Smoke Gets in Your Eyes
By
E. S. Young
Chapter Thirty-Nine: Here Comes the Sun
Before I begin – because you all know I tend to forget things like this – I'd like to point out the title of this chapter. Here Comes the Sun is a Beatles song for anyone who's unfamiliar with the band. I think the lyrics fit this chapter quite nicely and . . . that's all I have to say. u.u Except that my mental image of Cat is finally complete! Okay, brace yourselves for this, cuz if you hate her now, this is probably just gonna increase your loathing -- I know I'm thoroughly disgusted with her, now. 9.9 Okay, I've come to realize that Catherine looks like . . . Paris Hilton. Or at least my mental image of her does. Only Cat has straight, shoulder-length, dark brown hair and Paris Hilton's is . . . well, I don't know what the heck it's doing now. Really don't care either, dumb no-talent skank . . . Anyway, yeah. Cat, to me, looks like a brunet Paris Hilton. Feel free to express your loathing for her. I know I do. :D
Liam shook his head, wondering for what had to be the hundredth time just how he had wound up in this situation. He didn't know why he kept asking himself that question. He knew exactly how he had gotten into his hole. What he didn't know was how it had become so deep. Deep and filled to the brim with guilt.
He twisted the steering wheel of his SUV around as he turned down rue de Courcelles. Only one more street to go and he would be at his destination. Liam didn't want to think about what would happen then. He knew what he had to do; Poisson had given him specific instructions and a long list of escape plans should anything go awry. Still, he was sick with the thought of lying to someone who barely trusted him to begin with. Instead, he thought of his previous decisions, actions made in the past that now marked the timeline of his betrayal, starting right at Day One.
While waiting for Damiano the now-deceased hit man to meet him at a selected restaurant, boredom had begun to take a hold of him. Wanting to keep himself alert, Liam let his eyes scan the room, taking in his surroundings. No sooner had he started his observation when a rather interesting pair came into view. It was none other than Édouard Poisson enjoying his lunch with one Catherine Johnson.
". . . being a former agent of the CIA, I would have access to that kind of information," Catherine had been saying. "Also," she added, "she's my stepsister."
"Mademoiselle Johnson, that, if anything, tells me that I shouldn't be trusting you," Poisson informed her studiously. "Instead it tells me that you are lying and that this is a scheme belonging to the American government who is trying to get the better of me once again."
"I assure you, monsieur," Catherine had said sweetly, "this is no ploy . . ."
After that, Liam heard no more. At that moment, the third arm he had borrowed off of Sands had begun to part company with his shoulder and he had rushed to reattach it. He had only heard a small fragment of the conversation between Édouard Poisson and Agent Johnson, but that was all it had taken. He knew full-well Catherine had been talking about Lynné and as soon as his meeting with Damiano had ended, Liam had wasted no time in confronting Agent Johnson at her hotel.
Slowly, he turned onto rue de Berri and watched number thirty-five, the magnificent Champs Elysées Plaza, come into view.
He had met with Catherine. He had met with Poisson. They had asked questions, and he had filled them in on everything – one segment at a time. Years of partnership with Lynné had taught him a lot about striking deals. And Liam had benefited from that. He made sure to leak information to Poisson gradually, taking care not to give him too much at once or else he, Liam ,would soon be of no use. And in Édouard Poisson's book, all that was useless was disposed of.
Lynné's leg, Sands and the Day of the Dead, Ajedrez – Liam was surprised to learn that Poisson knew of the Barillos – he had told them everything over time. And now all of his work would finally pay off.
The engine hummed and eventually died after Liam removed the key from the ignition. He sighed and slowly leaned forward, letting his head crash down on top of the steering wheel, the weight of guilt and depression finally becoming too much.
It's for the best, he repeated to himself, though the line had long since lost its meaning. It's for the best, it's for the best, it's for the best . . .
Sparkling white tiles gleamed beneath her feet, their dazzling glare brought on by highly effective polish and the halogen bulbs that burned above her. Zebbidy blinked, seeing nothing but shimmering stars during the brief periods of darkness. At last, her vision cleared, though the gleaming floor still glowed, its shine not wavering in the least.
