Author's Note:
Sorry for the long time to update. I hit a bit of writer's block, but I think I finally have things back on track. This is a sort of short chapter because I wanted to get something up before Monday. Thank you so much for your wonderful responses and support for this story. I hope you enjoy!
~ * ~
"I love you...
I hate you...
I can't get around you...
I breathe you...
I taste you...
I can't live without you..."
- "Always," Saliva
~ * ~
Despite my nap, I'm anything but well rested when my plane lands in Paris, thanks in large part to my dream about Sark. Not that I'm surprised; I've been having this dream on a nightly basis for the last three months. I toss and turn, the sheets twisting hotly around my hips, and I wake up aching and breathless, my mind reeling from the images lurking in the back of my consciousness. The dreams don't always start the same way, but they always end with that kiss. When I open my eyes in the morning I can still feel the burn of Sark's lips on mine, the way his hands molded my hips to his, the press of hard muscles against my soft curves. My alarm clock becomes the enemy because it pulls me away from a reminder of the best kiss I've ever experienced, and makes me yearn for more--and I hate myself for it. Over three months later I'm still unsettled because I kissed a man I hate, and I hate myself for allowing it to get to me.
I spend the drive to work reminding myself of all the reasons Sark is evil: he's a heartless assassin, he's cold-blooded, he takes pleasure in killing people, he has no remorse for his crimes, etc, etc. But the problem is no matter how hard I try, I can't quite convince myself that Sark is all bad. I always remember that look in his eyes after he kissed me, remember this tiny spark of surprise and vulnerability as we pulled away. For a brief moment he looked as shell-shocked as me, stunned to have felt something so powerful with someone so wrong. But as quickly as it appeared it vanished, and his usual amused smirk reappeared. For a long time I thought I imagined it, but I know my eyes didn't lie. For a brief moment Sark was a human being, and after seeing that there's no going back, because now I know that underneath the calm, collected nonchalance is a living, breathing, feeling man. Sure, most of the time he's hidden beneath Sark's carefully constructed mask of indifference, but I know he's there all the same--and that complicates things. Because now I can't think of Sark as a merciless monster with veins that run full of ice; now I think of him as a human being. A severely twisted, cruel, manipulative, semi-psychopath, but a man all the same.
It makes me think I'm going crazy, seeing Sark in a normal light, kind of like those women that fall in love with serial killers and marry them in prison. One moment of weakness doesn't justify all the pain and suffering Sark's caused people, myself included. But then I remember how he left me his jacket and I get confused all over again. I still can't figure out why he did that. Maybe he felt guilty about sabotaging my mission, but obviously not guilty enough because he took off with my file. I rub my aching head and push thoughts of Sark out of my mind. It's not worth obsessing over. Every time I think I have him figure out he pulls another stunt that makes me hate and resent him all over again. I have a mission to complete, information to steal; I need to concentrate on that, not Sark. I turn my thoughts to my usual fantasy about Vaughn, myself, and a private beach in the Caribbean. The hot sun is beating down, a cool breeze blows lazily across the sand, and Vaughn is standing before me in nothing but a pair of loose swim trunks. Except in this fantasy Vaughn's is a bit taller, a bit wider, and his eyes are two pools of deep, dark blue. He laughs a bit and extends his hand; I willingly take it. I settle back in my seat and enjoy the images my mind create, never realizing Vaughn doesn't have blond hair or a British accent or blue eyes; I never realize that somewhere along the way Vaughn became Sark.
~ * ~
I'm surprised at how easy the mission is. I slip into the party unnoticed, flashing a bit of thigh and cleavage to the guards to get inside, but from there it's clear sailing. This mission is a lot like Cap Ferrat, except no sedated Vaughn in the basement. For once I'm completely professional. I manage to push aside all thoughts of Sark and my unsettling dreams, and compartmentalize my feelings. I put myself in mission mode and concentrate solely on the task at hand. I sip champagne and snag a slice of Brie from a passing tray, doing my best to fit in. When the coast is finally clear I surreptitiously sneak up the stairs and search for Lacroix's office. With Dixon's help I easily break through his firewall and internal alarms, and start hacking into the computer. When I locate the files I slide Sloane's disk into the drive and pretend to download. "These missions are getting really repetitive," I think to myself as I subtly finger the clasp of my necklace. To Sloane's visual feed it looks like I'm merely playing with my necklace, but the CIA is eagerly downloading every image the camera's digital film captures. After a few minutes I smile right into Dixon's feed and pull the disk out of the drive. I play with the necklace a bit more, to add to the show, before sliding it back into place. I slip the disk into the cleavage of my dress and start to leave. I make it as far as the door before something hard and heavy smashes into the back of my head and I collapse in an ungainly heap on the floor.
