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There is nothing more precious than that which once was lost. For John Connor, that is Kate Parker. Her capture, and later institutionalization, still haunt him, even if he was the one to organize her escape. It shouldn't be so easy to be parted from your destiny. His only solace is that they are back together, in this shitty apartment, in his twin bed. It really is too small for two people, but see if he cares.
He awakens before her, as he usually does, and untangles from the mess of limbs with great effort to take a shower. When he returns, she's still asleep, her bob-cut hair a messy halo around her head. She looks lovely. He grabs his bag and rummages through it for his Polaroid camera, but by the time he's got her in frame, she's stirring.
"Hi," she says.
"Hi."
"Were you going to take a picture of me sleeping?"
"Yeah."
"That's low."
"No, you're beautiful when you're sleeping."
She scoffs.
"I'll show you."
"Is that a promise or a threat?" She sits up, yawns, and stretches. Her shirt rides up and exposes her stomach. He quickly snaps a photograph.
"John!"
"What?!"
She tosses a pillow at him. It bounces off his face.
"Oof!"
"That's what you get!" She laughs. He takes another picture, just to be cheeky.
"Hey!" she cries.
"What can I say?" he asks. "I don't learn my lesson."
"Clearly." She gets out of bed, her feet lightly touching the floor like a dancer's. "I'm gonna take a shower. You didn't use up all the hot water, did you?"
"Of course not."
"Thanks." She gives him a hug and leaves the room. Her hugs last a bit longer since the escape, not that he minds.
Soon John hears the sound of rushing water. She'll be a while. Her showers last a bit longer since the escape too, like she's trying to wash the experience off of her.
He puts his camera back in his bag and pulls a sketchbook out from underneath the mattress. A pencil sits snug in the spiral binding. He slips it out and opens the book to a blank page. With a light hand, he starts to draw. Stray lines come together to form a rough but realistic image of a sleeping Kate.
She returns, redressed, drying her hair with a towel. "What are you doing?"
He lifts the book and shows her his work. "See? You're beautiful."
Her eyes widen, and she stops toweling her hair. "You did that while I was gone?"
"I told you I would show you."
"But how...? John, do you have a photographic memory?"
"Not photographic, just really good." He wags his thumb at the wall of drawings done in her absence. They're admittedly more cartoony, but still recognizable.
"That's incredible. You're incredible." She puts the towel around her neck and goes into her brand new bag for a hairbrush. "I wish I could play the violin for you." In quick, snappy movements, she sweeps through her bangs. "But it would be a really expensive thing to buy just to leave it behind."
"I'd like to hear you play too," he says. "Maybe we could get you one. Y'know, once we've settled down."
"That's okay."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
She keeps brushing her hair. John looks on with an interest that grows into desire.
"Can I do that?"
"You want to brush my hair?" she asks, stopping.
"Yeah."
"No one's brushed my hair since my mother."
"Is that a no?"
"No--I mean yes. Yes. You can brush my hair."
She joins him on the bed, sitting face to face. He takes the brush from her and sets his sketchbook aside. Her eyes follow it.
"John, would it be okay if--I mean, if you don't mind--can I see your sketchbook?"
"What?"
"Only if it's okay with you."
"Yeah. Yeah, it's fine with me."
She smiles, and picks up the book with great care, like it's something fragile.
"Okay, now turn around," John says. She obeys. He can't figure out just how much of her hair she's already brushed, so he starts over, passing through with soft, slow strokes.
"I can't believe I get to touch you like this," he murmurs.
"Do you like my hair?"
"I love your hair."
"My dad said it made me look ugly."
"Your dad was a dick." A fact John only grows more sure of with each passing word.
She snickers.
He tucks the hair he's finished with behind her ear and moves on. Soft under the gentle sound of brushing, he hears her crack open the sketchbook. A knot forms in his stomach. It's not a skill issue. He knows he's pretty good, but that book is a window into his mind. It would suck if she didn't like what she saw.
Kate browses. A few pages in, and she's not running scared. She asks, "Who taught you to draw?"
"Nobody."
"Seriously?"
"Believe it or not, art isn't a survival skill."
"So you just... taught yourself?"
