Sin Nombre
Disclaimer: Not mine. Robert Rodriguez's. If he knew I was doing this, he'd probably just laugh at me.
Rating: R, for language and sloppy sex.
Author's Notes: Sin Nombre means 'Without Name'. The quote in the summary is from the song by The Refreshments of that very same title.
There's kind of a steamy appeal to not being able to see the person who's screwing you senseless. Or maybe that's just my opinion. In the end, it was the lovely and talented Miss Becky who poked me until I agreed to post this. She deserves all of the credit, guys, and none of the blame.
Somewhere along the way, everyone lost sight of what they had been headed towards. In this, Sands had firmly believed for as long as he could remember. In this, he had put much more than a little spare faith.
Guess some just lose it more literally than others, huh?
There was that little voice in the back of his mind. It had moved in a few years back, after his conscience had vacated the premises muttering something about the neighborhood going all to hell.
"Holy shit, you're funny," he shot back, not particularly caring that he had said it aloud. It was strange, all the things that stopped mattering once you couldn't see the way people were looking at you. "Do you write for TV or something?"
You're a pathetic, fucked-up little man, my friend.
Sands scowled. The least his schizophrenia could do was tell him something he didn't already know. Somewhere to his left, there was a shot of tequila – he had heard the click against the tabletop as it was set down – and he made an abrupt grab for it, only to miss it completely. He tried again, and this time the backs of his knuckles brushed glass, tipping the drink precariously on its rim.
"Got you, you little slut." Sands snatched up the glass, tilting his head back as he gulped it down.
It was true what they said: Losing one sense only made the others sharper. And usually he was just peachy keen with that, just not when he was drinking tequila that tasted like warm watery piss. Instead of swallowing it all down at once, the way you were supposed to take a shot like that, he got to savor the taste all the way to his gut.
And you'd better believe that shit burned.
Yet for now that little voice seemed to be placated. It wasn't the alcohol part that had done it; it was the being proven right part. Sighing through his nose, Sands settled back into his chair. There was a plate of food before him, but he hadn't taken a bite of it in a while. It smelled good, and taking a bite might ruin that. It was a little embarrassing to even consider, like fucking in a church or something.
Or something…
Somewhere off to his left, he heard the little bell above the cantina door jingle, and it jarred him out of his thoughts. Sands scowled. He hated being interrupted, even if he was only talking to himself. And he was damn weary of being on edge.
Had he mentioned that yet? It wasn't as though he'd been a barrel of laughs before all this had happened, but at least he'd been able to work a moment or two into his schedule to be relaxed. It had been easier back when he had been in control…
Correction, back when he had thought he was in control. There was a part of him that was almost proud of the way Ajedrez had played him like a dirty drinking song. He had always thought he would be done in by a beautiful woman, but that had been back when he had thought he would never be done in at all.
Maybe one day he would look back on it all and laugh. Or maybe he would scream. Or maybe he'd just put a gun to his head and pull the trigger. But for right now, he was content just rolling it around in his mind like amusing anecdote.
Ma'am, this is no Chihuahua… It's a giant Mexican sewer rat!
"You're not even trying that hard anymore," Sands accused under his breath. He had the good sense to keep his voice down this time, remembering the newcomer to the cantina, taking special note of the way a little murmur had passed through the place when he had entered.
Sands rolled his eyes – figuratively, thankyouverymuch – and reached for his pistol. He stopped halfway, however, when he realized he knew those steps.
Shit.
Fuck.
ShitFuck.
Sands felt the way a scorpion must feel when the nice cozy rock it's hiding under is kicked over. The footsteps stopped before his table, and Sands could almost see the silhouette he cut, standing there with his hands planted on his hips, head crooked slightly, guitar slung across his back like a wounded friend.
"What do you think you're doing here?"
Sands cocked his head to the side, doing his best to look more puzzled than smug. "Eating pork. Who's asking?" Of course he knew who it was; they both knew that he knew. But neither of them was going to say anything.
Contrary to popular belief, Sands didn't mind being playful. As long as he held all the cards, and made up the rules as he went along.
He reached out with one hand, missing El deliberately on the first pass. He knew right where the man was; the warmth off his body was like a walking, talking heat wave. He groped around for a moment, at last finding a solid thigh. He fumbled his fingers up it, spiderlike, doing his best blind-and-helpless impersonation.
