With Every Move, Another Chance
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns the copyrights and some of the credit for the characters. The rest of the credit for the characters goes to Johnny Depp, Antonio Banderas, and the other actors/actresses. Any similarities of OCs to 'actual' persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Any similarities of any part of this fic to any other fic are accidental and/or coincidental. Character developments and plot of this fanfic are mine, though I guess I partially owe some of the ideas to Sparks et al, including the names and appearances of the two doctors you meet in this chapter. Thanks Sparks!
Rating: I think it has to be R, doesn't it? Sands does like his F word, and in later chapters there may be some rather excessive violence. But nothing overly graphic, violent or otherwise, because I don't think I'd be able to write it as well as it would want to be written. Possible slash warning for later chapters, though by no means a guarantee- I'm not the world's best controller of character development; they tend to do what they want!
Author's Note: This fic carries straight on from the end of the film, and we're following Sands, at least for the first few chapters, though El will of course make a "return", and the plan is that once he arrives the two will stick together. Of course, since when did plans ever work out, eh? Oops. Reference wasn't intended, but I guess it's appropriate! Oh, one more thing which is important- thanks to Scarlett for the CIA slang, which I took from her spook speak dictionary without technically asking first. (winces) Sorry, Scarlett. Anyway, it's thanks to her that I know that CIA hospitals are known as Offices of Medical Services (OMS s), and the doctors are normally referred to as 'white coats'. I have not taken anything from her actual story, Sands Through The Hourglass, which is brilliant, and can be found here on fanfiction.net I discovered recently, but which I found on her site, which fanfiction.net won't let me post a link to. Hmph... Whatever similarities there are to her story or any other OUaTiM fic out there are purely coincidental and down to the fact that myself and the other authors are all writing what are basically sequel-stories to the same film in which Sands meets with CIA again almost immediately.
I am going to scream. Fanfiction.net mucked up my formatting. Well, font-thing, whatever- I spent ages making sure I'd put the proper 'n' with a curly-thing over it in every 'Senor', and what does this site do? Replace said n-with-a-curly-thing-on-top-of-it with a bloody '('. And no find/replace option on this QuickEdit. Hence the reason why none of the 'Senor's are technically spelt correctly and why there may be a 'Se(or' or two- but I'll do my best!
Plus none of my paragraphs have come out either. Oh well, looks like a late night for me...
1: Looking like a true survivor; feeling like a little kid
Sands was fucked. He knew he was, he'd known it as soon as he'd caught sight of the side of Ajedrez's head out of the corner of his eye as she strode up to his table from behind, before she even sat down, before she even opened her mouth. As soon as he'd seen it was her, alarms in his head had blared, and his initial reaction of 'What the fuck is going on here?' changed rapidly to just plain simple 'Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuckohfuck'. It was as though that short phrase was part of a record that kept skipping back to be played again and again and again until the sun went black. Oh wait. He'd forgotten. Like hell he'd forgotten. But the sun had gone black, and the record had barely stopped skipping since, and had never done so with more earnest. Oh shit. He was really fucked this time. He'd screwed up so fucking badly that he deserved that pain. But not its cause. Not its cause. Hell, the only people he'd ever wish this on were the sick bastards who'd done it to him. Oh, the things he'd do to every last one of them, every single person who'd been in that room and just watched it happen, laughing at him even as he screamed in a way he never remembered having done before: just the thought of that memory in anyone else's head made him blaze with fury- the thought of those fucking lowlifes remembering that and laughing at it over a few beers, crowing over it as though it was the funniest thing since fucking Monty Python...
/And what about the one who didn't watch? What about Guevara, eh?/
'Well, gosh, Sheldon; what do you think? I thought I'd just look him up in the phonebook, invite him out for drinks some times, share a plate of fucking sheep's eyeballs with the sick bastard!'
He had no idea what had gone down in the presidential palace that day, and that frustrated him more than anything else. He was Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. He worked for the Central Intelligence Agency. He threw shapes and they caught them. He set them up, he watched them fall. He set them up, and watched them fall. He fucking watched them fall, godammit! And now he'd never watch anything again. He was CIA; knowing what was happening, what would happen, what had happened- it wasn't just part of the job, it was nearly all of the job- a few tweaks here and there, and viola!- that, ladies and gents, was CIA. It was his job to know how the shit had hit the fan in the wider scheme of things, it was his fucking job, and it wouldn't be his fucking job if he didn't fucking need to know!
