Author's Note: okay, I'm going out of order, but I needed to write something and this is what I got. Don't worry, I do have an outline for my next chapter of Fractured Secrets, and I plan on writing that next. nods
Author's thanks at end.
"The truth? You can't use the truth. Have you tested it yet?"
Sands raised an eyebrow in Riley's direction. The woman had always had an overwhelming capacity for drama and getting burned didn't help any.
It was long past midnight – and most people's sobriety levels – and once the subject of the rat-bastard who'd sold them all out had been exhausted for the time being…
Why couldn't MacIntyre have made it tonight? Sands though sourly as he finished off his third beer. Robbo passed him another, but he didn't open it. Tipsy was acceptable. Being drunk was not. Especially when his colleagues were pumping him for information about Liz.
"Don't be ridiculous, Riley. None of us tell the truth anymore. Hasn't Price proved that 'truth' is a commodity?" Karstens' voice was dark, evoking scowls from those agents who were both close enough and aware enough to overhear. "Sands knows better than to tell a civilian the truth."
Actually, Sands thought, it's information that's so valuable. Truth isn't worth sh–
"Oh, so now we're taking the X-Files approach to life? Trust no one?" Riley's voice was scornful.
Karstens muttered something about how the FBI had stolen that from the CIA and Sands found himself smirking. That was until Riley said, "That's probably how you've found yourself served with divorce papers three times."
"Aw, keep your nose to yourself. You're just upset that you were number one."
"Actually, I think that's beside the point, since we're talking about Sands and his problems –"
"Since when is my personal life fodder for the gossip mill?" Sands drawled, interrupting the once happy couple as he reached for his cigarettes.
"Well, bringing said 'personal life,' and then having a rather loud argument with it certainly bumps you to the top of the list," Robbo drawled back, sliding a lighter across the table.
Sands put a hand to his ear. "Oh, do you hear that?" All conversation stopped. "Wait, is that…no, it couldn't…but it is. Yeah, that's the sound of I don't give a damn."
"Lighten up –"
"I'm trying," Sands muttered, bringing the flame to the tip of his cancer stick. Robbo keep talking over him, paying this quip no mind at all.
" – we've all had a hard time, what with one after another of us dropping like flies. If discussing your marital problems help us unwind, I say it's your duty to make sure that next time we can all hear a bit more clearly."
"Give it a break, Roberts," Riley said in a disgusted voice. "She's been dragged into a situation not of her own making. I doubt that any of us are incapable of sympathizing considering what Price did to us."
"Yeah, well she's not missing anything, now is she?" Sands growled, fed up. Until MacIntyre got there with the location of Price's compound, this was all moot.
"You mean other than her children?" Riley helped herself to a cigarette. "That came through loud and clear. Then there is of course, the fact that she's been missing a husband for the past –"
"And what should I have done about that?" Sands hissed. "Gone home every weekend after I'd managed to reach deep cover? Or perhaps I should have called her every night, and let the phone record speak for itself to whoever chose to investigate? We all knew the risks we'd be running, physical and those to our relationships –"
"Yeah, but most of our significant others knew about them too."
For a moment Sands considered shooting the woman across from him, but then thought better of it. They were going to need every agent. He settled for flipping her off.
"Yeah, I love you too. Now, are you going to talk to her or do you want to end up like me?"
"That would be a trick, wouldn't it?" Sands resented that people were telling him how to treat his own wife. Just because he hadn't been able to get away as cleanly –
Yeah. Couldn't. Is that what I'm telling myself? Sands snuffed his cigarette out on the table and let his head hang back as he contemplated Liz. The tide of conversation ebbed around him as his disinterest caused the subject to change entirely. Something about the World Series if he wasn't mistaken. Definitely not something he was interested in.
The truth was that if he'd really wanted, he could have gotten away cleanly. He could have left Liz at the bus station with a ticket home. After all, she wouldn't have had any clue as to his whereabouts. She wouldn't have known that he was meeting up with a dozen other rogue agents. She hadn't known anything. But now she knew more than would be healthy for her – for him – if he sent her back. By bringing her with him this far, he'd ensured that he couldn't send her away without endangering the entire operation. And if some small part of him hadn't known that, he'd eat his gun.
