Disclaimer: See Part 1

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Author's Note: Okay, guys, I know this has been going on a Sandy tangent for a while; I absolutely 'pinky swear and all other dorky such things' promise the next part will have all of our friends back (except maybe Sam), both original and otherwise. Thanks for sticking with me! Thanks as always to the fantastic Caitlin for her encouragement, and for assuring me that this bit was not horrid. :P

I step from the Sunday drizzle into the warmth of the house, disgruntled and mirroring Macky, our dog, as I try to shake the water droplets from my hair. I feel a happy jolt as I register the blare of the television, because that means that Darrah must be here.

What? She doesn't live here, she just has a key. So she can use the kitchen, on her time off, that's all, or if she needs a quiet place to crash. Like me, she values peace and quiet, and that's sometimes hard to find when you live above a bustling bookstore.

I breathe in deeply, hoping to find the scent of banana bread wafting through the house, but no luck. Damn. She's forgiven me for not telling her, but she's still enforcing the punishment, which I find inhuman. I told her she spent way too much time babysitting as a kid. Of course, that was the point at which she leveled a scathing stare at me and said, "Okay, think about what you just said and its implications. Suck it up, crybaby."

So. The punishment continues. Still, I'm happiest to see her. "Hey, sweetheart," I murmur, dropping a kiss on the top of her head as I pass behind the couch.

Surprisingly, she doesn't turn to greet me, but keeps her eyes glued to the screen. "Oh, Sandy, you have to come watch this. I love this movie."

"Yeah?" I glance at the screen quickly. "Lady and The Tramp? God, what is it with girls and Disney movies?" I tease.

"Oh, Sandy, sit down. You know you love it. Don't you?" she asks, looking genuinely alarmed.

"Sure," I placate.

"It was my favorite movie when I was little," she admits softly.

I settle down next to her and drape an arm around her. "So let's watch."

We sit in silence for a while; Macky's joined us on the couch. I'm starting to get drawn in, in spite of myself; I haven't seen this in forever. That's why I don't notice Darrah's crying until it becomes quiet sobbing, so I am startled. "Darrah?"

"This was my favorite movie," she sniffles.

"Yeah, you said..."

"No, Sandy. This was my favorite movie. My mother's, too. I watched all the time. All the time. I watched it...the night before, before..." she breaks off.

"Your parents?"

She nods. "I haven't watched it since, until now."

"You know, you've never told me. It might help..."

She shrugs, and a knot of unease begins forming in my chest as she begins to speak, because her voice has a strong note of bitterness and cynicism that I've never, ever heard from her before. "It wasn't anything spectacular, nothing really newsworthy, just some jerk off loser who was drunk and stoned to high heaven. Just another statistic, for the rest of the world. But for Dave and me..."

I think I'm getting dizzy. Oh God, oh God, oh God. My mind is clouded by a growing swirl of panic. Drugs. The guy who was responsible for killing her parents was on drugs. Drugs. Like I was. He did something terrible, when he was too wasted to care. Like when I shoved Liza...

Oh, God. I'd forgotten about that. How could I forget? I've been so happy, I've forgotten. Well, I won't forget now, and what's more, I've got to make sure Darrah never, ever gets hurt like that, at all, ever again. Because, what if one day, I might.... NO. I've got to protect her. The only way to do that, though, is by...

"Sandy? You look pale. Are you all right?" She's concerned.

"Um, yeah. I just got, just got, ah, dizzy all of a sudden. I think I, ah , better go, ah, lie down."

"Do you want me to stay?"

"No. Thanks, but no. I just need some, um, quiet."

"Well, okay," she says doubtfully. "I'll see you tomorrow then." She starts over to give me a hug, but something in my face must make her think better of it, because after giving me a hesitant smile, she leaves.

I fall on my bed with a groan. Thank God she didn't touch me, because otherwise this would be impossible. I start trying to think up a feasible excuse to distance myself from her, but nothing comes to me. I shut my eyes. It can wait until tomorrow.

This sucks. This really sucks.

