Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind
a tale spun by Mayor Tokey
Rating: R
Summary: The local police have all but given up finding the evidence necessary to put Mort Rainey in prison. That doesn't mean The CIA doesn't have plans in store involving a young rookie named Sheldon Jeffrey Sands.
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own Mort or Sands. This is going to be a depressing evening.
Let's Spend the Night Together
They reached Tom's small house in just under 45 minutes. Tom went straight for the kitchen to grab a beer. "Want anything?" He called out sticking his head outside the fridge.
"Tequila?" Sands asked hopefully.
Tom sighed as he shut the refrigerator door. He set his Corona on the counter and dropped to his knees in front of the liquor cabinet. He dug around for a few minutes, making tons of noises as glass bottles knocked against other glass bottles.
Sands took the time to hop-literally-to the couch in hopes of relieving the acute pain in his feet. Damn Maine and its fucking winter. Damn CIA sending me to this fucking wasteland. Damn Mort Rainey for wanting to live in this backwater hellhole.
"You don't have a bucket of warm water either, do you?"
Tom lifted his head when he heard Sands voice, effectively beaning himself on the bottom of the cabinet. "Shit!" he exclaimed rubbing his head. At least he'd come out with a small bottle of tequila-not that Sands needed any more than that. He pushed up to his feet, and set bottle of tequila next to his Corona, and bent over to fish under the sink for a bucket. "I fucking let him run all over me… Give in too fucking much…" He muttered to himself as he filled a bucket with scalding water. "Teach that motherfucker to be so fucking demanding…" He continued his mutterings until he turned off the faucet.
Tom somehow managed to make only one trip by sticking the Corona in one of his trouser pockets, the tequila in the other, and, very, very carefully, carrying the bucket of hot water with both of his hands. He set the bucket down before Sands, and fished out the tequila. Then he plopped down in his recliner, thankful that the bastard had at least taken the couch and not his recliner. He nursed his beer, awaiting the show that would soon come.
The TV glowed and flickered, but Sands paid it no attention. He was testing the water in the bucket, knowing basic frostbite first aid dictated that under no circumstances should the skin be immersed in HOT or COLD water. The water in the bucket was HOT. Sands sighed and uncapped the tequila instead hoping to dull the pain before he did something stupid. A couple of pulls later, he heard the Spongebob Squarepants theme song and he had officially lost the feeling in his feet. Taking the chance, he stuck one foot in, then the other. There didn't seem to be any ill effects just yet, only the definite numbness that came with freezing temperatures.
Shit. Tom thought in disappointment, watching Sands' careful testing of the water. He apparently wasn't one to be fooled easily. Oh well... Tom thought. He'd tried. There was nothing more he could do.
5 hours and 7 Coronas later, Tom was really feeling the alcohol. He leaned back in the recliner and his eyes drifted shut. The empty bottle in his hand slipped to the floor with a thud and soon, Tom's gentle snoring filled the room. It almost overpowered the TV.
A particularly loud snore startled Sands out of his fifth unsuccessful attempt at sleep. Too tired and (he could admit it) too sore to want to move off the couch, he grabbed his empty tequila and chucked it gently at the chair Tom was parked in.
With a loud snort, Tom woke and looked around startled. "Wha? Whassa matter?" He slurred. He frowned when he spotted the bottle that'd hit him, and tried his best to glare at Sands, although his eyes were crossing more than anything.
"Go to bed, you dink. You're keeping me up," Sands snarled.
"Fuck you!" he slurred, but nonetheless pushed himself to his feet.
He made his way swaying to his bedroom, banging his head on the doorway. He tripped over a rug, but luckily landed halfway on his bed, where he passed out.
Sands winced at the noises and almost conjured up the guilt necessary to check if Tom was okay. When he heard the snores, he rolled his eyes and leaned back on the couch for a light, but full sleep.
XXX
Tom awoke the next morning-er-afternoon, and stumbled into the living room. He had the hangover from hell, but somehow managed to remember his houseguest. Although from the looks of things he no longer had a houseguest.
How did he… His thoughts trailed off as he made his way to the front door as quickly as he could, and flung it wide open wincing in the bright sunlight. He looked unsurprised at the empty driveway.
"Dammit all to hell, Sands!" He grumbled as he shut out the bright sunlight. "Fuck it," he muttered as he made his way back to his bed. "I'm in no position to do anything about it so. Let him make his own fucking bed. I swear though if he so much as scratches my truck it'll be his ass!" He was mumbling into his pillow as he was losing consciousness again.
XXX
Sands had the pedal to the floorboard in a strong show of will. Getting the boots on was a chore and walking more so. He shouldn't have been driving, but he thanked his lucky stars that Tom was girly enough to drive an automatic. He knew where Mort's cabin was and before his gangrened feet gave in to twitching in spasmodic pain, he was crunching up the gravel of the private drive. With the Ford blocking the exit, Mort would have nowhere to run in a vehicle, meaning he wouldn't get very far on foot. Sands grinned at the prospect.
The porch was decorated with a feminine touch, but was getting dusty from a lack of use. Probably not a fan of the outdoors, Sands though idly. He steadied himself against the doorframe and managed to lever the screen open. Checking one last time to make sure he could get to his gun if he had to, he knocked on the wooden door.
