Title: Productivity
Author: Stef (ignitedangel@aol.com)
Rating: R
Summary: Sands was never used to meetings that didn't end in violence.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue
Dedication: For Circe, for she inspired me and 'cause she rocks.
Author's Note: This came on a whim, and I must see OUATIM again, so I'm sorry if it sounds somewhat loopy. Right.
It's not very hard to pick out Sands from the number of restaurant patrons. Or from the hotel guests. He sits straight in his chair, plainly dressed. A cell phone, a glass of wine, the dinner bill, cigarette wrappings and one small bag of tobacco are in front of him. It is warm inside the restaurant, yet he wears leather gloves and sunglasses indoors. He reads the paper very quietly, brow slightly creased, expression thoughtful.
Agent Sands is blind, and yet he continues to read for a few more seconds when his guest arrives at the table.
"Would you like a menu, sir?"
"No," replies the guest, offering a dismissing wave to the waiter. The waiter leaves the two alone, this new arrival checking his cuff links before clasping his hands. They rest on the table softly, a distinctive, soft noise that makes Sands grin.
"Ah. The smell of brass." Sands nods, lips pulling into a line. "So that was you. Thought someone tracked something in."
"Find anything interesting?" the man asks, poking the paper in jest. Sounding smug, chuckling to himself. "Of course not. Well, there's no beating around the bush. You know why I'm here."
"Mmm. You think you can give me a refresher while I pretend to look interested?"
"Beforehand, I'm sorry for the... you know..."
"The trip?" Sands jerks his head again, turns it very slowly. He focuses on a point near the man's shoulder. "Oh, it was super. You know, I can clearly recall the smell of sitting next to a donkey in the back of a pick up for three hours. Now, that was just...quaint."
A huff from the man. Sands smiles.
"Man, I had a buddy who nearly had it as worse as you did. Bunch of thugs back in Brooklyn tortured him when an undercover job went wrong. Nearly tore his dick off. It was terrible. They didn't try that to you-"
"Pensive face. Slowly dissolving to 'I'm a federal agent and not looking for trading campfire stories, though not particularly minding reenacting your friend's...encounter' face. Gee, bit long, don't you think?"
"Former agent," the man points out, trying to steer the conversation back to the original purpose. "You've been demoted."
"You think they have Braille keyboards at the CIA offices? Paperwork. Never was much for typing."
"You're a liability, Sands. A loose canon."
"And that is why they love me so, Gregory. Positioned in the prime country of mariachis, tequila, drug lords with eye fetishes... it's just the stuff movies are made of."
Gregory moves the table slightly with his hands, sitting up straighter. "This isn't a joke. You know I hate doing this as much as you hate hearing it."
"If I had eyes, they'd be rolling at you."
"Fucking disgusting, man."
Sands raises his eyebrows, putting the newspaper down on the table. He begins to roll the first of innumerable cigarettes, the task cumbersome due to his gloves. "You lose your sense of humor, Gregory? The heat can kill a man. Torture can hurt a man. The CIA can drive a man to being the most somber dipshit I've ever heard of. At least in your case. You've got to break out of the box, amigo. Or stumble your way out of it."
"You've become philosophical. They teach you that in Mexico?"
"Amongst other things." He nods in Gregory's direction, pursing his lips. "Learned that I shouldn't have come back here. The pork doesn't taste the same. You try the wine?"
Sands puts the cigarette to his lips, lighting it with a match dug out of his pocket. He hears Gregory tap his fingernails on the glass, mentally picturing the other agent picking it up. A swallow afterwards. Sands frowns, wanting to rub the bridge of his nose. It's been a long while - he doesn't remember how long really, though it must in reality have been weeks - since it happened. A slight tingle, almost burning runs along the bridge of his nose and around his eye sockets. The nerve endings are dead, but they still hurt like hell.
He wonders why after losing his vision that he's still obligated to feel pain.
Because you're a poster boy for good and clean morality. Pain comes hand in hand with restoring the balance.
If that's any consolation.