I scratch at my beard absently. I started growing it just to annoy her, right beforehand. A guy can only take so many mentions of his dimples, you know? It totally took away my "tough guy" credibility, and since we broke up, I haven't cared enough about anything to worry about it.

I follow this uplifting thought with a drag on my cigarette. Shades of earlier days. What? When I'm really stressed, I smoke. It's legal. I'm no saint (although Darrah seems to think so, judging from how crushed she was when I broke up with her.)

You're free to despise me for that, by the way. I despise myself. Even the damn dog despises me. Just keeps staring at me with these big, reproachful eyes. He's ugly as sin, did I ever mention that? A real mutt. He's got the wisest eyes, though; he's generally a real pal.

Now, though, I feel like kicking him half the time.

Don't worry; I haven't done that. I'd never do that. I just feel like it sometimes. It's me I want to kick, though, really, not him. The only thing that's holding me together is the conviction that this is what's best for her. She doesn't deserve to go through that sort of hell ever again, and I can't fully guarantee that it won't happen again. I just wish...

Oh, hell, I don't know.

"Smoking kills, boy."

Huh? I turn around, and sigh. It's Miss Tildy. "Come to read me the Riot Act?" I ask irritably, stubbing out my cigarette.

"No. Just to knock some sense into you."

"Well, go right ahead," I retort snidely.

"You look like hell, beatnik." I snort, and she goes on with her diatribe, ignoring me. "She's miserable, you know that? Going around looking like a sad Basset Hound on Doomsday. For three weeks. And she doesn't deserve it. Neither, generally, do you. So I want an explanation.

"Look, we'll both have to go back to our lives soon, and..."

"Oh, be quiet," she interrupts forcefully. "You know that's not it. You go to school in New York, and she will be, too. And even if you were on opposite sides of the country you'd make it work. Do you think I'm blind? I've seen you two together often enough to know this isn't some casual flirtation. I've seen plenty of those in my time, especially here, and this isn't one." She looks at me appraisingly. "I'd wager for you, this has been 'forever' for a while now, hasn't it? More so than for her, even."

I stare at my feet, fiddle with my thumbnail. "Well?" she presses. "Well?"

I explode, and surge to my feet. "Yes, okay? Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. Yes." I'm breathing hard; I take a moment to calm myself. "Damn," I mutter, raking a hand through my hair.

Miss Tildy is regarding me calmly, intently. "What's going on, then? You love her, obviously."

"It's not that easy!" I mutter, pacing in agitation. "I did some stuff she doesn't know about, when I was younger. Drugs. Pills. I...I hurt my sister. Shoved her against a wall, just about dislocated her shoulder."

"Were you in treatment?"

"God, yes. Nine months of it. I had treatment coming out my ears. But that isn't the point," I insist earnestly. "Darrah's better than that. She deserves better than a...a violent ex-junkie whose parents had to drag him to treatment halfway across the country to 'knock some sense into his head,' as you put it, who might, who might..."

"How long ago was this?"

"Four, five years."

"Have you taken any since then?"

"No."

"Well, that seems to have been your choice then, hmmmm? Nobody stopped you from taking them once you left home, did they?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

"Look, Sandy. Get some rest, get yourself together. Trust yourself, and trust her. I think she'll understand. She won't wait forever, though. I won't let her, if no one else. You hear me?"

She places a hand on my shoulder, and I realize that's the first time she's ever called me Sandy.

"I hear you."

I slouch cautiously into the bookstore, looking about warily. I spot Miss Tildy and raise a hand in greeting; she stares a moment and then nods, indicating towards the back of the store.

I walk slowly, coming up on Darrah from behind. If it were any other time I would announce my presence by tugging on her ponytail, but now I don't feel as though I have the right to touch her. "Darrah?" I say hesitantly.

She turns, eyes widening a bit before flicking away. She's trying hard to act disinterested, but I can see her lower lip quivering a little. "Look, can we talk?" I ask.

"I'm working right now."

"I can see that." Her eyes meet mine again, challenging, so I hurry on, trying to atone for my sarcasm. "Look, I don't think Miss Tildy would mind. Just come with me. Please?"

She bites her lip, considering. "All right."

