Cracking of a Fragile Eggshell Mind

a tale spun by Mayor Tokey

Rating: R, or M if you prefer.

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: Before people get confused, we don't own Sara. In other words, we still don't own a whole lot in this story that can be construed as cool. This chapter is short because it wouldn't break nicely at a good spot, so we're breaking it in half and calling it two chapters. Clever, huh?

Damsels in Distress, Part 1

15 minutes later, after all had calmed down considerably, there was a loud rapping on the front door, followed by the door swinging open, and the tiny living room was soon filled with people. There were two firefighers, two paramedics, and two very familiar looking cops.

Sands just wanted to crawl into a corner and die. People. Too many people, stifling and pushing and closing in. He'd have to deal with it later, when he wasn't about to be killed in a fire.

"Oh good. People in Maine do know how to go fast," he drawled softly.

"What seems to be the problem, Agent Sands?" Sandy hissed through gritted teeth. She was once again called in while off duty. "We were radioed that there was a fire?" She looked at Tom's charred apron in disgust.

"So you're not only the cops, but you're the firemen, too? How rich!" Sands forced a laugh he wasn't feeling.

"Fu-" She was cut off by one of the paramedics clearing his throat.

"Is there any medical attention needed?" He asked, eyeing the bloodstain on Mort's shoulder cryptically. When the cops, paramedics, and firefighters had burst through the door, Mort had frozen, clutching the bag of Doritos to his chest. Under the paramedic's scrutiny, he looked around from face to face nervously, coming to rest on Sands' to see what he would do. He somehow, unknowingly, was looking for Sands' support.

"Tom. Where the hell is Tom?" Sands hauled himself onto his knees to peer over the back of the sofa for a glimpse of Tom. He was standing right behind the couch looking rather nervous. He swallowed hard and took a step backwards away from Sands, out of reach.

"Actually, there's something wrong with his feet..." Tom said almost shyly.

Mort held his breath in anticipation. He hugged the Doritos closer.

Sands felt his breath catch in his throat. "What the fuck are you doing?"

"I-I'm sorry," Tom whispered sincerely. "I-it's for the best. What would I do with a bum partner?" He asked in an attempt to lighten the situation.

The paramedic who'd spoken earlier, stepped forward. "What's the problem?" he asked Sands.

"Problem? There's no problem here," his jaw tightened. His eyes darkened into black shards of glass.

"He can't walk, and he's having trouble just standing on them," Tom said a little more bravely.

The paramedic nodded, seeming to understand. "Perhaps you should come in, and let a doctor have a look at them?" He suggested, stepping even closer until he was just a foot away from Sands.

Mort smiled a little, at the paramedic's boldness. The man didn't know how Sands felt about going to the hospital. He would soon have an idea, if Mort could judge the other man's character according to what he'd seen of it the past couple of days.

Sands slid back onto the couch, feeling his stomach bottoming out. He was going to a hospital again. But he wasn't unconscious this time. He could do something about it. He fixed the paramedic with a cold smile.

"Are you sure you want me to take me to the hospital?"

The paramedic frowned as he studied Sands and his odd behavior. Just moments before, he'd been so nervous, like he was claustrophobic, and now he was…well…acting rather 'cool' about the whole thing. "I think it might be best if you had those feet of yours checked out. If what your friend said is true, you might be in serious danger of using the mobility of your feet for good. If you'd be so kind as to satisfy my curiosity..."

As the paramedic reached out to Sands to help him to his feet, Mort's eyes darted around the sea of faces. He began to grow anxious and stood up quickly. He stood swaying for a moment, dizzy from standing so quickly. Tom moved swiftly, placing his rain stick in Mort's hand to help steady him. As the paramedic got closer to Sands, Mort's grip on the stick tightened.

There was a dull thwack of a solid punch connecting with a jaw. Sands had taken advantage of Mort's distraction and laid the paramedic out with one punch. He wouldn't kill him-he wasn't unjustly cruel-but he would not be taken to a hospital. He was about to leap to his feet, ready to bolt, when he remembered he couldn't exactly 'bolt'. His momentum carried him forward enough to give his knees vicious rugburn. That was when the second paramedic stepped forward, a hard glint in her eye.

