Author's Note: I think I've decided which of my three stories is the most fun to write. :P It's a struggle to not just sit down and finish this one and ignore the others. Especially when I figure there's only another…three?.. chapters to this one before it's done. Wow.

Well, I guess I'll type up the thanks and start thinking about the next chapter of FS. Enjoy, y'all.


"…while your concerns in Malaysia, El Salvador, and Tunisia are flourishing, there are some concerns to be raised over the slow progression of matters in the near and middle East. I would suggest that if the agents positioned in those countries don't start producing the desired results, that we implement –"

The phone rang and the flunky knew better than to keep talking. No one called Price's inner sanctum without making a good impression a virtual cadre of attack secretaries, each with more clearance than the last. If a call made it this far then it was for one man's ears only.

Bill Price noted with approval his aide's discretion as the other man wandered to the other side of the room and let himself out of the office. The adage "good help is hard to come by" was certainly true. He'd wasted good time and money silencing the inept assistants that had come his way. He'd be pleased to not have to dispose of this one in the middle of this little…crisis.

Assured of his isolation, Price picked up his phone. "Who is it, Janet?"

"Recon delta, Mr. Price."

Price pulled out the pocket watch he always carried as a reminder to himself of –

"Sir? Should I patch them through?"

"Yes, Janet. By all means, put Mr. Grieves through."

Price reached over and flicked on his recorder – it was a habit of his to record all of his phone calls. It was impossible to tell what information might be useful in the future. – just as two clicks indicated that his secretary had both hung up her end and switched the line. Such efficiency was to be commended.

Tucking his watch back into his pocket, Price leaned back in his leather office chair and gazed out at the Coppertoned tourists flocking the beach and boardwalk below his office building. He felt mild disdain for them; like sheep they milled around, looking for the greenest pastures and the choicest mates, their lives empty of purpose and their minds empty of thoughts.

"Report."

"If they were ever here, they've flown the coop, sir. We've searched the premises of each of the area's hotels, but found proof of habitation in only one. Signs point to a large group inhabiting the upper floors and conference room, but that could be the conclusion we were meant to arrive at. Even the few fingerprints we've found match either hotel staff or are too smudged for identification."

"Mmm."

Despite their being in his employ, Price didn't trust his recovery and reconnaissance team to know what they were looking at. They were dealing with people whose lives depended on leaving behind no trace of themselves. Still…

It'd be like his former students to lay false trails. It was practical, yet leaned towards the ridiculous at times; two states that would suit them. Glen would appreciate the challenge. Sheldon would lay several false trails, purposely leaving just one or two clues behind at each, hoping that someone with enough wit would piece them together. Maria would hurry both men along, her practicality winning out over her partners' artistic sides.

Turning his mind back to the task at hand, Price asked, "You have no conclusive proof at all?" That was disappointing. Most disappointing. And this…lack of useful intelligence should not produce such a smug note in his agent's voice. Failure was never rewarded. A fact all his employees knew very well.

"None but the two men who seem awfully interested in our business. Of course, it could just be coincidence that we've run into them three times apiece. This is a small town."

The tone of Grieves' voice let Price know what his instincts were. And Price agreed. They'd know that the hounds would be set on their trail. Damn, but this was the reason he no longer took protégés. They had the nasty habit of attempting to predict his movements. "Catch them. I want to know what they know."

"Yes, sir."

"Then dispose of them."

"But sir, won't that –"

"Don't presume to think for yourself. The moment our two spies are late in reporting in, their fate will be common knowledge. That's no reason to be sloppy though, now is it, Mr. Grieves?"

"No, sir."

Excellent. The man sounded mildly nervous. "Very good, Mr. Grieves. Now, I should like it very much if you would send whatever belongings were left behind to my office." Just in case Sheldon had decided to get fancy.

"The currier will have it to you by this evening."

"It'd best be here before the end of business hours. I do like to keep to my schedule."

Grieves deridingly wondered if Mrs. Price – if there was a Mrs. Price – could set her clock by how and when she was screwed. Not that he'd ever share that with his employer. "Yes, sir."

"And make sure everything is cataloged according to room."

"The photographs are being developed as we speak, sir."

Perhaps Grieves team wasn't as inept as he thought. "Schedule your men for some R&R when this business if concluded, Grieves. I think they've earned it."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

"That will be all, Mr. Grieves."