"Kid. Kid, are you still there?"
"Si, Senor."
"Can't you please fucking speak English?" Sands hated the weary, desperate, hopeless tone in his voice as he spoke almost to himself.
"Si. A little. Not for long while."
"Get- get a cab. Can you do that for me again?"
"Okay. Where will you go? The hospital?"
Sands chuckled bitterly. Doctors he didn't know who'd pump god-knows-what into his neck? No thank you. "No, kid. Not the hospital. The Flying Cow; someone was supposed to meet me there."
"Por que?"
"Because I told them I was there, and needed a new phone line," he said distractedly, not caring enough to make something up. Dammit, he didn't know how much longer he could keep standing.
"Would they have stayed when you were not there?"
"That's a good question, kid. And if we don't get there, we'll never know the answer."
"Come with me. We can walk. It is not far. I can see it from here."
"You sure about that?"
"Si. Do you need my help?"
No, kid, I'm fucking Superman- the holes in my body made by those bullets just healed themselves right over, and my eyes grew back the moment they were ripped from their fucking sockets. Oh, god, his eyes; he had no eyes. That bastard had even cut through his fucking eyelids to get at them- he didn't even have any fucking eyelids! He was going to freak out, he just knew it- right here, right now, in front of the kid. He was going to freak right out. He was going to freak out. He was-
"Senor?"
No. Pull yourself together, Sands. Pull yourself together. Forcing himself to calm down, and swallow his pride- or the tattered remains thereof- he held out a hand, and took the boy's.
"Lead on, kid." He tried to say it, but it got stuck in his throat- it seemed his pride had got wedged, and refused to let him thank the boy who had undoubtedly saved his life. He considered trying again as he stumbled along behind the boy, his legs feeling as though he had white-hot skewers through them- the boy was the only real thing in his pitch-black world other than the pavement beneath his feet and the pain that was threatening to consume him more and more with each step- but there was no question of it anymore; too much time had elapsed. The boy was trying to move too fast, and his idea of 'not far' was certainly not Sands's: a bullet lodged in each thigh and gaping bloody holes where his eyes had been will do that to a man- make a few metres seem like a mile; make a snail's pace seem like a sprint; make a normal Mexican pavement seem like a cakewalk. He'd always hated those things.
"Come on, Senor, we're almost there! Just a few more steps!" the kid urged him, pulling at his arm.
Sands ruthlessly cut down all of his number of responses- the kid was his only lifeline until- The train of thought derailed as Sands tripped over the single step into the restaurant and nearly went flying. "FUCK!" he shouted. "You couldn't have warned me?"
"I'm sorry, Senor- I didn't mean to that for happen!" The kid sounded scared- terrified- and it was only then that Sands realised he had pulled one of his guns on him. Shit. Reholstering the firearm, he took a breath.
"Hey, we all make mistakes," he said as lightly as he could. He wondered if the kid knew that if he'd been much older, Sands wouldn't have hesitated to use the gun he found in his hand.
"That was quite an entrance, Sands." Sands started at the voice, spinning round and almost drawing a weapon before it registered in his memory and connected to a face. Johnson. CIA. Junior. For an instant he cursed the fact that the agent had been there and witnessed what had happened; then he came to his senses: the agent was there; he hadn't left when he'd found a distinct lack of Sands at the restaurant before. It was almost enough to make him smile. Or would have been, on a good day; but as he'd told the kid, he was kinda having a bad day today, so no smile even considered thinking about crossing his face. "Care to explain?" Johnson prompted.
"It's really quite simple," Sands said, reaching up with his hand and removing his sunglasses. He heard the kid turn around quickly to avoid seeing the sight again, and Johnson gasp in horror and disgust before swearing loudly. "That fuckmook Guevara took my eyes, and that bitch Ajedrez put him up to it, I'm sure of it."
"Ajedrez? Who? How? Why?" Johnson couldn't seem to look away from the empty eye sockets that confronted him, seeming to fill his vision.
Sands replaced his sunglasses, and slipped into the slight, slow drawl he adopted when telling a story. "Agent Ajedrez, of the local version of the special forces FBI, was given classified information and an important role in our plans to stop Marquez and Barillo. You know this, Johnson; I okayed it with the Agency. What the Agency failed to find out in their background check, or at least to inform me of, was the tiny, insignificant detail that she was the fucking daughter, of fucking Barillo! And where the fuck were my men?"