"Sir, if you expect any help, you're going to have to cooperate. Knocking out our staff isn't going to get you better any faster."

Sands was about to lash out and kick her feet out from under her when the pain from the centralized weight over the ball of his foot nearly caused him to pass out. The girl took the opportunity to straddle his waist and hold his hands behind his back to prevent any damage to himself or to her. She stuck the needle she had palmed into a vein in Sands' arms and waited. Sands felt his resolve bleeding away and eventually, just lay quietly. He saw the end coming. "What's your name, sugarbutt?"

"Sara. Are you ready to cooperate?"

"Yes."

Mort's grip had grown so strong on the stick that he was sure there were splinters embedded in his hand. He didn't like the way the lady paramedic had taken advantage of Sands like she did. He took a few shaky steps forward which went unnoticed until he lifted the stick. From far away, Mort heard one of the firefighters' voices, "Look out!" but it was too late. Mort met the brown eyes of the lady paramedic, bringing the stick down hard on her forehead and watching as her eyes rolled up. As the cops and firefighters advanced on him, he spun around in circles, swinging the stick out in front of him dangerously.

"Get away!" he yelled protectively.

Sandy made a lunge for him and Mort swung the stick as hard as he could, intending to send the smartass cop where she belonged, when, unfortunately, Sands sat up and was whacked in the head, only cushioning the hit that Sandy received. Upon hearing the sickening thud, Mort whipped around to see Sands falling face first to the floor. He was mortified, and paid no attention to Sandy or the cuffs that were once again round his wrists.

Sara winced, feeling the welt on her forehead. That had seriously hurt, but she wasn't quite down yet. She couldn't say the same for her charge, who seemed to have succumbed to the drug and a similar bump on his head. Her partner was coming around, but it'd be awhile until he'd be physically sound enough to help her. She got to her feet to assess the damage.

The one with the stick had been restrained with a set of handcuffs. For the moment, all dangers had been neutralized. They'd still have to be transported to the hospital for treatment, but it was a small step in the right direction.

"Who was in the worst pain?" she asked the remaining man.

Tom nodded his head in the direction of Sands. "You saw how he couldn't even stand up. As for him," he nodded at Mort. "He's ok, just a little on the melodramatic side. Although I'm sure he's in his fair share of pain," he said thoughtfully.

Mort just stared at Sands lying, face down, on the carpet, and at the people around him, their faces swimming before him in a blur. He'd pulled the stitches in his shoulder once again while swinging that blasted stick. As his eyelids grew heavy, he heard Shooter.

If you'd had a shovel, nun this woulda happened.

"Aw shit," Tom muttered as he watched Mort slip under as well. He shook his head in disbelief. If he didn't feel like a mother hen, he didn't know what he felt like. "You ok?" He asked the lady paramedic as he watched her rub her forehead.

"Yes, fine, thank you. You might want to follow and bring him to the hospital." Sara gestured at Mort. "He'll come in the ambulance so he can get quicker help," she nodded back to Sands. "Is that reasonable?"

Tom nodded his head, and watched as the 2 firefighters lifted Sands up onto a gurney and wheeled him out of the cabin. Tom wrinkled his nose a bit at the bloodstain that was growing on Mort's shoulder, thinking about the blood that was already on the bench in his truck. He sighed.

"Will you two be assisting me in getting him in my truck?" He looked at Sandy and Barney pointedly.

Sandy scowled, but nodded her head once. She and Barney half dragged, half carried Mort out the door. "I-I'll be right there," Tom said before disappearing into the kitchen. He returned to the living room, shut off the lights, and locked the door behind him. He quickly opened the passenger door to his truck for Sandy and Barney to heft Mort into the cab. Sandy, none too gently, removed the cuffs from the unconscious man and slammed the door with much more force than necessary, causing Tom to glare at her. She just looked at his bulging pockets pointedly. Tom's face flushed minimally as he hopped into his truck. As soon as his driveway was clear, Tom turned out onto the main road following the ambulance to the hospital.