Mort was curled in a ball on his ancient worn couch, wrapped in his ratty old robe. He faintly heard the screen door move, but assumed it was the wind and resumed his slumber. He jumped and fell to the floor with a thud when he heard the sharp raps on the door.
He blinked, and looked at the door as if he could somehow see straight through it. He didn't need to see the man behind it to know from the urgency in the knocks who it was. He nonetheless pushed to his feet, tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. He'd learned not to open the doors, even if you knew who it was.
Sure enough, he saw the set jaw of Sands and the way in which he carried his body. He was pissed. Mort swallowed, and backed away from the door. He turned and looked longingly at the back door. He jumped nearly 3 feet in the air at the next set of rapping.
"Open up, Sleeping Beauty. If you don't mind my being cliché, I've got a hell of a score to settle with you. I'm pissed. You're on my list and we're going to talk, one way or the other."
Mort hesitated only a moment. The man had a gun, and as he'd seen, he wouldn't hesitate to use it. He felt the bump on his head. Sands had no qualms about hurting him. Why on earth would he let a psycho like that near him voluntarily, much less into his cabin? There was no question about it. He wouldn't.
"Get off my property, Shithead!" he shouted, becoming angry himself at the man's threat.
Sands rolled his eyes, shot the lock off the door and shoved it open. "You were saying?"
Mort jumped again at the shot. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights. He was frozen, his feet rooted to the spot facing the door, as Sands pushed into his cabin. He was no longer as confident as he'd sounded a moment earlier, with a heavy wooden door separating them. He swallowed nervously, and spoke somewhat hoarsely.
"Get out of my house!"
"Fuckmook, I'm CIA! I don't go waving my badge around because I don't like to. It's not classy. You're leaving me no choice but to exert my authority and damn it all, you're not making it fun. Get into the truck, and let's go. I'm not taking you to a fucking prison; I'm taking you to my partner's house. He's… more considerate than I am."
Mort frowned at what Sands was saying. CIA? What the hell does the CIA want with me? He eyed the backdoor, then Sands and the gun in his hand.
"Don't you need to have some sort of warrant or something?" Mort asked, still eyeing the back door longingly. As Sands sighed and began to rub his temples, Mort took a chance and dashed for the door.
Sands moved swiftly to center himself in the doorway, making sure that while he couldn't physically fill it, the bulky jacket he'd stolen from Tom would spread outwards nicely to give the impression that he did. This live capture thing was a bitch.
"Stop right there, John Wayne. Do you really want to risk it?"
Mort's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. He just glared at Sands for a split second before he turned on his heel and ran again, this time for the back door. When he reached it, he flung it open and stumbled outside, blinking in the bright sunlight that was filtering through the heavy clouds.
Sands followed, fed up with this pitiful game. Fuck the Company. He drew his Glock and fired. The sound echoed off the wall of trees, startling a flock of birds into flight. Mort Rainey collapsed, blood blossoming from the hole in his shoulder. Sands knelt beside the man, a quirky smile on his face.
"Look what you made me do, John Wayne. Didn't I tell you that you didn't want to risk it?"
Mort grimaced in pain. "Fuck you!" he grunted. With his good arm, he grasped something and lifted it, preparing to stab Sands with what turned out to be a tiny gardening spade.
"Owww!" he moaned. Sands had captured his wrist and gave a mighty twist causing Mort to drop the spade.
"Stop fucking with me, John Wayne. Up," Sands snarled, no longer in the mood to be compassionate. He yanked on Mort's bad arm which elicited another yowl from the injured man. But it got him up and Sands could drag him to the truck. This time, when he shoved Mort into the seat, he was careful to learn from his earlier mistake. He handcuffed Mort's bad arm, slung the handcuff over the dry-cleaning handle on the ceiling and cuffed Mort's other hand. He grinned, slammed the door and limped to the driver's side.
"If you want doughnuts, we'll go to Dunkin Donuts. No distracting the driver," Sands said sternly as he put the truck in Reverse and backed down the drive. "Oh, and if you absolutely have to kick me, just know that since this isn't my car, I have no problems shooting a hole in your foot and consequentially the undercarriage, savvy?"
Mort just sat there and pouted for the rest of ride.
XXX
"Oh Tommy Boy, I gotcha a present!" Sands called upon entering the house. He heard another hiccupping snore and sighed. He could leave Mort in the truck all day if he had to, but he didn't think Tom would like blood all over the seat. "Tom, don't let the sun burn a hole in your ass. It's two in the afternoon."
Tom moaned and rolled over on his bed. He thought he heard Sands, but wasn't sure. Oh well… he thought. It can wait till morning.. He rolled over yet again and threw out his arm, smacking the nightstand and knocking a lamp to the floor with a shatter.
"Holy shit!" He sat upright in bed, and looked around blindly. He blinked a couple of times and looked at the mess on the floor and then to his grinning partner in the doorway. "What the fuck did you do that for?" he accused.
"Tom, I'm hurt. Wait another year, then you can blame me for your woes. First, you've got to come help me with this little bastard."
