Disclaimer: Everything here that is from OUATIM or to whom I attribute credit, belongs to the respective owners. Liz, Amanda, and Chris belong to me.

Author's Note: well, the reviewers have spoken and here we go. A chapter. We'll call my original vignette a prologue and this chapter one. Of course, now I'll be expecting all sorts of encouragements to continue. So don't hold back on me here. Any and all constructive criticisms are welcome, especially if this is reminding you of anything else because I'm almost neurotically convinced that I'm being a little too inspired by another story. But if none of you can figure it out, perhaps I'll tell you at the end of the next chapter. Or possibly the story. Now go read.


Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, officer of the United States Central Intelligence Agency and sometime turncoat, bit back a groan as the taxi he was in went over another man-eating pothole at full speed. The headache that'd been his constant companion since the blinding – Ha-ha, that's a good one – pain in his eye sockets had dulled was raging once again. Kinda like that bull at the bull ring, except now I'm the matador and not the bull and I'm slipping again.

His concentration had been a joke for awhile now. Probably a side effect of having one's eyes ripped out. The thought was totally and completely unfunny, but the corners of his mouth quirked up anyway as he leaned his head back on the headrest and started to take deep breaths through his mouth. The headache was getting to his stomach. At least by concentrating on not making a fool of himself he was keeping from thinking about the events that had led up to his traveling to a place that had once been home in a vehicle that had probably had shocks at some point in the far distant past.

A month of recovery simply wasn't enough. He was bone-weary from travel, he ached in places he didn't have anymore, he couldn't concentrate to save his life, and he couldn't see. Apparently having one's eyes ripped out was something the body objected to. And what was he doing instead of laying in a nice warm – if uncomfortable – hospital bed, making the nurses whirl about him like an RC car in the hands of a ADHD kid on crack? Running. He hated running even when he was in complete control of things and running was for the good of his master plan. He didn't have a master plan though, and he was at a distinct disadvantage at the moment since he hadn't bothered to get in touch with anything that wasn't happening in or around his hospital room.

The guards – Ha, "guards." Right. Armed MPs. – shouldn't have been a surprise. He had always been one to keep a sharp eye – "Had" being the key word. – on what was happening around him. But even that had never been enough. No smoke without fire. Rumors were usually sparked by something, and in his world, it paid to pay attention to rumors. Especially if the rumors were that officers in key operations were falling like flies at crucial times. And not the lazy, never-stick-their-heads-out-of-their-foxhole officers who could be caught off guard by a bull in a china shop. Why do I keep thinking about bulls? No, the ones going down were the ones that hedged all bets. Every exit covered, every contingency considered.

Officers like him.

The rumors named a few mucky-mucks that could be behind the government approved stings, but Sands had discarded most of them. Anyone still running though Agency channels wouldn't take these kinds of risks. All the other thick as thieves mucky-mucks would reign them in. It was Sands' theory that whoever was behind the deaths of agents in over a dozen countries around the world was –

"Hey, buddy. This is it. That'll be $110 even."

One gloved hand came up as Sands unsuccessfully fought the urge to rub his brow. He didn't actually have any money. That was one of the unfortunate things about having to run from the law without any prior warning; people tended to forget important things like money. Or a toothbrush.

"My wife," the word was strange in his mouth, "will pay you."

There was a grunt of acknowledgement from the cabbie. Sands took that as a blessing to get the hell out of the man's car. There was just one problem with that…he couldn't see how close to the curb they were. Or if there was a fire hydrant nearby. Or any pedestrians. Or any of the thousand other previously unseen hazards of suburbia that now plagued his life.

With an intense feeling of mixed humiliation and hate, Sands dug the collapsible cane he'd insisted on out of his pocket. He extended it, then opened his door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

The part I hate about this the worst is – Sands stopped himself before he could say that the worst part was the constant feeling of fear he felt each time he took a step he couldn't see. Instead he swept the cane to and fro in the prescribed manner and searched for one of the brick lamppost thingys that marked the entrances to the townhouses on this block. They're to the right of the stairs, and have the addresses in bronze numbers…Ah-ha. He quickly ran his fingers over the numbers. 3485…that's one house too far to the right. With a bit more confidence, he turned to his left and set out for what had been the front door of his house.