Her own image was reflected in the lucent floor. She saw herself, a pale, confused person with straggly hair and smudged makeup.
She was in a kitchen, she realized after several seconds of observation. It was a lovely kitchen; quaint. Not at all like the ones Poisson had that resembled a cooking area one might find in a restaurant instead of a house. She had known a place like this at one point in her life. When she was still a child, when she still lived just off the coast of Wisconsin, before her parents had been mercilessly taken from her by people she never should have known.
White paint had been splashed on the walls, something Zebbidy normally would have found too cold and icy for a kitchen. But whoever had chosen the décor clearly knew a thing or two about decorating. From where she stood, Zebbidy had a clean view of the charming kitchen. In front of her was an island that had two stools flanking its right side – a makeshift bar, perhaps? Zebbidy doubted it. Peering farther back, she could make out a table and chair inside what appeared to be a breakfast nook. Windows surrounded this area and blue and white checkered curtains clustered around each of them. Cabinets and countertops lined the wall to the right of her. Each cupboard was made of a dark, deeply polished wood she couldn't identify. To her left were all of the typical appliances one might find. The refrigerator and dishwasher were there, as well as a pad of paper and a telephone that hung on the wall.
Standing next to the phone, her slender finger leaning casually against the wall, was a woman Zebbidy was certain she had never seen before. But she must have . . . for the knew the woman from somewhere. Everything about her seemed familiar. Her dark hair, her slim frame, her calm stance . . . Everything but her eyes. They were a piercing blue. Zebbidy had been expecting brown. And quite suddenly, Zebbidy knew whom she was being reminded of.
Lynné. Zebbidy had no idea of the young woman's whereabouts, nor did she know of her fate, but something – something much stronger than women's intuition – told her that she was still alive. Maybe not well, but alive nonetheless.
The woman who stood before her now was deep in conversation, but not with Zebbidy. She spoke quietly into the phone, murmuring to whomever was on the other line – a business colleague by the sound of things – and giving the occasional nod of understanding. But despite the softness of her voice, one distinct detail could not escape Zebbidy's powerful hearing: The woman had an accent, one that was unmistakably French. But before Zebbidy could decipher a word of her discussion her own breath caught.
From behind the woman, a child – about six or seven; no older than Joséphine – turned into the kitchen, his footsteps not making a sound on the gleaming white floor. A hand flew unconsciously to Zebbidy's mouth when she realized that the boy was familiar too. But she knew him on what she could almost consider a personal level.
He was thin, but not unhealthily so. He was pale, however; too pale for Zebbidy's liking. She thought, gazing down at his small frame, he looked pained, almost sickly. Too lost to realize she was staring, Zebbidy continued to take in everything about the child, from his brown chin-length hair, to his dark eyes that shined with worry she had seen before.
The pretty woman did not see him because her back was to him, she did not hear him because of his quiet footsteps, yet she knew he was there. He leaned against her heavily, the top of his head barely reaching her hips. The woman smiled at his presence, though she didn't look down. The small boy looked up at her with concerned eyes, but the phone maintained it's strong hold on to her attention.
". . if you don't believe me, you can take it up with my attorney," she said airily. "Who is my attorney? I am, and at the moment I am telling myself to tell you to think twice before you threaten to bring anything to court."
Zebbidy watched in sympathy as a shudder rippled through the child. At once the phone conversation stopped. The young woman looked down, her blue eyes growing wide with distress. Muttering a hasty "Excusez-moi" she abandoned whoever was on the line and kneeled down to examine the boy.
"Miel," she began sympathetically, crouching down to his level.
She must slip into her native tongue whenever nervous, Zebbidy observed.
"Jeffery, miel," the woman said again, "are you all right?"
The little boy shook his head but kept silent. Sore throat? Zebbidy wondered.
"What is it, sweetheart?" she asked, concern igniting in her eyes.
