(no subject)
I should go upstairs and later pretend I was sleeping.
I should go upstairs and sleep.
I'm going to be all fuckedupmoodswingy for seeing people, and yeah, they know I do that, but I kinda wanted to be all, "hey, am not (entirely) the psycho you knew, am cooler and fitter and more adventurous and shit," but that ain't gonna happen.
Actually. Going to sleep some. And going to post what I've been writing tonight, because it got to a nice end-line, though it's only one part and it's not long at all and I don't know where the fuck it's going if it's going anywhere. But still. It's reassuring that I haven't entirely lost the ability to write, though I think the things I've been thinking about writing are just too big or too intense or too something for me to write, at least right now, because I'm reading a hell of a lot and just not... if I read too much then I fill up my brain with all these other characters and other people's brilliance and I don't have room to create, which sucks, but the reading is so good... Anyway. Sleep.
Title: none, as yet
Author: kbk
Disclaimer: Sands is not mine, more's the pity, and if there was any money in this transaction I wouldn't be the one walking away with it.
Notes: *throws up hands in incomprehension*
* * *
It starts when a car draws up on the road out front. The engine splutters to a halt, eking out its death throes beyond reason. He waits.
One car door slams, and then another, but only one set of feet crunches up the gravel to the house. Sands told the inquisitive woman it was Zen, and carefully positioned the stones that let him leap silently out of the window at the back of the house, cross the yard, and get over the neighbours' fence. At least, he assumes he can get over the fence - he hasn't checked recently, because last time he went over he encountered a yapping little dog. One pair of shoes ruined, and the distraught wailing of the child kept him awake all through siesta time.
His visitor pauses at the door, then knocks - three short, sharp raps. Sands thinks about answering. Thinks about letting whoever it is stew a little, seeing if they'll wait or give it up as a bad job. Thinks about pretending he's deaf, or dead, or just not there at the moment. Decides he hasn't seen... correction, encountered enough people recently, as he's been living the quiet life, not making trouble, just staying in his house with the mod cons and the deliveries and the multiple planned escape routes.
He's been bored. He smoothes his clothes, pushes his hair off his face, and then flings the door wide open.
"Sheldon," the man at the door says, voice warm and avuncular and only lightly accented - San Francisco, perhaps, but educated, well-travelled... "It's good to see you looking so healthy. Finally learned to take care of yourself, eh?" Sands wants to laugh: instead, he preens, right hand fluttering up to tuck back a lock of hair, while his left clenches tight around the butt of the pistol hidden in the back of his trousers.
"Thank you," he murmurs, dipping his head in a shy motion learned from a thousand actresses. "You're looking well yourself - new diet, perhaps?"
The man laughs, broad and hearty. "Always the little joker, aren't you, Sheldon? Matter of fact, I think the wife's trying to fatten me up for Thanksgiving instead of the turkey, ha!"
Sands chuffs an amused breath as all the laughter he can summon, and steps back, waving his hand toward the sofa (he hopes - he learned this place inside and out and upside down, but a new person might be enough to throw him off, though it really shouldn't be... he breathes, calms himself.) "Come in and take the load off your feet then, and put that thing down somewhere I won't trip over it." His breath stills for a moment, hoping he's right, the second door slamming was something being taken out of the back; for a moment he'd thought it was El with his precious guitar case, come to put an end to it, but the knocking put paid to that idea.
"But it's a present!" the man says, cheerfully lugging the large case into the room and setting it down in the middle of the floor. "And you've become houseproud now, as well? It's all tidy." The door thuds shut. "Good grief! How you can see anything in those sunglasses beats me. Mind if I open a curtain?"
"Go ahead," Sands says, deliberately uncurling each of his fingers from the gun. "Can I get you something to drink, or..."
The man stops halfway through opening a curtain - the rustle of the cheap polyester is horrendous. "Ah-ha! I've caught you after a bender, haven't I? That's why the sunglasses. Still, best thing's just to face it, you know. And I'll take some coffee, if you have any."
"It'll have to be instant crap, I'm afraid," Sands tells him, making his way to the kitchen and steering well to the side of where the case must be, wondering as he goes if it's truly possible that this man doesn't know about what happened, if maybe nobody knows, if all they heard was that he disappeared, and if some poor sod got his eyes ripped out - if they even know that, for who's to tell them? - there's nothing to connect it with Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the CIA. Formerly of the CIA. It would be terrible to forget that formerly.
"Probably still better than what I drank back in the day. It all came out of one big urn."
Sands makes noises of agreement and tries to remember where the hell the mugs are, because he's been using only one for all the time he's been here. His brain eventually places them in the upper right cupboard, but he has to wait for his hands to finish locating the coffee and the sugar - "what do you take in it, again?" he calls out the door, careless voice, wondering just what the bastard's up to out there where he can't keep an eye on him - heh, have an eye on him all right, pluck it out and smear it down his face - before he can check his brain isn't playing him false, and for once it isn't. Now all he has to worry about is whether the mug's got an atrocious slogan on it. But Sheldon's a joker, and he would do that, sometimes, so all he really has to worry about is the man and the 'gift' in his front room.
