Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Thirty-Five: The Price of Betrayal
Lots of stuff going on in this chapter. Some of it's insightful, some of it's saddening, some of it's exciting, but hopefully all of it will be entertaining. :) For the first time in like this entire story I actually had things planned. They didn't just happen like they normally do. Although . . . I didn't think of the bit with Liam and Lynné until about a month ago . . . Okay, scratch that. This chapter has been partially planned in advance, unlike the other chapters which only had vague outlines and punchy lines. :)
A startled gasp broke through the peaceful silence that filled the tiny suite. He heard it and knew that she was going to try and leave before he realized what had happened. But instead of letting her go, Sands kept his arms locked securely around her waist, refusing to let her go.
Why, though? Why don't you want her to leave?
She's warm, he explained as if talking to a moron. And in case you haven't noticed, this room's fucking freezing. Besides . . . I'm comfortable.
You misinterpreted me. Why does being like this make you comfortable?
Well . . . most people are at ease when they fist wake up. That's why it's so hard to get out of bed in the mor –
You're feeding me boring explanations, Sheldon, and avoiding the actual answers. You know why you're so calm now. We both do. You just won't admit it. And I won't say it 'til I hear you admit it. We both know that, too.
No. . . . No, it was all right. He was fine – he didn't need her, nor did he want her.
If you don't, then why don't you let her go? She's gonna realize you're awake sooner or later.
No she wouldn't, Sands assured himself. As long as Zebbidy thought he was still asleep, then there was nothing wrong with what he was doing. When she awoke, she would probably figure that he was jut having some perverted dream in which he was at the Playboy Mansion being waited on by beautiful, busty women who were willing to fulfil his every wish. She would think that, in his dream, he had a hold of a Playboy Bunny and didn't realize that the one he really held was her, Zebbidy. Yes, that would work. It was working.
Except that she's already awake, and she knows you are, too.
What . . ?
"Sands . . . . ?"
"Ah, fuck. What're you doing here?"
"Funny. Agent Fusco informed me that you weren't talking."
Lynné shook her head, before shimmying into a dark black T-shirt. "Not true. I just haven't had anything to say. Not to him, anyway."
"Oh?" her stepsister asked, taking a seat on the bed and assuming a casual position. "Why's that?"
Casting a 'what-the-hell-do-you-think-you're-doing?' look in Cat's direction, Lynné gave a unconcerned shrug and donned a black belt with a large silver buckle engraved with two wrenches and the words 'Pipe Fitter.'
"Just haven't had anything interesting to say is all. And you know how I am about that."
She gave a would-be charming smile and sat down next to her stepsister to put on her boots, wincing inwardly at the sharp pain that ran from her knee to her thigh as she tugged on the left shoe.
"So," Lynné began conversationally, "what are you doing here?"
"What happened at Poisson's party, Lynné?" Cat demanded sternly.
"Are you gonna answer my question?" her stepsister replied coolly.
"Are you gonna answer mine?" she countered, struggling to get a grip on her frustration.
"Why are we talking in questions?"
"Why are – what?" Catherine was perplexed, and it showed on her face. Her stepsister never made a bit of sense. Why couldn't she just tell her what she wanted to know and be done with it? Because she was Lynné, Cat knew. Because she always had to make things confusing. Watching a person struggling to comprehend what she had told them amused her to no end. Her sick idea of 'fun,' Cat snorted. Stealing a glance at her despised stepsibling, she saw the spark of triumph that now shined in Lynné's eyes, the clear enjoyment that lined her smile, the sheer arrogance of it all and Catherine snapped.
"I know about the girl, Lynné."
She received nothing more than a side-glance from the younger woman. Not moved at all by Catherine's statement, Lyn continued to lace up her boot.
"I said, I kno –"
"Heard you the first time, dear," Lynné sighed, sitting up properly.
"Good," Cat replied. "We're at least on the same subject."
