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: We collectively own Tom, Sandy and Barney. That's it. Go us.
Deep End
Mort woke with a yawn. He opened his eyes and was surprised to see that it was still dark. He raised his arms to stretch, but didn't get very far. A sharp pain shot through one shoulder and a handcuff dug into his other wrist. "Christ, I need to get up." He mumbled to himself, yawning yet again. What time was it anyway? He looked to his right, and saw Sands sprawled out on the couch, half his body dangling over the side.
"Hey! Wake up!" Mort tugged on the cuff, pulling Sands' arm. "Rise and shine asshole!" he muttered under his breath, giving a rather hard jerk. Sands felt his hand twitching and the cold metal of the handcuffs surrounding his wrist. It hadn't been a comfortable night. Whenever either he or Mort had rolled over, the cuff had invariably woken him up. He'd just drifted off again when Mort decided he'd had enough napping. Sands' didn't much care for the spontaneity and stubbornly refused to show any acknowledgement that he was, in fact, awake.
Mort blew out an annoyed breath and gave up tugging on the cuff. Ever so slowly and quietly, he stood up, stretching his aching calves. He crept past Sands' head and went to Sands' feet, stretching his arm out so that he wouldn't tug on the chain linking the cuffs. Sands was lying on his stomach with his arm thrown over the arm of the couch. Mort closed his eyes and counted to three, anticipating the pain in his shoulder that would come.
"One, two..." he whispered. "Three!" He gave one hard jerk on the cuff, causing Sands' arm to bend awkwardly.
Sands had heard the hushed counting and had time to guess that something was amiss. Mort was either planning to choke him to death, or yank his arm out of his socket. So he'd dislocated his arm before it could become an unpleasant issue and subtly shifted his weight to his right knee-in case he had to flip over. The jerk on the handcuff wasn't pleasant, but it hadn't twisted the socket in an overly unnatural manner. Not that dislocation was altogether natural.
"Quit fucking around and lemme sleep," Sands slurred, unconcerned with snapping his shoulder back into place just yet.
"Would you please get up?" Mort gritted out through his teeth. "I've got to pee!" He nearly whimpered. He hated sounding so pitiful, but he really needed to go.
"Piss in a bottle. Or are you a femme in disguise?"
"If I piss anywhere it'll be in your smartass mouth!" Mort hissed his tugging on the cuff resuming in a panic. Sands hadn't lifted his head, but he proceeded to search the coffee table for one of the many discarded Corona bottles lying about.
"Same color and taste, Tom won't know the difference. He'll be fucking ecstatic. Now stop fucking moving and lemme sleep!"
"I'm not going to fucking piss in a bottle!" Mort said disgusted. He began to hop from foot to foot impatiently.
"Then piss in the chair, whadduya want? I'm not getting up."
"Fuck you!" Mort said and swiftly sat down on Sands' feet. At the sound Sands made, Mort managed to grin at his discomfort. "Now will you uncuff me so I can go to the fucking bathroom?"
"How many times do I have to fucking tell you? You're going to escape and I'm going to have to fucking hunt you down again. Fuck no, you're not being uncuffed without an escort!" Sands felt his muscles trying to curl in on themselves. His back was a riot of pain and spasms and his calves were locked in horrific cramps. Even his shoulder was beginning to twinge. With a grunt he snapped it back into place, adding yet another pain to the cacophony of frying nerves.
"Well you're gonna have a mess on your hands then, quite literally..." Mort said his belief that Sands would eventually get up, fading. "Will you please just take me to the bathroom? I'm serious, I've got to fucking pee!"
Just then there was a sharp knock on the door. Mort's heart froze, and he felt his bladder constrict.
"Shit! I've gotta go man!" He stood and went towards the bathroom pulling on Sands' arm. He managed to pull until Sands hit the floor with a thud. There was another sharp rap on the door. Mort looked at it nervously recalling another time he'd answered the door.
You stole my story...
His eyes were wide, and he frantically began pulling Sands away from the door, inches at a time. He'd made it to the recliner where he'd slept when Dave Newsome's voice came through the door.
"Officer Tom McCarthy, open up, this is the sheriff!"
Sands closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing thoughts and alternately, slow the frantic Mort. He hooked an elbow onto the arm of the couch and stayed rooted to the spot. He had to wake up. He needed... coffee.
They could solve world hunger with coffee.
"They sure could."
"What the fuck are you talking about?" Mort asked, looking down at Sands as if he was a lunatic. "Well, I guess you have to go wake Tom, eh?" He grinned, "and since the bathroom's on the way-"
"You think the chain's long enough to let me sit outside while you piddle on the seat like a fucking girl?" Sands snapped, disregarding the question. "The sheriff will go away by himself."
