Tangible Schizophrenia


Da Capo

Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sands/El
Disclaimer: So not mine. Still pretty to look at. I like explosions.
Notes: Da Capo is a musical abbreviation; Italian literally would be 'from head.' Anyway, when it appears, you go back to the beginning of the piece and start again.


The last time he'd woken up, he had been strapped to a table in some godforsaken dungeon. Mexico was like that: two anachronisms buried beneath every stumble forward. It's why Sands liked the place, why he kept on walking its streets. The thinking man could laugh with impunity at the common idiots. The one-eyed man was king in the land of the blind. Except, the dull throbbing in his head reminded him, he was now blind. And on a hard wooden surface. With sharp pains shooting through his shattered shins.

Sands wasn't prone to hysterics. Not at all. Hysterics were opportunities for mischief, and Sands made mischief. Didn't succumb to it. Never. Which was why he was calmly surveying-observing-why he was calmly thinking things through. Wood surface. Pain in legs…well, he had been shot. And had shot. Probing--tear.

"One bullet out," muttered an accented voice. A familiar voice. Then something splashed over Sands' leg and he had an entirely new pain to absorb.

If he'd had eyes, his vision probably would've blurred. As it was, Sands felt a little queasy. To cover, he talked. "El, I'm guessing? You know, you're completely wrong. The hero is supposed to die at the end. Or he's not a hero. He's had his high point, and then he's got to step off the stage, or else he'll just keep on living, and living, and rotting away in his skin until he's nothing more than one of those annoying toothless old men in the market."

Pregnant silence. It gave birth, to a five-nine, five-ten Mexican who strummed bullets. "I had a friend who was a toothless old man in the market," Mr. Legend in flashy pants said. "He made guitars for a living. Beautiful." The bootheel dropped. "Your men blew out his brains when they came for me."

Sands tried to roll his eyes, failed, and settled for waving his hands around. "Well, would you say he was the best guitar-maker in Mexico?"

"Yeesss." El drew out the word in a soft hiss. Creaking. He was leaning over Sands' other leg. More stabbing pains announced that the short-sighted moron was going after the other bullet. "So my men were merely carrying out their duty to my philosophy," Sands continued to clenched teeth. "Because that's the kind of man that I am."

"Yes. It was." More probing, and then the bastard hit something that sent Sands' head reeling again. "Second bullet." Sucking pain. For a CIA agent, Sands was becoming entirely too familiar with the different kinds of pain in the world. That was for other people.

"You are one of those people now," El remarked, clothes rustling. Sands heard a muted ping; the bullet dropping into a bowl. Wonderful. He couldn't even manage his tongue now. Resigned, Sands waited for the mariachi to slosh more bad tequila over his wounds. "You seem used to this," he said absently.

A bitter-laced noise, half laugh, half scowl. "I met my wife like this. Only I was on the bar."

Ah, yes. The woman. So what did that make him?

"Muerte." And then something chapped-rough but somehow gentle touched Sands' lips. A…kiss. A very good kiss. Wet. Moist. Hardsoftskillful.

They broke apart, panting. Better than that bitch, Sands thought, and very carefully did not say. Something occurred to him. "Where's my sunglasses?"

"In the car. By my guitar case." Perfect. Drive into the sunset. Sands hated sunsets; he always made sure to wait them out in a handy bar or brothel. But-couldn't see that now. El shifted his weight, making the boards creak, and Sands used that noise to guide his hand till it collided with long hair. He yanked the bastard down for another kiss. Least El could do, seeing as he'd fucked up everything. Mmm. Heroes didn't fuck up the world. CIA agents fucked up the world. Possibility after all.