The backs of his knuckles brushed El's crotch fleetingly. From above him, he heard a faint 'Gyak!' Or maybe it had been an 'Oh please God more!' It paid to be thorough about these things, and so Sands moved his hand back down to check.
"What are you…?"
"Don't tell me," Sands said sharply. "I almost got it." He wiggled his fingers a little. Pants this tight… it wasn't a surprise El was so morose all the time.
"Sands, you…"
"There, see, you know my name, but I don't know yours." Deciding that was probably about all the action either of them could handle at the moment, Sands' hand continued its upward progress; he stood to follow it. He pressed his palm flat against a stomach of corded iron, tracing the contours of muscle through heavy cotton. "I really have a problem with being at a disadvantage."
As his fingers wandered over El's chest, fingers splaying apart so he could catch both nipples with his fingernails, El's heart slammed a bad techno beat against the inside of his ribcage. How… cute.
He slid a hand over the column of his throat, expecting to feel that erratic pulse there, as well, but finding only a faint tension that signified extreme annoyance.
On the inside, Sands was giggling like a schoolgirl.
His fingertips found the man's face at last, and Sands couldn't help but frown a little in irritation when El turned aside in time to avoid an index finger to the eye. Sands swayed closer, his forearm bumping El's shoulder; his thumb glided over the curve of a mouth. Against his palm, he could feel the rhythm of tobacco-flavored breathing.
He grinned perkily. "Why, if it isn't my dear friend." His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Mr. Mariachi. You must get this all the time, El, but you've got a lower lip that could drive the Pope to masturbation."
A hand closed around his wrist; even if he had wanted to dodge back and avoid it, Sands wouldn't have been able to. He squirmed a little, just for the sake of seeming indignant. "Hey, that was a compliment, I'll have you know!"
The hand shifted, wrapping around his collar and giving him a sharp tug in the direction of the doorway. He laughed as they stumbled out onto the pavement, the heat of a sun turned on full-blast soaking through his black button-down.
El was going to hit him. He was going to let him because it was worth it to know that he had gotten under his skin just like a parasite. Hell, he didn't mind getting hurt. As long as he knew it was coming…
"I know what you want."
In spite of himself, Sands recoiled at the words. He had to admit that if El had meant that as an insult, it stung more than most he had received. There was nothing more unbearable to him than being told he was transparent.
"That so?" He sounded disinterested, but Sands almost found himself wanting El to speak. They hadn't known each other long, but even before all this – back when Sands had held all the strings in one perfectly manicured hand – he had always gotten a queasy feeling whenever El had looked at him. It was like the man could see right through him, in a way. It was somehow even more evident now then it had been; now he could almost feel the eyes of the pistolero on him, ember hot.
El acted like he knew him so well. And if he did… couldn't he be persuaded to share some of that private knowledge?
"You can't stand not being able to play games," El said deftly. "You're bored when you're not orchestrating little mind-fucks. That's why you are here now, you know."
Sands raised an eyebrow. "Yes, and…?" The worst part was, El was probably terribly proud of himself for that insight. Sands exaggerated a yawn. "You're a miserable psychologist. Luckily, you're a good murderer. Strictly in terms of useful skills, that more than makes up for it."
"I am not a murderer."
"I know. That's why you're so good at it."
By that time, El was already walking away. Sands started after him just to have an excuse to not return to the cantina right now. Everyone in there had seen El get more action than he'd probably had in the last decade, courtesy of the sulky patron with dark sunglasses that not many of them had liked much to begin with. That was enough to keep him away for a bit.
"Well, I am," he said, pacing El just behind his left shoulder. Three weeks had been long enough for him to get accustomed to the basics of this town, but it was still hard to count paces and carry on a conversation, even if El wasn't what he would consider a scathing wit. At least this way he could follow the man's steps. "A killer, that is."
El snorted softly.
"It makes me wonder," Sands continued, "why you bothered bringing me here."
"Maybe I like having you somewhere I can keep an eye on you."
"Why, El… now that's just adorable. You could have just killed me if you were that worried."
Tension slid up El's spine. He couldn't see it, but Sands could almost hear the constriction of muscle. Where his senses failed him, his intuition filled in the gaps. They had a good thing going, Sands and his intuition…
"I am not…" El started.
