Thank you to everybody who reviewed, I'm glad you like the story!

Summary of chapter- Basically a trip to the shops, with some quality time between Sands and Sanderson (everybody say 'aaw'.)

Rating- PG-13

Warning- Nada. This one's benign.

Disclaimer- I do not own any of the following: Once Upon a Time in Mexico, Sands, the CIA, my sanity or a single penny.

A/N: I am English and I've never been to New York, so please forgive me and suspend disbelief at anything I get wrong, like prices.

Retail Therapy

Despite having apologised for his implications about the size of Sands' manhood, Dr Sanderson could not help feeling that his patient was being a little short with him during their next session together.

"So, I've got good news," the doctor offered enthusiastically.

"Nenh."

"Don't you want to hear it?"

"Szs."

"It's about the guest list!"

"Tv."

"I've got more people to come. Yay!" He added as an after thought.

"F."

"Is it me, or is the number of letters in your words decreasing every time you speak?"

Silence.

"I guess I'm right then. Hey, do you want tell me what the matter is? Do you want to talk about it?" He asked, eagerly delivering his most over-used phrase. Sands just fidgeted with his hair and sulked. Dr Sanderson sighed. "Look, I'm sorry I insulted you. It was wrong of me and… sorry."

"Double sorry?"

"Yes, double sorry. Alright?" Sands squirmed for a minute before smiling.

"Ok."

"So, d'you want to know who's coming?"

"Not really," replied Sands, sounding bored and reverting to his usual attitude.

"Well, everybody on the guest list- except Billy Chambers." Dr Sanderson waited a moment for Sands to ask why, but no question came. "Because he's dead." No reply. "You could have told me."

"Ah, it's what I'm paying you for."

"Actually, you're not paying me. Although, since you bring that up, I received a letter from the CIA this morning."

"I didn't bring it up," Sands retorted, but his therapist wasn't listening.

"I received an urgent message from the Central Intelligence Agency. The CIA contacted me a few hours ago. Hark! I have an important notice from the Central Intelligence Agency, so listen up! I received word from the CIA in the early hou-"

"Stop it!" Cried Sands, a little disturbed and annoyed. "What did they say?"

"They contacted me," Dr Sanderson began, speaking in a gravely voice and sitting up straight. "In reference to your treatment here at my HQ. It is grave news; funds will no longer be supplied to treat Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. His placement here will be terminated at the end of next month."

"Hallelujah!"

"No further funds will be available from the Central Intelligence Agency for the psychiatric evaluation and/or treatment of Agent Sands," the doctor finished, saluting thin air. "Dismissed."

"Hey, man, I think you're going through an identity crisis," Sands told him calmly, and relaxing considerably.

"Hey! Watch it. I'm the shrink here."

"Sorry, Doc. But you know something? You've really come out of our shell during this last session.

"What did I just say?"

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Due to Sands' blindness, he was unable to visit the shops alone for the purpose of buying supplies for the party. To his consternation, Dr Sanderson happily volunteered to accompany him, and refused to take 'no' for an answer.

"But it'd be on my own time," Sands had whined. "You're not supposed to be 'personally involved'."

"I would be ashamed if I could not say that I dedicated my time and effort to the treatment of my patients," the doctor had solemnly declared.

Therefore, on Saturday morning, Dr Sanderson arrived at Sands' house at ten o' clock sharp. Sands lived in a bungalow in a neighbourhood on the outskirts of town, where the grass was bright green all year round and melodious bird calls harmonized with each other from the different blossom covered trees. The doctor found it pleasant to drive through, but he wondered what a bitter sociopath like Agent Sands was doing there. After a short, scenic drive, he found his patient's address. The bungalow was light blue with white window frames and a white front door, which was broken up by panes of frosted glass. Smiling at the pretty little house, Dr Sanderson walked through the front garden via a narrow, flagstone path. The house was practically buried in the snapdragons and cornflowers which bordered its perimeter, and the scent diffused into the air all around.

Relaxed by the peaceful atmosphere, the doctor rapped on the door, which was promptly opened by the agent.

"Good morning, Agent Sands," Dr Sanderson greeted cheerfully.

"Oh God. Don't tell me it got to you too," replied his patient in alarm.

"What got to me?"

