It is really heartening to know that this is being enjoyed (especially that last chapter!) I've had the house all to myself for the last couple of days... so I'm hoping to have at least one more chapter up in the day or so- I hope everyone is enjoying the holiday weekend!

Glamis Castle Rose, Midnight Muse, Quick - thank you again for your kind words. They mean so much to me.

Captn-Jack's-Bonnie-Lass – please forgive me, I meant to say last time that I was glad to hear you'd been inspired to crawl inside Sands' head for yourself and do a first person fic! It's a bit of a scary playground at times… but it's still a fun place to hang out!

Funky Little Armadillo – I can't tell you what a compliment it is that I kept you up late (although I guess I should apologize!) Thank you, thank you!

(Although I will let it out that eventually Beth does "go away" – temporarily – as part of the plot… but let's face it, she's under Sands' skin and even he knows it – even if he isn't ready to admit it, any more than he's willing to admit to his growing attachment to Cicily.)

Chapter Nine:

There Are None So Blind...

I direct Milo to get me a cool cloth from the bathroom and lean back against the headboard. I listen as he him walk into the bathroom room – runs the water… the rest of the house is as quiet as the grave… but I really have no reason not to believe that he waited until Beth went out before coming in. Milo isn't like me. He doesn't leave a trail of bodies in his wake.

Footsteps – he stops just in front of me – my best guess is that he's trying to figure out what to do… if it weren't for the pounding between my ears, I might let him stew for a few minutes figuring out how to be polite… but my head hurts too damned much to play games. "Thanks," I reach out and take the terry cloth from his hands. Its coolness does little to ease the headache, but it still feels good against my forehead.

"Welcome," he says softly – I hear a certain – discomfort – in his tone. Yeah, I'm not so easy to be around now, am I? Why is it people fear monsters? Why do they fear that which is beyond their ability to control or comprehend? If it was just me he was afraid of, I wouldn't give a rat's ass – but it's not me. It's the disfigurement that makes him uneasy – a thing he didn't cause and has no power to correct – a thing that is not contagious – and frankly, no one but me is ever going to be able to grasp the whole horrific extent of it. No one can say they understand. No one can sympathize. I don't want sympathy.

I feel the bed move as Milo sits down on the edge of it – he scoots a little closer. His movements are decidedly indecisive.

"Not tonight, dear, I have a headache," I mutter.

He manages to laugh at least. "Can I get you anything else?"

I ignore his question. "You know – the really fucked up thing is that I still get the urge to close them," I'm not really trying to shock him. Well, ok – maybe just a little. Maybe I want to shake him up enough that he'll stop walking around on eggshells and just talk to me. "I mean – there's nothing there to close – and all I want to do is lean back and close my eyes. Wonder what kind of field day the Company shrinks would have with me now."

I'm not sure if he gets the drift – or just honestly doesn't know how to respond. "What happened down here, Jeff?"

"I wish I knew. A little over six months ago, I started seeing this – hot little number – Ajedrez Cardenas." The sound of her name rolling off my tongue makes me ill. "AFN officer. And things were going just swell until her old man's buddy drilled out my eyes. I'd seen too much, you see."

"And in between points A and B?" he asks - rather patiently. Milo's like that.

"Well, when Ajedrez gave me a key to her apartment – about two months into it – I had a check run on her – just to cover my ass. She came up clean. I had no – fucking – clue she was Barillo's daughter until – until the Day of the Dead."

I feel the mattress bounce lightly – Milo is probably nodding at me – or shaking his head, I can't really tell in my current condition… I bite back the acerbic comment forming in my throat and ask him to hand me my cigarettes and lighter instead. I can find them – but I'm afraid if I move my skull might actually split open, like Zeus giving birth to what's-her-name – Athena, I think. . I get a cigarettelit with minimal difficulty and leave the pack in my lap – I have the feeling that this story is going to require a lot of cigarettes.After taking a nice long drag of my smoke, "Once upon a time, there was General, a President, a Drug Lord and one lone Cowboy trying to keep the balance. Oh and there was a mariachi, too," I add, "Every good Western needs a mariachi, right?"