XXX

Sands was conscious. He was wrapped in starchy sheets and a slight tug on his arm revealed something stuck in it. He had a suspicious feeling he knew where he was. He tried swallowing, feeling his throat close dangerously. It was dry and parched and he couldn't move his neck. His fingers probed the area, finding a giant gauze pad. He wanted to yell and rant. He cracked open an eyelid instead.

The sunlight assaulted his eye and he hissed in pain. He was so drugged, he couldn't even do the simplest of functions anymore. Blinking was a chore. Breathing was another matter entirely. It took him awhile before he noticed he couldn't feel his feet. His throat tightened reflexively for a cry of some sort, but all he could manage was a weak gurgle.

They killed me. They fucking killed me!

"Sands? Sands?" Tom's voice sounded somewhat far away to him. "How are you feeling?"

Tom was on Sands' right and Mort hovered on his left, fresh bandages on his thigh and shoulder. He looked down at Sands, frowning worriedly.

Sands couldn't even moan in pain properly. His tongue was swollen and the meds still had an iron grip on his body. Not to mention his missing feet.

"Enguhnuh!"

Mort's brow creased further, and he looked to Tom for reassurance. Tom nodded, for Mort's benefit, although he himself was worried. He wasn't exactly sure what they had done to Sands' feet. He thought it odd how drugged up he was as well, for just a foot surgery...

"I-I'm just gonna go find out when you can get out of here." He said, looking at Sands although he wasn't counting on a coherent response. As soon as Tom left the room, Mort scooted closer to Sands until he was mere inches from him. He stared down at him, looking almost panicked. He swallowed hard as if he were afraid somewhat. He opened his mouth, but no words would come out: just strangled sounds. He closed his mouth and swallowed. He nodded at Sands, and patted his shoulder.

Sands' flinch was more like a sluggish shrug. He was fighting with all the strength he had and he knew eventually there would come a time when he'd wear himself out. Then they'd come in earnest with their knives and torture devices. These lackeys were here to put him at ease. Then doctors would filter in, each crazier than the villain in a psycho-horror movie. Their instruments would get steadily worse, pulling and chopping and biting at him until it was all he could do to scream. His achy muscles picked up their trembling where they'd left off back at the lake, though much less defined than they had been.

You want to get out, don't you?

"Ughuh."

But you're stuck here, aren't you?

"Ung..."

Why aren't you fighting harder?

"Ant..."

Mort had jumped back at Sands' unexpected movement despite how weak it was. As Sands stared at the ceiling making odd grunts, Mort's frown deepened and he once again stepped closer. He made out the last word.

"Ant? Ant what?" He whispered to Sands, afraid to speak much louder and startle him.

Sands hadn't expected Mort in such close proximity. The writer's soft whisper caused him to start as violently as could be expected in his state. The arm attached to the IV came up in a slow arc, aiming to connect with Mort's head. It didn't quite have the oomph Sands had hoped for though, and Mort sidestepped it easily. Sands made a sound in his throat that dissolved into a coughing fit.

When Mort saw Sands' arm flying towards him, he quickly stepped back into the IV pole, wincing as it connected sharply with his ribs. When Sands began to gasp for breath, wheezing and coughing, Mort began to panic.

"Oh Jesus! Oh God! I'm so sorry!" He reached out a hand to steady Sands, only causing him to cough harder trying to prevent Mort from touching him. "Nurse! Nurse!" Mort began to holler frantically pacing the room and pulling at his hair. "Where the hell is the nurse?" He muttered to himself. He went to the doorway and shouted into the hall as Sands' coughing increased. "We need a nurse! He's fucking dying in here!" He turned back to Sands, his hands still entangled in his hair, eyes wild. "Oh god, oh god! I can't kill again, I can't! I didn't mean to do it-I-it was an accident! It wasn't me!"

