Author: Guede Mazaka
Goddamn it, he was staring at the arm again. Throw bullets and bombs and nasty ambitious generals at the man, and he didn't miss a beat. But just bring up one artificial limb…
"El, knock it off. You're embarrassing me," Sands muttered out of one side of his mouth, spearing some vegetables with his fork.
"Knock what off?" El asked, slumped back beside Sands in the booth. "We have done nothing but sit for the past hour."
"That's probably because we're in what appears to be a restaurant, eating what appears to be dinner." The tomatoes were mushy and the potatoes were saltier than dead man's blood. Disgruntled, Sands moved on to the entrée. "You could at least pretend that you're enjoying this," he lectured. "It's fucking expensive here."
"You aren't. And your arm isn't moving."
Blowing the hairs away from his face, Sands tried to project a menacing air through his sunglasses as he turned toward his partner. In response, El snorted with amusement. Fucking shit on a stick. There just wasn't any good substitute for a good glare. "The arm's not real," Sands replied, ignoring the sense of mockery emanating from the mariachi. "Of course it doesn't move. That's the point. But if you"-Sands pointed accusingly with his fork, off the end of which something plopped-"keep looking at it, then everyone's going to know, and then I'll have to firebomb this place. Which would be a shame, since the food is awful."
"You just stuck your fork through the flower."
"It's a garnish, shitwit, and get the fucking thing off for me already." Silently, El did so, and then steered Sands to the actual food on the plate. "Do I have to explain this all to you again?" the American complained.
"Yes." El shifted his weight around, incidentally pressing his warm leg against Sands'. Casually throwing an arm over the back of the seat, his fingers ever-so-artlessly wafted down to the inside of Sands' jacket, fingering the shoulder strap of the gun holsters. "I find your explanations very funny."
"Yeah? Well, I find your impression of drunk Lorenzo very fucking hilarious myself," Sands grumbled, making little smacking noises as he chewed because it irritated the hell out of the mariachi. Nevertheless, he tilted his head a little forward and sideways to accommodate the petting. "Where the fuck are they, anyway? You're making me pay-goddamn richer-than-thou Gee-tar man-and Fideo never turns down a free drink. Actually, he never turns down any drink. Last time I tried to borrow tequila for stitching your jingjangling hide back together, he nearly blew my head off."
Warm chocolate humor coloring his voice, El said, "Fideo has not been quite the same since that wedding. Sobriety was not good to him."
"Oh, that was a very traumatic day for him. Getting to pound Lorenzo through the mattress. Nothing like what happened to me, obviously, since being savaged against a bathroom wall is just so passé," Sands shot back, sarcasm starting at vitriolic and dropping like a spent cartridge to desultory. He stabbed at his plate, the fork tines scraping loudly against the porcelain. "You're ducking the question, Mariachi Man."
"I'm only returning the favor." El calmly reached over and stilled Sands' jerking hand, then did something else before withdrawing. The sound of chewing and swallowing ensued. An indignant Sands promptly whacked El on the leg under the table with the gun in his real left hand.
"Don't snitch my food, fuckmook," the American growled. Tone lowering, he went on more seriously, "Now listen carefully, because if you ask me to repeat this again, I'll shotgun your balls into your asshole. We're in this pretentious restaurant choking down lousy gourmet food because all good little CIA agents do their business over bad dinners with snotty waiters hovering in the background. And since I'm technically still on payroll as a consultant, I have to follow procedure. We're waiting for a contact to give us information on Barillo's allies, so afterwards we can roll out the explosives and have us a nice scorched-earth ground zero."
"Are they late?" El asked indifferently. Too indifferently. Sands suddenly noticed that his third arm was moving, a slight back-and-forth rub where it hugged his actual body. Like someone's hand had migrated downward from Sands' collar and was touching it, very lazily. Maybe stroking down the sleeve, and that little extra quiver…maybe someone fingering the fabric, feeling the coarse grain of it. And…if Sands was flushing, he was going to excuse himself to the little boys' room and take a header into the toilet. Right after he slammed El's crackslut head through the table.
"Pardon me, gentleman," a masculine, high-toned Brit voice coughed delicately, "But we were to meet with an Eugene White here, and the maitre'd directed us-"
"Sands," another voice bobbed in, "What a pleasure. If you'd bothered mentionin' y'name, I would've 'membered to bring along Anamaria. She's been wantin' t'introduce you t'her new set 'o knives."