"A guitar player?"

"A guitar fighter."

"Guitar fighter?"

"A guy called El."

"El – as in 'the'?" Milo asks – and I can tell he's wondering if I didn't get knocked on the head along the way…

"Just – shut up and listen."

I don't quite realize it, but within moments of really getting going, I've slipped into the sort of cold detachment I would use during an official debrief. I give him the facts – the figures – and I don't pull any punches because if Milo is going to help me track down who's really behind my recent fall, he's going to have know where I screwed up. What I don't tell him is what a fucked up moron I really am. Of course, I'm pretty sure Milo can deduce that for himself. He's a bright kid. (All of four years younger than me, but I think I was always a little old for my years – and maybe that's all a part of the balance too. With my face, I got carded buying beer until I was almost thirty-five.)

I'm just about to my arrival on Beth's doorstep when I hear the backdoor opening. The sound stops me mid-sentence as I strain to hear… anything… Then a marvelously familiar voice calls out hello – it rings through the house – and I think I can breathe again. I think I can relax. And it isn't that I didn't believe Milo – it's just that believing and knowing are two different things. And now I know.

I take a long last drag of what I think is my third or fourth cigarette and stamp it out, unfinished. I hear her footsteps – bare feet against hard stone floor – she's wearing jingly bells or bangles – her scent precedes her into the room and I shift slightly so I'm sitting up when she comes in.

"Sands, you –" she stops short at the bedroom's threshold. The smile that I heard in her voice vanishes. "Oh. Hello."

I feel Milo stand up and cross the room – if I know him, he stops a courteous three feet away from her, flashing his badge and extending his hand at the same time. (I've seen him pull Mr. Polite on any number of occasions – like I said, we're diametrically opposed to one another in just about every conceivable way.)

"Good morning, Ma'am – I'm Officer Milo Perry Givens – United States Central Intelligence Agency. Officer Sands was just telling me how you saved his life."

I hear Beth clear her throat – and oh, what I wouldn't give to see the look I know she's giving him – I'd love to watch her look through someone else the way I know she looks right through me – but most of all, I'd love to watch Milo squirm the way I do when she does it to me.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Officer Givens," her tone is reserved; she takes his hand (I can hear some bangly bracelets jingle.) "Would you excuse us for a few moments?" Skip reserved – she's giving himyour regular Jack Frost treatment.

"It's ok," I try to tell her.

"'It' might be ok – you however are not." I hear her soft footfalls approaching the bed – the mattress sags slightly as she sinks onto it, on one knee, I think; she'sleaning over me. I become aware of her warmth – her scent… she pulls the cloth from my forehead and turns around, "Officer Givens, if you would be so kind – there is some bottled water in the fridge – kitchen is straight down the hall. Pour some over this – come back with the bottle please – and the black leather bag on the table."

"Yes, Ma'am," Milo's tone is difficult to interpret – I'm not sure if he's amused – or perplexed – or a little bit of both.

"Please close the door on your way out – and knock before you come back in."

"Yes, Ma'am," there is a distinct smile in his voice this time – he's probably laughing at me, being subjected to such an abrupt, authoritative woman on a regular basis – I wonder if he'd believe me that she isn't this way at all.

"It really is ok," I tell her as Milo retreats – and those footsteps are indeed the footsteps of a man beating feet to get out of a room.

Beth lifts the ashtray from my lap. "Five cigarettes," her tone has yet to thaw – she sets the ashtray on the nightstand – it hits with a dull thunk – and then she removes the nearly empty pack of cigarettes from my lap as well, before sitting down with her butt up against my hip. "Five cigarettes, and I've barely been gone an hour – and you really expect me to believe that everything is fine? How bad is the headache?" She asks the second question without giving me time to answer the first.

"There's a loaded gun under the pillow – be a doll and put me out of our collective misery –?"

"No such luck, Cowboy."

"You sure?" I try to favour her with wry smile, but I feel like I'm coming up short.

Beth laughs softly, although it holds little amusement. "Yes, I'm sure. Let's have a look."