O' course it wasn't-you was too 'fraid ter do it yerself so I had ta do it for you.

Mort's eyes widened. "No!" He shouted. "No! No! No!" He continued his shouting and tugging at his hair long after Tom had returned with the doctor. Tom looked between the two of them, Sands with his coughing fit, Mort in the middle of a nervous breakdown.

Sands gave a last cough and lay limp on the bed, his energy expended. Maybe if he thought happy thoughts, he'd just fly away...

XXX

When the Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital went to hell in a hand basket-due in no small part to a man not worth mentioning coughVoglercough-House had packed up and went to live a life on the road. He'd had a good run at the hospital, but he needed to expand his horizons, sample the local color of places not over run by evil, conglomerate assholes. When that didn't pan out, he moved to Maine. For shits and giggles he supposed. The staff of the small town hospital demanded a psychiatric doctor, told House that he could go elsewhere if he couldn't do psychiatry. So he'd figured what the hell, there were worse things to do. He could still have a good time guessing peoples secret physical maladies.

The coughing in the room set his mind to all sorts of conclusions. Dry, hoarse cough…dehydrated. Probably just woke up, guessing from the length of the coughing spell. The patient would be in rough shape. House could only guess what he was in for besides his previously scheduled "psych eval." When a man came sprinting out of the room, House was there.

The man in bed looked pale and sickly like a good patient should, but another man was furiously wearing a path in the floor tiles with his mad muttering and hair tugging. House coughed loudly, waiting for an impact. When none came, he let it slide and simply started talking.

"Well…what seems to be the problem?" His face was a mask of false pleasantness.

Mort didn't glance up as the doctor spoke to him. He didn't even hear him. All he heard was the annoyingly familiar voice within his own head that nobody else could hear until it decided to seize control of his body.

He looked up suddenly, and gave the doctor a false smile. "Hello," he drawled, his eyes cold. He turned to glance at Sands, giving him a cold smile as well. "He seems to have a few screws loose…Think you can tighten 'em up, Mister…" He looked at the doctor pointedly, for he wore neither coat nor name tag.

"That's what they pay me for." House' mouth was twisted into a smart smile. He was leaning heavily on a cane, but he didn't seem to have any other anomalies about him. "You ever think of giving him a couple of ice chunks? Does wonders for the throat."

Shooter looked at him, an eyebrow raised quizzically. "I don' like to 'sociate with the like of him." He pursed his lips and looked down at Sands, frowning.

Tom just stood frozen to the spot watching the interaction between the doctor and Mort. He'd never seen this side of the writer before, although Sands had mentioned something of the odd behavior that he now exhibited. "Mort, what's going on?"

Shooter turned and gave Tom a false smile as well. "Mah name's-" He stopped and glanced at the doctor, watching him quizzically. He gave him a tightlipped smile and looked back at the puzzled Tom. "I'd like it if you'd call meh John. It's uh personal nickname." As Tom frowned, he turned and gave Sands a lopsided grin, and winked.

Sands felt his breath coming in shallow gasps. This wasn't good. John? His name was Mort. Sands wasn't sure if Shooter was a first name, but the implications of John were ugly. And Sands couldn't do anything about it.

"John? Well, I guess we're all just running out of original names this year. What wrong with your friend, here, John?" House swung a stool over beside Sands' bed and began running cursory exams.

Shooter gave Sands a toothy grin from behind House. "Well fer one thang he likes to talk to hisself." His grin broadened. "And he's right fine homicidal." He gestured to his bandages when House turned to look at him. "He mighten even be suicidal." He grimaced, and gestured to his own neck for House to look at Sands' where the gauze pad covered the gouge from his knife.

Tom was going to pitch in, and stop 'John,' but he couldn't. He knew Sands needed help, but Lord knew he didn't want to be on the defensive end of Sands' attacks. Almost as though triggered by Tom's thoughts, Sands flung a tired arm out and grabbed Mort's wrist. John's wrist. Whoever the hell he was. He tugged Mort in close, anger radiating out of his eyes.

