knowthyexits | (no subject)

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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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."

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."