"Aaarrrgghh!" Mort cried out loudly. "Dave!" He called as loud as he could. "Daaavvveee! He's got me in here!" He began tugging Sands in the opposite direction now, towards the front door where the sheriff waited. Sands flipped himself over expertly and leaped to his feet in a startling display of athletic ability. He tried not to lean too heavily on Mort's shoulder, but he knew his legs were going to give out at any minute. He had to make this short and sweet.
"That man's out for your blood, Morton. He knows what you did to Amy and Theodore. He can't convict you because he's not bright enough, but he's not going to fucking help you, Morton. He'd rather watch you burn in hell. Now, do you really want to go running to a man who would sooner watch you die than throw you a bone?" Sands hissed into the writer's ear. "It's called common sense, Mort. Use it."
Mort was so surprised by Sands' tactic that he nearly pissed himself. "Sands…please…" His voice was a high pitched squeak, and he had to cross his legs like a girl.
Sands snatched a bottle off the table and relinquished his grip on Mort's shoulder to balance unsteadily on his own. He unzipped his jeans and expertly began to piss in the bottle. When he finished, he set the bottle on the table before flopping onto the couch, a tight smirk on his face. He tilted his head at the bottle, a gesture for Mort to get going.
Mort just stared at Sands in disbelief at his immodesty. He finally realized he wasn't going to be given another option, so he grabbed another bottle and turned his back to Sands before relieving himself. He closed his eyes in long lived release, only to have them fly open in shock.
"Uh…Sands, I need another one, quick!" His voice was full of panic as he felt the one in his hands filling rapidly. His flow wasn't slowing. Sands bit back his laughter, grabbing a fresh bottle-there were quite a lot of them-and nudging it under Mort's elbow. While the bottle escapade was ensuing, the banging on the front door continued, as Dave Newsome refused to give up.
Mort nervously grabbed for the other bottle, paying no mind to the pain that shot through his shoulder. He immediately replaced the other bottle and sighed, happy that he hadn't made much of a mess. Once he was done, he realized he had no free hand and his pants were around his ankles. He looked down at his drawers and the bottles in his hands and swallowed. There was no way of avoiding it; the table was behind him.
Very slowly, Mort turned to face the table-and consequentially Sands-in all his glory. His face was beet red as he set the bottles down quickly, very nearly spilling them. Then he whipped back around and promptly pulled his pants back up.
Sands rolled his eyes. Mort probably hadn't showered in high school gym either. He glanced at his own still unbuttoned pants and shrugged, figuring Tom would have a conniption if he saw the two of them like this. So he zipped himself up and closed his eyes, listening to the rhythmic thumping of the sheriff outside. It took 5 minutes for Dave to give up, but he never entered.
He and Tom have an accord.
"Then he knows about Tom's sobriety."
It always was suspicious that Tom never got stopped for a DUI.
"Never? Well golly, that is suspicious."
Mort blinked and turned to face Sands once he was put together. "Who the hell are you talking to?" He jumped as he heard a thump outside-it was too close to home for him. "What the hell? Who are you talking to?" He said loudly when Sands didn't answer. Mort was trying to block out the memories that were surfacing.
You're being bugged.
"Huh?"
Someone's requesting your presence of mind.
"Who would want my presence of mind?"
John Wayne?
"The Duke? Alive?" Sands eyes had become distant and far off.
At that moment, Tom walked in yawning and stretching. He rubbed his eyes, hair askew, looking like a child. He spotted the two-Sands on the couch looking lost, and Mort standing above him looking terrified. "What the hell's going on? What was all that noise I heard?"
Mort snapped out of his shock, and turned to look at Tom. "It was Sh-the sheriff."
Tom frowned. "What was he doing here?" He yawned again, and looked at the clock in the kitchen. "And at 5:00 in the morning?" He looked at Sands and Mort disbelieving their explanation.
Mort shrugged, and looked rather nervous as he looked towards the door. "I-I think he left you a note..." he whispered. Tom shrugged and went to the door.
The Sheriff's department is with you in your endeavor to put Morton Rainey away. We have one bit of evidence that could help your case. Come by to pick it up today, if you can. - Dave
Tom picked up the note and made a noise of thought. "Hm. I actually think this might be to your benefit Sands." He walked over to Sands who was still staring off into space. "Yo-cowboy!" He waved his hand in front of Sands' face. "You might want to wake up and read this!" He dropped the note in Sands' lap. "While you read I'm going to make coffee."
Sands blinked. He really had to stop spacing like that. Anything could happen in that lapse of time. He looked in his lap and there was the crumpled note with Dave's message.