And I feel her hand near my face – and I know it's stupid but I turn away from her touch… I know she's already seen my face a dozen times… but – I just don't want her to see it right now, not with the memory of Milo's reaction so vivid in my memory. I know she knows… but I guess… I don't want her to be reminded… because… I am the world's biggest fuckmook. I really did do this to myself.

And if Milo had been anyone else, I'd be dead, not sitting here stewing in my own misery.

Beth and Cicily would likely be dead too.

That is a very sobering thought.

"I need to see if that infection has come back," her tone is calm – rational.

I'm in no fucking mood for rational. "It's just a headache. Give me some pills. I'll be fine." I turn my head further away from her and let my hair fall across my face, trying to just breathe through the pain. It is just a headache.

After several long, uneasy moments (in which I honestly begin to believe I may have pissed Beth off for real), very gentle fingers brush my hair back out of my face – she seems to linger on me longer than is necessary… "You're making this difficult, Cowboy," her tone is as gentle as her touch.

"It was always difficult, Sugar Butt," I don't really mean to snap at her, but telling Milo what happened, telling someone the whole God damned story – remembering that I am my own worst enemy, that this never would have happened if I hadn't let myself get suckered in by a cheap piece of tail… Mutilation. Blindness. Betrayal. Stupidity.

There's a light tap at the bedroom door.

"Be right back," Beth tells me softly – I feel her rise from the bed – cross the room – she cracks the door open and slips out – she'd gone for longer than I think she should be… but… I honestly can't make myself believe Milo would do anything mean and nasty to her, not now… he's nothing like me.

Beth finally returns to my side – she sets down her bag and a plastic water bottle – then arranges the nearly ice cold cloth across my forehead. "Can you describe the headache to me?" She asks.

"It's a fucking headache – it hurts. Just give me drugs. I'll be fine."

I hear Beth open her bag and for half a second I think I might just maybe get what I want… and then I feel her fingers on my chin, as she tries to coax me to turn my head towards her. How much do you want to bet she has that God damned penlight of hers…

"You already know what it looks like. Trust me – nothing's changed in the last twelve hours." I didn't spontaneously start growing new eyes…

"Just let me make sure there's nothing wrong. I promise – I'll keep it brief."

Make sure there's nothing wrong – who does she think she's kidding? Everything's wrong. Mutilation. Blindness. Betrayal. Stupidity. My stupidity

But I also know just how stubborn this woman is. She's not going to give in until I do.

"Whatever," I tell her at last, trying to make it sound like I don't really care.

I feel her pull the glasses away, robbing me of the one small security I have left… without them no one would ever know… no one but me. Her. Milo.

And just because I am an ass, "How do you do it, anyway?" I ask.

"How do I do what?"

"Look at me – without getting sick, I mean."

I hear her take in a long, deep breath. It's like she's debating with herself whether or not to let me in on her little secret for staring a freak in the face…

"Come on, I'm a big boy. I can take the truth."

"I doubt that very much."

Now she has my attention – out of sheer, stupid, fucking habit, I turn my head in her direction. "Try me."

"Maybe another time. Right now I want to check for infection – then I'll give you something for the pain – but only if you promise you'll have something to eat right after."

"I'll eat." Anger – resentment – pain. It's not just physical… I want to know how she does it – I need to know. And she's not going to tell me. I think she's doing it just to piss me off.

I feel her fingertips, ever so gently touching the tissue around my eye sockets – and that's when I realize it's me who wants to hurl. Every time Beth looks at my uncovered face – every time she touches me – I want to puke my fucking guts out… and yet she is so – calm. Professional.

Detached.

Maybe that's it – that's how she does it – that's what she doesn't want to tell me.

How detached she really is.

Nurse.

Patient.

I'm nothing to her – just some guy who showed up and puked in her petunias on the Day of the Dead… she pulled out a few bullets and patched me up, just like any good doctor would do.

"Everything looks all right, but I'm going to give you an oral antibiotic after you've eaten just to be on the safe side. You ever take amoxicillin before?"

"I don't know – what does it look like?" I struggle to keep my own tone as cool. Detached. Professional.

