Author's Note: sorry, meant to have this out earlier, but I got majorly distracted by Harry Potter…read all five books through twice, in chronological order, in about two weeks. But now I'm satisfied until the next book comes out, and I'm starting to get into the real plot of this fic. Things are going good from my standpoint. :)

Enjoy, and remember to reply, and read the author thanks at the end.


Before either of us realize what's happening, Liz is halfway across the other bed and I just manage to stop her escape by the simple maneuver of pouncing on her before she can really get any momentum.

There's a long moment of silence. The only reason I know she's facing me is that I can feel the irregular puffs of her breath occasionally gust across my cheek. Even though I have her pinned, I don't reach for my shades. I suppose some morbid part of me – is there any other parts these days? – wants to find out how she's going to react.

"Sheldon?" From her breathless gasp I can almost imagine that I hurt her, or that the past near two decades have been a dream and this is our first night together. She'd been so book-smart – there was no disputing that – but there'd been a lot about…life…that she hadn't known. The pleasure of educating her had made me smug. I could teach her even more now, show her all the things she is still naïve of, but what would that accomplish? I've already made her life miserable enough without teaching her that.

I roll off her, simple memory sending me into an unprecedented retreat. Or is it a retreat? She certainly hasn't moved a muscle trying to force me off.

If it's dark in the room, perhaps she didn't see – really see – my face. But even if the lights are all out, she had to have had ample time to figure out that something is very wrong with me. Did she see the gory sinkholes that used to serve as eyes? Are shadows masking my face, making me look like a raccoon, or are the lights on to reveal my shame in all its macabre glory?

But she stays so damned quiet. I can't even hear the gears turning as she puts together how I've been acting to come up with the whole, terribly blank, picture. I light a cigarette as I wait and wonder if her silence is due to revulsion. Is she staring? Shivering in disgust? Grinning in delight?

"You know, as enjoyable as the silence is, Lizzie, I'd appreciate it if you'd…oh, I don't know…let me know that the shock hasn't killed you?" I tilt my head back and expel a stream of smoke straight up into the air, as if displaying my handicap, exposing my vulnerability in the best light possible. As if I'm trying to force her to make some kind of sound – because that's nearly all I have left – in acknowledgement of what she sees.

"Sheldon?"

Lizzie's voice is small and uncertain.

"The last time I bothered to look in a mirror, yes, I believe that's who I was." I wonder if she knows that she sounds like a broken record. It sounds as if she doesn't believe her eyes. Too bad I know for a fact that she can.


Liz couldn't understand his joke. She was too caught up in the grip of horror. "Sheldon, what happened?"

Her distress was clear in her voice, and was just as clear in her touch. Sands recoiled from the hand that landed on his arm as if he'd been burned with acid.

"Never mind," he snapped, grabbing up his glasses with only a minimal amount of fumbling. All he felt and heard was pity, and that was the last thing he wanted from anyone. Especially not from her.

He underestimated her ability for selfishness though. Liz hadn't been looking to comfort, but to be comforted. The sight of his mutilated face was…disconcerting to say the least. How could he act as if it were nothing?

"Finished staring yet or do you want to wait until morning when the light's better?"

She knew that scathingly sardonic tone all too well, but this was one of the few times it'd been pointed at her. And she didn't like it at all. "Stop it," she half-asked, half-ordered.

"Oh, I'm sorry, sweetness. Am I making you uncomfortable?"

The derisive tone had disappeared, but the bitterness that replaced it was no better. And since it was all aimed at her, a weapon chosen with her in mind, it was like adding insult to injury. "Don't talk to me like that, Sheldon! None of this is my fault."

The moment the words rang free in the air, Liz clapped her hands over her mouth. For a moment she'd forgotten the situation and spoken to him as if he were Chris. She didn't need to see Sands go stone-still before her eyes to know that she'd just made a mistake. Every hair on her body stood on end as Sands raised his hand to put his cigarette between his lips. He paused, and Liz carefully shifted her weight. Something told her that it was in her best interests to remove herself from the situation as soon as humanly possible.

