#t1000

Hal Vukovich

He'd tried to argue with you in the car- he had a press conference to go to, for christ's sake- but one kiss from you was all it took for him to give in. He'd sat in your passenger seat long after his lunch break ended, stomach full of butterflies and a permanent smile on his face, while you kissed his cheeks and nose and lips and told him you were gonna make salmon for dinner in honor of his and Traxler's success in their first big bust of the year. He almost didn't want to leave when you finally let go of his tie and shooed him out of the car, but duty called. Now, he stands in front of Traxler and frowns confusedly at the man's look of shock, hands unconsciously drifting upward to straighten his tie.

"Think I'm ready."

"Like hell you are," Traxler snorts, "You looked at yourself lately?"

Hal huffs out a laugh and shakes his head, thinking it's another one of Ed's jokes, and Ed just sighs through his nose, removing his glasses to rub at the space between his eyebrows as he mutters, "Go clean yourself up before we talk to the press, for the sake of both our dignity."

"You're joking."

"I wish I was." The detective deadpans, lips pressing into a flat line.

Hal's stomach drops with sudden nervousness. He rushes to the restroom, expecting to see a coffee stain on his shirt or a five o'clock shadow that he forgot to shave this morning, and startles at his own reflection. Lipstick marks- some smudged, some perfectly clear- litter the lower half of his face. His first instinct is to scrub them with his hands, but all that does is spread the pigment. He stares at himself, skin now a feverish shade of red, and breathes a panicked, "Shit, shit, shit," before tearing a paper towel out of the dispenser and wetting it as a last resort. He comes out of the bathroom scrubbed almost raw, and Traxler's disappointed face tells him all that he needs to know.

"I shouldn't have even tried, huh?"

"Nope."

Kyle Reese

Cosmetics are a rare thing nowadays- any personal affects are, really. When he comes across the half-melted outer case, he mistakes it for a spent round. Perhaps it's one of theirs. He pockets it, thinking that if he can't use the jacket to make another bullet, he can at least gift it to you. Your birthday is sometime this season, anyway. The munitions manager rejects it on sight.

"It's metal," Harry had muttered, giving the object a skeptical once-over, "But it ain't military. No use for it."

So, he gives it to you. Watches you turn it over in your hands, curious fingers mapping its shape and dipping into the dents with utmost care. You pause when you feel something circling the middle of the object- some kind of seam. You dig your nail into it, and with a quiet pop! the casing splits in two. Whatever's inside looks like it melted a long time ago and reformed in the shape of the lid. It's a soft pink- a color neither of you have seen before. You rub a fingertip over it and jolt in surprise when some of the pigment comes off on your skin. You don't stop to wonder if the substance is toxic- you just reach up to smear it over Kyle's lips in one bright, messy streak.

He licks his lips on instinct and gags when the waxy material touches his tongue, face twisting into a harsh grimace at the taste. It sends you into a fit of laughter, and Reese's answering scowl- complete with pink lips- has you doubled over with tears streaming down your cheeks, sides cramping. He takes advantage of your position, snatching the tube out of your hand and dragging it over your lips while you cackle.

Your Captain finds the two of you wheezing in your own little corner of the bunker. He rolls his eyes at your antics, considers interrupting you to send you out on patrol. But, he's never seen Reese smile like that- never seen him smile at all. There's something soft in the man's eyes as he grins at you, and this makes the Captain decide to elect a different duo for patrol duty. The two of you smile and laugh your way through the night, truly at ease for the first time in years. You end up storing the tube in one of your vest pockets- a souvenir that you run your fingers over in your down time, memories of Kyle's laughter warming you faster than any fire ever could.

Sarah Connor

"Haven't had to do this since..."

Sarah's voice wavers with telling nervousness before trailing off into tense silence. You watch as her hand slowly drops to her lap, the lipstick tube threatening to tumble from her limp fingers. She stares at her reflection in the propped-up piece of broken glass that she's using for a mirror and seems to be looking through herself, eyes sad and far away. You wander toward her, moving slowly so as not to startle her, and put a hand on her shoulder that you hope is comforting. She comes back to herself, eyes clearing, and twists around to give you a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"I guess I'm just out of practice, huh?"

"Yeah." You breathe, going along with her lie to protect her pride.

