out. Whatever's troubling you and your mother, you'll work it out too. It won't be long before you're as close as Peter and I are."
"Walter, please. Don't make things worse by giving him nightmares."
Shortly after that Walter disappeared upstairs. He'd chosen to have his midday snack while using the TV in his room to indulge in an Outer Limits marathon. John declined Peter's offer of food and tried to do so again when the older man sat down next to him and held out a glass of water and two tablets.
"God," Peter complained when John shook his head in the negative. "One guy can't get enough drugs, the other freaks out over some Tylenol. Take them. Your pain face is ugly and I'm sick of looking at it."
"And your bedside manner needs work," John retorted, even as he swallowed down the pills and set the glass on the coffee table.
"I learned from Walter. Factor that in and you'll realize my bedside manner is actually incredible." Peter's tone remained light enough, but his eyes sharpened when he spoke next. "You going to tell me what this is, John?"
He'd expected it days ago but the question still made him tense, especially after the call from Savannah. "If I wanted you to know, don't you think you'd know?"
Peter couldn't help a small smirk. Sarah had said much the same thing when he finally asked, the last time he'd called to update her on John's condition. Sarah's tone had been different though. Less forced casualness, more force period. Peter doubted that voicing this comparison would help. "Well, based on where we found you it seems like you were on your way here already. So I guess some part of you wanted me to know something."
John sighed and ducked his head. He didn't think it'd been a conscious choice but he couldn't deny making it. Drunk, hurt and on the run, his instincts had led him to Peter. Peter who knew about running, who knew more than his fair share about the wounds parents could inflict. He'd meant to come here to begin with but John still couldn't make the words flow from his mouth.
"All right, I'll talk then. You really could have gotten yourself killed."
Peter's admonition was far less heated than that of his father, but the sentiment remained the same. "You really think I don't know that?"
"No, but I don't think you care as much as you should."
"The war's over, Peter. If I want to go out and do stupid, dangerous things that don't involve guns I can do that now without putting the whole world at risk."
Peter's eyes narrowed. For the first time, the hint of an edge crept into his voice. "First off, I choose to believe that you're right, that the fighting's done. It's the only way I can sleep at night or hold my son during the day, to believe that he's not inheriting a world that's eventually going to tear itself to pieces. But me wanting to believe that doesn't necessarily make it so, and we both know that. But that aside, you don't have the right to be that sloppy with your life, even if we never see another machine. All the times we had to fight tooth and nail to stay alive, none of us have the right to be that sloppy. You think because you don't have to lead an army anymore that your death wouldn't decimate us? You're not that stupid, John, so don't pretend you are."
John stared at his lap until Peter's next words forced his head back up.
"Look, if you don't want to tell me what's happening between you and Sarah, that's fine. But whatever it is, is it so bad that you want her to die over it?"
"No!" The idea turned John's stomach. His teeth clenched of their own accord, resulting in a harsh jolt of pain from the place where his back molar used to be. "What the hell, Peter?"
"Don't act so shocked. I know you got knocked on the head but don't pretend you haven't thought of it. If we'd lost you last week, we would've lost Sarah too. No transplant without a donor. Not that I think the cancer would've mattered to her at that point. Savannah and Olivia still would've cared though, if she died."
John was ashamed to say that he hadn't thought of it, hadn't thought about anything except the pain his mother had caused him. Now he considered Savannah, and the girl's devotion to his mother meant something different than it had when she'd jumped down his throat earlier.
Sensing that he'd shocked his way past the initial layers of John's resistance, Peter softened his voice again, changing strategies. "Listen, I don't doubt that it was bad, whatever caused all this. But is it bad enough to trump all the things Sarah's done for you before? Because that's a lot. Just based on the few years that I've known you, that's a lot."
The implication that he somehow didn't know that caused John's hackles to rise again. "I really don't need another guilt trip right now."
"An observation isn't a guilt trip," Peter replied evenly.
John sighed, running a rough hand through his hair. "I think I just said that nothing's bad enough to replace all that." He'd never wish his mother gone and no matter where they stood in the next few weeks, the transplant would happen. Still, 'It's bad though."
Peter nodded, studied John for long moments. Then he dug around in his pocket, coming back with one of the coins Walter had presented him with at Christmas. "Helps me think," he explained, walking it slowly between his fingers. "Guess it's my version of Walter blasting Mozart at three in the morning while trying to create a better form of LSD." The remark earned the hint of a smile that Peter had been hoping for and he returned it, manipulating the coin for several more seconds before letting it fall and closing his fingers around it. "You know that I get it. I don't know specifically what's happening here, but I get being angry at a parent."