"Going to bed already?" Roberts quipped as Sands suddenly stood. "Do you want to take a 'Do Not Disturb' sign with you, or do you mind if we pop in now and then?"
Sands heard the leer in his colleague's voice, and replied in kind. "Feel free to pop your head in, but you won't be getting it back."
It's with more than a little caution that I open the door to the bedroom I'll be sharing with Liz. Not because I think she's about to attack me – she can't – but because I can't help but think the worst of what my recent bout of self-revelation will lead to.
I am going to tell her the truth about everything. I know that much. It's my choice. I want to do it now before I start feeling the uncomfortable pressure of guilt. The thought doesn't scare me, but it does annoy me, and actually feeling guilty will only annoy me further. If I've stupidly dragged Liz into this – which I undoubtedly have – then she needs to understand the situation. Enough innocents have been killed because of my interfering, and I've apparently grown a conscience where Liz is concerned. As if my unconscious need to have her with me wasn't stupid enough.
Not a sound reaches my ears as I cautiously make my way across the room, searching for a table and a chair in which to sit. That's why it's such a surprise when I hear a soft rustle and then find myself falling flat on my face. I lay stunned on the floor for a moment, trying to absorb the knowledge that Lizzie just tripped me. I can hear her breathing heavily, as if she's…afraid.
Whatever else I ever wanted, I never wanted her to be afraid of me.
"You never cease to sweep me off my feet," I drawl as I manage to compose myself.
Far from placated, Liz hisses, "You fu– "
"I'm sorry, okay?" Stunned silence issues from Lizzie's quarter, or at least I assume she's stunned and not unable to speak for silent, disbelieving laughter. It's a little late to rethink my modus operandi now though, so I continue even as I curse myself for a fool. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this."
"Why?" she challenges, her voice tight with the anger that must have spurred her on to attack me.
She didn't used to be so…combative. How much must she hate me? Enough to make some of her actions completely unexpected.
I speak to hide my discomposure. "I'd say that I never meant to bring you this far, but that would be a lie."
"Oh, so you've suddenly discovered that you've missed me? You want things to be the way they used to? Is this some misguided attempt to make me 'understand?'"
I admit that her understanding would be nice, but it's not something I'm holding my breath waiting for.
"Don't be ridiculous, Lizzie. When I realized how much I missed you, I stopped writing. It was the only way for me to actually get the job done. When you work for the CIA –"
"The time to explain all this was when you first got hired."
" – when you work for the CIA," I repeat, "and you have to go into what's called 'deep cover,' you have to sever all ties to anyone important in order to survive. The operative's safety comes first and at any expense, because it takes time and money to replace the greenhorns who are always thinking about their sweet young things back home."
She's quiet for a long time. My words probably provided even less comfort than they were intended to. I know how her mind works; I know how she's mulling over my words and wondering how much merit they have. Not enough. Words were all she wanted then. Words would have been enough to pacify her. Now words are all I have and they don't even begin to cover the sins her eyes see. The irony doesn't escape me.
"Why are you telling me all this, Sheldon?" I feel some of the tension leave my shoulders when her words come out merely petulant instead of hostile. "What does it matter now?"
"It matters because I didn't shove enough money at you to get a ticket home when I had the chance."
"I can still go home –"
"No, you can't. It doesn't matter if you promise to keep your mouth shut about my location and about how I've met up with a dozen other rogue agents. Now that you've come this far, you…I…we…have more to worry about than my former employers. And that's why I'm telling you this. I can't send you home, and you can't stay without some small idea of what's going on. Not to mention I can't focus on my job if we're constantly battling."
"I didn't know I was important enough to be distracting," she mutters. I grind my teeth and wonder if she was listening to my not-so-little confession of five minutes past.
"All flippancy aside," I reply once my irritation is under control. "It's not exactly the weather I came in here to discuss with you." My hand thrusts into my pocket and comes out with a small key in its grasp. "Now, I'm going to let you go, but only with the understanding that you keep your limbs to yourself until after I've told my story."
"Is it a long one?" she asks in an airy, mocking voice. "Because I don't know how long I can restrain myself."
