Chapter 10 – Power Plays

"So I ended up in an Aegean Art class, and I spent a semester studying the Minoans and those weird little Cycladic figurines and stuff like that. I'd also picked up an interpretive dance class for that semester—artsy chicks are always easy if you can convincingly fake interest. Only problem is that dance majors are all butt-ugly—rail-thin and with faces like fish. Well, the girls, anyway—the boys, on the other hand, were gorgeous, so I fit right in there. But I got kind of sick of the entire class hitting on me—there's only so much of me to go around, you know—so I didn't stick with that but that one semester. But I liked the language classes that I picked up that same way—to the point that I made language studies one of my majors. I speak five, you know. Spanish, French, Italian, German, and Japanese. Well, almost Japanese. I read it more than speak it. Never got quite enough language immersion to qualify as fluent in that one."

"Fascinating."

"Isn't it, though? Anyway, my father tried to talk me into the whole law thing, and by that I mean lawyers, but I'm not some kind of ambulance chaser, so I didn't even consider that. However, I had always been intrigued by the idea of law enforcement—but not a policeman, detective or otherwise. I wasn't interested spending my days as a PI following around cheating girlfriends and deadbeat druggies—or worse, eating ten pounds of Twinkies a day, sitting on my ass in a black and white. I thought about the FBI for all of two seconds, but I wasn't dumb enough for that outfit, nor did I fancy the idea of having to report directly to the Feds—that, and I'd seen The Silence of the Lambs. Anthony Hopkins scares me."

"How quaint."

"Shut up. So I went CIA instead—in all honesty, there never really was any question. Your average spook has a little more autonomy than your average G-man, which was very much to my liking. So I officially finished college when I was twenty-four, fast-tracked my way into the CIA, and now here I am."

"And just what does any of this have to do with anything?"

Sands smirked. "It's simple. I have three bachelor's degrees, with six minors, I speak five languages, and I've been to more continents than you have. All of this, contrary to your previous assertions, adds up to the plain and simple fact that I am smarter than you."

"Exactly by what twisted logic have you come to that conclusion?"

Sands took a slug of coffee. He'd taken to bringing his own in the past few months, since Greene—no, Snape—was too much of a pussy to drink it. "I just told you—weren't you listening?"

"No," Snape said flatly. Sands sighed.

"You know, you're like a woman—you never listen when a man speaks. No wonder you aren't married. I'll bet the only woman ever interested in you was a huge lesbian."

Snape's silence was enough to know that he'd just scored a point, so he merely smiled smugly to himself and continued eating his breakfast. He reached out to grab the jar of jelly that was always next to the salt and pepper and found himself groping at air.

"Where's the jelly?" Sands demanded.

"In the icebox."

"Well, get it out, then."

"No. I don't want any," Snape replied coldly.

"I do," said Sands, annoyed.

"Then help yourself," Snape sneered. "That's what you usually do, isn't it?"

Sands sneered back at him, but hove himself up out of the chair and moved toward the low hum of the fridge. He slid his hands over the lightly pebbled surface until he found the handle, and pulled it open.

"You know, you're a real jerk, making me look around in here, what with all your magic shenanigans," he informed Snape. "There could be bats roosting in here for all I know, or the mayonnaise might try to bite me." He found a series of cold tin caps under his fingers in the rack inside the door. Too thin, too short, too round…this one felt right. "What's this one?" he asked, holding up the jar.

"Eye of newt," Snape said dryly.

Sands paused, considered the matter, and then popped the cap off and stuck his tongue down in the jar, taking a great big lick of the contents. "Hmm. Tastes just like strawberry." He grinned at Snape—almost able to hear him grinding his teeth—and then sauntered back to the table. Another point for him.

He spread his toast with some of his new jelly. He would rather it have been the raspberry that he knew was tucked away in there somewhere, but he had no desire to continue rooting around in there just so Snape could be amused at his expense—nor was he planning on passing up on his ill-gotten gains. Somehow, they always tasted that much sweeter, and the jelly was no exception—even if it was strawberry.

"That hits the spot," he said, polishing off the last bit of sweet, crunchy toast. Snape was still fuming across the table, Sands could tell, as he tossed back the rest of his coffee before it went stone cold and then fished around in his pocket for an after-breakfast cigarette. "Clear up this mess, why don't you," he directed, waving his hand at the dishes in front of him.

"You can do it yourself," Snape said nastily, standing up and sweeping off to the sink with his own plate, leaving Sands's in front of him.

"That's hardly polite—I'm the guest, you know," Sands admonished.

Snape snorted abrasively. "No, what you are is a spoiled brat who thinks that the world owes him a living," he said. "Just because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth doesn't entitle you to preferential treatment, nor does it give you the right to walk all over and take whatever you wish from 'the unwashed poor'."

Sands raised an eyebrow; beneath the sarcasm he could feel what he suspected was unintentional bitterness oozing from Snape's words. A slow smile spread across his face. "Ooooh," he said, stubbing out his cigarette on the tabletop. "Did a rich boy beat you up at recess and steal your favorite ball?"

Snape was fast—Sands had to give him that. He heard it a split second before it happened, a rustle of clothing as he moved, that strange swishy noise and a sharp little crackle, but had absolutely no time to dodge. He hissed and his head snapped to the side when a horrible sting slashed across his left cheek, burning from where Snape's spell hit home.

They were both perfectly still, neither of them moving; Sands didn't hear Snape lower his wand, so he didn't turn back to face him, lest he be hit again, and just sat still, feeling the line of heat burning on his cheek, undoubtedly darkening to a red welt.

The success of his own jibe was a something of a split victory due to Snape's immediate and unanswerable retaliation—and Sands didn't share. So, with deliberate calm, he got up out of his chair, grabbed his jelly, and left.

"Stupid tea-swilling fuckmook," he muttered when he was out of Snape's house, and he stomped back to his own.


Sands did not mind eating lunch with Chiclet—far from it, considering it was a form of payment for services rendered. He also enjoyed being outside in the air; being March, it was still cool enough to enjoy sitting al fresco at the café to feel the breeze. What he didn't like was being out in the open for too long where unwanted eyes (dammit) might see him. What he really didn't like was that stinging spell that Snape had lashed across his face this morning, the faggoty little fuck.

The pibil was good today. Not very good, mind you, but decent, and that made him happy. But Snape was an asshat, and that pissed him off. Leave it to him to ruin a perfectly good breakfast with his stupid magic spells. His face still hurt, although Chiclet assured him that there wasn't a mark anymore. He was probably lying.

The café in this sleepy part of town was never terribly busy, which made it all the easier for him to keep one ear on Chiclet and the other on the babble of voices around him. And when a voice sounded out of place, he noticed. Like he noticed right now. Someone was speaking English. English English. He cocked his head, tuning out Chiclet's talk of the ongoing domestic next door to his house and just listening.

Young, he decided. Male. Stupid, from the sound of things, blundering into the café and asking if anybody spoke English. What little Spanish he had was terrible—no wonder he wasn't making much headway.

"Allá," he heard someone say, and he knew he'd been spotted. But he didn't move, and he'd eaten another bite and was about to take another shot of tequila when the kid in question walked up and stopped right next to their table.

"Excuse me," the young and very obviously British voice said. "But I was told you speak English?" he asked, his voice lilting upwards.

Sands deliberately lowered his glass, all kinds of sirens going off in his head. However, he merely smiled pleasantly and looked up at the interloper. "Maybe," he said congenially. "Have a seat." He heard the Brit pull up a spare chair and sit down nearer to Chiclet, who in turn scooted out of the way. "That's my kid," Sands continued. "Say hello, kid."