I am professional. It's just that Beth and I are on opposite ends of the spectrum – opposite sides of the scale. But, friends, it's all about balance… so I guess for every me, there has to be a Beth. There has to be someone to make the world a better place, a little ray of sunshine for every dark corner.

"Giant blue horse pill," she tells me.

"Yeah. I've had those. No adverse reaction," I report curtly. "Can I have my glasses back now, please?"

I hear a very soft sigh out of her – then I feel her fingers on my cheek… and I would like to tell you that I don't react at all, but that would be a lie. Her touch is so – warm. Tender. It's like… like I don't know what. Like a ray of sunshine, I guess – but I know how fucking stupid that sounds. I swallow hard and try to fathom what it is she's checking for, as I struggle against the urge to lean into her warmth. She strokes my face for a moment more – then I find the glasses being placed in my hand.

"Thank you," I tell her. My tone is dark – even shoving the glasses back onto my face doesn't make me feel any better about the Universe in which I live.

"There's a half a bottle of water on the table – I want you to finish it," she says – her voice sounds – sad?

I feel her pressing four oblong pills into my hand. Vicodin. Without a word, I pop the pills into my mouth and reach for the water – I chug the whole bottle back in one great big swig.

The rest of the afternoon goes by just as swimmingly. For lunch, Beth serves up last of last night's dinner – chili con carne. She is an amazing cook. It's not just her pibil, every thing she's made has been just incredible…

She sends Milo and I out onto the veranda but doesn't join us – and I wonder if I really have managed to piss her off this time – it does occur to me that I was dishing up more shit than she deserves. Beth has truly been nothing but wonderful to my sorry ass… I don't deserve her.

Milo, wisely, allows me to stew in silence while we eat. I listen to the sounds of the world passing me by – traffic two streets over – someone honks their horn – but it's a quiet day. The water fountain trickles merrily (I asked Beth to describe it to me the other day and she had me go up and feel it for myself… it's this horny little Greek goat-man – and I do mean horny. There's a naked chick next to him – she holds a vase out of which the water pours…)

After we've both finished, Milo takes our bowls back inside – I feel like an fucking invalid, just sitting here, being waited on… I'm just lighting up a cigarette wondering what's taking him so fucking long, when I hear the garden gate open – ok, no gunshots. No shouting men… only small feet on cobblestone. "Just getting home from school?" I ask Cicily.

"Uh-huh."

"Have a good day?"

"I hate math."

"Oh?" I don't really know what to say – it just seems like I should say something. Mostly our interactions have been limited to her reading to me…

"We started doing adding with big numbers and I keep getting mixed up," she tells me, stepping closer.

"You'll get it – I know you're a smart kid." I don't really know what I'm doing, how to talk to a child - but she is a smart kid.

I imagine her smile – I kinda wish I knew what she looked like… although I picture her as a younger version of her mother - utterly angelic.

"Are you feeling better today?" She asks.

"A little better, yes."

"I'm glad."

And then I hear the backdoor open – heavy footfalls – Milo.

"Hello there," he says. "You must be Cicily."

So – he and Beth have been talking… why does that bug me? "Cicily, this is my friend Senor Givens," I tell her.

Unlike me, Milo is good with kids. He walks right up to her – probably holds out his hand and smiling while he's at it – no wait, I'll be he actually kneels down to be eye to eye with her… eye to eye. Like I'll ever be eye to eye with anyone or anything ever again…

"It is a pleasure to meet you, Cicily," he says in the kind of friendly tone I've never quite been able to master. (My friendly tone is reserved for ladies over the age of consent… not that that is ever going to be an issue again… fuck… I am in a sour mood…)

"Hello," Cicily answers in an equally friendly tone. "You're American."

"That I am. So are you."

"Uh-huh – but we live here now – so we're sort of like Mexican."

I hear Milo's amused chuckle – I may not have any idea what Cicily really looks like – but I'll bet a big bottle of tequila and a fat juicy lime that she does not look Mexican. Milo however, good sport that he is, agrees that yes, that does indeed make her sort of Mexican…

Then Beth calls Cicily into the house – and I listen as the child scampers off.