~ * ~
My first thought is that it's dark, and cold. There is a sticky substance clinging to my cheek and my head hurts like a bitch. I try to raise a hand to brush my hair off my face, and find my arms are paralyzed. I tug, once, twice, and curse under my breath when I feel cold metal bite into the flesh of my wrists. I'm handcuffed, to a chair, again. This is an all too familiar situation I'm getting a bit tired of. Okay, screw that. I'm getting REALLY tired of ending up like this, and this time, despite the lack of a bullet in my shoulder, there's no getting away. Whoever took me prisoner learned a lesson from my encounter with "The Man," because I'm not only locked to a chair, but it's also bolted to the floor. There's nothing to do but sit and wait.
I blow my hair out of my eyes and take a quick survey of my surroundings: plush carpet, Georgian furniture, silk-covered walls, expensive accents--whoever is holding me obviously runs his organization like a well-oiled machine. It takes money to maintain a place like this and money means efficiency. I manage to glance down and notice I'm still wearing the black silk halter and four-inch Manolo Blahniks, although my hair's begun to fall out of its up do and around my face. Everything is in order except the necklace is no longer around my neck. "Fuck," I think. The one thing I was ordered to hold onto at all costs is missing.
"Fuck," I curse. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I give the cuffs another tug, but all I get in return is burning pain in my wrists.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice says and I jerk my head up, because that isn't just any voice. It's smooth and cultured and glaringly British. "No way," I think to myself. "No fucking way!" I should have known. The gorgeous room, the same tactics as my mother--there's even a glass of red wine on the bureau for god's sake. How had I not figured it out sooner? "Because you were more concerned with getting away then why you were here in the first place," I remind myself.
I raise my head and glare at him. He stands in the doorway, hip cocked against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and his lips curved in that smirk of his that always makes me want to scream. "What the fuck do you want, Sark?" I ask through gritted teeth, my eyes burning with anger.
He raises a hand to his face in a sign of mock hurt. "Naughty, naughty, Agent Bristow. There's no need for such language."
He's right; there is no need to curse. But considering I'm chained to a chair and he's milling about freely, I don't have a lot of ways of expressing my annoyance. "I'll talk to you however the fuck I want, you son of a bitch!"
"Sydney, Sydney," Sark scoffs and starts towards me. "You really need a new line. I'm getting a bit bored tired of the same thing, every time, wouldn't you agree?"
Actually, I do agree, not that I'd tell him, but I decide to let him win this round. "How's pathetic bastard?"
"Your originality stuns me." He stands right in front of me, so close I could deliver a well-deserved kick to his exposed shin--if my ankles weren't bound together. I tug at them a little and he shakes his head. "You're not going anywhere, Sydney. There's not use struggling. You'll only hurt yourself."
I glare at him again and curse again. I know I sound like a surly teenager, but I'm past caring. I'm angry, confused, my wrists hurt from the handcuffs, and even more, I'm tired of always losing to Sark. I'm one of the best spies in the entire world, yet he always seems to be on step ahead of me; it's simply not fair that he always wins and I always lose. "What do you want, Sark?" I demand furiously, my breath hissing through barely parted lips. He crosses his arms over his chest, and I notice he's not wearing his usual fitted suit. His clothes are still formal, but the first few buttons of his shirt are undone and the sleeves are rolled up the elbows. I like the more casual Sark more because it makes him seem more real and less a trained-killer. "Dammit!" I think. I have to stop thinking of Sark as a person. After all he has me tied up and furious. Right now he's more assassin then human.