Johnson mumbled something that not even Sands could make out.
"I'm sorry, what was that?"
Johnson cringed and repeated himself as quietly as he dared, as though if he didn't say it too loudly it wouldn't be so bad. "They got stuck in traffic."
" 'They got stuck in traffic'. Oh, that is priceless."
"It's the truth."
"I'll bet it is. Not even the CIA would give such a lame excuse if it wasn't true."
Johnson plucked up his courage- it was only the thought of changing the subject that let him ask the question. "Why did Guevara do it?"
"Barillo told him to. And Ajedrez probably told him to tell him to. After all, I hadn't done anything worth dying for- I had only seen too much. And they had to make sure that didn't happen again." The twisted smile on Sands's face made his fellow agent uncomfortable to the extreme; Sands could hear him fidgeting and shuffling. Now was the time he really did have to swallow his pride. He'd been good at his job; in fact he'd been the best there ever was. Too good. He knew what they said about him- that he was a danger to the Agency: it was the only fault they could find in him, that sometimes, just sometimes, he seemed a little over-zealous about doing his own dirty work when the occasion called for it; a little too happy and content in his job. That was why he'd been assigned to Mexico- this 'mission' had an almost ludicrous number of things that could go wrong, and had almost endless opportunity to turn messy. Too many variables. Even, as it turned out, for him. But all that was over now, and he had to do this, even if it cost him his last shreds of dignity.
"Does the agency know what happened?"
"Yes," Johnson replied, completely missing the point of the question.
Damn it. Fine, fuckmook; have it your way; make it even worse for me than it has to be. Through gritted teeth, Sands elaborated: "Care to let me in on the details, then? Having your eyes ripped out kinda makes it difficult to follow what's going down half a town away." He spoke quietly, but his voice quivered slightly with suppressed rage at the humiliation of it.
"Oh." Johnson shifted nervously and began to speak rapidly. "The contact said that Marquez and Guevara and Chambers are all dead; but El Presidente is alive. That was Mr Jorge Ramirez, former FBI." Sands's methods had always been considered unconventional, but once his prowess had become apparent they had received no criticism. One of his favourite pet projects was tracking down people who had personal grievances against the people he was trying to bring down, and allowing them to carry out their revenge at the most opportune moment for him- and the mission, of course. He'd been accused of manipulation more often than he could remember, and he wouldn't deny that he'd always loved the art, but he couldn't see the reasons to support anyone objecting to his practice of using wronged people to help him. After all, they were motivated, and had more reason than anyone else to see their enemy fail- what was wrong with giving them a little nudge in the direction they knew in their hearts they wanted to take? In this, he was not being a puppet-master manipulator; rather a guiding light to show them the way that they themselves were convinced they ought to take. But the way Johnson had said 'former FBI' had sounded awfully close to criticism.
"Are you questioning my judgement in enlisting Agent Ramirez's co- operation, Agent Johnson?"
Agent Johnson knew better than to correct Sands's use of the title 'agent' for Mr Ramirez. "No, Agent Sands- of course not- I apologise if it sounded that way."
"Darn tootin'. Do you have my phone?"
"Yes sir." Johnson produced a black cell phone from one of his jacket pockets and carefully touched one of Agent Sands's gloved hands with it. "Here it is, Sands."
Sands took the phone, but the expression on his face was set, as though he was lividly angry but in total control of himself. "You value your life, you stop being such a condescending snot, got it? I'm blind; not a retarded rookie."
"I apologise, sir," Johnson said through gritted teeth. He couldn't help it; the man opposite him was riling him up deliberately. He'd heard the stories about him, who hadn't? He'd even worked under him; he'd seen first hand what Sands would do to people who displeased or angered him. But Johnson was CIA; Sands wouldn't dare do anything remotely like that to a fellow agent... would he?
"See, the funny thing is, I don't believe you, Johnson. I've just had my fucking eyes pulled out, with that contraption drilling through my eyelids like they were wet tissue, and then confronted by cartel. I have bullets lodged inside both my thighs and a hole in my arm where a bullet went through it. Now, you're going to drive me to the nearest OMS where there's a doctor I know- I don't care if you have to drive me to fucking Montana, if the white coat you take me to has a voice I don't recognise, I will shoot you, and the good doctor. I'm sure the Agency would understand how I could have made such a terrible mistake. Now, I am in a lot of pain right now- a lot of pain, and I may in fact pass out before long, so here's what you're going to do: first, give that nice boy over there all of your cash; then, you will take me to your car; and then, you will drive me to my white coat."