"Ted's slayer isn't so squeaky clean," he murmured, copping a glance at Mort. But it could wait until later. He still needed coffee. "Someone make me coffee?"
"I said I'm making it." Tom said on his way to the kitchen.
"Who were you talking to?" Mort wasn't going to let it go this time-he was freaked. His eyes looked like a wild animal's.
"What are you on about, John Wayne?" Sands cocked an eyebrow at the skittish writer.
Mort frowned in confusion and a little bit of fear. "You were just talking..." He blinked trying to remember the conversation Sands had had. "Something about presence of mind?"
Tom was puttering around in the kitchen like a little housewife, and he called out giving Sands yet another escape from the questions. "You want cream or sugar?"
"Neither. Just black," Sands called to Tom first before fixing Mort with a hard stare. "Presence of mind, huh? It sounds like something I'd say."
"I wasn't talking to you smartass." Tom retorted. "I know how you like your coffee. I was talking to Farmer John over there."
Tom was ignored as Mort sighed. "Yes but you weren't talking to me. You were talking to someone or something else." Mort moved his head around from side to side examining Sands. His eyes narrowed as he studied him. Tom was getting impatient. He was holding two mugs of coffee.
"Yo Farmer John! You want cream or sugar in your coffee?"
Mort didn't answer, instead he stared at Sands waiting for a straight answer that wouldn't come.
"Hell, I was probably talking to that friend of yours. What's his name... Shooter," Sands snorted. "Now. Coffee. Gimme." He gestured at Tom urgently, needing that first rush of caffeine. His pain was beginning to mount and any opening of the arteries would be welcome before the soreness got too out of hand.
Tom grumbled as he set the two mugs of coffee down on the coffee table in the living room. "Since you didn't open your mouth, you've got black like him," he told Mort. Mort didn't answer, just looked down into the depths of the black coffee, grimacing in disgust. Black coffee was much too bitter to him. Besides, he wasn't really a coffee drinker. What he did need was a cigarette...
"Tom?" Mort called out to his retreating back. "Could I have a cigarette?" he asked.
Tom just waved his hand, and kept walking to get his own coffee. Mort sighed and took a shaky breath. He didn't know what he would do, being deprived of his cigarettes for so long.
"You ever once think you might have a nicotine problem?" Sands grinned wryly.
Mort snorted. "You want to talk about problems? I bet I can come up with a few you have."
"Possibly, but we're not talking about my problems, Morty. We're going to talk about your problems. Like the one that possessed you to kill Ted and Amy."
Mort's entire body went rigid. "I didn't kill them!" he hissed between his teeth.
"Is that your final answer?"
Mort's face was hard, as he glared at Sands. He moved swiftly, and dumped his still steaming cup of coffee in Sands' lap. "Fuck you," he whispered.
Sands couldn't help but recoil in pain, but he did manage to suppress his urge to cry out. That wouldn't have been cool. He captured Mort's angry glare with a cold look of his own, eyes narrowed. With a quick movement, he jerked Mort towards him and spun him around, the cuff chain wrapping around the writer's neck.
"Move and I'll snap your neck, savvy?"
Mort resisted the urge to whimper. He just swallowed hard, his Adams apple bobbing against the chain painfully. At just that moment, Tom walked in sipping on his own coffee. He laughed so hard that he spewed coffee all over Mort's front, causing Mort to wrinkle his nose in disgust.
"Didn't I tell you two to cut that hanky panky business out?" Tom chuckled as he sat himself down in his recliner.
Sands smiled tightly. "Too bad for Tom that he never took me seriously, eh Mort? Too bad for you that I'm a little pissed right now. What do you suggest I do, Morty? Humor Tom or get a little sweet revenge?"
Mort tried to crane his neck to look Sands in the eye, but after numerous sharp pains shot from his shoulder, he gave up. "Huh? Wh-what do you mean?" he asked, quavering a bit.
Tom frowned trying to listen to what Sands was saying to Mort. "What are you running your mouth about over there?" He asked cocking his head. Sands tightened the chain on Mort.
"Don't you be moving there, John Wayne, I'm not done with you yet. Now you're going to listen to me, and you're going to listen well. I don't appreciate having coffee thrown at me under any circumstances. I've been having a bad week. You just salted the wounds. If I were you, I'd tread just a little lighter around me because unlike Tom, you don't know me well enough to know what I will and will not do. Unless you're just itching for a quick grave. Do you want to die, Morty?"
Mort gulped again, and tried to speak, but the chain at his throat was too tight so he just shook his head gravely.
"Sands give the guy a break! Can't you see his about to piss his pants?" Tom laughed a little.
