Wow! My gosh, all those reviews! Thank you so much! The thing I love the best about this forum (other than getting to read other people's work ;-) is being able to get feed back on a work "in progress" – it really helps and I so appreciate it.

With that in mind, I'll keep an eye on my hyphens/dashes (I tend to over punctuate, but usually I catch it) – and I did find a couple of missing words in that last chapter, which I've corrected (I may repost that chapter with corrections in punctuation and putting in those missing words.)

I really hope no one's sick of Beth and Sands muddling through, because they're still at it (I guess that's what happens when you get two basically insecure people and put them in a room together…) although I have some stuff already for a future chapter that just didn't seem to fit in here with Paula Basil.

I finally got around to watching Once Upon a Time w/ the director's commentary on (I've been up on a ladder stenciling my living room and ANYTHING to make the time pass, but that I don't have to just sit and stare at is getting put into the DVD player – needless to say, I've watched my favourite 2 or 3 movies six times each this week.) So, I'm trying to imagine Sands being played by George Clooney (for anyone who hasn't listened to Rodriguez's commentary, that's who he originally wanted to play our favourite CIA agent) and it just wouldn't be the same… but it so makes me want to stick George in here somewhere in my imaginary casting… and I have an even greater respect for Rodriguez just because of the feat he pulled in making Mexico.

…………………………………………….

Chapter Twenty Five:

Little Details and Minor Complications…

I run my fingers through her hair and down her cheek, enjoying the way her kiss lingers on my lips and in my mouth… enjoying the smile I feel forming on her lips and the way she kisses my fingers as they pass over them… I don't know how I'm going to make this work – I don't know how I'm going to not screw this up, but I want this. I want her. I want them both – and I have to wonder if I have the slightest idea what I'm doing… Christ, she deserves the world. But when her lips collide with mine again... very little else matters…

I run my hands over back, just feeling her, the way her sides move when she breathes, the gentle curve of her waist. I just want every detail I can get with what I have left. Her skirt is silk – there's something tied around her waist, a scarf, maybe, with bells and fringe – she must really create some picture when she walks down the street. Her shirt is soft cotton, not quite short sleeves (they go down to her elbows) with small buttons on the cuffs. Her hair just brushes against the collar and she seems to like it when I run my fingers through her hair (and I love the little noises she makes to let me know she likes what I'm doing… although, let us be clear, I have hitherto fore remained a – nearly – perfect gentleman.)

I rest my forehead against hers a moment, just taking in her scent and listening to her breathe. She's got her arms resting on my shoulders – she seems to be just playing with my hair a little, twining it around her fingers. I have no idea why that makes me smile, but it does. "What colour is your blouse?" I ask.

"Red."

Hmmmm… "Did you know red is my favourite colour?"

"No – but I'll keep that in mind."

I laugh – I really can't help it. "You are something else, you really are." And what I wouldn't give to just be able to see her, just once…

It's almost as if in response to my thought – my regret – that I feel her hand on my cheek. Not sympathy. Just comfort.

"What's your favourite colour?" I ask; it's as much out of curiosity as to change the subject. I don't want anything at all to spoil this.

"Green – dark green, like pine green – and rich, earthy brown – like chocolate."

Yeah, that fits. Gently (and still politely, thank you) I begin exploring her body with my hands.

Her collarbone is small, delicate – her neck is long and slender – and I love the sound of her giggle as I brush the back of my hand along that ticklish jaw of hers. Beth doesn't try to stop me as I run my fingers down the centre of her chest (her blouse is open to just the right spot, exposing just enough, but not at all too much flesh….) However, I follow her breastbone straight down without deviating into territory I shouldn't be in (yet). Her stomach is flat – soft… and now what is that?

I slide my hand up under her shirt, no higher (or lower) than that unidentified thing… it doesn't take long to figure it out. Looks like Beth has something in common with my lovely little offspring… "How long have you had this?" I ask of the metal ring that pierces the 'top' of her belly button. It feels pretty well healed – at the very least she isn't acting like it's tender to the touch, although I'm being careful just in case.

"A few years. Post Neal."

