Disclaimer: If I owned Sands, would I really be in a college dorm right now? The correct answer is no.
"Remember him, do you?" Adele asked, amused, as Sands cleared his windpipe. Sands smiled grimly, valiantly tamping down the urge to flip her off.
"Yeah, sugarbutt, you could say that. Then again, it's pretty hard to forget the soulless, backstabbing, SOB that gave you something like this," and he turned around, pushing the hair away from his neck. Adele didn't gasp –Sands guessed in her line of work she'd seen much worse- but he could feel her go very still. A long, V-shaped scar marked the back of his neck, silent testimony as to why he kept his hair long.
"Cristobal, after kindly informing me that his true employers were members of an international cult, turned me over to the highest of the muckety-mucks, who then thought it would be a great idea to kill me by scalping." His chair scraped back violently, tipping over with a crash as he stood.
"And if you think for one SECOND that I am going to help you find that ILLEGITIMATE, SCREWING, SON OF A WHORE, you've got another think comin', sweet pea, 'cause I ain't doin' it."
With a mighty kick to his fallen chair (he heard it crash violently into the lower cabinets and Adele's answering curse) he stalked out of the room, with only a minor injury to his dignity as he slammed into the doorjamb.
"Sands!" Adele yelled. He heard her footsteps as she stomped after him. "Sands!"
He found the nearest door and went through it, locking it once he was inside the room. Turning to figure out where he was, he bumped into something soft. A coat. Friggin' brilliant, Shelly-boy. You're in a closet.
"Anyone asks," he muttered, "I meant to walk in here."
A fist pounding echoed through the wood.
"Sands! Come out!" Adele said forcefully. "You know you locked yourself in a closet."
"On purpose!" Sands defended. "And I'm not coming out!"
"You've got to sometime," Adele said reasonably. "I'm not feeding you in there, there's no loo...and I don't think you're the sort of chap that relishes a slow death. So, when you're ready to come out and listen to reason you stupid git, I'll be ready to explain further."
Footsteps echoed away from the door; Sands listened for a few moments to make sure she was truly gone, then slid down to the floor of the closet. He would spend one night in here, at least, to make his point. Then, maybe he would listen.
Maybe.
Adele cleaned the kitchen with more vigor than usual, muttering to herself.
"Didn't tell me he was a CHILD," –this was shouted for Sands' benefit- "who didn't have the ballocks to FACE HIS PAST," she intentionally raised her voice again, knowing he could hear her. No sound came from the closet, and for a moment Adele wondered if he'd found the fold-down stairs to the attic and was long gone. But, this idea was most firmly quashed a moment later when the closet door slammed open hard enough to dent the wall, and Sands stomped into the kitchen, bumping into random objects and knocking things on the floor, cursing viscously all the way.
"What right do you have," he asked, dangerously quiet, "to tell ME that I need to face MY PAST. You don't know the half of it, sugarbutt, and you don't want to. My guess is a little bit of British silk like you has never endured anything worse than a paper-cut, so SCREW OFF, WENCH. It's my decision, and I'm not freaking going. Deal with it."
He turned and was about to trip his way back to the closet (or, hopefully, find his bedroom this time) when a firm hand gripped his shoulder. The nails dug through the cotton of his shirt, warning him not to progress further. He stopped, arms crossed, waiting. Adele came around to face him and he heard the light rustle of cloth. Insistently, she took his hand and placed it on the warm flesh of her abdomen.
"What the..." Sands hadn't been expecting this.
"Shut up," Adele said quietly, and moved his hand to her ribcage. There, a long line of knotted, ridged flesh rose above the rest, coursing over her ribs and tummy, across her upper right hip, and continued around to her back.
"Bugger of a paper cut," the assassin whispered. She back away from him then, with a cut off sigh. Moments later, her bedroom door slammed. Sands remained in the living room, feeling like the world's biggest heel.
Well, Shelly old jerk, that's because you are.