"I know, I know. You're not a killer." Sands knew the real reason he was here, why El had brought him to this nice little village full of nice people – El himself not exempt – muttered a particularly awkward explanation to the local doctor and then left him to his own devices.
He felt responsible for the whole damn thing. Guilty was the most ridiculously useless way a person could feel, Sands had always thought, but for some reason El wore guilt well. It almost made sense… in an El sort of way.
He was insane.
At least they couldn't be accused of having nothing in common.
"Where are you going?" El asked in that I'm-reaching-for-my-revolver voice of his.
It was a sexy kind of voice; Sands thought so, at least. "Following you home, it looks like."
"Well, don't."
"You were following me earlier," Sands accused, knowing it wasn't the truth. It was a small town; they couldn't have avoided each other forever.
"I wanted a drink."
And by now he probably needed one. Sands had that effect on people, and he knew it.
They stopped. Sands heard keys jingle, and then the healthy rattle of one being slid into a lock. As soon as the door was open, he slipped inside before El could stop him.
Casa del Mariachi.
Sands fought the urge to turn his head as through glancing around the front room. He reached out with his other senses instead, trying to give some sense of order to the place. Beneath his boots, the floor was concrete, no carpeting. The air smelled strongly of wood and sealant, earth and craftsmanship.
Sands started inside, one hand angled in front of him, fingers spread like a benediction. "Sands!" came the sharp voice from behind him. "This is my house!"
"I know," Sands said distractedly, taking another careful step inside. The tip of his little finger scraped something, and his hand slid in that direction, trailing along the back of a sofa. Threadbare, much as he had expected. "It's a nice place."
Sands' hand moved over the cushions thoughtfully, and he pushed some of the clutter that littered them onto the floor. When he felt the cold ring of a gun barrel against the nape of his neck, he only grinned.
"What do you want?" El demanded.
Sands reached back to brush the gun away. "El, you're acting like I just tried to feel you up again."
Not that you'd be opposed to that, would you, Buttercup?
"Shut up," Sands hissed.
"What did you say?"
Sands lifted his chin a little. "Nothing. I wasn't talking to you."
"Sands…" El said carefully. It was at this point, Sands realized, that he just couldn't get any crazier in this man's eyes. He had bottomed out, so to speak, and that was cool with him.
Sands grinned. As long as he didn't have appearances to uphold anymore, it really wouldn't be a problem if he… He stepped forward, and El backed off a step, not quickly enough. Sands snaked one hand up, around the back of his neck, fingers tying in his hair. The other snapped to his shoulder, tracing his arm down to the wrist, catching it just as El tried to lift his gun again.
If their eyes could have met they would have just then, for only a moment before Sands jerked him forward a step and into a sharp kiss. El's lips parted around a gasp, and Sands darted his tongue past them, dancing it carefully over the contours of his mouth as though he expected something to jump out and sting him.
And El just stood there, not pulling away, not pulling him closer. After a while, something heavy struck the ground near their feet: El's gun slipping, forgotten, from his hand. He jumped at the sound, twisting both fists in the front of Sands' shirt and pushing him back.
"Hey." Sands held up his hands innocently. "No harm, no foul, right?" And he grinned.
He'd taken a rain check on that punch to the jaw outside the cantina, but he wasn't going to be able to avoid it now. Oh well. It had been worth it.
But for what felt like a long time, El said nothing; his hands only quivered a little around Sands' collar. Sands sighed. Honestly, there was no need to be so melodramatic. "El!" he said sharply, hoping to wake him a little.
It worked, maybe even better than he could have hoped. El shifted his grip on Sands' shirtfront, pulling him forward. He had been ready for anything but that, and though there was less than a step between them it felt like falling from a third-floor rooftop. Sands gasped, and then his mouth was pressed against the other man's, the breath crushed from his lungs by an arm looped around the small of his back, a palm pressed against his spine.
It wasn't often that Sands found himself completely at a loss, but sometimes there were moments – violent moments or perfectly peaceful ones – that seemed to come from nowhere and have nowhere in particular to go. Those would get him every time, and for as long as they lasted, he would be consumed by them.
El's fingers curled against his back, cutting bruises into his skin. Sands clawed up his chest, hooking one arm around the back of El's neck. His mouth tasted like cigarettes, bitter and toxic; his hair was soft and smelled like bar soap.
A hand curled in the back of his belt, and El stepped backwards deliberately, dragging him along. "Where we going?" Sands asked, flicking his tongue out to trace swollen lips.