Tom frowned trying to get the meaning behind Sands' words, but it was over his head. He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. "What bastard? Morton? You got him?" At this, Tom pushed himself up from the bed and swayed where he stood. Once he'd gotten his balance, he followed Sands out of his bedroom.
"Where do you think I was all morning? Or did you not know I was gone? Can't hold your liqueur anymore, can you Tommy Boy?" Sands said slyly.
"Screw you Sands! There better not be one fucking scratch on my truck or it's your hide! Don't you ever-" He stopped abruptly upon stepping outside to his truck. He saw a head with mass of blonde hair and blood oozing slowly out of one of his shoulders. "What the fuck man? What did you do to him?" He turned to glare at Sands. "Shit...I'm not ready for this now… I'm still fucked up…" He shook his head again in yet another vain attempt to clear it.
"Tom, you dick, I caught Mort Rainey. He is in your truck and when we sew him up, he'll be good as new. Are you really going to be a pussy and give into a hangover you shouldn't even have?" Sands snapped.
Shit, he's right, Tom thought. He sighed and then spoke as evenly as he could. "Get him in the house, just watch the blood, ok?" He couldn't look at Mort; he had a queasy stomach from the alcohol that remained in his stomach.
Mort watched the exchange between Sands and the tall blonde man curiously. He seemed like the exact opposite to work with such the conniving bastard Sands was. He was curious about their relationship.
Sands' head sunk at Tom's display of weakness. Didn't the asshole know he couldn't walk?
Probably not because you don't tell him.
Sands told whatever had inspired that thought where to shove itself and turned a cold glare at the captive in the Ranger. "Are you going to cooperate or do I have to shoot you again?"
Mort just muttered, giving in and starting to move out of the truck, but he couldn't get far because of the handcuffs. After making several blatant gestures at the cuffs, he was forced to speak to Sands.
"Are you going to take these fucking things off? I thought I wasn't going to prison," he glared at Sands, cursing at him under his breath. Before Sands could make a retort, Tom had managed to sober up a bit and stepped forward.
"Shut it smartass," he muttered as he went to uncuff Mort. When he saw the tiny puddle of blood-not much bigger than a silver dollar-on the seat of his truck, he momentarily forgot about Mort and the cuffs.
"What the fuck, Sands! There's fucking blood all over my seats!" He turned and stalked toward Sands, staring down at him. Sands' head came up to his nose, so Tom was forced to bend a bit to stare Sands straight in the eyes. "I hope you know you're paying for a new bench!" He turned around in a bit of a huff glaring at the bright stain on his truck. "Dammit it all to hell! Sands can you do nothing according to the Company?"
Under ordinary circumstances, this would have set Sands off. He glanced at Mort who had one hand free and was free to escape at any time, and returned his gaze to the bleary-eyed Tom.
"When you get the time to take your head out of your ass, then you can talk to me. Now, you're going to help me clean this guy up. If you're going to wave the rookie card, I'll save you the trouble and tell you to go fuck yourself right now. I'd rather clean him up myself. Are you an Ameri-CAN or an Ameri-CAN'T?"
Throughout the monologue, he never once raised his voice, holding even Mort in morbid fascination. He just stared at Sands in utter disbelief, rooted to the spot, not that he would be able to escape, what with 2 CIA agents mere feet from him. He was almost laughing, not from amusement, but from hysterics.
Tom stood there and gaped at Sands. When he was able to speak again, he very boldly said, "I'm an Ameri-Can, and you're an Ameri-Can't follow fucking regulations." He muttered the last part under his breath so only Mort was able to hear, as he uncuffed Mort's other hand staring disdainfully at the spot of blood. Mort did laugh at what Tom said, but one look from Sands silenced him. Tom hefted him out of the truck, and shoved him not roughly forward towards his house. Tom muttered to himself as he followed Mort inside.
"One big happy fucking family..."
Sands didn't care that Tom was pissed off. He had to get off his fucking feet right. This. Instant. Short of walking on his hands, Sands was going to have to hop again.
That's you fuckwad, the fucking Easter Bunny.
"Hop, hop, hopping down Easter fucking Lane," Sands sighed, slamming the door to the truck closed. Tom knew gun wounds; he'd be able to start without Sands. This gave him leeway to carefully pick his way back to the entrance of Tom's cabin, the last of his adrenalin rush slipping away with his patience.
He got inside without too much trouble and saw Mort seated at the table. He could see the faint chain of silver linking the writer to the heavy-duty chair he was sitting on. Tom was grumbling as he worked to get the water to the right temperature to clean the blood off Mort's shoulder.
"You can stop being a pansy any time you know," Sands said solemnly, dropping into the chair beside Mort.
"Fuck you!" Mort said halfheartedly. "I didn't do anything! You freakin' shot me!" He sighed, part from the pain and the other part from exhaustion. When was this nightmare ever going to end? Tom plopped down on Mort's other side, and examined the wound through Mort's thin t-shirt.
"Well this shirt is definitely gonna have to go." He spoke aloud, more to himself than to anyone else. Since it would be more comfortable for him to just cut the darn thing off, he went to find some scissors. It wasn't as if the blood soaked shirt would be any good afterwards anyways.