Her movements weren't nearly slow or gentle enough for her to escape detection though. "Don't…move." Sands' voice was soft…velvety…deadly.

Liz didn't listen. Her alarm now caused her to forget how he'd been getting around all day. Sands was disgusted at how easily she gave into underestimating him. But it did seem to justify what he was about to do. The release that his paranoia, anger, fear, and uncertainty had been begging for since he'd left the hospital at American University.

"You always think you know better, don't you?" he asked, his voice just as low and dangerous as before, but this time his actions were crafted to match. "You always have to argue, and disregard…"

"Sheld–"

Taking advantage of her stupidity, he reached out and grabbed her by the neck. Shifting his weight, he managed to wrestle her down to the mattress just as she tried to bolt. "Nuh-uh," he whispered into her ear. "Can't have any of that." Her fingers were prying at his hand, but he ignored them. It was good to feel his blood rushing through his veins, to feel his heart pounding. He felt alive, and he liked it.

"Time for a lesson, Lizzie." His right hand stayed restrictingly tight on her neck as his left glided up her skin, coming to rest along her jaw. The flesh of her cheek was warm; the shell of her ear – which was nestled between his first two fingers – was smooth. But he hardly paid attention to these sensations. Once they might have driven him wild. Now he was already wild and set on another goal.

"You keep underestimating me, sweetness." He clicked his tongue. "Let me tell you a little story about why that's unwise." And he did. He whispered into her ear the parts that he wanted her to know; that something had gone wrong, that his "deformity" was the result, and what he'd then done to everyone who'd underestimated what the blind man could do. As he talked, his thumb came to rest on her closed right eye. While the story progressed, he exerted more and more pressure. He could feel tears under his skin, but he didn't care. All that mattered was making his point. All that mattered was bleeding off some of the poisonous fury that was banging in his head. He couldn't live with it in there; he didn't feel alive unless he was doing something to bleed it off. Liz had just gotten in the way.

His voice faltered as that thought resonated inside his head. He hadn't wanted to hurt her…had he? He'd just wanted to teach her a lesson…hadn't he? Anger was all well and good when it was being put to practical uses. Lessons were practical. Was he teaching anymore?

"You listening, Lizzie?"

Her only reply was a sob.

Sands went cold as he heard in her sob all the things she could rightfully accuse him of right now. He hadn't set out to hurt her, just scare her a little. Somewhere the line had blurred though, his anger had won out, and he'd lost control. And that was simply too dangerous.

But he was boxed in now. He couldn't simply just stop. Then she'd know that he was not as confident as he appeared to be, and she'd try to manipulate him. He couldn't continue, because he needed her. And he most certainly couldn't let her get comfortable again.

So he did what he could to salvage the situation. He kept Liz pinned underneath him while he reached for the small nightstand between their beds. In the drawer was the pair of handcuffs that had seen so much use today. Then without saying another word, he clicked one bracelet around her right arm, and the other around a slat in the bedstead. In an odd display of concern, he made sure that the pillows behind Liz's head were comfortably placed before he moved back to his own territory.

"The man you married is dead," he informed the woman across from him. "I'm not him. You'd do well to remember that, and that I don't really mind having to kill to get my way."


He's tired. I can see it now. I spent hours watching him during the night, too afraid to go to sleep after our…altercation. Why I bothered, I can't tell you, since my right eye was teary and blurry for a good hour after he apparently went back to sleep, but I had to. He was dangerous.

They tell women in dangerous situations – or at least, the tell women that should they ever be in a dangerous situation – to not provoke their captor. I hadn't been trying to. Honestly. But I had been taken in by the illusion that this man was my husband, and that he'd been hurt, and that we could somehow comfort each other. Sheldon would laugh and say that sex is the last thing on his mind right now, but that's not what I mean. Not that it really matters, I suppose.

