Author's Note: wow! Not having to worry about PS for the moment has really sped up the writing process for me. And not only that, but this chapter got to be about 1,000 words longer than my chapters usually are. I'm amazed.
You'll notice as you read that this is something of a transitional chapter, but I promise a whole lot more Sandsy goodness in the next. ;)
Author's thanks at the end.
I'm woken up once again by phantom caresses circling around my nose. I'd slept with relative peace, meaning Sheldon had as well. Still, he never used to be such an early riser unless he was up to something. Back in the day that "something" would have meant I was going to be treated to breakfast in bed. For some reason I didn't think that was the case this morning.
"What with your sudden fascination with my shnoz?" The fingers freeze. I'm too tired to open my eyes and fix a stare on him until he confesses all – not that it would do me any good anyway – so I just say, "This is the second morning I've woken up to find you fondling it." I rub the tip of my nose on his palm to emphasize my point. It actually startles a laugh out of him, so I do it again.
"Stop that. I'm not made of Kleenex."
"Could have fooled me. Why the need to feel up my nose?"
"I don't have a nose fetish if that's what you're implying."
"It's not, though I might start wondering if you keep evading the original question."
"You're such a nag, Lizzie. I'd threaten to beat you if it'd do me any good."
"So you've said more times than I can count." I shove his hand away; if he's not going to answer me, I'm not going to put up with his familiarity.
"Impatient too."
Now he's getting on my nerves. If all he wants to do in the mornings is catalogue my faults –
"You got rid of your nose ring, alright? I liked it. I miss it. It was sexy. It made your face complex, and I live for complexities."
"It was a nose ring," I counter, certain that he's making mountains out of nose…er, molehills.
"It went against the grain of the persona you projected. It was a shining bead of contradiction. A silver drop of dichotomy. A –"
"I get the picture." It's a picture that makes me grumpy and touchy, but I'm getting it loud and clear. "So you're saying it livened up an otherwise dull face."
The argument must have gotten to him too because he threw the blankets off and practically stalked out of bed and to my side. Before I can predict what his intent is, he bends me over his arm and kisses me. And before either of us know it, a kiss meant to silence me (always his favorite method) grows nearly out of control (always the predictable outcome), testing the limits of our joint control.
He pulls back at the same moment I start to push him away. But he doesn't put me back on my feet. He holds me, as if the texture of me will tell him what sight no longer can. The information must have become clear to him because he gently brings me back upright, presses a second, softer kiss to my lips, then murmurs, "Good morning to you too, Lizzie."
"I wish you wouldn't do that," I mutter as he lets his arms fall back to his sides.
"We're here for three days, Lizzie." His tone is so serious that I find myself listening and taking his words as gospel truth. "And then I don't know what will happen. Do you understand how…how…" He runs a hand through his hair in agitation then forces himself to say, "How scared I am of that? Of not knowing? Of wondering what the safest thing to do with you is? If I should keep you with me, keep you here, or send you home? Wondering just how many enemies – unseen and unforeseen by me, Roberts, and Riley – are out there? Wondering where they are, and what their orders are; if you're to be silenced if you fall into their hands, or used against me, or any of a dozen other unpleasant outcomes?" He laughs darkly. "And those are just my worries about you. I on the other hand, am relatively certain that I'm not going to come out of this alive –"
"Sheldon, stop," I say, shocked by this outpouring of trust and confidence. Shocked by my own reaction.
"Stop what? Stop being practical?" He lays his hands on my shoulders with minimal fumbling. "My chances aren't great, sweetness. They never were, not even with your help. My chances of taking some of the bastards down with me are better. My chances of offering a distraction where no one else can?" He shrugged. "I tend to draw attention to myself since I became a one man freak show."
"Don't say that." God, what's happened to him? He's still my confident Sheldon, but there's so much…so much self-hatred in him now. As if he's so disgusted by himself that he can't imagine anyone else feeling differently.
"Why not? It's the truth, isn't it? Or have you just not gotten a good enough look yet?"
"Don't!" It's too late. He's ripped off his sunglasses – his unnaturally ubiquitous sunglasses – right before my eyes, forcing me to give all my attention to his wounds. Forcing me to face the damage, and the scarring, and the shadowy depths. Demanding that my disgust and horror ratchet up to meet his own… Except Sheldon doesn't always get what he wants from me.