"I need the names of some of those doctors, or I can't find a location."
"Oh, hell, Clive! Fillby, Jules, Barrie, Coonan, Truman, Charles, Naylor, Grant- that enough for you?" Sands snapped. Without eyes he would have no visual warning of the darkness swelling up to claim him, so he had to speed this up. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck, it hurt so much; and why had he wasted all that time talking crap when he had important things he needed to say? "Now give the money to the kid and let's go; get them in the car on your cell!"
"May I ask why I should give the money to the boy?"
Sands knew that he was getting hysterical, but really didn't care at all. "For fuck's sake, I'm going to black out here, just fucking do as I tell you this once without me having to explain myself to you in..."
Johnson shot around the table, and just managed to catch Sands before his head hit the hard tiled floor of the restaurant. Carefully lowering the man's head to the ground, he walked over to the boy, who had stood and waited patiently, listening by the door, but was now looking agitated. "Senor! Senor, is he alright?"
"What's your name, kid?" Johnson asked.
"Miguel."
"How d'you know Agent Sands?"
"He gave me more money for bubblegum than price, then lots- lots of money to guide him away from the bad man following him."
Johnson didn't know what to make of this, but you didn't disobey Sands, not even if he was lying unconscious on the floor of a Mexican restaurant with two bloody gaping holes where his eyes used to be. He pulled all of the notes out of his wallet, silently cursing when he saw how much was there.
"He told me to give you this," he said, handing it all to the boy. Unseen behind them, Sands was starting to come round. Miguel gasped.
"Senor?? Thank you- thank you!" He stared at all the notes disbelievingly.
"Just don't spend it on drugs or anything- or guns."
"He told me not to use a gun- they're very very bad," Miguel recited, pocketing the money as though it was very delicate- or precious. Johnson supposed it was the latter. Then what the boy had said registered with him.
"Sands told you guns were bad?"
"Yeah, fuckmook; what's it to you?" Sands grumbled, grimly determined to stand up without aid.
"You're awake!" Clive exclaimed.
"No shit, Sherlock. Now help me to the car." Sands was standing- just- leaning heavily on the table. Johnson reached out gingerly and took hold of his arm.
"It's just down the road." Sands remembered the step, and Johnson led him away from the restaurant at a hasty stride.
"Go slower, fucker, I have no eyes and bullets in my legs!" Sands fairly screamed as Clive's pace sent him stumbling along, his legs rebelling agonisingly at such treatment. A sudden swell of unbearable pain from his eye wounds on top of this sent him hurtling into unconsciousness even as Clive Johnson caught him inches from the ground once again.
"Can I help, Senor?" Miguel asked. Clive started- he hadn't even known the boy had followed them out of the restaurant.
"You're not getting any more money out of us."
Miguel looked taken aback at the thought. "No- of course not, Senor!"
Clive hesitated before finally having the courage to pick up the body of the higher ranking agent. He reached the car and rummaged in his pockets for the keys, carefully trying not to unbalance the unconscious man in his arms. Pulling open the rear passenger door, he half climbed in himself to deposit Sands on the seat, and then proceeded to construct a make-shift seatbelt for him from the existing ones. Retreating out of the car, he almost bumped into Miguel before shutting the car door.
"Geez! What do you want, kid?"
"I want to help Senor Sands. He helped me."
"Are you like this with every American who lets you keep the change?"
"Huh?"
"Who overpays you for his bubblegum?"
"No, no Senor! Sands protected me from the men from the drugs cartel!"
Well well well, who would've thunk it? His eyes fell on Sands, and he frowned- he needed to get Sands to an Office for Medical Services asap; he didn't have time for this.
"Go home, kid; if I don't go soon things could get a whole lot worse real quick." He opened the front passenger door and scooted over to the driver's seat, and put the keys in the ignition.
"Let me come," Miguel suggested, suddenly stuck by the idea.
"No way- you have a family, don't you, kid?"
"My father- but he won't mind- we have a telephone, I could call him."
Shit, there was no time for this! "Fine, fine, just get in and close the door- make it snappy!"
Johnson turned the key, starting the engine, as Miguel practically leapt into the car and pulled the door shut. Without another word he pulled out into the road and accelerated away, taking a cell phone from his pocket as he did so and pressing a speed dial.