"You had information I needed. I thank you for it," he explains, rubbing his lower lip absently. I try not to watch, but my eyes are drawn to his mouth like a moth to a flame, cliché, but true. He has the most beautiful mouth, full, pouty lips with this little Cupid's bow dip on top. They're the kind of lips women read about in romance novels. What is it? Oh, yes. Lips like a fallen angel, that's my Sark. My Sark! What the hell is wrong with me? When did I start feeling possessive of him, thinking of him as mine? Jesus, I really must be going crazy. He bites his lip a bit as he studies me, and I force myself to look at the floor. Looking at his mouth makes me want to kiss him and thinking about kissing him makes me think about the kiss we shared a few months ago and thinking about that kiss makes me remember I might just be losing my mind. And right now I need to be focused and in control if I want to salvage this disaster of a mission.
When I raise my eyes again his mouth is set in an expectant line as he waits for my response. Thank god he isn't biting his lip again. In my distracted state, I don't know what would come out of my mouth if he was. "You stole that information," I sneer. "I want it back."
"Sorry, Sydney. I'm afraid your precious necklace is now mine. Pity though, it really was beautiful crafted. I'm surprised the CIA would spend so much on a something you'll never wear again." He pretends to ponder his statement while my entire body goes rigid with shock. He knows. HE KNOWS! He knows I'm a double agent; he could tell Sloane; he could ruin everything with one phone call; he could get me killed. My mind is reeling, a hundred different scenarios and explanations running through my head.
"What did you say?" I manage to say through my shock.
"So surprised, Agent Bristow. Yes, I know you're a double agent." He says and takes a step closer, so close I can feel the soft wool of his pants against my bare toes, smell his cologne. I inhale deeply and wish I didn't. The way he smells, his beautiful mouth--he's getting to my head and making it hard to think. I lean as far back in my chair as I can and breathe through my mouth. Yes, that's better. Well, not really, but at least my brain is beginning to function normally again.
"How did you find out?"
"I have my ways."
"The only other person who knows is my mother and she told me she never told you. She swore to me that she kept my secret to protect me. She lied to me," I whisper in disbelief. "I thought we were finally getting somewhere and she lies to me." To my annoyance I feel tears prick the back of my eyes and I look at the floor to hide. Suddenly, it's all so overwhelming: lying to Francie about the real nature of my "business trip" to Paris, the earlier incident with Vaughn, the lingering memory of my kiss with Sark, being kidnapped again, discovering my mother's betrayal. I know it's unprofessional and despite my best attempts I'm unable to calm my emotions. For the first time in years I'm unable to compartmentalize my emotiosn, and tears begin to slide down my cheeks, dripping onto Sark's expensive carpet. My shoulders shake and I clench my hands around the armrest of my chair to stop the onslaught of emotion, but it's too much for me to handle; I just can't seem to stop crying.
I'd expect Sark to laugh at me, mock my unprofessionality, but instead I feel warm knuckles run down my cheek and I lift my head. Through watery eyes I see Sark kneeling before me, look of compassion and sympathy in his blue eyes. He brushes my hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear, wipes away my tears with a silk handkerchief. Even more embarrassingly he holds it to my nose and instructs me to blow. The noise echoes through the room and I laugh a little; to my surprise, he laughs too. He wipes away the last of my tears and steps away awkwardly, and when I again look into his blue eyes the empathy is gone; his Sark façade is once again in place.
This time I don't even try to figure out what just happened; I know I won't figure it out. My feelings are more confused then ever. What kind of heartless murderer takes the time to wipe away a woman's tears? I feel myself soften towards him and know I have to do something to turn the tables, make myself hate him the way I once did; it's the only way I can deal with him. "You know," I say. "I don't care that you just did something nice for me. You're still an evil bastard who deserves to die."
He laughs harshly. "Back to word games are we? And just when I was thinking those cuffs might be getting a bit tight. I think I'll let you sit and think for a while." I glare at him and flex against the cuffs, but he only laughs louder.
"You'll pay for this," I yell. "I'll see to it that the agency uses every resource it has to take you down. You'll rot in hell for everything you've cost me."
He stops in his tracks and turns to face me. His face is blank, devoid of emotion, but I swear I can see a flash of hurt in his eyes. I wonder if he knows how expressive they are, that every single thing he thinks or feels is right there for everyone to see. "Your mother never told me, Sydney," he says. "I discovered your status with the CIA on my own. Irina never betrayed you."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone with my tangled emotions, confusion, and regret.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!