I cover his wounds with a hand trembling with heartbreak for this man in front of me. Not with pity – never with pity – but with sorrow for the warped reflection his inner eye must present him with. I veil them from my sight, denying the truths – his truths – that he would use as a warning against the monster he thinks he was turned into.
My hand stills as I gather my resolve. Its shivers relocate to him; I can feel him trembling under my touch now.
"This," I whisper passionately. "This does not make you a monster. This does not make you a freak show." My free hand rises to splay over his chest. "What's in here makes you a monster, a freak. And I don't see it until you force it to the surface to display like some twisted badge of honor. You're still my Sheldon –"
"No I'm not." He would have wrenched away, but I don't let him.
"You're still my Sheldon," I repeat, my voice louder. "I won't deny that you're hurt. That you're scarred. That you've grown with your experiences."
"I've been mutated by them," he emphasizes, still trying to force me to see the worst of it.
"You're changed," I counter. "You're not broken. And I refuse to treat you as if you are." I remove my hand from his eyes and daringly kiss his forehead. "Stop treating yourself as a freak and others will stop seeing you as one." Then I leave him alone to go take my shower. He's always mulled over things better when he doesn't have a chance to argue.
Sands stood there for a full minute after Liz left him alone, feeling her touch searing his skin like holy water splashed on a vampire, and listening to the sounds of her moving around in the shower. Then he shook it off, mentally told himself "screw it," and barged into the bathroom.
"What do you know?" he demanded over the shower and the sounds of Liz's stringent protests.
"Sands! I'm in the shower!"
Realizing he was completely pissed off, Sands jerked aside the flimsy shower curtain and fumbled for the knobs. He must have gotten something right because Liz screeched and the water was soon shut off.
"Are you trying to give me hypothermia? Is that what that last hotel and this…this…"
"Are you trying to imply that I have some deep-seated belief that you're a cold woman and I'm trying to communicate that in a series of Freudian slips? Because that would sure as hell fit in with the rest of that new age psychobabble you're trying to cram down my throat!" Despite his pledge to himself to control his temper, Sands found himself shouting.
Liz didn't immediately reply, and when she did, it was merely to say, "If I can't shower, can I at least have a towel?"
"Why?" The question was harsh and combative, as if he was daring her to pick up the gauntlet he'd thrown down at her feet.
"Because standing here arguing with you while I'm butt naked makes me feel very helpless and defenseless."
"Maybe that's how I want you to feel," he intoned as he crowded her, all but stepping into the bathtub with her in an attempt to cow her.
She took a step back – he did know how to put on a good show – but kept her cool. "Maybe. But I don't think it is. I think you just want to feel safe."
This was too much; just as quickly as he'd come in, Sands stormed out, slamming to door behind him.
Liz stood for a moment, waiting to see if he'd come back, then turned on the water again. She still had copious amounts of shampoo in her hair – drying shampoo – that she'd like to get out sometime today.
That wish was granted and she was halfway through washing herself when Sands came back in. "What makes you think I don't already feel safe?" he demanded as she turned off the water just to save time and the shock she'd get if he turned off the cold water this time instead of the hot.
"Oh, I'm sure you're arrogant enough –"
"Arrogant!"
"– to feel physically safe," Liz continued over his disagreement with her choice of vocabulary. "But do you trust me not to cringe in horror every time I catch you with your guard down? Or, in other words, with your sunglasses off?"
"Sugarbutt, I cringe in horror every time –"
"There you go again. Trying to convince me that I should have nightmares about the sight of your injuries."
"'The sight of my injuries?' That's a euphemism if ever I've heard one," he laughed bitterly.
"That's what they are in my mind. Injuries – bad ones. Worse than losing a limb to shrapnel. But still a war wound. I admit they're not pretty, and yes, I may cringe a little. But I'm also thinking about what you must have been feeling. The pain you must have went through. The fear."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
He stormed out, then back in as Liz was rinsing her hair a final time.
"So you think that I don't feel safe with you. Is that what you're saying?"
It was the last straw. Liz wanted to be patient with him, but this was worse than trying to care for personal hygiene while dealing with a two-year-old with separation anxiety. "Sheldon! What is wrong with you?" Slapping at the faucet fixtures to turn off the water, Liz groped for a towel to cover herself with before stepping out of the shower. "Can't a girl shower in peace?"