"I already watched him piss in a bottle, he hasn't got anything left." Sands' eyes were cold. Suddenly, he frowned, blinking in confusion before peeking over Mort's shoulder. The man's face was beet red. "Oh Christ," Sands groaned.
Tom just laughed harder.
Mort was trying not to move, afraid of making the situation worse. He was biting his cheek again, a habit he could never seem to kick.
Sands tried to gently extricate his knee from the damp area, but found he was having trouble keeping his balance. The pain shooting through his feet was lancing right up to his knees. He really didn't want to collapse on the couch like Jell-o, not when he was trying to intimidate someone. So he had to lean in close, ignoring the smell of urine.
"Have I made my point?"
Mort swallowed. "Yes," he squeaked.
Tom continued to laugh, but managed to get out, "Why don't you go hose him off?" He gestured to the back door.
Mort's eyes grew wide behind his horn rimmed glasses. He didn't want to be stripped down in front of either of these two men, much less whoever was outside Tom's house.
"You're not going to uncuff me if I don't, are you?" Sands grumbled.
"Hell no!" Tom said. "You made him do it!" He had a few more laughs before he straightened up. "But seriously, let Farmer John have a shower. There ain't no windows he can climb out in my bathroom."
Mort looked over at Tom gratefully. His face was still flushed a deep scarlet. "I-I won't be any trouble." He stuttered.
"Quiet, sugarbutt." Sands gave a warning squeeze on the chain before releasing it just enough for Mort to breathe. "There's still the matter of me being tethered to him. Or did you want to indulge in your voyeuristic fetishes and watch us bathe on the camera you've got installed in your bathroom?"
"Shut it Sands." Tom said sternly. He stood from his recliner and set his mug down on the coffee table. He strode over to Sands and Mort and revealed the key to the cuffs. He held it out in front of Sands' face. "Take him to the bathroom and shut him in there-he reeks." He stuck his nose up in disgust. Despite his embarrassment, Mort's eyes narrowed at his insult. Sands rolled his eyes.
Next time, he can be cuffed to the convict.
"Damn straight." Sands shook himself and snatched the key out of Tom's fingers. He deftly flicked the chain over Mort's head and shoved Mort ahead of him. The sooner he stopped smelling like piss, the sooner Tom would stop bitching, and maybe Sands could be unchained. Or at the very least, he could sit down. This secret agent thing was getting hard.
"Get in there. I'm keeping guard outside so you..." Sands unsnapped the cuff from Mort's wrist, "don't escape. Use soap. Lost of soap." Sands shoved Mort inside and promptly collapsed on the floor, panting for air. Sands' guess was that Mort had to be just girly enough to need to shower before any attempt at escape.
Once free, Mort whipped around to see Sands on the floor. He licked his lips, thinking about his options before him. He could make a run for it smelling like urine, or he could give in and be taken God only knew where and get all sorts of other pains inflicted upon him. He shuddered, thinking about the numerous conks on the head and the throbbing wound in his shoulder. Hell no, he wasn't taking his chances here.
He leaped over Sands' panting form, and for good measure trampled on his injured feet. Then he crept behind the recliner in which Tom sat staring idly at the television. Once he reached the door, he wasted no time. He flung it wide open, and sprinted out.
He hesitated, looking at Tom's truck and contemplating the difficulty in which he would have in starting it. He looked to the left to see the clear blue lake-Lake Tashmore. He knew that his cabin was just across the lake; he could see the familiar bird feeders hanging from the trees. After a last glimpse into the house to see Tom and Sands lumbering after him, he dashed to the dock, leapt into a motor boat, and revved it up. The only other type of water transportation was a paddle boat.
As he sped away, he chuckled to himself thinking about how Sands' feet would fare in the paddle boat. The chuckle died in his throat as the motor chugged a few more seconds and then died. Mort's mouth gaped open in shock, turning to stare back at the shore mere meters away. Luckily there was a single oar in the bottom of the boat for such occasions. Mort looked down at it as if it were a foreign object and swallowed hard, knowing the agony that would come with rowing, what with his bum shoulder and all.
Mort never had time to begin rowing in earnest. A pistol crack sliced the peaceful Maine wilderness. A second and a third shot ripped through the little rowboat, causing water to pour into the bottom. Sands allowed himself a small smile as Mort screamed in agony. One of his shots had apparently hit the author. Sands hadn't been shooting to kill, but if pain was the only way to get through to him, Sands had no scruples about using it to his advantage. The boat was sinking and Mort wasn't swimming anywhere in his state.
"Tom, go get our little friend, will you?"
Tom stood there at the shore looking out at Mort. "Goddammit Sands! You're gonna fucking kill him before we can even take him in! Shit! Let the little bastard drown, I don't care." He turned to go back into the house. "I was planning on retiring early anyway," he muttered to himself.