"I bet…you reckon yerself…a right…fine psychiatrist… huh, John Wayne?" he panted.

House said nothing, more than eager to watch the carnage. It'd been awhile since his last episode of Jerry Springer.

Shooter's grin grew as he reached out his other hand and grabbed the wrist that connect himself and Sands. Their grips were trying to outdo the other's. Eventually, Shooter won out, due to Sands' weakened state. He gave Sands a chilling smile, withdrew his arm from the agent's grasp, and stepped back from the bed. He said not a word as he left the room, almost swaggering despite the slight limp. Tom watched him go, then turned back to Sands almost questioningly. It was after all Sands' assignment.

Sands' eyes were crazed as he saw Tom just let Shooter walk away.

"What the fuck are you doing! Get him!" he yelled. This naturally produced another spectacular coughing fit, which prompted House into action. He reached for the water on the stand and dipped the napkin from the untouched hospital breakfast into a cup of water, transporting it then to Sands' mouth. He tapped impatiently, waiting for the man to get his fill before cocking an eyebrow at him.

"Better?"

"Whadduya think? You saw 'is eyes! He's nottin 'is right min, doctuh, someone's gotta' go get him!" Sands was waving at the empty doorway.

"Neither are you," House pointed out only too cheerfully.

Tom scurried out of the room, and looked down the hallway. Empty. "Shit, Sands is gonna kill me..." he muttered, moving quickly to the nurses' station. As he approached, he sighed in annoyance. It was none other than the kid, Betty Sue. "Hey, you see where a guy went? Chin length blonde hair-glasses?" He looked at her impatiently, as she slowly nodded. "Well?" he prodded.

"He asked me where he could get coffee."

"And…" Jesus! He felt like he was talking to a three year old! "What did you tell him?"

"I told him that there was a cafeteria downstairs, and that there was a quaint little coffee shop a couple blocks down the street."

Tom balled up a fist and slammed it down on the counter, causing the girl to draw back, eyes wide. "You better hope he hasn't gone far. If he's at that quaint coffee shop down the street, you'll be finding yourself a quaint grave very soon." He wasn't big on threats, but hell-he was under a lot of stress! With that said, he took off down the hallway, bypassing the elevator, and thundering down the stairs.

This left a frantic Sands alone with an uncaring Dr. House. Sands had just about maneuvered to the edge of the bed to crawl out of it when House popped a little white pill into his mouth.

"Wha wazzat?" Sands slurred, eyes narrowing. His throat was still tight and tongue unwieldy, but the water helped.

"What was what?"

"Li'l white pill. Looked suspiciously good fer you 'n th'medicinal sense. Whazzit?"

"They're my little friends. You're not allowed to have any."

"D'yuh really wanna push me, doctuh? I'm havin' a bad day. Izzat Vicodin, or izzit not?"

"It most certainly is Vicodin, but I'm not allowed to prescribe it. That's something you should bring up with someone more competent than I," House rolled his eyes. That was something he'd learned here. Psychiatrists weren't doctors. House, however, was.

XXX

While Sands was discussing pharmaceutical drugs, Tom had reached the lobby after descending 3 flights of stairs. He was gasping for breath, and had to bend over, resting his hands on his knees, swallowing deep breaths. While he was trying to catch his breath, a paramedic who was just getting off of her 12 hour shift walked by.

Sara immediately recognized Tom from the previous night. Her brow furrowed, as she saw him wheezing and gasping for breath. She hurried to his side, and began thumping him on the back.

Once he got his breathing under control, Tom was able to look up and meet Sara's brown eyes. His face flushed brighter than the cherry red it already was from a lack of oxygen. He self consciously reached up and scratched the back of his neck.

"Are you ok?" Sara asked looking genuinely concerned, not as paramedic, but as a friend. Tom nodded, smiling sheepishly.

"Yeah, just a bit out of shape," he blushed again.

Sara just grinned, thinking his shyness rather cute. "I was just getting off-"

"I'd better go-" Tom started.

