Author's Note: hello? voice rings I'm sorry! I have no excuses that don't start in June…by which time I really should have had this finished. All I can say is that I was working out some fatal characterization flaws and it took re-plotting the entire chapter and deleting a great deal of what I already had in order to write something that clicked for all involved.

I hope this was worth the wait.

The epilogue is pending, and should be following soon (as in a week…at the most…this time I cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye promise).

Enjoy.


"Where is he?" I have made that demand so many times that it should be entirely rote by now, but somehow I've sustained my panic. They can keep telling me that Sheldon is all right, but until I see him, and touch him, then for all I know what they're telling me is a load of bull.

They won't even tell me how he was recovered. That's the word they use too – as if "saved" or "rescued" denotes an emotional attachment that is simply too emasculating to be borne.

Well, I have an emotional attachment, damnit, and if I hear one more person tell me to calm down or be patient, I'm going to –

"Have some coffee. You look like death warmed over."

I admit it. I'm not proud of it, but I'll cop up.

I burst into tears.

No sympathy was forthcoming. Tymms was a tough old lady, and while she probably understood the tears she probably thought there was a better time and place to let them loose.

"Take a hike you two – get some sleep." With decisive nods, she scattered my personal honor guard. While I didn't know them well, Roberts and Riley were friends of Sheldon's and that was comforting. And despite her grandmotherly appearance, Tymms was more like someone's ancient, ass-chewing drill-sergeant.

Not so comforting.

"Buck up, Sands."

The shock of being called by my husband's name within this enclave did what all the comforting words couldn't have; my eyes dry up and I look at her wordlessly.

"He's resting comfortably." A snort accompanied that statement. "It'd be hard not to on that many painkillers."

"Sheldon's alright?" He was fine? That was what they'd been guarding like State secrets? Did everything around here have to be so dramatic?

"Now, I didn't say that."

Resting comfortably. "Oh god, he's dying, isn't he?"

"What?" Tymms looked utterly flummoxed. "No, where…?" She gave me a hard look before saying in the kind of tone you'd use on unruly grandchildren, "As Price's helicopter was fleeing, it was intercepted by three of our helicopters. There was a midair collision that sent one of ours down along with Price's. Our men had parachutes. From our best guess, Price was killed in the collision. Sands, who was further back in the helicopter, caught shrapnel in his shoulders, neck, and skull, but not enough to cause permanent damage. Most of his injuries are a result of the aircraft hitting the water and the following explosion from the wreckage that forced him up to the surface where he was seen by our two remaining helicopters who were already on search and rescue for the crew of our downed aircraft."

I listen to this story, not believe a word of it. Things like that just don't happen in the real world. Men do not survive helicopter accidents, near drowning, and fiery explosions; this isn't the movies.

Mere disbelief has no effect on truth, though. Tymms steadily meets my eyes the entire time she explains what happened, waiting for some kind of reaction from me. But after this week of shocks – has it only been a week, or perhaps a little more? – I'm wrung out. I'm tired and achy and father away from home in every way possible than I was when I first arrived in Florida – just last night! – with Sheldon's hand in mine.

Since no questions were forthcoming from me, the old lady continued. "The doctors will be able to brief you on the totality of his injuries."

"But when can I see him?" I didn't need a doctor or anyone else around to coddle me, if that's what they were worried about. I'm not the biggest fan of blood, but I've always been able to hold it together when one of loved ones is hurt. And I wasn't there when Sheldon was in the hospital last time. Being here again was probably going to raise some bad memories.

Besides, until I saw him, I couldn't convince myself that he was truly alright.

"Mrs. Sands?"

"That's me!" I shot to my feet, forgetting I'd lost a bit of blood and hadn't eaten in about twenty hours. I swayed on my feet but gritted my teeth and stayed upright. "That's me. Where's my husband? How is he?"


"You're a lucky man," they kept telling him. "You shouldn't be alive." As if that made him feel any better. As if that made the pain worthwhile. Sure, he felt like crap, "but at least he could feel."

What a load of bull. The only reason they said those things was because it comforted them. At least the doctors were more circumspect than his colleagues. The doctors were pleasantly pessimistic, and they said things like "undetected blood clots" and "possible internal hemorrhaging."

