Hello :) This one's a bit different. I decided to try a story with everyone's POV. And then there was ANGST. Lots of it.
Oh yeah... I still own nothing and get no money out of doing this. (Just in case it was forgotten)
KYLE
It starts innocently enough. He wakes up early to chop wood for the stove and finds his throat feels like sandpaper.
Later, as he's checking out the motion detectors at the perimeter out by the lake, he starts coughing. The coughing dogs him for the rest of the day, but he does his best to ignore it. He's got the immune system of someone who spent their formative years growing up in a nuclear apocalyptic wasteland. Whatever this is will pass.
But by the time he sits down to dinner, he's feeling decidedly like shit. He's wincing with every swallow, and there's an unfortunate pressure building in his sinuses.
It's a pretty silent dinner altogether, small talk not being a terminator specialty, although the hulking cyborg always feels the need to sit at the table with them while they eat anyway. It's probably another one of those "social skills" Sarah's attempted to work into his programming. And as for Sarah, well she's pissed at him. He's not entirely sure how it started, but they've spent the last two weeks basically arguing any time one of them speaks. Neither of them have ever really tried this whole romantic relationship thing before, and they keep stepping on each others toes. Neither the apocalypse nor a looming terminator guardian are great conditions for understanding dating culture, so they're both pretty under-prepared when it comes to romance. For now, it sees the less they talk, the less the chance of starting a fight.
"Kyle Reese," says the T800, out of nowhere, not all that great at segue ways or small talk, "You are exhibiting signs of illness."
Sarah looks up from her food at that, and he thinks he sees a flicker of worry before she covers it up.
"It's-" he has to clear his throat, "Just a cold."
He almost jumps out of his chair when a large hand reaches over and clamps on his forehead.
"Your body temperature is within the acceptable limits. I recommend antihistamines, fluid and rest."
"Uh... Thanks..." he catches a faint smile of amusement on Sarah's lips from across the table. "But remember the talk we had? About personal space?"
"Yes."
The hand is withdrawn, and the T800 goes back to watching them silently.
The next morning, things aren't any better. His body is a mess of aches and pains and doesn't seem to be able to decide whether it's too cold or too hot at any given second. He feels weak and dizzy, and generally like crap. He hasn't been this sick since John helped bust him out of Century Work Camp. The days following the escape are pretty much a blur of him curled up in a ball at the bottom of some hidey hole. But he remembers that John watched over him, took care of him, told him stories to distract him and as usual, was basically his guardian angel and his best friend; Make that his son apparently. Shit. That makes his head hurt even more, and Kyle only wishes he could stop thinking about it.
To make things worse, Sarah takes off for the day to do a last supply run before the forecasted snowstorm hits, leaving him alone with Pops. That's after they get in an argument after he tells the T800 to 'fuck off.' In his defense, All Kyle wants to do is curl up in a ball and ride out the waves of misery, but the cyborg is intent on diagnosing him and pestering him with questions. Somehow, hearing everything the terminator has in its files about human illness recited to him doesn't help with his pounding headache. The Sarah gets protective of 'Pops'. Normally, its kind of funny watching tiny, fierce Sarah defend the hulking metal killing machine, but headaches, waves of chills and muscle aches, coupled with unwelcome memories of John, don't exactly put him in a good mood. So once again, they get in a fight.
At this point he's pretty sure he's also refused 'a sedative' from the terminator a good twenty times. Not least of all because he wonders if a sedative involves being knocked unconscious with the butt of a gun for the second time in their short but memorable time together.
He finally manages to fall asleep on the couch at some point, only to have John visit him in a feverish, garbled dream, that he wakes up from gasping and shaking, to find the T800 hovering over him way too close for someone trying to stave off a panic attack.
"Back off," he manages to rasp, disentangling himself from the blankets that felt nice and warm when he fell asleep and now feel like they're suffocating him.
The terminator backs up a foot or so and continues to watch him with impassive eyes, "Your body temperature has exceeded its normal range."
"No shit," Kyle mutters, feeling the sweat trickle freely down the back of his neck.
"Your symptoms are consistent with influenza. My files recommend a course of treatment including fluids, bed rest, and acetaminophen."
"Great. Thanks Doc. I think I'll go for the 'bed rest.'"