I stop short of her cuffed hands. "Oh, then perhaps we'd all feel better if I left you where you are. Would you like that?"
Silence… "No."
"Alright then." I make quick work of the handcuffs, then help her to her feet since her legs must be more than a little stiff. She pulls away but not before my fingers brush against a damp patch of cloth near her neck. I frown, then ask, "Were you crying?"
"Will you die of regret if I say yes?"
Never mind.
Liz sat quietly for a long time, trying to digest the tale that Sands had just told her. Her mind was buzzing with information, like an ambitious reader that'd read a spy thriller too quickly. In fact, Sands' story came out sounding more like a bestseller than the truth. For a moment Liz contemplated the possibility that she was just being fed a pack of lies… But he'd been so deadly serious during his recitation. There had been no drawling, no smirking, no wicked quirk of an eyebrow.
He'd started by telling her about the operation he'd left her to complete five years ago. Briefly he spoke about making connections, about blackmailing and bribing people, about infiltrating the very society he was there to turn on its ear. The CIA's "shadow men" were well named, and he was very good at his job. He became less than a shadow. He became an echo. And to Liz's eyes, she could see him becoming no more than a soft voice in the darkness of the room; when the fantasy had become too real, she'd had to turn on some lights.
He'd told her everything. How after awhile he'd even ceased to feel. About how he went about his job with impunity. How he'd started to gather power for more than his job. How his priorities had changed. About how he'd changed, because you can't be seeped in that kind of life for long without being corrupted. And how he hadn't fought the corruption. He'd named the day that he'd decided that he wouldn't be going back to his family.
Those were details that Liz could have done without. Especially since he described them with such dispassion. The facts ma'am. Just the facts. She wished she could interrupt him then and there, wished she could cover her ears and talk over him. Wished she could slap him, rail at him, beat on his chest. Anything to repay him for the hurt he was causing her… But she knew from the dreamy quality in his voice that if she interrupted him now, she wouldn't hear the end of the story. And just because she didn't like how the plot was unfolding didn't mean that she didn't want to hear the end. Didn't need to hear the end. It was like a widow being forced to watch a recreation of her husband's murder. It made her very teeth ache, but there was some kind of desperate need to know that kept her lips still.
"For a finale as big as this one," his soft voice said impartially, "there should have been a score of operatives around to watch the curtain drop. When I called for backup, someone should have on my tail within half an hour. But no one came." A muscle tightened in his jaw. "Even strapped to that table, I was stalling. Of course I'd heard the rumors of a series of other operations going belly up. But they were rumors. Or at least I thought they were." He pointed at his shades. "Afterwards, I called again and the line had been terminated. My Company contact – Phillip Masden – had disappeared. All the officers in Mexico had been hit. One managed to make it across the border. One managed to make it to the U.S. embassy in Mexico City. One was still missing last I heard. The rest are dead. Of course, I didn't find any of this out until I was resting comfortably in Langly and the spinner of blame had come to rest on me. I was one of two survivors, and Weaver hadn't known who any of her compatriots were."
"You didn't…?"
"What do you think?"
For some reason Liz felt like she was being tested, so she took her time in answering. He'd confessed to killing in cold blood. He'd confessed to purposely setting people up, at times with dire consequences. He'd confessed to planning to leave her, to take away the support she needed to raise his children. And now he wanted her to judge whether or not he'd sell out his coworkers?
But Liz knew that despite anything else, Sands was smart. If he had any intention of selling out his backup, it'd be once he was away safely.
"No…I don't think you did it."
Sands muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Took you long enough," but he relaxed a bit. Liz wondered if her opinion of him actually mattered enough to make her silence seem condemning.
The story continued into the early morning. One of the officers that Sands had gone though the academy with – whose name was Ulrich – had come to visit him in the hospital. He'd said that this wasn't the first time a failed operation had been pinned on the point man. That seven other top priority international endeavors had bitten the dust. Starting in Belarus and a few other of the smaller dictator run Eastern European countries, key counter-insurgency/counter-terrorism/drug trafficking-operations had been biting the dust one after the other. Now US officers in Brazil, Venezuela, Colombia, the Philippines, et cetera, were on the run with bounties over their heads. He'd said that there was evidence that it was one person behind the entire mess, not just a rather large crop of bag eggs. Since things had started on a small scale and then expanded to top priority projects over a period of just a few years… Well, Sands' friend had just hinted that he'd had information that would help out Sands and the other officers who were hiding on US soil.