"I have Sands. Get me the nearest locations of any of the white coats he's seen recently- Fillby, Coonan, Barrie, Truman, Grant, somebody like that... Then work faster, dammit; he's got at least three gunshot wounds and they ripped his bloody eyes out! Yes, out! Those holes get infected, and I'm no doctor, but I'm not liking his chances!... No I don't know how far back they go! Christ! I'm not breathing near those things in case I infect them, let alone shoving my hand inside!... Fillby and Truman are in where? Right, thanks, much appreciated." Johnson hung up and turned to look at Miguel.
"You ever been to the United Sates, kid?" Miguel shook his head. "Well here's your chance. Hold on tight; it's pedal to the metal." And he meant it literally.
When Sands came round, the car was pulling into the side-road that led to the Office. "Where am I?" he demanded, immediately tense.
"Safe. It's Johnson. You're in my car."
"Senor, you're awake!"
"You brought the kid? What the fuck?"
"It was imperative that I left with all possible haste. I didn't have time to argue with him. He phoned his father, and I spoke to the man. It's okay with him." Johnson pulled the car to a stop. "We're lucky; Fillby and Truman were both here- we're in Texas."
"Texas? What the fuck are they doing in Texas?"
Johnson ignored the question- he didn't have an answer for it anyway. Why was anyone anywhere? "Can you make it inside yourself?"
"Let's see, shall we? Or at least, you can." Clive winced. Sands had never had a very tasteful sense of humour, but that sort of thing just wasn't funny. Atleast he was more himself again.
He watched as Sands tried to sit up, and was hit by a wave of dread that felt more like a solid wall lead- no, scratch that, lead was too soft- oh, shit, why had he done it? Would Sands have been so mad if he'd woken up to find that he'd fallen onto the floor of the car when it braked suddenly? He had a sudden impulse to get out of the car and run; to ambulate as fast as the local gravity would allow, because nothing- nothing- could be worse than the situation he had just created for himself. Nobody held Sands down, ever, not even a warning hand on his arm or shoulder, and after the man had been strapped down and had his eyes drilled out on that insane doctor's relocated patient's coach, what did Clive do? Strap him down, face up, to a horizontal fake leather surface. Oh shit. Oh fuck. He would not, he realised, be leaving this car except in a body bag. And that was only if he was lucky.
"Clive. What the FUCK do you think you're playing at?" Sands asked in a pseudo-calm voice.
Johnson almost collapsed with relief. Without eyes, he imagined it would have been all too easy for Sands to believe, however irrationally, that he was back in the hands of the cartel. "Seatbelt. I didn't want you to fall off."
Sands pulled a flick-knife from the inside pocket of his jacket, released the blade, and carefully sliced through the seatbelts. "Better," he said, sitting up. He'd heard Johnson's sigh of relief, and knew what the other man had feared, but right now he wasn't in the right state of mind to process it properly. Relieved, was he? He'd show him fucking relief. With none of his earlier care, though he held his other hand out rather like a fencer, he took the blade to the fake-leather seating, until the plastic was in shreds and the foam underneath was mangled. "I told you what I'd been through, and what do you do? You tie me down to the backseat of your car! You fucking idiot! Give me one reason why I shouldn't bury this fucking blade into your thick skull, and it better be a good one, because you are so lucky I'm not flash-backing right now."
This wasn't strictly true, of course- every other image he saw in his mind's eye was the drill, or Guevara, or Barillo, or Ajedrez; but Johnson didn't need to know that. On his part, Clive's mind was racing, searching for an answer but coming up blank, and the knowledge that his life depended on providing a satisfactory reason did nothing but hinder the process. Sands was looking in what he hoped was approximately Clive's direction, his head cocked to one side expectantly. Dammit, Johnson, say something, anything. If I still had my eyes you'd already be dead- of course you wouldn't be, because we wouldn't be in this situation... Sands frowned, and decided that he didn't like this logic- it made sense, but it put to much of a damper on things. He waved the thought aside. Come on, Clive; just one clear sound, that's all I need...
There was nothing else for it. He'd have to use the 'I saved you life' card and hope it held water. He turned to face Sands, suppressing the urge to gulp, when he caught sight of the most beautiful thing he ever saw, because he knew as soon as he saw it that it would save his life: it was Miguel's head. How could he have forgotten the boy? Of course, if Sands thought that that counted as below the belt, he could be in really deep shit, but he could hardly kill him twice, now could he?