He's not exactly in a hurry to fall back into anymore John Connor related fever dreams, but the idea of his own bed is suddenly massively appealing. His room is good. It's darker in there. There's a door he can close. And maybe even lock. That thought motivates him enough to lever his aching body off of the couch and begin the slow shuffle down the hall.
"Do you require assistance?" he hears from behind him.
His answer is about to be 'no' but then there are weird dancing black spots at the sides of his vision. Not good. He doesn't feel himself hit the floor.
SARAH
"Kyle?..." she tries again softly.
Hazy blue green eyes struggle open and he manages to meet her worried gaze for a second or two before he groans and shuts them again.
"...'s too bright..." he mumbles thickly.
OK so add headache to the list of symptoms for sure. This is a classic case of the flu. Well, as classic as anything can be when you're a soldier from the future seemingly without any relevant present day antibodies. Kyle Reese has survived the apocalypse, he's been shot, burned, stabbed, and god only knows what else if his collection of scars is anything to go by. But here he is, taken down by an everyday seasonal flu; and taken down good.
She almost had a heart attack when she got back to the cabin to find Pops carrying an unconscious Kyle bridal style towards the bedroom. On any other day it would have been hilarious and there would have to be pictures and blackmail involved, but given how very-much-like-shit Kyle's been looking for the last two days, she drops what she's carrying and rushes to help. They manage to get him in to bed and he comes to a few seconds later, disoriented and irritable at being manhandled. That was this afternoon.
"OK. I'm closing the curtains. Can you sit up?"
There's an indistinct mumble from the bed, the only word of which Sarah catches is "No."
He's a terrible patient. That much she's learned over the last few hours. Normally his stubbornness is equal parts annoying and attractive, but right now it's just annoying. To begin with, she's not exactly the nurturing, Florence Nightingale type. Combining that with a patient whose main concept of what to do when sick seems to involve curling up like a dying animal and waiting it out, and not a hell of alot else, isn't making things any easier.
"You're going to get dehydrated," she tells him patiently, "You need to drink some water."
He sighs tiredly and it quickly turns into a cough.
Sometimes she feels like a complete moron she loves this man so much. Maybe that's part of some unavoidable pre-destiny, but maybe she just genuinely loves his stubbornness and his bravery and his surprising moments of gentleness. Maybe he's just the only person who can relate to a lifetime of fighting and running and fear. She's been able to tell him things she's never told anyone, and little by little he's given her bits and pieces of his life before he was sent back to 1984.
But sometimes she feels like there's so much between them history, past, future, potential future... it makes her head hurt and she can barely stand to look at him. That's how it's been for the past two weeks. When they talk, they argue. When she looks at him, she sees John and wonders if he's seeing the same thing. She keeps on wondering though, because on the subject of John, Kyle's a closed book. It may be the one thing he won't talk to her about. But she needs to talk about it; at least needs to know that he's having as much trouble as she is sorting out the tangled clusterfuck of emotions that surrounds John Connor. But for whatever reason, he won't trust her on that score, and she's getting more and more frustrated.
"You're not going to let me sleep are you?" he asks hoarsely, and she's snapped back to the present.
She realizes she's still standing over him.
"After you drink some water. And take these."
His head emerges from the blankets to squint at what she's referring to and he frowns when he sees the pills in her hand.
"What're those?"
"Tylenol," she tells him.
"What?"
Right. Sometimes it's like talking to Pops; the simplest things get lost in translation.
"It'll help with the fever, and the headache."
Gingerly, Kyle raises himself up on one elbow and holds out a hand. She drops the pills into his palm and he knocks them back with the water she gives him next. He hands it back to her when he's had enough and instantly burrows back under the covers.
"That's an impressive blanket cave you've got going there."
" Cold..." he mutters, shifting a little, trying to get comfortable. "Friggin' Canada..."
"The heat's on as high as it goes."
"Mmm.." he acknowledges grudgingly, "Doesn't matter... Going to be too hot again in a minute..."
There's not much she can do about that. Being sick like that is miserable. She tries to think what Pops would do for her. Whoever wrote his programming gave him some surprisingly good bedside manner. She always remembers him making her feel so much better when she was sick in bed as a kid.
"Need anything else?" She finally settles on asking.
