A/N: Alrighty

A/N: Alrighty. Let's see...so I just got this, like, brilliant idea last night I just had to write it down. It may seem like I'm moving a tad too fast with this story...but, c'mon it's been like four chapters and they haven't made out yet? I know...cruel. Oh, by the way, this takes place right after the last chapter ended...I thought I'd try something like that out.

Disclaimer: I own the space between these symbols of inclusion... Haha, that's right...nothing!!

Derek's nerves were racing crazily up and down the high speed track of his spine; the link connecting his brain and sweaty palms. Before reaching into the Lays bag for another handful of chips, he wiped them off on his worn jeans, knowing it'd royally suck ass if Cameron noticed he was as nervous as Peter Parker jumping off a building for the first time. It was completely ridiculous to even suppose that he, Derek Reese, would be sitting on an Ikea ordered couch at three in the morning, watching MTV, drinking beer and sitting next to a Terminator who was so fucking gorgeous that it hurt not to think about screwing her right there on floor, next to the coffee table.

"I'm not a polite person," he said, his voice low and grainy. Cameron had since returned to her side of the couch after requesting that Derek keep his toe in line.

"I don't recall saying that you were," was her flat response.

"If it makes you feel better," he said, inwardly wincing. First of all, he'd never say that to a real girl and second of all, he sure as hell shouldn't have said to a girl who couldn't 'feel' for jack shit. Yet, he continued anyways, "I won't say nothing offensive on purpose."

"Not really."

"I didn't think so."

Her big brown eyes flicked towards him for the briefest of seconds, "You were grammatically incorrect as well."

"Does it look like I give a shit?" was his retaliation. Leaning forward, he grabbed the remote off the table to turn down the volume of the television.

"Not really."

Derek gruffly muttered under his breath, "Good." At this, the robot didn't respond, but just sat there; relaxed on the messy couch cushions, "Move," he blurted.

She narrowed her brow, "Why?"

"I need to sleep," he said it in a way that made the statement sound question-like.

"...and I need to move in order for you to get your daily rest?" Lord, she made it sound like he was spineless.

"That's right."

"Why don't you just sleep where you are?"

Shaking his head, Derek drained that last of his beer, "Because it's weird with you, like...right there," he said, gesturing to her.

She tilted her head, giving him that doe-eyed look, "Does my existence make you uncomfortable?"

"Yes," he replied frankly.

"I will move by your request only under one condition." She was giving him ultimatums now?

"...Yeah?" he replied wearily, his vision starting to fog over from sleep deprivation. Derek's eyes were completely closed now, his hand wrapped around the empty beer bottle, "I thought you had a condition for me, tin miss..." he garbled, a few seconds away from passing out when she didn't answer him.

"The first one is--," she said, making him jerk awake.

"There's more than one?" he almost yelled, the muscles straining in his neck. Hell yeah, he was tired.

He thought he saw a flicker behind Cameron's eyes as she said, "I'd prefer that you be conscious."

Derek suddenly jumped up from the couch, cracked his knuckles and riffled his hands through his dark hair, "Alright, alright," he said, giving up. To top it all off, he cracked open another Budweiser; there was no way he'd go asleep with one of those open next to him, "Tell me."

"I have a question for you..." she said slowly, rising from the couch and Derek couldn't help watching the way she brushed off his boxers. He quickly snapped his gaze up to her face, instead.

"Great..." he sighed.

Cameron looked down at the space of carpet between them, the glow from the television reflecting on the silver necklace around her neck. How the fuck did he not notice that earlier? "In the driveway a few days ago—"

"No," Derek said sternly, rolling up the Lays bag and walking out to the kitchen, tossing it carelessly on the counter, "Forget about the whole driveway thing." He turned to see her carrying five or six brown glass beer bottles in her arms, very intent on not dropping them. Her motions were careful as she placed them in the trash barrel.

Once she was finished, she looked up at him, "I don't think that's entirely possible..."

"Of course it is!" he flared up, throwing his arms up in the air, "Don't you have some chip in that head of yours that just deletes information?" Derek put his hands down, realizing that he looked ridiculous, "...Or some shit like that?"


"Then just don't bring it up...or think about it...or—"

It was then when everything went to hell in a hand basket. It seemed to him that it all was going in slow motion; the way her chestnut hair fell across her face as she brought up her fingers that brushed against her wrist and how the air conditioning turned off right before she said barely above a whisper, "But you touched me..."

Derek blinked, "I-I know, I—"

She squared her jaw, "...and it was raining."

"Fucking pouring," he spat.

