There's a new world shattering the silence. A new world I'm afraid to see.
One more midnight passes.
The firstborns are ripped out of their dreamworlds and dropped back into Chicago, disoriented and confused, but otherwise okay. With them, comes the return of all the tech and vehicles that were down while the plagues were going on.
As the sun rises, all that is left of the plagues are the corpses of monster and humanoid, ( Read more... )
The firstborns are ripped out of their dreamworlds and dropped back into Chicago, disoriented and confused, but otherwise okay. With them, comes the return of all the tech and vehicles that were down while the plagues were going on.
As the sun rises, all that is left of the plagues are the corpses of monster and humanoid, ( Read more... )
And neither one of those sets of memories and patterns is going to go away, is it? There's a quandary. He's spent so long with the cacophony of Jack Harkness and John Thane in his head, arguing on every point and protocol, and it's not as if the tumult of the last few days has quieted that. The cacopony is still going on in his head, where the urges and inclinations of John Thane say Step forward, take control of this and the iron-banded moral judgement of Jack Harkness says... Step forward. Take control of this.
What are you afraid of, Mr. Sark? And haven't you decided whether you're fighting or running?
J, the nonidentity, the interstitial state, has just been fighting to hold his own.
Three! An honest belief that it's the right thing to do!
"It kinda becomes my problem when you've chosen my people to bleed out on," he says.
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Chosen. Like he asked for Suzie. Like he asked for April. Like he asked for any of them. He could have existed in some perfect state of oblivion, fallen off a grid, or gotten picked up by the next superpower and been made useful, but people happened to him and he made the mistake of letting him instead of kicking them to the curb where they belonged. Where everything in his training said they belonged.
He clenches his fists and tucks his chin against his chest, baring his teeth in an approximation of a snarl and looking up into J's eyes in a gesture of aggressive submission. How dare you...
"Of course not. I think we all know you've cornered the monopoly on that. You can tell Ms. Costello to contact me when she's through, and I'll be glad to meet with her."
It's said in a rush, like the last sentence will override the sharp bite of an insult and he can walk past and get down the stairs and out before J retaliates. Not likely, but he's tired of this and he wants out. Now.
Better I bleed out on them, then watch them bleed out.
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Quite.
Right.
J steps forward as soon as he catches the hint that Sark's going to disengage, one hand snapping out and catching the back of Sark's neck. It's not a hard grip, not yet, not if he's not struggling, and had they been two other people with another history and different expressions on each of their faces, it could almost be companionable.
It's really, really not.
"Because for some damn reason," he says, continuing on as though Sark hadn't spoken at all; It becomes my problem, because... " there seems to be some thought left that I'm one of them. There are people who still look for someone I stopped being a long time ago whenever I'm in the same room with them, and I'm not dense, Sark. You think I don't notice what it means to them? When the people who used to love me look over and see this broken thing that I've become?"
He's locked antlers, put them face-to-face, matched himself to Sark's every move and reaction - no, there's no disengaging this. Sark may not be afraid of him, but when all else fails there's crude brute strength ( The boot in the face, the brute, brute heart) and he's got the advantage there, too.
"So as long as I'm here, and you're here," he hisses, "so long as no one finds it convenient to just stop caring like we know they should, I suppose what's left is seeing to it that we don't fuck them up any more than we already have. And seeing as I can't find my way out of my own ass with both hands and Ariadne's thread, that leaves you, Julian. I took as many people as I could. How many are you planning on dragging down with you?"
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Every now and then during J's speech, he'll give an unceremonious jerk, like maybe J will accidentally loosen his grip enough for him to run, but there's never any give and he's an idiot to think otherwise. He's always been better.
"I am damned no matter what I do," he hisses, his voice taking on a panicked, angry edge. "And my fight isn't theirs. I am not bowing down and letting other people fight my battles just for the sake of their comfort and if that offends you, then I'm sure you'll have no problem putting an end to this before I destroy anything else." He laughs in a way that isn't quite a laugh, more like a half-strangled cry. "And you know better than anyone that I'm more than willing to sacrifice a few pawns in any pathetic attempt at a chess game I try to play. The fewer I have, the fewer I'll destroy with inevitability."