My lips twitch upwards just a little – but I'm afraid asking if there are any other 'hidden surprises' might get me slapped… so I let my touch wander, just a little under her shirt, taking care to remain within the purview of what would be considered mostly polite. I honestly just love the warmth of her flesh against my hands. (And I've come a long way from wham bam, thank you ma'am. A woman's body is a thing to savour every inch of.)

"No other piercings, sorry," she tells me – it breaks the fantasy a little – but just the same I'm glad Beth isn't a walking pin cushion.

"You really have the most – gentle hands," she whispers, barely audibly…

And I wonder if she means gentle for the kind of man I am – you, know a cold blooded killer (hey, no delusions right? And my Christ – she has to know enough about me to know who and what I am, she heard my fevered nightmares, she's seen my trunk full of goodies… what does she think she's doing here with me, like this? What do I think I'm doing…?)

"I don't care if you say it in French to make it sound all pretty, I'm still no angel, Sheldon."

"You speak French?"

"Just a little. And don't ask where I learned."

Now if that isn't a challenge…

I feel more than hear Beth's soft laughter – yeah, she knows it too (and I don't think it was an accident, either.) Which is probably why she changes the subject on me, "I used to have my nose pierced, a long time ago, but I had to take it out when I got into med school – something about professionalism."

"What about your ears?" I ask, leaning in to give her left lobe an experimental nibble (no, I'm going to forget about that challenge of hers – but all things come to he who waits – or something like that.)

She giggles a bit at my touch, but offers no resistance, "A couple of holes in each, but it's been a long time since I've worn earrings."

I stop nibbling just long enough to ask her why that is.

"I guess I – got out of the habit of wearing a whole lot of jewelry."

Interesting… "Tattoos?" I ask (then go back to what I was doing with her ears and neck.)

Silence. Ok, that's a yes.

"Where?"

"There's a – grape vine around my navel – it's a lot smaller than it sounds. I've got something around my left ankle – you know, it's really difficult to carry on a conversation when you're doing that –"

"Good. What sort of something around your ankle?" I'm intrigued by her vagueness – and I haven't stopped making it difficult for her to carry with her end of the conversation, either (although my end is going just fine.)

"It's – a knot-work band with – nine stars."

"Significance?" Because I know just enough about ink to know that tattoos usually mean something. (That and I'm enjoying how difficult it is for her to talk to me just now…)

"It – was a – a present – for the girls I used to perform with. I got it done just before I took off for Mexico. The – it's from the Nine of Pentacles, in the tarot deck – I know that probably sounds really stupid to you – ok, if you want to talk, you're going to have to stop that."

"No."

"Sheldon –"

"Yes?"

"You're impossible!"

I just laugh, "Yes. And – no I don't believe in all that karma stuff," I tell her honestly, "But that doesn't make it stupid. What's the ah – Nine of Pentacles stand for?" (If you guessed Holly as my source of knowledge on this one, you guessed correctly.)

"Independence – solitude – but – the comfortable kind."

Yeah, that fits my little angel. "I once had someone say I was the walking personification of the Devil," I tell her. No, that wasn't Holly – it was one of her hippy friends. None of them liked me much.

"You're not the Devil. You're the Magician."

"But I don't even believe in that stuff."

"The Magician has nothing to do with magic. He's the man who manipulates everything around him – he is the master of his universe and he knows it."

I throw shapes. They catch them. I set them up and I watch them fall… damn. "Well, I guess it's good to know you don't have any delusions about me." It's also a wee bit unsettling – I mean, I know I keep telling her I'm not a nice guy, but I just thought she didn't believe me…

"So what about you? I didn't see any ink – but are there any holes that weren't there at birth?" Beth asks.

"I got my ears pierced once – both of them. Strictly work related."

"Work related?"

"In the field you do what you have to – because if the other side fingers you as a spy – it can get pretty ugly, pretty quick."

"How in the world do you even begin to train for a job like that?"

"Mostly you listen to other guys – and some women – who've done it for years. You learn a little bit about a lot of things – you learn that everything you every thought was true is really horse shit – and you fly by the seat of your pants a lot."