"There was black motor oil on your hands..." Cameron looked up at him, swallowing, and "I didn't want to wash it off after you...a-after..." her voice broke off. He'd never witnessed that before. Not her. Not any other Terminator.

He wrinkled his brow, more than confused, "W-wha--?"

"I'm not supposed to feel...things, Derek."

And your voice isn't supposed to waver, he thought bitterly to himself. You've never ever before put emphasis words and it's an ungodly sin to be so fucking beautiful yet know how to kill a man a dozen different ways with a fucking drinking straw—"I think," he cleared his throat, "You should be discussing this with John..."

The next comprehendible thing he knew, her voice had turned cold. "You told me that I didn't have a heart."

Derek's mouth formed a scowl. Christ, he couldn't take it anymore. His hand shot forward and his fingers hooked themselves behind the band of the boxers, causing Cameron to stop. He heard her suck in her breath as she whirled to face him, her hand grabbing his at the edge of the underwear. They stayed like that, eyes linked for a brief second before he spoke, his voice barely audible, "Prove me wrong."

Then there was silence. Complete and utter silence.

His breathing was heavy in his chest and his whole arm started to tingle with sweat because he was touching her bare skin. She wasn't wearing a blessed thing under those boxers. Derek's brain was slamming against the confines of his skull, screaming out to do something. Anything. I'll have to go commando for the rest of my damn life...

Gently, Cameron pulled his hand out of her shorts and slowly reached up, playing with the edge of the sleeve of his t-shirt. His bicep twitched underneath her touch and his mind completely froze. "Your clothes are comfortable," she breathed.

At first, she kissed him lightly; softly, you might even call it. Her mouth was warm and soft when it met his, her lips parting the tiniest fraction when they met his tongue. It was over way more quickly than it had started.

Cameron pulled away, not even daring to look Derek in the eyes. She took a hesitant breath before turning away. Walking away. Leaving. Away. "No..." he said, his voice hoarse, "No, don't."

She immediately came back, meeting his embrace so hard and so rough that they tumbled (rather ungracefully) onto the flattened cushions on the couch, "Thank-you," she gasped against his mouth, twisting his shirt in her grasp.

The rational part of his brain was whirring in so many different directions, but he wasn't listening to it and he wasn't concerned because the one thing that he'd be praying for to happen for the past...God, he didn't know how long, was actually happening.

His thigh was jammed up between her legs, right against her crotch as one of Cameron's hands was caught up with his shirt, the other tangling itself in his hair as she kissed him up his neck, around his jaw and back to his mouth. She tasted like beer, pancakes and BBQ chips that he knew she'd become newly addicted to. Neither of them cared that the Bud that Derek had just opened had already spilled and was foaming onto the carpet, seeing as that was by far the most un-important thing going on.

She pulled the t-shirt out of his jeans, over his head and let it drop to the floor, his hands making an effort pull the boxers down her hips, "Slow," was the mumbled word that he could comprehend from her as Derek instead went to Cameron's tanktop. Her tongue was at the back of his throat and his erection was restraining against the zipper of his worn jeans, hot against her stomach.

Abruptly, he ripped away from her, swearing and cussing.

He tasted metal. He tasted fucking metal.

"D-Derek?" she asked, wiping her swollen mouth with the back of her hand, "You're bleeding..."

Oh, shit. That was it. Blood not metal. Blood not metal. Blood not metal...

Cameron reached for his hand, brought it up to the edge of his lip that was bleeding and softly kissed his thumb, her eyes locked with his. Derek couldn't breathe, never mind understand what the hell she was doing, "You blood sugar is low," she whispered.


John Connor woke up for school, stretching his arms over his head. Walking into the living room, he was shocked at the helter-skelter mess all over the place. It looked like a pigsty; there was a knocked over beer bottle on the floor, the stain already setting in, chip crumbs embedded in the couch cushions and scattered on the floor.

Underneath the coffee table, John caught sight of one of Derek's shirts. He bent down to pick it up. Frowning, her saw that it had a huge ass tear in the side and smelled like...sweat, "Derek?" he called out, mystified, "Where's Cam--?"

Snickers wrappers were littered on kitchen table, a pack of Oreos was more than three-quarters of the way gone and the family size jar of marshmallow fluff was amid the disaster. Derek Reese stuffed two cookies in his mouth at the same and chased it with a spoonful of the teeth-rotting concoction, "Waiting for you outside," he said, his voice muffled.

"Are you eating that?" John tosses him his t-shirt.

His uncle just stared at it, his chewing stopped. He looked up at Connor, "My blood sugar's low."

A/N: Haha, I know it took a while...but...

Yeah, please excuse any spelling or grammatical errors; I'm flying to get this done before my tourney.