[RP] And you could have it all- my empire of dirt. I will let you down. I will make you hurt.
Sark does, indeed, walk each agonizing step back, but not to the Kashtta... No, he can't bear the thought of dealing with Torchwood right now. There's nothing right now that doesn't hurt and it's all he can do to throw himself on the steps of the nearest clinic and let them deal with his injury and get the cuffs off of him. He can't even remember half of the excuses he gave about the whole lot of them, all of them lies and most of them reasonable, despite the fact that his mind is in such an indelicate state of unrest that he's not sure how he can even manage to form coherent sentences anymore. All he can hear are gunshots and all he can feel is April's fear and it's playing in a loop until he's fairly certain he's going to go insane, and all of that is mingled with every memory he's ever had of her. "You take care of me. You always take care of me."
He knew, even then, it was going to end like this. Why on earth did he let that daft, brilliant little girl past his defenses when he knew that all he could ever do was hurt her?
He gets out of the clinic well before he should (obviously someone in broken handcuffs with a hole in their chest several inches deep is going to raise more questions than he wants to answer, and they did what they needed to do anyway), but he can't bring himself to care. He knows what he should do. Get out of this city, hop a flight to Galway or Los Angeles or Moscow- someplace familiar and as close to his actual home as he's liable to get. He can't abide the idea of legit business ventures, but surely there's some shady cell leader or a criminal mastermind out there would love a little broken prodigy to mold into their very own little secret weapon. As much as he hates to be reminded that to get to this point, he had to be broken down as a child and reshaped to Irina's specifications, at this point, he wouldn't mind having that process begin anew. He's already been shattered so thoroughly that he doesn't know what to do with himself anymore, so eaten away with guilt that he can't so much as breathe without it hurting- this time the skewer in his chest is purely metaphorical, but it hurts all the same. Hell, if he could find a demon somewhere, he could make it worth their while. Twenty-two years worth of bad memories and they could make a killing off just the ones from the past couple of days. A Glaysa could have a field day with him- he's more emotional now than he's ever been in his entire life. Another Neqa'el, someone a little more subtle than Calisto, could take him under their wing and he'd let them poke and prod at his mind until he couldn't remember April's face or why the hell everything hurts when he thinks of her when nothing was ever supposed to matter to him that much.
Running and hiding, letting someone take the pain away and force him to forget how to feel all over again- that's the coward's way. That's his way. If he wasn't a coward, then he would have just died back there and she would have lived, and somehow wouldn't that be better than this? Wouldn't he be better off dead at this point? And he knows it's not true, that nothing is worse than death in his book, but he does know, and this hurts more than anything, that if Thane could gave him the choice again.... He wouldn't make the same mistake. There are no second chances, however. He failed some grand cosmic test and are you happy now, universe? Happy that it gave him something that he almost, almost, loved more than himself and then let die in his place, because he was too scared to die himself. He'd be better off not remembering, having someone remove her from her memory until it was like she never existed at all. He could go back to exactly what he was before he met her. Kill, torture, steal, cheat, betray, hurt, but never, ever love. Not that deeply. Not so much that it hurts when he realizes he can't love the same way. Not again.
And yet, he doesn't run, because he knows that he used up his cowardice back there, and he isn't going to sit down and forget what he did to April. She protected him, she might have died for him- she did die for him, but he made that choice, not her- and he let her down. She did what no other person on the planet would even consider doing for him, and he might as well have killed her with his own hands. He's going to remember her face and those gunshots and her fear, and he's going to remember everything she made him feel and it'll kill him, and he may never be as whole as he tried to pretend he was all these years again, but it'll be his penance. If there aren't any second chances, then so be it. He won't give himself another opportunity to screw up again.
Irina Derevko once walked into the CIA, pretending it was out of love for what she put her family through. Julian Sark is going to walk into Torchwood and do the exact same thing and actually mean it- no. No, he's not going to walk, not if he wants to make this convincing. If Sydney Bristow wanted so badly to get involved in this affair, then he'll get her involved.
And if he can make her hate him as much as he deserves to be at this point, then that's just one more bird killed with the same stone that killed April.
No bridges left unburned. That's the way it just has to be.
~*~
Now he's sitting in a hotel room- some cheap little place that he wouldn't be caught dead in were he back home, but picking pockets rarely turns up anything substantial in the long run and it was the best he could do on short notice. He's still broken into more pieces than he really wants to count, but he's managed to get some level of functionality back, even if all he wants to do now is screw his finely tuned control and just break down completely, let it out, scream it to the heavens that he fucked up and he's sorry, and why can't he take it back?
Sydney should be here soon, and if he has any say in the matter, he will not lose it in front of her. The door to the hotel room is just slightly ajar and anyone who tries to come in who isn't dear Agent Bristow will probably be met with whatever bit of unpleasantness he can find to beat them down with in this room. Leaving the door open is just an excuse to not have to pay attention to it while he concentrates on willing himself to keep it together.
One of the unfortunate side effects of conditioning operatives young is that they can get a bit edgy and tempermental. They have to grow into the training. It takes years to get the sort of clearly defined emotional control that Sark used to have before everything got blown all to hell when he came here, but nothing he ever experienced in this world ever compared to what he's feeling now. All of his walls are broken and all he can think to do now is exactly what Irina used to do then to keep him calm, whenever he used to get twitchy and nervous as a child.
