Author's Note: Sorry again for the sickeningly long delay. I'm making an attempt to get back in the swing of this whole writing deal, so try to bear with me. Happy almost-birthday to the one with the zombie fixation. Here's that damn update you wanted so much. Might be 8 months late but…deal. Lol.


With the acquisition of new identities for John and Cameron, Sarah was free to move on to the next item on her never-ending to-do list. Having changed homes more times than she could count, Sarah was well-used to the hassles of finding a new place to live. The fact that she'd gone through it often enough didn't make the process any less of a headache. Still, the desert safehouse, the only place they had since Kaliba found the lighthouse, simply wasn't big enough to hold everyone, even if Cameron didn't technically require a bed. Even if this hadn't been the case, there were other reasons to relocate.

Charley hated it here. He'd never say as much, but Sarah knew. The memory of Michelle's death pervaded their surroundings, never mind that the tragedy hadn't actually occurred here. Desert was desert, and the scenery tended to blur together, no matter what particular stretch you happened to be on. Until fairly recently, she herself had found comfort in places like this. Far away from civilization, with miles of emptiness in front of her, it was almost possible for Sarah to believe that she was safe here, that the machines wouldn't be able to track her. It was an illusion, but it was something to cling to as she spent night after night with visions of death in her head, and a gun next to the pillow on which she laid it. Terrified and inexperienced as she was during that time after Kyle but before John, in a way, things had been easier then. Protecting him was so much simpler when he was still inside her, when he was unable to question her judgment, her sanity. When he was literally unable to pull away from her. While it was hard to look back on, lonely, sweltering days in a rundown shack with any level of fondness, certain aspects of her life in the desert hadn't been entirely horrible.

Despite all that, whatever solace she'd found in this place had been irreparably marred. Part of it was related to Charley, to Michelle. But even disregarding that, taking into account the good times shared here with Charley, Savannah, and, once she got over her anger with him, James, Sarah wanted to get gone. This place had never been home, not even when she was sampling Charley's latest dish, or brushing out Savannah's hair, or laying in bed with the two of them next to her while she read the girl a story. She'd read to John while she was pregnant. A local woman had gifted her with a battered copy of The Wizard of Oz. Sarah used the Spanish version of the familiar tale to improve her language skills, but mostly, it was a way of feeling closer to John, of making him seem more real. Of making her feel closer to her son.

This place would never be home, because John had never been here. And physical return or not, he still wasn't here with them, not really. He drifted off into another place, another time, even when he stood in the same room as everyone else. Even when he was present, mentally as well as physically...things would happen. Savannah would talk to him, mention things that she'd done with Aunt Sarah and Uncle Charley. And John would smile and pretend it didn't hurt, knowing that they'd moved on, lived their lives without him. He didn't blame her for that, not really, but this house was a physical manifestation of what he'd missed. Just as the building, the land surrounding it, represented something for Sarah. Two things, actually, the ultimate dichotomy. Seventeen years ago, it was the place she'd felt closest to her child. Three months ago, it became the place where she'd been the furthest away from him. She needed out, escape from the memories. So did Charley and John. Savannah needed a better approximation of a normal environment. James needed a room of his own. Cameron needed more space as well. More accurately, Sarah needed more space in which to hide from Cameron, when her resolution to be more tolerant of the machine became particularly hard to keep.

The house they eventually settled into was much like Sarah's last two residences, not including the desert place. It was bigger, quiet neighborhood, residential, lacking the desolation of its predecessor. There was a swing set, like at their first home after the time jump. It'd been harder this time, settling on a place. Most of the real estate wrangling had been left to Cameron and Ellison, both of whom had very different ideas of what constituted a smart buy. Ellison's wish for a quiet family neighborhood where Savannah stood a chance of gaining some friends her own age warred with Cameron's concerns about sightlines and security hazards and the building's ability to withstand high-caliber gunfire. Sarah let them fight it out, stepping in only when it came time to approve the final decision. When Charley questioned her on this unusually laissez-faire attitude, she'd merely shrugged. It was John who guessed the truth, though he waited until Charley was out of the room to call her on it. She found it rather entertaining, watching James butt heads with the machine. It got James used to living with the metal, got Cameron used to cohabitating with Ellison rather than planning the most efficient way of eliminating him. Besides, if Ellison was busy sparring with the machine, it kept Sarah from falling into that pattern herself. And then there was the other detail, the one she was having a harder time admitting. That she trusted them, Cameron and Ellison, trusted them to handle something important without her interference.

Moving day was surreal, to say the least. Savannah was excited by her new surroundings, happily testing out the swings and helping with what tasks she could. It made Sarah think of John, of all the times she'd performed this ritual with him. Even as a child, she couldn't recall him being that happy during a move. In fact, the only time she remembered any genuine cheerfulness on his part was when they'd moved in with Charley. Even when they'd settled down after the destruction of Cyberdyne, they hadn't really settled. Sarah hadn't let them. Charley had been the lone exception. Charley was supposed to mean permanence, for both of them.

There, too, was an element of unreality. She'd had a place like this in Nebraska. She'd left it, like all the others. Except that time she'd left something behind, something important. There shouldn't have been anything important, besides John, and Sarah hadn't expected the chance to reclaim what she'd given up for his sake. Except Charley was with her again, hauling boxes, holding doors, stocking cabinets. It was a kind of full circle moment, even though most everything had changed since moving day in Nebraska.

"What are you thinking about?" Charley asked, two steps behind her as they carried boxes upstairs.

Sparing a glance over her shoulder, Sarah played at nonchalance, shrugging as she had when he'd asked about her response to Cameron and Ellison.

Charley shook his head, clasping her hand as soon as the burdens were set down in their new bedroom. "You used to get this look sometimes. A lot, actually. This look that used to make me nuts, because whenever it was there, I knew you weren't. You were somewhere else, thinking thoughts that I wasn't supposed to know about.

