knowthyexits | (no subject)

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It's difficult to avoid the clinic when she has a doctor at her disposal and she needs to verify that her treatment hasn't gone on a collision course to nowhere. She's made her appointment and is now hovering around the clinic as she waits for Rory to get in, her head bent low. She's treated her wrist by herself, patched up the wounds as best as she can, but it's not her physical being that she's concerned about.

An entire restaurant's worth of people heard her being called Sarah Connor.

There's not much wiggle room when it comes to escaping that accusation. She might as well abandon her alias, at this point, because her worst fears have come to pass and there's nowhere that she can run. She could go to the second island, but she needs to treat the cancer and it's difficult to do that, there. It's terrifying, but there's a chance that Sarah may need to suck it up, face her fears, and simply live as the woman she actually is.

She adjusts her hold on her forearm, deciding to leave that particularly delightful existential crisis for later, when she's not waiting for the ramifications of the attack to come falling down around her ears.

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It takes her a little while to notice that he's even there. She blames her lack of reaction on the attack, but chastises herself for it instantly. She should constantly be aware, she should always notice, and she should always know when he's there. She offers him the slightest of smiles as she lifts up her good hand as if to validate the fact that she's really there.

"You should be proud," she says. "I came here all on my own. No one had to carry me."

"You know, I never thought about that. Guess it's lucky I just happened to walk by this clinic." He's not going to jump on the comment about murder. The thing had it in for Sarah, no doubt about it, but while Cook would be interested in the details, provided they're interesting, they're not the main point. Something tried to kill Sarah and it's dead now. That matters; it's over.

"And maybe I need a check-up more than you think," he continues, tugging his brows together in a frown. "Since.. I don't remember you fucking me up. Big ugly son of a bitch with red eyes, that's what I remember."

She lowers her gaze. She can lie and let him keep thinking that's the truth of it, but the thing is, it's her fault it came at all. It's her fault there might be more attacks. "If I weren't here, if you had stood aside, it wouldn't have touched you. It was programmed for me, only me. That's why this is my fault."

The frown remains as he shakes his head slowly. He makes a soft tsking noise in the corner of his mouth. "No, see, now I know you need your head checked, too," Cook replies.

"You said it: If I had stood aside." He stops the slow shake of his head, staring down Sarah if she won't lift her gaze to his. "I'm Cook. I don't ever stand aside."

"You're Cook," is all she picks out of what he's said. She knows that John would never have stood aside either and maybe that's part of why she feels so drawn to the younger man. Maybe she sees parts of John in him, or maybe she just feels comfort in knowing there are people as equally insane in a fight as she is. "That'll get you killed, you know. Not knowing when you have to run."

"What the hell was it?"

Because it wasn't a man, I know that much. It might've looked like one, but from everything I've heard, it was anything but.

Her shoulders are rife with tension, drawn together as she takes in deep breaths to try and persuade her mind to give up the truth. "We call them T-triple-eights," she says, picking a fixed point on the wall and staring at it as she speaks. "They're programmed to do one thing and that one thing is kill."

"Hasn't done yet." The cockiness in the statement could be feigned or genuine stupidity, but Cook bears it proudly either way, his smile just as sure as his words.

"And what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger, right? Keep this up, I'll be a fucking beast one day. Won't that be something."

She purses her lips together tightly at that, any joy falling from her face instantly. "It won't keep making you stronger if that's what kills you, one day," she says sharply. "God damn it, Cook. 'You're Cook' won't stop a thing from shooting you in the forehead. Don't be an idiot."

Whether fake or real, Cook's smiles are destined to be short-lived. This one hardens and cracks on his face, a cold remnant of what it had been. He doesn't need to be lectured, not by her, not by anyone. It's not like she actually gives a damn, is it?

"You could just try thanks," he suggests coolly. "I help save your life. Rather than the guilt bullshit and your kind fucking words as to my intelligence, you could try thanks."

Sarah sits back, pressing a hand to her forehead in frustration. She's never been any good at this. She stood a chance, once upon a time, but she's been locked away for too long, made untrusting by things in the dark coming out to kill her. She barely knows what she's supposed to do.

"You helped to save my life," she says slowly, making sure to stress those words. "And I'm grateful for that, but I don't know how many more deaths on my conscience I can take. Do you understand?" She asks, genuinely hoping that he does. "And when you were helping me, it's all that flashed in front of me. That I would be taking you from the people who loved you."

That Sarah could walk at all was more critical to me at that moment than that she'd put aside her stubbornness long enough to seek treatment for whatever that thing had done to her. I didn't move from the doorway, but my eyes swept critically from her head to toes to assess what I could.

"Remind me to give you a cookie later."