"Had to do something when I wasn't shooting shit." The brush gets caught on her ends and he has to gently work it through.
"Incredible," she says, and he thinks she means the art, though she could mean his hairdressing.
"I just draw what I see. On the road. In my dreams."
"Like me?"
"Like you."
He feels her smile, even though he can't see it. She delves deeper into the book, pausing to study each page, until, suddenly, she stops.
"Who is this, then?"
John peers over her shoulder at a full body sketch of him with a stalwart man. He smiles ruefully. Sometimes things lost never come back.
"That's my Terminator. Uncle Bob." He draws out the word "Bob" slightly and caps it off with a little laugh.
"You gave him a name?"
"I did."
"That's so cute." She lingers on the page. "And Uncle Bob was the one who told you about me?"
"Yep."
"I wish I could have met him."
He separates a new section of hair and starts to brush it. "Maybe you did."
"How do you figure?"
"He knew who you were." He shrugs, a sorry attempt to hide how much he's thought about this over the years. "I guess I probably programmed it into him, but maybe not. Maybe you were there when I activated him, y'know? I like to think you were."
Tactically speaking, it's not too far-fetched that he would take his second-in-command on such an important mission. But the tactical doesn't matter to him so much as the emotional. He hopes his future-self retained enough heart that he wanted her to meet his Terminator.
"Me too," she says.
She turns the page. He peeks at the book again, though he knows exactly what she's seeing. The double spread of him and his Terminator, their hands raised in anticipation of a high five, heavies his heart.
Kate makes a sympathetic noise. "You really miss him, don't you?"
"Yeah." His voice is thick. "I think I always will."
"I'm sorry."
"You get used to it."
"What do you mean?"
"Just that it's been so long. I don't really remember what it's like not to miss him. It's just, like, a part of me now."
Kate reaches back and pats his knee. He sets the brush on the mattress and puts his hand on top of hers. They are silent for a moment.
"I'm sorry," she says again.
And this time he says, "Thanks."
Then they each pick up where they left off. The air in the room is solemn now, and John regrets it. He tries to think of a quip, but the best he can come up with is a 'my Terminator could have beaten up your dad' joke, and that's weaksauce.
"John?" Kate asks, a bit forcefully, and he realizes he's missed something.
"Huh?"
She lifts the book over her shoulder for him to see. "Is this supposed to be Future You?"
He stares at the page. A man who looks like him, but not quite, stares back.
"Uh, no. That's supposed to be my dad."
Kate gasps and pulls the book back into her lap. "How do you know what he looked like?"
"I don't." He laughs sardonically. "But Mom says she sees him in me all the time, so I figure he must have looked like me. Right?"
"Mm."
Her reassurance falls flat, because he's not asking her so much as trying to convince himself. If they looked that much alike, it would have carried over into the future. "We look like brothers," his father would have said of the future John. As it is, Mom can only tell him about how tall he'll be. So either the resemblance is slight, or he'll someday grow out of it. Maybe he already has.
He puts that out of his mind and focuses on Kate's hair. It's soft, feather-light, and smells of rosemary. He's almost done brushing it, he notes somewhat mournfully. His strokes grow even more deliberate, delaying the inevitable.
Kate inspects the next few pages in his sketchbook, more of his attempts to figure out his father's face. "Have you ever shown these to Sarah?"
"Hell no," he says.
"Why not?"
"I don't want to make her sad."
"Maybe you wouldn't."
"Fat chance."
"Don't be so sure. I've talked to her about your father."
He stops brushing. "You have?"
"Yeah, in Vegas."
"Why?"
"Just talking." She shrugs. "I could tell it wasn't easy for her, but it really brought us together."
"Hm," John says, for lack of anything else to say. Finishing up, he does a token pass through of Kate's entire head and sits back. "Okay. All done."
She turns around, gives him a kiss, and then an Eskimo kiss for good measure. "Thank you."
"No problemo."
"Here." Her playful eyes turn pleading as she hands him back the sketchbook. "Just consider it."
He sighs. "Fine. I'll consider it."
"Good."
And he does consider it. Briefly. He just happens to come to the same conclusion he started with. It's not worth picking at Mom's open wounds to satisfy his curiosity. He sticks his sketchbook back in its place under the mattress and goes about his day. But it nags at him, like an itch on the brain.