"You never said anything," Sarah replied. Expressing her feelings meant dwelling in them. Sarah glanced at the half-assembled bed they were standing in front of. She'd left the ring on his pillow, before she left for real.

"Would you have told me if I had?" Charley asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, "I assumed you'd tell me when you were ready."

After they were married. That's what he'd said, without so many words. There was a duffel in the corner, Charley's emergency bag. It contained all the important stuff, the essentials. Somewhere within that bag was his wedding ring. "I'm thinking I'm living with a she-version of the Tin Man."

"Not exactly new for you," Charley replied, smiling a bit because that's what Sarah was trying to do.

"No. I'm living with a female Tin Man, and this cop I spent a lot of time and energy trying to avoid."

Charley's smile widened, and he kissed her palm before releasing it. "Not new either, is it?"

Not new Not exactly. But for all the moving days she'd had over the years, there'd never been any like this. There'd never been one with all of them together like this. It wasn't bad, not when Sarah could hear James laughing with Savannah. Not when she could go to sleep tonight, hear Cameron's heavy tread, know they had a security system far superior to the motion detectors that the cyborg was currently installing. It wasn't bad, just very, very surreal. Sarah told him this, offering a bemused smile, a shake of the head, and a brush of her fingers along his jaw before preceding him downstairs.

Unreality was soon replaced by slight tension as Sarah passed weapons to John and Charley, who then passed them to Cameron, who went about stashing them in various hiding places throughout the room. Including the floors and walls. Savannah, who'd conned Ellison into a before-lunch Popsicle, happened to walk in through the back door while Cameron was busy smashing a hole in the wall behind the couch, making a home for an M16 rifle. James followed a few seconds later, frowning as he watched Savannah take in the scene.

Sensing what would come next, Sarah sent the girl upstairs to finish unpacking her things before crossing the room to meet Ellison. "Don't start," she ordered. No anger laced her voice, but the warning there was unmistakable.

"Did I?" James asked. His eyes tracked Savannah until she disappeared into the upstairs hallway before returning to Cameron, who wielded the hammer she was using to carve out space for their weapons arsenal.

"You're about to," Sarah replied, arms crossed over her chest as she watched the others work. It was an old argument with them, carried on in sidelong looks of disapproval and muttered debates from the corners of mouths. A decline in frequency and intensity did nothing to settle the issue altogether, as evidenced by the fact that James didn't deny her accusation.

"She shouldn't be seeing things like that, not today."

He was looking at her now, and Sarah returned the gaze for a moment, acknowledging the point. She understood his need to give the kid a normal childhood. Shared it, in fact. But there were other needs to consider, and he knew that, even if he still chose to rail against it. "Today's no different than any other day," Sarah countered, suppressing the pang of guilt as she discounted Savannah's happiness with a more conventional living space. "And she's used to it."

James nodded. Savannah had long ago stopped reacting to the presence of guns or bomb-making material in the places where she ate dinner or played with her toys. "She is," he said. "That's what worries me."

"You don't think it worries me? It does. We all have to be worried, about a lot of things. Bigger things. And this," she continued, gesturing vaguely at their surroundings, at a house built for a family, at the far wall with the holes in it, "this is what I can give her. This. You. Charley."

"I know. Is that supposed to be enough?"

Not quite rhetorical, but tinged with a familiar resignation. Because they'd played this scene before, they both knew that neither would win. "It has to be," Sarah replied, trapping him in her gaze until she saw him register the truth, the inevitability of this. It didn't take long, not nearly as long as it used to. She said with her eyes what she used to say aloud, what didn't need to be verbalized anymore. What she didn't want to think about anymore.

James knew Sarah would take the girl from his life, if it came to that, if she thought that his presence undermined the child's safety. Things had changed, she wouldn't want to, she wouldn't relish the opportunity to do so with a clear conscience. It would hurt her, it would scar the relationship with Savannah, but James had seen the medical reports from Pescadero. He knew that Sarah Connor was used to scars. "It's my nephew's birthday today," he said, unsure where the words came from.

Some of the tension left Sarah's body. At least she knew what was triggering this now. "I'm sorry," she told him.

James shrugged, looking at Savannah instead of her. "It's not something to be sorry about."

Sarah disagreed, but said nothing. He had a big family, she knew that much. Lots of siblings, nieces, nephews. Lots of good childhood memories, from what she could tell. He'd grown up with the kind of happiness he wanted Savannah to have. "What's his name? How old?"

James glanced at hr again, surprise showing on his face. He hadn't expected her ask. She rarely asked about things like this, even when he gave her an opening. "Robbie. He's six."

The note of affection in Ellison's voice was mixed with pain, and for an instant, Sarah hated herself. She'd dismissed him after Mexico, dismissed the loss of his marriage and career. She still considered those small prices, all things considered. But there was more to it than that. She'd left behind nothing of her old life. At nineteen, her mother was dead, her friends, Reese. Michelle was dead, and Charley's parents had been killed in a car wreck before Sarah knew him. James still had people who loved him. He'd traded that to make an attempt here, so Savannah would have a semblance of life and family.

Sarah felt like she should thank him for that, perhaps apologize for thinking of taking Savannah from him when he'd given so much for her sake. Instead she said "I'm sorry about Robbie," meaning it. Then she left him, crossing to another part of the room to sort out more of her gun collection.


John should've been focused on the boxes he was trying to sort. Leaving Cameron to handle placement of the remaining firearms, he'd moved on to a new task. Or should have. He'd moved away from Cameron so he could actually make a go at productivity, but the attempt was a failure so far.