Without the cane he wouldn't have been able to navigate past the assorted clutter on the stairs to the door. The urge to put everything away or throw it away was strong, but he ignored that one too. None of this stuff was his anymore, and he wouldn't be here long enough to care about it.

At the top of the steps he collapsed his cane again and stuck it back into his pocket. Things were better this way. He only needed a place to stay for the night and knew that Liz would be so shocked at his sudden appearance that he'd have at least overnight to get some sleep and some food before taking off again in the morning.

Sands yawned as he waited for someone to come answer the door.

The sound of locks – more locks than he remembered – being undone made him straighten and caused a dry smile to come to his lips. That was Lizzie…always cautious.

There was a soft creak as the door opened, and a soft gasp. Well, I think it's safe to say that she still recognizes me.

He knew she was standing there, her mouth slightly agape as it had been when he'd suggested they get married, and again when he'd told her that he was not a psychiatric consultant but instead an officer of the CIA. Or at least, he thought with bitter irony, that's what I think she looks like. It was her perfume that gave it away that it was her at the door. She hadn't changed it in the five years he'd been gone. He'd given Liz her first bottle as an anniversary present.

Enough chitchat. Get to the point. Duly prodded, Sands smile turned sardonic. "Hey, Lizzie. Mind if I come in?"


There's a silence long enough to make me think that she's passed out – except I can hear her breathing – and then the soft shuffling of feet. Lizzie doesn't say a single word to me. Nothing. No "Welcome home." No "Where on earth have you been, I've been so worried about you." No angry accusations, no decrees for me to get out of her house – for that is what this place has become – no tears, cheers, or jeers, and no questions. Just that soft shuffling of her feet as she moves back from the door to let me in.

I don't know what I was expecting, but this certainly wasn't it. Maybe I was wrong. Perhaps this isn't Lizzie after all. Better check.

"Lizzie?" I step into the house and hope that the searching, cautious tone in my voice is taken as concern for her state of mind. But hell, the worst that can happen is that A) this is Amanda, and B) that it's Liz and she's already heard about what happened in Mexico.

"Sheldon?"

It's ridiculous how my confidence can be restored with no more than a puff of air that sounds vaguely like my name. But that's all it's taking at the moment. I was right. Even after five years I still know my own wife, even without seeing her. And there goes what triumph I had, I think, bitterness now hiding behind the fake smile on my lips. Or perhaps the bitterness made the smile go sour. For a second I think I was happy to hear her voice. That's ridiculousness in itself. After all this time I can't imagine that she'd be happy to see me.

A grating honk from the street jolts me back into the present, something that's happened more in these last nightmarish two days than in the past month. The jolt always helps me to regain my composure though, and for that I'm grateful.

"I think he wants to be paid," I drawl as I head upstairs. Something's been cooking and I'm hungry.

There's nothing but silence behind me as I ascend the stairs. That's a little surprising. The Liz of old would have told me off and had me outside paying the cabbie myself before I could even consider taking the words back. Now all I hear is the front door closing; she's not following me up the stairs and demanding an explanation. Goes to show I'm not the only one who's changed, I suppose. I wonder if she's changed on the outside. Not physically…that's inevitable…but in some way that would clue the seeing world in on her altered state. My mother would say – if such a thing could be seen – that it would be something "about the eyes." Good thing I don't have eyes anymore, because I think that Liz would throw me out on my tail – I can just see all the shirts and pants of mine that are still lying around as they fly through the air to land on the sidewalk, accompanied by her curses – but there I go again. Really, man can't live on irony alone. Is that macaroni and cheese I smell? It's not puerco pibil, but it'll do in a pinch –

"Daddy!"


The only warning Sands had of the enthusiastic greeting coming his way was the hasty groan of a heavy chair against a linoleum floor. And even then he only had enough time to brace himself before a small body launched itself into his midsection, small arms going around his lower chest. He grunted, and reached down to grip the thin arms reflexively in an automatic attempt to keep them both from tumbling to the floor.