"And my brother thought I was crazy for living out of the back of a van for two years after I left Neal."

I hear is real sadness in her voice just there. I'm not sure if Beth misses her family, or if she feels as betrayed by them as I think she should feel… even as pissed off as I am at Alison, I know what I'd do if Roscoe hit her. Then another thought occurs, "Guess that makes you something a gypsy, then, doesn't it?"

"You could say that."

Christ on a crutch. My angel is a gypsy…

"We should probably eat," Beth suggests.

"We should," I agree before going back to work on her neck and ears.

"Sheldon – you need to get some food into your system –"

"Man doesn't live by bread alone."

"You really are impossible –"

"I know," I press my lips to hers to silence further arguments. I really just want a few more minutes to savour her sweetness… my angel. I do like the sound of that…...

...Eventually, though, I stand and offer Beth my hand, "So – dinner?" I ask as I'm hauling her to her feet; I pull her into me. I know that good things never really last… but damn, I'm enjoying this.

"Everything's got to be stone cold by now –"

"Cold's fine."

"Maybe for you," Beth replies with a smile I can hear, as she wriggles away from me grasp.

I listen as she walks over and scoops both our plates up from the table and then meander along behind her, lighting up a cigarette as I go. In the kitchen, I lean back against the counter, just listening to her putter around.

…"Remember – we wandered onto the public beach – and there was that family sitting around a bonfire?" Milo asked me, just – what, not even a month ago.

"…I remember…" (although at the time we were taking this trip down memory lane I was pretty peeved at him for it because he'd just clued me in to just how much shit I was really in.)

"You asked if I'd ever wondered what it was like to be normal…" Milo said. I think I probably gave him some curt reply, but the truth is that I do remember his original response, almost verbatim:

"Men like us don't have normal lives, Jeff. We wouldn't know what to do with them. We don't know how to work nine to five, punch a clock, be a part of the day to day grind of the rest of the world – we'd end up killing somebody if we tried. We can disarm a bomb – or build one with crap lying around the house – but don't ask me to fix a leaky sink or figure out why the toilet is running. You and I can mix and mingle anywhere, pass ourselves off as anyone, but no one ever knows us – and we don't know anyone. We live our whole lives in rented flats that come already furnished and cheap motel rooms. Most of the time we rent the company of other people, even if we're not so overt as to pick up whores – because what is it really when you buy someone a drink in a bar in exchange for a few hours of sexual gratification? Services bought and paid for, that's what – but it isn't like you get to keep anything. Just like the beer you drank, the person you take back to your hotel room is just something you rented from the bar and in the end, it all just does down the pisser. What few things we call our own, the things we call personal and important, are all in storage somewhere, collecting dust. By the time we see them again we won't even remember why they were important enough to store in the first place."

Bet you didn't think Milo could be so philosophical, did you? Or maybe you didn't think we really had so much in common… we're nothing alike, but – but we have a lot in common. Yeah, weird I know. But I'm discovering that life is weird.

And somewhere between that night on the beach and that conversation we had six years ago in a cold damp cell, Milo figured something out, something I think I'm starting to almost believe, too…

…there is nothing better than knowing I have someone to come home to. It makes all the difference in the world, Jeff. Believe me. It's worth – everything…

Everything? Is anything worth everything?

"Sheldon?" Beth's voice brings me back to the here and now. (It's funny, though, the way I remember that night on the beach. I remember the bright flames of the bonfire and the way it lit the sand around it, the way the warmth of the light played over the bodies near by. I remember stars – it's so dark out there, you can see the Milky Way in the sky. I remember the ocean, the girls in bikinis and the family that sparked the conversation in the first place. I remember it all in pictures. There's sound too, girls laughing, kids being kids – and smell, salt water and burning wood, but maybe I'm just – just filling those details in now, rather than reallyremembering them. I don't know for sure… But now, all I have is scent and sound and touch – I have no pictures to go with any recent memories. And that – that's just weird.)

I turn my head in Beth's direction, forcing a little smile but not really saying anything…

"Where were you?"

