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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"I call it my after-fight fragrance," she informs him, drawing out the words slowly. She's tired and she hurts and she has no idea if the fight has made her any worse or affected the drugs. What happens if there's internal damage? "How are you?" she asks, looking to where the knife had been jammed in only a day back.

"Whatever it is, it's alluring," he replies, grinning with all the cheeky attitude he can muster. Even for the circumstances, that's a lot.

"I've been better. Been worse," Cook answer. One shoulder lifts high in a shrug, but he winces as the other one barely moves an inch. "This thing's killing my air of nonchalance, but I'll survive somehow."

She tips her head to the side, barely even thinking about scolding him for the comment, but it does pass her mind. Guilt pushes through her at the sight of it and she hates herself as much as she ever does for putting people in danger. "You shouldn't have had to get in the middle of things. It was my fight."

"I didn't have to do anything, love," he says. It's a cool response and his face betrays little, but underneath there's a softness to his tone. Can't have Sarah thinking he cares about her all that much, now can he? But he doesn't not like her either.

"Your fight or not, looked like fun. Was only in it 'cause I was bored. Haven't had a brawl in ages. And that was a proper bar fight."

"Where I come from, I'm pretty sure that's called a murder attempt. I'm not sure I want to even know the life you left behind," she admits, slightly worried that Cook hasn't been leading the most glamorous of lives. "You should see a doctor or someone. Make sure I haven't irrevocably fucked you up."

"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."

"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."

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."