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.

Threaded | Flat

"So," I say, walking into the clinic, a smirk on my face that holds barely concealed warmth. I heard things, bits and pieces. Mostly that some kind of robot tried to kill her, and The Winchester got in the way.

"There's a big fuckin' hole in my diner. Heard you might know somethin' 'bout that."

He had directly disobeyed her. Cook hadn’t gone to the clinic, not during the battle or after. His first thought after the dust had settled hadn’t been the blood seeping from his shoulder. It had been of Freddie. So he had gone home, and that had been a wise fucking decision.

Still sore all over, in his arm, in his head, in his heart, Cook approaches the clinic with some measure of caution. It’s attached to the IPD office after all, and while he enjoys giving Sheriff Keith a hard time, today’s not the day to have the favor returned. But, while the wound’s stopped bleeding, he’s not sure it’s going to close and heal on its own. He needs five minutes with a doctor, like it or not.

And, like it or not, looks like he has to get through Sarah to get there. “Long time, no see,” he opens wryly, like they weren’t getting sweaty and bloody together just yesterday.

Word travels fast, especially when it’s word that some kind of psychotic man-monster type has attacked one of your patients and, at minimum, has thrown her through the wall of a bar. He’s not sure what he’s getting into exactly, taking Sarah on as his patient, but at least she’s there to see him when he heads over to the clinic. It could be worse. She could be the type that hides. Cancer patients aren’t always the best of patients.

“How are you feeling?” Rory asks before he’s even to her side. “You’re standing,” he observes. “That’s.. good. That's a good sign.”

More than anything, it ate me up that I hadn't been there. A fucking terminator had actually appeared out of thin air, attacked Sarah in broad daylight, and I'd been off somewhere else, doing fuck knows what.

I'd missed it, and that thing had almost killed her.

Mouth pressed in a line, I watched her from the clinic doorway. My hands twitched at my sides with an itch to touch her, but my feet wouldn't let go, so I just fucking stood there, as useless as I'd been to her since the first day we'd met.