"Tastes fine," Gregory responds, leaning forward on the table. Sands can tell this due to the expensive cologne. He also can tell he'd rather smell the donkey again. "I don't know how you like that shit they serve down there."
"Shit? You're calling one of the finest delicacies - granted, out of balance, really-shit? Fuck, I should've stayed there. At least you could get some fun out of the cook. You on the other hand, well, you're just ignorant." Sands nods, cigarette light bobbing up and down as his lips move.
Gregory laughs. It is a short burst of laughter, that soon dissolves. Clearly, he's had enough for games. "You should have, Sheldon. You and I go way back, you know that? Training. But that still doesn't move me from taking you in. You're a fucking psycho, man. How can you..." He lowers his voice, looking around.
He has become passionate, and is attracting too much attention from other patrons. Once the voice lowers, their interests wanes. They return to their meals.
"You've snapped. You've..." Gregory trails off. He wants to say more. Has been wanting to say more for the past few years. Never got a chance to, really. And now he has him - before anyone else discovered his whereabouts - right in the palm of his hand.
Blind and helpless. Oh, he'd remember this. He would definitely remember this.
Sands was both admired and feared for good reason. He was calculated, controlled. Sure, there was a wild streak in him, but that was to be expected. The wild streak got him out of things alive. They got him through missions, countries, check points, everything alive. Got him through the drilling and losing his eyes... alive.
Gregory didn't like him much. You could say he was jealous.
However, he couldn't say as much given that he now couldn't breathe.
Clutching at his throat, the man started turning blue, coughing. He shook the table with his wild movements, knees banging up. The glass tipped over, spilling red wine on white ivory tablecloth. Meanwhile, Sands was carefully putting his cell phone and other items into his suit pockets, one eyebrow raised. He cocked his head in Gregory's direction, brow furrowing.
"Awfully messy, aren't you? And in a spiffy hotel. I'm ashamed of you, Gregory. Ever hear of decorum?"
"Sands-"
"Oh, I'm sorry? What?" Sands tips his sunglasses down on his nose, and it is then that Gregory sees them. The dual black sockets where brown eyes used to be. Pushing his glasses back up on his nose, Sands leans back, snapping gloved fingers. "Garcon? Little help, here?"
The patrons stare and start fussing, some calling out "911!" and "Help him!" Do they move to react? Sands knows they do, though can't see them really. He has stood up from the table now, newspaper tucked under his arm, very neat and organized. Heads turn in his direction, but he only offers the movement of a walking stick flipped open. Sands taps the floor in front of him, wary of obstructions, lips pulling into a line.
"No eyes," Sands says as an explanation, shoulders shrugging. Walking stick taps and he moves.
One, two, one, two, amidst cell phones and gagging noises.
Sands reaches the hotel counter a good distance away, hands planting firmly on the edge.
"Any messages for room two thirteen?" He raises his eyebrows expectantly, as if showing a relaxed sign of interest.
"Sir-your friend over there-"
"Oh!" A hand waves dismissively. "He'll be fine." This is clearly a lie, but he does not mind. "Messages?"
"Ah, um, what room, sir?"
"Two thirteen." The syllables roll clearly off his tongue. One sense of five cut short, he perfects his speaking voice.
"I don't see anyone for that-"
Sands sighs indignantly, leaning an elbow on the counter. "Roid. Emma Roid. There. You have something under that."
"Yes we do... sir." The worker trails off, sounding uncomfortable. A pause. He is staring now.
Sands considers tipping his sunglasses again, just for fun.
"What? You've never heard of a boy named Emma? You know, boy named Sue, it's a common occurence with us... happy campers." He frowns, shrugging once more.
"Well, no sir, but I-"
"Got to be more open minded," Sands says, and he heads towards the clink and whirr of the elevator.
Although the EMTs are arriving, and will pronounce Gregory dead due to choking or food poisoning - well, he did taste that wine Sands suggested - Sands doesn't care. He only steps inside the elevator once the doors open, and they close, a smile clear on his face.
So it wasn't that much of an unproductive day back home after all.