"I wasn't talking to you, Sunshine, I was talking to Mr. Hospitality over there," Sands rolled his eyes at the unnecessary hostility. "And I only shot you because you tried to run for the first... no. Second? Nuh uh. Third time. If you weren't such a pain in the ass, I'd give you a fucking merit badge or something."
Mort glared at Sands and was about to respond when he had to hiss in pain as the cold blade of the scissors touched the open wound as Tom was cut away the fabric.
"I'm not a fucking pansy," Tom protested as he cut the shirt off Mort a bit more vigorously than needed. He was having trouble concentrating, although at least he could see straight. Well… sort of.
Mort saw the occasional crossing of Tom's eyes and felt a little uneasy about having him clean his wound. Sure Sands was the one who'd made the wound, but he certainly seemed more capable of tending to it than his hung over senior partner.
"Okay, you're not a pansy, so what are you? A hell of a lot more competent than me, right, Tommy Boy? Because I can't follow regulations, was that it?" Sands' eyes were dark.
"Just shut the fuck up Sands!" he slurred a little, and his hand with the needle slipped. "Whoops..." He almost laughed but the withering look Mort gave him made him think better of it.
"Watch what you're doing asshole."
"Hey now, I'm doing you a favor darlin'." He gave Mort a wink, the whole side of his face scrunching up. He finally finished stitching Mort up, and stood up wearily. He went to the fridge and reached in for a Corona.
"Hey!" He lifted his head out and glared at Sands. "Where's my fucking beer?"
Sands smiled slightly, "You drank it, Charming. What do you think?"
"Goddamnit! Do you have to be such an asshole?" he asked as he slammed the refrigerator shut. He sighed in irritation and dug in his pockets for his keys only to remember that Sands had them. "Would you mind giving me my keys?"
"Now why should I do that, amigo? You're clearly still in the midst of a hangover and I really don't think you should have anymore alcohol."
"Well I don't give one flying fuck what you think! It's my truck! Now give me my keys!" He stalked over to the table and stood with his hand stuck out below Sands' nose.
"No."
Oh, good one! You sure showed him, the voice laughed.
Tom was getting really put out by the showy agent's refusal to give him his keys. He went around the table and shoved in his chair-which was opposite Sands' under the table-as hard as he could. It scraped across the linoleum making a loud screeching sound and connected hard with a heavy object which released a grunt. Tom chuckled as he saw Sands attempting to hide the pain as he went over to his liquor cabinet and flung open the doors looking for anything of interest.
Sands let the curse on the tip of his tongue get exhaled violently from his nose. The next few shuddering breaths were challenges as he oh so slowly moved his abused foot-the selfsame foot that had been mashed by the corpulent bastard of a cop-under his own chair.
"That… was low," he finally ground out. Mort snorted, and Tom just shrugged his shoulders continuing his hunt through the liquor cabinet.
"Well you do deserve it, you know?" Mort mused aloud, looking Sands' pain filled face. He almost-almost felt compassion for the man. He was a pretty tough cookie, and with the chair hitting his foot… he must've had some pretty mean run ins with it.
"Thanks for you valuable input, John Wayne. I'll be able to sleep better tonight. Truly…"
Sands was still trying to regulate the tachycardia brought on by the repeated traumas put on him by the world. His breathing was almost normal, but his adrenal glands were still in overdrive. He couldn't very well shoot Tom for getting sloshed, no matter how much he wanted to. There'd be no way in hell Tom would be nice after something like that. Not that he was an overly joyous drunk either.
"Find anything, Tommy Boy?"
Tom shut the doors of liqueur cabinet and swept past the table, several bottles in his hands. In a peace offering of sorts, he stopped and spoke to Sands. "If you can make it into the living room, I've found another bottle of tequila." He looked down his nose at Mort. "I take it you're a Jack Daniels boy?" He asked holding up yet another bottle.
Mort eyed the bottle yearningly. "As a matter of fact-"
Tom gave a lopsided grin, and took a swig from one of the bottles in his arms. "Well, then I suspect you're gonna' have to get him to help you into the living room. My hands are full enough as it is," he grinned at the two of them before turning on his heel with the alcohol and retreated into the living room where the sounds of cartoons could soon be heard.
"I don't suppose you want to uncuff me now do you?" Mort looked at Sands. "I surely do need some Jack Daniels if you'd be so kind..." Shooter held up Mort's wrist with the cuff on it. Shooter gave Sands a somewhat platonic smile.
"Fuck no. Tom's being a dumb ass again. Don't go anywhere." Sands spared a tired smile before hoisting himself out of the chair…
… and nearly fell on his face.
He caught himself on the table, but was beginning to suspect that he could very well be plagued with frostbite. There was only one cure that he knew, and it was parked in the next room. His right foot was near useless and his left was getting there. Gimping around wasn't going to work so well, he needed something to help his balance. He spied a rolling TV tray and a walking stick.
"Oh hell," he swore before reaching lamely for whichever one was closest. It was the walking stick. "Never pegged you as a nature buff, Tom," he murmured. It took the better part of a minute to finally reach Tom in the armchair; sweat beaded his face and the look of concentration was enough to burn holes into the back of the LaZboy.