"Daddy," Amanda continued, not appearing to notice the look of surprise and shock that'd overtaken Sands' face. "Chris said you were never going to come home, but I said you would, and he bet me ten dollars that you wouldn't, and now I'll buy some tickets and we can go see 'The Swan Princess' together, and we'll –"

"He's not staying, brat." Chris' militant voice came from the kitchen table. "Maybe you don't remember, but I do. He always promises to change, to be around more, but he never stays."

"Nuh-uh!" Amanda's arms tightened around her father's waist as she defended him. "You don't know anything. You're just a fart-head."

Chris rolled his eyes. "And you're a delusional cry-baby."

Amanda turned to her father. "Daddy," she whined.

This only caused her brother to laugh at her unkindly. "He doesn't care, brat. He's just a bastard who donated his –"

"Christopher Ryan." Liz's voice sounded almost as tired as Sands felt. And a hundred times more disappointed. "What have I told you about cursing?" Sands could almost see her soft voice float across the room to twine around the boy's shoulders.

"Mom –"

"Not to mention that I've taught you better than to speak so disrespectfully of or to any adult, especially your parents." Her voice-rope tightened.

"He's not anyone's father!"

"Christopher –"

"And I know you think the same thing! I've heard you say it when you thought we weren't listening."

There was absolute silence in the room as mother and son faced each other down. Rebellious youth didn't roll over any more than world-weary and responsibility ridden age did.

"Go to your room, Chris."

"That's not fair!"

"Chris…" There was a clear warning note in Liz's voice. It was the sound of a mother who was about to be pushed past her control, and from experience, the boy knew better than to keep protesting. That didn't mean he was going to employ any kind of grace though.

"Screw you," he muttered, getting up from the table. "I can't believe you let that fuc-"

At some point Amanda had gravitated away from her father and to her mother's side. Unencumbered, Sands moved the two steps it took him to be able to reach out and grab Chris' arm in a tight grip.

"Let me go!"

"Sheldon…"

Chris' defiance and Liz's weariness melted into a single mournful note that Sands ignored. He simply tightened his grip and hauled the boy closer to him.

"Hate me all you want," he told his son. "But you're going to respect your mother."

"Like you did?"

The words were a challenge and it was all Sands could do to remember he was talking to a boy and not someone he could attack, whether it be with fists or blazing guns. If the words weren't a stark reminder of having not only abandoned of his family, but of cheating on his wife as well, there wouldn't have been a problem. But there were those reminders, and something about breathing the air of what had once been his home returned something of his old morals and his old conscience to him. So all he did was grit his teeth and mutter curses in his head before saying, "If she's been putting up with your attitude for long, then she more than deserves your respect, because you're being an asshole."

"Sheldon!"

Sands let go of his son and listened to his quick retreat up the stairs as he turned to his once-upon-a-time wife. "What did you want me to do, Lizzie? If he doesn't hear the truth about how he's acting from someone, how do you expect him to recognize it himself?"

"I don't think you have a high enough platform to be standing on to be preaching such things!" Liz felt like she wanted to cry.

"Listen, Lizzie. It was just one asshole to another, alright?"

"Mommy, why does Daddy keep saying the A-word? I thought you didn't like it."

Oh my god, Mandy's still here. Liz closed her eyes. "Amanda, honey? Will you please go up to your room so I can talk to your father?"

Amanda scuffed the floor and covertly examined said man. She wanted to stay down here and talk with him. Find out if he was really going to stay or not. "But I'm not done with dinner."

"You can take it up with you. Just please go upstairs."

The girl nodded and retrieved her meal. At some point during their discussion, Sands had gotten a fork and was eating what was left of the macaroni and cheese straight out of the pan. Carefully she walked around the table and came up to his side. "I'm glad you're home, Daddy," she declared, hugging him and softly kissing his cheek.