He wished he had a cigarette and a gun. He could do anything as long as he had –

"Sheldon?" The man on the bed didn't respond to the creaking of his door as Liz pushed her way into his room. She hesitated for a moment, unsure if she should intrude. I'm his wife. It's perfectly acceptable for me to be here. Even more importantly, she wanted to be here. She wanted to sit by his bed and hold his hand and hear him say that everything would be alright. She wanted to tell him how much she'd longed for him to come home. He might be thinking that now that things were settled down, she'd ask for that divorce again. I don't. I never wanted it. I wanted him and here he is. We can make it work.

"You're not a mouse you know." Sands knew his words were slurred from the painkillers but the chance to verbally poke and prod at someone was too good to pass up. Even if that person was his wife. After all, if anyone was going to understand why he was doing it, it'd be her.

"You're awake."

"Am I? Couldn't tell. It's a little dark."

That was so, so normal coming from him that she let her caution slide as she moved across the room and pulled a chair up to the bedside. As much as she wanted to hold his hands, she couldn't because they were both covered; one in plaster and one in rubber tubing and tape. His face – what parts of it that wasn't covered by the gauze wrapped around his eyes – was a black and blue mess, so she couldn't stroke his jaw and didn't feel as if she could kiss the scrapes. In fact, there didn't seem to be an inch of him that wasn't covered in bruises. Still, she slid her hand over the skin of his arm between his cast and the hem of his hospital gown. "Hey, baby," she whispered, glad that he couldn't see the sheen of tears in her eyes.

"Baby," he muttered under his breath. "They lied, didn't they?"

"What? Who lied?"

"The doctors. I'm dying, aren't I?" She laughed, and it didn't matter that he couldn't see the tears – he could hear them. "Oh. I see. You're the one that's dying."

Liz could see that he was trying to joke, but he'd turned pale under his bruises. "No, no, I'm fine."

"Then knock it off with the 'baby' business," he growled, irritated that his heart was bouncing uncomfortably in his chest. Damnit, he'd nearly had a heart attack earlier. More than one heart attack. He never wanted to relive the shock he'd felt when Liz had been thrown into his lap. Despite the fact that he hadn't seen it, the image of Price holding a gun to her head would likely make him wake up in cold sweats for months to come. He'd spent the last five years playing the game as if he were the only piece at risk. To find out that he'd been laboring under a false impression was enough to chill his blood…

…and she was calling him baby.

"Sheldon? What's wrong?" When he tried to shrug her away, Liz pulled her hands back. "You're mad."

"Oh, so that you notice."

"You're mad at me?" She pulled her hands back and clenched them in her lap. "I know that I should have fought more –"

"No!" Sands growled in frustration. Not only could he not roll his eyes or shoot her a glare that would turn her into a pile of ash, now he couldn't even run his hands through his hair. Though if I could, I'd probably be ripping it out. "Don't be an idiot, Liz. God, you used to be such an intelligent woman. Now you're apologizing for not fighting against people who would have subdued you without caring how much damage they caused. If they'd had to break your jaw to make you shut up, they would have."

"But…my presence there hobbled you. You know it did. If I hadn't been there, Price wouldn't have taken you. You wouldn't be in pain now. That's my fault." She fisted her hands so tightly to keep them from trembling that she could feel her nails biting into her palms. "But I want to make it up to you. Come home with me. Well, not with me. You need to stay here awhile, and I need to get home to Chris and Mandy." She could tell this wasn't going well. His face was getting tighter and tighter with displeasure. That intractable look never boded well; it was never easy to change his mind once he set his jaw like that. She needed to change his mind now. "Once you're out, come home. It's time you came home. You've been gone too long. Please." We can make this work. Just come home.

He was silent for a long time. The desperation in her voice had been impossible to miss, and he hated it. He hated that she was certain he'd turn down anything she offered to him, really hated that she felt as if she had to offer him something in order to earn forgiveness for something she never could have prevented.

"Lizzie, have I ever beaten you?"

"What?" His question threw her. She couldn't see how that had anything to do with what they were talking about.

"Have I ever beaten you?" he repeated himself, terrible patience in his voice.

"No."

"If you're not a battered wife then stop taking the blame for something you had no control over."

