Tangible Schizophrenia



Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG-13 for language and implied slash.
Pairing: Sands/El
Disclaimer: Never mine, always R. Rodriguez's, dammit.
Feedback: Yes, please.
Notes: I can't believe more people haven't tried this yet. //words// in Spanish.
Summary: Sands has interesting taste in music.


Yes, the sex was mind-blowing.

Yes, the guns were damned useful when their enemies came to call.

Yes, the helping hands made Sands' life much easier while somehow avoiding pity.

But the music was fucking annoying.

"Goddamn it, El," Sands complained, lying on the bed next to the softly-crooning mariachi, "Can't you pry your fingers off that for one minute?"

//You don't like this?// The bastard sounded…confused. As if he didn't know after ten weeks.

"I'd rather suck off Marquez's shotgun," Sands answered succinctly. He sighed, rolling over. "At least play something that doesn't scream 'funeral dirge of a virgin.'"


And then the guitar and the singing started up again, but this time the tune was rollicking, almost obscenely cheerful except for the strain of devil that snaked its way through, flaring up in the refrain. Sands decided he liked it. "Now that," he declared, nuzzling a hip, "is good. Something you could kill to. What's it called?"

//The Ballad of Captain Jack Sparrow.//


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