FicWad

He sat alone on the barstool, staring in a general downward direction. He had no idea what he was looking at--his lack of eyes preventing it, but he damn well knew his directions. His black attire was in absence tonight, as were his weapons, save for the pocket knife in the back of his jeans.
His dark hair fell into his face as he stared toward the floor. He felt it tickling the area just above his eyebrows and along his jaw. He knew he needed a haircut, but he figured if he couldn't see it, everyone else could fuck off and deal with it. Every one else but one man.
"Here," a lilting accent said. Sands heard a glass being set down on the bar, but he didn't even feel like drinking. Suddenly, a strong hand slipped between his cheek and his hair, cupping his cheek gently, and making him jump in blunt surprise. "Look at me." Sands made a frustrated sound at the ironic stupidity of the order, but he knew what the man meant. He jerked his head in the said man's general direction. "Drink it. It's tequila...with lime." Mariachi said gently. Sands snorted and jerked his head out of the other man's grip.
"Maybe I don't want tequila with lime, you idiot," he snapped. He heard the deep-throated laugh that came from the other man; a sound that made the blood flow from his brain to somewhere a bit further south. He let out a frustrated grunt and tried in vain to ignore his-rather inconvenient-pulsating want. El shook his head and dropped his hand.
"Let's go then," he said, purposely prompting the man in front of him to a reaction. "If you'll not drink, then you will sleep." Sands scowled. He was not a child, though El sometimes liked to argue the point--which made it rather moot. There was no arguing with the musician.
"Sleep this, rest that," the ex-agent snapped again. "I'm not five, ya' know? I can go to bed wheneverthehell I want." With that said, he reached for the shot glass. Finding it, quite expertly, he downed it and let out a hiss between his teeth. The liquid was hot and bitter--kind of like his life. El let out a knowing grunt.
"That's what I thought, you stubborn gringo." Sands could do nothing but sigh. The Mexican beside him had earned his respect, despite the silent protest from Sands, proclaiming his independence and disrespect for all other human-beings but himself. El Mariachi hadn't left him in the end; he hadn't left to let the CIA agent die in the streets. He'd come back. That had been enough to gain Sand's respect...and maybe even a bit of his love.
There was silence between them for a moment or two. "Get me another," Sands ordered. He heard El sigh and bristled with it, in a good way. Suddenly, there was a weight on his shoulder.
"Yes, muchacho." The breath against his ear cause Sand's throat to tighten. Then he was gone, getting Sands another drink, and one for himself as well. Sands cursed the Mexican inwardly. The man knew just how much to give, without giving it all---especially when Sands wanted all of it. Grr. "Here." A shot glass was placed in the agent's hand. There was a 'clink' as El touched his own glass to the one Sands was holding, in a silent toast that Sands really didn't want to verbalize, but he knew.




"Will you ever go back to the life you had...ya' know, before?" Sands exhaled slowly, resting his chin on El's shoulder.
"I can't go back to the CIA," he said. "Not that they'd take me back anyway." He could almost hear El smiling.
"Didn't you have a family...?" The singer trailed off, leaving the question in the air. Sands chuckled softly.
"Me? No," he said. "Never wanted to settle down. Didn't see the point." El's grip on him tightened just a little, becoming just a little bit more possessive. Sands smiled gently. "Don't get sentimental on me. I'm too bad ass for that, remember?" El laughed.
"I couldn't forget," he said, nuzzling Sands' cheek. Sands pondered for a moment on their relationship. They weren't friends. No, they were more than that. But, they weren't lovers. Sands still didn't trust El. Respected him, yes. Trusted him, no. El was never sure where Sands' boundaries laid. He never knew what would make him laugh, or what would piss him off. That there caused the whole prospect of 'lovers' to be drop-kicked out of the odd little picture they were in.
Sands turned to face El, and found their lips pressing together, quite by accident. They smiled against each other's flesh for a moment. It was often ironic that they ended up in situations like this, and it never failed to be grossly romantic. They chuckled together for awhile. "I'm going to ask you something," Sands said. El noticed that it was neither a question or a statement really. How very Sands.
"Go on, then," the Mariachi said.
"What is this?" Sands asked. "I mean, what the hell is this?" Emphasizing his bad ass persona, of course. El grinned and looked upward for a moment, somehow hoping that the bare ceiling would provide him with an answer. But, it did not. He smiled down at the other man, not caring if he could see it. A smile could always be felt.
"This...this is us." Sands settled against El's shoulder and let out a small sigh of content. It was a small, simple answer. It was direct enough, but left a bit hanging, leaving him with something to think on. But, it was enough.




Maybe it wasn't enough. Sands awoke alone, something odd for him. He was usually the one to make the smooth exit, to make his partner come looking for him. Partner, he'd decided, was probably the best word to describe their relationship. It wasn't too committal, but it wasn't distant. It wasn't perfect; Sands had decided a long time ago that there was no such thing as 'perfect'--but this was as close to it as he allowed it to get.