However this friend had gotten into a car accident just a few days after talking to Sands. When he'd finally broken out of the hospital, Sands had gone to the friend's apartment straight away only to find it had been ransacked, and without any other recourse, he'd headed to Virginia. On the road he'd been contacted by Roberts who said that they'd managed to get the information from Ulrich's apartment a few hours after the fatal wreck. Things were good to go. They knew that Masden had been the one to sell Sands out. More importantly, they knew that Masden had simply been a gopher; they knew who the big cheese himself was.
"His name is Price." At this point Sands got up and crossed to the nearest window. He opened it a crack and lit up. "He was a trainer at the academy. It was a matter of some talk how he liked to keep in touch with the officers who made it. 'How unusual,' we all said, but none of us really thought that he was going to use the information to make himself a tidy bundle."
"I don't understand," Liz whispered. "What kind of profit can he make?"
Sands laughed softly. "Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie." He shook his head. "Espionage in the international arena is a lot like a good game of Battleship. It's all about knowing where your opponent is, and whether he's got a lifeboat or an aircraft carrier. And there are factions outside or inside every government – including our own – that will pay very good money to find that out. We're talking tens of millions of dollars for nothing more than a list of names and coordinates."
"But if all of this is true, then why don't you just go to the authorities?"
Again Sands laughed that soft laugh that let her know that he despaired for her. "Price is very well thought of. A war hero from Vietnam and Korea, a former name for director of the CIA, was narrowly defeated in his run for Vermont's democratic seat in the Senate, and friends with all the brass on the Hill. In short, he is the 'authorities.' Not to mention that he's smart enough to always act through middle men – sometimes three or four. He never has any contact with the officers who get burned. There's no phone records to indicate he had any contact with the officers who go turncoat. His bank accounts don't show the numbers that would prove he's got a source of income apart from his rather substantial pension."
"But if you have evidence –"
"We have enough evidence to prove that he's involved with something shady, but that's not enough to get anyone to investigate a man of his power. We're on our own."
It's all too much. It's been a long day, full of travel and exhausting emotions. I didn't get to call my babies. It's all I can do to even stay awake at this point, yet I know sleep won't be coming any time soon. So I might as well use my waking hours for some purpose, especially since Sheldon is in an informative mood.
"Why are we here? Is this where Price is?" I still don't know what I think about this vigilante justice that's going on in my presence. I don't know what I think about finding out just how lost my husband has become. I don't know anything. I don't think my questions will help sort any of this out, but I can't help but ask anyway.
"No," Sheldon replies, flicking his cigarette butt into a nearby trashcan. "We're really not sure where he is. This is just the meeting place. Some reconnaissance is supposed to be coming in some time tomorrow."
"And why can't I go home?"
"You know too much. We suspect that Price is aware that someone's on his tail. I'm sure he knows by now that you're with me, and I'm on the run. And that makes me very dangerous. If I send you home, there's no guarantee that you'll be safe there."
"And you think Chris and Amanda are safe?"
Sands frowned. "Do you think I'd sit here and do nothing if I didn't? Or that I would tell you?" My question must have disturbed him because he lights up again. "I might not be in the running for father of the year, but I'm not about to let innocents –"
"You've changed your philosophy then? Harming innocents didn't bother you just a few months ago." Even I can hear the bite in my voice.
"Kids are different."
"How do you know? Even if you believe that, what makes you think Price does?"
"Oh, I know Price doesn't. But the kids are currently being looked after by an entire contingency of CIA agents, and they're on US soil. They won't be any safer just because you're at their side."
"But –"
"Lizzie!" He sounds truly angry now. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Well here it is: to Price you're nothing more than a tool, and tools are not indispensable. Price would have no problem with ordering one of his middle men to torture you if he thought it would get him results. You're nothing to him."