"Come in, come in," Sands hissed, pulling his startled doctor inside the door, before firmly shutting it.

Without saying a word, he beckoned him through the narrow hallway, feeling his way from the walls. Dr Sanderson spent the short journey taking in Sands' appearance; he was oddly dressed in black shorts and a white T-Shirt emblazoned with the words 'FBI- Female Body Inspector', which he accessorised with purple socks.

"Come through," Sands gestured, indicating for his doctor to enter the small living room.

"How pretty!" Sanderson exclaimed, doing as he was bid and admiring the pink and white room with sweet velveteen furnishings.

"That's just what they want you to think," his patient muttered darkly, sitting down on a soft couch. Sanderson joined him. "There's something you need to know about this place.

"It was built only a few years ago, by a man named Armand Cole. This Cole guy was a bit… well, he was weird. Optimistic is a word you could use. Anyway, he wanted to make a perfect village complete with flowers and birds and pastel coloured houses, and he did so, as you've just seen. However, what Armand didn't know was that at the time a certain government agency, whose name I can't reveal, was looking for a new way of observing the activities of the public. And then they found this place. So perfect nobody would ever suspect that they were being watched twenty four hours a day. They have hidden cameras everywhere: inside the TV- which, fortunately, I don't use-, in all the rooms, hidden in the trees… that's why the CIA decided to place me here. So they could keep an eye on me at all times."

"Hmmm…" Dr Sanderson replied, not knowing exactly what to say. "Remind me to review paranoia with you during our next session."

Sands threw a curse in his direction and pulled on his boots. Escorting the therapist from the room and out of the front door, he tentatively crept along to the gravel driveway before allowing Dr. Sanderson to open the passenger door of the car for him. When they were both in, he exhaled.

"So… have you lived here long?" The doctor asked, unsure about making conversation with his patient outside the hours of therapy.

"Don't ask me to talk about this place," Sands hissed. "Let's just wait until we get out of the area before saying anything… you never know who might be listening."

Dr Sanderson waited until they had passed the sign that read 'Please come again!' before speaking again. "Are you excited about our shopping trip?"

"Do me a favour."

"I mean, how long is it since you've been to the shops?"

"Ages. And I prefer it that way. So shut up."

Unable to think of any more cheery things to say, Dr Sanderson shut up and the rest of the journey was spent in silence. Finally, they arrived at the shops. The doctor headed eagerly for the food hall of a large mall, dragging the reluctant Sands along behind him. The agent loitered alongside his therapist, while the latter selected various Hispanic cuisine and threw it into a cart. Sands only became enthusiastic when they reached the liquor.

"More tequila," he urged, "more vodka."

"Vodka is not Mexican, it's Russian," said Dr Sanderson sternly, replacing the bottle on the shelf.

As soon as he had begun to move on, Sands sneaked what he thought was the vodka back into the cart. Unfortunately, it was actually a bottle of crème de menthe.

Dr Sanderson dropped Sands off at a giftware store while he went off to buy a new outfit. He left him with a bright, perky assistant, giving her an order to help him buy some cheerful party decorations.

"So, what kind of party are you having?" She asked, beaming. He could hear her smile, she sounded like she was speaking through her teeth.

"Look, cut the crap, ok? Just give me the cheapest banner you have."

"Well… we do make a very attractive 'Golden Wedding Anniversary' banner which is on sale at the moment-"

"Great, I'll take two."

"But are you throwing a party for a couple who're celebrating their fiftieth anniversary together?"

"Sure."

"Then you could really do with these beautiful balloons, they would make the perfect-"

"Fine, how much is that?"

"All together that's $15, but we also do party poppers, silly string, streamers-"

"Enough!" Sands barked. "I'm only throwing this party to get my psychiatrist and my anger management counsellor off of my back!"

"Ok!" Squeaked the girl nervously, her eyes widening in alarm. "I'll-er-just put these in a bag for you… sir…"

Soon after the sales assistant made the excuse to run off as quickly as possible, Dr Sanderson returned to the shop to collect his patient.

"Did you buy something nice?" He asked, noting the green plastic carrier bag.

"I bought something," replied Sands. "It may not be nice but it was cheap."

"That's nice," remarked the doctor idly, as he escorted Sands back to his car.

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