"Actually, I'm still wondering why you're here . . . but, gee whiz, Cat, I can't say no to you. Whaddaya wanna know?"
"Poisson's granddaughter," Cat stated, regarding her black attire with extreme distaste. "You have her. Why is that, Lynné?"
Her stepsister shrugged, nonchalantly picking an invisible speck of dust from her pants.
"She was stalking me."
"Lynné –"
"She was," Lyn protested indignantly. "Fuckin' kid was following me everywhere. She wouldn't leave me alone. Said she had something to tell me. So, I did what anyone else in my position would've done and took her home with me."
Leisurely, she sauntered over to her dresser, retrieved a small handgun, and slid a clip into it. She didn't have to be facing her stepsister to know that Catherine's eyes widened at the sight.
"Where's the girl, Lynné?" Cat asked, her tone faltering ever so slightly as her hated stepsibling turned around, gun still in hand.
"Asleep?" Lyn guessed. "It does seem a little past her bedtime, being so late an' all . . ."
"Lynné, I me –"
Her words were cut abruptly when the other woman held up a hand, motioning for silence. Obediently, Cat shut her mouth. As much as she loathed the woman, she knew better than to continue with her tirade. Lynné was not one of those people you disobeyed.
With her head cocked towards the door and her eyes focused on the glossy wooden planks beneath her, Lynné felt her eyebrows slanting inward as a trio of voices trailed into her bedroom. One was young, skittish, and desperately trying to maintain a grip on its senses. Liam. There was another, high, girlish, and alert with determination but lined with confusion and fear of the unknown. Josey. Then, she heard the third and final voice, a low, tenor sounding voice that was putting on an act of kindness, leading the unsuspecting into a false sense of security.
Slowly, she raised her eyes from the floor to meet those of her stepsister. It wasn't hard. Cat wasn't even trying to avoid her gaze. In fact, Lyn noticed, she was staring directly at her, an air of deliberate haughtiness hovering about her, clinging to her like static and ready to shock anyone who dared touch her. Unimpressed, Lynné looked her up and down, mimicking her lofty arrogance perfectly. Better, even.
Bitch, Cat thought spitefully.
"Did you bring Harrington with you?" her stepsister asked suddenly, motioning to the door which still stood ajar from when Catherine made her entrance.
"Why?" Cat asked, staring at her questioningly. "What does it matter?"
As the low voice sounded from the living room once more, Lynné's head turned, listening to its muffled words intently. The moment someone else spoke up, she shook her head, muttered a quiet curse – "Fuck" – and sprinted out of the room, with a bewildered yet unnoticed Cat following suit.
"Is that really necessary?" Liam asked glancing at Agent Harrington out of the corner of his eye. The other man looked up from checking his gun for ammunition and met his fellow agent's gaze. Calmly, he placed his gun on the coffee table in front of him, making sure it was still in reach and that Liam could still see it. It was clear that Agent Fusco didn't want the thing in the house.
"Agent Sands can be quite a handful, Fusco. The CIA isn't taking any chances with her."
"So by being precautions you're going to tranquilize her?" Liam demanded, outraged.
"Of course not, Fusco," Harrington replied, shaking his head at the other agent's idiocy. "This isn't the Discovery Channel. Although I can't say I'd mind hunting Lynné Sands down . . ." He was lost for a moment, staring off into space with a sleazy grin plastered across his face and running what had to be a thoroughly vulgar image in his head. Liam suddenly had the wild urge to throw a punch at him, but settled for gripping the arms of the reclining chair instead.
"But if worst comes to worst, then I'm prepared to take her out."
"You make it sound like she's going to put up a struggle," Liam challenged.
Harrington's heavy brows arched in skepticism. "You think she's going to go quietly?"
"I . . . I never said that," the other agent said defensively. "I just don't think the drugs are necessary."
Shrugging carelessly, Harrington picked up his gun once again and slid it into his coat pocket.
"You never know."