"Gimme the damn alcohol."
Tom lay back in his recliner nursing his bottle of amaretto and when he heard Sands' heavy footsteps along with what sounded like his ancient rain stick, a broad alcohol induced grin spread across his face. Sounded as if he couldn't hold out any longer.
"Where's the bastard?" he asked holding up the bottle of tequila just out of Sands' reach. He didn't want Mort to be the only one out of the three of them stone sober.
"Still in his seat, now gimme the fucking alcohol. Both of em," Sands growled, pain evident in his voice.
"Alright, I suppose one of us should have our wits about us, not that-" He stopped when there was a loud crash from the kitchen and a muttered curse.
Mort had been trying to loosen the cuffs on his wrists, but to no avail. If anything they'd gotten tighter. They were cutting into his wrists painfully. The more he struggled, the dizzier from pain he got; not to mention that his shoulder felt like it was on fire and numb, all at the same sign. Definitely not a good sign, he thought to himself.
He decided he'd try a new tactic-standing up with his wrists attached to the chair. A lot of good that did him, he'd ended up on his back still sitting in the chair. Sharp pains shot through his shoulder and he could see, as well as feel the blood starting to soak through the bandage on his bare shoulder.
"Shit!" he cursed, his head thrashing as the burning intensified.
Sands swore, snatched the Jack Daniels and tequila and began hobbling back to the kitchen. Mort looked a little dazed from the pain and damned if Sands eyes weren't beginning to cross as well.
"Pendejo! I said don't move!" Sands snarled. "I shouldn't even let you have this anymore."
Sands all but slammed the whisky down before falling into his chair himself. Turning to look at the curious expression on Tom's face, Sands flipped him the finger. "You haven't got a straw, have you?"
Tom frowned and shook his head in answer to Sands' question. "You just gonna leave him on the floor like that?" he asked, stupefied. Mort looked at Sands questioningly as well, his eyes sweeping to the bottle of Jack Daniels and looking at it yearningly.
Sands blinked. "You think I'm getting up again?"
Mort frowned and glared at him. "How the hell am I supposed to drink that lying down here?"
"How the hell were you gonna drink it handcuffed?" Sands sneered before tearing into his own alcoholic beverage.
Mort scrunched up his face with anger and prepared himself for the pain that would come. He took a deep breath, and then used all his energy to flip his chair sideways where he was lying on his side. He let out yelp of pain, but nonetheless continued with his plan. His feet lashed out in search for their target: Sands' feet. Little did he realize that he was just inches short from his target.
From the next room over, Tom began laughing hysterically. "You two are crazy!" He laughed some more, "You're going at it like cocks in a cock fight!" He laughed so hard he began to choke on his drink.
Sands scooted away from Mort by pushing backwards on the table. This caused it to rattle and effectively tip the tequila over. Sands cried out, leaping to his feet to right the fallen bottle only to fall to his knees in pain with a hiss. When he stopped seeing sparks, he turned an acid glare to the smug Mort Rainey.
"Give me one reason why I shouldn't put a bullet in your brain?"
You mean aside from the fact that he's wanted by the government? That's he's not yours to kill?
"Yeah, besides that."
Mort was about to answer when Sands made the next comment. He made a face in confusion. "Huh?" he asked, not sure if Sands had answered his own question, or if he was still waiting for an answer from him.
Tom was in the other room oblivious to the events in the kitchen. He was trying to suck air into his heaving lungs, while trying to hold the liquor down. Sands felt his control beginning to crumble. His partner was choking on something idiotic and Mort was trying to escape and he couldn't move and worst of all, his tequila was almost gone.
Poor baby.
"Shit. Shit, shit, shit. TOM! What the fuck are you doing horsing around with dangerous substances? Get your ass in here and stop choking!" Sands yelled, his glare fixed on Mort.
"Fuck you!" Tom managed to gasp out, but nonetheless stumbled to his feet and into the kitchen where Mort was on his side in the chair scooting across the linoleum as fast as possible. "Stop moving!" Tom said somewhat between a plea and a demand.
Mort did stop, if only for an instant, and cackled. "Whatever would we be wantin' to do that for Mister Tom?" Then he continued to scoot across the floor at a little faster speed.
Tom cursed again and stumbled towards Mort, having trouble walking straight. "Dammit! Sands get off your lazy ass and help me!" He finally reached Mort, and grabbed the back of the chair. He was having trouble holding it against Mort's pulling in his state.
Sands saw the danger and began crawling on his hands and knees to hopefully catch up before Mort scooted away for good. He had the gun out of its holster again, and had it pointed at the side of Mort's foot.
"Want to know what it feels like to have someone crush your foot to bits, have it frozen to concrete, walk on it, and then have some asshole mash a chair into it? I bet I can imitate that pretty well. I'm in the know," Sands nodded.
Mort froze and twisted his head around to look Sands in the face, wincing. He didn't have to see the man's face to know from experience that the man wasn't screwing around. Mort's eyes were full of fear and expectation. They blinked rapidly a few times, then a broad grin spread across his face.