"Payback's a bitch, isn't it?" he asked superciliously, growing calmer now that she was showing signs of agitation herself.
"No, it's a bastard."
"That was witty." Now totally at ease again, Sands leaned against the wall. "So what was it you were saying about me not being comfortable around you?"
"Every time I turn around – and I almost mean that literally – you're trying to make me uncomfortable, or disgusted, or upset with you. Your favorite form of entertainment is attempting to drive me away. That's not exactly healthy behavior, Sheldon."
Sands held his hands spread apart in a "what-can-I-do" kind of gesture. "What can I tell you, Lizzie? I'm a sick man."
"See?" Liz walked forward and poked Sands sharply in the chest. "That's what I'm talking about. You try so hard to paint yourself with the blackest brush possible that it makes me wonder what it is that you're actually trying to hide."
His face closed, all humor shunted away as she hit a little too close to the mark. "Besides the monstrosities behind the glasses you mean?"
"If I had to guess merely from your little peep show this morning, I'd have to say no. Whatever it is that you don't want me to know is deeper…more important than that."
"Let me clue you in, Lizzie. There is nothing more important to me than losing my sight."
There was a hint of anger coloring his voice again; it underscored the sense of danger he was emanating. Liz ignored both as she stepped closer to him. "I don't believe you."
"Your mistake," he said, attempting to brush past her. Liz didn't move though, for once keeping him trapped since he seemed disinclined to simply shove her out of his way.
"You want to know why I don't believe you?"
"Not particularly."
She ignored him. "I think the loss of your sight is important to you. And I think your need for revenge is important to you. But I think I'm important to you as well, otherwise you wouldn't have any second thoughts about what the best thing to do with me is." When he didn't say anything, she pressed her advantage. "I'm right, aren't I, Sheldon? I'm important to you, and you don't know how to handle it."
Damn her for her insight. I hate it. And I hate her for having it.
I mean, what does she want from me? Even before I left I wasn't one to open up and spill my guts just because of a pair of pretty eyes, or nice breasts, or whatever it is that makes other guys go ga-ga. Well, I mean, sure, those things catch my notice, but I have more sense than to sit down and give a girl enough material to write my biography. It's a good way to get yourself blackmailed. And it's doubly dangerous when it's your wife.
"Leave me alone, Lizzie." Yes, that seems like an excellent idea. If she leaves me alone then neither of us will be forced to face unpleasant truths. Then again…if she leaves me alone…
The darkness when combined with loneliness is crushing. I remember nights in the hospital when I woke up, heart pounding, lungs stalling, ears ringing…desperate for any signs of life other than my own sorry ass.
Yet I can't take the words back.
She's not a comfortable companion. She challenges me in almost every way possible. Has from day one. From the moment she started nagging me about what exactly I needed to do to make our project grade-A material. Nearly twenty years later and she's raised her expectations; now she wants me to be grade-A material.
That's like wanting a three-legged horse to win the Kentucky Derby. And that doesn't happen because three-legged horses get shot in the head.
I'm not going to give her – or anyone else for that matter – the opportunity to get close enough to do that. I don't think my soul could take it.
Still, when she moves away, all I can do is grab her arm to stop her and think about all the things I'd like to do with her one last time.
Eat a meal with her in front of the TV while she debates with Alex Trebek over the answers to Jeopardy! questions.
Listen as she plays her clarinet while it rains outside.
Throw popcorn at her while she tries to read.
And then there's things I regret missing but don't really want to experience. We're both getting too old to want to go through the whole childbirth/baby thing for instance.
The trying to get there part though…I wouldn't mind doing that again if Lizzie would be amenable.
"Sheldon, was there something you wanted? Or were you just testing how long it took for my hand to go numb? Because it is."
Ooops. Of course, if I want to drive her away, pretending to be scatterbrained might help. "What are you talking about, Lizzie?"
She snatches her arm away. "Very funny, but you've been trying that one for years and I still haven't fallen for it."
So much for that idea. You know, being such a tease in what I'm coming to think of as my former life is really coming back to haunt me. I suppose I could make her believe I'm totally around the bend if I really wanted to – it is what I've been doing to survive for the past five years – but I can't really justify the expenditure of energy it would take. I need to be resting up so I can take care of Masden and Price, and however many goons they send our way…not playing mind games with Lizzie.