"Just – thinking about something Milo and I talked about – a long time ago."

"Anything you want to share?"

"It was just – this stupid conversation we had one night after drinking a little too much rum." (A few nights after that very interesting conversation we had after drinking entirely too much rum… poor Sugar Butt, I really don't know why he puts up with my shit.)

"Ah. Men's mysteries."

I can't help but laugh, "I'm not sure I'd call it that, Darlin'," I put out my cigarette.

"Well – come on – everything's warmed back up and I've even poured another couple glasses of tequila – with lime, I might add."

My angel… I follow her into the dining room and we once again resume our seats a the table… "So – is it really safe to assume you're not going back to Mexico tomorrow?" I want to know, because even though Beth said she was staying – I'm having a hard time believing it. I'm having a hard time believing any of this. Nothing good is ever really real… is it?

"I – wish I didn't have to go back at all."

"I could live with that."

Beth stops mid-whatever-it-is-she's doing. "I – really can't afford a motel for more than a few nights," she says – I can hear the hesitation in her voice and wonder what exactly she's hesitant about…

Just the same, I tell her that she can always just stay here – "The company is questionable, but the rent is cheap, the rooms are clean – and there's complimentary pistol under every pillow."

"Sheldon – I really didn't come here to play house."

(I have the sneaking suspicion she's seeing right through my attempt at humour.) "No sweat. I'll take the couch."

"You can't possibly be serious."

"Why not?"

"You just – can't. Besides, it's not like I can just up and – what – come crashing in on you? What would I do here? And this is the middle of the school year – as it is, Cicily is missing class just so I could come here to –to hear you say you weren't interested – that I was just some naïve little nurse who patched you up, thanks and have a nice life. I expected to be back on a plane tomorrow," Beth really does babble when she's nervous – but even knowing that, I really and truly do not like the direction this conversation is headed.

"Plans change," I toss her words back at her.

"No fair."

"Never said I played fair, Ange'," I light up a cigarette – I'm afraid I've lost all interest in the pibil, no matter how grand it smells.

"What about the rest of it?"

"Well – the last time I checked, Washington D.C. does have schools, although I'll admit I can't vouch for their quality – but there's always private schools, which I suspect Cicily has a better shot at getting into than Emma – however I digress." I take long drag off my smoke and feel around for the ashtray – presently, I hear Beth push it towards me. "Gracias," I say in that terrible gringo accent I spent so long perfecting. "Now, I think we've already established that I like having you around and would kinda like to keep on having you around – but if I need to say it again, I will, because it seems to be getting a little easier to say. I like having you around. Of course, I'm still coming at this with the assumption that when you asked me whether or not I wanted you to stay, you were going to use that information to render an informed decision – was I wrong?"

"No – but – "

"Good. And lastly, as for what you'd do – I don't know, what do you want to do?" Because she could sit around watching soaps all day for all I care.

"You make it sound easier than it is."

"From where I'm sitting, it's as easy as you not getting on a plane – which in case you hadn't noticed is a lot easier than actually getting on a plane these days."

"Sheldon – could you please be serious about this?"

"I am being completely serious about this."

"You can't be."

"Why not?" I'm loosing my temper is what I'm doing…

"Because it sounds like – like you're really asking me to stay."

"Well – most likely that's because I am asking you to stay." Which I could have sworn we covered like half an hour ago…

"Here?"

"That would be my preference, yes."

"For how long?"

"For however long you can put up with me." Or until they lock me up in that rubber room…

"Sheldon – I'm serious."

"So am I." I take a deep breath and force some composure back into my voice, "Sorry. It's just that – that I don't understand why this is suddenly so difficult. When you pried it out of me that I wanted you to stay, here was kinda where I had in mind. Now if you've got another plan, I'm all ears – but – " I end with a shrug, stamping out my cigarette with far more force than is really necessary.

"It's not just me we're talking about, you know. It's Cicily – and it's Emma too."

"I realize that." Or at least half of it – I knew we were talking about Cicily too (hello, fucking duh, even I'm not that dense) – but what does Emma have to do with it…? "Come on – what's this really all about?"