Anyway, it's morning now. Sands let me go an hour ago so that I could wash and pack. He'd already done all of this – I guess my vigilance wasn't enough to keep from nodding off sometime around dawn. Whatever sleep I did get isn't enough to keep my feet from dragging or my head from hanging from my neck like some kind of dead thing. I suppose the human body can only deal with tense situations for so long, and my days have always been stressful enough to make me exhausted by eight or nine o'clock without adding in the factor of my stranger-husband. Now I'm simply thankful that I haven't dropped anything yet. I can feel Sheldon's mood and I think that a large dose of ridicule would come my way if I did.

Not that he's moving too quickly himself. I suppose that's the real reason I think he's tired. He's pale, and his hands have a developed a slight tremble. Though it's beyond me why I should care. He certainly doesn't want me to. Is it just me, or do I sound bitter? I can't possibly still want…

A happy marriage? God, yes. I want a happy marriage. I never wanted to be a single mother. Sheldon promised that I wouldn't have to be. He broke that promise, and that made me so very angry. I hated him for a long time after his letters stopped. But the hate developed into lethargy as Chris and Mandy got older, and then into dull acceptance. It was the acceptance that spurred me to ask for a divorce. Anything was better than simply plodding through my days alone. And part of me did hope that Sheldon would come home to mend fences.

Looking at him now, I can only think that it was a fool's hope. He doesn't want to come back. Last night he accused me of underestimating him. Perhaps I did. But he's the one who's decided that he's changed so much that it's not worth trying to make things right between us. And I can't make things right on my own. Sheldon's always been stubborn. Too stubborn sometimes to see what's right in front of his…

The thought gracefully dies a silent death as the image of his sightless face hovering above my own shoves itself to the forefront of his mind.

Just because it's not a pretty sight doesn't mean that…

Doesn't mean what?

I don't dare answer. Any answer I might come up with would be so alien that I would drop something, and the ridicule would come my way and I'd have no way to defend myself against it. Better to simply do as he advised last night. Better to consider my Sheldon dead.

But can I? When he appears in front of me so unexpectedly? This man may not be Sheldon, but he has bits of Sheldon inside him, and they pop up unexpectedly, like flecks of feldspar in a granite rock face, or echoes in a deserted room. Suppose I could unearth Sheldon from what he's determined to pass off as a living tomb? Would he thank me? Would it be worth it? Would I survive the attempt?

"Move your ass. It's time to go."


The bus was hot. Not that it has any reason to be, Liz thought, fighting back another yawn. Outside there were snowdrifts on the side of the road. Inside, every window was fogged and the heat was nearly oppressive. At least half the other passengers were sound asleep and Liz would have liked nothing better than to join them…but she had one hindrance to sleep that no one else had. She had a paranoid and trigger-happy man sitting next to her, undoubtedly just waiting for her to let her guard down.

Liz nervously looked away from the window and glanced at Sands. His lips were tight and his breath seemed to coming hard. Or perhaps she was just being hopeful that he was going to drop dead. Yes, she was currently feeling vindictive. Yes, that was an about face from what she'd been feeling that morning. Yes, she intended it to stay that way.

Just because he's… she faltered, remembering the sight of his empty sockets. Okay, perhaps I can understand why he's paranoid. It'd be hard not to be after that. But why…? What gives him the right to take it out on me? Liz thought, somewhat aggrieved. Like she'd so disastrously pointed out earlier, it wasn't as if she'd done anything wrong. Except perhaps to not throw him out on his bum when he'd turned up on her doorstep. Liz glowered out her window.

Glowering – even though it wasn't much of a defense or a weapon – was about all she had though. Sands had effectively proved that he could still overpower her without too much trouble. And not only that, but he was still armed and she wasn't foolish enough to believe that he wouldn't use his badge to create some cock-and-bull story that would give him the leeway to use that force against her without anyone protesting. All he had to do was say she was under arrest and no one would argue. Sands was clever…and he was a bully.