"Buenos días, señor," Chiclet said obediently.

"Hello," said the stranger, somewhat uncertainly.

"He's polite, isn't he?"

"Er—yes, he is. Well, sir, could I ask you—"

"Try my pork." He could feel the Brit blinking stupidly at him.

"What? Oh, no, thank you—"

"Try my pork," he insisted, his smile fixed and hard.

Sands heard the sound of fidgeting, and then of someone reaching across the table and a finger dipping into his plate, followed by unenthusiastic chewing and something of a cough. "Uh…thanks."

"You're welcome," said Sands benignly. "Now—what can I do you for?"

"Well, you see, sir, I'm looking for someone."

"Are you now." It was not a question, and Sands could tell it made the kid uncomfortable. "What's your name?"

"Potter—Harry Potter."

Sands raised an eyebrow. "Are you really—or are you just shitting me?"

The kid was still for a moment, and Sands felt the prickling press of his suspicious scrutiny. "That's my name," he finally answered.

Sands smiled charmingly. "Well, then—who are you looking for?"

Potter was quiet for a moment, but when he spoke, there was something vaguely like hope in his voice. "An English fellow. And old professor of mine, actually." Sands could hear him gesturing rather vaguely around in the air in front of his face in that way people did when they were describing someone as he shifted in his seat. "About my height, a big nose, long and—well, a bit greasy hair—or it could be short now, I'm not sure. He might have a big scar on his neck—"

"I've never seen him before in my life," Sands said, cutting smoothly across the bumbling kid, who stopped short. "But I can tell you what you should do next, mate." He pushed his plate towards him and leaned conspiratorially across the table, crooking his finger to draw the kid in closer; Potter tensed but leaned in to hear. "Finish this," he murmured, pointing to the plate, "pay my check—and then just get on your little broomstick and fly away!"

He felt the kid jolt in his seat; Sands rose quickly. "Chiclet, we're leaving. Ramón!" he called to the manager as Potter started to sputter. "He's got my tab!" he said pointing to the protesting Limey, and then he grabbed Chiclet by the shoulder and steered him out the door, ignoring Potter's cries for him to wait.

The minute they were out the door, Sands tilted his head down and muttered in the kid's ear, "Chiclet, get us home, as fast as your little Mexican legs can take us!"

Chiclet obeyed, as always, and like the bright kid he was, took them by way of a back alley so the Potter idiot wouldn't be able to follow. They made it home in record time; Sands grabbed Chiclet and stopped him in front of his house. "Did that guy follow us?" he demanded.

"No, Señor," Chiclet said after taking a look around.

"Good." After a moment's thought, he added, "Go hide in my basement. Don Greene will be with you in a moment."

"," he said, and Sands waited until he heard him patter across the street and the door open and close before making his way to the house next to his and pounding furiously and insistently instead of his usual polite knock.

He heard a muffled oath through the wood, and then the door was yanked open beneath his banging fist. "Hi!" he said brightly, waving his hand before dropping it back down and putting both hands behind his back.

"What the hell do you want?" Snape growled.

"Guess who I saw in town today!"

"The Queen Mother," he sneered.

"Close!" Sands said, wagging a finger at him. He grinned a moment more, bouncing on the balls of his feet, and then said, "I saw an old student of yours." He could almost hear the blood drain from Snape's face. "You know—Harry," he said.

There was a moment's pause, and then he yelped as a long-fingered hand seized him by his shirtfront and dragged him bodily over the front step; the door slammed shut behind him.

"So help me, Sands, if this is some kind of sick joke, I will kill you!" Snape spat in his face, punctuating every word with a vicious shake. Sands took it limply, just waiting for him to finish his tantrum, until the shaking became so violent that he felt his sunglasses begin to slide down his nose. That was enough of that; he stiffened against the onslaught and grabbed a fistful of the front of Snape's shirt, gripping it just under his chin; his fingers bunched up in the starched material, and he found that he could feel the tiny, zig-zagging lines of a myriad of scars cutting into Snape's flesh, leading under his high collar. They froze.

"Let go," Sands said evenly. They regarded each other for a moment, Snape breathing heavily and mintily in Sands's face, and then Snape's fingers finally unclenched. Sands released his grip and flicked his sunglasses back up. "Thank you," he said, more pleasantly as he straightened his shirt. "My clothes are expensive. And no," he said, sensing that Snape was about to start up again, "it's not a joke." He rummaged around in his pocket for a cigarette. "There's some little Limey bastard back in town who says his name is Harry Potter, and he's asking around for an old teacher of his with greasy hair and a big nose, and you—" he reached up and honked Snape's impressive bazoo before he could jerk away, "—have a big nose," he finished.

Snape started pacing, cursing softly under his breath. Sands had already lit up his cigarette and was blowing the first drag back out through his nose when Snape finally spoke, stopping mid-pace. "I'm leaving," he said, and spun on his heel towards the stairs.

"No, you're not," Sands said casually.

"Yes, I am—I can't let Potter find me here!"

"And he won't—you're gonna go hide in my place, and I'll stay here and head him off at the pass."

"Potter has never been deterred by the concept of privacy, you idiot—if he comes here, he won't think twice about snooping through all the nearby houses!" Snape snarled.

"So go hide in my basement—you'll be fine there."

"How, exactly, is your basement supposed to keep me hidden?"

"Well, it is underground, for one thing, and the door isn't obvious. For another, it's got a dirt floor, there's a shovel down there, and I have a gun. If he tries to go down there, we'll just shoot him," he said patiently. He could practically hear Snape's sneer, but the lack of response told him that he was winning. "I'll wait here, and when he comes looking for you, I'll take care of him, and then you can go home, all safe and sound. So, run along—Chiclet will keep you company, and help yourself to the booze—and I'll take care of everything."

"You can't kill The Bloody Boy Who Fucking Lived, Sands," Snape said flatly. "You will be found out."

"Will you relax?" he said in exasperation. "I've done this before. Now, toodle along, wot-wot, and I guarantee that The Bloody Boy Who Fucking Lived will still be living, but will never darken your door again."

Snape seemed to waffle for a moment, and then Sands heard the loud noise of that disappearing thing he did. He huffed through his nose, pleased, and then settled in to wait.


It was well into mid-afternoon when the hesitant knock came on the door. Sands straightened in the armchair where he had been ashing on Snape's rug and sampling Snape's wizard whiskey (goddamn, but it was a kick in the balls every time) and dangled his gun over the side of the chair, where it was out of sight. "Yes?" he called, pitching his voice quieter and lower and with a decidedly neutral accent, so that he didn't sound quite like himself, and maybe could pass for someone else—like Snape, maybe.

The door opened a crack (the pussy), and then swung wide. The little cheese-dick stepped in decisively, but froze just inside the door. "Yes?" Sands repeated lazily.

"Oh—it's you."

"Yes—me," Sands agreed.

"I—I'm sorry, I—I was told—I think I have the wrong house—"

"No. You don't," Sands interrupted with a slight shake of his head.

"But I was told—"

"You were told," Sands said, "to take your scrawny little bee-hind back to Jolly Olde England. Instead, you come barging into my house."

"You—do you live here?"

"I do."

"Oh." The kid deflated, Sands could tell.

"What do you want, Redcoat?" Sands asked into the silence. "Why are you bothering me?"

Now the kid got defensive. "I told you—I'm looking for someone."

