As Duncan headed back to his place, the four of them did their best not to look nervous every time a police car drove past, lights flashing and sirens wailing. Perhaps only Cameron succeeded in fully blanking out her expression. Though John had clearly gotten a hold of his emotions, his grinding teeth, flaring nostrils and narrowed eyes gave evidence that he was still angry.
Still engrossed in his thoughts, John was surprised when Duncan pulled up at his home and turned around to look at him and Cameron. "Everyone's a little too emotional right now, and it's been a long night," he said. "Go calm down, get some sleep, and we'll figure out what to do tomorrow when you come by."
Slowly, John allowed Cameron to help him out of the car. As he absently headed toward the front door, he was stopped by a gentle tug on his arm. Cameron was looking at him and she hesitantly told him, "I would like to talk to you."
He looked at her for a long moment, softening his expression unconsciously as he reached up to caress her cheek. "Sure, Cam. Want to go for a walk?" She nodded.
After a while, he asked, "So. What's on your mind?" Cameron looked at him.
"It … distresses me the way you struck Amanda when we were at the museum," she admitted.
John waited for more, but when it appeared Cameron wasn't about to say anything more, his head drooped a little and he replied, "I can see that. And I can guess at why, but would you like to tell me?"
More silence followed, the only sounds being their footsteps and the distant traffic. "I think there are several reasons," she finally said. "But they are all based on the fact that you became so enraged that you lost control of yourself.
"That is a dangerous indulgence for a fighter and even more dangerous for a commander," she declared. "Not just because it can lead you to take unnecessary risks and make rash decisions. But because it might endanger you from your own men.
"The future you—General Connor—was subject to quite a few assassination attempts. And not all of them were carried out by Skynet terminators," she said. John's eyes widened as he realized what she was saying, but Cameron continued on, determined to spell it out. "You were feared by almost all of your men, and some of them actually hated you more than they hated the machines.
"The first time I stopped one of your own soldiers from killing you, you were shocked that he was human," she said. "But when I asked you why you didn't execute him for treason in wartime, you told me that you probably deserved it."
Pulling him to a standstill, Cameron stared into his eyes. "I don't like it when you are put into danger. Even when you're the one doing it." She refused to let him look away until he nodded, then added, "You're too important to me for that."
Turning to continue their walk, John said, "I know I was wrong," he murmured. "I know I owe Amanda a really big apology. And I'm sorry I disturbed you. Can I ask you what else bothered you, though?"
"Isn't that enough?" Cameron asked. "Your own safety might depend on it."
"I'm interested in all your opinions Cam. Not just because you matter to me, but because I trust your judgment," he replied. "If it's something you think, or feel, I'm interested."
They had come to a park, and now John sat down at a bench, motioning for her to join him. "Tell me," he repeated, encouragingly, intently.
"I … this is not logical," Cameron began, then stopped. She tried again. "You were so angry, and I don't know why, but I believe it frightened me. Watching you, I could … imagine that you could get angry enough at me to hit me. I know you couldn't actually damage me by hitting me like that.
"But it would cause me great emotional distress to ever see you that angry and violent toward me," she said, looking downward. "I believe that the human way of saying it is that it would break my heart."
John looked at her for a long while, expressionless. Though she did not detect any signs that he was upset at her, her reading of his vitals showed he was highly distressed. The silence stretched out so long and internally, Cameron felt that she should get up and leave him alone for a while—though she was unwilling to, this late at night.
Suddenly, he spoke, looking away. "I don't like this side of myself, Cameron," he said softly. "I don't like what I did to Amanda. I don't like doing the wrong thing, and I knew it was wrong even as my hand connected.
"But most especially, I don't like the idea that I could hurt you … or scare you … in any way. I'm sorry I disappointed you, and I'm terrified I'll do it again." He looked up, and then he looked at her. "If … if you stay with me, I promise I'll never give you a reason to be afraid of me, or disappointed in me, again. Promise."
She looked at him gravely, then took his hand in hers. "Promise," she repeated firmly. She stood up. "Let's go home. You are tired," she said.
As they walked up the steps of their front door 20 minutes later, they were met by an obviously irritated Sarah Connor. Quickly, John wrapped his arm around Cameron, draping his hand casually down her left shoulder to hide the bullet wound still visible there.
The intimate action only seemed to annoy his mother even more. "Do you know what time it is? Where have you been? Are you all right? Why didn't you call if you were going to be late?" The questions came tumbling out one after another.