Price hung up his phone and steepled his fingers. The grin that slowly spread across his face was not one to inspire confidence in anyone. "Sloppy work, Sheldon. Very sloppy." Making sure his children were squirreled away under Federal protection had been a surprising move on his part. But his insistence on keeping his wife with him?

The surprise on his student's face – the best of all his students, past and present – would be utterly delicious when the man realized it was his wife's presence that had tolled the death knell for his little resistance group.

The moment she stepped foot in Florida, his men would be on them.


"Brat," Chris hissed as he searched through the dark room for his little sister. These Feds were worse curfew Nazis than his mother was. When they decided it was lights out, that was that. No exceptions. Not even for a little girl who was still afraid of the dark.

"Brat," he hissed again to the same effect. Was she actually in bed for once, soundly asleep instead of hiding in the closet –

"Ow! Sonofabitch!"

"Mom doesn't like it when you cuss, Chris."

Balancing briefly on one leg, Chris rubbed his injured foot and planned his sister's murder, but he gave up and cautiously set his foot down while he bit back the obvious reply – that their mother wasn't here, damnit. It'd be the wrong thing to say; experience had taught him that. So instead, he demanded, "What's all over the floor, Amanda Lynn?"

"Legos and jacks."

Stifling another curse, Chris carefully limped over to his sister's bed and fumbled with the blankets until he found her boney shoulders. It was uncharacteristic of him to care about what "the brat" was up to, but with their mom missing…

"Don't you know that I'm the only one who comes stumbling in here after lights out?" he asked tiredly as he took the seat she made for him.

"I don't like it here, Chris." He tolerated it when she pressed against his side, just as he tolerated all her other annoying habits…

Hell, that was a lie. He paid attention to her fears because it kept his mind off his own.

"I know you don't, brat."

"Why doesn't Mom come home?"

"Because she can't." By far the blackest sin to grace his memory of his father. "You've heard them. Dad won't let her."

"How do they know that? They say they haven't heard anything."

Good question, but the answer was simple. "She'd be here right now if she could be. He's keeping her hostage. That's what he told the people who tried to arrest him."

"I don't believe it." Mandy's tone was mulish. "Mom loves him."

"What?" Mandy couldn't be that naïve, could she? "Why do you say that?"

"Mom told me once. I asked her why she was sad, and she said it was because it was their anniversary and the man she loved didn't even care enough to send her a postcard."

"When was this?" It occurred to Chris that he didn't know what day his parents' anniversary was. He should. He should have known so he could have taken his mom's mind off it.

"Don't 'member." Mandy worked her fingers into her brother's. "But she still loves him, so he won't hurt her."

It was horrible reasoning on Mandy's part, Chris thought. All their mother's love hadn't kept their dad from abandoning them all. Hadn't kept him from breaking Mom's heart.

This time he didn't need experience to know that this was something he shouldn't point out to his sister.

"Go to sleep, brat."

"You'll stay until morning?"

I always do. "Sleep."

Mandy lay down. Chris felt her rearranging the blankets. Then she settled down and murmured her prayers – a nightly ritual usually performed in the presence of their mom – then whispered, "Goodnight, Chris."

An hour later when he finally couldn't keep his eyes open any longer, Chris lay down and whispered back, "Goodnight, Mandy."


"Stop it," I mutter without fully waking up. All I know is that my bedmate is thrashing around much too energetically to allow me to sleep. Almost the moment I think that, the body next to mine thankfully calms, although I could do without the elbow digging into my spine…

I shift; with the uncomfortable pressure relieved, I gradually fall back asleep.

An unknown amount of time later the thrashing is back, accompanied by unintelligible muttering. I wait about thirty seconds for it to stop – all the patience I have so early in the morning – then roll over and turn on the bedside lamp. The sudden light makes me blink and squint, but has no effect on my companion.

"Oh, Sheldon…" I'm afraid of what might happen if I reach out and touch him mid-nightmare, but his face is a sickly grey and his hair is dark with cold sweat. Something has to be done. I can't just let him…

"Just calm down," I murmur, hoping that a soothing voice will keep him from attacking should he wake suddenly. I've had his hands around my neck quite often enough in the past few days.

Shivering as the cheap, unheated motel air hits my skin, I ease out from under the blankets and observe the situation. It's a wonder that he's left me any blankets at all. Somehow he's managed to cocoon himself with all his flailing; I assume that his physical condition has worked its way into his dreams. Being pinned down as he is must bring back some unpleasant memories.