John wasn't so wrapped up in his observation of the machine that he didn't notice Charley's approach. Tearing his gaze from Cameron, John feigned concentration on his work, as if separating the kitchen supplies from Savannah's toys from the ammunition stash was all-engrossing.

"Who're you looking at right now?" Charley's voice. Holding equal amounts of compassion, concern…and warning.

'Cameron' almost left his mouth. Even with the different eyes and the smile that wasn't remotely mechanical, it took him several moments to get the name right. "Allison."

"Are you. Really?"

His response was a muttered obscenity, not quiet enough for Charley to miss. Allison couldn't hear it,, not from across the room. Cameron would've heard.

"John-"

"What do you want from me, Charley?" He hadn't meant to snap, but couldn't bring himself to apologize.

"I want you to remember who that is."

Still compassion, still worry for him, still with the warning, too. "Who're you looking out for, Charley? Her or me?"

"Who said it was one or the other?"

"You okay?"

It was an effort, remembering that the man standing next to him now wasn't the man who'd said those words. The weariness was gone from Charley's voice; his hair hadn't grayed out, but still. Keeping two realities separate in his head was much worse than time-lag. "Yeah," he replied, automatically.

The older man nodded, but his eyes drifted in Cameron's direction. "How okay?"

John stopped pretending to care about the boxes, giving his answer the consideration it deserved. 'Six," he said. It was a system between them. John was never totally okay anymore, and Charley wanted a way of gauging his emotional state. Ten was the bad end of the scale.

Charley nodded again, still watching the machine across the room. "Who're you thinking about right now?" he asked, voice level and non-threatening.

John suppressed a shiver at the feeling of déjà vu, without answering the question. He'd told Charley about the connection between Allison and Cameron. Part of him hadn't wanted to, hadn't wanted to lay all that confusion out for another person. A bigger part had needed to do just that. His mother hadn't said anything, though John was sure she knew. Charley would've told her, saving John from having to do so himself. He could've said nothing of course, left Allison as just another part of a timeline that didn't exist anymore, no more important than any of the other soldiers he'd encountered there. But there were already enough things about that place which he'd never tell her about, her or Charley.

It was strange. He'd spent a long, exhausting year, desperately yearning to speak to his mother for just a few more seconds. Now she was here, and he went to Charley instead. Part of it had to be that Charley had been there, too, a familiar presence in a place where comfort had been sorely lacking. And, much as he loved his mother, Charley was simply easier to talk to about certain things. He didn't trust or understand Cameron, at least not fully. But he was there, and he tried, and he didn't overwhelm John with his presence or his opinions, the way Sarah sometimes did. There was also the natural aversion to discussing girl trouble, human or cyborg, with his mother.

"I'm going to take this upstairs," John declared, snatching up a box without checking the label. Trying at a smile to soften the abruptness, John still retreated as fast as he could. Charley might not have pushed the subject of how he was coping, but suddenly John felt that he couldn't take the risk of being questioned further. As he jogged upstairs, he heard his name from his mom's lips, heard Charley speaking to her in a low tone. In the older man's absence, John knew that he would've been followed. This time Sarah relented, though John could see the hesitance on her face without having to look at her.

Retreating to his new room (mercifully free of childish décor), John set the box on his bed, head bowed. The déjà vu with Charley hadn't helped him sort out past from present. Future from present. Dammit, he couldn't even keep that much straight.

Trying to force his attention elsewhere, John went about opening the box he'd pretended was his. Unless he was very lucky and it was filled with computer components, he'd have to sneak down later and hope no one pressed him about why he'd taken Savannah's toys.

The box's contents only served to worsen his sense of unreality. Swallowing past the tightness in his throat, John removed one of the old cassette tapes, carefully gripping it between his fingers. The knowledge that he was invading his mother's privacy warred with the knowledge that these were his tapes anyway. Besides, he already knew every piece of information on them. The one in his hand was fairly recent, the first of the new batch. New meaning the ones she'd made after his jump to the future. He lacked Cameron's memory banks, he'd never recite the tape word for word, but he knew it pretty damn well.

Another moment of absurdity. His mother was downstairs. He could leave this room and be in her arms in a handful of seconds. She was here, she was healthy, she was alive. And John still felt as if she weren't, felt as he had when these damn tapes were the closest he could get to his mom. Heavily, he dropped onto the edge of his bed, gripping the comforter in one hand and the tape in the other. Trapped in an unwanted storm of confused grief, John heard the indistinct murmur of his mother's voice somewhere below. In his mind, and much clearer, he heard the tape in his hand, the first one she'd made after he left.

I love you, John. I miss you. Charley's here, and he misses you too.


"It wasn't the cancer."

The voice was hollow, barely recognizable as his own. Charley had made him sit down, pulled a ragged desk chair from somewhere. John was only distantly aware of this, just as he was distantly aware of Charley's slow release of breath. He sat across from the man, a desk between them. Charley would've gotten closer if John allowed it, but that didn't happen. Unable even to hold eye contact, John stared at his hands, clenched tightly enough in his lap that the knuckles had gone white. Closing his eyes made the world stop spinning, but did nothing for the nausea. He supposed part of that could be a side effect of the time travel. Mostly though it was incomprehensible, unrelenting grief that threatened to bring him down harder and faster than Savannah's fist ever could. His cheek must be throbbing where her fist struck home, but John wasn't feeling it.

"Tell me it wasn't the cancer," he demanded, nails cutting into the flesh of his palms. If it wasn't cancer, then it could be fixed. Stopped. He had to stop it. His mother said she'd stop Skynet, but only if he stopped her from…he couldn't voice the thought, even within the confines of his own mind.

"It wasn't the cancer."

Fighting off the tears that threatened to choke him, John finally locked eyes with the other man, not quite ready to believe. "She…she's sick. She's lost weight." He couldn't handle referring to his mother in the past tense.