Sorry for the long time to update. I hit a bit of writer's block, but I think I finally have things back on track. This is a sort of short chapter because I wanted to get something up before Monday. Thank you so much for your wonderful responses and support for this story. I hope you enjoy!
~ * ~
"I love you...
I hate you...
I can't get around you...
I breathe you...
I taste you...
I can't live without you..."
- "Always," Saliva
~ * ~
Despite my nap, I'm anything but well rested when my plane lands in Paris, thanks in large part to my dream about Sark. Not that I'm surprised; I've been having this dream on a nightly basis for the last three months. I toss and turn, the sheets twisting hotly around my hips, and I wake up aching and breathless, my mind reeling from the images lurking in the back of my consciousness. The dreams don't always start the same way, but they always end with that kiss. When I open my eyes in the morning I can still feel the burn of Sark's lips on mine, the way his hands molded my hips to his, the press of hard muscles against my soft curves. My alarm clock becomes the enemy because it pulls me away from a reminder of the best kiss I've ever experienced, and makes me yearn for more--and I hate myself for it. Over three months later I'm still unsettled because I kissed a man I hate, and I hate myself for allowing it to get to me.
I spend the drive to work reminding myself of all the reasons Sark is evil: he's a heartless assassin, he's cold-blooded, he takes pleasure in killing people, he has no remorse for his crimes, etc, etc. But the problem is no matter how hard I try, I can't quite convince myself that Sark is all bad. I always remember that look in his eyes after he kissed me, remember this tiny spark of surprise and vulnerability as we pulled away. For a brief moment he looked as shell-shocked as me, stunned to have felt something so powerful with someone so wrong. But as quickly as it appeared it vanished, and his usual amused smirk reappeared. For a long time I thought I imagined it, but I know my eyes didn't lie. For a brief moment Sark was a human being, and after seeing that there's no going back, because now I know that underneath the calm, collected nonchalance is a living, breathing, feeling man. Sure, most of the time he's hidden beneath Sark's carefully constructed mask of indifference, but I know he's there all the same--and that complicates things. Because now I can't think of Sark as a merciless monster with veins that run full of ice; now I think of him as a human being. A severely twisted, cruel, manipulative, semi-psychopath, but a man all the same.
It makes me think I'm going crazy, seeing Sark in a normal light, kind of like those women that fall in love with serial killers and marry them in prison. One moment of weakness doesn't justify all the pain and suffering Sark's caused people, myself included. But then I remember how he left me his jacket and I get confused all over again. I still can't figure out why he did that. Maybe he felt guilty about sabotaging my mission, but obviously not guilty enough because he took off with my file. I rub my aching head and push thoughts of Sark out of my mind. It's not worth obsessing over. Every time I think I have him figure out he pulls another stunt that makes me hate and resent him all over again. I have a mission to complete, information to steal; I need to concentrate on that, not Sark. I turn my thoughts to my usual fantasy about Vaughn, myself, and a private beach in the Caribbean. The hot sun is beating down, a cool breeze blows lazily across the sand, and Vaughn is standing before me in nothing but a pair of loose swim trunks. Except in this fantasy Vaughn's is a bit taller, a bit wider, and his eyes are two pools of deep, dark blue. He laughs a bit and extends his hand; I willingly take it. I settle back in my seat and enjoy the images my mind create, never realizing Vaughn doesn't have blond hair or a British accent or blue eyes; I never realize that somewhere along the way Vaughn became Sark.
~ * ~
I'm surprised at how easy the mission is. I slip into the party unnoticed, flashing a bit of thigh and cleavage to the guards to get inside, but from there it's clear sailing. This mission is a lot like Cap Ferrat, except no sedated Vaughn in the basement. For once I'm completely professional. I manage to push aside all thoughts of Sark and my unsettling dreams, and compartmentalize my feelings. I put myself in mission mode and concentrate solely on the task at hand. I sip champagne and snag a slice of Brie from a passing tray, doing my best to fit in. When the coast is finally clear I surreptitiously sneak up the stairs and search for Lacroix's office. With Dixon's help I easily break through his firewall and internal alarms, and start hacking into the computer. When I locate the files I slide Sloane's disk into the drive and pretend to download. "These missions are getting really repetitive," I think to myself as I subtly finger the clasp of my necklace. To Sloane's visual feed it looks like I'm merely playing with my necklace, but the CIA is eagerly downloading every image the camera's digital film captures. After a few minutes I smile right into Dixon's feed and pull the disk out of the drive. I play with the necklace a bit more, to add to the show, before sliding it back into place. I slip the disk into the cleavage of my dress and start to leave. I make it as far as the door before something hard and heavy smashes into the back of my head and I collapse in an ungainly heap on the floor.