Milo resumes his seat, "She's a cutie."

"I wouldn't know."

"Sorry."

I wave it aside – between the food and the pills, I no longer want to put a bullet through my skull at least. "I'm beginning to realize just how sight oriented we humans are. Expressions like 'see you later' or 'see what I'm saying' – even a simple 'oh, I see.' And how many people start sentences with 'look' or 'see here' – or end them with 'you see?' It doesn't make any sense when you think about it. I mean, how can you see what someone is saying anyway – we talk with words – and spoken word is something you hear, not see. We understand with our minds – but we relate all these things to 'seeing'. And that, my friend, is just totally fucked up."

"It is," he agrees. "You know – Jeff – when this is over – even after we get whoever sabotaged you – your career is still over."

"No shit, Sherlock."

A long silence settles over us. I use it to mull over the last few weeks, before it all went south – that last conversation with Collins, where the little turd hung up on me… and it was Collins who gave Ajedrez the all clear when I asked for a background check… and come to think of it, he'd been acting a little squirrelly ever since then… "I think we should start with Dan Collins," I pronounce aloud. "I'm pretty sure it goes up at least as high as Suarez," I add and give him the quick and dirty of what went down in Bogotá four/five years ago – it, too, involves me and somebody else's money… hey, do you honestly have any idea what a CIA Officer makes? Not enough, let me tell you – and while I'm no frigging Robin Hood, I really do only rob from the bad guys. Well… ok, I'm the bad guy. I only rob from the worse guys. "My best guess is that Suarez is using Collins to do her dirty work – and probably won't hesitate to burn him too – so maybe that'll give us a little leverage against the little turd. Because I really cannot imagine anything I've done that was – radical – enough for Collins to go and try to get me killed. I may have a small body count – but my bottom line is always good – I always get the job done. And what the fuck, it's Mexico – who's even going to notice an extra corpse – or three."

"Do you remember Eros Island?" Milo asks out of the blue.

"What?" Was he even fucking listening to me?

"That resort in the Caribbean."

"Yes – I know what it is," I tell him – and yes, I sound just as peeved as you might imagine I sound. Because yes, of course, I remember the place, it's just that it has abso-fucking-lutly nothing to do with what's going on in my life at this very moment – and therefore, I don't care.

Eros Island was – almost ten years ago? No – no, more like eleven – that's right – because Holly dropped her little bomb on my ass just before I got shipped down to Ecuador. Man what a shit hole… makes this place look fucking civilized (you know, just once I'd like to go somewhere like – I don't know – somewhere that you can drink the water right from the tap and where hotel rooms don't come with complimentary mosquito nets. I know, there was Fucks-it-stan-okov… finally some place with a climate I could handle, if only the natives hadn't been so darned ornery…)

However… eleven years ago, Ecuador – I met up with Milo for the first time since Langley…I cut him in on a small bonus I'd arranged for myself (I needed his help with a couple of the little details…) And Eros Island is location of that resort I let him take me to. They built it on the site of an old Spanish Naval base and colony – gorgeous place, full of eighteenth century architecture (what didn't think I was capable of appreciating such things? Well… I used to be… you know, when I could see… One summer Alison and I visited just about every old historical building in three states… I was in college, she was still in high school… like I said, once upon a time, we were almost close. I like to think that that summer had something to do with her going into architecture...)

But back to the here and now… "Yeah, I remember the Eros Island. I remember it well enough that it's the last time you book our destination."

Milo chuckles. "Hey, I found you the one resort that does a pig roast every single night. I figured it was a fair compromise."

"Well, I suppose as vacations go, it could have been worse," I admit. The food was grand (although not quite worth killing over) and the rum was even better. We had an ocean side suite – the hotel was up on this cliff that jutted out right over the water. The beach wasn't more than a ten minute walk away and the weather was tolerable… I've never been terribly fond of heat (I'd rather be stationed in Alaska, spying on the Rooskies from our side of the channel. Oh please, don't tell me you buy into the hype about the cold war being over. It's not over, it just went underground.)