Not that she hadn't known that when they'd been dating. But he'd been gentler then. His laugh had come more freely when she'd pointed out his arrogance – and she always had. When she'd told him to back off, he did. But if she were to try that now?

If? She sighed and tried not to fidget. That would just earn her a frown. The truth of the matter is though, she thought as she started doodling on the fog of the window, I've already tried to point out his bullying. It hadn't done her any good. If he'd laughed, it hadn't been any sort of admittance that she was right. It had probably been a "Well-you're-out-of-luck" laugh. She'd made that sound before – most recently when Chris had asked for money to buy a new videogame. Not only was it too expensive, but it'd been too violent… The irony that she was now worrying about the violence in a videogame didn't escape her.

I wonder how they're doing. A stab of pain went through her. Was Chris looking out for and taking care of Amanda? Were they both being taken care of by someone who would reassure them along with making sure they were fed? Were they being told that their mother was going to be just fine, and would be home as soon as she could?

The bus shuddered to a stop. The driver announced what town they were in. People laden with bags, people with bags under their eyes, people with diaper bags, small children, and bags under their eyes…. They all slowly filed past as Liz watched, shuffling their feet and fastening up their coats. She used their noise to turn to Sands and quietly say, "I want to talk to my children."

"I want a nice steak fajita and a tequila – with or without lime – but you don't see me complaining, do you?" Sands' drawling tone indicated that he didn't care what she wanted.

"A steak fajita doesn't have nightmares about its father killing its mother," she hissed.

"Now there's a strong argument."

Liz's eyes narrowed. "I fail to see how lunch is just as relevant as the peace of mind of our children."

Sands momentarily ignored the irate woman next to him as he decided he'd much rather have a cigarette than food. He hadn't liked buses much since the second grade when Billy Thomas had stolen his lunch everyday for two weeks straight. It wasn't the loss of food he'd disliked, but the bruises that'd accompanied it since he hadn't had the sense to give it up without a fight.

"Sheldon," Liz interrupted, her earnest voice bordering on irritation. "They're probably scared. But then you haven't exactly cared about that for awhile, have you?"

Had anyone cared when he'd been scared? Had any of his requests for help been answered? Had anyone come rushing to comfort him? Sands was dying to tell his tenderhearted wife that the world didn't work that way. Compassion really wasn't worth much. Sooner or later things were going to spiral out of her control and the kids were just going to have to deal with it. So it was to his great surprise that he said, "Not now. Maybe later."

Liz found herself staring at Sands is shock. He'd capitulated so quickly. The hundred or so arguments that she'd gathered to convince him to see reason were now stuck in her throat. Angry for no reason, she thought, What business does he have for simply giving in? I wanted to fight. Liz realized that she was ready to bait him into an argument; she snapped her head back around to stare out the window. Sands-baiting, while a fun sport, was hardly seemly, innocent, or a good idea. Just moments before she'd been reminded herself that he might take advantage of it to bully her. Now she was straining at the bit.

Stop being foolhardy. Just get home to Chris and Mandy. Liz closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the window. Her goal had to be to protect her family, to get home safely to them.

Sands could hear Liz gritting her teeth and it made his surrender tolerable. Liz was one of those people who always had plenty of arguments to back up her position. She was also one of those people who got annoyed when they didn't get to use them. The fact that she was now irritated by getting the very thing she'd wanted amused him greatly and made the rest of this never-ending trip bearable.


It was nothing short of absolute relief to get off the damn bus. But even that couldn't compare to the sensation I felt when a shrill whistle split the air. For the first time in weeks I grinned and meant it.

With a careless nudge, I direct Liz to the left. "See anyone in a bigass cowboy hat?" I ask, the grin not disappearing. I only know one person who can whistle that loudly, and he's not only a cowboy, but he's been burned recently as well.

She sniffs – I assume she doesn't approve of my language – but she doesn't stop leading the way, and that was all I really need. As long as she does that, everything is golden.