Liz watched with some satisfaction as a fleeting look of guilt passed over her husband's face. It happened so fast that she never would have seen it if she hadn't been watching for it, but she had been. She wanted to see if any trace of her husband remained. And not out of some need to resurrect him and accept him back into her home and her bed, but because she wanted him to feel guilty. He'd abandoned her, damnit, and she wanted her pound of flesh.

And she wasn't going to ask why he was still wearing his sunglasses. She wasn't going to be curious about things like that. That was nothing when compared to knowing why he'd stopped writing.

She didn't get answers or explanations though. She didn't even get excuses. All she got was silence as Sands ate what food was within easy reach. And when he was done with that, she watched as he meandered over to the fridge and drank milk from the carton. And she watched as he went upstairs without a word.

And she wondered how things had ever come to this. And if they would ever change.

And if she should call back the number she'd memorized with so many dialings and tell the person at the other end that he was in her home.

In the end she started to clean up the dirty dishes from dinner. It was late and she was tired, not to mention overwhelmed by the events of the day and particularly the evening. Dishes, glasses, silverware, pots…they all went into the dishwasher. Normally she'd wash the pots by hand to save water since she could get a bigger load done when she reserved the dishwasher for dishes, but she couldn't even contemplate spending another ten minutes on her feet.

Milk goes back into the fridge, butter gets covered, cat goes out…

After completing her nighttime chores, Liz trudged upstairs, collecting toys as she went. It was only eight – bedtimes for the rest of the household wouldn't roll around for another thirty minutes at least – but she had to go to bed. Mandy was working on her homework, Chris was sulking.

"Good-night, Chris."

"Whatever," he muttered.

Liz left him to his sulking – at this point in time it was probably her best bet – and crossed the hall to her room, only to stop dead in her tracks.

Sands was in her bed.


The sense of invasion I felt was almost outrageous. Even though I never truly got used to having that entire bed to myself – there was always a phantom of his body there that would wake me in the middle of the night, more from the physical absence than a lingering presence – part of me rebelled against the thought of sharing space with him. This was my space, my escape. My refuge. And he was encroaching on that. Especially since it's him I need refuge from. Even a sleeping Sheldon is an intimidating figure; a large black spot on my worn sheets. Sheets still smelling like detergent and fabric softener...once an open invitation. Now it's no more than a recipe for disaster, or at least personal humiliation should the me of old and the he of old emerge.

I need time – time and space – to think about all this, and I am going to have it here. In my room. If he wants to sleep, he can do it on the couch.

"Sheldon." My voice is stern, but not overly loud. Unless you're a drill sergeant, being loud isn't always an advantage. Unfortunately, Sheldon doesn't seem to be the light sleeper that he used to be.

"Sheldon," I try again, walking to the side of the bed. Since he's still not responding to me, I reach out and gently shake his arm –

"Uhn!" I find myself flat on my back, staring up into my husband's…sunglasses…his hand around my throat and his thumb pushing my head back painfully. Somehow he'd managed to drag me across his body; my back is pressed against the bed, my legs are draped over his hip so that my feet don't touch the floor, and his face is only inches from mine.

I say nothing. I can't say anything. The look on this face that used to be so familiar – loved – is chilling. If I didn't know better – Do I know better anymore? – I'd say that he hates me. But what on earth could I have done to make him hate me? This man that I don't even know.

"Sh-sheldon?" My tongue is rubbery and clumsy in my mouth, but he's starting to hurt me. And to scare me. Badly.

The question must have made some kind of impact though, because the emotion on his face is replaced with fleeting confusion and then blankness. His hand eases on my throat and I can lower my head; I notice he doesn't actually stop touching me. I also notice that his hand is warm and heavy on my skin….

"Lizzie?" His voice is harsh in a growling sort of way, but it holds as many questions as mine did before.

"Yeah." I swallow, then ask a question that I have no business asking what with the years of distance between us. But I have to ask it or go mad it seems. So I do, and I hold my breath and count my lucky stars as I do.

"What happened?"


Why are you home? And why now? What drove you to come here? Why did you just do that to me?