"Mama," he began meeting her worried gaze, "my stomach really hurts . . ." His hands pressed tightly to the pained area. Zebbidy felt her sympathy rise. Normally such feelings would have drawn out hatred in the man, but this wasn't the Sands she knew. That's who he was, she realized. She was finally seeing a part of Sands' past that didn't involve him being blinded or nearly killed in Alaska. This, she decided, was Sands before he had become a cold, untrusting individual.
His mother – who else could the woman be? – opened her mouth to speak, perhaps to offer some condolence, but whatever she had wanted to say was cut short by a painful gurgling coming from inside her son. She looked at him, her eyes large and severe.
"Did that hurt?"
He gave a small nod. His mother was silent for a moment; she looked like a million thoughts were running through her head at once. Finally, she asked him:
"How bad?"
"Bad," he whimpered, still doubled over with pain. He looked up at her, fear shinning brightly in his eyes as he pleaded with her for some kind of relief. Zebbidy felt her nose twitch as she watched in fascination as the young woman held out her arms to the boy. Her amazement grew when the child rushed into them, accepting the embrace without a second thought.
"I'm going to make a quick phone call," his mother told him, her voice calm and soothing. "Then, I'm taking you to the doctor."
At once, there were protests.
"No, not the doctor." He looked almost tearful with fright.
"Sweetie, I don't like him any more than you do, but I don't think you're suffering from anything common either." She stared at him, her face perfectly serious. "You know I wouldn't let the doctor do anything that I thought might harm you."
Reluctantly, he nodded.
"Okay," his mother said quietly. Without another word, she reached for the phone and dialed a number using only her thumb, keeping one arm wrapped securely around her son's tiny waist.
"Allô?" (Hello?) she said at last once the ringing had finally stopped. "Bernard? Je cherche Célina, est elle là?" (Bernard? I'm looking for Célina, is she there?)
She paused, absentmindedly drumming her fingers along the edge of the phone as she listened.
"Célina?" she said after a moment. "J'ai besoin de vous pour venir et soigner Lynné pendant quelque temps." (I need you to come over and look after Lynné for a while.)
As a muffled response came through the earpiece, Zebbidy saw Sands drop his head onto his mother's shoulder, his eyes growing heavy with exhaustion.
"C'est Jeffery," (It's Jeffery,) his mother explained into the phone. "Il se plaint d'une douleur dans son estomac . . . Non," (He's complaining of a pain in his stomach . . . No,) she said after a moment, "il a été malade auparavant. Je crois que c'est différent." (he's been sick before. I think this is different.)
She sighed in frustration.
"Célina, je ne réagis pas de façon excessive. Je le prends au docteur, la fin d'histoire." (Célina, I am not overreacting. I'm taking him to the doctor, end of story.)
Sands looked up at her, sensing that the conversation wasn't going to end as quickly as he had hoped. He had to remind her of her original intentions.
"Mama . . ." He closed his eyes tightly, wincing slightly.
Maternal instinct kicking in, his mother came to her senses and ended the argument at once.
"Je dois aller," (I have to go,) she said, casting a worried glance at her son. "Venez-vous ou non? (Are you coming or not?)
"Bon," she said after a moment. "Lynnie est dans sa chambre à coucher. Je devrais seulement être quelques heures. Avec optimisme ce n'est rien de sérieux. Au revoir" (Lynnie is in her bedroom. I should only be a few hours. Hopefully it's nothing serious. 'Bye.)
Her call finished, she turned to her son and gave him a long stare. Finally, she asked him if he thought she should tell his father. He shook his head.
"He won't care."
Begrudgingly, his mother agreed.
"You're probably right," she muttered darkly, her lips twitching in irritation. "All right," she said after a moment. Carefully she snaked both of her arms around his torso and lifted him off of the ground effortlessly.
Zebbidy would have followed them as they made their departure had the world not suddenly grown so dark. All light had been destroyed save for the tiles of the immaculate floor. They glowed on endlessly like magnificent white lights that sparked and dazzled in the night sky. They grew to enormous proportions, blocking out everything and blinding her with their brilliance.