Shit! Shit! What do I do? Mort thought in a panic. The third bullet had grazed his thigh. It wasn't a terrible wound, but there was no way he'd be able to swim without the use of a leg and arm. He looked back to the shore, certain that one of them was coming out to haul him back, but Sands just stood there staring in his direction and Tom had turned around. Oh god! He's gonna let me drown! Mort thought, completely panicked. I don't want to die in this lake! This is where Ken and Greenleaf's bodies are! Mort's eyes widened. Where did that come from? he wondered. There would be only one reason he would know that.
"I didn't do it!" he hollered, standing in a sinking motorboat in the middle of Lake Tashmore. He clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block out the voices. He continuously shook his head "no," causing the boat to rock viciously as it filled with water.
"Hold it right there Tom! You're the only one of us that can operate that little boat out there, amigo, or did we overlook this part?" Sands wrapped his arms around a tree hugging it tightly to alleviate some of the pain in his feet when he turned to glare at Tom. He had to ignore Mort for the moment and focus on this infuriating bastard who didn't seem to give a shit. "Tom, get your drunken ass over here and help him!"
Tom flipped Sands off as he continued walking. He was almost to his cabin when yet another bullet ripped through the air, nipping at his heels and coming very close to taking off one of his feet. "Hot damn!" Tom yelped and jumped up in the air. He turned and glared at Sands. Seeing that his attempted intimidation had failed, Tom sighed and headed back over to Sands. "Fine-" He took Sands' shoulder and turned him around, "but you're coming too. No telling what that sick bastard will try. I'm not like you two, ya know?" He smirked at Sands, as they made their way to the paddle boat.
"What do you mean 'two'?" Sands stopped short, wobbled-his arms pinwheeling frantically-and eventually fell backwards with a thump. He cursed loudly, wondering just what other kinds of hellish luck he'd be subjected to today.
You should get your feet checked out.
"Too much time and effort."
You're not fine.
"Yes I am."
Far from it.
"Shut up, just... shut up."
"What the hell man?" Tom looked at Sands, dumbfounded.
Meanwhile, Mort had overworked himself and was both physically and mentally exhausted. He dropped down into the slowly sinking boat and laid back. The tips of his hair were getting wet. His mutterings of denial continued in whispers.
Tom happened to glance at where Mort was, only to see the boat and no Mort. "Shit! Get up Sands!" Sands' lunatic ranting was all but forgotten at the disappearance of Mort. "He's gonna fucking drown!" Tom was raving, his own words of not caring were also forgotten as he hefted Sands to his feet and dumped him unceremoniously into the tiny boat. He began paddling furiously, but seeing how slow they were moving with still no sign of Mort, Tom grew increasingly nervous. "Sands...I'm gonna need you to suck it up; we've gotta get out there. Fuck! I'm gonna be in deep shit if this bastard dies!"
"Oh boo fucking hoo."
Sands had curled into a ball at the bottom of the boat amidst the dead leaves and pond slime. He'd had fun before and this was most definitely not it. And now with Tom's inability to paddle the boat himself, Sands was ready to shoot Tom and quit the Agency entirely. Make a clean break before things got nasty.
He dragged himself through the muck and reached the twin pedal spots. Damned if Tom thought he was going to pedal, he was in too much pain for that. But Sands was the resourceful type, and had resigned himself to working with his arms. They gained on the little boat containing the once frantic Mort.
Tom's eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at Sands pedaling with his hands. "Sure you don't need to go back to the hospital and have those feet of yours checked out?" he asked, genuinely concerned.
"Fuck you and fuck your hospitals," Sands panted. They had to save Mort. Now. Before he passed out. Himself or Mort, Sands wasn't sure anymore. Damn that niggling doubt that was trying to convince him to see a doctor. He was FINE. A little beat up, but perfectly alright. Wasn't he?
What do you think?
Sands closed his eyes, focusing all his energy on turning the pedals another rotation. It wasn't much longer before the boat bumped against Mort's rapidly sinking one. Mort mad a strangled sort of sound as he was jarred at the impact of the paddle boat bumping into what was left of his motorboat. He opened his eyes wide, as if just realizing that he was in the middle of the lake in a sinking boat. He began to panic, flailing his arms and legs. As he moved frantically, he cried out in pain. He was causing the boat to sink completely. He was subconsciously moving away from Sands and Tom as he dogpaddled in the water anxiously.
Gotta get out of here! Can't drown in the lake like… like Ken and Tom Greenleaf!
"Goddammit, Farmer John!" Tom hissed as he finally grabbed a hold of Mort's collar and pulled him screaming and fighting towards the paddleboat.