"Just sleep..." Kyle mutters, "Uninterrupted sleep, would be great... Wanna... pass that along to our friend out there?..."
She frowns, "He's only trying to help."
"Just... tired... wanna sleep..." Kyle mumbles burying his face in the pillow.
So she leaves him to it.
She finds Pops in the kitchen, tinkering with an old radio.
"What is his condition?" he asks, not looking up from his work.
"He's..." Sarah pulls up a chair and snags an apple from the fruit bowl. They have a fruit bowl. And a kitchen table. It still blows her mind. "Well, he's still got the flu. And there my medical know-how ends abruptly."
"You did not assess body temperature, heart rate-"
"Pops!" She cuts him off with a wave of her apple, "I gave him the pills and the water and let him go back to sleep. I mean... " she pauses and looks up at him uncertainly, "It is just the flu... right?"
"I am not a fully equipped diagnostic medical unit."
She figures that's kind of Terminator for: "What do I look like? A doctor?"
"Fine, OK, I get it. You don't have to give me the attitude..." she gripes.
Pops stops gutting the old radio to look at her squarely.
"You are concerned about Kyle Reese."
"I'm-..." Damn. Pops raised her. He knows her too well. "Yeah. It's just that thing you said about antibodies..."
"I theorized that Kyle Reese does not possess antibodies that correspond with the strain of influenza currently circulating in this time period."
"Yeah that."
"Sarah." He says her name in a way that she hears as gentle, even if anyone else would likely hear it as his usual monotone. "I also theorize that with adequate rest and care, Kyle Reese will make a full recovery."
"OK. Good." Her gaze drifts out the window to the falling snow.
It's getting colder...
POPS
DECEMBER 15th, 2017, 23:58
MISSION: OBJECTIVE: Protect Sarah Connor
Perimeters - secure Breaches: 0
Sarah Connor- Current status: sleeping
Safehouse 023 status: secure
DAILY DIRECTIVES: Source: Sarah Connor: Directive: monitor Kyle Reese
LOCATION: Bedroom C
EXECUTE: DIAGNOSTIC - TEMPERATURE: 102 degrees F: Status: Sleeping
DIAGNOSTIC: Cross referencing - OBSERVATIONS - Cross referencing Medical Database
Audio input:
Kyle Reese: (Unintelligible)
Assessment: Dreaming
Audio input
Kyle Reese: (Unintelligible) John... (Unintelligible)
ASSESSMENT : John Cross referencing File: Kyle Reese: Sub-folder: John Connor: Relationship: Friend, Mentor, Son - Possible mental/emotional trauma relating to his death and betrayal
POSSIBLE ACTIONS:
Ignore
Administer sedative
Wake patient
-Optimizing response
ASSESSMENT: Subject in emotional distress
-Optimizing response - ACCESSING Folder: Human Psychology - Cross referencing Memory Files: Folder: Sarah Connor: Sub folder: Illness -Nightmare
-Optimizing Response
EXECUTE: Physical Contact: Reassurance - Hand -Forehead
ASSESSING...
OBSERVATIONS: Kyle Reese: Diminishing signs of distress - ASSESSING...Patient sedated
Audio Input Source: Perimeter: unidentified
Initiate defense Protocol 00378 - Check perimeter
SARAH
She's sound asleep that night under a nice thick quilt, when something startles her awake. In seconds, she has the gun from her bedside table in one hand and the flashlight in the other. She sweeps the shadows, heart hammering, straining her ears for sounds, but the cabin is quiet. As silently as she can, Sarah untangles herself from the blankets and slides out of bed. The wooden floor is like a block of ice under her feet, but she ignores the cold and pads stealthily to the bedroom door. The hall looks secure; empty and quiet. There's no sign of Pops, but he usually goes on a walking patrol at some point in the night to check the perimeters. She's started making her way towards Kyle's room when a sound makes her freeze. A voice... it's too quiet to make much out, but it sounds like it's coming from the direction of his room. Sarah creeps closer, weapon still at the ready until she's almost at the door.
"No!"
Kyle's shout goes through her with a hot bolt of panic and she charges the door ready to unload a clip into whatever machine, human, or any other motherfucker might be trying to attack them-
The room is empty.
But she knows what woke her up now.