Besides, I'd like to have a little honesty in what may possibly be my last days on earth. If I'm a total, good-for-nothing scoundrel, she won't miss me. And if she doesn't miss me, who will?
Why is always comforting to know that someone will miss you if you die? That there will be at least one person grieving? And not grieving because they didn't get the chance to kill you themselves. But truly grieving. Feeling the loss. It's an unpleasant wish to have for anyone if I really take the time to think about it. It's sadistic. That kind of grief hurts. And yet when it comes our time to drop everything and rot, it's what we all wish.
Which reminds me…when was the last time I wrote the "letter home?" I think about it for a moment, then remember that it was just before the coup, but it wasn't a very nice one at all. I believe I actually started it out Well, you've just saved money on a lawyer… I'll need to take care of that without alerting Lizzie to it. She wouldn't let me write one now simply because it'd be too morbid for me to write a last thoughts letter while she was in the room with me.
"Go shopping with me, Lizzie." The words are out before I can reconsider them. Unfortunately, they're also drowned out by the sound of her hairdryer. Annoyed, I move into the small area every hotel has, the one with the big mirror where the hairdryer and coffee maker are side by side. "Come shopping with me," I repeat, consciously using this nicer phrasing. It makes it sound like she's got a choice.
"What?" The hairdryer turns off. "What are you talking about? Why do you want to shopping?"
"Do you really want to stay shut up in this hotel for the next three days?" I shoot back. "Shopping's as good a reason as any to get out. We can get breakfast while we're at it. I'm sure there's an IHOP around here somewhere."
"An IHOP," she repeats stupidly.
"Yeah. A house of pancakes. Whatever. I thought you liked IHOP."
"Denny's," she tells me softly. "I like Denny's. You're the one that likes IHOP."
Hmm…she has a point. "We'll do Denny's for dinner." She's quiet. I decide on the spot that I don't like it. I don't know what she's thinking when she's quiet. "Well, what do you think? Do you want to go out or not?"
I'm about ready to burst with frustration when she says, "Alright," in a hesitant voice.
What? Does she think I'm going to take her out to breakfast and then off her? I'd reassure her that I'm not, but I don't think she'd find it as comforting as I'd like. I don't think she likes that those kind of ideas run through my head.
"Good. Finish getting ready and we'll go." It's either that or I seduce her now. It'll be easier later. Not to mention being stuck in this room with her makes me want to rush things, and that's never makes it good. There has to be time for the set-up. The fall is sweeter that way. I don't question my sudden desire to get my wife back into my bed in every – and especially the dirtier – sense of the word. That I want it is enough.
Funny how the years don't change anything. That was my attitude in college too.
I take a seat nearby while the hair dryer starts it's annoying whining again. I don't remember it being so annoying before. I mean, before I left. With a bit of thinking, I remember what's missing.
"Why don't you sing when you're doing your hair anymore, Lizzie?"
"I do, just not around you," comes the snide reply.
That's unacceptable, of course. Now that I've decided that we're going to pretend that the past five years didn't happen, I need her to go along with it.
"Why not?
"Because."
"'Because' is an excuse, not a reason."
"Why do you even care?" She's exasperated now. No more of that shyness, that hesitation. I grin. That's better.
"Because I liked it." It's an honest answer. I can't count the number of mornings I woke to her voice, still husky with sleep, making a ballad or dirge out of just about anything. "It let me know the world hadn't ended yet." The hint of wistfulness that creeps into my own voice is allowed to stay only because it serves my purposes. "What was that song about the expatriated Americans? You used to like that one. You said it was…" What was it she used to say?
The hairdryer turned off. "That it was the disillusioned American dream. Bittersweet and fancy free."
Yes, that was it. I want to buy that CD, and others. Her music. "Will you sing it for me?"
She doesn't answer. She just returns to her task and the sound of it drills into my head, until at last I hear her soft voice, "First you learn the native customs. Soon a word of Spanish or two…"
It's my life, disillusioned and bittersweet.
"You know that you cannot trust them 'cause they know they can't trust you. Expatriated Americans feelin' so all alone, telling themselves the same lies that they told themselves back home."