My throat is tight but the point needs to be made. "Just awhile ago you were telling me that I meant the same to you."
He's always been eerily aware of what I've been thinking, and this time is no exception. "Don't go fishing, Lizzie. You might not like what you find."
I might not like what I find? A disbelieving laugh escapes me. "Why does my safety mean anything to you then?"
"I've already told you –"
"No!" God, why did I marry someone who's so good at getting under my skin? "Don't feed me some line about how I have too much damaging information. If I know anything that he doesn't already suspect, then he's not too bright, is he?"
"What do you want me to say then? You're the one who wants the divorce."
I gasp, completely broadsided. Why I didn't I see that one coming?
"What's wrong, Lizzie?" Sheldon smiles unpleasantly. "Don't you like having that sprung on you?"
"You –"
"I only decided not to come home after Masden passed it on to me that you were trying to get divorce papers to me."
"I wanted you to come home!"
"Fine way to show it."
"How else was I supposed to get your attention?" Why can't I feel my feet? Mid-argument is an inconvenient time to have an out-of-body experience. "You were ignoring all my letters –"
"Don't you understand anything?" He's yelling back now. We've only fought like this once or twice, and they're ugly blots on my memory. It doesn't matter that during times like this is when we have the most honest communication. I still don't like it. "What do you think would have happened to you if anyone had found out that I had a wife I actually cared about?"
"Oh, don't give me that. You were only worried about your own skin."
"What did my skin matter? I was already dead."
I blink as his last statement rings oddly in my ears. "What do you mean you were already dead?"
"Geeze, Lizzie. Don't you understand that I meant it when I promised to be right back?" He rubs a hand over his face and slides down the wall to take a seat on the floor. "I was so in love with you. Besotted. There's a few people here who will vouch for me. I promised to be right back, and I tricked myself into believing it even when I knew better. I knew that there was a good chance that the night before I left was goodbye. I didn't sleep a wink that night. I spent every hour walking from bedroom to bedroom, watching you all sleep."
I sit down on the mattress as my knees give out. How can he be saying all of this now? Why can't we fight for a little longer? It takes less emotion. It's not as risky. Not as dangerous.
"I was going to make something of myself, Lizzie. And then I was going to come back and take a stateside job. We got married so young and I wanted to do things."
"I'm sorry we were such a burden," I intone. My ears still seem to be ringing. The last time I felt like this, I'd just found out I was pregnant with Chris.
"You weren't."
"That's not what you're making it sound like."
Sheldon sighs, or at least I think I hear him sigh. "I was selfish. I wanted both. I thought it would work. But hardly any officers who go into deep cover can make it work. There's too much compartmentalization. The family that's held frozen in memory isn't the one that we come back to, and the shock…" He shrugs. "It's usually too much. Tempers flare because kids have grown up and grown attitudes. The significant other has a seed of resentment hiding in them somewhere, and the officer feels that they're misunderstood because they went through everything on their own. I've always liked to be ahead of the game, but damn, Lizzie… I didn't think you'd press for a divorce before I could at least piss you off in person."
"I told you. I just wanted you to come home. Once you were home…" It's my turn to shrug.
"What? Once I was home we'd work it all out?"
"It was worth a try." My voice is immeasurably dull. Feeling is returning to my feet, but my body feels leaden. Like the earth's gravity has increased while we've been talking. I don't want to breathe, but my lungs seem to have enough air for me to whisper, "I just wanted my husband back."
Sheldon pulls himself to his feet. He seems to be feeling the extra gravity too. An age passes before he's standing in front of me, arms held away from his sides. "Well here I am. Still want me?"
"Should I?" I ask his opinion because he knows himself better than I do these days. I wonder if my voice sounds as wistful to me as it does to him.
"No." Sheldon shakes his head and his arms sink back down to his side. "No, you shouldn't."
They went to bed soon after this. Liz in her bed, Sands in his. It seemed that there was more distance between them than simply the space between the beds for all that they'd spent the better part of three hours talking.
