I do not own Terminator.
And I can't let go of Michael Biehn yet. He just has too much heart.
No Fate
Sarah Connor and All The Things She Doesn't Know
She just can't stop looking him.
Or him.
Them.
John.
And Kyle.
She's still laying down, she doesn't know when she'll ever have the strength to get up and do anything again in her life, maybe she can teach this little bitty helpless baby boy in her arms to be a great and powerful military leader from the relative comfort of this double cabin bed.
Probably not.
But it doesn't matter right now.
Right now she's laying here, on her side, everything hurting, her entire body the worst migraine ever.
If she lifts her head, her eyeballs will explode, that's how much she hurts.
Her vagina is a wreck, will probably never be the same again.
Kyle's in for a rude awakening for sure that next time he wants to play hide the salami but he was there when John did his thing so he shouldn't be too surprised and it's his fault anyw-
And right now, none of matters, well, not an awful lot.
Because she just can't stop looking at them.
Staring.
Gazing.
Drinking them in.
Kyle.
And John.
John and Kyle.
The man from the future.
And the man who sent him.
Laying there with her.
Kyle on his side, head on the pillow.
Facing her.
But not looking at her.
For once not riveted on her.
Or on some new wonder this pre-apocalyptic world has presented to him.
Though she supposes it still is.
And the best one of all.
The newborn.
The baby.
The future of the human race.
The boy, his boy.
His son.
And he just can't seem to take his eyes . . .
I love you, Kyle.
. . . off him.
And she doesn't know how she . . .
I love you, John.
. . . can . . .
I love you both so much.
. . . either.
Sarah Connor had not been breastfed.
Neither had the children she had babysat in her youth.
Truth be told, she's never seen a baby feed without a bottle.
"Just nicer. Doesn't destroy your breasts either."
"Mom, eww."
And now . . .
"Ow ow ow ow!"
. . . she has to learn.
"Dammit!"
Quick.
"What is it?"
Or her son . . .
"I can't get him to drink, latch, whatever!"
. . . won't thrive.
"Can I help?"
"Unless you can make milk come out of your chest, no!"
And she cries.
And John cries.
And they cry together.
And she keeps working at it.
They could get formula, feed him easy.
But if she did that and before he was on solid foods, things went sideways, she wouldn't be able to feed him.
And she can't risk that.
So . . .
"Come on, dammit, please!"
. . . she keeps trying.
And crying.
And he eventually does latch.
"Owch, kid!"
Drink.
"Owch!"
And it works.
"Is he doing better?"
"Yeah. A little."
Even though it's always . . .
"Are you?"
"I don't . . . I don't know. I guess."
. . . a struggle.
All she wants to do is sleep.
Hold her baby boy, kiss the dark fuzz of his head, count his fingers and toes.
And sleep.
Snuggle up to the man she loves, warm and safe.
And sleep.
She doesn't know how she can ever manage to do anything else.
But she must get up from time to time.
Hobble to and from the bathroom.
Ease herself carefully down onto the toilet seat, hands pressed against the walls for support, teeth gritted, hair hanging in her eyes.
Relax as much as possible, allow things to . . . progress on their own.
No pushing, no straining.
Just . . . ease on.
Wipe.
Blot, really.
Everything hurts so bad.
Flush.
Take a deep breath.
And ease herself back up, slow and easy, no sudden flinches or jerks.
It's teaching her to manage pain, compartmentalize it, she can say that.
But she makes it, she also makes it.
And then she shuffles her way over.
To the sink.
Washes her hands.
Brushes her hair.
Her teeth.
Takes slow, careful showers.
Eat.
And whatever else she absolutely absolutely must do before gratefully being able to lay back down and . . .
"Sorry. Sleeping Beauty over here."
"It's okay. You need your rest."
. . . fall asleep again.
Her mother always told her, when the time came, maternal instincts would kick in.
Maternal instincts.
She's pretty sure she doesn't have them.
Sarah Connor may be many things.
An ex-college student.
An ex-waitress.
An ex-roommate.
An ex-daughter.
Ex-iguana owner.
And she will be many things in the future.
According to Kyle.
"Perry used to say our struggles made us stronger."
Kyle who's suddenly talking about some dude . . .
"Perry?"
. . . Sarah's never heard of before.
"My commander."
She huffs.
"Well, mark me down as being able to benchpress a car by the time I'm done with all this. Everything's a struggle for me."
He doesn't say anything immediately and she feels an almost instant pang of guilt.
This man, this man she loves who never complains about anything, was born in war and lived in extreme duress all his life, he knows more about struggle than she could ever begin to understand.
"Kyle, I'm sorry, that was so insensitive to your life, your experience-"
"No. It's okay. This isn't easy for you."
She walks into the room from a much needed shower.
And finds them.
Her son.
Oh.
And his father.
Oh.