She hums as if she can't remember the words, but I do. nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn
Down
to the banana republics, things aren't as warm as they seem. None of
the natives are buying any second-hand American dreams.
And when she finds the chorus, I wonder at how empty my life has become.
"Late at night you will find them in the cheap hotels and bars, hustling the señoritas while they dance beneath the stars. Spending those renegade pesos on a bottle of rum and a lime."
And the last…it's what I'm begging for myself.
"Singing, 'give me some words I can dance to, or a melody that rhymes…'"
Sands took great joy in dragging Lizzie around Springfield. Most of that joy came from the pure fact that he could. That he still had enough sway over her to convince her to do things. That he didn't have to threaten or blackmail her into them. Threats and blackmail had their place, of course, and were often very good ways to handle spouses in his mind, but it was nice to be able to deal with her in other ways as well.
She was stiff at first, mistrustful, tearing into him for perceived insults with distracted zeal. He knew she was trying to figure out his game, his angle, what his private joke was before she could become the punch line. When she figured out that the punch line was that there wasn't any joke, she relaxed. It was either that or rip his head off, which would have been sinking to his level which wasn't something she was willing to do.
Since they were both on their best behavior, the afternoon actually turned out to be a great deal of fun (even though Sands dragged Liz through five different music stores in search of the CDs he wanted). It was a concept Liz spent a good deal of time thinking about in the quiet times; how she could be having fun while technically having no choice but to pretend she didn't exist. That's what all this running was to her. And yet she could laugh, and smile, and joke…
The day was a full one. Sands was filled with too much nervous anticipation to sit still for long. He always got like that before a big show; his own version of stage fright he supposed. And Liz didn't exactly complain as pulled her through stores, and down streets, and dared her to try to hit hungry squirrels with peanuts. When he proved to be better at it than she was – always coming within inches of hitting the furry little things when he wasn't hitting them on the head – she exclaimed enough at his talent to stoke his masculine ego though she still urged him to knock it off. Squirrels were people too, apparently.
For Liz, part of the day's charm came from the fact that Sands was so attentive. When her teeth started to chatter with the cold, he dragged her inside a coffee shop. He didn't close down the discussion when she reminded him of a little coffee place they'd enjoyed on campus. He made good on his promise and took her to Denny's for dinner, after hours of allowing her to hold his hand – something she'd always liked far better than he – and listening to what she had to say.
They didn't speak of important matters by unspoken agreement. Their time together felt too good to spoil by arguing the issues so close to their hearts.
This tacit truce lasted until they arrived back at their hotel. As the door shut, closing them in the relative safety of their room, Liz regretfully let go of his hand and he moved away. She at least felt a brief moment of awkwardness, but when neither of them spoke, the companionable silence they'd found and fostered fell back down around them.
While Sands took his turn in the shower (though his had considerably fewer interruptions), Liz settled down with a magazine while the best of Simon and Garfunkel played softly on the cheap CD player they'd scraped together enough money to buy.
Sands' return was heralded by soft footsteps that were nearly drowned out by the turning of a page, and a pair of long-fingered hands settling lightly on her shoulders. She felt him bend down over her, his mouth close enough to her ear to stir her loose hair as he murmured in time to the music, "Remember me to one who lives there…"
"…she once was a true love of mine." Liz was glad he couldn't see the melancholy smile that hijacked her lips. "Why do you keep choosing such bittersweet songs?" On the surface, Scarborough Fair was simply a song about lost love. Just underneath the lyrics was a deeper message about warfare and senseless killing.
He ignored her. She hadn't truly expected him to answer. "This is a convenient hairstyle you've got."
"The haircut wasn't chosen with you in mind," she murmured.
"That's only because you didn't know I'd be coming back," he assured her as he pulled aside the collar of her shirt so his kisses could move lower.
Things were quiet for awhile as Sands did his best to soften Liz's manner towards him even farther and Liz fought against herself. She didn't know if this was what she wanted, especially in light of his attitude. Her body was obvious in its desires, but it also wanted a good deal of sweets –
His mouth is sweet…
– and having sweets all the time wasn't good for her –
It's been five years. You wouldn't even sleep with him the night he left. You were too mad.
"Come to bed, Lizzie."