"But I thought –"

"That everything would go back to normal just because we jumped in the sack?" He knew that wasn't what she'd thought, but she was being deliberately dense. He wasn't an invalid. He wasn't going to let her drag him home like a stray dog. Yes, fine, they still wanted to jump each others' bones. Lust did not an obligation make. If she really wanted him to come home, then he was going to make damn sure that she examined her reasons for wanting him there. If he had to rip her excuses and illusions away to make her examine those reasons… Well, it was a dirty job but there was no one better suited to it. "I thought you understood that I thought I was going to die."

Liz actually felt the impact his words had on her. It felt as if the chair moved under her. "You must be in pain," she murmured, looking for some excuse for him.

"Oh, so I don't know my own mind if I'm in pain." His lips twisted into a sneer that had her out of her chair and on her feet as she paced. He heard her agitated footsteps and shook his head. She'd always fought against things that upset her. Maybe he should consider himself lucky that she thought he was worth getting upset over. Maybe he should just give in and let her plan the next few months of his life and then try to have this conversation once they were both on equal footing.

Or maybe he knew better than to avoid facing things head on. It was a lesson he'd paid dearly for, and if he had to make her learn from his experience, then he had no qualms about taking off the gloves and getting dirty. If Lizzie was half the woman he thought she was, then she'd see through him in a few weeks and would come charging back to give him hell.

"You wouldn't be saying these things if you weren't on the painkillers." Her voice was dark with hurt and irritation, her words directed just as much at herself as they were at him.

"This has nothing to do with lowered inhibitions, sweetness," he drawled. "I know exactly what I'm saying. I'm not sure why you're so surprised though. You've known that I'm a bastard for years now." that I'm a bastard for years now." that I'm a bastard for
"So what?" she challenged. "All that talk about coming back to us after this was all over was just a way to get into my pants? More pretty lies like the ones you told before you left?"

"You're catching on. Perhaps the peroxide didn't sink so deep after all."

"Stop it, Sheldon!" Liz spun around on her heel and stalked back to the bed. Gurney. Whatever the right word was. "In the last week I have regained a missing husband, been kidnapped, cursed at, thrust into a situation that was clearly out of my depth, made up with you, and been kidnapped again. I've been bruised, shot, coddled, ignored, used –"

"A-ha!" Sands pointed a finger in the general direction of his wife. "Used. It's an ugly word, isn't it? Makes one feel so very dirty…if you're on the wrong side of it. I for one feel fine. You're obviously in denial. I can't imagine why else you'd want to take home the man who kidnapped you, cursed at you, bruised you, and used you."

Silence. Absolute, utter silence. Only the sound of the machines monitoring Sands' condition showed that anyone in the room was still alive. Liz let the silence stand as she argued with herself. Painkillers, no matter what her husband claimed, did lower inhibitions. What he was saying didn't bother her…not as much as what inspired his words. If this was what he said once his guard was down, if she got this veiled contempt instead of uncomfortable words of love…

This was the truth then? This was what the man she'd married had become? Nothing more than manipulative, heartless brute?

Sands was the one to let the tension in the air get to him, he was the one to break the silence.

"Go home, Liz. There's nothing for you here." There's a great deal more that depends on you than depends on me.

Liz nodded dumbly, but didn't move. Her mind was scattered and it felt as if there was something she needed to do before she left but she couldn't imagine what it was. What do I do? What do I do now? "I'll, uh…" Her heart was a hard lump in her chest and felt as if were out of place. She pressed her fist against it as if by pressing she could force it to behave normally. "I'll tell my lawyers to expect a call from yours then." Let him continue the divorce proceedings. Yes. If that's what he wants, I won't fight him. "Goodbye, Sands."

As she left, he wondered if she'd noticed that she'd expressed her disapproval by calling him by his last name.


The door was slow to swing closed and before it had, the sound of a hand slapping against wood signaled someone else's entrance. The thought that it might be Lizzie coming back to give me hell… No, it's too soon for that. Even if it is her, it's too soon. She hasn't had time to think yet. So who is this dimbulb?

"What is this? Did they install a revolving door?" The exasperation in my voice would have been enough to throw off anyone who wasn't a fool, but the sound of limping steps only got closer to the bed. The limp threw me off at first, but the sound of wooden heels on linoleum helped identify my latest guest. "You'd damn well better be coming in to report, Robbo." God help him if he wanted to talk about the sight Lizzie must have made as she stormed out. It wouldn't matter that I didn't have a gun; I'd still find a way to shoot the sorry bastard.