Apparently Kyle's just as tired as she's been lately.
He's conked out on the couch, flat on his back, eyes closed, head tilted.
The man from the apocalyptic future.
Sound asleep.
But that's not all.
It gets even better.
John is with him.
John, his son.
The Savior of the Human Race, Leader of the Human Resistance Against The Machines.
All of three weeks old.
Snugged onto his father's chest, tucked against the back of the couch.
Cradled safe and snug and tight.
One hand touching his plump little face.
One hand touching his father's arm.
They are beautiful together, these two people she loves, these two people, all she has in the whole wide world.
Until it apparently becomes one.
But she decides not to think about that.
Not here.
Not now.
Not with this beautiful gift of a tableau laid out before her.
Without the Terminator, none of this would have ever happened.
That is one weird, fucking thought.
And I'm not going to compose a flowery, perfume scented thank you card to Skynet either, thank you very much.
And as she moves, she steps on one of the dogs' squeaky toys, causing it to, well, squeak.
It's not a loud sound, a deafening sound, not war or battle.
But it wakes him anyway.
Kyle, not John.
John, tucked into the safety of his father's embrace, continues to sleep, undisturbed and unawares.
Kyle, on the other hand, opens his eyes immediately.
At the same time, the arm that has been angled up and under the pillow under his head, moving down and out to reveal . . .
Wow.
. . . his hand gripping a loaded pistol.
Finger . . .
"Hey."
"Hey. Everything okay?"
. . . on the trigger.
"Yeah. Are you okay?"
Her eyes move meaningfully from his eyes to the gun and back again.
Kyle finds her path, nods.
"Yeah."
And she keeps her voice even and calm.
"And what about that?"
He answers simply, without artifice.
"Helps me sleep."
And she . . .
"He looks awfully comfy."
"Yeah."
"He loves his daddy."
"Yeah. I guess so."
. . . lets it go.
Kyle Reese may not be able to breastfeed their newborn son.
But he does . . .
"Here. I'll take him."
. . . make himself useful.
"Thanks. That smell makes me want to puke."
In other ways.
He's a weapons expert.
A hardened soldier.
He's a man from the future who grew up learning how to survive with close to nothing.
Fight with next to nothing.
And now . . .
"Got everything?"
"Yeah. I'm good."
. . . he's inundated with supplies.
Baby supplies, that is.
Baby powder.
Wipes.
Rash cream.
Diapers.
Garbage bags.
And Kyle Reese.
"Okay, let's see - oop . . ."
"What?"
"He, uh, he peed on me."
Kyle Reese.
Peed on.
By . . .
"John, . . ."
. . . the future Savior of the Human Race.
". . . did you pee on your daddy?"
Leader of the Human Resistance . . .
"You did, didn't you?"
. . . Against The Machines.
"Here, give him to me. I'll get you a clean shirt."
But not yet.
". . . you, my parttime lover . . ."
She hopes she always remembers to do these types of things.
". . . undercover passion on the run . . ."
She hopes she is always able to.
". . . love up against the sun . . ."
That she never forgets to have joy.
". . . day, lovers by the night . . ."
Dancing joy.
". . . wrong, feeling so right . . ."
She's feeling better.
". . . and we should meet . . ."
So much better in fact . . .
". . . by, don't even speak . . ."
. . . that here she is again.
". . . descreet when parttime lovers . . ."
In the kitchen.
". . . some emergency . . ."
Dogs at her feet.
". . . to ask for me . . ."
Cooking.
". . . really you, my parttime lover . . ."
Box macaroni and cheese this time.
". . . undercover passion on the run . . ."
Kraft.
". . . love up against the sun . . ."
And dancing.
". . . day, lovers by night . . ."
But this time she's not alone when Kyle finds her.
". . . wrong, feeling so right . . ."
This time . . .
". . . -thing that I must tell . . ."
. . . she with her son.
". . . rang our doorbell . . ."
Her baby boy.
". . . not you, my parttime lover . . ."
Her lil pun-um.
". . . our exchange . . ."
Who will one day grow up to be a great military leader.
". . . want to leave his name . . ."
The Savior of the Human Resistance Against the Machines.
". . . two can play that game . . ."
John Conner. Wrapped in her arms.
". . . parttime love- oh-"
Even though . . .
"Here. I'll take him."
. . . at the moment, . . .
"Okay. Thanks."
. . . he has turned green from her spinning and gyrating to what is definitely a very inappropriate song to sing, even off-key, to a baby.
"Thanks."
And spit up all over her shirt in gurgling, half-smiling commentary.
"And could you stir in the cheese powder while you're at it?"
"The what?"
Thanks to DinahRay and wearedeadpool for your gracious reviews.
Thanks also to Aeryn Levia, AnaBella12, and Hooleby for adding your support to this tale.
Sorry everyone had to wait so long for an update.
:)