~ * ~
My first thought is that it's dark, and cold. There is a sticky substance clinging to my cheek and my head hurts like a bitch. I try to raise a hand to brush my hair off my face, and find my arms are paralyzed. I tug, once, twice, and curse under my breath when I feel cold metal bite into the flesh of my wrists. I'm handcuffed, to a chair, again. This is an all too familiar situation I'm getting a bit tired of. Okay, screw that. I'm getting REALLY tired of ending up like this, and this time, despite the lack of a bullet in my shoulder, there's no getting away. Whoever took me prisoner learned a lesson from my encounter with "The Man," because I'm not only locked to a chair, but it's also bolted to the floor. There's nothing to do but sit and wait.
I blow my hair out of my eyes and take a quick survey of my surroundings: plush carpet, Georgian furniture, silk-covered walls, expensive accents--whoever is holding me obviously runs his organization like a well-oiled machine. It takes money to maintain a place like this and money means efficiency. I manage to glance down and notice I'm still wearing the black silk halter and four-inch Manolo Blahniks, although my hair's begun to fall out of its up do and around my face. Everything is in order except the necklace is no longer around my neck. "Fuck," I think. The one thing I was ordered to hold onto at all costs is missing.
"Fuck," I curse. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I give the cuffs another tug, but all I get in return is burning pain in my wrists.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a voice says and I jerk my head up, because that isn't just any voice. It's smooth and cultured and glaringly British. "No way," I think to myself. "No fucking way!" I should have known. The gorgeous room, the same tactics as my mother--there's even a glass of red wine on the bureau for god's sake. How had I not figured it out sooner? "Because you were more concerned with getting away then why you were here in the first place," I remind myself.
I raise my head and glare at him. He stands in the doorway, hip cocked against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and his lips curved in that smirk of his that always makes me want to scream. "What the fuck do you want, Sark?" I ask through gritted teeth, my eyes burning with anger.
He raises a hand to his face in a sign of mock hurt. "Naughty, naughty, Agent Bristow. There's no need for such language."
He's right; there is no need to curse. But considering I'm chained to a chair and he's milling about freely, I don't have a lot of ways of expressing my annoyance. "I'll talk to you however the fuck I want, you son of a bitch!"
"Sydney, Sydney," Sark scoffs and starts towards me. "You really need a new line. I'm getting a bit bored tired of the same thing, every time, wouldn't you agree?"
Actually, I do agree, not that I'd tell him, but I decide to let him win this round. "How's pathetic bastard?"
"Your originality stuns me." He stands right in front of me, so close I could deliver a well-deserved kick to his exposed shin--if my ankles weren't bound together. I tug at them a little and he shakes his head. "You're not going anywhere, Sydney. There's not use struggling. You'll only hurt yourself."
I glare at him again and curse again. I know I sound like a surly teenager, but I'm past caring. I'm angry, confused, my wrists hurt from the handcuffs, and even more, I'm tired of always losing to Sark. I'm one of the best spies in the entire world, yet he always seems to be on step ahead of me; it's simply not fair that he always wins and I always lose. "What do you want, Sark?" I demand furiously, my breath hissing through barely parted lips. He crosses his arms over his chest, and I notice he's not wearing his usual fitted suit. His clothes are still formal, but the first few buttons of his shirt are undone and the sleeves are rolled up the elbows. I like the more casual Sark more because it makes him seem more real and less a trained-killer. "Dammit!" I think. I have to stop thinking of Sark as a person. After all he has me tied up and furious. Right now he's more assassin then human.