"Ah, Mister Sands, we meet again...I s'pose this here wound is thanks ta you?" He made a tsking sound. "I done tole you-you don' wanna mess with Morty," he shook his head. "That boy's a crazy one." He gave Sands yet another wide grin, and then blinked several more times. Mort stared into Sands' face blankly.
Tom had backed away when Sands had come forward Glock first, and was now staring wide-eyed at the man cuffed to his dining room chair. "What the fuck was that?" He asked, looking from Sands to Mort.
"Nothing to worry about, Tommy Boy. Just Mr. Shooter, giving me a friendly warning is all," Sands shrugged. "Now you. Do you want to get up, John Wayne?"
Tom just shook his head which he immediately regretted. He stumbled back into the living room and took another hearty swig of his alcohol.
Mort stuck his nose up at Sands. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?" He shook his hands, causing the cuffs to jingle a bit. "I'm a little tied down at the moment." His eyes narrowed.
"Don't look at me John Wayne, he was supposed to do it," Sands frowned as Tom high tailed it back to the living room and his cozy couch.
"What? Who was supposed to do what?" Mort was utterly confused as he watched Sands annoyance as Tom went back to his drink.
"Okay, I count three people in this here cabin. One of them's you. We've already established that you can't get up by yourself. One of them's me. I can't stand up. There's a pretty good chance I can't push you up either. Number three just went back to take a nap. As far as I'm concerned. You're fucked."
Mort sighed in annoyance himself. "Well fine then, get lost and leave me to be 'fucked' by myself!" He glared at Sands, thoroughly pissed about the position he was in. Sands was supposed to be the big, bad ass agent that had no pain.
"Yeah, like I'm going to give you the pleasure of watching me crawl," Sands rolled his eyes and propped himself up against the back of a chair. "You don't know any good frostbite remedies, do you?"
Mort just snorted. "Well… if you stick it up your-"
"Very original. Good show. Why, I bet even Tommy Boy could think of that one. Golly, what is with everybody and foul language these days? It's fucking uncouth."
Mort just rolled his eyes, and glanced down at his shoulder which was once again bleeding profusely, there was a small puddle on the floor. He sighed. "Would you please just uncuff me, and let me get up? I promise I'll just upright the chair." Mort was to the point where he would beg to be up, taking the pressure off of the wound.
"Do you really think I'm that stupid? Besides, it's your fault you're down here in the first place. And it's your fault I'm down here," Sands snorted.
"Arrrgghh!" Mort cried out in frustration. He was in so much pain and so angry… He decided he'd take his chances and kicked at the gun at his foot. He felt it move, and then curled as much as he could into a ball, despite the pain, and squeezed his eyes shut. He was waiting for the bullet that would end his misery, but it never came.
Sands groaned, knowing at least something of the hell Mort was going through. Being shot wasn't a picnic and the strain on the muscle had to be unreal.
"Tom! Get your ass in here and right this bastard before I put him out of his pain!"
Tom grunted, but didn't move.
Mort cracked open an eye, and let out a sigh of relief. He wanted the pain to stop, but he didn't necessarily want to die. Slowly he uncurled, which once again caused strain on the wound making him hiss in pain. He looked over to where Sands was slouched against a chair and watched with shock as he aimed the gun into the living room.
Sands rarely used the sight on the gun anymore, but this was a special occasion. The bottle was dangling out of lax fingers. He had to hit the bottle low enough so it wouldn't explode everywhere. Just where Sands wanted it to. Tom snorted again and Sands pulled the trigger. The bullet whizzed into the living room and caught the lower half of the bottle. Liqueur and glass sprayed outward, catching the sleeping Tom in the hand.
"Shit!" He leaped from the chair, sobered momentarily. "Goddamn it, Sands!" he shook his hand and dug out tiny splinters of glass. "That fucking hurt!" He whimpered like a child. He stood there and glared at Sands, making sure to stay behind the shield of his recliner. The man was fucking psycho! You don't just go around shooting people or things! "What the hell did you do that for?"
"Your presence is required in the kitchen." Sands' voice was deadly soft. Tom frowned, and hesitantly made his way into the kitchen, to where Mort and Sands sat. He looked down at Mort as if he was just seeing him for the first time.
"What the hell is he trying to pull?" He asked talking over Mort to Sands.
"He's in pain just like the rest of us. You haven't been a very good host, Tommy Boy. Sit him up so he's not lying on his shoulder anymore. Then, you should get in the shower and sober up before I have to resort to something like that again."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Tom muttered, but did as Sands said. He hefted Mort up, and then turned to Sands. "You need some help?" He looked at Sands skeptically, ignoring Mort's moans-attempts at attention for his wound.
"I haven't bothered you enough?" Sands remarked dryly, finally dropping the majority of his serious act.
Tom cleared his throat and raised an eyebrow. "Come on cowboy, you need to get off your ass." He bent over, and attempted to heft Sands up. Sands didn't help, but didn't hinder either.
"The chair," he ordered
Look at you now...
Tom grunted and half slung, half placed Sands in the chair. Mort was growing impatient, his shoulder was burning more and more, and he was certain he'd torn the stitches.
"Ahem..." He cleared his throat.
Tom turned and glared at Mort. "There a problem?"
"Uh-I think the stitches are torn…" Mort said, his confidence faltering a little, now that Sands was up at the same level as him.