El's hand thudded against the table edge on its way down, rattling the dishes. Smiling with white lion's teeth, Sands said with insincere warmth, "Jack Sparrow! And how is the fine lady? Still limping? How about Mr. Turner and Ms. Swan?"
Two chairs scraped across the floor as the newcomers sat, one with sharp precision and one with an unruly clatter. Next to him, El leant forward onto the table and, tone darkened with a warning politeness, questioned, "I thought it was a contact?"
"Don't believe I recall an invite for two either," Sands added, dropping the fork and picking up his glass. He raised the wine in a toast. "A warm welcome to our English friend, nonetheless."
"Commodore James Norrington, of Her Majesty's Royal Navy," the referenced man replied tersely.
"Captain Jack Sparrow," drawled Sands' contact, "CIA. 's an honor, El Mariachi. Y'name is well-known 'long the Mexican coastline."
El muttered some humble disclaimer, half in Spanish and half in English. "Both retired, of course?" he said, lilting ironically on the words.
"In a manner o'speakin,'" Sparrow answered, tinkling oddly. A flash of gaudy braids and pierced ears suddenly lit up Sands' mind. Great. Between him and El, Sands was going to lose his mind in no time-actually, that'd already been checked off the grimy little to-do list tucked somewhere beneath dating-dead-bodies-by-their-maggots. So Sands would just kill them on general fashion principle, then. Was a good a reason as any.
//If anyone's dead before coffee, I will behead your cock with your dinner knife//, El muttered into Sands' ear. Goddamn know-it-all mariachi. And Sands just knew Sparrow was steepling fingers in front of his trademark derisive smirk.
//Don' s'pose I c'n get rum this far inland?// Tweety-Captain asked blandly. El stiffened in surprise, then relaxed, though Sands knew from firsthand experience what that flex of the thigh meant. Primed and ready for blood-or for fucking, come to think of it.
"Not straight, but there's a nice red," Sands offered, grinning inwardly at the aggravated sniff with which Sparrow answered him.
"The '97?" Norrington inquired politely, rustling pages as he flipped through the wine list. Holy Mother of God, but the man was so obviously MI-6. Right down to the precise yet cavalier way he snapped his fingers for the waiter.
"Yeah. How's Rule Britannia these days?" Sands said with polite curiosity, popping some more steak into his mouth. El began to slouch again, his leg sliding slowly past his partner's. "007 still fucking anything with a hole?" The mariachi stopped, then sat back up.
"I beg your pardon, sir?" and that was just stunning how the Brit could turn five words into a whole fucking glacier of contempt. Approaching footsteps interrupted their cheery circle as the waiter slipped up and took Norrington and Sparrow's order. As soon as he was out of hearing-distance, Sands opened up with a volley. "Don't tell me good old England's trying to outdo Zimmerman," he snarked. "In case you missed the memo, Mexico got tired of that lay a while ago."
"My presence-" Norrington began heatedly, but Sparrow had the sense to cut him off with-a napkin in the mouth? Probably, since El had just chuckled-and commandeer the conversation. "Five years in th'Caribbee, and Jaime here still doesn' b'lieve me when I tell 'im that the native food won' kill 'im. So I thought t'bring 'im and show 'im diff'rent. Savvy?"
El asked before Sands could, a reminder that the mariachi wasn't quite as stupid as his broody guitar-plucking suggested. "Is England or America?"
"Nah," Sparrow demurred.
The Mexican looked a good deal less dizzy than he should have. Jack was impressed, actually. His best hand-waving and weaving, and El didn't even blink. Man had one good strong glower. Supposed it made up for Sands' new disability.
James, however, wasn't fidgeting, precisely, but his jaw had that clenched air hovering around, like he was calculating the odds for a hit-and-run. And he'd shrugged Jack's comforting hand off his thigh. Shrugging inwardly, Jack made a mental note to make up for the napkin later. Wasn't planning on apologies, though. Poor dignified prat had no idea with which two legends he was dealing, here. 'Course, Jack and him were legends, too, but that was all the more reason for Jack to get this little rendez-vous done with and Jamie back to the hotel. El didn't look very trusting, and Sands hadn't lost much. Actually, his former colleague seemed to have gained a few. That was…interesting.
