Tender Hearts

When It Rains...

The two days in the basement were agony. Tom drove himself stir crazy, his mind concocting all sorts of scenarios involving Cesar and Evie and Sandro and himself. When he wasn't up pacing the floor, chewing on his lip and rubbing the freckles on his neck, he was asleep and dreaming. The machinations in his sleep were almost worse than those when he was awake, but he tried to console himself with the fact that then, at least, he was able to feel her with him, smell her perfume as it floated around her, hear her voice. 

He lost track of time and had flashbacks of DCJ, prompting more nightmares, only in those, Sandro was not there to save him. Tom didn't know what was worse, the incarceration or the threat of death from Cesar. Though the basement kept him insulated from the outside world and protected from the looming dangers, it also was, in its own way, a prison. The air inside was stale and humid, acrid with the smell of his sweat, now, though he no longer smelled it. He was acclimated as a prisoner in his own mind.

By the time Sandro came to get him, Tom was beside himself. He'd given up on restful sleep and the dark circles under his eyes reflected that. Personal hygiene was also low on his list and when he answered the door, Sandro gave him a stink face and exclaimed, "You better take a shower and brush your teeth before you leave, man. You reek!" There was nothing that he could do about the three days' worth of scruff that graced his face.

Tom stayed silent and did as he was told, failing to see the humor in the situation, even as Sandro regaled him with a deep belly-laugh. He admitted to himself, at least, that the shower felt good, that cleaning up made him feel at least halfway human, though it did nothing to melt the frozen core of his heart. There was only one cure for that and he knew he'd remain that way forever. He put on a pair of jeans and a blue button-up shirt from the carry-on bag Sandro brought with him, replacing the now sweat-stained clothes he'd been wearing. The new clothes were slightly too big and hung off him at odd angles, but they were at least right in length. "Did you pick these out?" he asked as he stepped out from the bathroom curtain.

"My wife, actually," Sandro answered. "She's got better taste in clothing than I do." He chuckled at himself and waited for Tom to laugh as well. Instead, Tom regarded him for a moment, his face solemn. He'd never thought of Sandro as being married. The man had seemed like an island unto himself - self sufficient, confident, able. 

With a deep breath, Tom finally replied. "You have a wife?" he asked. "What's she like?"

Happy to be drawing Tom out of his own mind, Sandro grinned, "She's wonderful!" He pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and flipped the screen on, turned it to Tom and showed him a photo of a beautiful Latina with big, dark eyes, thick, raven-colored hair that curled over her breasts, honey tanned skin and a broad smile with white teeth framed by perfect rosebud lips. "Honestly," Sandro gushed, "I'd be nowhere without my Ana."

"She's beautiful," Tom replied. "You're a lucky man." Of course, the fact that Sandro was a happily married man only exacerbated the emptiness in his heart that was niggling at him. The man put himself in danger every day of his life, especially with his undercover work, yet, here he was, a family man. "How does she take your police work?" he asked.

Sandro shoved his phone back into his pocket. "She'd rather I worked a desk," he answered. "Then again, she's understanding about it. When I'm undercover, she takes the kids to her mother's house, often." He looked like he was about to pull the phone back out to show Tom more photos, then thought better of himself when he saw his dejected look. "Listen man," he said, clapping his hand on Tom's shoulder, "For what it's worth, I'm sorry. I think you made the right decision. Hell, if Cesar ever caught wind of my true nature, you can bet I'd send my family away."

"But you'd run with them." Tom sighed and looked away. As much as Sandro tried to sympathize with him, to empathize with the loss he'd suffered, he just couldn't. "I'm ready," he said as he picked up the bag of clothing and pocketed the passport and plane tickets. "How'd you get the money to do all this, anyhow? The department have a runaway fund?"