"Bed."
"Why?"
El hesitated, though only for a moment, then his hands were fumbling at the top button of Sands' shirt, short nails brushing his throat. "I don't know."
"Oh." Sands grinned. He was at least a little less shaky than El right now, and he reached up, guiding the man's hands away from his collar. "Well, I do." He flicked the button open, then the one below it, the one below that…
"You do?" That hadn't sounded like a vote of confidence, but El was already slipping a hand past parted lapels, pressing his palm flat against Sands' stomach.
Sands nodded. "Yeah." The truth was, they were both lonely, not quite sane. They were both lacking in purpose, and that much was all they needed to understand each other. But he knew already that El wouldn't like that answer, and so when he began to ask what he meant, Sands dragged him abruptly forward for another kiss. "I'll tell you later."
That seemed to satisfy the other man. They were about to the point where words with more than two or three letters stopped making sense anyway.
El dragged his hand down Sands' abdomen, the rest of his shirt buttons giving beneath steady pressure. He hooked two fingers in the front of his belt, tugging him across the concrete floor. They turned slightly, and El shoved him backwards. Sands snorted in indignation; the backs of his calves struck wood and he sat down hard.
El's mattress was stiff as a slab of granite, and his sheets had an old, threadbare feel to them. This bed… it didn't see much action, did it?
But Sands didn't have any time to feel smug about that before the other man was pushing him back, planting a knee on either side of his thighs and crawling over him.
They kissed, twining around until Sands was propped against a single flat pillow, El hovering above him on his elbows, each forearm pressed against the length of his ribs. For a moment, he pulled away, and clothing, come loose through some mystical force, inexplicable magnetism, parted around their shoulders. Sands tossed his shirt aside, heard it strike the wall and slump to the floor. El's jacket followed a moment later with a heavier sound.
Beneath his hands, Sands could feel the ripple of trained muscle working in a familiar pattern of arousal: tensing, twisting, winding and relaxing. Following his hands as they trailed lower and Sands slowly stenciled a picture of the man's body in his mind. The solid crossbar of his chest, narrow sinewy waist… long, delicate legs shifting against the outsides of Sands' thighs. He was a spring coiled for perpetual release.
Sands sought out another kiss, succeeded only in knocking his sunglasses askew against the point of El's chin. He sighed irritably, straightening them with one hand. He wasn't sure exactly what his face looked like beneath them, but he was sure it would be a mood killer.
The rest of their clothing scattered easily; boots and socks, belts and pants falling in a haphazard ring around the foot of the bed, forgotten the moment the hand that had held them found something more interesting.
They were a flurry of sweat and white cotton sheets, of heat in the center of a hot room, like a flash fire consuming all the available oxygen, burning out in a frenzy of enthusiasm.
It wasn't perfect by any stretch of the imagination. They had a lot of false starts, dead ends. Sands maintained that he could be forgiven this once, having no fucking eyes and all, but El just seemed baffled by the entire idea of a naked, horny man in his bed.
But what they both lacked in finesse, they more than made up for in enthusiasm. There was something to be said about fucking people who lived dangerously – they knew how to treat each kiss, each shift of damp skin, as though it was the last thing they were ever going to feel. It was morbid; Sands loved it.
For a few blissful minutes, they were not pistolero, rogue CIA agent, vigilante, madman… They were mouths and hands, rough fingertips and experienced muscle. Spanish curses or just failed attempts at the word 'more'.
And then, El's hands were urging him back rather than closer. Sands' breath still caught in his chest, but it was slowing now. He tried to roll off El's body, made it halfway before he fell back with his head propped on the man's shoulder.
He licked his lips. They still tasted faintly like the inside of El's mouth. Sands smirked at the novelty of the moment. "Okay, I'll tell you now."
"Hm?" Beside him, El stirred as if awakening from sleep. "Tell me what?" In a moment, he would turn, and his gaze would light on the top of Sands' head. And then he would spring to his feet, muttering curses or threats or apologies or… some combination of all three as he struggled back into his clothes.
Sands would have to talk fast. He didn't mind; it was his specialty. "Why we just… you know…"
El squirmed a little, the closest thing to a 'yes, please' he was likely to get.
"It's because," Sands said with a confident tilt of his chin. "You should know better than anyone, sometimes you just have to pull the trigger."