And that was the waiter, smiling anxiously. Frowning, Jack took a quick peek about the table: one big Mexican with cannon-fire eyes, one psychotic blind man, one stiff Brit and his very own self. Didn't seem unusual. Went with the décor rather well, come to think of it. Shady corners, lots of metal hanging about, random red splashes.
"Sirs," the server mumbled politely, the glasses in his hands tremoring like the man had fever. "One half-glass of the '97 Maison des Meurtriers Cabernet Sauvignon, and one Se-s…Sex with the Captain." He set the named items down and beat a hasty retreat.
"Mixed drink?" Sands arched an eyebrow above dark-tinted lenses.
"'s always fun t'see if they c'n say it w'out blushin,'" Jack explained blandly. He took a sip; was all right, but no Bacardi. Had to love the red stain on James' cheeks, though. Still modest. El seemed to find it funny too, if Jack was any judge of glinting eyes.
Sands, on the other hand, merely snorted dismissively. He'd probably taken one look-one listen when they'd walked in and thought he'd James all sussed out. His mistake, then, if the four of them ever crossed paths again. But then again…Sands didn't quite resemble the CIA agent Jack had once upon a tale tried to run over with a speedboat.
For one, he and El had most certainly been engaging in public affection when Jack and James had walked in. Or at least, El had been caressing and Sands hadn't ripped off a limb. Never mind the pointed rejoinders Jack had overheard. Agent Sands had come damn near blowing off Lizzie's face when the girl had caught him taping up a wound. And she hadn't even touched the bastard.
For two and three and four…Jack wasn't quite done piecing them together yet, but he was sure they'd come eventually. In the meantime, he made his own fun by betting on which of the four men would be the first to break the awkward silence that had fallen.
The fucking little cross-dresser was probably making the odds again, Sands reflected sourly. Sparrow was obsessive-compulsive about gambling, laying bets on everything from raindrops streaking down a car window to barfights. Well, since Sands couldn't really take part in the manly stare-down, he would just sit back too and enjoy the invisible squiggly lines of testosterone battling it out between El and the Brit stickass…
…except a hand had just crept into his lap. Sands didn't hear anything that suggested the other two had noticed, which was slightly relieving. On the other hand, El was walking his fingers down Sands' hidden arm. What the-Lorenzo was horny and obvious. El hung around in the dark until some idiot pulled a gun on him, and then he whacked the whole goddamn room.
But then the mariachi kept on past Sands' sudden tense grip on the gun butt, sliding fingers briefly along the barrel before pulling away. Ah. El wanted to know which was more dangerous. Like the Brit was even worth it. Sparrow, in contrast, was lucky that Sands wasn't prone to accidental shootings.
"Wanna hear about Veracruz?" Norrington audibly twitched at Sparrow's unexpected interjection. El remained in his loose slouch. For a moment, Sands almost felt proud, but he swiftly deep-sixed that line of thought. If he didn't see dependency, then it didn't exist.
A couple minutes into the pause, it had occurred to Jack that he was the most patient man at the table, and therefore the odds were the longest on him speaking up. So he naturally bet on himself and then broke up the staring match with an offhand comment.
"That seems to be why we're here," Sands replied, one step to the left of sarcasm and a few hops from homicidal frustration. Maybe he'd been…nah. The man was too much of a prick to stand for castration, and anyway, El seemed a bit too virile to settle for an eunuch. Not that the Mexican would bottom, but he looked like the sort who liked playing with cock. Reminded Jack a little of Jaime, when they'd first met, sans the body-shyness. Though between Jack and Will and Lizzie, that hadn't lasted.
And the drink was half-gone, for some reason. Three hours, twenty-four minutes and five seconds since Jack had downed his last emergency shot of rum. Right. Parley, then leave. "'s like so," Jack said, face solemn as a choirboy above his folded hands, "The cartels have mostly given up shipping through th'Caribbean, since the law sailed into view. Everything's overland--"
"-Sparrow, Mexico was my beat," Sands snapped, exasperated. "Get to the point already, before I strangle you with your baby-rattle hair."
