The Long Way Home

By

E. S. Young

Chapter Seven: The Morning After

Jack-voice is mad at me. He seems to think that, since I now have a title for my PotC fic, I should get to work on IT. Oh, and I also had to hide his rum. Toulouse Lau-Trec-voice kept drinking it and he's already a more than a little tipsy from all the Absinthe he tends to drink. 9.9 But mostly he's mad because I haven't started on the PotC fic. Oh, and he and Sands-voice aren't the best of friends, if you catch my meaning, so that only worsens the situation. Nonetheless, Jack's just gonna hafta wait his turn, cuz I'm onna roll with this! =D

A/N: E. S. Young would like to note that that introduction had nothing to do with the story whatsoever but it was in her head so she had to get it out. Plus, she didn't know what to for an intro. Hopefully that won't happen again, for all our sakes. Thank you. u.u

- - -

When he woke up the next morning, Sands was met with an odd sound. It wasn't the buzzing of drills or a former girlfriend's voice. He had heard it before that he knew, but it still seemed new and different.

'Yet annoyingly familiar,' he thought cynically.

Still trying to place the sound, Sands gingerly propped himself up on his elbows, making sure to be careful with the left one. Vaguely wondering where he was exactly, he slowly began to review the events of the previous day. Most people in Sands' condition would have wanted to do anything but recall that year's Day of the Dead, but Sands was unlike most people.

'Right, I was an idiot, I decided on that last night, no need to think about it now. . . . Good . . . cuz I'm not going to.'

Mmm . . . . but that doesn't mean I won't.

'Of course you will,' he agreed silently. 'Well y'know what? Go ahead. Knock yourself out. I'm not gonna stop you.'

Can't even control the voice in your head? It tsked in disappointment. That's kinda sad, I mean, I AM you, after all.

'You're a part OF me,' Sands corrected. 'There's a DIFFERENCE.'

The voice sighed in impatience.

And what part of you would THAT – God, can't anybody do something about that goddamn tapping??

Sands' eyes would have lit with realization if they had not parted company with him. Tapping . . . Lynné tapped her fingernails, THAT'S why the sound had seemed so familiar.

And annoying. Don't forget annoying, the voice put in.

'Yeah, but she only does it when she's worried,' he reminded himself. 'Ah, shit. That can't be good. If I could only find out where the fuck she is . . .'

You didn't seem to have any trouble locating sound sources YESTERDAY, said the voice snidely. How can now be any different?

'Simple,' he answered distractedly, 'I haven't had any coffee yet.'

Oh you're just hilarious, aren't ya?

Sands ignored the voice and cocked his head in the direction he thought the tapping was coming from. It was near a wall somewhere . . . possibly next to the window . . . no, right next to the window, right in front of it. No . . . that wasn't right. It was close, but it wasn't right. It was almost as if she was standing right outside the window. But that was stupid; the spare bedroom was on the second floor.

'Oh Christ, don't tell me she's on the roof . . .'

She is? the voice asked, failing to keep all of the excitement out of its words. Oh, good. Maybe she'll fall off.

'I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that.'

- - -

Lynné was indeed out on the roof. She had entered Sands' room early that morning, intending to check on his injuries. However, waking him up had proved difficult. Sands was sleeping so deeply, she doubted he had been able to hear her. But for once he looked completely relaxed amid the turmoil that had been going on since The Day of the Dead, so she let him be.

Deciding it was best to just wait until her brother woke up, Lyn began to pace the room, thinking rapidly. Somehow, she found herself out on the roof. She didn't remember how she got out there, quite frankly. She didn't even remember climbing through the window. All Lynné could remember was a class she had taken back when she was in training for the CIA.

It was the defense class. The only one she actually acted like she was paying attention in. The teacher was an older man, a former agent, as a mater of fact. He certainly knew his shit, Lyn had to give him that. The particular class that she was remembering went very well with the current circumstances she was having to deal with.

'Know this,' the professor had said, 'always go for the eyes first. Just make sure the person you're fighting is blinded.

'I don't care what the hell you use,' he continued, 'whether it be a knife, a drink, or dirt, it doesn't matter. Just go for the eyes first.'

"Yeah, well, they did," Lynné said to herself with a light laugh that lacked in humor.

"They did what?" asked Sands as he carefully made his way through the window and onto the roof. If it had been anyone else, Lyn would have stared in disbelief, but instead she shook her head at him.

"No one," she answered his question. "Just . . . thinking . . . about the past, training, and all that jazz."

Sands sighed and leaned his head back against the house.

"What time is it?"

"'Round seven," she answered.

"Still planing on leaving?" Sands inquired.

Lynné smiled slightly.

"Always."

"So . . . are you going to?" He was looking right at his sister now, even though he couldn't see her.

"Perhaps," said Lyn carefully. "It all depends on how things . . . play out."

"Mmm . . . just make sure you know how to play the game. 'Else you could find yourself in a shit-load of trouble."

Lyn quirked an eyebrow and leaned closer to him.

"Believe me, dear, I know how to play."

"Well good for you," he snapped sarcastically and then went back to leaning against the house, brooding.

Lynné closed her eyes and sighed quietly. This was going nowhere, absolutely nowhere. And she was growing tired of sitting and waiting and nothing else. If Sands was trying to make a point of something . . .