"Well that's just too bad, ain't it?" Tom smirked, "You're just gonna have to hold your horses."
Sands shrugged. "Drag him over and I'll do it. You do need a shower though Tommy Boy. I'm getting drunk off your fumes."
"Screw you Sands!" He said, but went to move Mort. He slid him as roughly as he could, jarring his shoulder more. He ignored his grunts and moans, and stopped him mere inches in front of Sands. Once there, Mort quieted. He wasn't as tough when face to face with the rookie agent.
How come I don't have that affect? Tom thought to himself.
"There ya go Sands, enjoy the bastard," he said as he left the kitchen. Mort avoided Sands' eyes until he heard the spray of the shower. He looked up and spoke solemnly.
"Are you going to stitch me up?"
Sands leaned across the table and started banging it gently to coax the needle and thread closer to his outstretched hand.
"I'm quite capable. Or do you not want me to?"
Mort said nothing, only nodded his head as if defeated.
"Good."
Sands' hand closed on the supplies and he expertly threaded the needle. He grabbed a napkin from the holder and began cleaning off the seeping blood. Tom had put the hydrogen peroxide away, but it wouldn't make much of a difference. It could always be applied afterward. Sands quickly sterilized the needle with his Zippo and set to work sewing Mort up in small, neat stitches. He'd make small peeps every once in awhile, but remained relatively still. When he finished, Sands tore the thread with his teeth and slapped Mort on the back. "You're done, Farmer John. Make sure it doesn't happen again."
Mort gritted his teeth as Sands patted him on the back. He was surprisingly gentle and efficient. He sat there silently for a few minutes before he became uncomfortable, not only with the silence, but with the close proximity of Sands. He shifted as much as possible in the chair, and finally spoke. "Uh...are you going to move?"
Before Sands could reply, a strange sound was heard from the bathroom. It sounded oddly like a dying cow.
"At first I was afraid, I was petrified, kept thinking I could never live without you by my side...And I spent so many nights thinking how you did me wrong-and I grew strong! I learned how to get along…"
"He still sings?" Sands groaned. By tipping his chair back very gently, he could just reach the silverware draw. He inched it open and took out a steak knife which he promptly threw at the bathroom door. "Sing a little louder, I don't think the neighbors can hear you!"
Mort winced as Sands chucked the knife over his good shoulder. "Hey! That was fucking close!" he complained, frowning at Sands.
Tom jumped when he heard something slice into the door-undoubtedly another of Sands' fits. His singing was cut off abruptly. "Hmm…" he frowned. "Where was I?"
He shrugged. "I'll just start at the chorus." He chuckled before belting out the chorus to Gloria Gaynor's hit. "Go on now go! Walk out the door! Just turn around cause you're not welcome anymore. I should have changed that stupid lock, I should have made you leave your key if I'd known for just one second you'd be back to bother meeeeeee!"
Mort grimaced as Tom attempted to hit the high note.
"I know I should have used the pie server," Sands frowned.
Get an axe.
"Can't walk. Sort of sunk before I begin."
You're such a fucking pessimist.
"I think I'm rather pleasant."
You might. Who else?
"I haven't asked anyone recently."
Certainly didn't ask me.
"Because I know what you'd say."
Now you do.
"And that's what counts," Sands propped his boots on the table and eased the chair back comfortably.
"What-the-fuck?" Mort spoke it as if it was one syllable. "Who the hell are you talking to?" Mort's eyes were wide with disbelief. Sands was scaring him. He tried to scoot himself back, but he was moving too fast. His eyes grew wide as he felt the chair began to tip back. "Shit! Nooo..." he moaned and thrust out his hands still attached to the back of the chair. There was just enough leeway for him to grasp Sands' jeans before he fell completely backwards again. If he fell again, he would truly be "fucked."
It was unfortunate that Mort and the chair's combined weight was too much for the unprepared Sands. He didn't have time to grab hold of the table before they both crashed to the floor again. Sands had landed on top of Mort, who hadn't let go of his death grip on Sands' pants.
"Goddamn Sam, what the hell was that for!" Sands snarled.
Mort kept his grip on Sands even once they were on the floor. His eyes were wide in terror. He was shocked, he'd been completely unprepared for not only falling, but for the added weight on his torso. He let out a grunt and lifted his legs, kneeing Sands in the ribs. He'd finally released Sands' jeans. Just then, Tom sauntered out of the bathroom with just a towel wrapped around his waist. When he spotted the two sprawled on the floor, his eyes grew wide.
"Hotdamn! If you two wanted my room, I would've been more than obliging..." He said completely serious. "Damn… just please don't do anything pokey here in the kitchen, that's just sick!"
Sands craned his head around and stared at Tom, trying to settle his mind into a rational pattern of thought. He'd lost a minute off his life from the time he threw the knife to the time he was… straddled atop his convict. And on the floor again. Son of a bitch!
"We were ballroom dancing. Between his hellish leading and my lead feet, we were destined for obscurity," Sands murmured to assuage Tom. Although, Sands wasn't entirely sure they hadn't just been ballroom dancing. That was the scary part.