Charley's face shifted momentarily, indicating that he'd noted the difference, then he was all gentle compassion again. "She was stressed, not sick. She told me about that man from Kaliba, the one she-"

"Winston."

"Winston," Charley repeated. "She was torturing herself with that and then-"

"Then she was tortured."

A muscle jumped in Charley's jaw, but he kept talking. "Yeah. She wasn't sleeping enough, wasn't eating enough. She just…"

'Made herself sick," John finished. It wasn't cancer; he should've felt at least some happiness. He didn't. "She made herself sick and I let her.

"John-"

"I didn't even know until Cameron told me."

"It wasn't your fault, Johnny."

"Riley…I made everything so much worse for her because of Riley. I should've-"

"Stop it, John."

Only a few words, but they cut through John's ramblings like the hunting knives he'd learned to use as a child. Not the exact tone Charley had used when he told Savannah to get out, but close enough to bring John up short.

"Listen," Charley ordered, softening his voice without dropping that edge of command. "Whatever you think should've happened…none of it matters. What ifs get you nowhere, trust me on that. There are a thousand things in the last couple decades that should've happened, but didn't. Or vice-versa. You're not supposed to be here, for one."

There might have been a hint of recrimination there, but John honestly couldn't be sure. All he could do was stare at the older man. Charley's gaze was too intense to allow anything different.

"This," said Charley, gesturing vaguely at the dilapidated excuse for an office, "none of this is supposed to be Johnny."

John shook his head, a vain attempt at refutation. "We knew this could happen. Mom used to say that the best we could do was-"

"-work for the best, plan for the worst, I know. And you know that's not what I mean." The edge in his voice sharpened. Charley leaned forward in his chair. "I shouldn't be the one sitting here, John."

There was no more denial. He'd known already, just hadn't wanted to hear it voiced from this man he respected so much, who's approval and respect meant so much to him. "It was my job," he said, despondency threatening to choke him again. "My fate. And I left it you."

Charley's demeanor softened again, though he seemed to have some trouble getting the words out. "You did what you thought was right. Leader or not, legend or not, that's all anyone can do."

He wasn't the legend though. That was his mother's role, at least according to Kyle Reese. John opened his mouth to ask. If not cancer, then how? The words wouldn't come. In the first place, he didn't think he was strong enough yet. And if he didn't have the details, he could have some distance from it, keep thinking that his mother's death, that all of this was merely a screwed up jaunt in dreamland. And then there was Charley. John might bear the physical effect of it, but Savannah's rage had been just as focused on Charley, the man she called dad, as it was on John. She'd mentioned something about protection for his mother, or lack of it. He may've killed a man to save her life, but John still struggled with the notion of his mom needing protection

"Did…did she see all this?" He had to know if she'd lived long enough to witness all their efforts come to nothing. A moment later, John wished he'd skipped the question.

"Yes."

John shook his head, vision blurring with tears he couldn't fight. She wasn't dead. She wasn't. He needed her too much for that to be true. He closed his eyes, as if that would help anything.

"John. Hey. Johnny."

Footsteps, a hand on his shoulder. John kept his eyes shut.

"Look at me. Look at me, John."

Reluctantly, John obeyed. Charley was kneeling at his level. His eyes were sad and worried, concerned. And there was also steely determination there, enough to loosen the knot in John's stomach, at least somewhat.

"We can change things. We have changed things. It doesn't have to be like this. We're going to get you home. I promise, we're going to get you home."

John couldn't speak. He wanted to say something about Cameron, how he couldn't leave without her. He wanted to ask about his mother. He wanted to grab onto the older man and cry. Before he could do any of those things, Charley's door flew open.

The blonde whirlwind barely spared John a glance as she entered. She went straight to Charley, speaking quickly and clearly. "Hey. Lauren needs another pair of hands. Lyles got hit with a plasma blast, metal ambushed his patrol route. Lauren thinks she might be able to keep him breathing, but the trainees can't-"

Charley was up and moving already, putting a hand up to silence her. He was decades older, but he moved like a young man. With a speed and purpose John first saw in his old kitchen, when his uncle was hemorrhaging on their table.

After the promise, the attempt to reassure him that he wasn't alone in this, all John got was an apologetic look, a few quick words and the thud of boots running down the corridor. Then Charley was gone. This would become a familiar sight to John. Soon enough he'd learn that there were never enough people with real medical training. The young blonde would become familiar too. When she wasn't asking for a field assist, she would come to Charley about shortages in supplies, vaccines, beds for the sick and wounded. Never enough people, never enough of anything.

For now, John was left alone and unsure. He didn't know where to go, what to do. He spent a minute just sitting there with his head down, trying not to throw up. The smell here was overwhelming, though everyone else seemed used to it. Had his mother gotten used to it? How long had she lived in this before it all ended for her?

Feeling like a caged animal, John stood up abruptly, overturning the chair. His legs still threatened to give out, and he clutched the edge of Charley's desk to keep himself from falling. It was then that he saw his mother, and his knees almost quit on him anyway.

It was only a photo, old and battered at that, but it was enough to bring the tears again. John took the picture in a shaking hand. It was bent and torn, and it was a window to another time. His mother sat on a swing, in a yard he didn't know. Savannah was in her lap, smiling for the camera. Charley was behind them, bent so his arm rested on Sarah's shoulders. Of the three, Savannah was clearly the happiest. Charley's expression was a little heavier, but the smile on his face was genuine, if a little forced. His mom was different. The affection in her eyes was real, but that was overshadowed by pain and sadness. Her smile was hard to look at, and the green in her eyes seemed to have dulled. John wasn't foolish enough to blame this on the condition of the photograph.

Someone cleared their throat behind him and John dropped the picture as if he'd been scalded. Absurdly, he wondered how Kyle Reese would manage to save his mother without the picture, the one John was supposed to give him. Maybe Charley had that one too. Maybe this time Charley was supposed to play matchmaker.