John nodded. He did know, knew things Savannah didn't, about the alternate universe and Peter's place in it.
Peter offered his own nod, apparently guessing where John's mind was. "But even before I knew about Reiden Lake, about Walternate, I was still angry. I downright hated Walter for a long time. Seventeen years in the institution and I never visited him once. You've hacked the records, you know that."
John was back to not looking at Peter. He'd hated his mother, too, during her time at Pescadero. He couldn't have visited her, wouldn'thave even if the authorities had been stupid enough to put her within grabbing distance of him. He'd hated her for lying, then hated himself when he learned that she wasn't crazy. Now things were reversed. On some level he'd hated himself for years. For not going after Cameron, for wishing he had. And now he'd discovered this, that his mother really had lied this time. The bad feelings that flooded him as a kid were multiplied ten-fold.
"Then when I found out who I was," Peter continued, unaware of John's inner turmoil. "Well, you've heard the stories."
"You ran," said John, locking eyes with Peter again.
"I did," the younger Bishop confirmed. "So again, I can't and don't judge. I was gone for weeks and even after I came back, after Walter crossed back to save me again, it took a long time to get things close to okay between us. There were still days when we barely spoke, when I'd think about what he did and I couldn't stand to be around him."
"So you're not telling me to drop it."
Peter shook his head but there was a slowness to it, a caution. "I'm assuming it's not something that can be dropped."
"It's not. Thank you."
"Don't thank me until I've finished talking," Peter warned ruefully. "The thing is, I regret not seeing him, leaving him alone in that hospital. I'm not saying it wouldn't have been strained or that I'd have visited him every week, but seventeen years is a long time. And time travel aside, I'm never going to get that back. And one day Walter's going to be gone again, really gone, and I'm going to have to live with my choices."
Peter paused there, opening his fingers. The coin was nowhere in sight. John remembered the older man's little tricks as being far more entertaining than they were at the moment. "So. You are telling me to drop it."
"No," Peter insisted. "I just told you how bad it was when I found out Walter had stolen me, how much time I took to truly be all right with him again. I needed that time, and I think that as much as he hated it, maybe Walter did too. The problem here is that you don't have the same luxuries we did. I don't know how honest Sarah and Olivia have been with you but this transplant isn't a sure thing. At all. The odds of it succeeding aren't horrible and if there's anyone I'd bet on it would be your mom. But the odds aren't great, either and I didn't always win my bets. Sometimes the house cheats; sometimes you lose when you're not supposed to. You're lucky to be alive right now. Things might not turn out so well in a few weeks."
John shook his head, offered a denial that sounded weak to his own ears. "She's too tough. You don't survive beatings and guns and machines just to go out like that."
Peter's eyes were compassionate but sad. "The thing is, John, sometimes you do. And you know that, just like you know most of what I'm telling you. Toughness, strength, it's not there every minute of every day. My mother, I loved her but I resented her too. I resented her for being with Walter, letting him treat us the way he did sometimes. She wasn't strong in the way Sarah is but she kept us going after Walter was locked up, took care of us the best she could." It was Peter's turn to look away. He kept his head down for long moments before continuing. "Then I left and she killed herself. I don't know if she thought I didn't need her anymore and that that made it easier to quit fighting but…she carried a lot. Because of Walter, because of me and where I came from. She carried it for a long time and eventually…" Peter sighed, briefly looking away from John again. "Sometimes people break. And sometimes they don't, but they still get taken from us. If I hadn't been sick as a kid, a lot of things would've been different for a lot of people, not just the ones I cared about."
"That's not your fault, Peter."
"No. And it's not anyone's fault that your mom is sick, that you don't have the time I did to heal from whatever's happening between you. But that's how it is. Life throws us things that we shouldn't have to handle but we do because there's not another choice. And when we're trying to handle everything, we screw up, all of us. And sometimes we screw up so badly that we have no idea how to fix it. And then we try anyway and most of the time all we do is screw it up more. And we do this most with our families because that's the safest place to practice even though it's probably the place that hurts the most. But we get through it the same way we get through shapeshifters and machines and nukes. We get through it because it's family, and most of the time we don't have another choice."
"I know," John admitted quietly after a protracted silence. "I love her, I don't want… I don't know what to do with this."
"Shelve it. Not necessarily forget it, not forgive it because you feel you have to. I doubt that would work anyway. But I do think you need to shelve it, as much as that's possible. Sarah's incredibly strong, like you said. She's got the best people on her side, and she's too stubborn to go out without a fight. More than likely, she'll be fine. And if the anger and the hurt are still this bad after that happens, you shouldn't have a problem picking it up again."