They both laughed nervously, then Tom finally spoke. "Actually, I'm searching for that guy that erm…" He raised his eyebrows and grimaced at the noticeable bruise on her forehead. "I was told that he was given directions to this coffee shop down the street, if you'd want to join me…?"

Sara blushed. "Is that…was that a request for a date?"

"Well-um…" He shrugged, and looked up at her, "Yeah, I think so." He scratched the back of his neck that was bright red. "Do you accept?" He tried to give her a charming smile, but it was a weak attempt.

"Now you sound like you're trying to propose to me," she laughed. "You're never going to find your man at this rate."

Tom's face flushed even more at the mention of proposing, but his mind clicked. He really did need to be moving along. "So, are you coming?" he asked a bit more confidently, almost businesslike.

"I think I can spare a minute or two…just to make sure you actually find him. Right?"

Tom gave a lopsided grin as he nodded his head. "Yeah."

He stuck out his hand for her to hold as they headed towards the doors. He stepped through first, and, being a gentleman, held them open for Sara. Once they were out in the bright sunlight, he squinted a little, then he looked down the street to his right and to his left.

"Uh…"

Shoot! He thought to himself. The nurse hadn't told him which way the coffee shop was!

"Something wrong?" Sara frowned, wondering why Tom was stalling.

"Uh…" Tom looked over at her, smiling sheepishly. "I, uh, you wouldn't happen to know which way the coffee shop is, would you?"

"What's the name?"

Tom's grin turned into a sort of grimace. Once again, his hand returned to the back of his neck. Instead of answering the question, he told her what he did know. "It's down the street a couple blocks…quaint little coffee shop."

"Oh, you must mean TJ's. Your friend has good taste. It's a right turn," Sara smiled.

Tom looked at her gratefully and let out a sigh of relief. "Well, let's get going. We've wasted enough time as it is," he said, leading the way. Sara shrugged and followed. Truth be told, she thought she was beginning to feel a sort of…closeness…with this rough and tumble gentleman. He was cute in a dopey and utterly endearing way.

They walked the 2 blocks in relative silence, making small talk. When they reached the coffee shop, Tom was a bit surprised. It was very quaint, in a pleasant way. It was also very small-it shouldn't be too hard to find Mort-but quite frankly, that was the least of his worries at the moment. He opened the door with a bell tinkling overhead, and held it open for Sara.

She ducked under his arm and gave him a smile for his efforts. TJ's Coffee Shop was a luxury she didn't often get to enjoy. She'd have to be on her best behavior, or something similar.

Mort turned around on the spinning barstool he sat on when he'd heard the bell ring. He spotted Tom and the paramedic from the night before, so he gave Tom a sly grin. It seemed that the lady hadn't spotted him yet, but Tom most certainly had. He was looking daggers Mort's way, a kind of warning. But a warning of what? Staying away from him and his date, or warning him not to go anywhere? Mort just shrugged and spun back around. It wasn't as if he would listen to anyone he didn't want to, much less the partner of the man who seemed dead set on his blood.

Tom quickly spotted Mort, and immediately turned Sara in the opposite direction, gently placing his hand between her shoulder blades and leading her to a table across the room. He sat facing Mort, with her back to him. That way he could keep an eye on both of them.

"Well, you're awful jumpy. See someone you don't like?" She arched a brow at Tom's jumpiness.

He smiled at her pleasantly. "Nope! Now then, you said you've been here before? What's good?"

Mort sipped on his espresso and read the paper, listening to their conversation. He wondered if he was the subject, or if Tom had even mentioned him.

"Well, it's all a matter of taste. Having made my own coffee for years now, I couldn't tell the difference between a…" She scanned the list. "A double mocha latte or an espresso. I will say I like the caramel frappachino," she finally answered. Sara glanced back at Tom to gauge his reaction. He pursed his lips and nodded in thought.

"Caramel sounds good." He looked at her and grinned. "What about food?" he asked almost eagerly.

"Breakfasty type foods, mostly," she admitted.