"Yes, well—usually, when people come and live in this dump, it's because they don't want to be found. Case in point—me," he said, pointing to himself. "And so I suspect the same could be said for whoever you're looking for. Now," he said, before the little prick could start up again, "why don't you do that disappearing act of yours and run along home?"

He could feel the kid's eyes on him, scrutinizing. "What do you mean, disappearing act?" he asked warily.

"What do you think?" he asked. He made a sort of "hocus-pocus" gesture with his free hand. "Poof! You're gone!"

"So you're the one who put up these wards?"

Sands grinned. "Just call me Mr. Wizard."

There was another thick silence, and then Potter asked, "Do you know Don Greene?"

Hmm. Maybe the kid wasn't as stupid as he'd thought. "Yeah—what about him?" Sands asked blandly.

"Who is he?"

Sands shrugged with artful carelessness, his mind working furiously, and he chose his next words carefully. "Just some old Muggle who lived a few streets over—he made some really good spiced tea. His wife died a month ago, though, and he moved away to go live with his daughter." He deliberately tinged his voice with distrust. "And just what do you want with him?"

"I—nothing." The kid wasn't very good at keeping his thoughts to himself—the disappointment was practically dripping off of him, and Sands could hear him worrying at his lip. When he spoke again, it was with something very like desperation. "I—I have to find him—please, sir, if you—"

"Don't 'sir' me," Sands cut him off abruptly, and he heard Potter start. "Those who call me 'sir' don't live to tell about it. Now—don't come back here again, Potter. Ever." The idiot started to talk again, and Sands could tell that he was bristling now, so Sands picked up the conversation before Potter could start again. "I have no idea who or what you are looking for, little man, but what I can tell you is that what we have here is clearly a case of mistaken identity. I'm not your teacher and I never was—just because I have long hair and speak English, someone clearly gave you the wrong name. But more to the point, I didn't move down here for just for the waters—I don't like visitors. So, why don't you just fuck off." His finger tightened lovingly on the trigger.

They stared at each other for nearly a minute, and then Potter shuffled backwards. "Sorry to have bothered you," he mumbled, and Sands heard the door shut. He didn't move for another two hours; he just sat, his gun in his lap, and listened.


Snape had not locked the door of Sands's house magically when he went in to camp out; Sands had not expected him to. That would've aroused suspicion, should the little nosey parker have decided to go snooping around. But he hadn't; after he'd left, all Sands had heard was the muffled crack that meant Potter had done the Famous Magic Disappearing Act. He fiddled with the keys for a moment, and then finally got his door open, kicking it shut behind him as he went inside.

"Chiclet!" he hollered. "Get up here!"

He'd already settled into his armchair, digging around in his pocket for his cigarettes, when he heard the sound of Chiclet coming down the stairs.

"Is he gone?" he asked without preamble.

"Yeah, he's gone. And unless I'm mistaken—which I'm not—he won't be back, either. I thought I told you to go to the basement?"

"Don Greene didn't want to—said he wanted a decoy exit, so we sat upstairs by your escape hatch. He helped me with my English verbs." A pause, then: "He's really mad, Señor."

Sands snorted in annoyed contempt. "Well, then, go tell Greene that the big bad man is gone—that the Knight in Shining Armor has once again saved the Damsel in Distress—and then blast him out of my guest room," Sands replied, flicking his lighter open and lighting up his cig.

", Señor." Chiclet's footsteps receded again, clomping up the stairs. He waited patiently, leaning back and splaying out in his chair, letting smoke curl upwards towards the ceiling, listening to the vague mutterings of Snape talking to Chiclet up in the unused bedroom, but not bothering to strain himself to catch what they were saying.

Finally, as he stubbed out his smoke, he heard two sets of footsteps coming back down the stairs.

"What did you do?" Snape rasped at once, sounding very wary and tense, standing at the foot of the stairwell as Chiclet came to stand next to Sands.

"We talked," Sands said idly. "We had a nice conversation and I politely informed him that I like my peace and quiet and it would be greatly appreciated if he would not try to disturb said peace and quiet by stirring up the town looking for me. Then I showed him the door, and he left. It was all very pleasant—you should've been there."

"And this is supposed to make me feel better?" Snape growled.

Sands regarded him with raised brows. "I wouldn't expect it to—you enjoy being miserable too much to stop now. But he's not here anymore, and he's not coming back, just like I said. You're just mad because you have to admit I'm right," he said smartly.

"I don't have to admit a damn thing," Snape retorted. "You have no guarantees that he won't be back."

Sands sighed tiredly. "Look—I know he's not coming back. The pussy way he went skulking back out with his tail between his legs made that pretty obvious. That, and I'm pretty sure I got the message across that if he came back, I'd put a bullet right between the fucker's eyes," he said. To Chiclet, he added, "Get the tequila." Sands turned his head, giving Snape an exasperated look. "Just come sit down, would you? He's not hiding up my ass, you know."

"I don't want to hear about your sexual preferences—what I want to know is what you told him!" Snape hissed.

Sands snorted. "I told him that I'd never seen you, never even heard of you, and that he had a case of mistaken identity. I told him that Don Greene was an old widower who moved away last month, and that his old teacher wasn't here and never had been, and even if he was, he obviously didn't want to be found. Good enough?"

"No."

"Well, that's all I got, so you're just SOL beyond that. So—ball's in your court, my good man," he said, gripping the neck of the bottle that Chiclet had put in his hand. "You can either run like the coward you are," he said, and he heard Snape twitch, "or you can stay here in your nice little home with your nice little business and your nice little neighbor." Snape snorted in contempt, but Sands merely tipped back his bottle and took a drink. "It's all up to you." Sands swung his head around to regard his neighbor. "I, for one, will be extremely pissed off if I lose my Meals on Wheels services—I might have to kill Potter for that."

Snape didn't speak. Chiclet asked him if he wanted a drink, no doubt holding up Sands's sample of that whiskey Snape drank. Snape didn't answer, but Sands could tell by the subdued manner that Chiclet was now putting the bottle back that Snape must have given him a glare fit to peel the paint.

Sands took another drink, and then said in exasperation, "Oh, for the love of—I got rid of him, just like I said I would! What more do you want?"

"I don't want to be found!" Snape barked.

"And you weren't. Now—are you going to go about your business, or are you going to let that little pantywaist dictate your every move for the rest of your life? What do you owe this kid, anyway?"

"Nothing!" Snape snarled. "I owe him nothing! I paid my debt to him in blood and now I'm through!"

Sands smiled. Paid his debt, did he? It was so funny to hear the Unflappable Molly Brown get his undies in a knot, in no small part because he always seemed to slip up and mention something that Sands suspected Snape would have rather kept to himself—and usually with regards to one Harry Potter. It happened so rarely—but Sands always made a note of what it took to do it any time he did—as well as whatever he would say when it happened.

But it was best not to overplay one's hand; all he said now was, "That's more like it. Now—sit down, have a drink to calm your nerves, and then you can go back home and do whatever it is you do with yourself in that upstairs room of yours. And dinner's on you, by the way," he added.

There was a silence, and after second to two, Snape sat down. "Ah—now that's the old pepper," Sands said. Snape growled something unintelligible, but Sands heard him take the glass of whiskey that Chiclet had poured him, and Sands raised his glass. "Cheers," he said, waggling his eyebrows, and then he drank, and eventually Snape did too.