END
Author: Stef (ignitedangel@aol.com)
Rating: R
Summary: Sands was never used to meetings that didn't end in violence.
Disclaimer: Don't own, don't sue
Dedication: For Circe, for she inspired me and 'cause she rocks.
Author's Note: This came on a whim, and I must see OUATIM again, so I'm sorry if it sounds somewhat loopy. Right.
It's not very hard to pick out Sands from the number of restaurant patrons. Or from the hotel guests. He sits straight in his chair, plainly dressed. A cell phone, a glass of wine, the dinner bill, cigarette wrappings and one small bag of tobacco are in front of him. It is warm inside the restaurant, yet he wears leather gloves and sunglasses indoors. He reads the paper very quietly, brow slightly creased, expression thoughtful.
Agent Sands is blind, and yet he continues to read for a few more seconds when his guest arrives at the table.
"Would you like a menu, sir?"
"No," replies the guest, offering a dismissing wave to the waiter. The waiter leaves the two alone, this new arrival checking his cuff links before clasping his hands. They rest on the table softly, a distinctive, soft noise that makes Sands grin.
"Ah. The smell of brass." Sands nods, lips pulling into a line. "So that was you. Thought someone tracked something in."
"Find anything interesting?" the man asks, poking the paper in jest. Sounding smug, chuckling to himself. "Of course not. Well, there's no beating around the bush. You know why I'm here."
"Mmm. You think you can give me a refresher while I pretend to look interested?"
"Beforehand, I'm sorry for the... you know..."
"The trip?" Sands jerks his head again, turns it very slowly. He focuses on a point near the man's shoulder. "Oh, it was super. You know, I can clearly recall the smell of sitting next to a donkey in the back of a pick up for three hours. Now, that was just...quaint."
A huff from the man. Sands smiles.
"Man, I had a buddy who nearly had it as worse as you did. Bunch of thugs back in Brooklyn tortured him when an undercover job went wrong. Nearly tore his dick off. It was terrible. They didn't try that to you-"
"Pensive face. Slowly dissolving to 'I'm a federal agent and not looking for trading campfire stories, though not particularly minding reenacting your friend's...encounter' face. Gee, bit long, don't you think?"
"Former agent," the man points out, trying to steer the conversation back to the original purpose. "You've been demoted."
"You think they have Braille keyboards at the CIA offices? Paperwork. Never was much for typing."
"You're a liability, Sands. A loose canon."
"And that is why they love me so, Gregory. Positioned in the prime country of mariachis, tequila, drug lords with eye fetishes... it's just the stuff movies are made of."
Gregory moves the table slightly with his hands, sitting up straighter. "This isn't a joke. You know I hate doing this as much as you hate hearing it."
"If I had eyes, they'd be rolling at you."
"Fucking disgusting, man."
Sands raises his eyebrows, putting the newspaper down on the table. He begins to roll the first of innumerable cigarettes, the task cumbersome due to his gloves. "You lose your sense of humor, Gregory? The heat can kill a man. Torture can hurt a man. The CIA can drive a man to being the most somber dipshit I've ever heard of. At least in your case. You've got to break out of the box, amigo. Or stumble your way out of it."
"You've become philosophical. They teach you that in Mexico?"
"Amongst other things." He nods in Gregory's direction, pursing his lips. "Learned that I shouldn't have come back here. The pork doesn't taste the same. You try the wine?"
Sands puts the cigarette to his lips, lighting it with a match dug out of his pocket. He hears Gregory tap his fingernails on the glass, mentally picturing the other agent picking it up. A swallow afterwards. Sands frowns, wanting to rub the bridge of his nose. It's been a long while - he doesn't remember how long really, though it must in reality have been weeks - since it happened. A slight tingle, almost burning runs along the bridge of his nose and around his eye sockets. The nerve endings are dead, but they still hurt like hell.
He wonders why after losing his vision that he's still obligated to feel pain.
Because you're a poster boy for good and clean morality. Pain comes hand in hand with restoring the balance.
If that's any consolation.