"Je sais que je ne fais pas," (I know I don't,) a small voice said from the kitchen entrance.
Liam could not contain a gasp as he whirled around in his seat and took in the sight of the fair-haired, light skinned, dark eyed, exquisite child adorned in an adorable nightgown of frosty pink satin.
"Joséphine?"
The little girl rolled her useless eyes. "Certainement." (Of course.) Turning towards Harrington – while maintaining the illusion of sight amazingly, Liam noted, awed – she put her hands on her hips and scrutinized him suspiciously.
"Qui est il?" (Who is he?)
When Harrington looked at him questioningly, Liam knew that was his cue to translate the little girl's words. But with his fellow agent's indication also came a sudden gain that caught Liam as odd. As cultured as he was, Harrington didn't speak French. Liam grinned to himself. While she may not have known it yet, he and Joséphine had a huge advantage. Swallowing the buildup inside his throat, he answered:
"She wants to know your name. You can talk to her in English, though. She understands it."
"But she doesn't speak it?" the other man asked skeptically.
Liam shook his head. "No."
Letting out an annoyed sigh, Harrington muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "Typical French . . . Very well . . ." under his breath and bent down so he could see things eye-to-eye with Joséphine.
"I'm another agent, just like your friend Mr. Fusco, sweetheart," Harrington explained kindly.
Joséphine glared.
"Dont parliez-vous?" (What were you talking about?) she wanted to know. Liam translated her every word.
"Something you wouldn't understand," Harrington informed her promptly.
If possible, Joséphine's scowl deepened, her eyes narrowed until they threatened to close, and her pale brows came so close to touching they seemed to have been sewn together, completing the image of a tiny, two-foot terror.
"C'est que chacun dit!" (That's what everyone says!) she yelled shrilly. "Ils croient toujours que je ne sais rien parce que je suis seulement six, mais je fais!" (They always think I don't know anything because I am only six, but I do!)
"Honey, calm down," Harrington said, trying to put an end to her shouting with a gentle façade. Joséphine knew better.
"Je sais que vous alliez faire du mal à Mademoiselle!" (I know you were going to harm Mademoiselle!) she cried, taking a step back.
"I had no intention –"
"Tranquillisants!" (Tranquilizers!) Joséphine spat the word out as if it had left a horrible taste in her mouth. "Je sais qu'ils sont – le Grand-père les utilise sur quelqu'un qui le traverse. Et vous alliez les utiliser sur Mademoiselle Lynné!" (I know what they are – Grandfather uses them on anyone who crosses him. And you were going to use them on Mademoiselle Lynné!)
"As much as I appreciate your defense, Josey, I think I can take care of myself."
"Lynné?" Liam gasped, wide-eyed with shock. His partner ignored him, her eyes fixated on Agent Harrington. Behind her, a panting Cat was barreling down the stairs, her ragged breath and thumping footsteps clashing with the infuriated silence that had filled the room.
"I tried to stop her," Catherine choked out in one breath, leaning against the railing for support.
"Now, Cat, you should know better than to run full-tilt when you're anorexic," Lynné scolded mockingly, her eyes never leaving Harrington. A cold smile slowly spread across her face.
"Hello, Richie."
Harrington gave a short nod of recognition.
"Lynné."
"Long time, no see," she continued casually, descending the remaining steps one by one. "Gosh, I haven't spoken to you in . . . how many years? Three? Four? I know it was on a Sunday . . . but I just can't figure out which one it was . . ." She shook her head in bemusement but met his eyes with a smile a second later.
"Leave the kid out of this, Rich. You two are here for me if Josey's shouting tells me anything, so there's no reason to drag her down with me."
"My God, Lynné, have you actually learned to care about someone other than yourself?" Catherine gasped in sarcastic awe.
"No," Lyn replied bluntly, "I just like to avoid confusion. The less there is, easier my job will be. Get it?"
"Mademoiselle," Joséphine whispered urgently, tugging on Lynné's arm.