Sands listened to the muffled, methodical crunch of dirt and gravel under his boots. It was a sound he'd always liked, but recent events had made him appreciate it even more. He loved that sound now—that sound meant that he was walking, walking a beat, walking to a beat, a beat that was his very own and nobody else's. He cocked his head and listened to the quicker, lighter footsteps of the kid beside him, the soft rubber soles of his sneakers shushing in the road dust, heard the crunch of paper and plastic as Chiclet shifted the bags of groceries in his arms. He felt a breeze whistling gently through the air and ruffling his hair. The church bells were solemnly tolling the time—high noon. Perfect time for a showdown—and he had an idea that he was going to get one in just a bit. He grinned.

Today had been a balmy but sunny eighty-five—a rarity for the normally miserably hot and dry summers in this country. As such, Sands had officially declared it a good day and had decided to find some way to spend it outdoors. When Chiclet had shown up on his doorstep this morning, he'd informed the kid that he would be accompanying him as he went on his regular Wednesday grocery run. Now they were walking home, Sands carrying his own groceries in one bag, and Chiclet carrying Snape's in two. He was enjoying the general silence, following the kid's footsteps, when said kid decided to be a bitch and interrupt his pleasant musings with the same complaint he'd had back at the butcher's.

"Señor, I really don't think that he's going to like this," Chiclet insisted. "Don Greene is always very specific about what he wants me to buy."

"Yeah, well, Don Greene's head comes to a point. Look, I know bacon," he said, cutting off the little shit when he tried to start up again, "and that in your bag is bacon. Greene's specs don't ring of 'Oooo, I have to have it this way or I won't eat it', anyway," he added. "It rings of a skinflint. And I, for one, am tired of eating that limp, fatty shoe leather he keeps trying to pass off as pig."

"Well, then what about the eggs? He always wants small brown eggs, and only six—well, twelve, now that you eat with him, but—"

"It's all about money with him, I assure you," Sands said airily. "He's too much of a mustard seed butt to spend his cash on what's important—namely me and my breakfast—so I'm spending it for him." He hefted his own groceries a little higher on his elbow, wanting a cigarette. "Besides, I bought everything. What do you care?"

"It's just that if I get something wrong, he gets really mad and yells at me for it, and I think that this is going to make him even madder than when I mess up—"

"And you're scared he'll yell at me, too? Well, trust me, kid—I've put up with a lot worse in my time. I can handle a tantrum from Don Greene." Sands paused. "What do you mean he yells at you?" he asked suspiciously. He heard Chiclet shift uncomfortably.

"He—he just gets mad, Señor —you know how he is."

"Meaning?"

Chiclet sighed. "He calls me an idiot and says he'll stop paying me if I don't watch what I'm doing."

Sands pursed his lips—Snape had no right to yell at his kid, however incompetent he was. He'd have to have a talk with him about that.

"But you didn't just change his order, you bought a bunch of extra stuff—he gets even madder about that," Chiclet droned on. "Almost every time I try to pick up something extra if I could get a good deal, he always gets really mad—except for that one time I found cheap strawberries last year, but—"

"Well, that's what we bought him, now, isn't it?" Sands demanded indignantly. "Good on pancakes."

Chiclet sighed again—Sands was about two seconds away from tripping him on principle. "I don't think he eats pancakes, Señor."

"He does now," Sands replied. "He'd better, anyway—I haven't had pancakes in a long time, and I could seriously go for a short stack in the morning. Maybe we should've bought him a waffle iron, too—nah, maybe later." He hoisted his bag up again, as it kept slipping, and made a mental note to remember to get one the next time he decided to go shopping with Chiclet (which he wasn't likely to do, because the little shit was really pissing him off with his constant bitching).

All too soon they were back down on their own street, and Sands reached awkwardly into his pocket for his keys, balancing the heavy sack of groceries precariously in one arm. He finally fished his keys out and unlocked his front door, hearing Chiclet come in behind him with Snape's groceries. "Set those down on the couch for now, and unload mine first," he ordered, wending his way to the kitchen and resting his own bag on the counter.

"Right, Señor," Chiclet affirmed, and Sands heard lots of loud rattling of paper and quick footsteps before the bag was taken from him and Chiclet went through and began dashing the items to their proper places. He himself, on the other hand, ambled back to the living room and sat down in his chair and lit up a cigarette.

He was only halfway through with it when Chiclet came back into the living room, declaring his task finished. Sands grimaced and made to drop his cigarette butt on the floor so he could put it out, but found it yet again snatched from him and put out in the ashtray.

"How many times am I gonna have to tell you not to do that?" Sands growled irritably at him, heaving his butt out of the chair and getting back to his feet.

"You're ruining your floor, Senor," Chiclet replied, the little smartass. Sands scowled horribly at him, and then moved across the room to the couch and picking up one sack of groceries.

"Let's go make our delivery," he said, moving around the coffee table towards the door.

"I can deliver them, Señor," Chiclet said.

"I don't doubt you can," Sands snapped back at him. "But, in case you didn't notice, I want to go over there with you today."

Chiclet said nothing, which was fortunate for him, because if that little shit back-talked one more time, he was going backhand him. He opened the door and ambled out, pausing in the street for Chiclet to shut and lock the door behind them. Sands moved next door before Chiclet, trailing his fingers along the sides of the houses until he reached Snape's doorjamb, at which point he knocked smartly on the door and waited.

Snape probably had the door locked nine ways from Sunday, and not just with real locks, but most likely also with all sorts of spells and crap, and a one-way peephole and some kind of magical periscope from the upstairs—he'd been jumpier than a one-legged frog ever since Harry Potter had shown up, and his paranoia was getting on Sands's nerves. Take now, for instance: Sands had his groceries, but Snape was so scared of some kid that he was making him wait on his front stoop. Sands didn't like waiting. He gave Snape a good solid ten seconds to come and let him in, and when he didn't show, Sands knocked again.

"Señor, he doesn't like people to keep knocking on his door like that!" hissed Chiclet urgently. Sands raised an eyebrow at him and promptly beat heavily on the door three more times. The door was suddenly wrenched open.

"What are you—" Snape stopped talking the minute he saw Sands, who grinned.

"Honey, I'm home!" he chirruped, and then brushed past Snape, snapping his fingers at Chiclet when he hesitated on the front step.

"Get out of my house!" Snape barked, furious, following Sands as he swept into the kitchen with his kid in tow.

Sands clucked reprovingly. "Do you not want your groceries?" he asked innocently.

"Yes, but you barging in here and making yourself at home is not part of the arrangement, so get out!"

"Well, I changed your order, so I thought I might go through and inform you of the improvements I obligingly made to your menu. You'll thank me," Sands replied, waiting for Chiclet to set the groceries down on the counter. He heard the bags crinkle down in front of him, and then began digging around through the bag for the items he'd changed. He hauled out the slab of sliced bacon first, still cold even after the walk.

"This," he declared, waving it in Snape's general direction, "is called bacon. You'd do well to remember it. It's not those cheap pieces of fat that you buy—there is actual meat involved. And I expect some of it on my plate tomorrow morning. And these?" He pulled out the carton of extra large eggs. "These are eggs—chicken eggs, not those robin eggs you've been using. And tomorrow, I want two of them." He held up two fingers. "Count 'em—two." He took care to flip his fork-fingered hand backwards into the good old British "Fuck you," smiling at Snape before reaching back in the bag. "I also bought you grape jelly—real jelly—but I still got you that sissy strawberry crap you eat. Chiclet, you put the steak in the wrong bag," he groused, pulling out the three cuts of meat and shoving them at the kid. "That's also meat, as you will find out this evening," he said, pointing at the kid and his burden. "Don't worry—we still have your usual lousy chicken. You are what you eat, after all."

