knowthyexits | (no subject)

Sarah is soaking wet. And she's heard it all about how many pounds she probably is. She knows better than to argue, knows to just take advantage of any preconception and go with it. The problem is, no one here is really anything but too-kind and she's soaking wet. Her clothes are sticking to her skin and sloshing about, but it's a necessary evil if she wants to eat or shower.

She's made it downstairs to the clothes box, stripping off her long-sleeved painted-on top (at least, that's what it feels like at the moment), letting it fall to the floor with a heavy thud before continuing along.

Tank top goes too and meets with the jeans. She's still got on a pair of men's spandex shorts and a camisole, but those are wet too and she's willing to take anything she can from the clothes box at the moment, even the ugly plaid flannel long-sleeved shirt she's just grabbed. It reminds her of something that she might have thrown out from Charley's closet and that makes her smile, just offhand for a moment.

It's just a brief flicker of a moment and she turns her attention back to the more important things. Dry clothes. Reaching her arms above her head, she flexes her shoulders back and starts to shrug into the shirt, cool air meeting her skin momentarily as she pulls on the shirt, covering her shoulders, arms, and more.

The jeans come next and she soldiers on, just glad to be dry once more.

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"Yeah, it is. About as exhausting as being told I should be happier," she agrees, making that the pointed comment, as though that's really what's getting her down. She rubs at her face and sighs, ready to tell lies on top of the truth. "Look," she gets out. "I didn't always have such good trust in people. And I met more than one man who was less than good. He hurt me. They hurt me." And she's not even lying, not about the trust, not about the hurt. "It's why I turned up shot, it's why I've got scars. I was just trying to do my best."

Bryce has to smile, if only slightly, because the idea that Sarah considers herself to have good trust in people now is — there's no other way to put it — quite laughable. He's in no place to mock, being on of the few people whose trust issues could rival hers, but he finds it funny all the same. It makes him wonder what she was like before (a part of him is okay with never knowing.)

He wishes, for the briefest of seconds, that he could share something with her. That he could tell her the truth: that he, too, turned up shot. That they have more in common than he's allowed her to believe. But that fragment of a second is the greatest weakness he's exhibited in months, possibly years, and it's a danger to them both. He can't want to be honest with her, even in the slightest. That can't happen.

Suddenly, he has the strongest urge to flee — to put as much space between himself and Sarah as is possible on this island, and to make damn sure they don't run into each other again. If she is being honest (and he can tell that she is, that she believes it, at any rate) then he is being unfair to her. If there's a universal balance out there, the scale has been tipped, and it's unfair to her that he keep lying. It's unfair, and yet it's necessary.

"I wouldn't ask you to be happier," he offers, the best he can do. "It sounds to me like you've got your reasons, each of them better than the last."

"There have been times," Sarah starts considerately, her tone heavy and low, her gaze just to the side of Bruce's face, thinking of Kyle, thinking of Charley. Even of Andy Goode. "Some times, where I forget everything that's gone wrong and I remember that I can be happy and loved. And I miss those times, but I know they can't be permanent." Because her life isn't like that, not since she was nineteen and Kyle Reese appeared out of nowhere.

Two other Sarah Connors died before it found her. How many others died because they got caught in the crossfire? "How much did you see?" she asks again, quieter than before.