Yet at the same time, it was the exact opposite of being blind. The blind saw only darkness, whereas Zebbidy saw nothing but light. Did that mean anything? she wondered as the familiar pulling sensation took a hold of her. Anything at all? She thought so, but then again, she could have been delusional. And delusions were known to make a person blind.
The room came slowly into focus. The morning rays of sunlight broke through the cracks in her eyelids but that was not what brought Zebbidy to her senses. It was a strange moaning, pained with torment, that did it.
Alert at once, Zebbidy's eyes snapped open and she searched frantically for the source of the noise. It didn't take her long to find it. Beside her lay Sands, groping with an outstretched arm, his long fingers brushing over the folds in the sheets as he searched for something he couldn't find.
There, in the center of her chest, was that pang again, a feeling a deep sadness that her heart longed to express, but Zebbidy knew better. She had given up her original faith long ago, but now Zebbidy found that – despite everything: her extraordinary senses, her herbs, her teas, her intuition – all she could do was take Sands' wandering hand in hers, press it close to her heart, and pray.
Coughing up a mouthful of dust, Sands let his head sink down onto the rough pavement below him. It was difficult to breathe. Part of him was insisting that he take in as much air as he possibly could, and through his mouth, too. A person took in more air through their mouth. Yet his common sense knew that would be a stupid move, considering how much dust had been kicked up. Unless he wanted to choke to death, Common Sense informed him, he would do well to breathe through his nose.
There was noise in the distance, gunshots from the chaos that raged all around him. The childishly selfish part of his brain sulked. It had wanted to see that chaos, but now it was being deprived of the mayhem it felt it deserved. It shouldn't be complaining, his determined side said. It saw that havoc was in everyone's future and Sands knew that his determined side wanted disorder and violence as much as his selfish side. And Determined was the side that always got what it wanted.
All I have to do is wait for The Bitch to show up. Then everyone'll shut their traps and I can finally sleep.
That's not a good idea, you know, the voice informed him smartly. You never know what might happen if you fall asleep.
It'll be just like being blind only I'll be less aware of my surroundings, he told it. Exhausted, he turned his head to the side, hoping to find a more adequate position. If he was going to bleed to death before The Bitch got there, he at least wanted to be comfortable. The thought that dirt might be kicked up into his empty eye sockets by an ongoing wind occurred to him, but the gaping holes hurt like hell anyway, how bad would a bit of dust be?
Counting the seconds as they passed, he waited. For what, he wasn't sure. He certainly hoped he was keeping himself awake for Ajedrez and not Death. Death was more than welcome, but he wanted to send Ajedrez to her doom first.
Still breathing?
Yes, still breathing, the voice sighed in disdain.
Just when he was beginning to wonder if he should start up a round of 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall, he heard, above the bullets and the screams and the explosions, the distinct sound of footsteps echoing on the concrete.
Bingo.
"Oh my gods . . ."
That's . . . not Ajedrez . . .
No shit, Sherlock, the voice muttered, annoyed.
"Poor thing . . . What happened to you?"
Someone knelt down next to him, placing a gentle hand on his uninjured shoulder. Sands didn't flinch away, though he normally would have no matter how painful his injuries were. He knew the woman kneeling beside him was not Ajedrez. Her presence was so sudden he never even expected to see her. Metaphorically speaking, Sands thought bitterly.
"Hold still," she ordered softly. Carefully, she helped him into a sitting position, making sure not to jostle his battered body too much. She leaned forward and kissed him twice, each time just above each eye. Her task complete, she pulled away from him, a knowing smile spreading across her face.
Sands blinked. Staring back at him was the wan face of Zebbidy Samhain, her green eyes bright with triumph. She smiled at him and he felt the corners of his mouth twitch, but a sudden movement in the distance made his entire body go numb.
She was clothed all in black – she always was whenever she visited him in his sleep. Holsters draped across each shapely hip and in her perfectly manicured hand she carried a sawed off pistol, swinging the firearm casually as she walked down the dusty street. She stopped when she saw them, looked him straight in the eye (she didn't seem surprised by that at all), and smiled. It was not a nice smile.
