One of his foster mothers used to crochet.

At the time, John hadn't been able to see the sense of it - the house was filled with it already, and besides, what could you do with the stuff? But still, there would be some nights, way on the wrong side of midnight, when John would find her still sitting on the couch in the living room,

knuckles white and crocheting like a woman possessed.

He stopped complaining about it as soon as he noticed that it always happened right after she and her husband had one of their regular knock-down, drag-out fights about his drinking. He hadn't really appreciated it, however, until now.

For his part, John put weapons back together. With the damage his men were capable of, it was a fabulous distraction.

And tonight, John desperately needed a distraction. As he had known would happen, Reese pulled through the operation. There was even a chance that he would eventually regain his full range of combat abilities.

Whether he would ever be all right, of course, was another matter entirely.

The medics didn't know, couldn't know. There were no truly effective mental tests to determine a person's mental well-being. And Reese still refused to talk to him.

That was what hurt the most, he thought. He'd gotten too damn used to having someone to talk to. But it was a necessary sacrifice...

Hell, there was no way to sugarcoat it. He's betrayed his best friend, his father. He might not have had any choice, but that didn't change what he'd done. And the fact that he could no longer stand to see nothing but bitterness in Reese's eyes.

So that was why he was up, way on the wrong side of midnight, looking for the storeroom where the damaged weapons were kept. Anything to help a person forget the pain. He found the right door, swung it open, and stopped. Someone else was already there.

Reese didn't bother looking up as he twisted a barrel into place. "Good morning, Commander."

A thousand responses flashed through John's mind, but years of his mother's military training took over. It had to be good for something. "You should be in bed, Sergeant."

"I know." Reese's voice was even, emotionless. "Nothing should impede my return to full fighting capacity."

Ouch. But he deserved that.

"I'll leave you to it, then." John moved to close the door.

Finally, Reese looked up. "No sir, I... I know this is your area." He quickly looked back down at his gun. "I shouldn't be able to kick you out if it."

He could still just leave, shut the door on this part of his life permanently. The part he never should have had in the first place. But even the scraps of forgiveness Reese's statement seemed to offer were too tempting to ignore. Mentally bracing himself, John sighed. "Ah hell, Reese. You've always been able to do pretty much anything you wanted."

Noticing a robot killer that had been brought in the week before, he sat down beside it, determined to put the thing back together tonight if it killed him. But not yet - better start with something easier.

They worked in silence for several minutes, not looking at each other. A twist, a snap, a slight adjustment of parts, buttons, wires. Finish one, move on to another. Distract your hands to keep your heart from breaking. At least they were more useful than his foster mother's potholders.

One, two, three. As the piles grew, the two men inched closer without meaning to. Friends are supposed to be there for you, support you when you've fallen, and both men were feeling long, deep bruises of the soul. Bruises inflicted by each other, to be sure.

But they still needed their friend.

"Could you hand me that trigger guard?" The first attempt at speaking hung for a moment in the silence, and John prayed to a God he no longer believed in that it would be received.

After what seemed like forever, Reese handed it over. He still refused to look at him.

They were both experienced with weaponry, and the piles on both sides were quickly reduced to spare parts. Soon, all that was left was the robot killer, spread out before them like an unclimbable mountain.

Fighting back memories of the quality time he had spent with Reese - his father - over such a weapon, John reached for it.

So did Reese.

They both pulled, met resistance from the other person, then stopped, unwilling to use extreme force against the other. They were at an impasse, and traditionally the only thing to go in such a situation was to look at the other person. But that would be so hard.

John spoke first - he had committed the crime, and therefore needed to go first to try and repair it. "Do you want to work on it together?"

Another silence - Reese was getting good at them. Then a quiet "yes."

Instinct took over as they assembled the weapon. Some bits of circuitry had been fried entirely, but nothing that couldn't be replaced. And both men knew exactly what replacements were needed, and where they could be found. On larger matters, however, they had no idea where to start.

Reese finally looked at him - John could feel it, but refused to meet his gaze. He knew what had been there before and what was there now, and didn't know if he could stand seeing the difference again.

Coward.

So he looked. The walls in his father's eyes had slipped ever so slightly, and John could now see the pain behind the bitterness. It hurt even worse.

"Why?" Reese's voice barely even cracked.

It was a question that he had asked before, lying outside on the hard, bare ground. John hadn't felt he could answer him then. Could he now? Damn the timeline. He knew Reese. Even knowing what would happen, he'd go sacrifice his life anyway. But there were too many possibilities.

"That information is classified, Reese," he said woodenly, cursing himself for his lost chance. He could feel Reese withdrawing again. But not all the truth was classified. "I'm sorry." It came out as a whisper.

Reese's own voice was soft and sad as he looked away. "I know, sir."

But did it matter? That was the important thing, the mattering. What was worth saving about humanity, worth giving his whole life to the cause, worth forcing his father to live so he could then send him back in time to die. For the little things, the things that mattered.

The universe could survive a little more truth.

"You'll do something vitally important sometime in the near future." I wish I could have taken that shot for you.

Reese turned back to his commander, startled. Across his face, there was a flicker of a smile ever so slight that John wondered if he might have missed it. But he hadn't.

"Thank you, sir."

Letting out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, John turned his attention back to the weapon. Reese followed, and instinct carried them into a far different kind of silence. And he thought of long nights, and brightly colored balls of yarn. It was hard to put some things back together.

But not impossible.

THE END