Sands knew that those questions were really what she was asking through her simpler one, along with Who are you? But he had no answers for her, and the temptation to simply fall into a behavioral pattern that he recognized was no longer his was strong. Being home – in a place that was once home – seemed to shine a glaring spotlight on everything he'd become that she didn't know of. His work in Mexico had made him go power-mad – after all, who was around to rein him in or reprimand him? There was no one to call him on the carpet, no one fast enough to catch him, and no one to stare in censure at him across the dinner table. He wasn't the man she'd known anymore, and while he was realizing that more and more with every exchange of dialog, she hadn't seen it yet. And he was still enough of his old self to know that he didn't want her to see it.

So, he could answer all her questions after all, but he had no intention on doing so. Especially not the last one; not when there wasn't any point in it.

He wasn't staying.

He wasn't coming back.

And the answers he had would only hurt her; and he remembered the love he'd once had for her, and he held his tongue for the sake of "the good old days."

Sands suddenly drew his hand away from her neck, checking the fit of his sunglasses in what was quickly becoming a nervous habit. "I'll sleep on the couch."

Before she could react – which was always the best time to act – he was off the bed and halfway across the room.

"No, you don't have to – I mean…"

He paused and shook his head. Liz always got flustered when he just did things. He remembered that he'd once thought the reaction was cute. Sexy even. Now all he felt was…nostalgia…and a vague irritation like she was using precious seconds that he wasn't going to get back. As if he was running out of them.

Which is ridiculous, he told himself. If I've gotten to this point, I'm relatively certain I must be harder to kill than even I could ever have imagined.

But Liz didn't know the direction of his thoughts, and she didn't understand why he didn't at least turn to face her as she tried to speak to him, and her ignorance made her more miserable than she'd felt in awhile.

"You've been gone for so long," she whispered. "I…"

"You what, Lizzie? You want to confess to me that you've been unfaithful if not physically or in you mind, than at the very least you've been unfaithful to the memory of us?" There was a good deal more venom in his words than he intended, but then Sands didn't have the best ear for such things anymore. "If that's the case, I not only absolve you, but I understand. To tell the truth I don't believe I harbored any beliefs that I'd find you here waiting for me without the mark of another man on you." Oh, yes he had. At least at first. At first he'd held tight to the belief that he'd be home by the end of the year and that he could then turn his attention to other pursuits within the Company. But things had gotten more complicated, and he'd loved her enough then to keep from writing for the possible dangers, but he'd never considered the danger that not hearing from her or thinking of her would hold for them. "And lest you get the wrong impression now, I have no intention of staying here and messing with the flow of your household. I promise to be gone by the time you get back from work tomorrow, and that you'll never have to see me again."

He would have left then, but a thought occurred to him in the doorway. "If you have a set of the divorce papers on hand, I'll sign them before I leave." And it was with that promise that Sands unknowingly left his silently crying wife on her bed, alone and crushed, for she at least had held hope that the knowledge of such papers would at least bring him to her so that they could try again.


It was sometime in the night that the men dressed in black came up to the house and cut the power and phone lines. They wanted their quarry, and they wanted it contained. Some of this "hunter's drive" must have tainted the air inside the house because Sands knew from the instant before he became fully awake that he'd overstayed his welcome. He had no way to tell what time it was – if it was morning or if it was still dark out – or how many hunters had come to flush him out of what he'd thought was a safe house, but he had no doubt that they were there and that he had to leave now.

The sound of two sets of thumping and bumbling footsteps on the stairs sent Sands to his feet and his hands to the two small guns he'd managed to hide on his body. But he didn't draw them since even halfway capable officers knew how to keep their footsteps silent, and even with the poor example of fatherhood that he was, he wasn't about to shoot one of his own children or scare them to death.

"Daddy! You're still here!" One set of footsteps broke off in a scampering run in his direction while the other heavily continued into the kitchen. Prepared now for Mandy's unprejudiced greeting, Sands returned her hug lightly, taking this last moment to marvel at how big she'd gotten. His baby girl…

Who'll be better off without me.

"Where's your mother?" he asked, letting her go.