Mom and Kate dominate the kitchen at dinnertime, reminding him that they bonded over his father, of all things. He is shaken. Kate was a stranger to Mom in Vegas. If she could talk to her, surely she could talk to her own son.
A dining table is a luxury they do not--cannot--have in their sorry excuse for a living room. All three of them huddle around the coffee table to eat. The ladies are on the loveseat, while John sits cross-legged on the floor. Mom raised a hellion, but also a gentleman.
Kate daintily cuts a piece of seasoned chicken breast and pairs it with some cilantro-lime rice. "What did the landlord say about me staying here?"
"That it's an extra hundred bucks a month for three people," says Mom.
"Can we afford that?"
"Oh, I have money." She eats a casual forkful of rice. "We only shacked up in this shithole to stay under the radar. Now that we have you back, we can head out and pick up your training."
"When?"
"Once you stop being front page news."
John watches them comfortably converse, completely ignoring his meal.
"Are you okay, John?" Mom asks. "You haven't touched your chicken."
"I'm fine," he says. "Just... thinking."
"Uh oh," says Mom. "Should I be worried?"
"No." He tries to smooth things over by eating some chicken, but Mom still looks suspicious.
"Well, I'm done," Kate says, though her plate is still half-full. "Do either of you want this?"
"Don't be silly," Mom replies. "Just put it in the fridge. You can have it later."
"No, really."
"You didn't finish breakfast either," John says in a singsong voice as he cuts into his chicken, trying to look less like a hypocrite.
Kate raises her hands in surrender. "Well, if you're gonna gang up on me..." She gets up and makes a show out of putting the plate in the fridge. "Okay?"
He gives her two thumbs up.
"Okay," she says. "I'm going to sleep."
It's still pretty early, but she sleeps a lot since the escape.
"Goodnight, Kate," says Mom.
"Goodnight."
"I'll be there soon," John says.
"Take your time." Kate glides past him with a knowing look and heads to the bedroom.
He stuffs his face with more chicken, to keep from frowning.
Late that night, he lies curled up in bed with Kate. He's trying to sleep, but his thoughts will not release him. The book is so close, and the itch has grown unbearable. He rolls onto his back and mutters, "Fuck it."
Mom is still on the loveseat, drinking a cup of tea. John approaches, clinging to his sketchbook like a frightened child.
"Couldn't sleep?" asks Mom.
"Nope."
"Still thinking?"
"Yup."
She sets her cup on the coffee table. "What is it, John?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and the longer he waits, the more he thinks he might wuss out. But wussing out isn't what makes Future John a Great Military Leader. He sits down beside Mom, places the book on the table, and opens it to his speculations.
"Do any of these look like Dad?" he asks.
Mom's eyes widen. "John..."
He is very close to snatching the book up and saying "never mind." But Mom peruses the pages. With each one she turns, John grows more anxious. It's entirely possible that he's not even in the ballpark and it's literally back to the drawing board.
Then Mom stops. "This one."
"No way..."
"You got the face shape right, but the eyes are wrong."
"Yeah, you said I have your eyes, so I never know what to do with them."
"They were rounder, with heavy brows."
John gets out his pencil, erases the area around the eyes and redraws it. "Like that?"
"Yes. And the bridge of his nose was wider." She touches her own.
"Just the bridge?"
"Mhm."
"So I got my nose from Dad."
"You did."
John smiles. "Cool."
"He also had a scar, right here." She points at the left side of the jaw. "You couldn't miss it."
John makes a few tentative lines and looks to his mom for approval. She nods.
"That's him."
One look at her bittersweet gaze, and John tears the page from the book. "Here."
"John, I couldn't--"
"It's okay," he says. "I have a really good memory."
She takes the sketch from him and holds it close to her chest. "Thank you."
"Thank you, Mom."
John returns to his bedroom. He eases the door open, trying not to wake Kate. He fails.
"What's happening?" she slurs.
"I know what my dad looked like."
"What?!" She scrambles up to a seated position.
John joins her on the bed. "I'll show you." He opens his sketchbook to a blank page. She watches from over his shoulder.
He starts to draw.