But he's expecting to die. What if –
"No, don't think." Of the two of them, she had that problem more than he did. She overanalyzed. He thought, made a decision, and acted. And he was so very anxious to act now. Literally apprehensive to the point where his hands were shaking and he felt more anxiety than arousal. But it would get better. If he just made love to her once, it'd get better.
When she let him pull her to her feet, he couldn't help but beam. She was going to let him…she was going to let him…
She didn't though. In the end, Lizzie couldn't let him go past heavy kisses and a bit of wandering hands. Not that she didn't want to – her body was most definitely put out with her – but in her heart she knew this wasn't right. One day of pleasant company and conversation didn't just didn't merit immediately striving for total marital bliss.
When he pulled away and all the tension drained from his body, Liz knew he understood her hesitation.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"I just want this time with you to be good," he replied. "I don't want you to regret it."
Even that hint of him having limited time with her was enough to make her want to change the topic. "Do you think we should go to sleep now?"
Sands breathed out a laugh that wasn't truly humorous and kissed her forehead. "Do whatever you want, Lizzie." He certainly wasn't going to sleep anytime soon. True, he'd started to feel more relaxed the moment he realized she wasn't going to let him take things all the way, but he was still a man. And the part of him needed some time to get over being rejected by his woman. "Unless…unless you'd like to try to call Chris and Mandy?"
As if he needed an answer to that.
"For the love of – Steadman! Answer the damn phone already!"
"You answer it. I'm watching the game."
"So am I. And I've got to go attempt to feed the brats in a few minutes. Your turn to answer the phone."
The unfortunate Agent Steadman turned away from the TV screen with a sigh, and went into the other room to answer the phone. "Tony's Kayak Shop and Repair," he said heavily as he strained to hear what was happening in the game.
"Oh, wrong number then," Sands said. "I was trying to get a hold of Christopher and Amanda Sands."
"What? Who is this?" Steadman demanded, turning on the recording equipment and the phone tracing equipment while trying to flag his partner down.
"Oh, so they are there. It's nice to know the Company is still trying to cut costs. And don't bother trying to trace the call. It's a cell phone, and probably a stolen one at that."
Steadman looked over at his partner who confirmed that bit of news with a disgusted nod. "What is it that you want then, Mr…?
"Agent, my good rookie. Or is this something else? Punishment duty? A severe case of brown-nosing?"
"I'm hanging up now."
"I wouldn't do that if I were you, Agent Hardass. You see, I'm the man you're supposedly protecting my children from."
"Sands? This is Agent Sands?" Steadman silently groaned. He wasn't high enough up to be talking to this man. He wasn't even in the same class as this man and he knew it.
"See, that didn't take too long. Now, if you'll just trot out my children so my lovely wife can speak to them, I'd be much obliged. No need to hurry, I'll hold."
"Agent Sands, I can't just –"
"I'll hold," Sands repeated, this time letting a hint of his determination shine through. He'd been promising this to Lizzie for…had it only been a little over a week? But he had promised her she could check in with the kids, and it was a step towards setting his affairs in order…
Taking his cues from his partner, Steadman said, "I'll need to speak to Mrs. Sands first."
"Why? To make sure she's still alive? And how would you know it's really my wife and not just some woman I've pulled in off the street?" Sands shook his head at the load they were trying to feed him. "Just do as I ask. Or I'll prove that my wife most definitely isn't alright." If he could have, Sands would have winked as Liz sighed heavily in his ear. As it was, he had to content himself with a Cheshire grin.
"Uhh…yes, sir." Not knowing what else to do, Steadman put Sands on hold and shrugged when his partner shot him an unhappy look. "What else are we supposed to do? All the bosses have gone home for the day."
That lack of supervision or advice – even though the other agent was soon on the horn with their superior – led to Sands getting what he wanted relatively fast.
"Here you are, Agent Sands. Here's your son."
"Thank you so much. You're truly an asset to the Company," Sands said with mock seriousness. "Now, make yourself useful, and leave the room. And turn off that ridiculous recording equipment before you do."
"I…I can't do that, sir. Turn off the equipment, I mean."
Sands sighed in exasperation. "Very well. Make tracks then."
"Yes, sir." Steadman handed the phone over to Chris, then left the room.