"Remember that late night walk on the beach?" Milo asks.

I'm still trying to figure out what that has to do with this. "Would that be before or after the night of way too much rum, there, Sugar Butt?"

That gets me a full-blown laugh out of him. "After. I remember how nervous I was when I said I was going to go take a walk and you grabbed you shirt and said you'd come keep me company."

"What did you think – I was going shoot you?" I ask him.

"It crossed my mind."

And that gets a laugh out of me, "You're far too much fun to play with – I'd never kill you." Of course, that's a lie – and I'm pretty sure we both know it – but he refrains from commenting.

There's another long silence. I seriously hope Milo's gotten his mind back to the task at hand – because as much fun as this stroll down memory lane might be under other circumstances (preferably accompanied by strong spirits), I really just want to go about the business of finding out who's out to kill me this time–so I can start planning some creative revenge.

"Remember – we wandered onto the public beach – and there was that family sitting around a bonfire?"

So much for wishful thinking. "I was a little pre-occupied scoping out the college chicks," I tell him, "But yeah, I remember." Girls in bikinis – now that is something I am sorely going to miss being able to see... We humans really are visual creatures…

"You asked if I'd ever wondered what it was like to be normal."

"And you managed not to take it the wrong way – I was so pleased," I tease him – although truthfully, I'm about at the end of my tether with this little conversation, even if the light has finally gone on inside my head and I know why we're mucking around in the past instead of forging headlong into battle. Or maybe it's the reason for the mucking that is really pissing me off...

Milo's answer that night had been that men like us don't have normal lives – we wouldn't know what to do with them. And that's when I told him about Holly… maybe it was the rum – maybe it was just that, what the Hell, I knew his 'big secret' – so I figured he was a safe enough recipient for one of mine (and it's not like my 'secret' would hurt my career if it got out any more than his would.) Maybe I just really fucking needed to talk to someone because I was still feeling a little raw inside – because I really would have stepped up to the plate sooner, if she'd given me half the chance. I didn't want to play Daddy – Holly and I had already played house, I knew it would never work. I just wanted to be better than my old man had been. I just wanted to contribute to the care and feeding of my own kid.

I stamp out my cigarette. "Milo – the only thing I ever did that has made Holly happy was when I promised to stay out of her and Emma's lives. So, I just do not see her welcoming me back now – even under exigent circumstances." Hell, she's probably married and living happily ever after somewhere. With any luck at all, she's managed to forget all about me.

"I wasn't talking about Holly, Jeff."

And for several very long moments, I just don't know what to say. It feels sort of like the world is bottoming out… I cannot possibly have heard what I think I just did. Milo's been here – two hours? Maybe three? And he's trying to suggest what exactly?

Finally I find my voice and respond in the only way I know how. With a very sharp tongue. "Could you do me a favour, there Dr. Phil – let's just worry about who's behind this," I point up at my face, "And then I'll figure out what I'm going to do with the rest of my life once I think I'm actually going to have one."

"I'm just saying –"

"I know what you're saying. Now can we please just drop it and get down to business?"

I hear him take a deep breath – just fucking drop it already…

"It's getting late – here," Milo tosses something into my lap.

I know what it is before even placing my hands around it.

"I've programmed my number in – just hit menu – big round button –"

As he's talking, I'm flipping the phone open and feeling the buttons – I nod that I've got it.

"Then one on the key pad. Any other numbers you want programmed?"

"No – unfortunately I had to kill my favourite little stool pigeon rather recently and I haven't gotten around to replacing him yet." I don't regret offing Belini, arrogant little ass-wipe that he was. I'm just pissed about the inconvenience of the situation. He was a damned good stool pigeon.

I imagine Milo shaking his head, possibly even rolling his eyes at me. "All right. I'm going to go do some digging – I'll call you in a couple of days whether I've found anything useful or not."

Swell. Two days with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs.

And stew.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

ps – yes, I'm having a bit of sport with veiled (and not so veiled) references to some of Depp's other films… admittedly playing a bit of mix 'n match... ;)