Silence.

I fish out my smokes and pass one to her; I flick the proverbial bic (which is my brand of lighter, by the by) for her to light it.

"Thanks."

"So?" I prompt a return to the topic at hand; I get another cigarette out for myself as well, but I don't light it just yet.

"So what happens when you get tired of playing house?" Beth asks very, very softly.

Is it really my luck that she finally starts getting it that I'm not a nice guy about the same time I start to believe she's willing to stick around? "Look, even if you end up hating me in a week, I won't leave you without a way out, ok? Mexico will still be there if – when – you want to go back there. I won't – stand in your way or – or whatever." What the Hell would I really do to stop her? What could I do? It's not like I was able to Holly from leaving me..

There's a long pause from Beth's side of the table. Finally, "That doesn't really answer my question."

"Do you honestly believe that I could – just – what – kick you and Cicily out with no place to go?" Please don't let her think that I'm that much of prick… because if she does there is no hope of anything...

"No."

And at least it's a 'no' that I can really believe… however…

"But –"

"'But' nothing," I cut her off as my temper flares (it was that 'but' that did it – I really do not remember her as being this infuriating...) "I'm not a nice guy, ok. I know that. I'm – a prick – I'm – "

"Sheldon, please don't –"

"Don't what – acknowledge the truth? I know who I am. I don't know why anyone would want to stick around – but – you said you did so please – you've gotta stop with the mixed signals here, because I don't know what you're thinking. I'm not the psychic, that's your department, I'm the psychotic – although the actual term used in my psych-eval is sociopath – a-moral sociopath to be exact, which I suppose you should know up front. When I say I'm not a nice guy, I really do have the documentation to prove it." And it's a good thing it would be just too damned much work to reach behind me for my gun because my head is throbbing and I really just want to put a bullet between my… sockets… to make it stop. Somehow that thought snaps me out of my rant. "Look, Beth, I know you have no reason to trust that I won't – just get bored and kick you out, but – my Christ, do you really think I could do that to you? To Cicily?"

"I said no," she answers me softly.

"Than tell me what the problem is." As if I didn't just hang myself by telling her about my psych-eval… I really am the perfect a-moral killer. It says so on paper…

"The problem is – that I'm scared, too – and not because of what some shirk has to say about you."

"More than one," I caution her – no need to lie about it now…

"I don't care."

"So talk to me – what is it?"

"I never expected you to want me to stay. I only came to – to convince myself that – that I really am just this naïve little girl who'd set herself up to get hurt. Again. I still believe that I'm just setting myself up because I know you can't really mean want me – here. Under your feet – getting in your way. I know – there have to be other women – prettier women – someone who's – more your speed. More your type. I mean, even if you think you like having me around – look at me – oh my Gods –" Beth gasps, "I'm sorry."

Gods? Well isn't that interesting… not that I'm particularly interested in anything else but the conversation at hand… but at least it gives me something to ponder for just a half a second, which is all the time I need to not snap at her about being unable to look at anything because I don't have eyes, thank you very much... "I know what you meant," my tone is still pretty cold. Then, "No – that's not true, I don't know what you meant. I just know you didn't mean to be cruel."

"Sheldon, I am so sorry – please –"

I feel her very tentatively placing her hand on my arm; I put my hand over hers, "It's ok. Just tell me – tell me what you're trying to say."

"Just that you are this incredibly handsome, sexy, sensual, well traveled – exciting man. Like James Bond – or Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible. I'm just this little town girl from Alabama."

And I can hear what it is that she's not saying – that if I could see, I wouldn't have looked at her twice… and I'm not sure she's wrong. I'm also not sure it matters. "You're a Hell of a lot more than some little town girl from Alabama. And there's a lot more to a woman than – than what's on the surface. Around you I feel something I don't feel anywhere else – with anyone else." (Not that I really believe anyone else would have me.)

"What's that?" Beth doesn't sound like she believes me.