"You had information I needed. I thank you for it," he explains, rubbing his lower lip absently. I try not to watch, but my eyes are drawn to his mouth like a moth to a flame, cliché, but true. He has the most beautiful mouth, full, pouty lips with this little Cupid's bow dip on top. They're the kind of lips women read about in romance novels. What is it? Oh, yes. Lips like a fallen angel, that's my Sark. My Sark! What the hell is wrong with me? When did I start feeling possessive of him, thinking of him as mine? Jesus, I really must be going crazy. He bites his lip a bit as he studies me, and I force myself to look at the floor. Looking at his mouth makes me want to kiss him and thinking about kissing him makes me think about the kiss we shared a few months ago and thinking about that kiss makes me remember I might just be losing my mind. And right now I need to be focused and in control if I want to salvage this disaster of a mission.
When I raise my eyes again his mouth is set in an expectant line as he waits for my response. Thank god he isn't biting his lip again. In my distracted state, I don't know what would come out of my mouth if he was. "You stole that information," I sneer. "I want it back."
"Sorry, Sydney. I'm afraid your precious necklace is now mine. Pity though, it really was beautiful crafted. I'm surprised the CIA would spend so much on a something you'll never wear again." He pretends to ponder his statement while my entire body goes rigid with shock. He knows. HE KNOWS! He knows I'm a double agent; he could tell Sloane; he could ruin everything with one phone call; he could get me killed. My mind is reeling, a hundred different scenarios and explanations running through my head.
"What did you say?" I manage to say through my shock.
"So surprised, Agent Bristow. Yes, I know you're a double agent." He says and takes a step closer, so close I can feel the soft wool of his pants against my bare toes, smell his cologne. I inhale deeply and wish I didn't. The way he smells, his beautiful mouth--he's getting to my head and making it hard to think. I lean as far back in my chair as I can and breathe through my mouth. Yes, that's better. Well, not really, but at least my brain is beginning to function normally again.
"How did you find out?"
"I have my ways."
"The only other person who knows is my mother and she told me she never told you. She swore to me that she kept my secret to protect me. She lied to me," I whisper in disbelief. "I thought we were finally getting somewhere and she lies to me." To my annoyance I feel tears prick the back of my eyes and I look at the floor to hide. Suddenly, it's all so overwhelming: lying to Francie about the real nature of my "business trip" to Paris, the earlier incident with Vaughn, the lingering memory of my kiss with Sark, being kidnapped again, discovering my mother's betrayal. I know it's unprofessional and despite my best attempts I'm unable to calm my emotions. For the first time in years I'm unable to compartmentalize my emotiosn, and tears begin to slide down my cheeks, dripping onto Sark's expensive carpet. My shoulders shake and I clench my hands around the armrest of my chair to stop the onslaught of emotion, but it's too much for me to handle; I just can't seem to stop crying.
I'd expect Sark to laugh at me, mock my unprofessionality, but instead I feel warm knuckles run down my cheek and I lift my head. Through watery eyes I see Sark kneeling before me, look of compassion and sympathy in his blue eyes. He brushes my hair off my face and tucks it behind my ear, wipes away my tears with a silk handkerchief. Even more embarrassingly he holds it to my nose and instructs me to blow. The noise echoes through the room and I laugh a little; to my surprise, he laughs too. He wipes away the last of my tears and steps away awkwardly, and when I again look into his blue eyes the empathy is gone; his Sark façade is once again in place.
This time I don't even try to figure out what just happened; I know I won't figure it out. My feelings are more confused then ever. What kind of heartless murderer takes the time to wipe away a woman's tears? I feel myself soften towards him and know I have to do something to turn the tables, make myself hate him the way I once did; it's the only way I can deal with him. "You know," I say. "I don't care that you just did something nice for me. You're still an evil bastard who deserves to die."
He laughs harshly. "Back to word games are we? And just when I was thinking those cuffs might be getting a bit tight. I think I'll let you sit and think for a while." I glare at him and flex against the cuffs, but he only laughs louder.
"You'll pay for this," I yell. "I'll see to it that the agency uses every resource it has to take you down. You'll rot in hell for everything you've cost me."
He stops in his tracks and turns to face me. His face is blank, devoid of emotion, but I swear I can see a flash of hurt in his eyes. I wonder if he knows how expressive they are, that every single thing he thinks or feels is right there for everyone to see. "Your mother never told me, Sydney," he says. "I discovered your status with the CIA on my own. Irina never betrayed you."
And then he's gone, leaving me alone with my tangled emotions, confusion, and regret.
~ * ~
Please, please, please respond!