I carefully work to untangle the blankets from around his legs, lower body, and torso, murmuring soothing words while I do. It's tense work – I have to keep one eye on him so I can leap out of the way should he attack – but a sense of satisfaction sweeps over me as I pull the last confining fold free.

The moment he's released from his cotton prison, the restless movements of his arms and legs cease. It's an improvement, but I'd still feel better if I could banish his nightmare entirely. The mumbled words and phrases flowing freely from his lips are proof that while more comfortable, he still isn't happy.

"Sheldon?" Still not touching him directly, I move to the end of the bed and gently untie his shoelaces. He was so drunk when he came to bed that he forgot to take his shoes off. How he managed to strip down to his boxers without taking off his shoes… I'd always wanted a man who'd never cease to amaze me, but I'm not sure that this is what I meant.

"You're pitiful," I softly inform him as his shoes thump to the floor.

Sheldon comes awake at the sound, sitting bolt upright and fending off some horror with his arms. I remain absolutely silent, my hand resting gently on his ankle until he kicks it away.

"Don't." His voice is tight with personal misery.

"I'm just protecting myself," I bluff. "You still had your shoes on. I didn't want to get kicked."

He frowns. "Shoes?" It sounds as if he can't contemplate something so commonplace as footwear at the moment.

"Yes, shoes." I let my voice become more matter-of-fact; I get the feeling that he'll find sympathy condescending right now. Still, I pull the blankets up around us both, making sure that he's nicely covered. He might ignore it, but I can see the goosebumps on his arms.

"Don't baby me." Sheldon's frown is deeper now. I don't know if he's truly mad at me or if he's suffering from a hangover. Or just the headache he had earlier.

"I'm not. I'm stealing the blankets back." I lay down again, my back to him, then ask, "Would you come back to bed, already? You're letting the cold air in."

He seems to debate the wisdom of this for awhile, but I don't nag or further encourage him to join me.

I'm mildly disappointed when he climbs out of bed. It's unreasonable of me, I know that. Just moments ago I was wary of being throttled in return for my good deed. It doesn't follow that I should want him to stay. Or that he would want to; he must be embarrassed to be caught in a nightmare by me of all people.

He wouldn't be upset if his friends had been here. The heat of annoyance helps to beat back the chill of the room. He wouldn't be so prickly If they'd overheard. They'd let him be about it. I turn off the lamp and flop back down. I'm doing that too, so I'm not sure what the big deal is. It's not like I'm taking this as an opportunity to drag his deepest secrets and fears out him. He just doesn't trust me, not even to behave like a human being. As if I really want to hash everything out in the middle of the night…

Just as I'm getting a good head of resentment worked up, I hear Sheldon come padding back to bed accompanied by the sound of a flushing toilet. Blushing, I remember how much he had to drink earlier.

As Sheldon slides back under the blankets – carefully leaving plenty of room between us, I notice – I smile softly. I'm glad he can't see how pleased I am that he came back. If he knew how much it meant to me to have him not blame me for intruding on his nightmares…

I'm just glad he can't.


Sands didn't go back to sleep. He'd heard Liz doze off, had listened as her breathing grew deeper and evened out, and had been relieved that she hadn't demanded explanations from him, explanations he wasn't prepared to give her or anyone else.

He never should have gotten drunk in the first place, though at the time it had seemed like a prime example of having to choose between the lady and the tiger. Not drinking himself senseless would have made being near Liz a torture. Yet being drunk loosened his control to the point where he couldn't wake himself from hellish memories of being betrayed, held down, tortured…

An involuntary shiver rocked him and he turned towards Liz. Despite everything, she represented a kind of safety. Not the lifesaving kind, but the life-affirming kind. She was his security blanket. He didn't mind that being true as long as no one else figured it out.

He'd been more hurt than he'd let on when the news finally got through to him that she was asking for a divorce. That's when he'd really started hitting on that bitch Ajedrez. After all, what had been left for him to go home to?

God, he was so glad he'd killed her. That was the only thing that made the nightmares worthwhile; waking up and feeling grim satisfaction wash over him as he remembered her fate.

Somehow though, waking up to find Liz pretending not to fuss over him was nearly as good. He wondered – should he live through the next week or so – if it'd actually be possible to work things through with her. At least he'd be living with the devil he knew…

The woman his thoughts were centered around moved, her body making the mattress shift.

