Title: Held like a Spanish guitar
Author: Kerttu
Pairing: El/Sands
Rating: PG-13 for some intimate closeness
Disclaimer: As if anyone could own these guys!
Summary: Post-movie; what morphine can reveal
AN: Un-beta'd, all mistakes thus are mine. Thank you Maureen for feeding my smutty mind. Thank you all who convinced me that I should pursue this further. My second OUATIM vignette, so let me know what do you think.
Held like a Spanish guitar
By Kerttu
Morphine is a great invention, Sands decided and slumped comfortably against El's legs. The man sighed but shifted to make a better pillow for him.
"Feeling better?"
"Oh yeah… I can even stand YOU." Sands poked at El's thigh to emphasise his point but his drugged finger slipped and tangled into one of the chains that decorated the outer side of the mariachi pants. He began slowly tracing the outline of it. "Why… do you wear these things?" He snuggled closer, leaning on one elbow that he pushed with no hesitation between El's thighs for better support. "If you are in this killing business, shouldn't you move, well… quietly?"
"I was a musician before I became a killer."
"Haa, that explains everything, doesn't it?" Sands sagged even further, now he was draped over El's legs like a blanket. "Your looks, your guitar, your love of drama…"
"I did not plan all this." El moved, his muscles jumped under Sands and then the man had sat up and he was arranging the American into more acceptable position by his side.
Sands grinned but let him. The drug mellowed everything into nice painless haze: his angry bark, his mind, his senses.
And his surprise, when his hand connected with El's naked torso. If he still had had his eyes he would have slowly allowed the gaze to drift upwards to El's face but now he only smiled knowingly.
"Didn't plan this?" He heard the sudden stop in El's breathing and when he spread his fingers just to be sure, he felt the heat coming off from the mariachi. It was more than a change of temperature of a body, it was primal. "Really?" Sands voice was like a mandrake and his fingers whispered against the skin.
"Really." El was honest, Sands could hear it. However, there was something in the mariachi's tone that gave Sands the edge he needed.
"Then why the show-off of your… quite adequate body?"
"It's warm and the clothes needed washing…"
"And you have no other shirt?" Sands calculated for a moment how likely it was to get shoved off the bed if he reached over and tasted the skin, then threw caution out of the window and did it anyway.
El arched, gasped and then pried him off. "I have shirts and I see that I should have put one on."
"Well, I don't see." Sands cocked his head to one side like an inquisitive bird. His hand was still on the man's skin and mapped the rise and fall of El's chest. "All I can do is… touch." He reached forward again but El stopped him.
"You are high. You will regret this."
"I am a sociopath, I do not do regret."
El's hands that had held his wrists loosened, slid up to his shoulders and began gently kneading his neck. "Perhaps not yet."
"I cannot be fixed with a song." Sands stated but leaned back into the touch.
"No. But you can adapt." And the fingers were in Sands hair now, massaging and breaking down all the tension. "As I have."
"You still wear those pants..." Morphine and skilful fingers lulled him into a pleasant trance. Sands found it hard to think and talk and his initial wish to use the edge he had gained with El transformed into the contentment that was offered to him.
"I do."
"You could take them off..." Sands heard El laughing and the mariachi's chest under his hands shook. When the man answered his voice was amused and promising:
"I might-"
"Goody-" The fingers gripped him harder but not painfully and he was manoeuvred to lie against El's shoulder, tucked under his chin.
"-but only when you know what you are asking." El's arms closed around him and Sands felt warm and soft and good. His skin tingled where the mariachi had played him and he liked that.
"And he held me like his Spanish guitar…" mumbled Sands in a slow sing-song.
"I would."
It was obvious that Toni Braxton was not known in this part of the world.
"I am but a broken instrument." Sands nudged El and turned a bit to get more comfortable. Drugs and a warm El and he wanted nothing more.
"There are uses even for those. And the case can always be filled with something else."
Sands snorted sleepily. "So that's what happened – the musician was lost and the case-"
"-became deadly. Yes, that's what happened." El rested his cheek against Sands's head. "You again, you were deadly before."
"Still am." Sands's voice was muffled as he had turned to rest his forehead against El's neck. "Your carotid artery is just here…"
"And your neck is here." The gentle fingers that had been moving in small circles on Sands's nape clamped down for a moment. There was no pain but there was a threat.
"The drama is never ending…" came Sands's answer. It was more drawled than all the others and his body felt heavier, too. The drug was kicking in honest now.
El's head turned and his lips formed the sentence in Sands's hair. "Want to sleep?"
"Hmm… yeah."
"Then sleep."
And Sands did.