"Asleep still. Chris and I are lucky she insisted we have batteries in our alarm clocks just in case, otherwise we would have overslept –"

"Why?"

"Why what, Daddy?"

He heard the wistfulness in her voice, but Sands didn't have time to oblige her. "Why is your mother still asleep?"

"Today's her day to go into work late. She always sleeps in and makes us take the bus."

"When does your bus come?"

"In a few minutes. Will you be here when we get home from school, Daddy?"

"Maybe," he murmured, figuring that the only reason the house hadn't been raided yet was that the kids were still here. Almost – almost – he was selfish enough to keep them here, but just as selfishly he wanted to remember his daughter's delight if all of this didn't turn out well.

Amanda seemed to catch his mood because she hugged him again and left without another word. Arguments broke out in the kitchen, grew, and calmed, and Sands remembered that he didn't have much time. There was no way that he was going to jail for something he didn't do. There were enough things to convict him and put him away for life that were rightfully his. He wasn't about to be anyone's fall guy. No, if he went to prison, it'd be for his own crimes but that wasn't what the men outside thought. And that left him with very few options that got him out of this house safely.

The best option was upstairs sleeping.

Sands made a disgusted sound as he climbed up the stairs. Clearly no one at that damned hospital had checked to see if his brain was functioning normally.

I can't believe I'm doing this, Sands thought as he heard the front door open and close as the kids left for the morning. This was the first time in a great while that he was actually disgusted – really disgusted – with himself.

Liz had always been the heavy sleeper in the family. She was unaware of her door opening, or of the weight that caused one side of the mattress to sink; of the soft, sentimental kiss that brushed across her forehead or the whispered apology for what was about to happen. What woke her was the sound of her front door being broken in and the sight that greeted her was a sliver of morning light dancing up and down the barrel of a gun…held by her husband…and his unapologetic, unfeeling, sunglass-covered gaze.


Additional Author's Note: I thought I might explain the changes of POV. One of my favorite authors (Judith Merkle Riley), tends to switch every scene between two POVs...that of the narrator, and that of her heroine. I'm doing the same, expect I'm switching between three POVs - the narrator's, Liz's, and Sands'.

Author's Thanks: This edition is more like an 'Author's pointing of the finger' actually, since I was going to let this lie until you all opened me up to the possibility of more. With that said, I wish to thank (blame)…Lynx Rider (I've only seen one or two stories with Sands having a family back in the states, and most of those have involved ex-wives or ex-girlfriends who are soon to be wives. I wanted to write something different, and it's turned into this exploration of how far a person can change and still be the father and husband that's remembered by his family, and if he can or want to go back to a semblance of who he was. Thanks for the mince pie. ); vanillafluffy (you know me, always on a lookout for what hasn't been seen before. I'm still unsure to how this is going to end – I've got two options – but I hope that Liz can manage to stay in step with her husband. I can only expect her to flounder a little, but she's not one to give up, and that makes her a good match for this incarnation of Sands that I'm writing.); quick29 (And back for more of an encore than I expected. Sands has too many intriguing sides to just stop writing him apparently.); normal human being (I certainly hope that at least some of my characterization from before has carried over to this chapter. I never meant for this to evolve, but it did and it was like working with too many Lincoln Logs to make my little fantasy house. Not so much repetition here, and hopefully Liz has carried enough of her former self over to explain what new characterization I've built.); Dawnie-7 (New and unusual reading material is always fun. I'm just very glad you enjoyed this new tangent of mine.); CaptainJackSparrowsGirl (I have kept going, just as everyone seemed to want, and I certainly hope I haven't disappointed you or anyone else in the effort.); Merrie (apparently the inner OUATIM fangirl call is too strong to ignore. And it's more like I can't say no to my own rather gruesome imagination than that I can't say no to SJ. :P); Dangerbabe (I apparently feel free to post more than simply "more" because this is starting to look like a project that's going to take awhile.); websurffer (Well, there's more, but I don't know about the potential part. I hope – geeze I say that a lot – that I did live up to the promise of the original bit, but I'll leave it to you, my jury, to decide.)