He nodded again. "What would you like? A pastry or a muffin, or is there something you'd rather have? You've got to be starving if you've just come off your shift. I mean, you don't exactly get breaks do you?"

"Well, you'd be right about that. You don't really think about it all that much if you're busy though. You just think about all the people you're saving. Aren't you going to have something?"

"Of course I am! I'm starved!" He exclaimed, blushing afterwards. "What are you going to have to eat?" he asked as a waitress came to their table.

"A Danish." She smirked, "And please, don't let me keep you from your breakfast."

He looked down, his face cherry red. He looked back up when the waitress cleared her throat. "Ah yes…Um…" He gestured to Sara.

She just laughed. "A cherry danish and a caramel frappachino for me."

The waitress wrote it down and then turned to look at Tom bored. "I'll uh…have…" he looked at a menu. "I'll have the uh…caramel frappachino and…uh…a muffin."

"What kind?" The waitress asked, staring straight ahead out the window.

"Uh…" He looked over the choices. "Blueberry?" He looked up at the teenager questioningly. She nodded and disappeared. Tom turned back to Sara and shrugged.

"So…" He started, a little unsure. "How long have you been a paramedic?" He was groping for conversation. He hadn't been on a date in months. In fact, he'd had no social life whatsoever since Sands had come under his supervision.

"Not long, I'm still in training. Or that's what they'd like to believe so they don't have to promote me," she rolled her eyes. "I work with assholes, don't mind me. What do you do?"

"Uh…" He was a little flustered by her response. "I-uh…work in the government. What do you mean you work with assholes? And what are you in training for?" He wanted to hear about her, not talk about himself and what he was doing in Maine. Sara neatly sidestepped his question. She no more wanted to talk about her job than he seemed to. She was simply more wily about it.

"Training to work in a hospital without having to be up all hours of the night. To do something productive on my own terms. Something the government should do, but clearly doesn't. You wouldn't have a say in that, would you?"

He smirked at her. "What if I did? Would you be willing to marry me then? Give you some leverage?" he gave her a goofy grin.

Mort happened to be taking a sip of his espresso when he heard Tom's 'proposal' and nearly choked on his drink. He began coughing and gagging, trying not to spew the sip he'd taken while laughing so hard. He slapped his chest a little, wincing a bit. Once his breathing was finally calmed, he turned sideways to see Sara's reaction.

"You know, much as I like you, I'm not that impressed. You're going to have to work a bit harder than just buying me a danish and hinting at world domination."

Mort couldn't help himself at the expression of utter defeat he saw on Tom's face. He burst out laughing, drawing nearly the whole shop's attention. Tom's flushed face glared at him.

"Actually…" he said turning to look at Sara. He was quite sensitive, and although he knew she was joking, the whole situation combined with Mort's laughter made him feel as if he were almost humiliated. He'd be damned if he'd let 'Farmer John' over there embarrass him. "Actually, he's my job." He nodded in the direction of Mort, who was laughing so hard, he was sliding on the vinyl barstool.

Sara spared a passing glance for Mort who was still laughing. He didn't look like anything special.

"Okay, you've got me. Notorious counterfeiter? Sexual predator? Why him?"

"That's confidential," Tom said sternly.

Mort sauntered over, his laughter under control at the moment. "Confidential to me, too." He told Sara. He looked at the bruise on her forehead and furrowed his brow. "What happened to you? Get in a fight with one of those 'assholes'?" he asked.

Now that she had a better view of him, her brain immediately leaped to the obvious. Judging by the fresh bandages, he'd gotten fixed up at the hospital, but she couldn't imagine why the hospital would let him out this early without an escort of some sort. He would have to stay over night for observation in case of infection at least, wouldn't he?

"I get it now. You're a brutalizer of women, aren't you," she answered coolly.

Mort frowned, and something in his eyes flashed. "Now thas' not very nice there lil' lady. Insinuatin' such things. I'm insulted," he drawled. Tom's eyes rolled into his head with annoyance.

"Goddammit Farmer John, get lost, would ya?" He sighed with annoyance and turned back to Sara. "I'm sorry about him." He turned to glare at Shooter.