After another nod from Miss Tildy, we're out the door and I'm wondering where exactly I should start.

It's like he's a totally different person. Not just the way he looks, although that did shock me. He just seems so ill at ease, unsure. His shoulders are hunched, his hands plunged deep into his pockets, and he kicks his feet absently. Not like my Sandy at all. Every part of me is screaming that I should revel in his discomfort, that he deserves it, but I can't. I love him too much, I realize with a jolt.

"Look, Darrah," he begins tentatively, interrupting my thoughts, "there are some things I should tell you...

I can't believe it. Sweet, gentle, considerate Sandy. Nothing he's telling me fits into my idea of him, even after the happenings of the past few weeks.

"...So when you told me, I just panicked. Everything just came back. I hadn't thought of it in so long, after being with you, and it just, it just shook me all over again. It took so long with Liza, to get back to something even approaching normal, we still don't...I felt so afraid...I didn't want to risk hurting you that way, seeing that look of contempt in your eyes directed at me, ever. I'm sorry, Darrah. I really am. None of this is your fault. I just thought you deserved...I just wanted you to know. That's all," he finishes, his voice soft, gravelly. He turns and begins to walk away.

I can't bear it.

"Sandy." He turns, with a small gleam of hope in his eyes, and I give him a tiny smile. "C'mere," I say softly, with a slight shrug. His eyes widen, and he takes a deep breath, but he doesn't move. I take matters into my own hands, going to gather him into a hug with a sigh. "You idiot," I murmur, "why didn't you just tell me?

"I thought you'd hate me," he mumbles, "hate me for being weak, for being like that guy, that guy who..." He trails off, shaking, and I hug him tighter, pressing a kiss onto the top of his head.

"Sandy, what would make you think that? Okay, so I am bitter when it comes to drug use, obviously, but you can't imagine that I would arbitrarily think less of you for it. You're strong, Sandy, to have come through that, for having fought, for being able to forgive yourself enough to make a life. If anything, I love you more for it. I love you, Sandy." He raises his head to stare at me, those big brown eyes of his gleaming with tears, and I continue. "And I'm sorry if I...if I ever made you feel like you couldn't share with me." He's shaking his head emphatically, but that doesn't assuage all of my sudden guilt. But then he speaks.

"You amaze me, Darrah."

He offers his hand shyly, and I take it with a smile, and we walk along in silence.

Later, at his house, we can't seem to stop touching. Not passionately, just intimate, in a sweet, comforting way. We're sitting on the steps; I'm leaning against him, his arms are around me, enclosing me, and I've never felt so secure, so calm. I look up to find him staring at me so tenderly that my heart feels as though it might burst. With a contented sigh, I snuggle tighter, and his grip tightens.

"Sandy?"

"Hmmm?"

"You look different, you know."

"Yeah, I noticed," he laughs.

"Why?"

"Oh, new beginnings, I guess."

"You couldn't do something less drastic, like nipple piercings or something?"

"Nipple piercings?" He looks horrified. "Darrah, come on."

"Sorry," I giggle. "It's just, you don't look like my beatnik anymore," I say, half jokingly, half mournfully, trailing my finger along the partial beard around his mouth and chin.

"What, so I'm not hot anymore?" he mocks.

"Did I say that? No, sweetie, you're definitely hot. Actually," I muse, tilting my head, "it's a really good look for you. It'll just take some getting used to, is all."

"Yeah," he says, running a hand over his close-cropped hair self-consciously. "I just, I felt like I finally reached a place where I could finally put some things, the 'old me,' completely to rest, you know? Like, I was different, so I needed to look it too." He pauses, embarrassed. "Ok, so does that make any sense or was it just a really girly thing to say?"

I tap a hand against his mouth. "What have I told you about gender stereotypes?"

"Ummmm, that they are very, very bad and if I ever... He stammers, reddening as he rambles on, only to find me grinning at him.

"You did that just to make me squirm!"

I laugh. "Smart boy."

And then suddenly he's kissing me softly, and when he lets go it takes me a minute to catch my breath. "Very, very smart boy."