He struggles again, more violently this time, like he'd do anything to get away, even if it took every last ounce of strength he had.
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There are so many ways he could press this advantage. His hindbrain is already numbering them off. He could, here on the balcony, in full view of anyone who came by, absolutely shatter this man if he put his mind to it. He's sure of it. It's not elegant, trampling all over someone else's work, but it is on occasion surprisingly easy.
"...and I always walk away," he says.
He closes his eyes.
After a moment, he lets his hand slip down to Sark's shoulder. He's still not letting him go, but he's not got his hands all over the trigger any more.
"Fucking... idiot," he says, and it's not entirely clear which one of them he's talking to.
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Calisto. Thane. J. Clark. Every one of them, he ran to for one reason or another. Calisto, because he needed a surrogate to keep from falling apart in a bad situation. Thane, because he thought he was better than he was. J, because he thought he owed him something. Clark, because he thought he had nothing to lose and everything to win back.
It's hard to be a come-home dog when you've got nothing to come home to, so you stand at every door that looks promising and whine for scraps and then bay in agony when they tighten the chain with the intent to break your neck at the most convenient opportunity.
Sark makes a noise in the back of his throat and still wriggles in J's grasp, even as his hand is off the trigger. It's the touch that's bothering him. It's the feeling like he can't get away.
"I'm tired," he finally says quietly, giving up on the struggle and allowing himself to go limp on his feet. Maybe he is an idiot. Maybe he's just getting himself in over his head, because the sensation of drowning is too good to pass up.
Maybe he's still avoiding hitting the ground.
"I'm so tired. I just want it to stop."
But, most importantly, he wants to stop it. One way or another. Either Clark wins or he does, but no one else gets in the middle of that war. Maybe it is his bloody pride screwing with him, but if he doesn't do this much, then he's worthless and he'd rather be dead.
Honestly, in his mind, there's not much difference between the two.
"Let me go," he adds in the same weak, quiet voice.
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He doesn't let Sark go. Not yet.
"Call it strategy, Sark. Strength in numbers. Call it outflanking. Call it tactical support. No one sends agents out to fight wars; that's a job for armies. And no one sends a one-man team on a three-man job. If you're going to fight, fight smart. And if not..." He shrugs. "A bullet's a lot quicker."
He lets go. Takes a step back. This... he's not entirely sure what just happened here.
"There is a way out," he says, eyes locked on Sark's as he retreats a step at a time. "I've known people who've made it. Just... keep it in mind."
As he turns and walks back into the hall that he came from, he lets the mask drop. It worked, he thinks - he hopes. Just for that parting line. Maybe he was able to hide the fact that he didn't know if it was a lie.
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There's a brief pause, taking in the fact that, yes, this is Julian, and yes, he's alive, and then she's advancing at a brisk pace towards him, hissing, yes, actually hissing the words, "You. Are an idiot" at him, and then she's pushing him into a wall and snogging him in an oh-thank-God-you're-alive sort of way.
Well. It seems to be the day for it.
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And, honestly, if he was capable or willing to listen to the man right now, then maybe he'd consider his words, but when Suzie shows up, he's leaning on the railing, staring down at his vague reflection in the water, and pondering just walking out. He only looks away when he hears footsteps and starts to back away from the railing with the intention of telling her something, but the words don't come out.
Because she's hissing at him and when a woman comes at you with that expression and calls you an idiot, your choices are either run or stay put and wait for what's coming.
He waits. It's not masochism. Not really. There's just no point in running from Suzie and she probably deserves an explanation that he's not willing to give, even if he bears the mark around his neck.