"All right, all right," Jack answered in a placating tone, shushing the other man as a mother would her brat. "The cartels still keep some offices along the Veracruz harbor. Call 'em the sabbatical base, if you will. Your particular boys hang out in a nightclub. 's called La Perla Negra. Nice place. Colombians swing by every other weekend, which means-" he absently swooped a few fingers through the air "-y'got seven days. Savvy?"
"Peachy," the other American said, tone wry, and for a moment, Jack felt a little for him. Never was enough time to do a job proper. Only thing to do was tuck away a few surprises and then go by luck.
Hell. Yeah, that described the next week perfectly, not to mention what La Perla Negra was going to be after the mariachis and he blew in. Hopefully, El's insane streak of victory would keep going, with a few handholds in the coattails for Sands. Of course, Sparrow could be lying. No question that he wouldn't mind Sands' death; Sands definitely wouldn't mind his. But he would care if El died, Sands figured.
And then, naturally, the mariachi decided to be courteous. "Are you staying for coffee?" El asked.
"B'lieve so," Sparrow replied, signaling the waiter. Christ Jesus, but even the man's finger-snapping managed to stagger. "Four coffees, please."
"Very good, sir," the server acknowledged fearfully, voice smaller. "Will cream and sugar be needed?" he cringed.
A chorus of 'yes's answered him. "It'll be out directly," the waiter squeaked, practically running as he left.
"Delicate, is he?" Sparrow murmured, sounding bewildered.
"It may have some connection to the bones in your hair," Norrington remarked, dry humor soaking his words.
"Possibly," El agreed. Sands' sixth sense quirked, and he waited for it. "Why are you helping us?" the mariachi inquired.
Sands just knew Sparrow was fluttering his eyelashes over big liquid eyes; he always did when he played the fool, and now Sands could recall that memory all-too-vividly. "Am I s'posed not to?" the twit simpered.
"You said you didn't know you were meeting Sands," El pointed out, so far seeming to take Sparrow's flirting in stride. "And you dislike him."
"Liking's th'first casualty of th'profession," Sparrow said sorrowfully. "An' I didn' know, but since I went to th'trouble o'dragging m'self here…"
Timid pattering; the waiter with the coffees. He quickly set the mugs down and dropped off the cream and sugar, then darted back to his hole. Sand waited two beats, then picked up his cup and tasted the hot brew carefully. No cream, five packets of sugar. El remembered right this time.
Across the table, Sparrow laughed quietly. "Whether or no Sands and m'self 'ave fond feelings for each other, we've common enemies. An' we're not averse t'using each other."
Revising his earlier opinion, Jack decided that El Mariachi wasn't anything like either James or Will, though he could detect a few trace similarities. The Mexican was a good man, obviously, and he had a firm moral code to which he held. He was direct and fonder of action than thought as a solution. But El was far more changeable than either Norrington or Turner. Less likely to leave when he shouldn't to do something stupid, more likely to stay and have stupidity come to him. Jack was momentarily tempted.
A sharp rap startled him out of his thoughts. Sands, having sucked down his coffee, was fiddling with his cane. Beside him, James rocked ever-so-slightly, like a bored child not quite daring to squirm under his mother's watchful glare. And the feeling disappeared.
There wasn't really anything else to say, so Jack raised his mug in a grandiose toast and said it: "Here's to th'wedding!"
Norrington blinked, looking cute as a kitten in his confusion. Sands choked, while a languid smile briefly lighted up El's face.
"An' to gossipy hotel maids," Jack finished, tossing off his coffee in one go.
As covert meetings went, this one had been fairly successful. In a manner o'-of, damn it-speaking. Info exchanged, food eaten, no unexpected bodies to haul away. But no expected ones either. And El, who was supposed to direct them to the car, was instead dragging Sands through every pissant lake-wannable in this shit-stinking public garage. "Let go, Bojangles. Hey, fuckhead-" Sands whapped his cane against a shin, and then promptly smacked himself into a car bumper "-Ow! Ow. Satan fucked your mother, but what is your problem?"
El dropped his hand from Sands' arm, but didn't speak. In point of fact, he didn't make a sound at all.
"El? If you're trying to ditch me…"
Echoing drops, cannonading to the ground during the appalling lack of human speech. Outside, a car horn blared. Loud breathing. His breathing. Why couldn't Sands hear El's?
"El?" God, he sounded like a grade-schooler. "El?"
