[justprompts] I don't remember one jump or one leap, just quiet steps away from your lead.
justprompts : "Reasons Why"
I'm holding my heart out but clutching it too
Feeling this short of a love that we once knew
I'm calling this home when it's not even close
Playing the role with nerves left exposed
Standing on a darkened stage, stumbling through the lines
Others have excuses, but I have my reasons why
~*~
And so it ends.
The journal hits the back wall of the room with a resounding crack and lands behind the bed, to be forgotten until it turns up again after he's gone on his merry way, but the words still ring clearly in his head, in the voice of a girl much younger than April was when she died. Somehow he still hears that voice as clear as bells, even after all these months with a girl so much older, so much more jaded, but still so full of life and still holding him wrapped around her little finger.
Be good. I know you can. not your fault. Promise you'll be okay without me. I'll wait for you. always be your mei mei. Wŏ ài nĭ, gē ge.
She always did have too much faith in him.
He can't even break down properly, half because he doesn't even know if he's even physically capable of it right now and half because he's just tired of it. Tired of falling apart because he's stuck in a world that doesn't make sense, tired of playing the victim, when he knows he's anything but... Just tired of this entire damn universe and the only reason he's stuck and can't move forward is because he doesn't know what part he really plays in the grand scheme of things. Is he a traitor or an ally? Is he Torchwood's dog or another, as of yet unknown, third party's? Is he even a dog at all?
He doesn't have an answer yet, but what he knows he isn't is what he's been trying to be. Dmitri's little suggestions meant to break his conditioning were cute and maybe he did enjoy that night with Suzie, but none of that was him. It's not what he does and it's not what he plans to do with his life. He can't just exist in this state of... God, he doesn't even know. With April around, it didn't seem to matter so much, but the gnawing itch, the constant reminders of what he is and what he can do, given half the chance and an enemy that isn't out of his element... That was always there as background noise. Now it's coming in loud and full and in stereo, threatening to overwhelm him.
He can't just sit around and wait for a master to appear for his life to get back on track now that his one distraction is gone. There's a number of amoral and devious activities he could engage in and they're easy to find, he's certain, but that's not the route he wants to go, not with April's last message to him ringing in his ears and the structure she built for him in the back of his head still there to remind him that, after everything, she really did care, and he'd be a right bastard to throw that away.
He'll figure out what he's meant to do one of these days, but he won't get anywhere wallowing. Not when there are a hundred different motions he has to go through in the aftermath of this tragedy, and if he can focus on that, then he doesn't have to focus on the pain of losing her and not knowing where the hell he stands. He's better than that- he's always been better than that. It shouldn't be so hard for him to figure out where to go from here.
~*~
Someone- he can't even be sure who, at this point- had mentioned a memorial service and he'd agreed as if he really had a say in the matter, but he made a point to mention that he wouldn't be attending. He has his reasons, most of them bitterly selfish, but he isn't going to mingle amongst April's friends and pretend he belongs there.
While the planning goes on without his input, he buries himself in April's personal effects- actually returning to the flat for the first time in months as soon as he's well enough to make it that far (he's still limping a bit and his ribs still twinge, but it's nothing that can't be worked through), because he doesn't plan on staying in the Kashtta for very much longer, CLF threat or not. If the flat's still standing now, he imagines it's going to remain standing.
Given the fact that he doesn't share the flat with anyone at the present moment, he sees no problem in leaving April's bedroom as it is and putting whatever she had with her at the Kashtta into storage. He moves through the process with ruthless efficiency, taking care not to linger too long on anything, especially not the two fortunes from the Carnival that he found amongst the effects- those, he puts up somewhere safe, because examining them now won't do him any good, but he can't bear the thought of throwing them out just yet.
It's the leather jacket he finally has to linger on when all is said and done- rescued from her clothes that were probably slated to be burned or thrown out eventually. He slumps on the floor of her bedroom, his back pressed against the end of the bed as he studies every frayed and patched inch of it with a neutral expression. He never thought about it much when he saw her wearing it, trying to assume it far more innocent than he knew it was, but now, devoid of every barrier that kept him from thinking about her and Thane, he has to admit the truth.
"You couldn't stay away from people like us," he murmurs, dropping the jacket into his lap. There's some irony, he supposes- April was wearing that jacket when he lost her that first time. Somehow that starts him laughing, an almost hysterical sound that he'd be pleased no one else was around to hear if he were less utterly cracked at the moment, eventually petering out into choking sobs. So much for not being able to have a breakdown- he's not sure if finally being able to lose it after everything is a merciful relief or just one more thing that makes him weaker than he once was.
He used to have so much control. He used to have a lot of things. Now he doesn't really have much of anything, but he'll fix that one day and he'll fix it in a way that makes April proud, because, looking down at that jacket now, he can see precisely how far he can fall.
"I was never like you," he growls, his voice still husky from the breakdown, despite his emotions shifting on a dime, as he tightens his fists into the worn leather. "And I never will be."
~*~
There's a little angel statue in a private (or as private as one can get) corner of a Chicago cemetery with a name carved into the polished stone. The first name and the date of death are the only accurate things about it- the year of birth is a complete lie, the last name only true in a certain sense, and the date of birth is the first date that came into Sark's head, since he never knew her actual birthday.
March 22, 2008. The day he met her.
The statue is merely an edifice- Torchwood would keep her body- but he needed something that was his, a place to go and remember her that's a bit more intimate and personal than a morgue. Eventually, he'll point out to her other friends where it is, but for now... This much is his.
"I've never actually done this before," he says with some trepidation as he lays a bouquet of flowers at the base of the statue. "It seems silly, almost. I have serious doubts that you can hear me, but... I imagine this is what you would have done were it me." He shakes his head, gritting his teeth against an onslaught of emotion. Sometimes he can't feel at all and sometimes he feels too much- at least he understands what's causing it, but that doesn't make it any easier to live with.
He stares down at the ground, still unable to find the right words, even after all this time to think of them. "You told me to be good. I believe you have far more faith in me than I really deserve, but I'd done fairly well for myself to a point, barring a few... Setbacks." He cringes, but doesn't look up. "That was when you were alive, however. I took it for granted, perhaps, how much I really need you here, but..." His eyes drift up to the angel's stone face and he swallows as if he's wondering if it's judging him, despite how silly that sounds, "...But I'll try not to falter, if not for my sake, then because I need at least one promise to you that I can actually keep."
He lingers for a moment and then finally walks away, back out into a world that's a little bit colder than it used to be, wondering if that's even remotely the one promise he'll really be able to keep and not really caring either way, because, even if it kills him, he plans on keeping it.
Muse: Julian Sark
Word Count: 1604