"No! I'm not going to die here! Not in the lake!" Mort's cries were hysterical, and the adrenaline was almost too much for Tom's lanky form.
"Get. In. The. Boat." Tom grunted with the effort he was exerting to pull Mort into the paddle boat. Mort was still flailing his arms as Tom hefted him with much difficulty into the paddleboat. He put his weight across Mort's torso until the writer had worn himself out and was just panting from the exertion.
Mort looked up into the clear blue sky, gasping for breath, as the truth began to dawn on him. "No!" He whimpered to himself over and over, "No, no, NO!" He then rolled over and curled into a ball, oblivious to anything around him. He'd pushed the corpses of Ken Karsch and Tom Greenleaf into the very lake they were on.
Sands was feeling sort of put out. Mort's thrashings were about to pummel him out of the boat, and Sands didn't really want to go for a swim right them. He had to stop Mort. He grabbed Mort's injured shoulder viciously and squeezed the man's bloody thigh simultaneously. Pain was Mort's override button. The pressure on the bullet wounds got a gasp out of Mort as he went limp. Sands sighed, feeling his own strength waning. He began probing Mort's new hole for the bullet, finding he'd only grazed the author. That was good. Tom wouldn't whine as much.
"Let's get the fuck out of here. I'm tired."
Tom just shook his head. "As you wish," he whispered more to himself as he slowly steered the boat back to shore, pedaling slowly. The lake was calm now, almost eerily so. It was as if it was belying what was to come.
XXX
They'd reached shore without incident. Mort had twitched in the throes of a bad dream, but hadn't woken up. Sands was dreading getting out of the boat, but didn't see a way out of it. Tom would get suspicious if he opted to sleep in the boat that night. Sands would probably get frostbite on his face, just for spite. He swung Mort up to Tom and tried to stand up. The boat swayed dangerously under his feet and he had to drop to his knees. Tom's look of confusion got a glare out of Sands who was determined to get out under his own power. He stood up again, managing to stay upright this time. His first heavy-footed step tipped the boat over, dumping Sands in the murky lake water with a yell.
Tom chuckled as he peered over from where he stood on the shore. "You alright over there, Sands?"
Mort, who'd just awoken, looked at Sands sitting in the water and was utterly confused. "Wha-Why are you in the water?" he asked, dumbfounded. He'd missed Sands' fall.
Sands' teeth were clenched to prevent himself from snapping in anger. He wasn't sure what he was feeling more, pain or humiliation. "Get me the fuck out of here," he whispered.
Tom's laughter ceased as he trudged over to Sands and bent over. He wrapped an arm around his partner's waist and helped him up. He nodded to Mort to go on into the house. With the wound, as slight as it was, there was little chance of Mort attempting escape very soon.
Sands was shaking. He couldn't show weakness in front of Tom. It was unthinkable that his captive get to see him like this. It was unprofessional. He'd been shot at, he'd been cut, he'd been tortured, and now that he had a little bit of pain, he couldn't even keep control over his motor skills. He felt his stomach contract. Felt the beginnings of an anxiety attack.
You're just going to freak right out, aren't you?
"Freak... freak out..."
Now why is that? Take a little swim and you're off the deep end, so to speak.
"Can't-can't do this. Gotta'... gotta'... get myself together." He licked his lips, his eyes squeezed shut. Shudders wracked his frame.
As soon as Sands began his ramblings, Tom stopped immediately unbeknownst to Sands. When Sands started shaking, Tom grew nervous himself. He didn't know what was going on with his partner, but in his 10 years in the CIA, he'd never encountered anything-or anyone-quite like his current partner. He swallowed hard, looking at the man beside him who was trying his best to hide his weakness.
"You think you can make it to the truck?" Tom asked, not bothering with explanations. No need to "freak" him out any further. Meanwhile, Mort had made it to the porch, and was watching curiously as Sands' body shook.
Looks like Mister Sands has a few screws loose hisself...
"NO! No hospital, no-n-nn-NO!" Sands tore away from Tom, staggering back into the water. His short-circuiting brain wasn't aware of much beyond the implications of a hospital. He was NOT going to a hospital. He'd rather die, quite simply. Doctors were quacks and needed to die and Sands would kill them all.
He tugged out the gun strapped to his belt and pointed it at Tom, eyes narrowed dangerously. They were crossing from the pain and his hands were shaking horrifically, unable to stay trained on his target. Tom raised his hands in surrender.
"Hey-hey now!" He moved towards Sands cautiously, keeping his hands held up to show that he intended no harm. "I just thought-" He reached out and wrenched the gun almost easily from Sands' hands. "That it would be a good spot for you to rest for a moment. If you feel that you can make it to the cabin, by all means..." He gestured with Sands' gun.