He sat up and readjusted the dark sunglasses that set delicately on the bridge of his nose. He felt a twinge of amazement thinking about how the glasses never failed him--even as he slept, they stayed in their spot. He listened intently for any movement in the room, other than his own.
Obnoxiously obnoxious music was being played in the street below the window of the hotel room he was in. A guitar and a trumpet and some other instrument he couldn't identify. A bass maybe. He mentally shrugged. Knowing the third instrument wasn't really something to linger on, was it?
He swung his legs over the side of the bed nearest him and planted his feet firmly on the floor. A small flood of relief went through him. His feet were on something solid, which meant there was, in fact, something under him. He shook his head, laughing slightly at the thought of the bed he was on balanced on a two-by-four in mid air.
He stood and took a short step forward, hands out in front of him. There had to be a wall around him somewhere...hell, there should be four of them. He took another step and another, growing more and more confident...until he ran into the wall nearest him. "Aw," he mumbled. Shaking his head, he started tracing steps. From the bed to the nearest wall: three steps.
He turned and began walking, one hand on the wall, using it as his guide. He counted his steps, picking up slight speed as he went. He counted ten steps before he ran into something, hitting the object at full speed. He grunted and righted himself, running his hands over the object. It was a head shorter than he was; sturdy; wide. "Who's idea was it to put a dresser right there?" He grumbled to himself.
"It was mine, actually." Sands spun, almost falling. He steadied himself on the dresser and faced the voice he knew so well.
"Why the hell would you put a dresser right there?" El chuckled.
"It was to keep it out of your way, you stupid gringo." Sands opened his mouth to make a snide remark, but paused.
"Huh?" He heard El sigh.
"I moved it while you were sleeping. You were on the other side of the bed when I left. I figured you'd wake up on that side of the bed." If Sands could've, he swore he would've rolled his eyes.
"Oh..."He followed El's voice, and made his way to him. El welcomed him into his arms and nuzzled his jaw. "Well, you were wrong." El laughed gently.
"I saw that," he said. He kissed the agent's cheek and smiled. "I brought you breakfast." Sands scowled a bit. He was a little angry for running into the dresser, and he was a little angry at the fact that El had put it there, but the persistent grumble in his stomach overrode the anger.
"What it is it?"
"Eggs...y pollo," El said, momentarily slipping back into his native language. Sands thought for a moment. Eggs and chicken? Well, it wasn't eggs and bacon, but it smelled fantastic. "Come on." El took his hands and led him back over to the bed. Sands sat and was handed a warm plate, and a fork. "It's a bit spicy," El warned. Sands scowled again...well, as much as a man with no eyes could scowl. El laughed. "I couldn't help myself, amigo."
They both knew that Sands disliked spicy things. He could only take so much of the burning before it put him in a foul mood and he generally destroyed things. He shoveled a small forkful into his mouth and chewed slowly. He discovered quickly that the eggs were more cheesy than spicy. And he liked cheese. "Mmm," he grunted, nodding in approval. El chuckled and took a seat next to Sands.
Immediately Sands knew something was wrong. He could feel it in the distance El was away from him. There was something most defiantly wrong. "What is it?" He asked, fumbling to put the plate down. When El didn't answer, Sands grew slightly worried. "Answer me!"
El clamped his hand behind Sands' neck and jerked his head to his shoulder. The breath caught in Sands' throat from surprise. El held him there, cradling him against his shoulder. "Hush," he mumbled into the agent's hair. "We are being followed." Sands went rigid against El's body.
"Who?" He asked.
"I dunno'," El breathed. "They're across the street. I can see them out the window."
"How do you know he's following us?"
"I've seen them...they were 'n the bar las' night, an' they were 'n the lobby when I went to tha' kitchen this morning." Sands noticed how El's words slurred as he spoke with the speed and quietness he was.
"You don't know him?"
"It is not a 'him', amour. It is a lady." Sands furrowed his brows, not trying to move out of El's grip. Suddenly, Sands heard El's breath quicken, and he gripped the Mexican just a little tighter,.
"What is--" Before he could finish, there was a loud blast and El threw himself down atop him, pinning the American against the bed. Smaller, sharper blasts sounded and Sands could hear them popping against the wall in the room, making the stone wall chip and crumble. He recognized the sounds. The first shot was from a sawed off, double barrel shotgun. The small shots: M16 machine gun. Whoever this lady was, she was NOT messing around.
El rolled, still holding Sands and toppled both of them to the floor. Sands grunted as he landed atop El Mariachi. "Roll with me," El ordered.
"WHAT?!?!" Sands yelled over the sounds of the bullets.