My confidence leads to an embarrassing moment when Liz stops suddenly in front of me. I stop a moment too late and end up stepping on the back of her heel; she hisses in pain, but doesn't snap at me. Perhaps she's afraid that I will take away her chance to call her…our…the kids if she upsets me.

"Shep! Why didn't you ever mention that your wife is a looker?"

My grin grows bigger. "Who says that's my wife?" I wait in anticipation for the eventual outburst…

"Well, then you're still a lucky bas–"

"Good to see you too, Robbo," I interrupt. "Of course, it's kinda hard to miss you in that moronic hat." Again there's a moment of silence and I can just see Roberts fondling his outsized Stetson. Deciding to throw in all my chips – because part of me wonders if this prolonged silence isn't due to Roberts having foregone his signature headwear – I ask, "So, why'd you choose black again this year?"

As the seconds drag on without a word from Roberts or Lizzie, I get nervous and I pull out my cigarettes, trying my best to appear confident and casual. It's a very bizarre scene, like in the movies where the guy's wondering if he'll get the date with the girl.

Just as I'm touching match to cigarette tip, Roberts lets out his roar of a laugh. "You're still a gutsy, son of a –"

"Didn't your momma ever teach you not to curse in front of a lady?" I don't know why I keep interrupting before my comrade can curse. Perhaps some foolish part of me is still trying to show Lizzie that I'm not completely despicable. It's something of a pipe dream I'm afraid, but that doesn't seem to be stopping me.

"I'd apologize," Roberts drawls, "but we haven't been properly introduced."

I raise my eyebrows as a list of several hundred things that he's done with/to/for women he's never been "properly introduced" to floats to the top of my head, but I don't bother pointing any of them out. I expel a cloud of smoke, and then perform the honors. "Roberts, this is Lizzie, my lovely wife –" Lizzie snorts in disdain and I ignore her. "Lizzie, this is Gene Roberts –"

"– partner in crime, at your service," Roberts interrupts and I wish I could roll my eyes. He could smother someone with the amount of charm he's poring on. However, I hear Liz harrumph again, and for some reason I feel myself smile. Again. It must be the lack of food.

"Enough trying to charm my wife, Robbo. The rest of the guys are waiting for us are they not?"

"Killjoy."

"If it gets in my way, yes. Are you driving or am I?"

"Are you kidding? I put down a sizable deposit on this baby." I hear him slap his hand against metal and my mind conjures up the image of a two-ton diesel pickup. "I'd like to get that money back, considering I may have to flee the country if this all goes to hell."

"Oh ye of little faith." I take Liz's arm – after a bit of discrete groping for it – and lead her around to the passenger side door. I hear Roberts getting in his side as I force Liz to go in first. I want to sit by a window. They don't call it shotgun for nothing.

Within minutes, we're on the road. Liz is somewhat squashed between the two of us, but she doesn't utter a word. I wonder if I'm in for the silent treatment, and if I care if I am.

Ignoring my oh-so-pleasant bride, I ask Roberts, "Where's the safe house?"

"Hagerstown, right over the border. It'll take us about a half an hour to get there. Just in time for pizza."

My stomach growls. I ignore that too. "Who else managed to fly low enough under radar to get here?"

"Most of us who've been at the receiving end of the company line. Karstens, Riley, Marsala, Grotke, Smith, Talbot, Abbot, and Bob."

"Bob?"

"Yeah, you know Bob. Bob Vansodemheimer or whatever his last name is. He was stationed in Caracas."

"Oh right, Bob. I hear he found a reputable dealer of glass eyes." I feel Liz shudder. For some reason that makes me frown slightly – it's the first time she's shown outright dislike for what happened.

"Yeah, I hear they're having a two for one sale."

"Hmm…too bad I can't make it. Didn't he lose something else? His hand?"

"No, that was Carmike. And he didn't make it. I hear he's cooling his heels in the stockade at Langley for the time being. Why? Looking for a prosthetic?"