Shaking his head to clear it, John rubbed roughly at his eyes before turning to face the next visitor. It was the young soldier from before, the one who led Savannah away. Travis Gant stood in the doorway with an expression that was equal parts awe and awkwardness.

"Hey. I uh, I caught Charley and my sister on the run. He asked me to get you to your room okay."

"Your sister," John said slowly. It wasn't the thing to ask about right now, but his brain didn't seem to realize that.

"Sorry," Travis responded, stepping into the room and extending his hand. "Travis Gant. Anna's my big sister. She works in medical. Charley, Charley trained her in…" He trailed off for a moment, then, "You knew-"

"Your dad," John finished, mechanically returning the handshake. A flash of fear hit him as he thought of the elder Travis Gant. "Is he-"

"He's fine," the son responded, anticipating the question. "He's at another base a few days from here. Him and James are tormenting new recruits to make it harder for the metal to kill them."

James. Ellison. John tried making that work, tried to put Gant's constant cursing and volatility against what he'd seen of Ellison's demeanor. It didn't add up.

"It's a good cop/bad cop thing," the younger Gant explained. "Dad keeps the new ones from getting dead by the metal; James keeps them from killing dad in his sleep after he runs them ragged."

Gant smiled as he said that, almost smirked. It could've been an irritating expression, but it wasn't. With that look, John saw his mother's ex, couldn't imagine how he hadn't made the connection right away. The son's tone at he spoke of the recruits and his father was close to how the elder Gant used to sound when he listened to Sarah's doomsday talk. John wondered how Travis reacted when he realized Sarah's horror stories were for real.

"They should be here within a few days. That was always the plan for after you came back, get everyone back in one place."

The younger Gant proceeded to tell John about Sarah and his father meeting up nearly twenty years before. He couldn't hear the conversation, but Sarah must've been more convincing than usual because suddenly she and Charley, Ellison and Savannah were living with them. There was reconstruction of the desert ranch, fortification. He remembered his sixth birthday better than any other because the day after was when they moved into the bunker.

Gant talked more after escorting John to a cold room with a cot and an incredibly thin blanket. To John, some of it felt rehearsed, like he'd practiced it over the years. He wondered if that had been part of the plan too, Gant playing historian if Charley couldn't.

John didn't talk at all, and eventually Gant stopped. Then they were standing there in silence and this time the expression on Gant's face did annoy John. To his credit, Travis picked up on that, and had the grace to look ashamed.

"Sorry," he said. But as he continued speaking, the awed disbelief that'd left his face remained in his voice. "You just…. They'd talk about you. Savannah met you before so it wasn't like I didn't know you were real but…Goddamn man. The way they would talk about you, with you not being there. You were like this…this ghost or something."

He'd barely managed to half-listen during all of Gant's explanations. The mention of ghosts brought it to the surface, the question he'd been too shocked and afraid to ask. "What happened to my mother?"

It came out choked and abrupt and Gant's attention was suddenly captivated by something on the hard, filthy floor. "I…when Charley gets back-"

"I can't wait that long." It was true. He shouldn't be putting this on a stranger, but the no knowing threatened to tear him apart. Besides, he didn't trust himself not to lose it with Charley.

Gant ran his fingers through military-short hair that was still dirty. He swallowed audibly, and there was naked pain in his eyes when he looked up again. Still, his voice was steady and he held John's eyes as he forced the words out. She'd been leading a squad to a meeting with officers from a nearby base. It was supposed to be routine, a relatively safe area.

"No one is ever safe." The words were reflex, and it didn't sound as if he'd been the one to speak them. "Nowhere is safe."

If it was possible, Gant looked even more pained. Still, he nodded and continued. The machines came from nowhere, attacked them from all sides. There'd been little time for resistance.

John thought of his mother surrounded by the things she'd been fighting nearly all her life, the things she'd feared and hated so much. She would've gone down fighting, he knew that much. But what had finally done it? A blast from one of the plasma rifles he'd heard of but only now seen in reality? Had one of those ripped through her, left her body a smoking ruin? Was it some kind of explosion? Cold metal fingers snapping the bones of her neck? "Were you there?"

Gant wasn't. One of the soldiers got off a few radio transmissions before the machines wiped him out.

He shouldn't have asked. All John had accomplished by asking about this was to open his mind up to more questions. Poisonous questions, buzzing around like wasps in his brain. He wondered what her last thought had been, if she'd had time to reflect on the fact that he'd let her down, abandoned her to the worst possible fate.

He was near-breaking by then and he turned away from Gant, asked him to leave. Travis seemed equal parts reluctant and relieved to be gone. He said some things John couldn't hear over the pounding in his head. All he heard clearly was the last thing Gant said before making his exit.

"I'm sorry. Even my dad…we all loved her."

It could've been hours or minutes before Charley returned. Either way, he found John pale and exhausted, with his face pressed into a pillow that smelled of old blood. Charley himself had spots of red on his clothes, as he had after saving Derek. John's mother had had to wash the stains out before he left. That wasn't a possibility anymore.

He came bearing apologies for having to leave, and a gift. The tapes were John's he explained. He needed to be careful with them. There was information about Kyle Reese, and other things. John stared at the cassette player as if it were the most complicated thing he'd ever seen, stared at the box of tapes as if they were a bomb waiting to go off. Charley took one at random, though there were dates on each, got it ready to play for him. More words John barely made out, a hand on his shoulder. He must've tried sending Charley away, but he didn't hear himself say the words.

Charley promised again that he'd get home. In some distant part of his brain, John thought about Cameron, how he couldn't leave here without her. If he voiced that thought, he didn't hear himself do it. Charley lingered at the door, but didn't open it. Hunched on the cot and without planning to do it, John hit play on the cassette player. When his mother's voice hit his ears, he sagged. Collapsed in on himself. From the corner of his eye right before pressing his face into his arm, he thought he saw Charley go rigid.