His brow crinkles in a confused frown. She has said just enough for a dozen different theories to blossom and too little for any of them to be knocked away. There's a mild spin of thoughts inside his brain that he pushes aside in his desire for the truth.

It would be easiest if she just told him what was going on, but Rory had better bedside manner than that. Sometimes patients have their own way of telling you things. Playing along was a kind of listening. "Alright," he says with a single nod and moves to shut the door so that they have a little privacy. "Show me?"

She eyes him from her seat, trying to take in what little hints she could about his demeanor and his behavior towards her, keeping an impassive expression on her own face, even though she is downright terrified of about five things at once, right now. "Are you planning on just standing there all day?"

Sarah watches the latch of the door and when it's fully closed, she rises to her feet to unlace the boots she'd put on that morning, even though they had been painful to lace up with her wrist. With those kicked aside, she slides off the jeans and then the black tank-top is next, leaving her in the sports-bra and the utilitarian pair of underwear.

The scars are on display now. The knife wound in her left shoulder from Cromartie, the bullet wound in her thigh from the factory, the long and ugly scar from her c-section in the jungle, the various grazes from bullets and bruises that won't fully go away. They're all there and they always will be.

"Why the fuck is somethin' like that after you?" I ask, 'cause... Well, she's not just a waitress, that much is obvious, but I can't think of a single fuckin' thing about her that'd draw an enemy like that.

"Because of who I am," she says, like it's one of those existential things she's become aware of. "I'm Sarah Connor," she introduces herself properly, extending her hand out as if that will make up for all the months of lying. She knows it's not that simple -- it never is.

It's not a flinch. It's not and that's the truth and he'll swear it to his last fucking breath. But when Sarah mentions people who love him, Cook looks away sharply. His lips press together, rub together to stop himself from speaking too soon.

People who love him. What bullshit. But he doesn't want the fucking pity parade and there's a chance, with the way Sarah's talking right now, he just might get it if he's not careful. Not that Cook's ever been that careful.

"I already am," Cook says, but it's hard to get the words out. They feel false, rough, awkward in his mouth, even though in his head and his heart he can feel some weight of truth to them. Paddy, Keith, Naomi, JJ. They loved him, probably, maybe, some of the time, but love is such a big fucking word that Cook can't place it on them. The point is, they're home. They're not here. Freddie and Effy are here, but fuck knows what that means for Cook on any given day. The dust hasn't settled yet.

"It's my life," he says, turning his gaze back to Sarah, hardened now and ready for what he's going to say. "My choice. Don't presume to take ownership and responsibility for what's not yours."

She wants to reach out and tuck away any lock of hair that she can find, some instinctual leftover need from John, but she withdraws her hand before it can get too close. She lowers her gaze to the floor and allows her expression to go cooler. She can't care that much, just in case something does happen to him. "Okay," she says, subdued, but in agreement. "It's your life. They're your choices."

"Good," he says with a slight nod. "And now I choose to get this taken care of." Cook nods to his shoulder as he takes a strolling step towards the open clinic door. This conversation's gotten too deep for Cook. His life already tumultuous again, he cannot abide any slight shake of the status quo that he is not in charge of. "See you 'round."

"Not all day, no," I replied with a sardonic smirk, and made it a point to then slouch against the door frame as if staying there had been what I'd intended all along.

"What do the doctors have to say?"

She rolls her eyes when he pointedly remains, to the degree that she grabs hold of the bed with her good hand and uses the leverage to foist herself up, taking a few steps in his direction. She holds up the bad hand, shrugging. "Broken," she says, gesturing to her neck. "Strangled. Bruises." It's easy to pretend that this is a checklist, that she can remove herself from it.

"Rory's running scans to see if it's affected the cancer," she says, arms crossed over her torso as she comes to a stop three feet from him.

Good doctors -- good medical professionals -- Rory has learned over time -- are not the ones who don't let things affect them. Rory figures you have to be affected, concerned, otherwise you're not doing your job. The job isn't just to heal, it's to make things better.

But the thing is: Pity rarely makes things better. So when he does look at Sarah's scars, he doesn't let the way they hurt him show on his face. He can't fix these scars, or the deeper ones, with medicine. "How'd you get these?" he asks.

Instinct told me to step back as Sarah moved closer, but stubbornness told me to stay put. As could be expected, I didn't move. I thrust my hands into the pockets of my jeans as a preemptive measure.

"I'm glad you're okay," I said, and the words nearly stuck in my throat. She wasn't okay. Might never be okay again, and there wasn't a damned thing I could do about it.

Now that she's made her stubborn stand, she instantly feels awkward and regrets taking the steps forward. She looks up at him, feeling like she's awash in a sea and useless for all that she knows how to swim. She's going to drown in it, in this feeling, and she can't seem to stop herself. "Are you? You've been going down into that city. Are you okay?"

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