Sands' operation was a success and as much as he knew it shouldn't matter to him, he was elated to no longer have two large, vacant holes in his head. Dr. Morris was correct in all he said – it all felt natural; the only drawback was that since he now had the old, familiar feeling of working organs in his head, he had to accept that fact that he couldn't see all over again.
Harold had tried to convince Sands to leave Grace's room, but, save for trips to the restroom, he refused. He talked to her, held her hand…and constantly asked why she wouldn't wake up. She had no injuries to her head – he simply couldn't understand it, and neither could the doctors.
It was roughly three A.M. when Sands woke up, his heart pounding, his face moist. He had woken up from a nightmare in which he had lost Grace to Michael's dead hands. I shouldn't be able to dream about people I've never seen… Fed up with waiting, Sands stood next to Grace's bed and began to talk to her.
"Gracie, you can't just stay in this fucking bed, O.K.? I mean, if we were both naked and screwing like fucking rabbits, that would be different, but…You can't just be there and not yell at me for saying stuff that should be pissing you off! You're O.K. and the fuckmook's dead, wake up!"
Grace was still and Sands let the thought cross his mind that it was possible that she might never wake up. Maybe she just doesn't want to…
"Did you get bored?" he asked, his voice softening. "Did you change your mind? Are you pissed that I'll never actually see you? I'll make you happy, Gracie. I don't know what you were looking for, but you found me. Are you disappointed?"
The fingers on Grace's right hand, the hand he was holding, moved ever so slightly.
"Gracie? You can hear me, can't you?" There wasn't any more movement. "Did you know that I can play the guitar? Of course you don't, I didn't tell you… El's not the only one who can do that. I know I can still do it too, because I never had to look at my fingers anyway…You like music, Gracie, and when we go home…" Home. God, I want a real fucking home… "…I'll play for you. I heard a song – it was about you. I'll play it for you. Christ, Gracie, please, come back to me. I'm through with the shit down here. I want a life, Gracie. I didn't want one last week, but now…"
Her index finger moved.
Sands lowered his mouth to his lover's ear. "Grace…she carries a word on her lips…no champagne flute for her lips…no twirls or skips on her fingertips…" He began to break down. "Please…"
"He sings, too." Her voice was so soft that one could have easily missed it – but not Sands.
Her eyes opened slowly, and though the room was dim, the small amount of light that was present caused a bit of pain to her eyes. "Jeffrey…Mm…missed you…"
"I've been here the whole time, Gracie…Well, almost the whole time."
"Gracie, I should get the doctor and…"
Grace shook her head weakly. "Take off…your glasses. Kiss…"
"Something happened while you were here, Grace. I can't see, but…your view should be less…" He didn't finish; instead, he took off his glasses – and waited.
Grace's eyes widened, not caring about the pain. "Oh, my God…"
"Is that a good 'Oh, my God?'"
Grace nodded, the whispered, "You know it wouldn't have bothered me if…"
Sands smiled knowing that she was being perfectly honest. "I know." He leaned in and gently kissed her. "There are just some places you shouldn't wear sunglasses." Grace smiled the best she could. "Let me call the doctor, all right?"
By the next morning, Grace was much more alert and coherent. Despite the pain in her back, she wanted nothing more than to be able to lie next to Sands – her wish was granted. She remained in bed, Sands at her side. With her head resting on his chest, she was filled in on what had happened.
"Grace, I've known this man since he first began to work for the CIA," Harold said. "After his sister passed away, he became…" He smiled. "Well, some would say…"
Sands laughed. "Psychotic? Is that the adjective you're looking for?"
"We'll use it for now. He never had qualms about killing anyone – but you seem to have cured him of that."
Grace lifted her head slightly. "Oh? How's that?"
"He went upstairs to visit the man who put you in here – nearly killed him…but didn't. You know why?"
Grace smiled. "Why's that?"
"He was worried about something happening to him. He was scared that…"
"Hey, I don't get fucking scared," Sands interrupted.
"About that language, Grace," Harold laughed.
"It sorta grows on you," she chuckled.
Harold shook his head. "Anyway, he didn't kill Michael. His reward was that he died anyway, but you already know that part."
Grace snuggled further into Sands. "I'm proud of you, brown eyes."
"That being said, I'm gonna leave you two kids alone for a while. You behave yourself, Sheldon, the poor girl's been through enough." He winked at Grace and left the room.
"How come he gets to call you Sheldon?" Grace asked, pretending to pout.
"Eh, some paternal thing. I thought you liked Jeffrey."
"I do. It comes out naturally at the height of…"
Sands put his finger to her lips. "None of that until you're better, Gracie."
My, how the tables have turned. "I'm going to be laid up for a while, huh? In the not so fun way?"
Sands stroked her hair. "'Fraid so."
She smiled. "Well, you know what that means, don't you?"
She kissed Sands longingly before answering. "Sponge baths."
Author's Note: O.K., guys, there you have it. Grace is O.K. and Sands has a brand spanking new set of eyes. Thank you all so much for your reviews! You guys rock! I have plenty of ideas for more adventures with Sands and Grace – if you think I should write more about them, let me know by pressing that little review button down there. However, I have some loose ends to tie up in some other stories first. I don't think I can just leave these two like this, so a sequel is probably inevitable ;-). Thanks again for reading!