"This isn't going to make a whole lot of sense to you," I tell her. "But I feel – normal. Like – just any other guy. And believe it or not, that's a really good feeling." Although I sure as Hell she knows what to do with a leaky faucet, because Milo's right, I'd have a better shot at disarming a nuclear device than I would at fixing a broken toilet… "Maybe before the Day of the Dead I – was happy with my life, I don't honestly know. No apologizes, no regrets. But – I got burned by people I trusted to at least not fucking set me up for life in prison. There really isn't any honour amongst spies – but there are still lines." I'm not a nice guy, but I've never done to another officer what Collins did to me, not even close. "I guess it really just comes down to whether or not you want to get on that plane and go back to Mexico – or if you want to stay here. Right here."

"I never wanted to go back – I just didn't think I should even bother hoping for the best. I figured at best you wouldn't be angry at me for showing up like this."

"I'm sorry about the chilly reception. I really did just have a fuck of a day and I'm not good with surprises."

"Let me get you something for your head – sorry – I –"

I wave aside her apology, "It doesn't bother me so much as just freak me out a little, that's all," I tell her honestly (my head truly does feel as if it's about to implode.)

"Is that something you honestly think you could live with? Because it really is a part of who I am."

"I know that. I like having you around. Both of you."

Beth doesn't respond – not usually a good sign, but at the moment, the pounding inside my skull is taking up most of my focus.

I listen to her go up the stairs – a few minutes later she's back, walking past me – into the kitchen – water running into a glass… and finally she's back, pressing a couple of pills into my hand (I wonder if I should be worried that she's standing right behind me…)

"Drink the whole glass," Beth says; it sounds like a pretty hefty glass she's setting down on the table...

"Yes, Ma'am."

"And don't get cute."

I just grin up at her – and oh my Christ, Beth starts to work on my shoulders… or at least I think they used to be shoulders… "You – really – don't have to – " it's really hard to talk.

"Shhh. You need this and I need to feel useful. Do me one favour?"

"Right now – you can have anything you want." Hell, I'd offer my first born – but she's met my darling little muffin…

"I – I want to not tell Cicily we're talking about – what are we talking about Sheldon? What are we really talking about?"

"You staying. For as long as you want."

"Is it really that simple?"

"Why not?"

"Because it's never been that simple before."

"Guess I'm just an uncomplicated sorta guy."

And that gets her good – I've only heard Beth laugh this hard once, when I asked her if I could get some tequila if I promised to eat – brussle sprouts, I think it was. "Do I take it the lady disagrees with my assessment of myself?"

"Oh the lady disagrees plenty, Cowboy. But – I know you're right about one thing – there isn't anywhere else for me to stay – which I guess just makes this one of my less well thought out plans."

"Tell me something honestly – do you have well thought out plans?"

Beth just chuckles some more, "Not really."

Which is just exactly what I thought she'd say…

"I'd like to – hold off on telling Cicily about us – staying – at least for a little while."

And I can tell she's waiting for some kind of negative response – but I understand. Neither of us really knows what we're doing here and while I may truly be a prick, even I realize how easily a seven year old could get hurt. "No a problem," I tell her softly.

"Thank you."

"De nada."

Beth laughs, just a little… and it is truly a sweet, sweet sound.

While she works on me, we both pick at my plate, which is just like old times for me… by the time the pibil is gone, I think I might almost be relaxed (and oh yeah, Beth made me eat my vegetables…) The headache is even almost gone.

"That was truly amazing," I tell her quietly, as she shifts around, picking up both of our plates to carry them into the kitchen.

"You're very welcome."

I snag up the glasses and follow. I listen to Beth put the plates down on the counter – and slide up behind her, setting the glasses down in front of her (basically pinning her in her place between me and the counter). I warp both arms around her waist; she doesn't seem to mind. "Just tell me one more time you're really staying," I say into her ear, because I'm pretty sure she hasn't actually said the words and I really need to hear them. (I'm really not used to a whole lot of security in my life, especially not lately.)

"I'm really staying, Cowboy."

"Here."

"Here."

I lean in and kiss at the back of her neck (and get quite a nice response, going to have to file that one away for later….)

However, just about then, I hear Spencer hopping out of his chair in the other room followed by the distinct sound of a key in the front door…