When she had lain still for awhile, Sands realized that she hadn't woken up. There was no reason he should feel grateful for that, but he did and he let his curiosity take reign for a moment. The air was cold as he stretched a hand out in Liz's direction but a draft of heat brushed across his fingertips.

She's facing me. That made him hesitate for a moment, listen to the pattern of her breathing, and come to the conclusion that she was still deeply asleep. Good.

Using even more care than before, Sands felt the very tips of his fingers brush against warm skin; exploration revealed that it was Liz's cheek. Her skin was soft, though not as velvety as it'd been five years ago. How old was she now? Thirty-seven? He counted back from his own age and came to the conclusion that she was indeed thirty-seven. Not a hag, but no spring chicken anymore either.

The thought started a soft gust of laughter out of him. She was right. He was a pig.

Trying to remember the face under his hand, trying to piece together her image in his mind's eye, Sands sent his fingers questing further. His thumb rubbed against the side of her nose; no nose ring. It'd never been huge, just a miniscule silver stud, but he supposed it'd clashed with her professional image. It was too bad; in her heart of hearts, his wife was a flower child, an unfettered hedonist. A look at her CD collection where Jimmy Buffett, Simon and Garfunkel, The Mamas and the Papas, and John Lennon rubbed elbows with Fleetwood Mac and Peter, Paul, and Mary would prove that. He'd always been fascinated by that visible representation of her inner self so boldly stamped on her outer self. It had been a glaring paradox in a woman who so disapproved of paradoxes.

He'd never mentioned that to her. To do so would have been foolish when he'd known that she would have been insulted by the fact that he'd dare to have preconceived notions about her. She really could have been a wild woman for all he'd known. And she was. Deep down inside where only flashes of it showed and only in extreme situations. The rest of the time she had two feet about as solidly on the ground as anyone could.

Unbeknownst to Sands, the strengthening light of dawn – along with the nearly phantom brush of his skin against hers – had roused Liz. She had been surprised to find him touching her but too tired to tell him to knock it off or to move away from his hand. Now she watched him from under her eyelids. She was getting better at reading his expressions; the one gracing his face right now was…not quite tender, but something akin to it.

He kept touching and she kept watching, each of them making their own discoveries. When his fingers drifted towards her eyes, she let them fall shut. When they drifted towards her lips, she fought to maintain her even breathing.

When he rubbed his thumb back and forth across her bottom lip, she couldn't help but let her lips part.

Sands froze, though he didn't yank his hand away as she'd thought he might. His face was turned away from hers so only his profile was in view, but that was enough for her to see that he raised an eyebrow before once again sweeping his thumb across her lip. Her breath left her in a gust.

"You like that, do you?" he murmured more to himself than to her. Then he raised his voice: "Tell me that there was someone else. That there is someone else."

Liz shook her head, this time brushing his thumb with her lips.

He groaned; it wasn't a sound of pleasure although there was an element of that emotion in it. "Tell me you didn't wait around for me, Lizzie." His hand slipped across her face, sliding into her hair.

"I can't…"

"Then lie. It'll be for your own good." He was frowning when he turned his face towards her, waiting to hear the words that would block the foolish path she was about to let him take.

"I won't…"

"Damnit, sweetness." His fingers tightened in her hair, raising her face as he leaned over her. "You'd better not blacken my eye this time."

"Never." The word was breathless, though her breath wasn't truly stolen until Sands brushed his lips against hers. His nose bumped hers; they both adjusted their fit though neither pressed for more. It was too…awkward…between them to take this too far. Somehow they both understood that without uttering a word.

Liz's hands reached up to cup his jaw just as Sands thought he'd have to ask her to touch him. Sands rose up, propping himself on his free arm just when Liz thought she'd have to pull him to where she wanted him. Despite the fact that they only touched above the shoulders and showed no signs of straying, the kiss grew in intensity while remaining light.

Who knows how long it could have continued if Roberts hadn't come along and started pounding on the door, interrupting the cocoon of silence the couple had protectively built up around themselves. They both froze at this proof of not-so-intelligent life existing outside of their own private world. And while Sands' head started pounding – with …frustration? Irritation? Hangover? – it was Liz who pulled away, rolling out of bed and to her feet. She retreated to the bathroom without a word, leaving her husband to jerk the blankets from the bed and answer the door with more than a little hostility.

"You know, somewhere in Texas, a town is missing it's idiot, and it's not the President."