The next thing he knows, he's against the wall and being kissed and there's nothing to do but kiss back for a few helpless seconds. A knot that's been in his stomach since J grabbed him slowly unclenches as he goes boneless against the wall, half-exhausted, half-relieved, and as contented as he can be in this state. She's alive, he's alive, and this is all going to get worse before it gets better, but he has this. Right now.
He grabs her shoulder and pushes her away gingerly, more because he needs to speak than because he wants her to stop. He rattles off the address to his flat, breathlessly, and then adds, "For future reference."
Not that he was there all week.
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And then she smacks him upside the head, not hard enough to do real damage, but hard enough to hurt a bit.
"You're still an idiot. And yes, I'm done now."
She looks him up and down, taking in the red mark around his neck, eyes clouding over with worry.
"If I asked," she says, very softly, "you wouldn't tell me, would you?"
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That expression fades into quiet neutrality a few seconds later. The burn's going to be his very own Scarlet Letter and unless he takes up wearing turtlenecks all the time again, everyone's going to see it, and he's going to have to keep coming up with inventive excuses. "Unforeseen circumstances," he says, not quite looking at her. "I didn't intend to make you worry."
Which is a nice way of saying no.
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There's going to come a point where she can't keep ignoring this. She's not sure he hasn't passed it already.
...She may have to have words with a few people who might be able to hack into any CCTV systems around the address he's given her.
She's Torchwood, after all. They stalk out of love.
"Intended or not, the only question now is what I can do. Things like raiding our medical supplies, for one."
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I think I'm beyond any help you can give me.
He moves his hand to rub at the back of his neck above the mark. "I'm fine. More exhausted than anything. It has... Been a week." And he'd feel worse about being so terse with her, if he hadn't just worn out what little emotional resolve he had left fighting with J. He doesn't want to fight, he doesn't want to argue, and he would much rather just sink into oblivion somewhere and forget all of this ever happened for a bit.
Forgetting's a dangerous thing, usually, but he's willing to make an exception, in this case. If only just for a little while.
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"And you came here, first. ...Thanks." She leans up to kiss his cheek, wrapping her arms loosely around him. "Want to get some sleep over here, or go straight back to your flat?"
It's really up to him, but she'd rather he stayed.
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"Here, I think," he murmurs, turning his head so that he's murmuring against her neck. "I've missed you."
Which is so much more painful, when one realizes that he couldn't even remember her there for a bit. It hurts, like everything about that hurts, but he's just going to wrap his arms around Suzie and remind himself that he hasn't forgotten. He isn't beaten yet.
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She shivers slightly at the brush of lips and sound and breath against her neck, relaxing into him. "I worried," she murmurs back, as if it weren't obvious, "and I've missed you, too."
His lips against her neck, that murmur against her skin -- she's been in a position like this once today, similar but different, and in the shaky exhale, in the feel of his body against hers when she kissed him, in the way he sagged against the wall, she recognises far too much, recognises a need he doesn't have words for.
She wonders if perhaps she shouldn't have snogged him, if that would have led to safer distances, to something other than that deliberate stirring of breath and vibration against a vulnerable spot. She wonders if she should never have had sex with him in the first place, because this frightens her a bit -- not that he's close, not that they've been intimate or could be again, but because he's broken and too proud to tell her why and coming to her for comfort, and what if she breaks him more? What if he needs more than she can give?
What if she's not good enough?
J might have broken in her arms and come out whole, but that was J, a torturer skilled enough to break himself down with what seemed like minimal help from her. She'd provided an opportunity, nothing more.
Sark, she knows, will be different. Sark, with a smooth burn around his neck that makes her think of collars, makes her want to do things to the one who did this to her Julian that would make Thane's atrocities pale in comparison. Sark, who won't ask for help.
And that's when she knows that, even if they'd never had sex before, even if she hadn't snogged him just now, she'd be doing this anyway.
She slips away, putting just a bit of distance between them, arms gliding over his in a way that turns to a subtle caress of her hands on his, a gentle squeeze.
"Bed, then?"
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