Tangled in the blankets (the only attacker Kyle's doing battle with) he's thrashing weakly, in the throes of a nightmare.
She safetys her weapon and sets it down on the bedside table, edging closer to him cautiously.
He cries out, the words mostly garbled in his sleep, but she does make out one word: John. Sarah winces sympathetically as he calls out again.
"Kyle..." she sits carefully on the edge of the bed and reaches for his shoulder, "Kyle wake up."
She grips him firmly and shakes. He moans but doesn't open his eyes, and she tries again, a litlte harder.
"Kyle c'mon, you're dreaming."
This time his eyes fly open and he sits bolt upright, gasping for breath.
"Hey, it's OK,"she tells him, gripping his trembling arms, "You were just dreaming. Do you know where you are?"
Instead of answering, he sags forward so his head comes to rest against her shoulder. The amount of heat she can feel radiating off of him is nothing short of alarming.
"...Fuck..." he breathes shakily.
"Kyle?"
She can't see his face from this angle in the dark.
"Canada," he mumbles against her shoulder. He swallows thickly and nods to himself, "Cabin. Canada. You, me, and the big guy."
"That's right," she tells him, trying to keep her tone calm and reassuring. But Jesus. Kyle's burning up, everywhere his skin touches her, even through her pajamas, testifies to his worsening fever.
"I'm going to get you some water," she tells him, "Can you lay back for me?"
She helps guide him unresisting back against the pillows and flicks on the bedside lamp on its dimmest setting. He closes his eyes with a wince and Sarah echoes the expression on her own face, taking in his pallor.
"Water and some more Tylenol," she amends, "Be right back."
She practically sprints toward the bathroom and narrowly misses Pops who's appeared out of nowhere.
"Damn it! What are you in stealth mode?"
"No." He tells her patiently, "I do not have a 'stealth-mode'."
He's looking at her like he wants to tell her to calm down, but she's told him enough times that she hates that. So he says nothing instead, just waits for her to tell him why she just barreled into him.
"Reese is worse," she says, trying to keep her voice neutral with little to no success.
"What are his symptoms?"
"Um..." she tries to put it into useful terms Pops can do something with, "His fever's higher. I think, I didn't whip out a thermometer, but it feels higher... He's... he was having a nightmare..."
About our dead- no wait, or is that 'unborn' son? Jesus. Is there even a way to be equipped to deal with this?
She's not used to this she realizes, taking care of someone else. It's been just her and Pops for so long... She's taken care of Pops of course, helped him repair himself, actually learned to stitch up a wound practicing on his living tissue overlay, but that's completely different. Pops taught her to stitch up cuts on him because he doesn't register physical pain. He doesn't get sick or have nightmares or fevers or any of this shit. He doesn't make her feel scared and helpless because there's nothing to fight or shoot, just a body that's been pushed just that little bit too far, and is staging a coup.
"Where is Kyle Reese?"
"In his room," she answers trying not to give into her rising anxiety.
"I will assess his symptoms. It would be helpful if you would get the First Aid Kit from the kitchen pantry. It is a blue metal box."
"OK."
OK.
He reads her like a book, knows she needs something productive to do.
The "First Aid Kit" is an over-sized blue, metal toolbox. She finds it easily enough, although picking it up is another matter. It's heavy as hell. Which she hopes means there are some good supplies in there.
Back in Kyle's bedroom, she finds Pops has tossed most of the heavier blankets on a nearby chair and is carefully arranging a lighter throw over the now sleeping soldier. Kyle's been propped up a little on the pillows, and there's a cold compress laid across his brow. To anyone else, it would probably be funny, Pops' huge lumbering form moving so gingerly, but Sarah remembers who was there every time she was sick as a kid. Pops took care of her. He didn't just give her drugs or pack her off to the hospital. No, he sat by her bedside and talked to her and read to her and made her feel safe and loved.
"Put it on the floor,"he instructs quietly. "His temperature is reaching a dangerous level. He will require intravenous drugs."
Shit. Because that sounds a hell of a lot more serious than she'd thought. Also Shit. because she's just remembered something Kyle told her in relation to that barcode tattoo on his arm.
"Can't we give him something he can swallow?" she asks hopefully.
"Negative. His levels of consciousness are too unreliable."