My frown turns into a full-blown scowl. My prosthetic is somewhere sitting in the Mexican dust, or more likely, it's been scavenged by some brat… The ghostly image of a yellow t-shirt seems to chide me for that thought. Piss off. I liked that arm.


When they arrived at the small dingy hotel suite that Sands had taken to calling HQ, Liz was surprised by the number people there. She did a quick count and found more than the eight people "Robbo" had mentioned in the car; all of them – men and the few women alike – were rather the worse for wear and they all sported the same grim smiles. It was like a class reunion for hit men or war survivors. Feeling awkward, useless, and extremely self-conscious, she was almost relived when Sands threw a few pieces of cool pizza on a plate, grabbed a beer, and sent her into a bedroom.

"When can I call –"

"Later." With that snappish reply, he shut the door in her face.

Liz listened to his footsteps fade then sat down at a small table since there wasn't much else to occupy her attention, and started to eat. Looking around she decided that the hotel wasn't that dingy, it was just old and worn. The murmur of voices in the other room rose and fell, making her feel more excluded than she already was.

When her meal was gone but for a few grease marks on the paper plate, she got up and went into the small connected bathroom. At first she was grateful for the chance to get clean, but she soon started to get mad again. It was plain to see – at least in her mind – that she wasn't exactly needed. Now that Sands had his buddies to conspire with and to watch his back, she didn't exactly serve any purpose. She was stuck in this little room when she could be at home. She was still living this nightmare when she could be someplace safe and reassuring herself that it had been only a nightmare.

Getting out of the shower, she dressed and steeled herself to go out and confront Sands. Surely someone could take her back to the bus station tomorrow.

She had made it as far as the hallway before she heard Roberts ask, "So why did you drag along your wife? It doesn't look as if the home fires are burning that brightly." Holding her breath, she waited for Sands' answer.

His chuckle floated to her waiting ears, followed closely by his drawling, mocking voice. "I crashed her place for a bit of a nap, but old Pete –"

"Rickman?"

"Yeah. Apparently he had other plans. Tried to take me into custody. I didn't have much of a choice but to take a hostage and trust me, it hasn't been a barrel of laughs."

Liz gasped in anger. He was making fun of her? After what he'd done, after making her leave her house at gunpoint and in her pajamas? After manhandling her, and handcuffing her, and threatening her, he thought he was the injured party? Oh, he was going to get a piece of her mind. She was going to…

"So, where's Masden and who gets to off him?"

The casualness of Sands' voice made Liz's blood turn to ice. They're plotting murder? Who were these people that her husband had fallen in with? She started to doubt if he'd told her the truth all those years ago when he'd said that he was going off to work for the CIA. After all, she was only an inconvenient wife. Why would he tell her the truth?

Liz noticed a pair of eyes looking at her with interest. Swallowing hard, she started to edge back down the hall, trying to get into her room without making a noise. Despite her brave thoughts she didn't want to think of what her chances were what with all these ruthless people. Please don't say anything, please don't say anything, please don't say –

"Hey Sands, it seems like someone's been listening for awhile."

Liz turned on her heel and sprinted as quietly as she could back down the hall. Dashing inside, she tried to shut the door silently, turning the knob so the latch wouldn't make a sound when it caught –

The door slammed open. Liz fell to the floor. Every muscle quivering, she didn't dare look up. All that was in her field of vision was Sands' shoes. If I don't get up… If I don't make a noise…

Perhaps he heard her thundering heart, because Sands reached down and pulled Liz up by the hair. She cried out and started to struggle, making him curse.

"Geeze, Lizzie. Calm down. I didn't mean to pull your hair –" The heel of her hand connected with his chin. He let her go and she tried to put distance between them.

"Shit," Sands hissed, sliding a hand against his jaw. "You little hellcat. What was that for?"

