Hi, everyone. Remember me? This long-overdue chapter is very short, because I have lost the plot. Literally. I write everything longhand, and I currently cannot find the rest of this story (it's almost all written!). Stupid lost notebook. So the best I can do right now is to post this, which at least leaves our daring duo in a slightly better position than the one in which I last left them.

Chapter 14: In the Dark

Emily's reaction to the surprise party proved that she was a Standing at heart, no matter what her DNA might say. "Oh, my God," she'd gasped, looking around the large private room of the upscale restaurant. "And I've showed up in jeans." She had grabbed the arm of the taller woman beside her, who was not in jeans. "Oi, you could've warned me!"

Sandra had only laughed. It was nice to have an excuse to get dressed up once in a while, as long as she didn't have to do it too regularly, and that was exactly what she'd done. Gerry had been eyeing her all night. Good, let him. Let him take a good, long look at what he was missing by avoiding her. The little strapless black dress was like the one that every woman has in her closet, or should. It was very black and very little – not scandalous, by any means, but it didn't leave much to the imagination, and Sandra knew perfectly well that she made 50 – 49 – look good. She took Brian's dazed "Wow, Sandra" as lovely if superfluous confirmation. Esther had flashed her a thumbs-up sign.

By God, she and Gerry were going to have that conversation tonight. If not, there was always Plan B. Sandra was prepared for that too.

The result of her favor to Carole catches Sandra's eye and flutters her fingers. "Thank you!" Caitlin mouths with exaggerated drama. Sandra had secured her tonight and two whole days away from police training college on what the army would've termed a "weekend pass."

In response, Sandra lifts her nearly-empty glass of wine and flashes a huge grin. Carole suddenly appears at her elbow. "I hear you're good with wine," the pretty brunette says rather anxiously. "Now you really will think I'm a cow, but would you mind popping into the wine cellar and gathering a few bottles? We're running low, and I don't see the sommelier anywhere."

Sandra, who is several glasses in by this point, smirks. "He's probably on a fag break." She pats Carole's hand. "Not a problem. Red or white?"

Carole blinks. "Oh, both. Definitely both."

"Mmmkay, I'll try not to pick anything that will set you back more than a month's salary," Sandra promises cheerfully, and walks away in her high heels. She loves high heels. She loves the clacking sound the heels make, announcing her presence, and the extra strut they add to her walk.

The wine cellar is, as the name implies, downstairs. The door is cracked, but it's dark inside. "Hullo?" she calls cautiously. Silence is her only reply, so she turns to the task at hand. This is going to be fun. A little illumination would help, but still. The faint glow from the stairs will do.

Her arms are nearly full when she hears footsteps. "Hullo?" she calls again, not wanting the sommelier to think she's nicking his wares.

A figure darkens the doorway and then takes a few steps forward. "Sandra?"

"Gerry? What are you doing down here?"

"Jack said you –"

The door, apparently caught in a draught, slams. "Shit," Gerry swears, blinking rapidly in the pitch blackness. "I'll get it."

She hears him fumbling, but after a moment nothing has happened. "Well?" she demands, readjusting her cargo.

"Uh… you're not gonna like this."

She knows her eyes widen. If this were an old cartoon, you'd see only the whites. "Oh, no. Don't say it."

"Fine," Gerry sighs. "I won't."

Putting the wine down as gently as possible, she feels her way past him in the dark and yanks on the door handle. Then she yanks again. "Shit," she says flatly.

Gerry jostles her as he pounds on the door. "Oi!" he shouts. "Oi, the door's locked!"

While he pounds and shouts, Sandra steps back. "They'll miss us eventually. Or at least they'll miss the wine."

"What are you talking about? There's a room full of wine up there. Barrels of it. Oh, this is just perfect."

Sandra is quiet for several minutes, long enough to make Gerry query, "Sandra?" It isn't like her to be quiet.

"Maybe it's not so bad. A blessing in disguise, and all that."

"What do you mean?"

"It will be awfully hard for you to avoid me in here."

"I haven't been avoiding you."

Silence.

"Shit," Gerry says finally, quietly.

"You know, I came here tonight determined to talk to you."

"What about?"

"Jesus, Gerry, what do you think? The fucking stock market."

At first he was relieved not to be able to see her in the darkness. The way she looks in that dress is damn near killing him. Now, though, he's not so sure. It's as if his other senses have kicked into hyper-alert. The low pitch of her voice arcs through him like an electric current.

"I'm sorry, Sandra."

"Shut up." She finds him in the dark, and when her hand lands on his arm he goies rigid. "Tell me why you're avoiding me." When he remains silent she snaps, "What, you found out I'm damaged goods and now you don't want me any more?"

Floored, he gropes blindly until he finds her shoulders. He wants to shake her. "Jesus Christ, Sandra! There's no fucking way you really believe that, is there?"

"No," she responds quietly. "It was the most outrageous thing I could think of. At least you're talking to me now."

He chuckles, although he feels as if his nerves have been scraped over a cheese grater. "C'mere."

She doesn't resist when he tugs her to his chest, even though they both know it's too soon. "We're talking," she says.

"We are," he agrees.

They are quiet, holding one another. The same height, they align easily, comfortably.

"Sandra," he says against her hair. "Sandra, Sandra, Sandra. I'm so sorry for what happened to you."

"I know."

"I don't think I can talk about it right now, unless you need to. I'll go to the prison and kill him if I do."

"No," she murmurs. "We don't need to talk about it. It was a long time ago. I won't forget it, but I've dealt with it."

"It's not – You can tell me about it, if…" He trails off helplessly.

"I know," she says again, and presses a kiss to his jaw. "I know."

"I didn't know what to say, Sandra. I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything."

He cradles the back of her head, ruffling her hair. "I want to. I want to fix it."

"Shh," she soothes. "Nothing's broken.

"This isn't the way it goes. I'm meant to comfort you."

"I'm comforted by sixteen years of water under the bridge. You've only had a couple of days to deal with it."

"That doesn't matter."

"Did I say shut up or not? Shut up, Gerry. Look, I know, okay?"

"What do you know?"

"That you're mad at me."

He clutches her, and she lets him. "No," he says. "No, love, no."

"Shut up. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let you find out like that, with Jack and Brian. I just –"

He cuts her off by kissing her, and he feels the way she gives herself up to him. This, he thinks, is enough. "Whatever you need, Sandra. Whatever you want."

She seems to consider. "Do you have a corkscrew?"