Liz had been right earlier when she'd thought that sleep would be a long time in coming. She couldn't help worrying at all the tiny insights and glaring facts that had been thrown in her lap. Homesickness and a need to check in on her children didn't help put her mind to rest either. She'd never been gone from home for this long. She rolled over, punched her pillow, and tried to find a more comfortable position to sleep in. Her husband didn't help matters; he was sound asleep – she could tell from his soft snores – across from her. Why did he get to sleep easily when she was tormented by her own second guesses?
Sands was right. She shouldn't want him. But he kept showing glimpses of who he'd been five years ago, and she'd loved that man very dearly…even if he did exasperate her. How different could it be, she wondered as the sun slowly rose. How different could it be to get used to him now than it would have been to be at his side as he changed? Everyone changes with time – there's no way to stop that. Experience is a school that's never out of session. Maturity sets in. Crises come and go. Even if he'd never left, I would have woken up one day to find myself next to a Sheldon who was different from the one I'd married.
At the same time she knew that had they been together, the change would have been gradual. Hardly noticeably at all. In this case it really was like waking up next to a different person than she'd gone to bed with.
But was difficulty any reason to give up? If it was, there wouldn't be a parent alive who hadn't abandoned their kids. There wouldn't be a person who hadn't dropped out of school or left a job. People would all die of suicide and not natural causes.
No. I will not give up just because things are difficult. Deciding she wouldn't be sleeping for a long time yet, Liz sat up and switched on the bedside lamp. Sands sat up at the same time she did, reaching for a weapon.
"Don't," she murmured. "I can't sleep. I'm going to go check out the bookshelf."
Sands grunted, but laid back down.
Appropriately enough, Liz found a copy of Alice in Wonderland on the bookshelf. She shook her head, but took it back with her. As she cracked open the cover, she thought to herself, Time. I just need a little bit of time. Then I'll know if I can reconcile myself to who he's become or not. I don't need to know him completely. I just need to know that it'll be possible for me to be able to.
Author Thanks: my many thanks to…Winged Seraph (If you're like me, you're leery to start new fics that are by authors you like, because if you hate it, then your opinion of the author is lowered. Or I could simply be 'unique.' . I've seen one or two fics – and I mean only one or two – that dealt with Sands having a family back in the states, but they never went anywhere. A chapter or two in, even the authors lost interest, or so it seems. I'm glad that you're enjoying mine, and I know that reviews help keep my interest. ;P laughs); Dawnie-7 (The simple solutions are always the best in my way of thinking. nods Conflict is what keeps a story moving…there's certainly plenty of it in this chapter. .); Scarlett (I hope I'm not killing you too badly, because if you die before STtHG is finished, I'm going to cry my eyes out. laughs at very small joke You know how much I enjoy a challenge, and giving Sands something of an actual past seemed like a challenge all right. I think you're right about this version of Sands…he seems more Sandsy than my last Sands. :P Don't worry about reviewing, especially since I haven't been doing such a good job of that either. Suffice it to say that you're killing me with where you left Sands.); Spoofmaster (I'm very glad that you're enjoying everything.) vanillafluffy (Well, I think the last thing anyone could accuse Sands of is having a lack of cohones. ;D You're right, this isn't the kind of fic where Sands contemplating corrupt lessons could mean anything good…but you never know what might come to me later and be posted elsewhere. looks angelic); quick29 (These CIA agents are like the lost boys almost, with Sands as Peter. Other than the fact that these lost boys are murderous and wanted by the law. shrugs Now that I have all this out of my system, now I can get to FS and PS…I hope. I'd really like to finish those this year.); Arenas (Sands being suspicious…yes, that is a bit surprising. :P Scary is fun, drama is fun, angst is best. I'm not sure which of those won out this chapter.); Lynx (I'm a fast reader, and HP isn't exactly on the same comprehension level as say Lord of the Rings or War and Peace. Of course, I prefer my light reading to heavy reading. The only reason I write Sands so well is because I've had lots, and lots, and lots of experience. If I can get you to almost but not quite revile Sands, that's quite a complement, because that's how RobbieR got us all hooked.); Cayenne Pepper Powder (I love reviews whenever I get them, so don't worry about being 'late.' And I did rush out a new chapter ahead of my other fics, so this time around you're going to have to be patient. Don't want the fics to start pouting and thinking I have a favorite, do we?)