"It's just..." she hesitates, "He really hates needles apparently."
"It is a very common phobia," Pops acknowledges, removing the cold compress from Kyle's forehead and re-soaking it.
"Uh, Pops, I think it's a little more than a phobia... Something to do with..." Sarah lowers her voice, not entirely sure how out-of-it Kyle is at the moment and not sure how he'd feel either about her sharing this information with anyone else, "Century Work Camp and interrogations involving lots and lots of drugs and needles."
Pops pauses, considering the new information for a second, before gently, placing the cool cloth back on Reese's forehead.
"In this case it is irrelevant. Kyle Reese requires an antipyretic and saline drip."
He'll just have to deal it seems. Or maybe he won't... Maybe he'll stay sound asleep and it won't matter that they're sticking a needle in his arm. Or that the last needles that he got jabbed with almost made him claw his own eyes out with hallucinations... Maybe for once things will decide to be fine...
KYLE
It's hot as hell. He doesn't remember it being this hot. It's November and Jon's leading him through the tunnels away from Century. It's really all he can do to stumble along behind his friend without faceplanting, but he keeps going doggedly. Anything's better than getting captured - Getting sent back to that place - Being questioned by the machines - over and over, and-
"Reese?" John stops and frowns, "We have to keep going."
"Yessir," he flicks off a shaky salute and tries not to vomit.
Among other things, he can feel the needle tracks stinging and burning along his arms. The needles and the questions over and over...
Where is sub station 301? Where is John Connor? Who are the resistance commanders? Where is sub station 301? Where is John Connor? Resistance will be met with punishment.
"Reese. I told you we can't stop."
"I know." He knows.
He's just so fucking tired. And everything hurts. And he's way too fucking hot. Why is it so hot down here?
"Kyle Reese."
He looks up to tell John that he's doing his best, but when he does, he sees it. Metal, crawling over the familiar features, taking over, swallowing his best friend.
"John!"
He tries to call out a warning, something... but John lunges forward and grabs him in a choke hold lifting him off of his feet with inhuman strength.
"Where is sub station 301? Where is John Connor? Who are the resistance commanders? Where is sub station 301? Where is John Connor? Resistance will be met with punishment," he drones.
Kyle can't breathe. Panic and terror squeeze around him with a grip almost as vice-like as the one John has on his throat.
"Dad. Where is sub station 301? Where is John Connor? Who are the resistance commanders? Resistance will be met with punishment."
He's dropped unceremoniously to the ground, where John rolls him over with his foot. "Where is John Connor?"
John's face shifts again, liquid metal rippling under its surface, the skin peeling back to reveal processing chips and circuitry. Then he's grabbing Kyle's arm and the contact with the throbbing needle tracks makes it feel like his skin's on fire. The fingers gripping his arm elongate, becoming needles themselves, and Kyle desperately tries to pry them off.
"Kyle Reese. Do not resist."
"Please... he chokes out... John..."
His vision is going grey.
Then there's another voice, gentle and familiar and Kyle scrabbles for it desperately in the dark.
POPS
December 16th, 2017: 22:00
MISSION: OBJECTIVE: Protect Sarah Connor
Safehouse 023 status: secure
Sarah Connor - Current status: Alive - Physical health: Fatigued: Diagnosis: Requires monitoring - Mental Health : Displaying signs of anxiety Current location: Bedroom C
Current Directive: Return to Bedroom C
Audio input:
Source: Bedroom C
Sarah Connor: It's OK now... You're going to be OK, Kyle
EXECUTE: Stealth Mode
Audio input
Kyle Reese: (Unintelligible)
Sarah Connor: Easy now, it's OK...
EXECUTE Enter Bedroom C
Audio Input
Sarah Connor: Hey Pops
OBSERVATIONS: Sarah Connor ASSESSMENT: Fatigued: Diagnosis: Requires Sleep
Kyle Reese ASSESSMENT: Unconscious- Remains febrile... Continuing distress and delirium... Diagnosis: Requires continued infusion of antipyretics and saline - Maintain restraints at wrists to keep patient from removing IV
EXECUTE: VERBAL: You require sleep, Sarah Connor.
Audio Input
Sarah Connor: Yeah... I just feel bad leaving him like this. He's... he's having these nightmares...
