Here's a completely work safe snippet:
John made a nearly unintelligible noise before slumping into one of the kitchen chairs.
“What are you doing up?” asked Derek, curious. “You think your Mom’s going to let you go to school today?”
“Naw. I’ve got a little more work to do on Cameron. She’s almost ready. Maybe tomorrow.”
“Should’ve let it die.” The comment was automatic, reflexive. Derek winced the second the words left his mouth. Damn it.
Sure enough, John bristled in his chair, suddenly alert, and angry. They’d already had the same argument a dozen times. Derek had promised himself he’d give it a rest. John and Sarah were united on this, and the Connors, once they made up their minds, were im-fucking-movable.
“We need her,” his nephew corrected. “Cameron is an invaluable asset. Without her I’d’ve been dead by now. Mom, too.” He stood up. “Besides, if my sister doesn’t come back to school with me, it’ll put us on the radar.”
Derek bit back a sigh. John’s trust in the machine was the one thing, the one true sticking point they would never agree on.
“The school already believes she’s ill,” he said, unable to stop himself from making the argument. “It would be easy enough to fake your sister’s death.”
“No,” said John. Hard, resolute. Right now, he reminded Derek of the John Connor of the future. And of Sarah. The boy definitely got his temper from his mother.
Again, as though thinking of her had conjured her, Sarah chose that moment to walk in. She paused two steps into the kitchen, her eyes moving from John, to Derek. Her smile for her son turned into something flat and thin lipped, the warmth in her expressive eyes cooling. She held Derek’s gaze for a long moment, then crossed to John.
“Morning,” she said, giving her son a casual kiss on the brow. “Pancakes?”
What is it with this woman and pancakes?
“No,” said John, his jaw set. “I’ve got work to do.” His jaw tightened defiantly as he glared one last time at Derek before stalking out. Sarah watched him go, then turned to Derek, arms folded across her chest.
“You two have a fight?”
“No,” he said, as he poured them each a cup of coffee. “Sometimes it’s just better if certain things are left unsaid.” He passed her one of the cups, felt the brief brush of her fingers against his as she accepted it. He met her eyes. “And sometimes it’s better to say them anyway, and damn the consequences. I’m better at that second one.”
She eyed him over her cup, wary.
“I’ve noticed,” she said finally. “What are we talking about, exactly? Because I’m pretty sure it’s not John.”