Zebbidy stared at him curiously. She cocked an eyebrow and opened her mouth to speak but Sands silenced her with a quick wave of the hand. He stared over her shoulder, his eyes fixed on the buxom figure behind her. His fingers splayed, he reached back, feeling for his guns.
They were gone.
Uttering a silent curse, Sands' brows narrowed fiercely, his dark eyes never leaving Ajedrez honey brown ones. Quickly, his mind began to calculate, searching for an answer, a scapegoat, anything he could use that would get both he and Zebbidy out of there as safely as possible. He thought too slowly. Before he could do anything, Ajedrez had her gun out and pointed. She lined herself up perfectly, and fired.
He tried to wrench her down, but he was too late. Before Sands could react, Ajedrez had implanted a bullet in Zebbidy's back. Instead of crying out or even wincing, Zebbidy's eyes widened, her expression became one of stunned shock and she uttered a soft "Oh!" of surprise as led dug into her spine.
Sands watched with growing panic as Zebbidy's eyes took on an unhealthy glaze. In a matter of seconds they were unfocused and she began to fall. Her body slumped and she fell into him, the crook of his shoulder becoming a resting-place for her head.
"Sands . . ." she murmured, her voice nothing more than a husky whisper. Her lashes fluttered as she struggled to keep a grasp on consciousness. "You can still finish her . . ." Her hand grasped his tightly. "There's still time . . ."
Time before what?? he wondered frantically.
"Before . . ." Zebbidy's breath caught and her voice faltered. She cringed, her face contorted in pain as a shudder rocked her slender body. Still, she managed to finish. "Before . . . you wake up . . ."
She collapsed, a wilted flower amid the street of dead, into his arms, her green eyes still shining brightly. Sands looked to Ajedrez, his face burning with pure hatred. She stood over him, feeling a great satisfaction at the thought of taking an innocent life. But her smug look faded the moment Sands met her eyes. Her eyes widened and she took a step back as he produced a pistol out of thin air, curled his index finger around the cold trigger, and fired.
Beige filled his eyes as he slowly entered the realm of the waking. There was nothing but beige at first and Sands began to wonder if this was still a twisted dream, but then everything began to take on a shape. A small reddish-brown table grew from pale yellow walls; two matching chairs sprung out of nowhere and came to rest beside it. Tiny jars of dried leaves and bottles of strange oils suddenly appeared upon the table, their crystal surfaces glistening in the morning sun.
To his left was a dresser and vanity mirror, though its pristine condition told him it had seen little use. To the right was the small table – a vast window with sheer curtains stood behind that – and to the left of the headboard stood a door that lead to the bathroom.
Sands looked down to see an ocean of golden yellow satin covering his legs. White silk sheets felt heavenly underneath his body, as did the soft mattress that supported him. The bed was spacious, enormous – mammoth even with a wrought iron foot and headboard. His eyes swept over the yellow paneled walls and took him skyward toward the ceiling. There, hanging above him like a extravagant mobile was a ring of gold fabric, the same material the bedspread was made of. It was a canopy, he realized, though not the kind one would normally think of. This hung over the head of the bed in a ring; fabric spilled from all around the hovering circle, tumbling down over the headboard elegantly.
At the bottom of the bed – he must have missed it in his disbelief – was a sheet of dark green satin draped delicately over the baseboard. And beside him, yet another factor he had overlooked, lay the sleeping form of a woman in a plain white slip. Zebbidy must have discarded her beautiful gown after realizing how foolish it would be if she continued to wear it.
Carefully sliding back down onto the bed, still not quite sure if he was dreaming or not, Sands gazed up at the ceiling. He folded his hands behind his head, lost in thought.
How do I know this is real? he wondered mildly.
Well, what do they always say to do to check if you're dreaming? the voice chided in measured tones. It sounded like it was talking to a two-year-old. Sands frowned in annoyance, but complied.
"Ow, damnit . . ." he muttered darkly, rubbing the spot on his arm where he had pinched himself.
Okay, we know I'm awake.
You're awake, the voice agreed.
And I can see again.
Yes, you can.