Roberts raised his eyebrows, surveying Sands' blanket-clad figure and the empty room in a single glance. "The Missus too cold? Or did she leave you hanging?"

Enough was enough. Sands shoved Roberts out the door and followed, making sure he'd swiped the room key before slamming the door behind him. "That topic of discussion is no longer your concern," he all but snarled.

Roberts eyed his friend and decided the potential for jocular hilarity wasn't worth the fistfight he'd have on his hands – or the gun between his eyeballs – he'd get if he persisted. Sands had always been tightlipped when it'd come to his family, but had never protested the asides of others on the matter. So either something had gone very right, very wrong, or Sands was very hung over to take such a vehement stand on the matter at this late date.

"Uncle," he declared, shoving a cigarette and lighter into Sands' white-knuckled hands. It was a little chilly out here (and this time he was observing the weather). "I'm guessing that whatever else was happening, you weren't listening to the news."

"What time is it, Robbo?" Sands lit up gratefully, his tone once again civil. That break in his emotions had been a rare thing, and quite frankly, he never wanted it to happen again.

"Seven-ten, give or take."

"Why are you here then? You know I don't recognize any hours that fall between bedtime and nine." Sands turned to go back in his room. Annoyingly enough, Roberts followed. Figuring that Liz was safely ensconced in the shower, Sands didn't say anything but let the other officer tail him inside. It was cold enough to literally give any man blue balls. Just thinking about that had Sands reaching for his pants. "I'm still waiting for an answer."

"It's Masden."

Sands froze, then continued pulling his jeans up. "We're in Merrimack then."

"Not far off. We're actually in a little town named Derry."

Sands buttoned his fly and reached for a shirt. His movements were sharp, tainted by his shackled all-consuming drive for revenge (though even that was a mild way of putting it). All he said though was, "You're going to get us in trouble with your Stephen King obsession, Robbo."

"We're not in Maine." Roberts doubted that Sands even heard him. "Listen, I don't mean to put a hitch in your getalong, but Masden was found dead –"

He was cut off by the stream of curses Sands let out at hearing that the man responsible for selling him out to Price had already been silenced.


"Get dressed." I can't help snapping at Liz when she appears from the shower. The rest of the group is ready and she's wandering around in a towel. From the silence that meets my demand though, I don't think Liz is going to obey with any amount of grace. And further demands are just as likely going to be met. With this in mind, I get a grip on myself and say, "Liz, we're decamping as soon as you get dressed. So please try to hurry."

She mutters something that sounds suspiciously like, "That's better," but I hear the rustle of clothing as she gets herself ready, which is all I really care about. She can demand I speak to her in pig Latin for the next –

"What…are…you…doing?"

Over the sound of a hair dryer Liz dryly replies, "I'm drying my hair, Sheldon."

No. No, no, no, no. I walk across the room and yank the appliance out of her hand, slamming it back into it's wall-holder.

"What are you doing!" She reaches around me to take it back, but I keep my hand firmly in place. "Sheldon!"

"I don't think you understand the urgency that's needed right now," I say in a low voice, one I know she can't help but hearing anyway. "Besides, I'm the only one you need to look pretty for, and I can't see."

"Pig," she says disgustedly. "What if I don't care if you can see or not? Has it occurred to you that I find some satisfaction in grooming myself so I can mingle with civilized company?"

"You're on the run with some of America's Most Wanted," I toss back. "What makes you think there's any civilized company to be had?" She's mulishly silent. I take that as unwilling acceptance, so I push her out of the bathroom. "Put your shoes on. We're going."

"You go." There's a note of hysteria in Liz's voice that tells me we won't be getting out of here anytime soon. "If you're so disgusted with me after a simple kiss – a kiss that was your idea I might point out –"

"I gave you every chance to back out of that. It's not my fault you didn't, and that's not the reason…" The reason I'm snapping at her like the very frustrated man I am? Ha.

"Then why are you treating me like last night's castoffs?"

Aw, what the hell. It's only a matter of national security. "Roberts interrupted out little interlude to inform me that Masden, the man responsible for turning me and ever other officer in Latin America over to Price, was found dead in his house last night. He was shot in the back of the head, execution style." I ignore Liz's gasp of shock and continue. "Now, granted, the end result is what we came to New Hampshire to achieve, and yes, I'm more than a bit peeved that Price's men got the drop on us and finished the bastard off before I could have the pleasure. But what I really don't like is wasting time." My smile is tight. "We still need to make sure it's really Masden who got his brains scattered and not some poor dupe who was offed to make good Masden's timely exit from the international arena. Such things have been known to happen. Then, supposing we avoid Price's men – who could very well be hanging around just in case any of our group shows up – we need to haul bacon and get out of here before the narks bust up our little party. Got it, sugarbutt?"