Someone grabbed Sands' waist and yanked it backwards. Swearing, bones nearly startled from his skin, the American snapped a gun from his sleeve and reversed his grip on his cane, trying to stab whoever'd shocked him. But before that could happen, the hands promptly dropped from Sands' sides to his wrists, twisting them up to his chest so the gun pressed against his own chin and his cane whished ominously between his legs. Just missing. "Goddammit, save the emasculation for the Colombians," Sands panted. "Why the hell do you like putting my balls in danger so much? I assure you, they're much more fucking useful attached to me."
//I'm curious//, El whispered into Sands' ear, tongue flicking the shell. //What did you do to Sparrow?//
Sands surreptitiously tested the mariachi's grip, hoping to find a weakness this time. Nope. "You automatically assume that I did something," the American said accusingly.
//No//, El replied tolerantly. //I know you did something. And then he did something, and the song played out. That's how it always happens.//
//Yeah?// Sands bit off, trying not to lean back. Hot country, hot men, he guessed. El threw off heat like a whore did faked orgasms. "You know I ain't no saint."
//No. You plunder, murder and pillage instead of letting others plunder, murder and pillage you.// The thumbs holding Sands' hands were drawing slow ovals on the skin. Behind him, El shifted, just enough to settle the American between two very warm legs in tight pants.
"Didn't manage any except the last one," Sands felt compelled to say.
"Why?" Bizarrely enough, the mariachi didn't sound condemning. Or disgusted. El had one hell of a poker face-voice-whatever.
"Because I wanted to," the American answered, lifting his chin pugnaciously.
"Why did you help him?" Norrington demanded, nearly walking Jack into a lamppost as he stared with intense bewilderment at the other man.
"What, you'd rather I told 'im different, and gotten 'em killed?" Jack replied airily, swaying around the obstacle. Which incidentally forced James backwards into the ready backseat of a taxi. Clearly irritated, Jack's partner dictated the directions to their hotel and then sat, back stiff as a mast, until they'd arrived and had dealt with all the niceties of checking mail and such. The second their room door locked, however, James cut loose.
"You know very well that I'd like no such thing," the Brit hissed, pacing about the small area. "But there are other ways. Ways where men with Sands' and El's reputations will not put innocent lives and property at risk."
"T'be sure," Jack drawled, stalking drunkenly behind James. "God forbid anyone acts outside th'law, since we surely do not."
Stopping abruptly, James whirled about to seize the other man by the shoulders. "We act according to a code of honor," he growled. "We are not vigilantes who surrender themselves to the passion of vengeance."
He looked so pretty, with those flashing green eyes and red spots in his cheeks, that Jack couldn't help it, leaning over to steal a quick kiss. "Dunno 'bout you, but I was feelin' vengeful 'bout Barbossa most o' th'time."
"Jack…" Norrington exhaled, exasperation trailing off into the deep end of puzzlement.
"Jaime." Jack took a step closer. "This is Mexico. Ain't ours. 's El's for sure, and maybe Sands', now. Anyhow, El Mariachi kills more for justice. He's a good man."
"And Sands?" James asked, though his voice had softened.
"Don' like 'im," Jack said immediately, fiddling with the shirt buttons before him. Was interesting how they slid out of their little slits. Very interesting. "Can' help but respect th'man, though," he added thoughtfully.
"Meaning?" James urged, stroking his hands down from Jack's shoulders to the small of the other man's back.
Jack shrugged lopsidedly. "Guess I'd not cry at th'funeral. But I ain't gonna help 'im 'long to th'grave."
Somewhat surprised at the lack of a bullet in his head, Sands tried getting his head away from the gun. El took it from him and set it down somewhere. "So what?" the American asked. "I'm not good enough for your righteous fury?"
"You're my partner now," El said. "Now…why?"
"God, I already answered that." Twisting vigorously, Sands managed to get his cane away from his balls, but he was still clamped tightly to the mariachi. Who seemed ready to stay that way till the Devil came by for a Screwdriver.
"Why did you want to?" El elaborated. Sometimes Sands wished the mariachi hadn't chosen him as a confidante. Fideo would've been much better equipped for taking endless questions, what with the drunken wisdom and all that shit.