I love you John. I miss you. Charley's here, and he misses you too.

He didn't know if that strangled noise came before or after Charley pulled him up, crushing him in a hug. It actually hurt a little, the strength of it. John didn't care. He did what he'd wanted to do earlier. He held on to the older man and he sobbed. He thought Charley might be crying too, but not nearly as much as John was. He was shaking all over, thought he'd end up on the floor. He didn't. Charley kept holding him, kept telling him it wouldn't turn out like this, that they'd get him home.


It took longer than Sarah would've liked for John to rejoin the moving efforts. Quick looks shared with Charley were the only thing that kept her from barging into his room. The fact that those were enough to keep her out (barely) was a testament to her trust in him. She was still relieved when John came downstairs, laptop under his arm.

"I see how it is," Charley joked, stepping past John with a good-natured smirk on his face. "Hide until all the work is done."

Returning Charley's smile, he set his computer on the counter. "More like hide until the pizza shows up."

Sarah joined him in the kitchen, a small smile curving her own lips. If he'd heard their dinner plans, then he couldn't have been completely wrapped up in whatever he was struggling with. "Thought that might get you back down here."

The hug he gave her then would've shocked her a year ago. Now she was used to the unsolicited displays of affection, though they were becoming less common and less protracted. This embrace was so quick that Sarah didn't have time to respond before he was pulling back. A hug 'just because' should've pleased her, did in a way. The gestures would've been more comforting if not for the look in John's eyes every time he embraced her or kissed her forehead or helped her with something without being asked. He wouldn't say it and Sarah wouldn't ask him to, but the conversations they'd had and that look in his eye told her all she needed to know. Probably more than she wanted to.

The doorbell heralding the arrival of their dinner kept Sarah from dwelling over the possibility of her death. Cameron answered, and Sarah had to smirk as she listened to the cyborg dole out the exact amount owed for a tip. No guesswork, no 'let's just leave this much.' At least she'd learned to tip on the high side. Always the pragmatist, Cameron used to leave the bare minimum that custom dictated. The terrorist who used to be a waitress had put a quick end to that. At least Cameron listened to her about the small things.

Food was served, with John eating his while hunched over the computer. Sarah almost put a stop to it, thinking that he was tuning them out in favor of some computer game. That was usually the case after they moved, when he unpacked his memory discs or whatever they were, rediscovered some old game he'd been carting around for years. But it wasn't a game holding his attention this time, it was the list.

Sarah had questioned him numerous times on the viability of that list. He'd seen the future, he should know more about which entries actually led somewhere. At least that was her thinking. But as John pointed out, Derek had lived the future too, and he didn't have all the answers. Besides, no way of knowing when a person on that list might actually matter, as Sarah herself had pointed out when they investigated Silberman. John explained all these things and still, Sarah couldn't avoid the anger, though it was more directed at Future-John than the boy in her kitchen. Caution was all well and good, but Sarah wouldn't mind a little extra information every so often.

Different timelines. Other than the fact that the list was one of their only leads, the timeline argument was what John kept falling back on, the reason he'd been running down names since he got back. Different timelines, different outcomes, nothing more concrete than that. He couldn't seem to form the words for an explanation, but Sarah thought she understood. Andy Goode had existed in one timeline but not another. The Jesse who almost destroyed her son apparently wasn't the Jesse that Derek had known. So even if the list hadn't been a goldmine of information in the world John had returned from, that didn't mean it couldn't be useful now. Sarah accepted these arguments, despite her frustration over all the dead ends they'd chased because of that list. If John's mind was lost in research, it was less likely to get lost in memories of a future he didn't want to see.

So Sarah let him work at his laptop while they rest of them moved about the house, finishing the process of getting settled in. She and Charley were getting the feel of the new alarm system when Savannah cried out. They'd given her a box of plates, glasses, set her to work sorting them so that tomorrow's dinner wouldn't be had on paper plates. When they looked up, Savannah was clutching one hand with the other and there was blood dripping on the kitchen floor.

Sarah got there first, fighting off the adrenaline that'd come with Savannah's cry. Ever since Weaver showed up in the girl's room, Sarah had been on high alert. The new location did nothing to quell her anxieties. Weaver knew where they were, no doubting that. No doubting the fact that as much as Sarah loathed the thought of that thing in her home, the redhead would make an appearance.

Not tonight though, or so it seemed. A plate had broken during transit, Savannah hadn't noticed until she'd reached into the box and made contact with the broken glass. It wasn't a bad cut, as Charley assessed when he patched it up, but it was bad enough that most kids would've been wailing like banshees. Savannah didn't cry. There was that initial noise of distress and her eyes were brighter than usual as Charley dug around in the medical bag John grabbed for him, but she didn't cry. Hadn't cried in weeks, though Sarah knew she still had nightmares. About the men who came for her at her home, about the ones who came to the lighthouse. About Weaver, in the times when the cyborg did a bad job of imitating her mother. But Savannah hadn't cried since that night she'd clung to Sarah so fiercely, when Cameron kindly pointed out that the girl had wet herself out of fear.

Cameron, to her credit, arrived within moments, racing down the stairs with a gun in her hand and Ellison following in her wake. James had a weapon too, but Cameron was way ahead of him. Sarah silently thanked both of them, even as she waved them off. Ellison's care for Savannah was a given, but she hadn't been so sure of Cameron. And while Sarah suspected that Cameron questioned the point of keeping the child around, the cyborg kept whatever reservations she had to herself, not arguing when Sarah made it clear that the girl would be a mission priority from now on.

