knowthyexits | (no subject)

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hank

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She's exhausted, but if she stops moving, Sarah knows she's going to have to think about what's happened in the last week and if she does that, it brings her back to the feelings of loss and the feelings of grief that she's terrible at processing. She's been serving at the Winchester since it happened, only goes home to sleep and feed the dog, but keeps going, otherwise.

As it stands, her shift has been over for hours, but she's still there -- at the bar, with a glass of Scotch in her hands that she's not sure she even wants to drink. Mostly, she wants something to blame, but there's no way to do that here because it's not the fault of machines or fate that Cal is gone.

There is no fate but what they make. Maybe she's contributed, helped to lead them down this road? Maybe she should just accept that some things happen and they can't be stopped -- but that implies that she can't stop the impending apocalypse, that implies that she's useless and Sarah refuses to accept that as a truth. Still, here, in the bar, she pretends that she can control what she feels. She pretends that it doesn't wreck her inside to know that someone she loves is gone. Kyle is gone, Andy Goode is dead, Charley is gone and remarried.

She always had John, though.

Now, she doesn't even have him. That's the thought that drives her to drink back the alcohol, summoning another with a muted request.

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When Hank had first arrived, he'd told Lew in no uncertain terms to say no to drugs. That wasn't to say that Hank himself hadn't continued to chalk up a noble white line every now and then, and it was hard to keep up the do as I say, not as I do with Lew when the coke wasn't technically his. Hank had seen first hand what that shit could do to people, but on the Island, away from Karen and Becca and all things pure and beautiful in the world, sometimes a bump was the only thing that could get him through the day.

And sometimes it took a bump and a beer and a pretty face. Fortunately the first had already been taken care of and the latter two were in his sights. When he reached the bar, he tapped Sarah on one shoulder but popped up on the opposite side of her, gesturing for a drink before turning back to her. "Hakuna matata?"

Sarah takes a moment to consider her next move. On a normal day, she tolerates Hank's antics because the truth is that he's the kind of friend she needs in her life -- like Sookie, the kind of friend who never gives up on her, no matter what she says or does. That doesn't mean that his personality doesn't frustrate her and she wonders whether positive or negative is going to weigh out today. "My shift is over," she says, hoarsely. "If you want food, you have to find another waitress."

Sarah really should have known better than to admit to Hank that she had finished work.

"Great. So you can come out to play?"

Aside from teaching, Hank had very little involvement with the rest of the island, so most of the time he was waiting like a bored little boy for people to finish work and give him some attention.

Most days, she might have said no, but the truth is that she doesn't want to go home and she has nowhere else to be. If she stays any longer at the restaurant, Neil and Sookie might start making her talk about it, so she does something she wouldn't normally. "Sure," she agrees. "Why not?"

"Woah." Hank had been gathering his energy for a fight and compiling a list of all the reasons she ought to say yes. Giving in without resistance wasn't like her. "You feeling okay?" he joked, pressing the back of his fingers against her forehead.

She musters up a tired smile and shakes her head. "It's been a hard day." Hard week, given that both Cal and Cook are nowhere to be found, which only means that she's worried about how many more she'll lose to the fight. She stands, grabbing her sweater and putting it on as she shoots Hank an expectant look. "Are you coming?"

Despite having arrived for a beer, the novelty of one Sarah Connor willingly inviting him somewhere far outweighed his need for alcohol right then.

"Like a two buck whore in the backstreets of Vegas," Hank agreed with enthusiasm.

"I should've known I'd regret that phrasing," she says, half to herself as she stands and crosses her arms tightly over her chest -- a form of protection when the rest of the world seems so keen to fall apart right in front of her. At the last minute, she swipes a bottle of alcohol to bring with her, grateful for the weight of it under her arm.

Hank was nothing if not liking the way Sarah was thinking tonight. He wasn't blind, he could see she wasn't herself, and not only because she hadn't threatened to punch him yet. Whatever the problem was though, Hank was much better at taking people's minds off things than offering them any real constructive help.

"You look like a woman on a mission," he commented as he walked with her. A mission to get pissed by the looks of it.

She doesn't dignify him with an immediate answer, keeping her focus resolutely forward as she walks. "And if I am?" she asks, steady in her steps. "Look, Hank, I've had a miserable couple of days and I really want a drink and a friend. I've got the former. Are you willing to be the latter or are you just going to screw it up?" she demands, aware that her tone is erring on the side of scathing.

Usually having a drink with a friend was classed as fun times in Hank's opinion but Sarah's tone made it sound a little less easy going. But he wasn't one to shy away from a challenge, especially not when it was clear that she'd had a shitty week so far.

"Cut me through the middle and you'll see the letters BFF inside," he assured her. "You want a friend, look no further."

"I really do appreciate it," she says, trying to work past her sheer discomfort in order to be genuine as she tells Hank what she's thinking. She keeps the bottle tight to her torso, jaw working tightly as she stares worriedly at the path ahead of her. "I lost two of my closest friends. Cook," she says, not daring to look at Hank. "And Cal."

Hank wasn't close to many people on the Island and it was times like these when he was glad about that. However much he hoped and wished that Karen and Becca would show up, he knew he wouldn't be able to deal with it if they subsequently disappeared again.