"The kid. Christ, Sands, you're scaring the kid witless. Do you want to scar him for life?"
"No; at the moment I want to scar you for life- or what's left of yours." But despite the words, Sands retracted the blade of his knife and fumbled to open the door. "Come on kid. Let's go."
"Er- sir? The OMS is on the other side..."
"Shut- up!" Sands snapped. He opened the door, slammed it shut behind him, and felt his way around the car until he reached the other side, cursing quietly at every static shock he felt. Miguel had obediently climbed out of the car and now held a hand out to Sands.
"I am here, Senor."
"Good." Sands put his hand on the boy's shoulder, and leant probably a little too hard on him than was comfortable, but he really couldn't care less at this point. Briefly, he turned back to the car. "Oh, and Clive- don't make any plans to leave the country or anything; savvy?" he called to the agent, a smile curling his lips in a way that sent a chill down Johnson's spine. He savvied.
Miguel only staggered a little under the weight Sands put on him, and guided the man slowly toward the entrance.
"One step," he said. Sands smiled, despite the pain that the movement of climbing the step elicited from his legs. Miguel opened the door and guided Sands through into the building, and Sands unholstered one of his guns.
"Nobody say anything. I want Fillby or Truman here now. If anyone else says anything, I will shoot them. Now!"
"Sands! What a pleasant surprise! Who let him at the Westerns again?" The voice, which was distinctly female, lost it's humour. "Put the gun down and tell me what the hell you think you're doing. You're behaving like an escaped mental patient!" The speaker was slim brunette who was taller than Sands by a good few inches in her almost-flat-soled sandals.
"Just looking for my favourite doc, sugarbutt." Sands lowered the gun with a grin. "Long time no see, eh Fillby?"
"Sands, what happened to your face?" She couldn't help staring at the two static streams of dried blood on his face that looked horribly as if they originated from beneath his sunglasses. "Take off the shades. Now."
"Doctor's orders," Sands smirked, and complied. Some of the people screamed, some swore, some gasped. Fillby was one of the latter, but she recovered her voice quickly.
"Put them back on and follow me."
"Will you whistle a merry tune, or shall I use my echolocation for that?"
"Kid- you, who helped Sands in here- what's your name?"
"Miguel."
"Miguel, could you follow me, helping Sands again?"
"Si, Senorita. But we must walk slow- he was shot."
"Just announce it to the world why don't you, kid," Sands muttered under his breath. No one else was close enough to hear.
"Gordon, fetch a chair for Sands."
"No! No fucking doctors that I don't know! I don't care! They don't come near me!"
"Sands! Be reasonable!" Fillby snapped impatiently.
"You and Truman; no one else. I hear a voice I don't know, I'll shoot it. I hear footsteps with no voice; I'll shoot them. I am not fucking around!" And despite the shimmery waist-coat, he looked dead serious.
Fillby looked around, looking momentarily helpless, then pulled herself together again. She'd had problem patients before; hell, she'd treated Sands before, and you didn't get much more problem than him; she could do this. She could do this easy.
"Kid- Miguel- take his hand, follow me."
"It is me, Senor," Miguel said nervously, approaching Sands.
"Good, good. Come here; it's okay." Sands let the boy take his hand as Fillby had told him to, and they started to move forward.
Fillby, not realising how slow 'slow' was, reached the reception desk before Sands and Miguel had got more than a quarter of the way.
"Agent S. J. Sands is checking in with multiple gunshot wounds and a debilitating eye injury. Restricted access, top security. Preliminary list of personnel to whom access may be granted is to be limited to myself, Dr Truman, and the Mexican boy Miguel- nobody else unless they are cleared by myself or Dr Truman after consultation with the patient."
The receptionist transcribed this furiously. "What about the director?" she asked nervously.
Fillby looked at Sands, who was now approaching the desk. "I said nobody else; and say nothing now until we are out of earshot. I will explain the full circumstances later."
Fillby set off again, slower this time, and Miguel and Sands followed. She had a hundred questions she wanted to ask the agent, but although those eye-sockets hadn't looked infected, she couldn't be sure until she had a proper look at them; and the same applied to the bullet wounds. She opened the door to Truman's office, which was far closer to the reception area than her own. The short but stout man who inhabited the office looked up from his paperwork.
"Yes, Fillby?"