He could all but hear Snape quivering with indignation in the doorway of the kitchen.

"Let's see, what else—here's your milk, I bought you a gallon so you can actually serve me a glass of it instead of a thimbleful. I got you that cardboard you've been serving me, but I also bought actual bread—see? White. Only way to go. I bought you real vegetables, too. I know green food is a foreign concept on that side of the Atlantic, but as you don't live over there anymore, you really should assimilate. Chiclet says the only vegetable you eat is the occasional tomato—screw that." He hefted the fat cucumber he'd selected up in front of his face. "Check this out—now this is a vegetable. Is that hot or what? It'll be great on the salad you'll be making tomorrow for dinner," he said, setting it down next to the head of lettuce and diving back in. "I also took the liberty of adding cottage cheese to your menu, because it puts hair on your chest, and I have a sneaking suspicion that you could use it."

"I don't eat cottage cheese!" Snape burst, sounding utterly enraged.

"I do, though," Sands replied, pulling it out and setting it on the counter. "And grapefruit—good with breakfast, you know—with cottage cheese. And strawberries. I want these on my pancakes—I bought you pancake mix, too. I figured you too much of a wiener to do it the real way. Or do your type even know how to use this stuff?" he asked, waving the box in the air at him. "This beyond you—too technologically advanced?"

"Andrews, get out of here!" Snape snarled angrily, striding over and snatching the Bisquick out of Sands's hands and shoving him away from the counter.

"Now, is that any way to talk to your benefactor?" Sands asked mildly, pulling out from his pocket the pathetic little wad of Mexican money that Snape had given Chiclet earlier that morning. Sands tossed it on the kitchen table, smirking at Snape's silent boiling.

Sands didn't leave—instead, he settled himself into his usual chair, folding his fingers on the table. "It's lunchtime, Greene. You'll find all the makings for sandwiches in the other bag, I believe. Leaf-lettuce, mayo, mustard, meats, cheese—and some chips. Sorry—crisps." He leaned back in his seat, resting his head on his laced hands behind him. "I like turkey and ham on white with lettuce, mustard, pickle, and two slices of American cheese. Chiclet wants peanut butter and jelly—the grape jelly. I'm sure you want something weird, like liver and pickles with tartar sauce. You British people eat like perpetually pregnant women." He paused, looking expectant. When Snape didn't move, he huffed irritably, blowing his hair out of his face. "Well?"

"Give me one reason why I shouldn't throw you and all of this out!" Snape hissed.

"Because I bought it, you ingrate," Sands said coolly. "And you want to eat it and you know it. There—two reasons. Now make the sandwiches." Sands flourished his hand and mock-bowed in his seat. "Please."

Snape was still for a moment more, fuming, but then began storming about the kitchen, slamming plates and glasses on the counter before snatching the sandwich makings out of the paper bags. "You—boy!" he snapped, and Sands heard Chiclet jump to attention. "Get over here!"

Sands chuckled as Snape began delegating tasks to the kid. "You're so domestic, Greene," he said pleasantly. "You'll make somebody a lovely little wife someday."


"All-righty, then, Jorge—same as before. Give me an hour to talk with this guy, and if I'm not standing out here when you show back up, you'd better come find me—don't even think about leaving me or my dead body out here alone."

"Just don't get yourself into as big a mess as last time," Ramirez answered tersely.

Sands sighed. "I apologized for your seats, didn't I? I tried to be reasonable—he and his goons jumped me. I had to flee for my life. It isn't my fault he wanted to play hardball."

"Yes, but it is your fault when you roll around in what's left afterwards like a dog marking his territory."

Sands didn't reply, although he dearly wanted to—it wouldn't do to provoke Ramirez. He might take a mind to just leave him here if he poked at him too much, and then where would he be? So, he merely looked to the side and asked, "What time is it?"

"Ten-forty," Ramirez said.

"Eleven-forty, Jorge. On the dot. Keep an eye out," Sands said in clipped tones before opening the car door and exiting the battered old Buick, his bag clutched tightly in one hand.

Yes, his bag. His other bag was bigger, but it had to be, to hold a fake arm, his usual lunchbox money-totes, his gun, and any necessary papers. This one was the smaller one—an old-school doctor's bag, actually—and the one he'd brought with him last time. It was small, but it was more than enough to hold everything he'd need for this particular mission. And it was a proven commodity, too—Lorenzo had really been quite overwhelmed by his little bag of tricks.

Sands waited until he heard Ramirez's car chug down the street and turn the corner out of sight. Then he turned and moved down the previously walked and scouted path, his boots moving slowly but purposefully over the cracked pavement, both his legs and arm delightfully pain free from his careful application of one of Snape's salves this afternoon. He held his hand discreetly out in front of him as he counted the steps to the door of the ratty motel that Fideo happened to frequent. He liked his ladies, Fideo did; Gracia hadn't been lying (good for her, too—very good. People who lied to him didn't last long). Sands had been quite disgusted to have his suspicions confirmed as to how the little monkey-spank was spending money that was rightfully his—on cheap booze and diseased women.

Well, dear Fideo would be paying for those commodities out of his flesh this time around.

His gloved fingertips brushed the peeling paint of the door just when he thought they would. He slid his fingers lightly across the number on the hotel door—15, just where he should be. He moved quietly over to number 17, pressing his ear to the door; nothing on that side. He did the same thing to number 13, and heard nothing from there either. Good—he'd paid a random stranger to rent both rooms out for him today—now nobody would come running to Fideo's rescue. Likely as not, if anyone did happen to hear anything untoward, they'd think it was cartel business and simply go on their merry ways—just because the cartel liked to maintain good public relations didn't mean they wouldn't think twice about shooting someone who butted in, and everyone here knew it.

Sands leaned forward and held his ear just away from the splintered wood of the door, tense and listening. The grunts and creaking sounds he heard from inside were unmistakable, and he grinned; how he loved it when he had the opportunity to literally catch someone with his pants down. He pulled out his gun, his fingers tight on the crosshatched plastic grip, ready to make his grand entrance.

And what an entrance it was. He pulled back his foot and kicked hard on the door, right on the lock, breaking it open with ease. "Room service!" he called merrily, aiming his gun towards the sound of the shocked gasps and a woman's shriek. He kicked the door shut behind him, his mouth stretching into a grin as he heard the frantic scrambling of two people fighting their ways out of tangled sheets, the curses and thumps as they groped in the dark.

There was a great deal of yelling going on; poor Fideo was apparently rather annoyed by the intrusion. How dreadful; coitus interruptus was a real bitch, Sands knew, but that was just the way the cookie crumbled. His little piece of ass was more scared than angry, it sounded; she was babbling something about Fideo getting in trouble, that she had warned him about getting in with the wrong people. Her voice was closer, and from the sound of things, the little shit was hiding behind her.

No matter—she was going to be out of the picture, anyway. He couldn't be having witnesses.

So he raised his gun; she obligingly started screaming for him not to kill Fideo, and he took careful aim at all the racket and fired once. She gave one final shriek and hit the ground with a thump as Fideo started shouting in earnest, and he knew he had aimed true. Then he heard rustling—and a click. Fideo had a gun—what a naughty boy—but not for long. Sands aimed again for that familiar sound and fired. Fideo screamed and the gun thumped to the floor. Perfect.

Sands reached behind his shoulder and put the chain on the door, his gun still out and ready. "Don't try again, dearie. I've got you, and you know it."