Audio Input
Kyle Reese: (Unintelligible)
ASSESSMENT: Kyle Reese: Experiencing physical and mental discomfort
ASSESSMENT Subject: Sarah Connor Increased emotional distress
RESPONSE OPTIONS:
Remove Sarah Connor from room
Remove Kyle Reese from room
REASSESSING...
OBSERVATIONS: Sarah Connor - Attempt to ease symptoms - Cold compress - Patient face, neck, chest
Audio Input
Sarah Connor: This is the worst. I feel so useless...
EXECUTE: Verbal: There is evidence in my medical files supporting intermittent sponging or bathing as a means of symptom relief.
Audio input
Sarah Connor: I think the nightmares are about John. I can only imagine..His best friend and future son end up as an evil puppet of Skynet. And then we... well we had to...
EXECUTE VERBAL: John Connor is also the son of Sarah Connor.
Audio Input
Sarah Connor: Yeah but I'm not having crazy fever induced nightmares about him.
SEARCH File: Human Psychology Sub-folder: Grief
EXECUTE: VERBAL: Kyle Reese requires time to grieve and accept the loss of John Connor. This is also necessary for Sarah Connor. My files on human psychology show that each individual does this in a unique way.
Audio Input
Sarah Connor: Pops, no offense but I don't think a high-grade fever and being strapped delirious to a bed are exactly part of a healthy grieving process. Might want to double check those files
ASSESSMENT: Sarah Connor requires sleep
RESPONSE OPTIONS:
Administer sedative
Physically remove Sarah Connor from Bedroom C, and then administer sedative
Provide verbal reassurance
EXECUTE: VERBAL: Sarah, you have provided Kyle Reese with adequate levels of medical care and psychological comfort. I predict a 94% chance of total recovery. You require sleep. I will monitor Kyle Reese and alert you if there is a change in his condition.
Audio Input
Sarah Connor: Ok in a minute. Just let me stay with him a little longer. I don't want him to think he's alone.
SARAH
Kyle stopped trying to rip out the IV line every time he came half awake, some time in the night so at least they've been able to untie his wrists. He's been pretty out of it most of the day now, mostly sleeping, but since his fever broke last night, Sarah feels herself breathing easily again. He looks pale, but peaceful, so she lets herself calm down. He's out of the woods now. No more nightmares either it seems. She puts her headphones back on and leans back into the armchair beside his bed with the feeling, for the first time in a long time, that things are going to turn out alright.
An hour later, something wakes her from her cat nap, and she finds Kyle watching her from the bed.
"Hey," she says putting down her headphones and scooting a little closer, " How long were you awake?"
"A little while," he rasps voice still pretty rusty, "Nice sight to wake up to..."
Sarah feels herself blush, which is basically the most ridiculous thing possible, but right now she's just so relieved to have Kyle awake, she decides not to give a shit.
"I didn't want you to wake up alone".
Pops lumbers into the room and Sarah grins.
"Your patient finally woke up!"
The T800 fixes them with an unimpressed stare, "Kyle Reese's probability for recovery was in the 90th percentile. This is an expected outcome."
"Don't listen to him," she says shaking her head, "He was worried about you. We both were," she adds.
"I do not possess a subroutine for 'worry.'"
"Just like you don't have a stealth mode, right Pops?"
"Affirmative."
Kyle gives her one of those smiles that makes her heart do impressive back flips, and she gives his hand a squeeze.
"Need anything?"
"...Water would be good."
"Great," she says with a flirtatious grin, "Pops can get some."
As he turns to leave the bedroom, Kyle takes her hand and kisses it.
"Thanks," he murmurs, "For staying with me."
Then before she really has time to think about it, she's leaned in and presses her lips to his in a gentle kiss. He returns it with a surprising amount of energy for someone who's been laid up with a high-grade fever...
"Sarah Connor," she hears from the door, "Kyle Reese requires rest before he is in optimal condition for mating."
She feels Kyle wince and chuckle against her lips. He's reluctant to let her go, and sighs disappointed when she does finally pull away.
"Sorry," she tells him, sneaking one last quick kiss, "Doctor's orders." And Pops?" she calls getting up and following the terminator out of the room, "I think we need to have another little talk about The M word!"