John laughed softly, bitterly amused. Tonight, he had met another Immortal, tried to stop the robbery of a major art museum, had his cybernetic girlfriend shot at—and found out something very disheartening about himself. Yet there was his mother, subjecting him to the same normal questions that, all over the city, hundreds of teenaged boys were also hearing from their mothers. This was probably as normal as it would ever get for him, he realized. "Sorry mom," he said tiredly. "We should have called, but everything's OK. Just lost track of time after training." And he trudged past her into the house.
"Cameron," Sarah called. John and Cameron both stopped, Cameron turning her head to look at Sarah in response. Noticing the slump of her son's shoulders, she asked, "Is he all right?"
"John discovered he is not perfect tonight," Cameron said nonchalantly. "Now he is tired and needs to sleep."
And they continued into the house, leaving Sarah mutter to wonder just what had really happened that evening.
The ride back to Duncan's place was also awkward and silent. Amanda was sure she could feel the disapproval radiating from Duncan in waves, pulsing, surging, and vibrating. So she tried to make herself as still and as small as possible as she tried to figure out how she was going to pacify him this time.
"How's the jaw?" Duncan asked, suddenly, looking at her with concern.
"Hmm?" Amanda asked, startled from her thoughts.
"Your jaw," Duncan repeated, gesturing toward the part in question. "Where John hit you. Does it still hurt?"
She reached up to rub it gently. "Actually, I'd forgotten about it until you mentioned it again just now. It's fine, Duncan, nothing to worry about."
"Really!" she protested as she saw him continually glancing over as he drove.
"I'm sorry about that," Duncan said finally. "I'm still angry at you," he said emphatically, "but I'm sorry about your jaw."
"Why?" Amanda said, startled. "You didn't hit me!"
"Hmm," Duncan grunted, noncommittally.
"I'm a big girl, Macleod. I can take a punch—though I admit the kid's got a pretty good one. You taught him well," she teased.
"I didn't teach him to hit women," Duncan ground out.
"Duncan," Amanda admonished. "Men seldom need to be 'taught' how to hit women. Remember? The idea that it was wrong to beat your wife or belt your girlfriend or slug a serving wench is a fairly modern concept relative to how long we've been around," she said, gesturing between herself and Duncan.
"Plenty of men have tried to hit me over the years, and some of have succeeded," she said lightly, masking the memory of all those times her head had snapped back, all the times her cheek bone had had to knit together, trying to hide her dismay at the realization that it had happened so often through the centuries she had lost count of how many times it had been.
"I never did," Duncan said quietly.
Amanda looked up, a soft twinkle in her eyes. "I know," she said warmly. "I'm very aware of that. You never, ever have. Duncan Macleod of the clan Macleod," she teased gently. "Ever the romantic, ever the gentleman, ever the boy scout." She reached out and poked his side playfully. "Oh, what a man among men you are," she proclaimed theatrically as she stroked his biceps and pretended to faint away from ardor, hamming it up to mask her emotion.
"Yeah, yeah," grumbled Duncan, a slight smile gracing his lips as he batted her hand away. "Stop that, I'm driving."
"Not any more you're not," Amanda said as Duncan's home came into view. She kept quiet as Duncan parked the car, but as they exited, she said, "Duncan?"
At his look, she continued as she headed into the house. "I know I infuriate you sometimes—a lot, actually. And I know that might make somebody think that I take you for granted. But I really do treasure what a good man you are and what a good friend you've been to me. You know that, right?"
Duncan shrugged, embarrassed.
"Duncan?" Amanda asked again, this time with a telltale lilt to her voice. He looked at her.
"You know what Cameron is, or what's different about her, don't you?"
Duncan nodded. "What did John mean when he said I had no idea what I'd put at risk?" she asked. "He looks like a teenager—and since he's still in training, I'd guess he actually is still a teenager, but he talks and walks as if he already has too much on his shoulders. He's not just another fledgling that you've taken under your wing, is he?"
Duncan looked at her for a long moment. He shook his head. "No. He's not just any other Immortal, and Cameron's not like other girls. They both might turn out to be very important to all of our futures someday. But any more than that—that's their story to tell, I'm sorry."
"Duncan," Amanda whined. "Come on," she wheedled.
"No," Duncan said firmly. "Or have you forgotten I'm still angry at you."
"No you're not," she teased, as she threaded her arm through his as they walked to the door. "You've forgiven me already."
Rolling his eyes, he grudgingly admitted, "Maybe. But I shouldn't have, and either way, I'm not telling you what you need to know. Your insatiable need to know everybody's secrets is just going to have to wait. Come on, I'll whip up a quick pasta and crack open a bottle of that wine you love so much to hold you over until you can ask them."
"That 1964 Rothschild Bordeaux??" she squealed. "Ooooh, Macleod, you are a man among men!" As he shut the door, her giggles could be heard, cascading through the walls.