"You killed her…" Fideo panted uselessly. Sands shrugged

"Your fault for putting her in the way." He moved across the room, stalking his prey, listening to every frightened sound he made and every panted breath he took. "Hello, Fideo. You don't know me, do you?"

"No, I fucking don't," he gasped, and Sands could hear wet sounds—he hoped that it hurt bad, where he'd shot him, and he wished he could see it. But that aside, he'd make do for listening for what was to come—for feeling it. He smiled down at the writhing little worm.

"Good. If you'd heard of me, you might have tried to cut and run—and we can't have that. You and me, see—we have an appointment. Two men enter, one man leave, and all that."

Fideo's breaths took on a whistling quality, and Sands knew that he'd gotten his point across. "You kill me, and he'll come after you—the mariachi is my friend, he will—" Fideo was babbling, gasping, but Sands just laughed at him.

"Your friend? Oh, yes, yourfriend. Your little mariachi friend happens to be dead, Fideo. Very dead," he purred.

"What?" Fideo sounded more disbelieving than angry. "You—you're lying—no way you could—"

"He died slowly, too, and rather messily." He kicked one leg up and stood it on the edge of the rumpled bed, leaning down on his knee, his gun still raised. "He and I, we had a good time. He managed to keep quiet, I'll give him that—until I started on his fingers, anyway. He was very touchy about those, and understandably—I hear you mariachis are defensive of your hands." Sands chuckled. "After that, he kept screaming—all the way up to the end," Sands leered unpleasantly.

But then, to Sands's annoyed surprise, Fideo merely gave a choked laugh.

"You expect me to believe that?" he sneered. "You? Some skinny little gringo bastard, defeat El Mariachi? Nobody can beat El Mariachi! Nobody!"

That ugly, cold feeling went straight down his spine like an icy handful of snow down his shirt and settled heavily into his stomach—that familiar shock he'd had jolted him in the gut that day Ajedrez had plopped her smug little ass in front of him on the Day of the Dead.

"Excuse me?" he asked quietly. No. No. It could not be true—that man was dead already, he died…

"Assassins can't stop him, the cartels can't stop him, the fucking military can't stop him—and whoever you are? You can't stop him, either—you kill me, and he'll come for you!"

"What do you mean he's alive?" Sands asked, his voice so soft as to be almost inaudible. "El Mariachi…he died on the Day of the Dead. Marquez caught him—" His jaw twitched when Fideo laughed again, and his finger tightened on the trigger.

"You are so fucking stupid—anyone who could think El Mariachi could be defeated has to have shit for brains—" His words were cut off and he choked when Sands abruptly darted forward and grabbed him by the throat, pressing his gun tightly against the pig fucker's head, teeth bared.

"So help me God, if you are lying to me, I will make what I did to your friend Lorenzo seem like a walk in the park. I will do things to you that you've never even imagined, shitsplatter—tell me the truth! Is El Mariachi still alive?!" he hissed furiously, loosening his fingers enough so that Fideo would be able to answer, but still shaking him hard, holding him so that he couldn't get away.

And he could feel that stupid bastard smiling—laughing—when he said it. "Yes, he's alive, you stupid American fucker—alive and well and you'll never find him, until the day that he comes to kill you."

"Famous last words," Sands growled, and pulled the trigger. Blood splattered across his face, pattering on his sunglasses like rain. He released Fideo, staggering backwards and away from the now dead mariachi, tasting red coppery heat on his tongue. He spat, breathing hard, unable to believe what he'd just been told, unable to process it, to even understand it—to do anything with it.

El. El still alive. Didn't die.

Sands had thought he'd lost his inside man. He'd gone to pieces the moment El hadn't picked up his phone. The cartel was shadowing him, Cucuy was a backstabbing bastard, and suddenly El Mariachi, the man he'd pinned so much on, was gone…and he'd panicked.

Still alive. Alive and well. Surely he must still be in Guitar Town.

Sands had gone to that café because El was dead. He'd been running with his tail between his legs—something he wasn't entirely adverse to doing, when it came to saving his own skin—but not something that he liked—and that time it hadn't worked. He'd cut off his own line there, cut off his own balls and handed them to her

The President survived, the money's gone…and El is still alive.

He had only been in that café because of El. Because El hadn't had his phone, because El hadn't picked up, because El had led Sands to believe that he'd been captured and killed.

Anyone who thinks El Mariachi can be defeated has to have shit for brains!

"Son of a bitch!" he roared, swinging around and firing shot after shot at Fideo's corpse, hearing the wet sounds of the bullets hitting meat, but that only made him madder because Fideo wasn't alive to scream and writhe under his onslaught, and what had been the point anyway—after all this time, Fideo had only been a minor player, and Lorenzo too; they may have stolen the money, but it ultimately wasn't their fault that Sands was blind, no—that was El's fault.

His ire rose again, and he moved to fire his gun again, but it made nothing but an impotent little click. And yet it was enough to snap him back to at least partial reality.

"Get a grip—get a grip, man, just…" He grabbed a handful of his hair, smearing Fideo's blood on his hands and across his face, and staggered around the room until he found a chair to sit in. Collapsing down into it, he leaned on his knees, hanging his head down and wishing he could, just for once, close his eyes and think.


It felt like days, but Ramirez showed up only a few minutes past when the digital watch he'd bought for these occasions beeped, letting him know that it was eleven thirty five—he was right on time. The moment he heard his car come roaring into the parking lot and heard the double honk, he abandoned his post just inside Fideo's door and came out, storming to Ramirez's car and slamming the door once he'd gotten inside.

"Drive," he said shortly, and Ramirez did, easing the car into gear and pulling away from the scene.

"Sands—what happened?" Ramirez replied slowly.

Sands knew what Ramirez was referring to. He'd fortunately retained enough wherewithal to make sure nobody could easily identify Fideo's body—or that of his whore. That, however, meant blood on his hands and sleeves. While he'd easily wiped his face and hair clean on a towel in the bathroom, he'd not have the same privilege with his gloves and sleeves, leaving them stained with was undoubtedly a glorious red—but he couldn't fucking see it, so he didn't think about it.

"I was taking care of business," he said tersely.

"You killed this one, too, didn't you?"

Sands grimaced. Ramirez had been extremely pissy about Lorenzo's death, so it stood to reason he'd be pissy about this one, too. "Yes, I did. And then I took care of the body so no one would know who he was, just like last time."

"That's what you said last time, but I remember a lot more blood."

Sands jammed a cigarette in his mouth. This conversation was going straight to shit. "You would have, because there was a lot more that time. At least I got something for my pains this time," he said as he lit up, speaking as much to soothe himself as his erstwhile partner. "I got a name."

"What does that have to do with keeping him quiet?"

"Because now I have to make sure that another one keeps quiet. And I fully intend to."

Sands was nearly thrown into the dashboard as the car came to a screeching halt. "You aren't interested in keeping anyone quiet." Ramirez's voice was dark, angry. "You lying bastard—neither one of them fought back, did they? You went in there and killed them—killed them both!" Sands didn't answer; his teeth were clenching tighter and tighter on the filter. "You never had any intention of negotiating!" Ramirez raged. "This was about you getting your petty revenge!"

"Well, I didn't get it, so stop your whining," Sands growled.

"You've made me an accessory to murder, you son of a bitch! Give me a good reason why I shouldn't kick you out here and leave you to rot in the desert!" Ramirez shouted.