He's sitting in a chair with the back to the door, facing the window like he used to back at the Conrad (and it's another pang of guilt and sorrow when he realizes that April isn't going to come running to climb in his lap this time or anymore), pinching the bridge of his nose and singing. Softly, barely audible, and definitely in Russian- something that sounds almost like a lullaby. It's less cute when you consider it was used as a triggering mechanism that he eventually grew out of needing, but still. It's soothing and he needs something at this point to keep him from completely breaking down and it's all he has to him right now.
He knew, even then, it was going to end like this. Why on earth did he let that daft, brilliant little girl past his defenses when he knew that all he could ever do was hurt her?
He gets out of the clinic well before he should (obviously someone in broken handcuffs with a hole in their chest several inches deep is going to raise more questions than he wants to answer, and they did what they needed to do anyway), but he can't bring himself to care. He knows what he should do. Get out of this city, hop a flight to Galway or Los Angeles or Moscow- someplace familiar and as close to his actual home as he's liable to get. He can't abide the idea of legit business ventures, but surely there's some shady cell leader or a criminal mastermind out there would love a little broken prodigy to mold into their very own little secret weapon. As much as he hates to be reminded that to get to this point, he had to be broken down as a child and reshaped to Irina's specifications, at this point, he wouldn't mind having that process begin anew. He's already been shattered so thoroughly that he doesn't know what to do with himself anymore, so eaten away with guilt that he can't so much as breathe without it hurting- this time the skewer in his chest is purely metaphorical, but it hurts all the same. Hell, if he could find a demon somewhere, he could make it worth their while. Twenty-two years worth of bad memories and they could make a killing off just the ones from the past couple of days. A Glaysa could have a field day with him- he's more emotional now than he's ever been in his entire life. Another Neqa'el, someone a little more subtle than Calisto, could take him under their wing and he'd let them poke and prod at his mind until he couldn't remember April's face or why the hell everything hurts when he thinks of her when nothing was ever supposed to matter to him that much.
Running and hiding, letting someone take the pain away and force him to forget how to feel all over again- that's the coward's way. That's his way. If he wasn't a coward, then he would have just died back there and she would have lived, and somehow wouldn't that be better than this? Wouldn't he be better off dead at this point? And he knows it's not true, that nothing is worse than death in his book, but he does know, and this hurts more than anything, that if Thane could gave him the choice again.... He wouldn't make the same mistake. There are no second chances, however. He failed some grand cosmic test and are you happy now, universe? Happy that it gave him something that he almost, almost, loved more than himself and then let die in his place, because he was too scared to die himself. He'd be better off not remembering, having someone remove her from her memory until it was like she never existed at all. He could go back to exactly what he was before he met her. Kill, torture, steal, cheat, betray, hurt, but never, ever love. Not that deeply. Not so much that it hurts when he realizes he can't love the same way. Not again.
And yet, he doesn't run, because he knows that he used up his cowardice back there, and he isn't going to sit down and forget what he did to April. She protected him, she might have died for him- she did die for him, but he made that choice, not her- and he let her down. She did what no other person on the planet would even consider doing for him, and he might as well have killed her with his own hands. He's going to remember her face and those gunshots and her fear, and he's going to remember everything she made him feel and it'll kill him, and he may never be as whole as he tried to pretend he was all these years again, but it'll be his penance. If there aren't any second chances, then so be it. He won't give himself another opportunity to screw up again.
Irina Derevko once walked into the CIA, pretending it was out of love for what she put her family through. Julian Sark is going to walk into Torchwood and do the exact same thing and actually mean it- no. No, he's not going to walk, not if he wants to make this convincing. If Sydney Bristow wanted so badly to get involved in this affair, then he'll get her involved.
And if he can make her hate him as much as he deserves to be at this point, then that's just one more bird killed with the same stone that killed April.
No bridges left unburned. That's the way it just has to be.
~*~
Now he's sitting in a hotel room- some cheap little place that he wouldn't be caught dead in were he back home, but picking pockets rarely turns up anything substantial in the long run and it was the best he could do on short notice. He's still broken into more pieces than he really wants to count, but he's managed to get some level of functionality back, even if all he wants to do now is screw his finely tuned control and just break down completely, let it out, scream it to the heavens that he fucked up and he's sorry, and why can't he take it back?
Sydney should be here soon, and if he has any say in the matter, he will not lose it in front of her. The door to the hotel room is just slightly ajar and anyone who tries to come in who isn't dear Agent Bristow will probably be met with whatever bit of unpleasantness he can find to beat them down with in this room. Leaving the door open is just an excuse to not have to pay attention to it while he concentrates on willing himself to keep it together.
One of the unfortunate side effects of conditioning operatives young is that they can get a bit edgy and tempermental. They have to grow into the training. It takes years to get the sort of clearly defined emotional control that Sark used to have before everything got blown all to hell when he came here, but nothing he ever experienced in this world ever compared to what he's feeling now. All of his walls are broken and all he can think to do now is exactly what Irina used to do then to keep him calm, whenever he used to get twitchy and nervous as a child.
He's sitting in a chair with the back to the door, facing the window like he used to back at the Conrad (and it's another pang of guilt and sorrow when he realizes that April isn't going to come running to climb in his lap this time or anymore), pinching the bridge of his nose and singing. Softly, barely audible, and definitely in Russian- something that sounds almost like a lullaby. It's less cute when you consider it was used as a triggering mechanism that he eventually grew out of needing, but still. It's soothing and he needs something at this point to keep him from completely breaking down and it's all he has to him right now.