You trail your hand down her arm to pluck the lipstick out of her hand, and she offers no resistance when you grasp her chin with her free hand and tilt her face toward yours. You move slowly, first tracing and then filling in her lips with the pigment, and her eyes flutter closed at the gentle contact. You take your time, the activity as soothing for you as it is for her. You don't have any blotting paper handy, but you have a roll of shop towels at your disposal. You tear off a small square and fold it over before holding it out to her. She takes it with surprisingly steady fingers and blots her lips until the pigment doesn't transfer to the paper anymore.

She tosses the shop towel aside and looks up at you with a fainter, albeit more genuine smile as she whispers, "How's it look?"

"Beautiful, as usual."

Sarah snorts at that, posture loosening a fraction, and reaches up to slide her hand around the back of your neck. She pulls you down and gives you a single, soft kiss that's equal parts a thank you and a reassurance that she's alright. The lipstick isn't completely kiss-proof, it seems, and she laughs as she uses her thumb to swipe some of the pigment off of your lips.

"Guess you'll just have to put it on for me again."

Uncle Bob/T-800

The billboard is red. 'Kiss-proof, life-proof color! Perfect for the lover boy in your life!' it screams, bright and joyful in the midst of an otherwise brown and grey world. The couple in the ad are smiling- something he has learned to associate with an emotion that falls within range of 'joy' on his self-made scale for human happiness. He scans the image as he drives past it, logging the brand and hex code in less than a second, and speeds toward the nearest mall.

He asks for the lipstick by hex number, and after a bit of tense back and forth, the saleswoman pulls out a box of every color and lets him open tubes until he finds what he's looking for. He doesn't have $8.95 in his pocket, so he leaves the woman with a 20 and doesn't wait for her to give him change.

He returns to the dusty patch of BLM land that you and the family are currently calling home and pushes his bike up onto its stand, dismounting in one smooth motion. He summons an image of the billboard and studies the woman's face, using one of his rearview mirrors to copy her lip shape on top of his own mouth. Your initial reaction reads as fear, body tensing and eyes widening in abject shock at the sight of a Terminator with vibrant red lips. He wonders for a millisecond if he has failed in his mission to create joy in you, but then, your shoulders drop and you begin to laugh and smile. Interesting. The people in the billboard were only doing those things when they were kissing.

He steps forward and puckers his lips in a way that he's seen Sarah do when she kisses John Connor, and he picks you up by your upper arms to begin administering kisses.

"W-What are you doing?" You sputter, tensing in his hold.

He pauses, ready to let go of you should your fear response resurface, but the tension between your brows suggests confusion and curiosity instead of terror, so he continues. He does not lean forward to kiss you- just lifts and lowers your body and presses different parts of your face to his lips. Your smile widens by 33%, your laughter by 45%. His processors are flooded with positive feedback. After five minutes of peppering your face with kisses, you are covered in red smears and breathless from cackling. His messy lips pull into a smirk- his version of a smile. Mission successful.

Austin/T-1000

"What's this for?"

You watch in your mirror as the T-1000 eyes the open tube with curiosity and mild suspicion, your painted lips quirking into a fond smile.

"It's for... cosmetic purposes," You explain, offering the tube to him with one hand and fixing the ouline of your bottom lip with the other, "Not necessary for functioning- just a kind of decorative add-on people like to use. I just felt like dressing up today."

You look up just in time to see his reflection waver, nanoparticles rearranging until his lips match yours in color. He stares at himself in the mirror, brow furrowed in a vague approximation of distaste, and you turn to face him with an amused snort.

"I'd go for something a little more neutral," You suggest, "That shade doesn't really compliment the uniform."

"Neutral?" He echoes, head tilting in a show of confusion.

"Yeah," You shrug, "Like mauve, or something."

You take the tube back from him and watch as his features ripple again, the bright red pigment morphing into a tamer shade.

"That matches pretty well! You're good at this already."

You hold it your lipstick out of the way while you lean forward to place a kiss on his right cheekbone. The "skin" is lukewarm and semisolid- it feels like you're trying to kiss a hunk of jell-o. You pull away, and the polyalloy sticks to you for a moment before bouncing back into shape. The print that your lips leave behind is mildly warped. The T-1000 quickly shakes his head, and the mark disappears along with his imitation of lipstick.

"You should've kept it!" You pout, "It looked good."