I do not own Terminator.
And I can't let go of Michael Biehn yet. He just has too much heart.
No Fate
Life Changing
She isn't sure, not at first.
With all the stress of the last three months.
Severe change in any and all lifestyle habits.
Trauma to her body.
But she can't eat, and she'd always been able to eat.
She's always had erratic periods, yay, femalehood.
And she can't stop thinking about it.
So she drives to the pharmacy after paying the light bill.
And . . .
Oh my God.
I can't believe it.
Twice.
A third time.
And then . . .
I guess it makes perfect sense.
. . . she drives home.
"Kyle, . . ."
And talks to Kyle.
"I know who John's father is."
About something really, really . . .
"Really? Who?"
. . . important.
She almost laughs when he asks.
Really? Seriously?
But she doesn't.
Johnny Carson.
She doesn't want to hurt his feelings.
And it is a big moment.
Come on, Kyle.
He's a smart guy, he'll figure it out eventually.
And he does, quickly, and it's precious and amazing and beautiful and heart-wrenching.
His eyes go big and his jaw slackens.
He glances down at her flat midsection and then up again to her eyes.
She smiles, suddenly feeling nervous and anxious, like the entire fabric of the universe has rested entirely on him never knowing and how cruel a fate would that would have been or would it and-
And then he slowly sinks down onto the couch behind him without even seeming to know it's there-
"Kyle? Kyle, are you okay?"
-and she didn't mean to break him, she meant to help him and-
"Yeah. Yeah. I mean, I guess, I mean, not really-"
His voice is so quiet and so soft she has to strain to hear it.
And she sits down with him, thin, trembling hands touching his shoulder, his back.
"Kyle?"
Reassuring herself he won't poof away out of existence out of pure stress and . . .
"He knew. Didn't he?"
"Who?"
. . . fate.
"John. Your . . . my . . . son."
And his voice is like a hollow thing.
Like everything he ever thought himself has been scooped out and thrown away.
"I . . . I don't know. I guess."
She tries to smile, lighten the load, bump his shoulder with hers.
"You're the one who's from the future, not me."
It doesn't work.
Kyle still seems to be in a state of complete and utter shock.
He speaks slowly, as if he's discovering the thoughts one second at a time, so big they can't be processed all at once.
"He knew. That's why he requested me with his unit, approached me."
Maybe they are.
"He knew who I was."
She's focusing on a cute little baby.
He's seeing an entirely new understanding of his life.
"He got close to me, gave me the picture, knowing I'd fall in love with you."
Possibly almost as a betrayal.
And again she tries to tease.
"Now how would he know that?"
And again it doesn't help.
"Because I'd already done it. In his past."
Kyle Reese is in a state.
"But did he do it because it was his past or was it his past because he did it?"
Of what yet, she doesn't know.
"Do you . . . do you wish he hadn't?"
And because she can't think of anything to say, . . .
"No. I just need to think."
. . . she stops talking.
"Okay."
And just stays close to him.
For a while.
"I . . . I don't know how to be a father."
Sarah Conner shrugs.
"I don't know how to be a mother. But according to you, I am."
Another weak joke and still he doesn't laugh or even try to smile.
Sarah Conner puts a hand to his scruffy cheek.
"Hey, we'll figure it out together. Okay?"
And then she tries one last time.
"I mean, it's not like we have a choice or anything, right?"
I can't abort the savior of the entire human race.
And I don't think I would want to anyway.
"Right."
And she's still sort of worried about him.
She finds him staring off into space, hands clenched, jaw tight.
Not just once.
"Kyle?"
But time and again.
"Kyle, are you alright?"
At windows. In doorways.
"Kyle?"
In empty rooms.
"Yeah."
Or in rooms that had been empty.
"Yeah."
Before she walked into them.
"I'm okay."
And she has to believe.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
She has to believe everything will be alright.
She's cooking again, she's always in the kitchen, her mother would be chuckling at her if the terminator hadn't shot her to death in her own foyer, her mother would be chuckling at her daughter, Sarah Connor, always in the kitchen now when she always had better things to do than learn to cook back then.
"Sarah."
She's cooking, goulash, with lots of pepper.
"I'm sorry."
And he comes up to her.
"I'm sorry I've been-"
And she clatters down the spoon and of course she forgets to put it on the paper towel she's laid down, now she'll have to wipe up the splatters, how is she expected to teach her unborn son how to be a great military leader-
And she lets it go, it doesn't matter, she'll figure it out somehow.
And she turns, shaking her head.
Emphatically.
"No, Kyle, no, I- no-"
Hugging him tight to her, feeling his warmth, his heartbeat, his life.
Here with her and not somewhere in a hellishly bleak future.
Or forgotten and dead and rotting in a unmarked hole in the ground, terminated.
"Don't apologize. You have no reason to apologize."
But here.
With her.
"Ever."
Alive.
"I'm just glad you're here."
And he hugs her back.
Kisses the top of her head.
Squeezes her tight.
"I'm glad I'm here too."
But not too tight.
"I love you, Sarah."
And she knows what he thinking about.
"And I'm glad I'm . . ."
Or rather who.
"I'm glad I'm John's father."
And she decides . . .
"Me too."
. . . to believe him.
Can you even imagine that revelation?