"Report? When did you get promoted?"

"It's not so much that I got promoted as much as it is that I lost my eyes."

"Hmm…someone's in a bad mood. You'd better tell the doctors that the painkillers aren't doing much for you because, really, the best part about getting shot is getting drugged up afterwards. You should be so well oiled that it'd take finding out that Price is still alive to make you snarl."

Panic. Instant panic. "What!" Price was still alive? And I just sent Liz out into the cold cruel world where he was waiting?

"Whoa, Shep. What the hell do you think you're doing?" I struggle against the hands lightly pinning me to my cot.

"You'd better not have let her leave," I pant as I struggle. "How could you let her leave if he's out there still."

"Sands. Sands." I can hear Robbo muttering under his breath, but as they're not the reassurances I want, I ignore them. Damnit, if Liz got herself killed because she was too angry with me to be smart, then I'll –

"Calm down. Good god, man. They really do need to dose you with some stronger shit. It was a joke. A joke."

My muscles freeze painfully as my brain processes this new information. A joke. Robbo thought it was funny to joke about my wife being loose on the same streets as a maniac with a very large ax to grind. "Damn you to hell," I gasp as panic releases its grip on my heart. "Damnit, Robbo." Ouch. The blood now flowing freely through my body is making my head pound. "That wasn't funny."

"I can tell," the other man says slowly as he awkwardly pats my shoulders. The image of an uncomfortable man patting the head of an unfriendly dog in an attempt to try to convince it to stay put pops into my head. Maybe that's why I feel like baring my teeth in a growl before biting him.

"Down, Cujo," I mutter under my breath as Roberts moves away. I hear him settling in the chair that Lizzie had so briefly occupied.

"Feeling the need to rip out someone's throat or have you just confused the hospital food with Snausages?" Roberts' voice is stronger now; he's obviously recovering from my little freak out.

"Can you really blame me?" I ask, taking the way out he's provided me. "I mean, after all I did to make sure Price was as dead as a doornail –"

"I heard he died in a helicopter accident," Robbo interrupted dryly. I ignore him.

" – you come in and tell me he didn't die. Now, I ask you, what kind of practical joke is that to pull on your friend and fellow agent? I don't suppose you have a cigarette I could bum."

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea. Your roommate is on oxygen."

"He's also in a coma. I don't think he's going to tattle."

"You've survived two explosions today. Since the third time is a charm, let's not press our luck."

"Two explosions? Is there something you and the oh-so-helpful doctors have neglected to tell me?"

"You mean you missed the second?" Robbo snorted. "I wouldn't have guessed it, but does that mean the little missus blows her top like that regularly?"

"Drop it," I say softly but firmly. There's no hint of a growl in my voice to indicate anything other than absolute seriousness. I just ripped out my wife's heart in order to force her to think with her head. That's not something I want to discuss with my bachelor buddy.

For once Roberts reads me and lets the subject slide. "Do you want an account of the evening's pandemonium or should I let you get some shut-eye?"

"Talk." I need the distraction from my heart.


When Liz had gone to pick up her children – a full cadre of CIA agents in tow with her hating each one of them on account of Sands – she'd been cold and hard to them. She'd had a chip on her shoulder and hadn't cared who knew. That's what Sands had wasted so much breath driving home – that she had as much right to be pissy and arrogant as his fellow renegades did. If that was what it took for others to take her seriously, then Liz even manage to don a thorny exterior that would have put her husband to shame.

All that stiff reserve crumbled the moment she saw her children coming down the hall towards her and it had been a hard battle regain any of her composure at all. But Mandy had already been crying, and Chris had had this male "please save me" look in his eye, so Liz had made the effort to toughen up. In the past week she'd mistakenly used her husband as a source of comfort, and though it'd been false, it had been enough at the time. So even if she was not whole herself, Liz knew she had to offer the comfort they would be seeking…because it would be enough for them.