Sands had had enough; he whipped his gun out and aimed it right at Ramirez's big fat mouth. "That's your reason, jackass. Now drive, goddammit!" Sands snarled in response. There was a pause, and even though he knew Ramirez wasn't scared—but he should be—the car jerked back into motion. "And yes—you are an accessory to murder now, aren't you?" he asked coldly. "Mr. A-Number-One FBI agent, straight as an arrow, hero of the force—seeking revenge and then killing to cover his crime." Ramirez was silent, seething in his seat next to him; Sands sneered at him. "That'll make a great story for the papers should anyone happen to find out about it." He tucked his gun back down the front of his jeans, shifting awkwardly in the seat as he did. He drummed his fingers impatiently on his knee, trying to think.

El. El Mariachi. That filthy, lying, cheating motherfucker…cozily holed up in Guitar Town, no doubt, strumming away at some cheap guitar, hiding out, whole and complete and content. Sands remembered how El had looked at him—those eyes. Those big, dark, pretty eyes…fuck

Ramirez's voice jarred him out of his thoughts. "What?" he asked irritably.

"I said, what was the name? You said he gave one, so what was it?" Ramirez asked again. "What information did you want from him?"

"I didn't want any information—he volunteered it in an effort to save himself—a wasted effort," he said, grinding it in. "He said El Mariachi would come after me if I killed him."

The car jerked to a stop again. "What?!"

"El Mariachi." A horrible sinking feeling filled his stomach, and he turned to Ramirez, his face tight and suspicious. "Why? What, exactly, do you know about him?" Sands demanded, clenching his hands into fists.

"I know enough about him to know not to cross him—did you just bring El Mariachi down on my head, Sands? If you did, I don't care about the consequences—I'm leaving you out here, I don't care—"

"I asked you what you knew about El Mariachi!" Sands shouted him down.

"He's a gunfighter—pistolero. Fights with a guitar—and is unbeatable. Nobody crosses him, nobody can beat him—he is practically a legend. I didn't believe the stories, didn't believe they were real—but they are! He is real, and I've seen what he can do!" Ramirez hissed furiously.

"What do you mean you've seen him?" Sands barked. "When?"

"The Day of the Dead—the coup—he killed Barillo."

"You knew?! You knew and you didn't tell me?" Sands snarled.

"Why do you care?" Ramirez shot back. "What does he mean to you?"

"He means twenty-million pesos and my fucking eyes, that's what he means!" Sands shouted in return. Sands ground his teeth furiously, resisting the urge to kill Ramirez right now, because that wouldn't get him anywhere at all. "He cost me everything, that lying son of a whore—and he's going to pay for it."

"And that is your business," Ramirez answered, his voice hard. "I know where this is going. You weren't covering anybody's ass when you went after those two—not yours, and certainly not mine. And I helped you—because you did lie to me, Sands—and I fully regret ever getting mixed up in this, but what's done is done, and I intend to live with my regret." The car turned, and Ramirez sped up, undoubtedly hitting that long stretch of highway between here and Culiacán. "This one is all you—I'm not getting mixed up with El Mariachi. You want to bring him down on your own head, fine, but I'm not about to get myself killed just so you can settle a score—a score that's all in your own head in the first place."

Sands didn't reply to that—he didn't trust himself. He needed Ramirez, goddammit—he needed someone, he couldn't take care of himself right now, and if he took it into his head to leave Sands out in the desert, both of them would be in a world of hurt. So he played the silent type, trying to hide the way that his hands were trembling.

The drive back took much longer than he would've liked, swathed as it was in the thick, angry silence. He was enormously thankful when Ramirez finally stopped the car and informed him that they'd reached the end of his street. Sands jerked the door open, picked up his bag and got out, and slammed it shut, trailing his fingers along the car as he circled around it to make his way back home.

"Sands."

He turned, pausing when he heard Ramirez's voice.

"Look, Sands. I've seen him—he didn't say a word, didn't do anything—but he killed Barillo like he was nothing. That was enough for me—you can't win. I don't know what he's done to you—what you think he's done to you—but there's no point. You need to admit when you're the one who screwed things up." Sands heard Ramirez shift, lean out of his door, and when he next spoke, his voice was decisive, pitiless. "You need to learn when someone is better than you."

Sands clenched his fist so tightly that he felt his nails digging into his palm, leaving a line of little crescent-shaped divets in his flesh. "Get out," he said flatly. "Get out of here before I decide that you lied to me too and that I have to keep you quiet like those mariachis."

Ramirez didn't say anything else—Sands heard him ease back inside and put the car into gear; the engine thrummed as he accelerated, and the sound slowly receded into the night, leaving Sands alone in the street.


Sands drained the second shot glass in his hand and then held out in front of him, contemplating it in his mind, imagining the clear curves of the glass, the tracing of white in the moonlight darkness, the beaded drops of tequila that clung to the sides. And then he threw it across the room, listening to it smash against the wall, shattering and tinkling to the floor in a shower of glassy splinters.

It felt good to throw things, dammit, so he was going to throw them. He'd never believed in just sitting around and keeping it all bottled up. It was much better to find something to throw and then just throw it. His sisters had always chastised him for it, telling him that it was childish and that he needed to grow out of that behavior and stop throwing his things when he was angry. So he'd obliged them and thrown their things instead; they'd let the matter drop after that. But now he didn't have his sisters' things to throw—only his own. And besides, shot glasses were cheap, and he had at least four around here.

Speaking of which, he needed a new one. So he got up for the second time and jerked open his liquor cabinet, pulling out the other two nested little glasses and stalking back to his chair, collapsing into it. He set the glasses down on the table and poured them both full to the brim with tequila. He really was just about ready to skip them and move onto drinking from the bottle—but they were here, so he might as well use them. He took one shot, and then leaned back with his face tilted upwards towards the ceiling, the fingers of his left hand curled tightly on the arms of his chair, his right white-knuckled on his glass, and that dull, hateful rage still boiling in his gut.

El. El Mariachi. That guitar-playing, gun-toting legend. The man himself. Sands had thought him dead. Sands had known he was dead, had been sure of it.

And yet Fideo's words echoed in his brain, and it was with an unpleasant wrench that he realized that said corpse had ultimately been right—stupid to think him dead. Of course El had to still be alive—and he'd stolen Sands money and kept the President alive. And where had he left Sands? He'd left Sands in a state of panic, in the dark, which is where Sands was going to be for-fucking-ever, because in the end all he'd left Sands was that goddamned fucking drill.

That was enough to make him throw a third shot glass against his wall—the opposite wall this time, and the satisfactory crash of breaking glass was music to Sands's ears

Music

He snarled, bearing his teeth at the endless dark, the shine of the third throw gone already.

This ruined everything.

Forgoing the fourth glass still sitting full and going straight for the bottle right now, he swished it around and tilted it back, clenching his fingers tightly around the neck.

As he swallowed the last of the tequila, he nearly jumped out of his seat when he heard that familiar loud crack, and, even though he knew exactly what—and who—it was, he hurled the now-empty bottle in the direction of the sound, then heard a swish before the tequila bottle exploded.

"Ever heard of knocking?" Sands sneered, heaving himself up and making his way towards the liquor cabinet.

"All I know of knocking I learned from you," Snape replied nastily. "And how much have you had to drink?"

Sands snorted, pulling out a new bottle. "Don't worry, Mommy, I can take care of myself. Why don't you just pop back over where you belong, over in your own shitheap?"

"Because I find that when you get exceptionally pissed, you become even louder than usual—an impressive feat, to be sure, but not one that I find particularly endearing."