"Just DO it!" Before Sands could protest, El rolled again, shoving Sands under him. They rolled and rolled, Sands gripping El tightly, losing all his sense of direction.
Suddenly, the ex-CIA agent was yanked up by his arm and pulled to his feet. The sounds of the gun fire was behind them now, signaling to him that they were now out of the room, and out of immediate danger. His instincts kicking back in for the first time in a long time, he faced El. "Stairs?"
"To your left!"
"Let's move!" He took a single leap to his left, but was yanked back by El.
"NO! NO!" He pulled Sands in the opposite direction. Making sure to keep his footing, Sands followed.
"Not the stairs?" He heard El grunt in frustration.
"A) You're blind! B) There were agents coming up!" Sands was suddenly yanked to his right, and he fumbled. Sliding to the floor, the breath was knocked out of him. "Get up!" El pulled him up again and took off, leading Sands by the arm.
Sands was beginning to freak. He had no sight, no weapons, and the footsteps his keen ears picked up were steadily gaining on them. Pushing himself harder, he gained speed, to the point he thought he was running side by side with El. "WHERE THE HELL ARE WE GOING?!?!?" He shouted. He was yanked to the side again, and was suddenly stumbling on a downward slant. "NOW the stairs?"
El gripped Sands around the waist and guided him down the stairs as quickly as possible. As they made the decent, Sands noticed how warm it was. The music from earlier was still audible, but was muted slightly by the bullets that followed them. They were outside. "Jump!" El ordered.
"Are you off your ROCKER?" Sands yelled, pulling back slightly, almost falling on the stairs.
"JUMP!" El yelled, shoving Sands. The agent let out a yelp as he flew through the air. He landed quickly and roughly, sand flying into his mouth. He heard El land beside him, and then there was a tug on the collar of his T-shirt. He stumbled to his feet and plowed forward. El kept his hand on Sands' shoulder. "Left, left, left!" Sand jumped in the direction, and found himself falling down another flight of stairs. Luckily, it was a short flight. He slammed against a closed door with an angered grunt.
El was suddenly pressed against his back. There was a squeaking sound, and the door swung open. Sands fell forward, and El shoved him, not helping matters. There was a loud 'bang' as the musician slammed the door. Sands landed against something hard that jutted into his stomach. "Oof!" He slid down the foreign object to the floor as he tried to regain his breath. "El?" He let out the name in a long breath.
He heard the musician grunt and suddenly El fell beside him. "S'okay, amour. S'alright. They didn't see us come in here." Sands bristled. The pain in El's voice was more than audible; it was downright blunt and unsheathed. Then he smelled it; the metallic scent of blood. He reached out for El.
"What happened?" He asked, running his hands over Mariachi's taut body.
"Shh," El commanded, holding his hand over Sands' mouth. Sands listened and heard voices that he assumed were coming from the other side of the door. They sat in silence for what seemed like forever, until the voices faded. El dropped his hand and grunted again.
"WHAT HAPPENED?" Sands bit in a whisper. He was growing more and more anxious with every breath he heard El take.
"Shh, it's alright. I got hit."
"With a bullet? Where?" Sands heard cloth ripping.
"Yes, and it just grazed my leg. Calm down." Sands took a deep breath and tried to calm his frayed nerves.
"What'd she look like?" He asked. He could hear El tying the ripped cloth around the bleeding wound.
"Uh...she was your height...maybe and inch shorter...long brown hair...dark eyes...la chica es muy bonita...pero muy arriesgado" El chuckled at his own observations, but Sand didn't have the breath to make a single noise. After a long silence, he almost had to laugh.
"Did she have a mole?" He asked. El let out a sarcastic noise.
"I couldn't see that well. She was across the street, ya' know? And we were in the second story of a hotel." Sands was quiet for a long while.
"Ajedrez..." he murmured, shaking his head. "I'll be damned."
"Who? Barillo's daughter?" El asked, making the final tie in the knot of cloth.
"Yeah...I thought I killed her," Sands said, his voice low. "I was sure of it. I'll agree with the pretty part...but she's also a bitch." El stopped fidgeting with the make-shift bandage and leaned against the cool object. "Where are we, anyway?"
"The basement of the hotel. There's a side entrance to it in the street."
"What can you see?" Sands asked, very much wanting to know what his surroundings were.
"Not too much. It's dark."
"You have any idea what we're against?"
"Er...I think it's an old fridge they used in the kitchen." Sands sighed and shook his head.
"I meant our odds, " he said, exasperated. El thought for a moment.
"A lot...against two." Sands, for once, did not appreciate the sarcasm and he took a blind swing at the Mexican...literally. He missed, and pouted for a moment. El chuckled, looking at the pouting man. He sighed, trying to figure a real number. "Back there...twenty-to-two. Or, something like that." Sands grimaced. He hated odds like that. Especially since he was blind...