It's a rainy night in Soho - which means it's also a rainy night in the
Lower East Side, location of the home of Sanderson Hawkins and sometimes
also of Jack Knight. The rain isn't coming down like a monsoon or anything
- just your average pattering drizzle with its accompanying slick streets
and hazy outside lamps; just your average misery-embodied-by-squelchy
shoes. The lights from Sandy's flat are like muted beacons in the night,
softened by humidity and by dirty panes. Once someone intending to enter's
gotten as far as the door, that someone would be able to hear the radio
coming from inside, tuned to WFMU and playing an ancient drama with
accompanying electric organ soundtrack. And, well - Jack has a key, so
when the door's open he'll almost immediately spot the currently sole
resident of the flat, dozing on the sofa with his feet up on the crates
that've replaced the coffee table, cooling mug of some sort of hot
beverage on the end table.

Utilizing the dead of night as a way to slip in unheard, Jack silently
pushes the door shut behind him, keeping the handled turned in a manner
that assures that tumblers won't click when the lock catches. Content that
the silent act paid off, Jack turns back to the living room and squints
against the black shadows, trying his best to remember where each piece of
furniture is placed. Surely, Sandy may have heard of his return to the
superhero racket my now, but frankly, he isn't in the mood to argue with
the Golden Boy about why he turned his back on everything...and everyone.
Holding his duffel tight to his body, he begins the arduous task of
crossing the floor, when a board squeeks beneath his foot. "Shit," he
mumbles under his breath.

And the next sound Jack'll hear is the safety clicking off on the gun in
Sandy's hand; shockingly, he doesn't seem to have moved at all - just his
hand. With the gun in it. Which is now quite accurately pointed at Jack.
The voice that comes from that direction of the room is calm, low, and
slightly grating; it sounds rather like it's Tom Waits with a hangover
forced through a tin can telephone. "Take another step and you'll be
missing a vital part of your anatomy," it says, and the light flicks on,
illuminating the scene beautifully. Jack in the middle of the floor
looking like a deer in headlights, Sandy with one hand on the lightswitch
and the other holding a small handgun, the neatness of the room, the
crackling old radio. Then, "Oh. It's you." The former Golden Boy holsters
his weapon again and leans back, crossing his arms over his stomach and
putting his feet back on the crates.

"Yeah, put the damned gun away. As you can see, it's just me. And you
shoulda known it was me...who else steps on this damned floorboard every
night trying to sneak in while it's still barely dark?" Jack asks, trying
to play off his fears in a show of bravado. Who knows? Maybe if he can
keep Sandy off the track with some sarcasm, he might be able to avoid the
chief subject. Unconcerned about raising a racket now, Jack allows the
duffle to slide to the floor, dragging it across the floorboards and
tucking it into his bedroom. Ah, it's been a long time since he's seen
that good old room. A lot of memories..although it's hard to tell which
are good and which are bad, sometimes. "I'll let you get back to sleep,
Sandy."

The erstwhile Golden Age sidekick's eyes are already shut, but he can't
resist a crack at that selfsame bravado Jack's trying to foist off at him.
"Every night, huh? I must've missed that somehow for the past few months,
'cause I coulda sworn you weren't here at all." A beat. "Here, or in the
desert in that goddamn compact car with a rotten Englishman and a
sarcastic son of a bitch with religious zealots shooting at us, or in
Germany in the snow with a desperate old man who almost ended the world to
make up for his sins, or later in Germany when we stole a zeppelin, or in
the bar when our souls were marked due to a fouled-up scrying, or when
Wally disappeared, or when the Titans were dealing with Dol's team
thinking they were them, or when - for the love of Mike - Donna had to
leave the planet for like a month and no one could figure out where she
went or why..." He finally sits up again, opening his eyes; he rests his
knees on his elbows and looks at Jack curiously. Not spitefully, not
menacingly, not angrily. Just curious. "Do me a favor. Get yourself a
drink - get me one, while you're at it - and sit the fuck down and tell me
where you were, a'ight?"

"Jesus, Sandy...lay it all on me, why don't ya..damn, that's the best
guilt trip I've gotten since I moved out of my dad's place...and that's
saying a lot. Oh hell, you want a glass or should I just bring the whole
damned bottle?" Jack replies, crossing to the bar and rummaging through
the liquors. He doesn't know how he's going to say this, doesn't even know
where to begin. He could lie through his teeth...it might even be the
easiest thing to do, but where would that get him anyway? A couple months
down the road, fumbling with half-truths and total deceptions, trying to
remember what he told to whom and when. Too much effort, and for someone
of Jack's mindset, it's definitely not worth it. Flopping down on the
couch, letting his legs fly out in front of him, Jack unscrews the bottle,
takes a long sip and passes it to the side, saying, "drink up...I think
this might take awhile..."