Guns disappeared, but Cameron and Ellison remained on hand as Charley took care of the cut. He waited until Savannah had retreated to her room before speaking again. "We're running low on supplies," he stated, regarding his med kit with a frown.

"Is that all we have?" James asked, his own mouth turning downward.

"Unless there's another stash somewhere that I don't know about."

"There isn't," said Cameron. "This is all we have."

Habit almost made Sarah snap at the machine for not mentioning this earlier, but it wasn't Cameron's fault. Their medical supplies had been dwindling long before John and Cameron came back, and Sarah had known it. Thing was, it was easier to fool herself into thinking they had more than they did when the supply drained slowly rather than all at once. It used to be that most of their stock would get used up during one or two very bad missions. However, on her last very bad mission, she'd gotten shot and almost bled to death. And after Charley saved her life, he chewed her out for recklessness, saying some things that hurt worse than the bullet that'd torn through her flesh.

He'd been right. John had been gone, Charley and Savannah weren't under her roof at the time, and Sarah got sloppy. After Savannah had to walk in and see her blood all over the floor, Sarah rethought her position. She needed to stop Judgment Day, for John, for everyone. But as much as she hated to admit it, that was a hell of a lot harder to do when there wasn't a terminator on her side. Without Cameron and without John's hacking skills, Sarah had to scale back on her activities. There'd been missions, injuries, but not the kind that completely depleted their med stock. Which was good, because the supplies they used were expensive and not sold in the typical first aid kit. And though there was money, there wasn't a huge surplus of it. Especially now, with most of their funds going to the acquisition of this house.

"We'll need to restock," Sarah stated.

Ellison's frown deepened. "We just moved in today. I hope you're not planning on blowing up any computer factories tomorrow."

Sarah gave what was, for her, an overly-bright smile. "Actually tomorrow I was going to look into joining the Neighborhood Watch around here. Blowing up factories isn't until next week. But we should restock before then, just to be on the safe side."

"No one is ever-" Cameron began.

"Please don't," Sarah interrupted.

Cameron changed the subject. "I can acquire more supplies."

"I know you can, you're not going to." John shot her a look, and Sarah took a breath, softening her tone. "I need you here, with Savannah. It's been too long since we've heard from Weaver."

"And you think that means she'll show up for a housewarming?" John asked.

"I think that I want you watching Savannah," Sarah said, addressing Cameron. She left out the part about also wanting to avoid any dead hospital workers. "We don't have the money or the contacts right now to get what we need."

"What about that man you've gone to before?" asked James. "Gant."

"Travis doesn't deal in that sort of thing," Sarah replied. She was fairly sure that if she asked, he'd track down someone who did. Alcoholism and PTSD aside, Travis maintained a larger net of contacts than she ever had. But considering that she'd effectively torn his world apart a few weeks earlier, Sarah thought it best to wait on contacting him again.

What happened next happened rather quickly. John's eyes went to the laptop, then to Charley. He opened his mouth to speak, but Charley beat him to it. "I'll go."

"What?" Sarah asked.

"I still have the uniform from work. I'll get what we need."

"No you won't."

"Sarah," Charley began.

"Mom," John said at near the same time.

"You're not going."


Sarah was wrong about that, and she was still fuming a little as she watched Charley put on his work clothes. "Why did you keep that?" she asked.

Charley looked at her over his shoulder. She stood behind him, near the bed, checking the clip in her gun for the third time in twenty minutes. She faced away from him, but the edge in her voice and her ramrod-straight posture left no doubts about her mood. "Nostalgia?" he said, more question than answer.

He hadn't given two weeks' notice at the hospital, hadn't bothered to turn in the uniform and supplies. Sarah had been telling him to leave for days before he actually went through with it. He tried not to wonder whether Michelle might've survived if they'd left earlier, before Cromartie could make his move. She'd been dead before she reached the hospital, but it wasn't the same one she and Charley had worked at. After her death, he hadn't been terribly concerned about returning thee to turn in his things and get a last paycheck. He wasn't sure why he'd kept the uniform, but at least it was serving a purpose again.

They needed med supplies, and as it turned out, they also had a lead to track. There was a surgeon on the list Laura Olin had made it her specialty for the last ten years to put soldiers back together after they'd sustained disfiguring injuries. She didn't work at the same hospital that Charley once had, which was good. No way he'd avoid recognition otherwise. But he had made occasional drop-offs there, and he knew the layout without having to consult the blueprints John had pulled. So while Charley restocked their supplies, Sarah would be talking to this Dr. Olin about her young son who'd gotten his face blown to hell while serving his country. At some point she'd get tearful, need a moment alone, and plant listening devices throughout the office. A cakewalk compared to what she usually did on a mission, nothing that should cause this much anxiety.

Pulling down her shirt so her gun wouldn't be visible, Sarah moved to get past Charley on her way out of the bedroom. She didn't make it. Charley snagged her hand, and when he moved to face her, she didn't yank it back, though part of her wanted to do just that. "What?"

"I'll be fine, Sarah." Her expression told him the reassurance wasn't enough. "You want to go in with the scary cyborg instead?" he asked.

"She stays with Savannah. We've covered this." Sarah was willing to concede that hearing Savannah cry out the other day had put her defenses in high gear, but that wasn't all there was to it. Worries about Weaver were never gone from her mind, but she'd watched their new neighbor watching them from across the street yesterday. Pleasant looking woman, thirty-something, had some nice plants in the front yard. She'd waved from her porch and Sarah was forced to do the same, all the while wondering if she was looking at Weaver. It wasn't paranoia when they really were out to get you. "Cameron needs to be here."

"I know. Does it sound like I'm arguing with you? You have a bad feeling, fine. I'm not questioning your instincts. But if it's not going to be Cameron then-"

Then the next logical choice was Charley. "I know," she replied, still not happy with that knowledge. She'd have to get used to sending him on errands far more dangerous than this, Sarah knew that too. Didn't help loosen the knots in her stomach.