That had been hours ago. Hours that had been filled with all sorts of stress and boredom and paperwork and feelings running dangerously close to the surface, but the whole ordeal was over. They were home. They sat huddled on the living room sofa while a movie played softly in the background, through none of them watched it. Mandy was asleep, Chris had his eyes closed though Liz could tell he wasn't actually sleeping, and as for Liz, she watched her two children as if they were the only things she had left in the world; they were all she had left. All that mattered, anyway. In her bitterness she didn't notice that her arms tightened slightly around her children. Mandy willingly snuggled closer, but Chris pulled away.

Liz tucked away her hurt only because she knew it would upset her son, not out of any sense of fairness to Sands. If there had been a way for her to vent all the frustration and confusion inside her that wouldn't harm her kids, she would have reached for it like an alcoholic reaches for a drink after a long day. Still, as Chris turned to face her, she kept her mouth shut as she struggled to get herself under control.

"You should start dating," he said without preamble, though there was a frown on his face.

"I should, hmm?" Liz asked. What was the cause of this sudden outburst?

"Yeah."

"Why's that?"

"You're lonely."

Liz could see how uncomfortable her son was getting with this subject, so she said lightly, "What I am is very glad to be home and very sick of having to deal with men. What do think about that?"

"Do I have to go to school tomorrow?"

She laughed in surprise, not sure where that had come from but not surprised the question had been asked. He sounds just like his father, trying to get what he wants out of a situation. I say I'm glad to be home and he wants to know how long he can stay home too. "No, you don't have to go to school. You can stay home and help me clean." It was a sign of how much he'd missed her that Chris didn't argue with her.

"Go to bed, Chris," she murmured, pressing a kiss onto his forehead. "I'll get Mandy."

Certain that her children were safely tucked away in bed, Liz went back downstairs and cleaned up the remains of their fast-food dinner before wandering through the bottom floor turning off lights and checking the locks. She had a brand new front door – one, she noted sourly, that wasn't nearly as sturdy as the one that'd been kicked in by those men in black. It was hard to believe that her nightmare had ever even happened, considering all the damage had been taken care of.

Well, perhaps not all the damage. She stood in front of the door, remembering her shock when she'd opened it to find Sands standing on the other side. God, how she hated to admit how her heart had jumped, hated to remember how she'd been crushed when all he'd had to say was "the taxi driver needs to be paid." Liz reached out, turned the lock with an angry snap, and walked away. Sands had made it very clear then that he'd come here because he'd had nowhere else to go. He'd also made it very clear that he wouldn't be coming back.

The stairs seemed steeper than they'd used to be as she climbed them. It had been a long day…a long week. It always came back to that. And now that she was home? She didn't feel as if she belonged any longer; she didn't feel safe in her home any longer. Everything that had made her feel safe in the past – her home, her locks, her husband, armed guards – had all failed her, one after another. "Damn you, Sheldon," she whispered under her breath as she leaned against the banister; those three words were all it took to have her near tears again. "Why did you ever come home? Why did you have to take everything away from me?" Was it just because misery did love company?

Liz lifted her head and stared at the wedding picture she'd stubbornly kept hanging on the wall. It looked so very ordinary, placed as it was between baby pictures and grade school portraits of her children. The frame held a sunny scene; she was staring at the camera and smiling. Their wedding had happened very quickly once they'd found out about the pregnancy and it was a faintly uncertain smile she had on her face as she leaned against her new husband. One hand laid over the fabric that hadn't quite yet started to stretch with the new life beneath it. And Sands…he was smiling but looked a bit preoccupied. Once upon a time she'd thought it was cute, the portrait of a man and a woman joining together to face an uncertain future.

Now all she could see were those small warnings of life to come.

Almost hating herself for what she was about to do as much as she suddenly hated that picture, Liz reached out and took the frame off the wall. For a moment she looked at those distracted brown eyes, then she drew her hand back and threw the picture down the stairs. The sound of breaking glass gave her a sense of grim satisfaction.

Take that.

The satisfaction melted away as she realized she was going to have to clean up the glass before her children went downstairs in the morning.

I'm such an idiot.

Liz wearily completed her climb and stopped in the doorway of her room. The light coming in from the bathroom revealed that she was going to have to fight for a pillow because her children had migrated to her bed. How did an idiot become so blessed? Her last thought as she changed into pajamas and climbed into bed between the sleeping bodies of her children was, Perhaps my life isn't ruined after all.