That really is plenty.
I should go upstairs and sleep.
I'm going to be all fuckedupmoodswingy for seeing people, and yeah, they know I do that, but I kinda wanted to be all, "hey, am not (entirely) the psycho you knew, am cooler and fitter and more adventurous and shit," but that ain't gonna happen.
Actually. Going to sleep some. And going to post what I've been writing tonight, because it got to a nice end-line, though it's only one part and it's not long at all and I don't know where the fuck it's going if it's going anywhere. But still. It's reassuring that I haven't entirely lost the ability to write, though I think the things I've been thinking about writing are just too big or too intense or too something for me to write, at least right now, because I'm reading a hell of a lot and just not... if I read too much then I fill up my brain with all these other characters and other people's brilliance and I don't have room to create, which sucks, but the reading is so good... Anyway. Sleep.
Title: none, as yet
Author: kbk
Disclaimer: Sands is not mine, more's the pity, and if there was any money in this transaction I wouldn't be the one walking away with it.
Notes: *throws up hands in incomprehension*
* * *
It starts when a car draws up on the road out front. The engine splutters to a halt, eking out its death throes beyond reason. He waits.
One car door slams, and then another, but only one set of feet crunches up the gravel to the house. Sands told the inquisitive woman it was Zen, and carefully positioned the stones that let him leap silently out of the window at the back of the house, cross the yard, and get over the neighbours' fence. At least, he assumes he can get over the fence - he hasn't checked recently, because last time he went over he encountered a yapping little dog. One pair of shoes ruined, and the distraught wailing of the child kept him awake all through siesta time.
His visitor pauses at the door, then knocks - three short, sharp raps. Sands thinks about answering. Thinks about letting whoever it is stew a little, seeing if they'll wait or give it up as a bad job. Thinks about pretending he's deaf, or dead, or just not there at the moment. Decides he hasn't seen... correction, encountered enough people recently, as he's been living the quiet life, not making trouble, just staying in his house with the mod cons and the deliveries and the multiple planned escape routes.
He's been bored. He smoothes his clothes, pushes his hair off his face, and then flings the door wide open.
"Sheldon," the man at the door says, voice warm and avuncular and only lightly accented - San Francisco, perhaps, but educated, well-travelled... "It's good to see you looking so healthy. Finally learned to take care of yourself, eh?" Sands wants to laugh: instead, he preens, right hand fluttering up to tuck back a lock of hair, while his left clenches tight around the butt of the pistol hidden in the back of his trousers.
"Thank you," he murmurs, dipping his head in a shy motion learned from a thousand actresses. "You're looking well yourself - new diet, perhaps?"
The man laughs, broad and hearty. "Always the little joker, aren't you, Sheldon? Matter of fact, I think the wife's trying to fatten me up for Thanksgiving instead of the turkey, ha!"
Sands chuffs an amused breath as all the laughter he can summon, and steps back, waving his hand toward the sofa (he hopes - he learned this place inside and out and upside down, but a new person might be enough to throw him off, though it really shouldn't be... he breathes, calms himself.) "Come in and take the load off your feet then, and put that thing down somewhere I won't trip over it." His breath stills for a moment, hoping he's right, the second door slamming was something being taken out of the back; for a moment he'd thought it was El with his precious guitar case, come to put an end to it, but the knocking put paid to that idea.
"But it's a present!" the man says, cheerfully lugging the large case into the room and setting it down in the middle of the floor. "And you've become houseproud now, as well? It's all tidy." The door thuds shut. "Good grief! How you can see anything in those sunglasses beats me. Mind if I open a curtain?"
"Go ahead," Sands says, deliberately uncurling each of his fingers from the gun. "Can I get you something to drink, or..."
The man stops halfway through opening a curtain - the rustle of the cheap polyester is horrendous. "Ah-ha! I've caught you after a bender, haven't I? That's why the sunglasses. Still, best thing's just to face it, you know. And I'll take some coffee, if you have any."
"It'll have to be instant crap, I'm afraid," Sands tells him, making his way to the kitchen and steering well to the side of where the case must be, wondering as he goes if it's truly possible that this man doesn't know about what happened, if maybe nobody knows, if all they heard was that he disappeared, and if some poor sod got his eyes ripped out - if they even know that, for who's to tell them? - there's nothing to connect it with Sheldon Jeffrey Sands of the CIA. Formerly of the CIA. It would be terrible to forget that formerly.
"Probably still better than what I drank back in the day. It all came out of one big urn."
Sands makes noises of agreement and tries to remember where the hell the mugs are, because he's been using only one for all the time he's been here. His brain eventually places them in the upper right cupboard, but he has to wait for his hands to finish locating the coffee and the sugar - "what do you take in it, again?" he calls out the door, careless voice, wondering just what the bastard's up to out there where he can't keep an eye on him - heh, have an eye on him all right, pluck it out and smear it down his face - before he can check his brain isn't playing him false, and for once it isn't. Now all he has to worry about is whether the mug's got an atrocious slogan on it. But Sheldon's a joker, and he would do that, sometimes, so all he really has to worry about is the man and the 'gift' in his front room.
That really is plenty.