Shooter stared straight out the window, seeing something that brought a broad grin to his face. Seeing the grin, Tom felt something crawl up his spine.

"Don't you go disappearin' on me again, you hear me Mort?"

Shooter just kept grinning staring outside. "How do you spose' I can do that, Mister Tom?" He looked down at him. "What with this here bum leg your frien' give me…I'm a just go have me a lil' fresh air if that's ok with you?"

Tom sighed and nodded. "Fine."

Shooter grinned toothily at Sara and nodded his head. "Nicen ta see ya. Hope yer manners improve the next time we meet. Wouldn' want somethin bad to happen ter ya…" With that, he limped with his head held high, out of the coffee shop. When he left, Sara rolled her eyes.

"That wasn't your friend, was it? Doesn't look as though you're very chummy."

Tom looked at her apologetically. "Hey, I'm sorry about him. He's not my friend, just my job. Hope he didn't ruin your breakfast," he said as the waitress placed their order before them.

"Are you kidding? I'm a paramedic. So what kind of a job is he that you can let him walk away?" As they dug into their food, she had the perfect view of the man hanging in front of the window with a wicked smirk on his face before he walked away.

Shooter had waited until he was sure Tom was preoccupied and wouldn't glance his way. When he saw them begin to eat their food, he began the short journey to the corner of the street where the bright yellow cab he'd called for waited. He hobbled down towards it, and slid into the backseat.

The driver, a heavyset man in his late 40's made a noise of irritation. "Took ya long enough! I been sittin' here for the past 10 minutes! We don't got all day! Where to buddy?"

Shooter frowned, not at all liking the man's tone of voice. "Listen here, buddy, I'm payin the tab, meanin' you do what I say you, do ya hear?" The cabby grumbled. "Good. Now I want you to take me to Bangor International Airport." At the cabby's protest, Shooter's voice got threatening. "Is there a problem? Cause if there is, I can surely solve it…" He leaned up and hissed into the cabby's ear. He grinned as the man swallowed hard, feeling the tip of the screwdriver pressing into his throat.

At Sara's words, Tom's head had whipped around, and he cursed, throwing down his napkin as he jumped up and ran out the door. He ran down the sidewalk just as the cab pulled away. The last thing he saw was Shooter's mad grin from the rear window.

"Shit, shit, shit!" Tom cursed, balling up his fists. "Sands is gonna fucking kill me," he muttered to himself shaking his head. He hadn't heard Sara follow him out.

"I distracted you, didn't I?" she asked softly.

Tom inhaled sharply and turned around to face her. "No, no it wasn't you." He moved closer to her. "Please don't think that. This isn't your fault, it's mine." All my fault, he thought to himself.

Let's just face facts here, she thought bitterly. "No, if I hadn't come with you, you would have been able to do your job. I knew you had to meet someone. I'm sorry."

"Goddamit! Don't be fucking sorry! It's not your fault!" He sighed annoyed with himself. "Shit, I'm sorry," he said softly, looking her in the eye. Shit, I'm such a fuckup! He really liked her. He didn't want to screw things up, and yet, that's what was happening. Everything was going downhill, all because of that bastard!

"All right, I can see you're obviously stressed out and…I'll just let you go wallow in your misery alone, shall I?" she nodded. "Thanks for breakfast." Before Tom could try to call her back, she disappeared into a throng of tourists.

"Fuck! I'm going to kill him! I'm going to fucking kill him!" If Sands didn't kill Tom first. He sighed as he headed back towards the hospital to face the inevitable.

Author Thanks: Merrie: Mort may get no sympathy, but he did get the upper hand this time around. Not quite a breakdown for SJ, but we're getting there. Next chapter. ; ) Despite the fact that I didn't hear you talk about how fun it would be. Nope, just the wind. Sandswich: Yeah, that SJ just keeps getting beaten up, doesn't he? And uh… well, I wouldn't put it past Jeffrey to make a big appearance sooner or later, no siree.