It was late when he returned to the brownstone, past midnight. He stepped into the house on a knee that throbbed in protest. Peter had offered to help, tell Olivia he'd be coming back. John had refused both suggestions. The drive passed mostly in silence, interspersed with sporadic apologies from John for requesting a chauffeur at this hour. Peter waved him off with barely a word, giving John more time for the thoughts he'd been wrestling with ever since their conversation.
Shutting the door behind him, John eyed in the alarm code. The tiny beeps as the numbers were entered seemed deafening in the still darkness. John half expected Olivia or his mother to come bursting in waving a gun in his face. His mom's sleep patterns were erratic and he assumed some of that had been transferred to Olivia. The thought of being held at gunpoint again worried him far less than the idea of facing his mother in the morning. As it turned out he didn't have to live with that fear for long.
The knee wouldn't bend properly, made his steps louder than they'd otherwise be. He only made it a few paces further into the living room when he realized he wasn't alone. He hadn't seen his mother sitting on the couch but he heard her movement just before a lamp next to an end table near the sofa was turned on. The light was soft but John still blinked and grimaced. His head hurt, a condition that only worsened when he got a decent look at his mom. She was pale and worn, with circles under her eyes. None of it surprised him but it still hurt. "Sorry. I didn't…sorry I woke you."
"I wasn't sleeping." Her voice was tight and raw as she looked at him.
"I haven't been doing much of that either," he admitted softly.
Her hair was a mess, even accounting for the hour. Sarah ran impatient fingers through it as she stood up. She took a few quick steps in his direction, then seemed to think better of it. She stopped moving, tension clear in her frame. "You need rest," she said, matching his soft tone for reasons that had very little to do with the others in the house. "You were hurt."
"I'm okay, Mom."
"No," she refuted, shaking her head sadly and looking away as she did it. "You're not. I'm sorry."
He didn't speak, didn't move. He kept waiting for her to do it, then realized it wouldn't happen. He flashed on Zeiracorp and his throat went tight. She hadn't moved then either, leaving the decision in his hands. They shook now. He clenched his jaw again, ignoring the pain in his mouth. He took a single step toward her, as he had when he'd exited the time bubble, making a choice they both had to live with. He managed a few more and then his knee locked up. Everything did really. His chest hurt and the shaking in his hands worsened as it all crashed in on him. The leg buckled and he started to fall forward mid-step.
His mother was there almost before he knew what was happening. She held him up, arms wrapping tight around him. He clutched at her because there was nothing else to do. She was taking too much of his weight but when he tried to fix that it only made things worse. Peter's words repeated in his mind as he leaned into her, all his senses assaulted with her familiarity. Her scent, the feel of her arms around him. He couldn't tell if these things made him feel better or worse.
"John."
The name was breathed into his ear. She sounded closer to tears than he could ever remember and John jammed his own eyes closed. He waited for her to say more but heard only the sound of ragged breathing. This was different than before. She wasn't choosing to wait on his next move, she just couldn't make one of her own. She still held him, stopping his already-sore body from landing in a heap on the floor. More of the conversation with Peter flooded John's ears. His mom had carried so much, carried him for so long. He knew intellectually that it was inevitable, her giving in to all of it. On some level he'd known that even before talking to Peter. She'd tried to explain some of it, he could remember now that he wasn't wasted or unconscious. It started after Sarkissian, he knew that much. He wasn't sure which was worse, which was really causing most of the pain. That he hadn't known a thing of what she was doing with Cameron, or that he hadn't known how badly she was hurting, that she'd been struggling just as hard as he had.
"Did she help you, Mom?" The words came hard. His teeth still wanted to clench and he swore he tasted bile in his mouth.
"What?"
She tried to pull back and he held her tighter, not for the usual reasons. He didn't know that he could do this if she looked at him. "Did Cameron help you? Did you need…did she help you?" It took her a long time to answer. John thought her breathing might've stopped for a moment. When the words finally came she sounded as rough and strained as he did. Oddly that made him feel better.
"Yes. She helped."
John nodded against her shoulder, lips just barely brushing her cheek. "Okay. Okay," he repeated, as if saying it enough times would make it true.
"John-"
"Mom." He cut her off, tightening his grip for slightly purer reasons this time. There was a plea in his voice and he hoped she heard it because it was so hard to speak right now. Apparently she did.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John."
"Mom…" Shelve it. That was all he had to do. Set it down and deal with it later, hopefully at a time when they weren't drowning under the weight of their shared past. "I know that, Mom. Me too."