She hasn't called. I'd been so certain that she would have called to chew me out long before now. My earlier attack had been designed to make her stop and think, not to rout her entirely. And I'm the one that's supposedly an expert at figuring out what makes people tick. The possibility that I could be so out of touch with Lizzie and the life she's been leading that I could have crushed her without trying was…uncomfortable.

I know my way around the small apartment well enough by now to confidently make my way to the kitchen without my cane. Of course, that's no huge accomplishment considering the size of the place. The apartment is government owned, and as per usual, nearly all expenses were spared. One small round table with two chairs for meals. One working kitchenette that hasn't seen much use since I took up residence. One couch. One fifteen inch TV…good for listening to the news since there's not a radio in the place. One bed. One coffin-like shower.

You know exactly where you are on the food chain if you're forced to stay in one of these places. Still, the slight independence is better than remaining in the hospital. If one more nurse had asked, "And how are we today," I would have shot someone. There were no "we's." Just "me" and "them" and "her."

Damn, you sound like a woman, bitching about the one that didn't call. Disgusted with myself, I grab a beer from the fridge and slam the door. I'd go for a walk or hit the gym – hey, let's be optimistic and throw in the shooting range too – if I thought that my ribs would stop being such pansies and not start aching halfway down the block.

The distinct -click- of a lock turning and the rattling of a doorknob garnered my instant attention. Whoever's out there isn't having much luck getting in. That rules out my visitor being a medical practitioner of some kind – they have an annoying talent for getting in anywhere where they aren't wanted. Oh, this ought to be good. With any luck it's lawyer or someone equally lame-brained whose delicate sensibilities I can screw with. Though I don't know any lawyers who go so far as breaking and entering to talk to a "client."

Damn hearings. They've brought out the political monkeys en masse.

However, they've also called Lizzie to Washington, though I doubt that she'll take the time to see me. It's less than a ten mile commute from Bethesda to DC. If she'd wanted to see me, she could have gotten over here on her lunch hour and only been a few minutes late getting back to work.

The door opened…

…and closed. Those were the only sounds to be heard. Either someone's decided not to come in, or the whoever has and is well aware of how good my hearing is. And if that's the case, there's the distinct possibility my life is in danger. Though considering how dull things have been lately, an attempt on my life would be entertaining at the least. At the most it'll ensure I'm never bored again.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed over my chest as I wait. Whoever it is obviously doesn't have a gun since they had a clear shot from the doorway. I like assuming that there is someone in the room; it makes life more exciting.

Come on, do something… You're starting to waste my time… Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps whoever had been at the door had been some kid looking for some quick way to make cash to support his habit and when they saw there was someone in the room, they took off. What's that?

The faint scent of a familiar perfume and the slight breeze caused by an object in motion are the only warnings I get before pain blooms on my cheek.

"Lizzie." I know there's a self-satisfied smirk on my face and that it's sure to irritate her, but I can't help myself.

I. Was. Right. About everything.

A second slap stirs me out of my triumphant complacency. I reach out to grab her – the first slap was probably deserved, the second is pushing my limits – but my hands close on empty air.

"Impressive." She's around here somewhere. "You've learned a thing or two."

No answer. If she's waiting for me to start groping for her like an old man looking for his dentures in a dark room then she's going to be disappointed. Pride and anger are all that's gotten me through the months since November. I can keep the anger to myself, but I'll be damned if I let her take my pride.

"I knew you'd come back, though you're not nearly as mad as I'd thought you'd be. You're pulling your hits at the last moment. What's wrong? Can't quite bear to hit a man with glasses?" Nothing. "Alright, so you don't want to talk about that. Then how about this one: How're the kids?"

Yes, I was trying to goad her. Yes, I was expecting another attack. But I thought I'd be blocking a slap, not absorbing a full body check. My ribs complain loudly that they don't appreciate being slammed into the wall by the feminine body now pressed up against mine. The rest of my body fully approves. Liz has always held too much fascination for me, even now when her normally sweet lips are likely leaving marks that will be embarrassing to explain tomorrow. This wasn't a situation I'd even considered might unfold.

For once, being blindsided has delightful consequences.


She'd been forceful, Sands ruminated with no small amount of satisfaction as he sat on the floor. Liz was nearby, still breathing heavily. That sign of exertion was just about the only sound she'd made the entire time.

