Title: Cookies
Rating: R for language, implied violence
Summary: Sands is reminiscing.
A/N: I've been reading/writing too much Sands torture recently, and the poor guy just really needed to come out on top for once. And what could be better to overcome adversity with than cookies? 1 shot deal.
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Sheldon liked cookies. They weren't an obsession, but they were certainly pleasant. The chewy kind, of course, fresh out of the oven with gooey chips melting all over his fingers. Life was great where cookies were concerned.
Grandma Sands always knew to make fresh batch when Sheldon and his parents were due in town. He had her trained to the point of militaristic punctuality. Not that she minded. Her grandson always was a feisty and lonesome boy. As long as he had some happiness in his life, Grandma Sands was content to continue her pastry endeavors.
Sheldon could appreciate her efforts, being an only child and in no position to share the chocolatey bliss. He'd had his first harsh lesson in sharing because of Grandma Sands. It wasn't his fault Fred the Fuckwad decided he liked cookies too. F the F could have just as easily wanted Sheldon's milk or tomato soup. It wasn't Sheldon's fault F the F didn't know what a personal bubble was. Wasn't Sheldon's fault he had a scar on his hand for his troubles in dealing with Fred the Fuckwad. Or that F the F wasn't exactly around to give his side of the tale anymore, for that matter. The plastic Ziplock bag had kept the two cookies as fresh as could be expected when Sheldon finally opened the pack and munched across from F the F's lifeless body.
Agent Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the Central Intelligence Agency thought about this as Chicle Boy led him straight to the center of the city (or so Sands assumed). Thought about his methods, his experiences and what could potentially be his final showdown.
And dammit, he wanted a cookie.