"What is it, Josey?" she asked calmly, looking down at her side.
"Sait-elle que je dis?" (Does she know what I'm saying?) The child pointed directly at Cat and stared up at Lynné questioningly. Carelessly, Lyn glanced at her stepsister.
"No."
Joséphine smiled slightly.
"Bien."
"Oh yeah?"
"Oui," she concurred, nodding. "Il ne fait pas non plus." (He doesn't either,) she added with a gesture towards Harrington.
"Oh I see . . ." Lynné murmured. "Très bien . . . You may be on to something there, kid."
"Mademoiselle, ils vont vous faire mal d'une manière ou d'une autre," (Mademoiselle, they are going to hurt you somehow,) Joséphine told her quickly. "Ils ont des médicaments." (They have drugs.)
"Oh they do, do they? How nice. Just like the Company, too."
"What is?" Cat snapped as Lyn continued to gaze at Harrington with almost eerie detachment.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she teased shrewdly, her sights still focused on the other man.
"Yes," Catherine hissed, suddenly right behind her, "I would. But I can wait."
Something small, thin, and cold was suddenly plunged deep into her neck, numbing her senses and dulling her state of mind – but only slightly. Though her vision was slowly failing her, she could make out Harrington talking on a phone and nodding as if assuring someone that he had completed his job. Cat had snatched up her wrists and was now taping them together with harsh, scratchy duct tape. She was whispering promises of pain and torment and revenge in her future, everything she always deserved. But they were of no importance to Lynné. Perhaps it was the tranquilizers, perhaps it was something else, but the sight of her partner grabbing Joséphine, plastering a piece of tape over her mouth, and slinging her over his shoulder with no remorse delayed any struggle Lynné might have considered carrying out.
She gazed at him, her lids heavy, her eyes glazed, and uttered the first words she had said to him since that night at Poisson's mansion.
"Et tu, Fusco?"
Her partner only stared. Joséphine continued to fight him, swinging her arms and kicking her tiny legs with energy that would not have been expected from so small a child. But Liam had a strong hold on her. She wasn't going anywhere. And Liam was fighting a battle of his own, she saw through her clouded eyes. He wanted to tell her something, but his voice wouldn't allow it. His eyes, however, disobeyed.
But the drugs prevented any kind of message from reaching her brain. She knew that she was slowly being carted off by sleep. She didn't even feel it when Harrington lifted her up and slung her over his shoulder. Unconsciousness had a much stronger grip than he did.
Then fall, Lynné, the voice murmured serenely.
And down she went.
"Sands?"
She was awake, damn that voice for being right. Damn it for falling silent, too, Sands thought bitterly. After thirty-some years of constant gibberish, now was when it chose to finally shut its trap.
Does that mean I actually want its advice? he wondered incredulously. Fuck . . . I'm losing it . . .
But he still had no idea what to do. Should he answer her or remain silent? Humor the woman or keep up the charade? He hadn't even considered the option of lapsing into a fit of some sort. He could blame it on the pain. Destroying the undefeatable image he had mastered wouldn't be a problem . . . Not with Zebbidy. She understood pain. Whether it was physical or mental, she understood. She was accepting of the afflicting agony he had been burdened with. He could fake a panic attack, make his ailments look worse than they really were and get away with it . . . But feigning pain required energy . . . and he was so very tired . . .
She touched the arm he had wrapped around her waist some time during the long night. Her back was to him, pressed up against his own body. He knew, however, that had he been able to see Zebbidy's face, it would have been wearing an expression of bewildered concern.
"Are you okay?" she asked softly, her hand resting lightly against his own.
"Yeah," he muttered, sounding weary but relaxed. Meanwhile his insides were spinning, thankfully not from an oncoming attack of nausea. Vaguely he wondered why on Earth she wasn't as uncomfortable about the situation as he was.