"Chris?" When there was no answer, Sands assumed he had his taciturn son on the line. "Chris, do me a favor and flip off the recorder, unless you want your mother's tearful hellos shared with about fifty other people." There was a soft click and Sands nodded his head.
"Oh, then she's still alive then."
Sands desperately wished he could roll his eyes. "Of course she is. What would I do with a dead body –" The phone was jerked from his hand before he could continue or Chris could answer.
"Chris?" Liz demanded, sitting up in bed. "Chris, are you there?"
"You don't have to yell, Mom," Chris said almost as Sands said the exact same thing. Her son at least was trying to comfort though, not chide. "I can hear you just fine."
Liz made an effort to calm herself. "And you're alright? You and Mandy? You're both being taken care of?"
"We'd rather be at Grandma's," Chris muttered, "but we're doing okay. They leave us alone for the most part when they're not forcing us to attend classes with a tutor."
"You're not going to school?"
"I'm not even sure what state we're in, let alone if we're still close enough to go to school."
"Why? What do you mean?"
"They're afraid our 'father' is going to come after us next," Chris said bitterly before clamming up. He was fifteen. That was much too old to be crying. Besides, Mandy was here and he had to be strong for her. He certainly didn't want to deal with the caterwauls that would come out of her if she got upset. "Why hasn't he let you go yet? He hasn't hurt you, has he?"
Liz heard the misery in his voice and it brought tears to her eyes. Here she'd been, having a good time, and her children had been worrying over her safety. "I'm fine, baby. I just miss you and Mandy."
"Then why don't you come home!"
So much anger, and she wasn't there to deal with it directly. "I can't come home yet, Chris. I have to stay here. As much for my own safety as for yours." Silence met this statement and Liz felt her heart crack; Chris was too angry to understand. "May I speak to Mandy, Chris?"
"Whatever."
"I love you. I miss you," Liz said quickly, before he could hand the phone off. "And I'm proud of you."
"Miss you too," Chris whispered, and then the phone was given to Mandy.
"Mommy?"
"Hey, sweetie. How are you?"
"Lonely. I don't like it here. I don't know anyone but Chris, and they hardly ever let us go outside, and they only have stupid toys. And they don't cook like you do either. When can you come home?"
Ahh…the life of a ten-year-old. "I'm sorry, sweetie. I'll try to be home soon."
"Will you? Because I miss you, and I want Daddy to come home too so I can prove to Chris that he isn't a monster. 'Cept Chris uses a different word."
Of course he does. "We'll see, sweetie. Is Chris taking care of you?"
"Uh-huh. Every night he comes in to tuck me in, and sometimes he sleeps with me to keep me from being 'fraid, because they won't let me have a nightlight."
"That's good. And are you listening to your brother?"
"When he's not being a butthead."
That's something, I suppose. "Well, you just need to listen to him for a bit longer, and then I'll be home, alright?"
"Alright, Mommy. I love you."
"I love you too, sweetie." Liz hung up the phone with great reluctance, but with a modicum of relief as well. At least her children were safe.
At least she hoped she could be sure of that.
Author's thanks: my many thanks go out to my few faithful reviewers…Dawnie-7 (I got the idea for Liz to tell Sands to stop moving around from my sister. When she talks in her sleep I just have to tell her that she is, and she tells me, "No I'm not" and then she doesn't talk for the rest of the night. As for how Liz will take it if Sands kills anyone…haven't decided yet. On either score. :P); quick29 (Well, I'm compromising when it comes to finishing my fics. I'm finishing this one and FS first.); Lynx (You will never get me to admit that I'm a glutton for punishment. Never. ;) Liz is most definitely Sands' security blanket.); Mayorst (heh – I don't know what to call you anymore. :P I'm dedicating this chapter to you since you helped me get out of a corner I'd written myself into. Sands getting pissed…I still think it's a brilliant idea since he's not really the kind of guy to get classically pissed. Only his wife can bring that out of him.); Spoofmaster (Don't worry about late reviews. I've said it once and I'll say it again – they keep me going.); Cayenne Pepper Powder (I always love hearing from you, if for no other reason than the amusement I get from reading your name. :P); doctress (I don't give up on my stories, I just have a hard time getting around to them sometimes. And other times they don't want to be written. I would love to abandon real life, but how would I afford the internet then:P There's no such thing as a "too long" review. Just thought I'd let you know. ;D)