Sands dropped to his knees. Sweat was pouring down his forehead, although nobody could tell with the pond water dripping from the ends of his hair. They were going to tie him down and shoot him up with all kinds of heinous junk. They were going to find out every secret he had and tear him to pieces when they did. Cut him open, slice out his heart. He saw the beating muscle in front of him now, clear as day. He couldn't watch; it wasn't real, it couldn't happen. They were going to kill him, he knew it. Well, he wouldn't let them.
His shaking hand found its way into his pocket and to the knife nestled among the smoking accessories. He wouldn't give the bastards the pleasure of cutting him up like a beef carcass. He'd do it himself if he had to.
The knife was unsheathed and against his throat .
Oh fuck… Tom didn't know what to do. He wasn't trained for this kinda shit: how to deal with suicidal maniacs. "Ok Sands…just calm down…" He raised his hands and lowered them, gesturing for him to calm down. "J-just give me the knife." Tom faltered as he attempted to give the command, sticking out his hand.
Dr. Adams' face was barely visible beyond the light he was flashing in Sands' eye. He had a big, shit-eating grin on his face.
"Well, Sheldon, you look just fine to me."
"I can't see!"
"Your eyes are fine. Nothing out of the ordinary."
"Look harder!"
"I can, but it's not going to change anything."
"Fix it!"
"Laser eye surgery. Do you have that kind of money?"
A laser bore into Sands' eye. He was numbed and unfeeling but he watched it all with a detached air. From above. Above? Oh fuck!
Sands' hand slipped and the knife gouged his neck. It was no worse than a shaving cut, but the immediate pain-pain that didn't throb or ache-snapped him back to the present. Tom was bent in front of him and he had a knife at his own throat. He swallowed slowly and dropped the knife. Tom breathed a heavy sigh of relief, and his hand quickly dove after the knife and he chucked it out into the depths of the lake. He wasn't going to push Sands into going to the hospital just yet.
"You ready to go inside now?" He asked guardedly. "You need to get some rest. It's been a long day."
Sands shuddered. "Fuck no. I'm going..." He glanced at Mort who was transfixed on the steps of the porch. "I'm not going to get any rest if I know my thought patterns."
Tom decided it best to just agree with him. "Alright, but you will at least get up out of the water and come in right?" He gave Sands a small smile, seeing that he was at least partially back to normal, whatever the hell that was for him.
"Uh, yes. Sure. Right. G-good," Sands mumbled, regulating his breathing. That had been a scary five minutes, having no grasp on reality or his mind. He didn't want to think that'd be happening much more. It couldn't, for his sanity.
And that's why you're babbling like a nitwit.
"Oh Christ, shut up!" he moaned.
Tom said nothing as Sands argued with himself. He did reach out a hand to help Sands to his feet though. Ever so slowly, they made their way to the porch and into the cabin. As they passed Mort, he was leaning against the railing on the porch staring at Sands, his mouth gaped open slightly.
"Whadd're you lookin' at, John Wayne? You ever see a man go apeshit before?" Sands asked tiredly, as they stumped inside. He didn't bother to turn around for an answer. Mort whipped around, and his face flushed. He hadn't realized he'd been staring. He turned to give an apologetic smile, only to see Sands' back.
Well fine then! He's an asshole anyway! He thought mentally, attempting to cover his embarrassment. He limped after them and watched as Sands argued about where he would be "placed."
"The couch, Tommy Boy. Just don't get any dumb ideas about cuffing me again, savvy? I don't think my heart can take that kind of pressure," Sands waved vaguely at the comfy couch.
Tom rolled his eyes. "Yeah-ok." he said sarcastically. "Is there anything else I can get you, your royalness?" he said dramatically. "Some aspirin, or perhaps some tequila?" Despite his sarcasm, he was quite concerned about Sands' behavior out at the lake.
Sands paused, thinking about another tequila, but he stopped himself. If that hadn't been a depression trip, he didn't know what was. No, the alcohol was better left alone.
"Ice cream."
"Well hate to break it to you, but you're shit-out-a-luck. I'm fresh out," Tom said with the whispers of a smirk on his lips. Meanwhile, Mort was leaning against the wall near the front door, nearing unconsciousness from the pain in both his shoulder and thigh. Tom glanced over at him, and rolled his eyes.
"Hey Farmer John-why'nt you come sit down before you pass out eh? Wouldn't want another mess to clean up. There's plenty of those to do as it is." He mumbled the last part to himself.
Mort looked at Tom with a mixture of a glare and a look of relief. He very slowly made his way to the recliner, glancing down at Sands as he passed. Sands was pale-unhealthily so-and really needed medical help more than he needed ice cream.