"You don't mean that." Her voice is…pained.

"I certainly do. I'm not really one for retreat, but needs must."

"No, not that. The part about wanting to kill him yourself. About being upset that you didn't get to."

Poor Lizzie. I reach out and cup her cheek, acting for all the world as if she's right. "I meant every word." She pulls away and I let my hand drop as I try not to be hurt. Despite my best attempts, I can feel my face harden. "The son of a bitch was responsible for the deaths of at least twelve officers, three of whom used to be my friends. He deserved whatever he got. Or whatever is coming to him, if he has indeed slipped the noose. Now lets go."


Biaselli, unrecognizable in disguise, was the one to slip into the morgue and attempt to identify Masden from a recent photograph. When she came out, it was obvious from the look on her face that the man wearing Masden's toe tag wasn't Masden himself. And while that news made everyone else in the van relax, it only made Liz tense up. She didn't like the conviction that had been in her husband's voice when he'd declared that he would have liked to kill – literally kill – his former boss. The cold-blooded persona she'd spoken to that morning made her uncomfortable and painfully aware that Sands had new sides to him. Ones she didn't care to ever learn how to recognize.

Sands, recognizing that she needed time to mull things over, left her alone and made sure that everyone else did as well. If Liz decided to condemn them all to hell, he at least wanted her to be certain of his decision.

The group crossed the border into Massachusetts and drove on to Springfield. They'd stay there for a day or two before hopping a plane for Florida. Sands briefly wondered if he dared let Liz have her heart's desire and go back to D.C., but selfishly decided to keep her with him until this matter was settled.

In Springfield they parted ways, Liz and Sands making for one mediocre hotel and Roberts, Riley, and Biaselli heading for another. Riley had been the one to suggest it, and while the rest had agreed probably just to get out of the line of fire, Sands had agreed because it'd be nice to have Liz to himself one last time. Temper tantrums and all.

Liz hadn't voiced an opinion.

Sands decided the fact that she hadn't strenuously disagreed was a good sign.

When she didn't say a word to him all evening, he started to rethink that opinion.

Bedtime rolled around, bringing awkwardness with it. Just to spare himself another fight, Sands waited until Liz was settled in one bed before claiming the other. He was half asleep before Liz gave in and climbed in beside him.

"I can understand why you want to kill Masden yourself," she murmured by way of explanation. "But for your sake and mine, I hope that someone else gets to him before you do."


Author's Thanks: my thanks to Dawnie-7 (I liked the dynamic between Liz being absolutely furious and suddenly contrite. I'll probably never let her do that again, but it was nice that she got to see the absurdity of it all.); LadySparrowJack (Drunk Sands was great fun to write. Just the dialogue is a total blast to write. I mean, it usually is with Sands, but then it was really fun.); Sugarbutt (I get the feeling that their relationship is evolving much differently than it did when they first met. I don't know if more slowly is the word I want, but it's something along those lines. Perhaps there's just more caution and a sense of déjà vu involved.); Lynx (Days is always the one with the quickest update once I've gotten to FS and PS. Like I said above, out of all my stories, written and being written, this one is the most fun to write. I think part of it is that I've nailed Sands a bit more than I did in my "More Than" stories. I think I threw in the "double castration" bit just for all the FaLiLV fans.); websurffer (That whole drunken spiel just seemed to type itself, I swear.); quick29 (the last chapter was different than the last. It was the one where everything changed. Relationships, storyline, all that good stuff. It's certainly my favorite chapter so far.); doctress (I'm glad that you're enjoying my flights of OUATIM fancy. I know that I like writing them. Thanks for reviewing.); misc (It's always great to hear from you. I hope this update didn't lag too long.); Lola (Sands is tricky to write, but I think I'm getting the hang of it with practice.); midnightmuse (Here's the more you were looking for…hey, that rhymed… :P); skitza (the lag between updates can be a bit appalling at times, but that's what I deserve for writing three stories at once. I'm glad you're enjoying this, and I hope the wait didn't turn you off the fic.)