"Tastes fine," Gregory responds, leaning forward on the table. Sands can tell this due to the expensive cologne. He also can tell he'd rather smell the donkey again. "I don't know how you like that shit they serve down there."
"Shit? You're calling one of the finest delicacies - granted, out of balance, really-shit? Fuck, I should've stayed there. At least you could get some fun out of the cook. You on the other hand, well, you're just ignorant." Sands nods, cigarette light bobbing up and down as his lips move.
Gregory laughs. It is a short burst of laughter, that soon dissolves. Clearly, he's had enough for games. "You should have, Sheldon. You and I go way back, you know that? Training. But that still doesn't move me from taking you in. You're a fucking psycho, man. How can you..." He lowers his voice, looking around.
He has become passionate, and is attracting too much attention from other patrons. Once the voice lowers, their interests wanes. They return to their meals.
"You've snapped. You've..." Gregory trails off. He wants to say more. Has been wanting to say more for the past few years. Never got a chance to, really. And now he has him - before anyone else discovered his whereabouts - right in the palm of his hand.
Blind and helpless. Oh, he'd remember this. He would definitely remember this.
Sands was both admired and feared for good reason. He was calculated, controlled. Sure, there was a wild streak in him, but that was to be expected. The wild streak got him out of things alive. They got him through missions, countries, check points, everything alive. Got him through the drilling and losing his eyes... alive.
Gregory didn't like him much. You could say he was jealous.
However, he couldn't say as much given that he now couldn't breathe.
Clutching at his throat, the man started turning blue, coughing. He shook the table with his wild movements, knees banging up. The glass tipped over, spilling red wine on white ivory tablecloth. Meanwhile, Sands was carefully putting his cell phone and other items into his suit pockets, one eyebrow raised. He cocked his head in Gregory's direction, brow furrowing.
"Awfully messy, aren't you? And in a spiffy hotel. I'm ashamed of you, Gregory. Ever hear of decorum?"
"Sands-"
"Oh, I'm sorry? What?" Sands tips his sunglasses down on his nose, and it is then that Gregory sees them. The dual black sockets where brown eyes used to be. Pushing his glasses back up on his nose, Sands leans back, snapping gloved fingers. "Garcon? Little help, here?"
The patrons stare and start fussing, some calling out "911!" and "Help him!" Do they move to react? Sands knows they do, though can't see them really. He has stood up from the table now, newspaper tucked under his arm, very neat and organized. Heads turn in his direction, but he only offers the movement of a walking stick flipped open. Sands taps the floor in front of him, wary of obstructions, lips pulling into a line.
"No eyes," Sands says as an explanation, shoulders shrugging. Walking stick taps and he moves.
One, two, one, two, amidst cell phones and gagging noises.
Sands reaches the hotel counter a good distance away, hands planting firmly on the edge.
"Any messages for room two thirteen?" He raises his eyebrows expectantly, as if showing a relaxed sign of interest.
"Sir-your friend over there-"
"Oh!" A hand waves dismissively. "He'll be fine." This is clearly a lie, but he does not mind. "Messages?"
"Ah, um, what room, sir?"
"Two thirteen." The syllables roll clearly off his tongue. One sense of five cut short, he perfects his speaking voice.
"I don't see anyone for that-"
Sands sighs indignantly, leaning an elbow on the counter. "Roid. Emma Roid. There. You have something under that."
"Yes we do... sir." The worker trails off, sounding uncomfortable. A pause. He is staring now.
Sands considers tipping his sunglasses again, just for fun.
"What? You've never heard of a boy named Emma? You know, boy named Sue, it's a common occurence with us... happy campers." He frowns, shrugging once more.
"Well, no sir, but I-"
"Got to be more open minded," Sands says, and he heads towards the clink and whirr of the elevator.
Although the EMTs are arriving, and will pronounce Gregory dead due to choking or food poisoning - well, he did taste that wine Sands suggested - Sands doesn't care. He only steps inside the elevator once the doors open, and they close, a smile clear on his face.
So it wasn't that much of an unproductive day back home after all.
END