". . . . . I'm sorry, Lyn . . ." Sands murmured quietly.

Lynné leaned forward to get a better look at him, while she herself looked startled.

"Pardon?" she breathed.

"I said . . . I'm sorry, all right?" Sands said, sounding slightly aggravated.

"I'm sorry, Lyn," he said once more. "About everything. About not getting you out of here, about being a dumb ass and landing you with MY fucking problems, about . . . the mistaken identity."

"Oh," Lyn said softly, sounding bemused and perplexed. It was a strange combination of feelings for her to have. "Well," she said after a moment, "I'm not going to say you shouldn't be, just that I'm . . . a little astonished."

Sands smirked a little.

"Yeah . . . y'know, I think you're the first person I've said that to in at least . . . what, twenty years?"

"Probably longer," replied Lyn, nodding. "It's probably just the painkillers I had to give you."

Sands sat up and turned to the sound of her voice.

"You gave me painkillers?"

"How the hell else d'you think you were able to climb through the window?" she asked calmly.

"Oh," he said, leaning back and looking slightly confused.

Lyn was somewhat surprised that her brother didn't seem more, well, pissed that he was once again hopped up on meds. The pills she had given him were certain to make him a little unfocused, which was the last thing he wanted at the moment. So why wasn't he a little more –

'Mmm, that'll be the painkillers,' she mused silently, realization dawning on her.

". . . so, yeah, it's definitely the painkillers," Sands was saying. She hadn't even noticed he had been talking. "Which is good, cuz I was starting to get worried."

"Right, right," agreed Lyn, staring out into the sky. The sun had just risen. "Wait, you mean . . . you were worrying about yourself, right?"

"Yes," he replied, looking at her curiously. "Why?"

"No reason," she said, standing up carefully and dusting off her jeans. "Just shows me that your charming interior hasn't changed that much."

"Implying that it HAS changed?" he queried.

"Did I say that?"

Before he could demand to know what she meant, Lynné had slipped her thin body through the window, and left the room.

- - -

"Adam?" Liam asked hurriedly as he held his cell phone up to his ear.

On the other end, his older brother ran his hands through his short, light brown hair, confused.

"Liam, calm down, you weren't making any sense last night . . ."

"I know, I know," said Liam quickly, wanting to get to the point. "My laptop froze up and then I lost the connection entirely, but I need to ask you. –"

"What?" Adam demanded, then he quickly added, "I don't mean to offend, but I have a lot of patients waiting –"

"I know, I know you do. Listen," Liam began, "you know that new treatment you're working on?"

"Why wouldn't I?" his brother asked, perplexed.

"You said it's been successful so far, right?"

"Well, yes, but only on the animals," Adam admitted.

"Have you tried it on any –"he swallowed hard "—humans yet?"

His brother paused for a beat, then said:

"No, not yet. Why?"

"If I could get you a volunteer, would you be willing to?" Liam asked without any hesitation.

Adam blinked. The Mexican heat must have gotten to his brother's head. Either that, or he really did have a person willing to undergo the surgery.

"Sorry, but I've already got someone lined up," he told Liam truthfully.

"Oh . . ." said Liam, disappointed. "Well, when is you're patient scheduled to have the surgery?"

"Monday."

"Today's Saturday . . ." Liam muttered more to himself than Adam. "Okay, listen, could you phone me and tell me how it turns out?"

"Um, sure," Adam agreed uncertainly.

"Good," said Liam, "I don't want to tell her until I'm certain."

"'Her?' Liam, where did you find a blind woman?" Adam demanded.

"No! She's not . . ." He waved his hand, exasperated. "It's her brother."

"Oh," said Adam, "but there IS a 'her,' then?"

"Yes," answered Liam tiredly, "but it's not like that, if that's what you're thinking –"

"Who's thinking anything?" Adam asked innocently.

"Adam –"

But he never finished. At that moment, Liam saw two black cars pulled up in front of the house. Four men all dressed in black stepped out of the vehicles, each armed with a gun.

Reaching for his own pistol, Liam called up the stairs:

"Lynné!!"

"I know!" she yelled back. "Get ready!"

He heard the distinct sound of the safety being taken off a gun and then there was silence. Quickly scanning the kitchen and then the living room, he tried to see if there was any evidence that showed that he was housing two CIA agents, one of whom had been presumed dead for nearly three years. Nothing. No, there was nothing that held the slightest hint that more than one person resided under the roof of the Mexican-style house. Which was exactly as Lynné wanted it. She had planned this, Liam realized, she knew that she couldn't keep hiding for ever, and that one day the CIA would show up on their doorstep, whether it was collect her or not.

The doorbell rang, and then a knock followed.

And there they were. The CIA. The Central Idiocy of America, as his partner had always called it. Liam smiled at the thought of Lynné and her knack for thinking up nicknames that fit so well with things even if they were slightly disrespectful.

Trying to put on his calmest, most innocent face, Liam slipped his small gun into his pants (a habit he had picked up from Sands) and answered the door.

- - -

Hah, this thing's just full of cliff-hangers, isn't it? If you agree with me, then good! I'm doing my job well, then. As always, tell me what you think, thanks for giving this story a chance, and please await the next chapter. Merci beaucoup.