"Aw, shucks. A twoser." Were it anyone else, Hank probably would've slung his arm across their shoulders to offer some kind of comfort. As it was Sarah, he slipped his hands into his jeans pockets instead. "You're nursing a broken heart then."

"My heart isn't broken," she replies tersely. Maybe it's because she's in denial or maybe it's because she's harder than that -- too hard to let someone get to her and even if she does love them (and she did), she's always kept people at bay so if they leave (when they leave), they don't hurt her. "Besides, you're a little behind. Most people would acknowledge there's no heart left to break."

"Most people are assholes," Hank countered, "and that's bullshit." While they were still outside, he was quick to light up, mostly to prepare himself for a potential something he hadn't had much experience of lately - a serious conversation. And shit like that needed proper preparation.

He sucked in a lungful of smoke, held the wisps in his mouth while he spoke. "You got a heart." He turned his head away from Sarah to exhale. "You just try your damned hardest to hide it. You're allowed an emotion every once in a while that's not anger, you know. M'not gonna tell."

Sarah crosses her arms tightly over her torso. She's uncomfortable for several reasons, including his smoking and the fact that she'd love nothing more than to break, but she's allowed herself that precious few times in her life. The last time was when she found out about the cancer and the time before that was in Mexico as they buried Cromartie. "Men don't want to be around women who are falling apart," she replies, her voice subdued and quiet.

If he listens closely enough, he'll hear the slight shake in the words.

"Not true," Hank replied, pointing the fingers currently clamped around the cigarette at her. When he realised, he transferred it to his other hand, but kept his attention on her. "We like to be heroes, do we. When Rome is burning, we like to be the ones to rescue the damsel in distress. Makes us feel manly as hell."

Hank was speaking generally and not particularly about himself. Whenever Karen had cried back home, he'd of course wanted to help her stop, but that usually entailed making her laugh and acting the fool rather than the hero. And in the direst of times, he'd cried with her, manliness be damned.

Sarah can't help her choked laugh. "I've never been called a damsel in distress before," she admits, giving Hank a wry smile as she follows the path back to the house. The dog will be there, but she's not in the mood for training tonight. Maybe for one night, he'll just get to be a puppy and nothing more. "I'm tired," she says evenly, quietly. "I'm really tired, Hank."

Had Hank known he'd be bumping into Sarah he probably - probably - wouldn't have done a line of coke with Lew less than an hour before. His judgement could be impaired at the best of times without the additional influence of drugs.

A dry chuckle escaped him and he clamped his cigarette between his lips to free his hands. "That doesn't surprise me," he mumbled, scratching idly at a bicep. "Neither does the tiredness. Booze ain't gonna help you fight the good fight." It wouldn't help her keep on keeping on but he was sure she knew that already. "But it'll give you a helluva good reason to stay in bed tomorrow morning," he conceded, clucking his tongue and cocking his head at her.

"I'll be back at work," she insists, sure about that. No matter how hungover she is, she knows she'll be back on the floor of the Winchester as soon as she can because it means that she'll have something to occupy her hands and her thoughts, keep her heart from hurting too badly.

She pushes the door to her hut open, making sure the dog is secure before waving for Hank to come inside. "I'm not stopping. If I stop, that's when all this becomes --"

Well, it becomes real.

Hank dug the heel of his boot into the ground, cigarette beneath it, before he followed her inside.

"Yeah," he offered because he got it and he knew that he couldn't do much to fix it. That didn't mean he couldn't do anything though.

"So what type of friend would you like tonight? We have a wide array for you to choose from. We've got friend-with-comfortable-shoulder to cry on," he began, presenting his shoulder in a model type pose before moving on, "we've got the age old drinking buddy, glug glug. We've got distracting-friend but he can sometimes be a little hit and miss." Something told him Sarah wouldn't appreciate being offered the friend-with-benefits option. "Or you can create one of your own."

Sarah digs out wooden glasses, pouring the alcohol evenly between the both as she stares down into them, the liquid seeming to betray her steadiness. The more she looks at it, the more she thinks about how much Cook would appreciate what she's doing right now. "You know, of the two of them, I fooled around with one and fought with the other constantly. And I can't even say I was myself when the former happened."

She looks up at Hank, offering him the glass as she bows her head down. "Cheers."

Hank took the glass and lifted it slightly in thanks. Drinking buddy it was then.

"It's hard when you lose people you love. It teaches you nothing and makes you weaker. None of this what doesn't kill you makes you stronger shit. Your life will pretty much suck dead donkey balls for the next few weeks and there's nothing you can do about it." He tipped back his drink in one go, voice scratchier than before. "And I say Amen to that." It was a good thing as far as Hank was concerned but his logic wasn't exactly very clear.

She doesn't take her eyes off of him, cradling her drink in both palms. The whole time, she's wondering what he's lost, how he can manage to put up with her when she's been nothing short of terrible with him. She'd punched him on first meeting, she's been horrible ever since. Here he is, though, in her hut, drinking with her, and trying to make her feel better. "My life's been hard as long as I can remember," she says. "This should be nothing. I should be immune to this."

"Hank, why do you bother? With me?"

Hank might have been attempting a serious conversation but he was bound to slip up a few times.

"Slim pickin's around here?" he joked, eyes filled with amusement.