rapid eye follow the chain of thought until the silence ends
It is the second-to-last day of the plagues, and, unexpectedly, the sun rises. For five hours and 35 minutes, it is a perfectly normal, if a bit cold, Chicago day
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Hey, at least it isn't pus!
...Yeah, no.
She feels him move again beside her, and she guesses from the sound of shoes scraping across grass and earth that he's drawn his knees up. Like him, she also sighs and then falls into silence, trying to wash the awkward away with a healthy gulp from the bottle in her hand.
The vodka goes down, burning. And that little fire sparks a larger, stronger one inside her, fear and concern and confusion giving way to rage. She offers the bottle again, tapping it against... some part of Sark's body, she can't tell, but she'd guess elbow or knee from the feel of the bottle hitting.
"I think it confounded you that I was so nice and helpful."
Rachel's voice is low. This a matter of confiding in Sark, not in having a conversation with him. It's probably born of some combination of the vodka in her belly, the darkness that has them surrounded, and her own confused pain, guilt, and grief over Rusty (and what's to come over Adrian), but it takes root in the great esteem and respect in which she holds Mr. Sark, and in her affection for him.
"You even pointed out how it could be a tactical disadvantage. Maybe I'd be too nice to somebody someday, the wrong somebody, and I'd pay the price. It was a fair assessment. It's happened before and it's likely to happen again. Totally."
She sits up straighter and leans in a bit, putting her shoulder square with Sark's. "I know I don't seem like it--and I know I don't understand tactics like, anywhere near as well as you do--but I sometimes have the general idea. Enough to know that you don't reveal everything. Like the other side of me. The part of me that's protective, powerful."
She holds his arm a little tighter, turning her face toward him. He can't see it, but at least her voice will be that much closer, her words that much clearer. "This will all come back to you someday, Mr. Sark. Your memory. You'll remember or figure out what happened to you, and who's responsible. It doesn't have to be right now. It doesn't have to be anytime soon. I'm not pressuring you for that; I have faith it'll come in its own time. All I want to say is that when it does, I hope you'll share that information with me. The name, if nothing else. I know you don't know why now." She makes a soft sound that might have turned into a laugh someday, in better circumstances. "You probably wouldn't even understand it if you were your usual self. But, please. When you remember who did this, tell me."
She draws in a deep breath.
"So I can tear him limb from limb myself."
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Tactical disadvantage.
Who says things like that?
He blinks a few times, trying to process that. Trying to process all of it and it's not until she gets those last words that something happens, something clicks, a door opens....
...And it's like an onslaught.
Twenty-three years, most of them spent in some state of torture, some degree of training, and all of them understanding a little too much about the darkness in every man. It all clicks together like a puzzle and the vodka slips from his hands to fall, uselessly, to the ground, and he stands up abruptly, staggering backwards in the darkness.
Julian Sark was a killer, a man whose name had a certain degree of respect to it. Julian Sark was a man who didn't need anyone to look out for him. Julian Sark was once someone's pampered dog.
Julian Sark didn't let anyone else fight his battles.
When he speaks, it's the slow, calculated speech that one associates with Julian Sark, not the disoriented speech of someone who doesn't know who he is. There's an edge to it, however. An angry, bitter edge. "Oh, Ms. Conway. You have no idea. None."
Sark's back. And he's not exactly happy with his current state of affairs. Clark made him forget. He could have been stuck like that. After that, all bets are off. Clark is his to either destroy or to go down in the attempt.
If he has nothing else, he will have that...
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She loosens her grip on his arm, still holding it, but not quite so protectively. Now it's more an anchoring point, a means for each of them to know where the other is in the pitch black. "I can now leave the actual bitch-killing in far better hands than my own. Can I at least hold him down a little for you? Rough him up a little? Kick his ass into the lake? Welcome back, Mr. Sark."
That last bit is said with no small amount of warmth, and with another offering tap-tap-tap of the vodka bottle against his knee or whatever it is she keeps hitting with it. She really ought to ask...
But there's a more important thing to ask first.
"Are you okay?"
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He jerks his arm out of her grasp, half as a defensive measure and half out of irritation. How dare she be so calm about this? How dare she so casually claim that she's going to take what's his.
And then he relaxes a bit. She's not a threat. She might be more than she seems, but Rachel Conway certainly isn't the type who'll threaten his position. And she isn't getting any information anyway. He sinks back to the ground and rubs his head. It hurts. That much sudden processing would hurt anyone.
"I would rather you didn't," he says, with much less of a coarse edge. He's so happy it's dark and she can't see the bandage around his neck. He fumbles for the bottle for a moment and downs way more than a sane man should, but, well, he's not precisely sane right now. "I'm content to fight my own battles."
That last question is certainly loaded. "No," he responds, truthfully. "I don't believe I am."
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"Fair enough," she announces between sips. "On all counts. Your foe's all yours, it's understandable you're not okay after whatever the hell happened to you, and we're stranded here for the rest of the day, likely, so get comfortable and enjoy your vodka. Plenty of time for killing later."
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He hasn't forgotten about the firstborn plague. He has a feeling that Clark wouldn't have taken such a gamble on destroying him if he thought they were going to survive.
So there's that, anyway.
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"...Tomorrow, you mean. The last plague. So you're a firstborn, too?"
Christ. Will there be no one left in this city she knows besides Wes?
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"And you're not," he supplies without actually answering. That is, in itself, an answer. "My apologies."
He's more apologizing for her situation than actually apologizing, but either way. Also, he might not have been so blunt if he had known.
...Julian Sark. Concerned for another's feelings. My, but the times have changed.
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There's a pause as she washes that explanation down with another mouthful of whiskey. "So, no. Not me. Just everyone else in my life here, ever, save one. I'm... not looking forward to tomorrow."
Another pause, and then: "...I've got whiskey over here if you want to trade."
In other words: thank you. She recognizes the concern for what it is but isn't going to make a big deal of it.
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He hands over the vodka and takes the whiskey. Whiskey might be the one liquor that he really can't abide even in social situations, but it's strong and he needs strong more than he needs taste.
"For what it's worth, I'm not entirely certain that the last plague isn't just going to be anticlimatic. After all, every other plague ended when the day was out."
Part of him wants to believe he's actually going to die, but the other part clings to that hope, because he's still scared of dying, but.. Considering the road he's walking down, death by plague might be the preferable option.
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Rachel trails off, popping one shoulder in an unseen shrug. The bottle's raised and a good amount of the alcohol goes down. It's dark. She's tired. She can't hold the demons at bay any longer.
"I wish I was as hopeful as you," she settles on. "I can't even entertain that thought. I just sit and pick it apart. Like... seriously. How do you just die for pretend? For a day? I don't see a way past it."
She doesn't see a way past much of anything, now. But there's no need to come out and say that.
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