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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There's a bandage around his neck that wouldn't be nearly as noticable if he hadn't gotten frustrated with the collar on his shirt and loosened the buttons and the tie with frantic, clawing fingers. He remembers vaguely what the wound is from, and that's one of the few things he can remember- shock treatments, almost every day. I don't remember why.
I don't remember.There's something at the back of his mind, something that might make that make sense, but he can't remember. He remembers walking on four, not ( ... )
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He is going to be wary of that for the rest of the night, but that probably won't stop him from drinking it. The tingling sensation makes the headache a lot more bearable.
"...I'm not certain what's going on, exactly, but... If you say so," he shrugs. Well, it's dark. There's something odd going on. He's not a tiger. These are a few of things he knows. And she, at least, sounds earnest.
... And something tells him he really doesn't want to be alone right now, so her being here is appreciated, even if he doesn't say as much for a completely different reason than he wouldn't have said it were in control of his head.
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She takes a sip and then lowers the bottle, trying to think of the best way to explain. She looks up thoughtfully at the general area from where Mr. Sark's voice came, and she decides... not to say anything.
She can spare him that much, at least. Until he's better, and more in possession of his full faculties.
"It'll be all right," she says instead, her voice calm and confident. "This'll pass by tomorrow at the latest. As much as it kinda sucks to be sitting here under a tree, I think it's safer. If we go trying to move around we might get hurt. Not being able to see and all."
Her hand seeks his out again, to make sure she's passing the bottle properly. "We'll be okay," she insists. "I promise. We'll just wait this out."
...maybe she means the darkness. Maybe she means his fugue. It's hard to say.
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He wishes he could just go back. It was simpler.
His fingers brush against the bandage on his neck and a chill runs down his spine. This immediately cured by more alcohol.
He swallows it down, chokes again, and hands the bottle back. "You don't have to... Not that you have much of a choice, really."
He pauses and kneads the heel of his hand into his forehead again. Why can't he just remember something? Why does it all have to be so fuzzy and ridiculous? "I think we're going in circles."
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She pauses, feeling him shift. She can't see what he's doing but she can guess from the way he leans forward a bit, the way she feels his arm raise. "Headache?" she asks. It'd make sense. "...Sorry. Can I help?"
Not that she knows what she'd actually do. He doesn't seem to need any first aid--he'd have said so, or so she hopes, if there was an actual head injury involved.
"And we probably are going in circles, yeah. Sorry. We could just... not go anywhere. Relax."
She shifts, stretching her legs out in front of herself as if illustrating her point. She settles back against the tree trunk and takes another pull off the bottle before handing it back. "I doubt we can actually do anything to change things, and there's no point stressing about it."
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He brings his knees up to rest against his chest and sighs. Silence is somewhat unbearable, giving the emptiness of his own head, but he can't think of anything to say that wouldn't just send them into more conversation-circles. It's a rather useless feeling.
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Hey, at least it isn't pus!...Yeah, no ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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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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