But you're not uncomfortable, Sheldon. The voice was back and ready to quote him at any given moment. You're not. Remember?
Yeah, yeah . . . That's the last time I let myself get delirious. Whenever that happens, I don't what the fuck's going on and suddenly I'm admitting shit to you
Think of it as . . . "bonding" . . . if you like, the voice offered kindly.
"I've been thinking," Zebbidy began, unknowingly cutting Sands' conversation with the voice short.
"Mmm," he replied bemusedly. "About what?"
"About . . . the situation we're in." His body didn't stiffen in the least. He remained absolutely calm, his muscles perfectly relaxed. But Zebbidy didn't have to be a mind reader to feel his mind tensing.
"Or I should say, the situation you're in," she tried to explain. "With . . . your eyes."
Oddly enough, she felt him calm very slightly. His sight was a hazy subject to discuss – she was probably an idiot for even thinking of brining it up – but Zebbidy could not help but feel that the agent had been worried about something else. And then it hit her. The weakness, the yearning, the exhaustion, the bed, the hand on her slim waist . . . How could she have missed it?
He's not used to waking up like this with me or with any woman for that matter. He's not used to it . . . Oh my gods . . .
There were no doubts in her mind that Sands had gone to bed with many women, but the question still remained: How many times had he actually slept with one of them and then woken with them the following morning? She doubted it had ever happened.
Sands was not a man who was comfortable with love and affection. Such things were too frivolous for him. They weren't what he needed to get the job done, so he had never bothered with them. Oh, he's a charmer, though. I'll give him that, Zebbidy agreed silently. That was another thing that puzzled her. Sands never acted like he was incredibly uneasy with being around other people. Perhaps that was because he wasn't, Zebbidy imagined. He didn't mind getting women into bed as long as there weren't any lovey-dovey moments involved.
The odd thing was, she herself was completely fine with the whole situation. But she had never felt awkward about showing affection. After what she had seen last night . . . that small piece from Sands' youth . . . if his father really had thrown him out in the cold he said he did . . . then she didn't blame him for being callous.
"What about them?" he was asking when she finally tuned back in.
"Why do you think –"
"I can't see anymore?" Sands finished sardonically. "Beats the shit outta me," he answered flatly. "I've already asked myself that question, Zeb. Been there, done that . . . after the first million times it gets kinda old."
"I'm sure it does," Zebbidy returned evenly. "But I've been thinking –"
"– So you said –"
"– and I think I may know what brought it on. You said it was when you saw Rosa Hernandez that you lost your sight. Do you . . . know her? From anywhere?"
Sands sighed wearily, not wanting to answer her. True, she had taken him in when he was injured, she had been there for him when he was in pain, she was accepting, caring, possibly deeply devoted to helping others . . . but he could be wrong. She could be playing him false, simply making him well again so he would be in good condition when she handed him over to Poisson who turned out to be her third cousin's grandfather's sister-in-law's father. Or something along those lines.
But how could telling her about Ajedrez be bad? How's she gonna use that against me?
You never know.
"How does that tell you anything?" he wanted to know before he started spilling his guts.
"Well," Zebbidy began patiently, "sometimes we see things that have such an impact on our minds that we black out – temporarily," she added quickly. "Usually, it only lasts for a few hours – the person thinks they're asleep most of the time. But sometimes certain images are so strong they blind us – once again, temporarily."
"And now long is 'temporarily?" Sands asked with a feeble bite to his tone.
"Until one confesses," she answered quietly.
"Confess to what?" he snapped angrily, wincing at the pain in his chest. "I already told you it was Hernandez –"
"I know," Zebbidy said softly, laying her hand over his own in an effort to calm him. He would never admit – not even to himself – that it had worked.
"But what I meant was . . ." Zebbidy paused, searching for the proper phrasing. "If there's anything on your mind . . . just . . . anything you'd like to get out but can't . . . you can tell me."
He sighed. Zebbidy hurried on.