Oh no, I'm smarter than that. Holding her breath, she started to edge her way along the wall, trying to get behind him. The room full of people was forgotten for the moment, and as Sands' ears were still ringing from the blow she'd managed to land, he didn't hear her. Taking her chance, she pivoted, intending to run down the hallway…

…and ran head-on into a sold chest. Her arms were caught before she could land on her rear for the second time within a minute. The man was unfamiliar, but he was having a much better time subduing her struggles than Sands had.

"You got her, Karstens?"

"Yeah."

Sands nodded and reached under his suit coat.

"No! I'm sorry. Please don't. I just want to go home to my kids. Our kids. Don't ki…" Liz trailed off as Sands revealed the hated handcuffs.

"Where do you want her?" Karstens asked, bodily lifting Liz off her feet and taking her back into the room.

"There a radiator in here?"

"Just behind you and to your right."

"That'll do." Sands snapped the bracelets open and fastened them around Liz's wrists. "Can we have a moment?" he asked his henchman, and Liz watched helplessly as the other man left.

"Sheldon –"

He slapped his hand over her mouth. "I'm only going to say this once, Lizzie." His voice was almost pleasant, but it had an ugly undertone. "One, if you behave, I'll make sure you get home in one piece. Two, if I were about to kill you, there wouldn't be a room full of witnesses to hear the shot." He removed his hand. "Now stay here while I finish my business for the night, would you?"

"As if I had a choice," she said bitterly.

"That's my smart girl. I knew you'd figure it out." Wandering across the room, Sands located the TV and turned it on. "Now watch TV and don't mind what we're talking about." Then he left the room.

Liz couldn't bear it. She started to cry.


Author's Thanks: many, many thanks go out to vanillafluffy (I have a juicy heart-to-heart to come still. I can just see it now…. zones out, then snaps back Right, anyway what did you think? Can you predict what I'm going to do now? .); Dawnie-7 (I love the pseudo-happily-married-banter I can get away with. It seems very much like Sands.); quick29 (It's good to be queen. This isn't quite a cliffie, but I resisted because of the last chapter. Because I really wanted to end this one as Sands came in. evil grin); Little Fox (I hope you find this installment worth the wait – it's the longest chapter yet! – and I hope everyone is still in character. Hard to tell when everyone in sight is having mood swings.); Lynx (aww…I don't know if I deserve monster reviews, but I'm not going to turn them away either. ;) Sands is a smeep, but he was a smeep in the movie and we loved him there. I mentioned in the original bit of this fic before it ran away with me that Sands had wanted to be a better father than his father has been…and it turns out that he hasn't. But he regrets that in a way, and you're right, he's not sure what to do about that.); Malakhim (I've never thought as myself as respecting my characters, but I suppose I do sometimes think, "why would they do that? that's ridiculous," when I'm thinking up plots. I liked that bit of insight. .); Kitty Kisser (lol…if you've got printed versions of my fics, you're one up on me. Of course, I obsess about proofreading and editing them about 50,000 times. sigh); Spoofmaster (Thanks for pointed out that POV error. That's the problem with starting a POV and then not finishing it for a few days…you forget what you're doing. That should be all fixed now.); misc (see? I was nice this time around and didn't write such a big cliffie. .); Charlotte (there was just something about the way that Sands finally did the decent thing and told Chicle-boy to run that made me wonder if perhaps he hadn't already had a soft spot for children. shrugs Thus, Sands the family man. And of course, while he's off gallivanting around Mexico, someone would have to be worrying about the kids, and the car payments…); Merrie (that's the nice thing about writing – you never seem to run out of fall-out. . Fall out from the last chapter, fall out from this chapter…heck, this could go on forever.); Arenas (I know very well you're not the "slightly mean" type. With Sands as your Johnny, you're bound to be worse than that. :P); AJB (like I've said in the past – POV changes keep the author interested. ;) Or at least they keep this author interested.); Cayenne Pepper Powder (it's you! It's really you:P Nice to hear from you again. I must say that this chapter is in part dedicated to you because I got your review and though, "Man…it's been forever since I've updated that fic." So I got my butt in gear and here's the new chapter. Thanks for the kick in the pants. .)