"Why were you fondling my arm?" Sands snapped, attempting to drop down and out. El merely moved both of Sands' wrists to a one-handed grip and then used his newly-free hand to scoop under Sands' crotch, the heel of the palm massaging the American into coming back up with a moan.
"It was amusing," El murmured. "It looked…fitting…on you."
And hello, kinky bastard. That was most definitely an erection against which Sands' ass was helplessly grinding. Christ Jesus. Maybe he should cut back on the sex, and then he wouldn't keep ending up in this position-
--El scored his teeth down the line of Sands' throat. Oh, whoring Madonnas. Wait-"Is this gonna be like-d'you like being a cockteasing-oh fuck!"
Whuffing attentively, the mariachi continued working Sands' pants off as he sucked at that one point on the American's collarbone.
"Fucker! I don't like being betrayed, being used, being anything, all right? I like doing!"
He could feel that shitsmoking pothead smirking into his skin. Satan's ass, but the fuckmook better make this worth it.
"Jaaack," James gritted out slowly, menacingly, "I'm ready. So take out your fingers and fuck me."
"Y'know, I really love it when you're direct," the other man sighed contentedly, taking in the man sprawled out before him. Jack gave his enveloped fingers one more twirl and watched delightedly as James' broad fair back shuddered, the Brit's hands yanking futilely against the tie binding them to the ironwork headboard. Somewhat regretfully, Jack withdrew and moved back.
"Finally," Norrington muttered, getting up on his knees in preparation. God, that was breath-taking, Jack thought. He took a moment to fully appreciate the view, and then upended the bottle of tequila over James. "Jack!" the Brit barked. "What the hell-"
'Course, no alcohol should go to waste, so Jack began licking and slurping it up immediately. Under his tongue, James settled with a few gasps. "Like I keep tellin' you, we're in Mexico," Jack lectured solemnly, mouthing along some nice backbone bumps. "Can' leave wi'out tryin' th'local brew."
"Oh fuck" was James' wheezing reply. Grinning, Jack worked on down to the Brit's inviting pucker and commenced his oral investigation. Tequila and James made such a scrumptious combination. And the little shivers tickled Jack's tongue, encouraging him to forge on and examine the nice pink-ringed hole.
"OhgodohgodbloodyfuckinghellmoremoreJack!" the Brit gabbled. Since he'd been so good as to finish the sentence half-proper, Jack took pity on the thrashing man and seized the lashing hips, pushing them up so Jack could push in. Sinking down into the bedsheets, James emitted something between a wail and a foghorn. "Y'forgot the Captain," Jack admonished cheerfully.
"If anything accidentally goes off," Sands said to the cool metal smashing his lips, "It's your fault."
Nibbling at Sands' nape, El rocked forward and inside Sands' ass, his hard cock scraping past the American's over-sensitized prostate. Then the motherfucker stopped and asked solicitously, "Do you want me to put all our weapons away first?"
Pushing off the hood of the car, Sands slammed himself backwards, clenching his ass muscles until El snarled. "No!" the American yelled, scrabbling for the edge of the windshield. He hauled himself up, and then shoved down again. "Fucking screw me!"
"All right," the mariachi breathed warningly by Sands' temple, and then El dug fingers into Sands' hipbones and proceeded to salsa his ass. Or at least, that was what Sands thought he felt happening behind him. The American was a bit too preoccupied with the incoherent light and heat flashing around and through him to really analyze things.
The really nice part about James was the whimpering he made just before he came. It never quite made sense to Jack how one minute the man could be screaming to the four winds, and then the next was mewing more pathetically than a baby. But it did wonderfully wicked things to Jack's libido, and that was enough for him.
"C'mon, Jaime," Jack crooned into one ear, the tenderness in eye-rattling contrast to the ferocious last thrusts he was driving into his partner. "C'mon, now."
And, nearly keening, Norrington did. Continuing to drive himself in and out of James' shuddering form, Jack came a few minutes later, his ejaculation provoking yet another quiver from his lover. Hands shaking, he tugged loose the tie from James' wrists and fell back.
The two men simply lay there on the bed, still swathed around and inside each other, while the aftershocks died away.
"So you trust Sands," James whispered, once he'd convinced enough muscles to move. Atop him, Jack rolled his eyes. Every time. Every time he thought he'd fucked the business out of the other man, and then Norrington had to go and prove him wrong. Ah, well. Just meant he'd have to try something really mind-shattering the next time.