With a quiet laugh, Sandy reaches over and takes the bottle, swallowing a
couple of mouthfuls before handing it back and turning the radio down. He
switches the station, too, going from freeform broadcasting to classic pop
- the soundtrack to this will be Old Blue Eyes and Friends. Then he sits
back again, hands clasped behind his head, watching the cracks in the
ceiling as Jack begins to speak. All his body language - posture, hands,
tenseness (or lack thereof), breathing - seem to indicate that, contrary
to expectations, he's not angry. How can he be? He's been known to
disappear, himself. Not, generally speaking, when people really really
need him for something in particular, but occasionally. And once for a
good forty-five, fifty years. He's just waiting for the story. Yes, he was
worried; yes, he's glad Jack seems to be in one piece and not undead or
anything - but unless he just sort of buggered off to a deserted island
somewhere to screw beautiful pygmies, there's really no reason to get mad.

Jack Knight toys with the idea of another few sips, but decides he'd at
least better start his story before throwing himself two sheets to the
wind. No way he'd be able to say what needed to be said if he one tied on.
Clearing his throat with a slight rasp, he begins, "You see? I was making
my way through the South Pacific, kicking the sand beneath my toes and the
sort of shit you see in those damned travel commercials they play during
the winter to make you jealous. Well, I got sidetracked by these beautiful
pygmies...swear to God, they were goddesses...okay, I'm blowing smoke up
your ass. Truth is, I needed some time to clear my head. Some time where I
didn't have to carry the burden of a super-spandex legacy, time where I
didn't have to fight some loud-mouthed ex-crackhead for my girlfriend's
love, and time when I didn't have to worry about anything except the slow
passing of time. I'm not used to this kind of life, Sandy...this
day-in-day-out toss your cares away while you fight the good fight. Hell,
it was never meant to be my fight. Am I here to fight it? yeah, I am. Do I
have to be? Sometimes, I think so. IS this what I want out of life? Hell
if I know. Point is....I don't have some magical reason for running out
other than my own damned ego and stubborn inability to sort out my life
issues. Stupid, ain't it?"

"Mmm," comes Sandy's voice again, not judgemental, not...anything, really.
"You know," he muses, "not only is that stupid, it's also not something
I'd expect to hear from you of all people." There's a short pause, and
then Sandy's back on his feet, calmly starting to walk - no, pace - across
the floor. A glance at the radio as it starts to play some sweet, sweet
Ella Fitzgerald, and he looks back at Jack. "From the first time I met
you, when you were all punked out and drugged up and vehemently extolling
the virtues of anarchy, you -still- couldn't totally keep away your love
for the truth, your love for what's right. You tried to hide your old
comics and pulps from me, but I saw 'em in with your zines and ticket
stubs." And the blond pauses again, offering a lopsided grin. "You
know...Wes once told me your dad had named you Jack deliberately, 'cause
Jack is a rebel's name, a hero's name. That's bullshit that this was never
meant to be your fight." The smile runs away from his face. "It was your
fight, first, from the moment you were born...and second, from the moment
things started to go wrong. I'm sorry I wasn't there to help you then - I
was busy with a disappearing act of my own and only found out what
happened later - but you can't sit there and tell me it shouldn't be your
fight." Now he decides to be fair again - and also gets a couple of
glasses. More dignity that way. He pours Jack a shot of the vile stuff,
then himself, and he picks up a pack of cigarettes and hauls his matches
from his pocket. As he fiddles with them, he speaks again. "You're asking
yourself if you're here to fight it, if you're supposed to fight it - and
you're giving yourself good answers. That's good. You're remembering what
it is you do, that's good too. You want to know if this is all there is
for you - I think you know the answer to that. With a girl like Donna, and
with a drive like yours for a shop like the one you're getting back on
track with...you -are- getting back on track, right?...you *know* there's
more to life than kicking ass and chewing gum in the name of truth,
justice, and safety for innocents." He finally gets the cigarette lit, the
smell of a freshly struck match airily wafting around the room, followed
quickly by tobacco smoke. "But consider this. The time you spent taking a
swim in Lake You," the tone there was more than a little ironic, "was
spent by Chris, John and I in nearly getting killed, by Wally in getting
depowered then snatched away to another dimension, by Donna in
disappearing into outer space because she couldn't deal with the shit both
you -and- the crackheaded ex-lover that hangs around the Tower were
heaping on her. Next time you wanna go find yourself, how about letting a
couple people know beforehand? I mean, I don't know about you, but I'd
rather have my vacation interrupted than come home to find out people are
dead or relationships are over because of things I could have prevented or
helped prevent." A beat. "Dig?"