"Hell of a way to show how pissed you are, Lizzie. If you just wanted a little afternoon delight –"

"Shut the hell up, Sheldon."

Liz spoke evenly. She wasn't mad. She hadn't been upset when she'd showed up here. There'd been no anger involved when she'd slapped him. That had been about standing up for herself. Sands had known exactly what he'd been saying to her that day in the hospital. His cruelty had been a weapon, one he'd used to defend himself against her and all she'd been offering. His sharp words had been intended to make her think about what she'd be accepting into her home.

But he could have found a better way to do it. He hadn't had to flay her already tender emotions. And though she wasn't mad – at the moment – she was going to inform him of a few things here and now.

"Shut up and listen to me, because I'm only going to say this once." Liz paused as she straightened her clothing, giving him every opportunity to do as he pleased. But he didn't move and he didn't open his mouth though there was a confused, irritated look on his face. Relatively certain that he was going to listen to her, Liz continued somewhat heartlessly.

"I…don't need you. I'm sure you're delighted to hear that since that's what your little tirade at the hospital was designed to make me see. I am perfectly capable of having a meaningful, fulfilling, happy life without you. In a lot of ways my life would be easier if you stayed as far away from me as you can get. I can't remember a time in my life where I've been through more ups and downs and doubts and fears and moments of pure hate. Even dating you and seeing you make eyes at other women –"

"Now there's something you're never going to have to worry about again," Sands muttered, earning a kick from his bride.

"I said, shut…up." The words were emphatic, but not angry. "You deliberately put me through hell…and you know what? I survived it. Maybe I didn't like it, but I'm still around to get mad about it if I want to.

"I know you'll say I'm being deliberately blind and there's only room for one blind person per family, but actually I see quite a bit more than you think. Price couldn't keep his mouth shut when he was waiting for you to come after him. I know about your… about your affair with that Mexican agent. I know about the guilty-as-sin people who died, and I know about the innocents who suffered because of your actions. And I know that you had to know about them because you're not a stupid man, Sheldon.

"Let me tell you, I've spent a lot of sleepless nights trying to decide how I feel about what you did in Mexico. I don't have an answer. I probably won't. Ever. So there's another reason my life would be easier if I turned my back on you. But do you want to know what I decided?"

"Why do I think you're going to tell me no matter what?"

"Like I said, you're not a stupid man. Here's what I decided – I married you for better and worse, and I will not be the one to walk away. I want a husband. I want the husband I have now, not the one I had five years ago. And not just because the sex happens to be good. I hold no illusions that anything about this will be easy. Chris will be mad, and the two of you will fight, and you'll likely be frustrated and short tempered and deprecating for as long as you're on medical leave, and you and I will fight, and you and Chris will fight, and he and I will fight, and all the fighting will make Mandy miserable… And you'll have to learn how to be a father all over again, and a husband, and I'll have to work on being a wife and not nag you to go to your therapy appointments – which I hear you've been blowing off, by the way – and something tells me I'll have to endure the occasional visit from Roberts who seems to be a very social guy – so how you became friends with him I'm sure I don't know. And you'll be testy while you discover just what you can and can't do now that you're blind, which wouldn't bother me if it didn't bother you so much… Does any of this sound accurate? Wait, don't answer now, because you'll say things you really mean but you'll say them in the meanest words possible in order to make me the bad guy in our relationship. Well, fuck you."

While his jaw was still hanging, Liz stood up. "You know where to find me. Or where to tell your lawyers – to whom you still haven't spoken – to find me."

And she left.


Author's Note II: it's been brought to my attention that this site is not a fan of authors who reply to reviews inside of chapters anymore. Don't freak because you don't see yourself here. Everyone who was signed in when they reviewed will be getting a reply in their e-mail. Only misc wasn't signed in, so I will reply here for that one.

RESPONSE TO GROUP: I'M SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG! There, now I won't have to write that over and over.

In the future, sign in if you can and if you want a reply. The mods here will remove stories that have replies in the body of the fic (I'm hoping that's just for replies made after this in my opinion not so brilliant ruling).

misc – man, you asked if I could bump a writing time of weeks down to one week. I would have truly loved to, but this is how writing goes, I guess, when there's not a deadline that threatens one's paycheck hovering on the horizon. I'm sorry!