"Someone I Used To Know" by Tevere (PG-13)

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Fandom: Terminator / Terminator: the Sarah Connor Chronicles
Pairing: Barbara Chamberlain/Vick
Length: ~12k words
Author on LJ: tevere
Author Website: Dreamwidth
Why this must be read: There are lot of one-off characters in the TSCC-verse, both metal and human. "Someone I Used To Know" tells an interesting story of both: Barbara Chamberlain, who was designing a traffic program, and her husband Vick, who turned out to be a T-888. This fic assumes that he was always a machine (rather than being replaced by one, a la Catherine Weaver) and runs with it to some interesting places, playing off of Cameron's point about people being fooled by machines.

"Wait, your usual is a Cinnamon Dolce latte?"

He looked at her sideways. "Yes."

She winced, embarrassed. "Right. I guess I didn't figure you for that type."

"Why not?" He didn't seem offended, just curious.

"Just—" she made an up-and-down gesture that encompassed his hair, his practical clothes in practical colours. "I mean. Army?"

"Used to be." He handed the money to the cashier. "Medical discharge."

She had to look away to prevent her eyes from moving involuntarily over the shape of his body under its clothing. "Oh. I'm sorry."

"You can't see it," he said, in the unconcerned tone of someone who was used to explaining himself. "An IED exploded under my vehicle when I was on patrol. They had to remove half my skull because of brain swelling. Replaced it with a steel plate."

Her stomach turned, followed by an equally nauseous flush of guilt at the reaction. "Jesus." But the puzzle pieces were clicking into place: the slight off-beat of his conversation, the blank affect. He'd been unusually lucky, she thought uneasily: there couldn't be many who came through traumatic brain injury with nothing more than that.

As though sensing her thoughts, he said mildly, "Least I'm alive."

"Yeah," she said. The inadequacy of her response rang unpleasantly in the following silence. Her eyes flicked to his temple. Lacking purchase on a scar or obvious imperfection, they slid away again. "So," she said. The pause ached and stretched. "So," she said again, withering under the burn of self-consciousness. "You're here a lot."

He turned his head then, looking at her directly, and smiled. The expression transformed the strong angles of his face from generic to handsome, every ounce of his odd intensity focused on her, just her, in a way that made her breath catch with a sweet painful stutter in her chest. "Waiting for you," he said.

The barista called from the other end of the counter, "Venti Cinnamon Dolce latte, Tall Americano."

Distracted, she watched the shape of his hands around the paper cups. No wedding ring, no mark from one hastily slipped off. He took a swallow of his own drink as he passed her the other, and she found herself transfixed by the smooth movement of his throat, the press of his lips on the rim.

A sharp burn in her palm suddenly made her gasp and drop the coffee cup back onto the counter, where it bounced and sent up a jolt of hot liquid.

His head snapped around. "Are you hurt," he said, strangely urgent.

 
Someone I Used To Know