"Hey," he said, brushing a hand under her chin until green eyes met his. "I can grab a few painkillers," he told her, lips quirked at the corners. "Did it practically every day, remember? Only difference now is that I'm not getting paid."

"Do you miss it?" Sarah asked after a moment, ignoring the attempt at humor. "The job?" She knew the answer to that one. She'd seen how unhappy he'd been at the lighthouse, even with Savannah there. And he still had the uniform.

Sighing, Charley weighed his words before answering, knowing she would catch a lie. "Do I miss helping people every day? Yeah." Before Sarah could look away like he knew she would, Charley leaned in and kissed her. He did it slowly, deliberately, holding the contact until he felt Sarah melt into him, felt some of the tension bleed out. Breaking the kiss, he rested his forehead against hers, speaking in a warm, quiet voice. "But now I get to help save everyone in the world, right?" Even if all that meant right now was grabbing a few painkillers.

Finally Sarah cracked a smile, running her hand along his chest. "Right," she murmured. She'd have to get him used to this at some point anyway. Better to start now, with something low risk.

"Okay," Charley said, brushing his lips over hers one last time. "Let's get out of here then.


He'd downplayed his nervousness to Sarah. Downplayed it majorly. Small as his part in all this was, he'd still worried about screwing it up. Because eventually there would be bigger things he'd need to do, and if he couldn't pull this off… But Charley was managing pretty well as he stood in a supply room refilling his medical bag. He'd run into a staff member he knew, but he'd managed that okay, chatting briefly about how long it'd been since he'd made a stop here. Michelle said once that he had a tell when he lied. Sarah said that what he thought was always all over his face. If those things were true, it seemed they weren't noticeable to everyone.

As he grabbed a few syringes, he wondered how Sarah was faring, wondered about this woman on the list. Charley's best guess would be that she aided John in the future, kept Resistance people alive, though John didn't know her. But that fighter who gave them the list had done so under Future-John's orders. The boy that Charley knew, he'd come from a place where that man, that version of himself never existed. That had to screw things up. Feeling the beginnings of a headache, Charley took some medication off a nearby shelf. Any moral issues he had with stealing from a hospital were nothing compared to the issues he had with being unprepared if something went bad. Without his consent, images flooded his brain, images of the last time he'd been in a hospital. Michelle was dead. He'd tended to John and Sarah after the cyborg went berserk, almost killed them. When Kaliba came for them at the lighthouse, there'd been an awful moment where he'd thought Savannah was shot. The idea of not being able to save them, of failing them as he had Michelle…it sent a shiver down his spine. And then he was standing stiff as a board, because the door was opening behind him.

Charley had to fight not to whirl around in a panic as he heard it close again, heard footsteps. Willing his features into a normal expression, he turned, only to find that he'd broken into a cold sweat for nothing..

"I'm done with the doctor," Sarah said as she moved toward him. "We had a timeframe, you're past it. I got worried."

Charley checked his watch. He still had fifteen minutes, but given her apprehension at making him part of this, he wasn't entirely surprised by her arrival. "If someone sees you," he began. They'd gone over which room he would be in, which route he would take, but that was for the sake of emergencies and-

"Hallway's clear, and I'm here now," Sarah said briskly, cutting across Charley's thoughts. "So what else do you need?"

Charley frowned. There was an edge to her voice, but also a kind of distance he hadn't heard in awhile. She used to get this way when John was gone sometimes, get this demeanor that was partly anger, partly something else. She couldn't be thrilled about being in a hospital, not with memories of Pescadero. And talking about her war-scarred son had to have struck a nerve. Pointing her to some boxes on the opposite shelf, he asked for two more minutes and got a curt nod in response.

One of those minutes passed in silence as Sarah moved about the room, handing him supplies. Then she simply stopped in front of him, shoulders sagging a little. "We talked about John. She was nice, talked about scheduling a meeting. Thinks she can fix the physical things."

Physical things that Sarah had made up. "Sarah-"

"She says there are counselors here to help him with the mental part, the emotional. She talked a lot about that actually."

Still with that distance in her voice that used to scare him because it meant she was at a point too low for him to help her. "He's getting better."

"He still locks himself in his room for hours on end."

"Which might be a good sign. He's acting like every other teenage boy in the world." The joke fell flat, as he'd known it would. Sighing, he put his bag down on one of the shelves. "I promised you he'd be fine, remember?"

"Yes. Yes you did." Her fingers found his chest, like this morning. Unlike this morning, he wasn't the one who initiated the kiss. She leaned in too quickly, leaving no time for questions or protests.

His earlier bit of confidence fell to nothing. Charley knew then that he had in fact screwed up. Badly. Because the moment their lips touched, he knew that this wasn't Sarah. The kiss was cold. Dead. He couldn't think of it any more clearly than that because there were nails cutting into his flesh. He tried to pull back but an impossibly strong arm held him in place. No, it didn't feel like one arm. Felt like cold tendrils running all over his body, binding him. He couldn't move his head. The cold ran down his neck, under his shirt, across his spine. He couldn't breathe. That icy deadness had come alive. Invading his mouth. Blocking his airway. Suffocating him. When the kiss did break, it was only because that thing let it.

Charley gasped for air, barely keeping his footing as he was shoved brutally against the shelves. A bolt of agony radiated up his spine as small medical supplies were dislodged from their places, raining down on his head and shoulders. By the time he raised his eyes, he wasn't looking at Sarah anymore. He was looking at his dead wife. And when Weaver opened her mouth, there was no accent to be heard, no cultured tones. It was Michelle's voice that hit his ears.

"Hello Mr. Dixon. Good to see you again. You and I have things to discuss."