"That may not seem like a lot to go by, but I'm all you've got at the moment. And it might work. I'd just like to know if it would. I'm sure you would, too."
When he made no answer, she carefully curled her fingers around his, hoping for some kind of reaction. Even an angry one would do.
"Sands?"
But the agent remained silent. The only response she got out of him was a gentle pressure around her hand. And that was enough for her. Not once did Sands move from where he lay. He didn't even make an effort to. But, Sands noted coyly, neither did Zebbidy.
Okay, next chapter I am definitely going to take my time on. It's not that I have anything going on, but I'd rather stretch my deadlines a little so I could perfect it instead of hurrying up and whipping something together in order to have it up by Monday. Why is that? Well, in the next chapter a lot is going to happen. Not necessarily action-wise, but confessions will be made, truth will come out . . . in short, a lotta stuff's gonna happen. I'd just like to make sure it's everything it can be – ie, make sure I'm happy with it before I go and update – and that will probably take until next Friday. Also, I would've had this chapter up last night, but FanFiction was being a royal pain in the arse and not letting me post. Plus they screwed up the chapters of this story (notice how it begins with chapter one but doesn't continue with chapter two? Yeah, that's what I'm talking about).
Author's Thanks and Review Responses
Lynx Ryder: Hmm . . . falling? I don't know. Maybe. ;) All they have to do is create some mutual agreement to care for one another and then . . . well, maybe. Really, I still have yet to find a way to break the ice that's between them – albeit, it is melting. Lol, I know I had to laugh after I did debating over Tom Cruise and Johnny Depp. In the end, the answer was just so obvious it was funny! Mr. Depp is way better than Cruise – he actually creates individual characters (something Cruise definitely does not do) and sometimes he even interesting, unmentioned things about them! Example: Sands was reading a biography of Judy Garland in OUaTiM and I read a quote of Depp's saying that he didn't know why, but he always thought that Sands would have some kind of 'sideline obsession with Broadway.' Which is good, cuz my Sands is a fan of showtunes and musicals – except Chicago for some reason.
Sands: Because you and your idiot friends play the soundtrack constantly.
Sidney: Oh, you don't know what you're talking about. Go back to bed. (hums the tune to 'All That Jazz')
Dawnie-7: Thanks! Like I said, reading over that scene again, I realized that I just wasn't satisfied with the way it ended the first time. So it's good to hear you liked this ending. And it's all right, you're supposed to be lost. :) This is one of those instances where confusion is fun . . . . For me, anyway. :D
morph: Ooo, you mentioned the play/movie comparison! I was hoping somebody would. Thank you! And from what I've read about the human mind – damn those psychology classes, right? – everyone has at least one voice in their head. It's called many things: your conscience, your evil side, MPD, schizophrenia . . . but the point is, everyone has one. Some just aren't as talkative as others. Head-voices on the other hand, are a different story. I've come to classify them as extremely well known characters that a person has come to learn about and like. It's sort of like . . . once you get to know a character so well – whether it be from a book, movie, TV show, history, played for an acting gig, or your own imagination – you start to use their mannerisms and become adapted to their quirks and stuff. Sometimes you'll just think or say something and it's like 'That's weird . . . it's like something Captain Jack would say . . .' So there ya go, head-voice 101 for everbody's enjoyment! :)
DragonHunter200: lol, yep, I brought back Alaska. I just wasn't happy with how it ended in Home. Glad to hear that this time around it was still as enjoyable. :) I'm sure Sands was a cute kid – I mean, he has to have been; it's gotta be a law or something. Maybe if I manage to get my hands on some photos of Mr. Depp when he was younger I'd be able to create a better picture of kid-Sands in my mind, but until that time it's kinda blurry. And yeah, cute guys with fevers! I am still not sure about that one. Like you said, it's probably wrong to find something painful like that very appealing but I can't help myself! Somebody give me an answer, damn it!
fanfiction fanatic: I will! And thank you!
o