Tom laughed heartily. "Sure ya were buddy. Now if you don't mind, I'll just go get myself dressed for bed." He turned and walked out of the kitchen.
Mort frowned up at Sands. "Now just how do you plan on getting us out of this one?" Mort questioned.
"I'm um... not sure," Sands looked around for some sort of leverage. "I'm pretty sure I can get myself up, but you seem to have developed a habit of screwing yourself over."
One of Mort's eyes twitched, as he was annoyed. He lifted one of his knees and swiftly kneed Sands in the groin. As Sands doubled over, applying more of his weight on him, Mort hissed in pain, but managed to spit out, "Asshole."
Sands hoisted himself up on his pained feet and promptly fell backwards into his chair. At Mort's enraged look, he smirked.
"Not my fault you're in this mess. Not really."
With one last withering look at Sands, Mort gave up the physical fight. He sighed with resignation and laid his head back on the floor. It was throbbing. Within the past few days, his head had really taken a beating-mostly from Sands' Glock. He allowed his eyes to drift shut and was transported back to the previous weeks.
"I know I can do it, Todd Downey said, helping himself to another ear of corn from the steaming bowl. I know that in time, every bit of her will be gone and her death will be a mystery... even to me."
His voice was thick with a southern drawl as he whispered those words, yet he was still Mort.
"John Wayne, you been smokin' crack again?" Sands drawled.
Mort's eyes fluttered open, and he looked up at Sands a little dazed. "Wha-huh?" he asked more than a little confused.
"Or have you been doing tea behind my back? Have you been holding out?" Sands leaned forward to eye Mort.
"Actually, I'm more a Mountain Dew person myself. That and Jack Daniels," he said and eyed the bottle that still sat on the table.
"No, you dope, tea! Weed! Mary Jane! Didn't you ever hang with the cool kids in school?"
Mort's face flushed, and he was silent for a moment before he could think up a retort. "I suppose you're very familiar with those substances, eh?" He snickered attempting to be a smartass.
"Maybe," Sands shrugged. He patted his pocket for his tobacco and rolling paper and came up with his prizes. He couldn't remember if Tom was a nonsmoker, but at that point in time, Tom could just go fuck himself. Sands remembered that that limey bitch of a cop had stolen his stash and he needed a smoke.
Upon seeing Sands lighting up, Mort frowned in disappointment. "I don't suppose you didn't salvage any of those cigarettes from your car did you?" he asked hopefully, already knowing the answer.
"Sorry chico. I don't save shitty cigarettes."
Mort sighed in annoyance, and looked up as Tom came in with a cigarette that looked oddly familiar. Mort perked up.
"Hey! Tom-that wouldn't be a Pall Mall would it?" Mort looked at him anxiously.
Tom blew out the smoke. "Naw, I don't buy that cheap crap. This here's Marlboro."
Mort looked at the cigarette longingly. "Say… You think you could spare one?" he asked eagerly, forgetting that he was still lying on the floor. All that mattered was getting a quick nic fix. Tom looked at Sands as if asking permission, and shrugged.
"Y'know, I bet we could get all sorts of confessions out of him if we held back his cig supply," Sands grinned wickedly.
Mort's eyebrows furrowed, and he looked just pitiful. "You-you wouldn't dare?" he pleaded. Not that he had anything to hide, but he was so close to getting a cigarette.
Tom gave a short laugh. "I think you'll get enough answers from him soon enough," he said, through a yawn.
It was well past 10 by then, and it had been quite a stressful night. Tom still felt the alcohol somewhat, and was ready to turn in for the night. "You wanna leave him there?" Tom asked looking at Mort, sympathizing almost.
"Unless you want to give him your recliner for the night. The couch is mine."
Mort looked up at Tom, his eyes oddly resembling that of a puppy's. Tom shuddered from the intensity in which Mort was staring at him. "Yeah, I don't care, just as long as he doesn't get any blood on it." He looked at Sands pointedly. "How we gonna cuff him?"
Sands snorted. "Are you planning on cuffing him to me?"
Tom frowned, seriously considering it. "Well I didn't think you'd mind, seeing as how you two were doing some sort of hanky panky here just a little while ago."
Mort moaned. "Shit. We weren't getting it on! Now, can I please have a cigarette?" His voice was close to a whine.
Sands was about to launch into a furious explanation of why he and Mort were clearly not meant for each other, when he found he had nothing to say. He looked at Mort for help only to find the eyes of a pitiful nicotine addict. He looked back at Tom, his jaw gaping stupidly.
"Me?" When nobody said anything, he shook himself and downed the rest of the minimal tequila.
"Fine." He held his arm out. "But make it fucking quick."
Author Thanks: depplove: No, they aren't. That why I'm glad SJ has enough sense to know that. NeonDaisies: We got more Mort! And that Mort torture you specified. Tom is a card, we shall be seeing much more of him in the future and a certain cameo is coming up rather soon. Merrie: The poor soul being crazier than when they went in? Perhaps we're underestimating SJ's craziness a tad? I do believe you'll find out soon enough though, hm? ;-) Sandswich: The way I figure it, I'm thinking early to mid twenties. Still young enough to screw up royally (even though he won't admit it). Tom will be around and hopefully show himself soon.