A sharp breath draws into Jack's body as he remembers that he stopped
breathing midway through Sandy's rant. It's not that he doesn't know he'd
been selfish, but he also knows that the time away was necessary for him
to rebuild any sense of resolve and/or dedication to this lifestyle,
personal and professional. "Yes, I am on track with the shop...and I even
spied some cool markets in the orient I think would be worth checking into
for some bargain basement shopping. But that's neither here nor there.
I've been a shit....yeah, you called me on that straight out. I shoulda
thought about you all before I left, instead of storming off in some
ill-thought temper tantrum. But the time away's done me well. I know Roy
ain't worth the two-shits that he thinks he is, and I know Donna knows
that too. Maybe I was too blind to see it...maybe I'm still just a bit too
damned insecure to think that she could possibly like me for the rebel
that I might be. Who knows? Point is, I'm here now...and I'm planning on
sticking around if you'll all have me."

"Well, then," grins Sandy, holding his cigarette in the corner of his
mouth and stuffing his hands in his pockets. He rocks back on his heels,
raising his eyebrows. He looks at Jack for a long moment, reading his
expression, his posture - all psychological signs of how serious he is,
how much he means it. Things he learned from the Sandman. Things he uses
that he's the Sandman again. And - yeah, Jack really means it. He grins
again, taking the cigarette from his mouth, offering the pack to the
Starman. "Well then," he says once more, "have a smoke and then go
unpack."

Jack Knight pops a cigarette from the pack and toys with the idea of
lighting it, changing his mind at the last second and popping it behind
his ear. "No need to set my nerves up any more than they already are. You
were the easy apology to make, Goldie...little miss Troy is going to be a
little more demanding, but hopefully not more punishing. And remember, I'm
a sissy girly boy...bruise very easily."

"Yeah, and that's why you know judo, right?" smirks Sandy, shaking his
head and plopping back down onto the couch. Radio? Getting more crackly by
the second, playing Benny Goodman and His Orchestra. "And, you silly fuck,
nicotine makes your hands stop shaking, not start. It's not like I handed
you espresso on a stick." He pauses, looking over at his friend with no
small amount of concern. "You know that the fact she hasn't sought you out
since your return - and hers - doesn't exactly bode well, right? I would
definitely learn to grovel. And be diplomatic, y'hear? Try not to mention
anything about trying to get away from Roy, okay?"

"Yeah, I hear ya...don't necessarily like what you have to say about that
matter, but I hear ya. But hell, I can be a nineties type of guy, if I
have to be. Yeah," Jack begins, pushing himself up from the couch and
downing the vile stuff in one fluid motion as the blood rushes away from
his head. Whoa..where'd they been hiding that bottle? In a side-dimension
where time passed quicker? "Feel like I could breathe fire right now...and
hell yeah,I'm staying out of harper's business as long as he stays outta
mine."

"You grow wise, grasshopper." Wiseass. Sandy leans forward to tap ash into
the tray formerly keeping his feet company on the crates, and adjusts his
shoulder rig before leaning back again. Seems like it's a Benny twofer, as
the radio segues neatly into 'Japanese Sandman'. "No - you seem to not
like what I have to say a lot, too, and I'm sorry for that. But I can't
say I won't do it again, 'cause I know you'll probably do something that
pisses me off again and I won't be able to keep my mouth shut. But fuck
all, boyo, nothing I say to you can top the information you've got on me."
He pauses. "Even though...wait for it...I finally scored." Oh, deliver
that one straightfaced.

"You're shitting me..." Jack asks, dumb-founded at the sudden onslaught of
unfathomable information. This is something he had never expected from
Chastity Lad. My God! What next? Wonder Woman tell the world that the
golden lasso was a piece of piss and licorice? "How much did she cost
you?"

Aaaaaand - the Golden Boy gapes. "You're...y...ohh, you bastard!" he
finally exclaims. "I admit I was asking for it, but...gloryosky!" He
shakes his head, back on his feet, half-grinning and half-annoyed. "I'm
still with Dolphin, fuckwit. -You- might be all about punk rock
free-love-with-whips-and-chains, but...and jeez, I could swear you looked
more shocked at this than you did when you found out I *hadn't*."

Jack Knight shrugs deeply and waves a bit where he stands. "Hey, what can
I say...you hadn't for a gazillion years, and all of a sudden,you're the
playboy of the free world? Comes as a bit of a shock, don't ya think?"

Sandy Hawkins settles back into the couch once more, looking distinctly
nonplussed. "Never said I was a playboy. Just said I scored. Not a shocker
- just...overdue, is all." He pauses, then finally grins again. "Go to bed
before you fall over, amigo. Plenty of time tomorrow."

Tossing the bottle lightly onto the couch beside Sandy, Jack heads toward
his bedroom, deciding that it's high time for him to hit the sack. Alone.
mmmmmmmmm....bed. "Oh, one more thing...before anyone else learns that I'm
crashing back here at the pad...let me talk to Donna...no need to start a
ruckus at the doorstep."

Sandy Hawkins raises his eyebrows. "Oh, like you're not still listed here.
If it was such a big deal, you shoulda come up with a secret identity."
Then he grins suddenly, "But don't worry, I'm not about to go around
putting billboards up...'night, Jack."