"No, not really," Jack tossed off, sucking sweat from James' damp hair. "But El-yeah, he's all right."
"And you believe that El Mariachi can control Sands," James said doubtfully.
"'o course. Y'noted th'way he did Sands' coffee?" Nodding, Norrington eeled his way out from under Jack and reached for the phone. A browned hand intercepted his, and he looked questioningly over at the other man.
Smirking, Jack swiped his tongue pointedly from knuckle to wrist, watching Jaime's eyes dilate again. "Already dealt with," he crowed triumphantly to the Brit. "Manager put us 'tween empty rooms."
"And how did you accomplish that?" James persisted, though his voice was noticeably deeper and rougher.
"'m Captain Jack Sparrow, 'mem-mmm." A nice wet mouth cut Jack off, and he happily laid back for the turnabout round.
Screaming gutturally, Sands came with a wrenching shudder, his nails raking down the car hood. Muffling his own cry in Sands' shoulder, El followed almost immediately after, clutching deep bruises into his lover's flesh.
Limper than an impotent dick, the American gulped huge ragged swallows of the oily air, still feeling phantom echoes shivering through his body. A few minutes later, a half-recovered mariachi flopped out of Sands and unsteadily redressed the two men, then slumped down onto the filthy ground. Sands did the same, sliding off the hood into El's lap and smacking an elbow against one stone knee. "Shit!" he yelped. "Jesus, you're always hurting me."
"Am I?" El said, seemingly distracted, but Sands' newly-sharp hearing detected the hint of guilt buried beneath the sand of the mariachi's voice.
"What, rethinking the whole fuck-a-villain deal?" Sands asked. He shifted around the bulges of El's guns, unconsciously molding his body to the other man's. "Why the hell would you feel bad over me, anyway? You know damn well I'm not and never intend to be a hero like you. Idiots die in a blaze of glory. Then I steal their credit cards. That's how it works."
"I am not a hero," El muttered. "I destroy towns. I kill people who've never met me. I've killed women."
"Hoo-rah." Sands clapped mockingly. "You killed a girl. Stupid chivalrous dickhead. Just 'cause they get the white dress and veil, and we get the goddamn penguin suit, doesn't mean they're any more pure."
El draped an arm around the American's waist and pulled him closer. Sands heard the mariachi's other arm scratching about the ground, and then El handed him the cane and guns he'd set down somewhere along the way. Sliding his own guns back into his sleeve, El nuzzled the other man's hair. "You're like a demon," he told Sands affectionately.
"Stop making it sound like a good thing. I don't do good," Sands retorted with half-hearted sarcasm. "Incidentally, that proved your point, didn't it? So you're safe; knock off the guilt bath already."
"Hmm." Both men suddenly stiffened as they noticed faint but approaching footsteps. Two well-known voices drifted to their ears, causing El to sprawl back with a small laugh and Sands to bury his sunglasses into El's neck.
//We would've been fine if you hadn't thrown the bottle at that clerk.//
//Lorenzo, she walked in while you were sucking my cock. What'd you think I'd do?//
//Hey…// A decidedly pert pause. //It has been three hours. Are you getting sober again?//
//Sure--// the boots abruptly ceased their clicking, fifteen feet away from the car. //What the fuck happened to the car? Holy Madonna…//
//Where have you been?// Sands asked tiredly. Mainly by climbing up each other, he and El leisurely rose. Somebody leaped back, then cursed roundly; bootheels weren't exactly meant for frolicking.
//Christ Jesus, don't fucking do-wait. You-El, you fucked him on the car?//
//Good thing we already broke the car alarm//, Fideo remarked, sloshing the words a bit.
//Up yours, man. And we were shopping, gringo. Needed new pants.//
Sands snorted. "So I've been hearing these past few nights. Which reminds me-El, you're paying for the clothes. Fucking owe me," he growled, making his way over to the front passenger door.
//Clothes?// Lorenzo asked.
//We're going clubbing//, El replied, somehow managing a perfect deadpan. //In Veracruz. Bring the flamethrower.
Courtesy of here:
Sex with the Captain
Directions/Comments: Combine ingredients together with ice in a blender. Blend until it has the consistency of a frozen drink.