"Damn, I was looking forward to some. Cold pizza? What does a poor bachelor like yourself keep in the fridge? I haven't eaten in... a long time now..." Sands blinked. That couldn't be good, not remembering his last meal.
Tom shrugged. "I'll see what I have." He turned and went into the kitchen to take inventory of his fridge.
"I'm hungry," Mort stated aloud.
"Good job, John Wayne, we'll make him feel guilty together," Sands grinned lazily over at Mort. Mort's lips turned slightly at the corners, at Sands' comment. He had to suppress a chuckle as he heard several thumps in the kitchen, followed by a hissed curse. Tom returned to the cripples in his living room to report the minimal food in his kitchen.
"Well looks like everything in the fridge is either alive, or um…an odd color. That leaves tuna, chicken noodle soup, and some chips."
Mort perked up. "Chips?"
Tom nodded. "Nacho Cheesier Doritos," he said with a look for Sands to see if anything appealed to him.
Mort's heart leaped with joy at the mere mention of his favorite meal. "I want some of the Doritos," he said. He was so anxious that he stood unsteadily to his feet to make his way into the kitchen.
"Just hold up there Farmer John, you'll get your Doritos. What about you, Sands, anything sound appealing?"
Sands wasn't a junkfood fan; he appreciated food of the bloody variety. The soup would make him feel like even more of an invalid. He felt his shoulders slump at the thought. That left the tuna, and he'd had his fill of swimming. Dammit.
"Tuna."
Tom nodded and headed back into the kitchen to get their food. He was hungry himself and the chicken noodle soup sounded just fine to him. But first he felt a mother hen instinct to get Sands and Mort situated. He returned a few minutes later with a bowl of tuna, and a bag of Doritos. Mort stared at the bag almost drooling and Tom couldn't help but chuckle at his eagerness.
"Here ya go Farmer John." He tossed the bag of chips at Mort, who snatched them out of the air. Then he placed the tuna on the coffee table in front of Sands before he headed back to the kitchen for his own nourishment.
Mort delved into the bag of Doritos as if he were starved half to death. He stuck a few handfuls in his mouth, munching loudly. Sands glanced out of the corner of his eyes at the ravenous Mort. A small smile stole across his face.
"Something tells me you've never eaten before, John Wayne."
Mort stopped chewing, and turned to glance at Sands. The corner of his mouth twitched. He swallowed what was in his mouth, then spoke. "I just really like Doritos…" His face flushed a bright pink as he turned his attention back to the half-full bag in his lap.
"Shit!" Tom could be heard from the living room. He was once again banging around in the kitchen. Added to the commotion was the buzzing of a smoke alarm.
"He's going into cardiac arrest! The drugs are reacting with something in his system!"
"We can't stop now! He's not stitched up!"
"We have to stop or he'll die!"
Sands shook himself out of his funk. He couldn't be doing that. Not now. Not ever. No, no, no, no, no...
That's enough, there, Sheldon. Fix the problem.
"Towel... towel... Morton, find a towel. Blow fresh air at the smoke detector until it stops. Tom, what the fuck are you doing in there?" Sands demanded.
Mort froze his mouth full of Doritos, and looked at Sands nervously.
"Shit!" Came Tom's muffled curse again, as smoke began filtering into the living room. Tom's coughing could also be heard amid the acrid smell of something burning. Tom's coughing grew louder as he came into the living room. He was wearing an apron with a giant black spot on the chest.
"I had a-cough bit of a problem, but it's wheeze all good now!" he rasped over the drone of the smoke alarm. "Just a lot of smoke is all."
Mort couldn't help but snort, forgetting the sharp chips in his mouth. He immediately began to choke on the bits and pieces of half-chewed Doritos in his mouth. Sands reached out a fist and thumped Mort in the stomach. For an awkward Heimlich, it did the trick. Chewed up chips sprayed out of his mouth and he stopped coughing for the most part. Tom was harder to fix. That was when Sands saw the wireless phone on the table. When he had to act, he didn't have to think. His fingers pecked at the keypad.
"Hello, 911?"
"Is there an emergency?"
"Our fucking house is on fire! Get someone out here this fucking instant or I'll get the CIA on your sorry asses!"
Author Thanks: Neon Daisies: Yes, lots and lots of Tom! And Mortpout. No, it's not too wrong. Merrie: Is that enough hurt? And enough Jeffrey? And amusement? And yeah, I don't blame you in the least for thinking that about House and SJ. I'm beginning to think that too. DB: guilty look Yeah, SJ is fun to play with. He's fun to torture. But I didn't say that! DL: We do a lot to poor Morty poo. He doesn't deserve us. Hopefully not too much more doing that nasty for them.