"Agent Sands requires immediate medical assistance from us. He refuses to see anyone else. I mean, he refuses to let anyone else treat him." Fillby was mortified, and some of it showed on her face.
Sands entered with Miguel, a wide smirk on his face.
"I- I-" she stuttered, all too aware of the four visible guns on Sands's person, and the all-too-likely possibility of there being more.
"Forgiven."
"Sands? Now, see here, what's this all about?" Truman got up and bustled over to him.
"I'm afraid that's the problem, Truman. 'Seeing here'." Sands removed his sunglasses again, and Truman took an involuntary step backwards and swore loudly. "Quite," Sands said with amusement.
"Miguel, take Sands to the bench so he can take a seat."
"What sort of seat?" Sands demanded tensely, not moving a step.
"Cloth patients' couch, and paper on top of it. Why?" Truman asked.
"I believe the good doctor- the other one- in anxious to commence my treatment. If I answer one question, you'll ask another, and it's a long story." Sands allowed Miguel to lead him over to the bench.
"Right, of course, I don't doubt it. Er- boy- this won't be nice, you might prefer to wait outside."
"Si, Senor." Miguel obediently left the room, closing the door behind him.
"Sands, please remove your gun belts etc, and the waistcoat. Fillby, you take the eyes- um- eye sockets; I'll take the- um-"
"Holes in my body made by bullets," Sands supplied, dropping the gun belts to the floor and unbuttoning the waistcoat. "One in each thigh; the bullets are still there. One in this arm; the bullet passed through."
"Right. Okay then." Truman ran an antiseptic wipe around his hands and donned a pair of latex gloves; Fillby did the same. "Right. Lose the trousers and the shirt, then we'll do this thing," he said briskly.
Sands grinned, but complied without comment.
"General or local, or-?"
"No syringes."
"Right." Truman dug around in the trolley, dismissing dressings and antibiotics as he searched for painkillers stronger than Paracetamol that weren't administered with a needle. Sands put the sunglasses on one side of the flat pillow he felt at one end of the bench, and Truman at last found a suitable bottle of pills. "You're okay with pills?"
"You know I am, Geoffroy," Sands said, holding out a hand.
"Are you on any drugs?"
"No."
"Cigarettes?"
"Not since I had my fucking eyes removed."
"Alcohol?"
"Do I seem to you to be under the influence? No, Truman."
"Is there any way that any foreign substance could be in your blood stream?"
"They pumped me full of some crap when they took my eyes, but it was a little difficult to read the label. Now can I please have some fucking painkillers already? You're not putting me under."
Truman shook two painkillers onto Sands's hand, hesitated, and added a third. Sands popped them all into his mouth and crunched them up, ignoring the plastic cup of water Fillby had fetched for him. "
Tasty fish," he said with a manic-looking grin, and held out his hand. Truman just looked at it, and didn't move the bottle. "That's all I get? Three fucking aspirin?"
"Those are a bit more than just aspirin, Sands," Truman said dryly. "If I give you anymore you may experience side effects."
"Such as?"
"Dizziness-"
"Already there."
"- Blurred- um- nausea."
"Blurred nausea? Sounds nasty. Maybe I'll stick with three." The sarcasm was heavy, and the hand didn't move.
"Headache. Pain in the- um- elbows."
"Elbows?"
"And other joints."
"Okay, okay, I get it. Oh, you fucker. These are drowsers."
"Drowsers?"
"Slang for drugs that make you sleepy," Fillby elaborated as Sands failed to stifle a yawn.
"Of course," Truman said briskly. "I don't want you jabbering non-stop while I pull lumps of lead from your thighs, do I now?"
"Fucking sneaky-assed doctors..." Sands mumbled, and shortly after his breathing mimicked that of a sleeper perfectly.
"Do you think he's faking?" Fillby asked warily.
Truman shrugged. "Makes no difference. Those are more than 'drowsers'; they're painkillers combined with heavy-duty sleeping pills designed for people who are allergic to anaesthetic. If he is faking then he won't be for long."
"Sands was right, you crafty old sod," Fillby said admiringly. "That is sneaky."
"Dr Geoffroy Truman, sneak extraordinaire," he said dryly. "Antiseptics, now, and those doobery things for taking blood samples from open wounds."
"'Doobery things'?"
"Yes, doobery things, you know, whatcha-call-'ems- cotton buds."
"Cotton buds," Fillby muttered as she retrieved all of the things she thought she'd need to clean up Sands's worst injury. "Cotton buds."