He paused, thinking this over. Finally, he shrugged nonchalantly and grinned in triumph.
Yeehaw.
The voice sighed in distaste but made no further comment. Still grinning broadly, Sands turned over on his side to face Zebbidy. He stopped when he saw her, taking in her delicate features carefully, not wanting to throw the moment of silence away. She was still asleep; that was good. There were no fractures in her deep, even breathing. Sands gave himself a mental shake when he noticed that he had matched his breathing to hers. But instead of turning away like he had intended to do, he found himself staring at her again, trying to figure something out by watching her sleeping form. Zebbidy looked content, almost happy. A small smile played on her lips while she slept. Sands wondered what the cause of it was, but he refused to bother himself with it.
He turned over on his back and resumed his observation of the fascinating bedroom ceiling. Beside him, Zebbidy's smile stayed in place and although his thinking was deep, it took Sands nearly fifteen minutes to realize that he too was smiling.
That last line has been in my head for so long . . . 9.6;;;; It's such a relief to finally have it written down. And that childhood flashback just sort of came out of nowhere. Seriously, I never planned on that one. It just . . . happened. But I do plan on apologizing for the lateness of this chapter. :( Lotsa stuff's been happening lately. 'Tis the season for busy schedules, after all.
Author's Thanks and Review Responses:
Dawnie-7: Yeah, she's still alive, unfortunately. I didn't want to bring her back, but once again my love of plot, suspense, and chaos gets the better of me. :D;
vanillafluffy: XD! You're right. Liam's gotta lose something. Actually, in the original plot line, Lyn was suppose to get revenge on him by, um . . . relieving him of one of his eyes. While the image of Liam wearing an eyepatch is very appealing, I didn't care for the idea after thinking it through, so I nixed it. He still gets his comeuppance, however, though not through castration. Liam needs his manhood whenever Lyn is feeling bored, apparently.
Lynx Ryder: Yes, a good change has definitely occurred between Sands and Zeb. Those two are definitely learning to respect one another and Zebbidy already trusts Sands for the most part. All he needs to do is learn to trust her. Don't condemn Liam just yet. Remember all of the guilt and remorse he's feeling and think of that the next time you wanna send him to hell. There's a reason for it. ;D He lost his faith in the agency the day they left Lyn for dead in Mexico. o.o; I think I mentioned that earlier . . . could just be my memory failing me again -.9 And it's okay if you laughed a bit at those lines. I was aiming for that, actually :) And any reason you can find to watch OUaTiM is a good one. I know I'm always looking for one ;D
zigzag: For once Sands was right to feel paranoid it seems :( He can't be too paranoid, though, cuz he's still gotta learn to trust Zeb. And I'm glad you mention the lack of Sands in the last chapter. I noticed only after I posted that he was absent for most of it, so I hope this chapter makes up for it :)
fanfiction fanatic: Well, I try to be :) And Ajedrez totally deserved what happened to her. I'd hope that no one would disagree with that. u.u
morph: lol, somehow seeing the evil vileness in worse shape than the people she hurt makes me feel good as well. Eh. Probably cuz she deserved it. And, yep, Liam's feeling regret. He's been feeling it for a while now. And I'm glad you mentioned Josey. Reminded me that she's got a scene coming up in the next chapter :) I noticed a while ago that I never mentioned El until that last chapter. Like, ever. O.o And you're right, they are connected in a way because if El hadn't saved the President, Sands wouldn't've lost his eyes. I knew that, but never went anywhere with it. It's always been about Sands beating himself up for trusting Ajedrez. Little did he know he could've been blaming El, huh? Well, I know that if I write a third Mexico story I've already decided to include El Mariachi. I just don't have any real plot yet. Other than that, things look all right.
Invader Nicole: Yay! You're computer's fixed at last! And Liam's got a reason for betraying Lyn, of course, as I've said before. u.u What can I say? I like keeping people in suspense. Spooky coincidence that you thought about writing an Ajedrez-resurrection fic. o.o Creepy. Once again, glad your computer's finally fixed! Is this the part where the heavenly choir starts singing hallelujah? ;D
o