"And your point being?" Sands asked snidely, closing his cabinet and turning to glare at his pedantic intruder.

"My point being that you are making an intolerable racket that is carrying through our shared wall." Sands heard Snape settling down into his usual chair, and he growled in irritation, slouching back to his own seat.

"Well, boo-fucking-hoo," he said flatly. "Why don't you just wave your fairy wand and make it all better? That's what you people do, isn't it?" He'd already cracked the new tequila bottle open and was taking a pull on it when he became very aware of Snape's level and calculating stare—he could always tell when Snape was staring at him, and he despised it. Not that he'd ever tell Snape that.

"A difficult day at the office, I see."

Sands's head snapped towards Snape. "And what would you know about it?" His fingers gripped the neck of the bottle a little tighter. "What I do is my business, bitchcakes, not yours. You wanna sit in here and just drink that shit of yours and piss me off just by being here, fine, but keep your big fat nose out of it."

"I've already had my nightcap—but I will relieve you of 'that shit of mine'—emphasis on the word 'mine,' " Snape said smoothly, getting up to cross the room and open Sands's liquor cabinet.

Sands contemplated throwing his last, still-full shot glass at the sorry little buttnugget, but he refrained, and not just for the sake of the tequila in it. It was his last one, after all, and somehow he suspected that Snape wouldn't fix it for him if he cracked it on his head. So he just drank the shot of tequila to remove the temptation and set the glass back down and went back to his bottle, and as he did he heard Snape settle back down into his chair.

Snape was watching him again—looking at him—Sands could feel it, and he grimaced. "What do you want?" he demanded.

"I want a little peace and quiet, but it would seem that I'm not going to get that until you've drunk yourself into a stupor—so I am waiting for said event to take place so that I can see to it that you won't be shooting out my windows again, as you are obviously incapable of taking care of yourself when in such a state."

Sands bristled. "I can take care of myself any time and any place, Chinless Wonder—which is more than I can say for someone on the run for four years, hiding from a kid," he sneered.

Snape stiffened in his seat, but when he next spoke his voice was cool and calculating. "Any time?" he asked. "Including the Day of the Dead?"

Sands hurled his glass right at the fucker's face before he even finished speaking. The glass, of course, never reached its target, but was rather deflected to the side where it shattered against the wall—Sands didn't really expect it to hit, and he was already regretting doing it, but it had felt good to throw it. But now he was out of ammo, and all he could do was seethe in silence.

At least his own comment had hit the mark; he heard the sound of Snape uncorking his bottle of wizard piss and taking a sip. Sands took a swig from his own, getting even more irritated that he'd thrown his glass. Besides needing it back so he could take moderate shots now instead of straight swigs, just so he could keep from passing out just to spite that asscrack, he hated that he had let his fury get the better of him to the point that he'd let Snape know that his jibe had gotten to him—or rather, just how badly it had gotten to him. Sands still didn't know everything he'd blabbed in his drunkenness that night a year ago, and Snape's continuous stream of tiny, maddening hints about how much he might know always drove him crazy—and Snape knew it.

The silence was deafening—he couldn't even hear Snape's breathing, which was a testament to how much he'd already had to drink. Sound sometimes became a tad muffled. He hated it, but at this point, he didn't care—he was simply too furious. Furious at Snape, furious at Ramirez, furious at Fideo, and most of all, furious at El Mariachi.

Snape was quiet now, at least, nursing at his bottle as well, if a little slower than Sands was. The bitch. Sands gave a quiet belch; as far as he was concerned, he was just going to ride this bottle all night long, preferably while making as much noise as possible—Snape needed to learn who was the alpha male around here.

But the stupid whoremaster wouldn't fucking stop staring at him. He could feel his eyes, boring into his skull, the goddamn bastard. He wanted nothing more than to just grab the sonofabitch's hair and grind his face into to the dirt, to show him what he could do with his staring—with his eyes. And then he would grind El's face into the dirt, show him that nobody but nobody double-crossed him, nobody left with his pants down and his ass in the wind and lived to tell the tale. When he got done with him, it was going to make what he'd done to Lorenzo look like a cake walk; he'd start with his hands and end with his voice, and he'd talk about his dear dead girlfriend the whole time. Well, El could just join his precious darling and her spawn—he would join her, if Sands had anything to do with it—and oh, but he would. He took another swig of tequila, savoring the burn in his throat and hissing satisfactorily.

"Are you finished yet?" Snape suddenly demanded, raising his rough voice to a higher volume than usual, telling Sands that he was either very annoyed or was a tiddle bit lipsy. Probably both.

Sands set the bottle down. "No. I'm going to stay here all night," he said coolly. "I'm going to drink this whole bottle, and then I'm going to step outside and puke it back up on your doorstep, after which you will be treated to an encore performance consisting of a drum solo on our mutual wall."

"You will do nothing of the kind," Snape said, his voice clipped. "You will either go to bed of your own volition, or I will escort you there."

"Now, I know you don't actually expect me to believe that you can get it up after what you've been drinking," Sands said, his voice thick with contempt.

He heard Snape mutter darkly to himself, followed by that unmistakable little swishy noise and knew that Snape had pulled out his wand. Aside from the Freudian implications that never failed to amuse him, he knew what that meant. "Don't you even think about putting a spell on me, asshole," Sands said flatly.

"I have no intention of 'putting a spell on you,'" Snape said crossly. "You are intoxicated, and as you have declined the option of seeing yourself to bed, I am putting you in it as promised."

"Yeah, well, I would venture a guess that you are also intoxicated—and I hate it when you pick me up with that thing, so forget it. I'll sleep right here in my own vomit tonight, thank you very much."

He heard Snape huff in annoyance, that rough sound of the air rasping through his mangled throat, and then approaching footsteps. A strong hand seized him by the arm and hauled him to his feet; he contemplated letting himself sag so Snape would drop him, but really, the floor was hard and it wasn't worth the trouble—but making Snape work for him, well, now, that was appealing.

So Sands came to his feet readily enough, and only when he was standing up did he deliberately slump onto Snape, making him curse, stagger, and then roughly start dragging him toward the narrow staircase. "You're such a tender caretaker, Snape—you really are. I can see how babysitting appealed to you," he remarked.

"And you are utterly useless—I can see how government work appealed to you," Snape said acidly; Sands could feel him listing under his weight as they climbed. He waited until they were just a few steps from the top, and then he accidentally-on-purpose dragged his feet, stumbled, and pushed Snape against the wall.

Snape retaliated just as Sands expected him to—really, the stodgy old bastard was too predictable. So he managed to catch himself when Snape threw him off, gripping the creaking banister to keep himself from falling to the floor.

"Do that again and I'll send you up the stairs by your ankle!" Snape barked.

"Do what? Trip?" Sands asked innocently, innocence that they both knew was a lie, and Snape yanked him back onto to his feet again and all but chucked him into the room.

After catching himself on his dresser, Sands straightened and pursed his lips, drawing in a slow breath through his nose. "It occurs to me," he said, "that for one who so dearly doesn't want to be a member the 'unwashed poor' anymore, you certainly aren't doing anything to ingratiate yourself with your betters."

There was that soft little swish of clothes and a furious intake of breath as Snape stopped in his tracks and jerked his head around. "I am no one's inferior!" he hissed. "And I certainly don't owe any consideration to the likes of you!"

"You know, Snape—that's your problem—one of many," Sands replied mockingly. "You'll never learn your place if you keep tripping over your own pride."

Snape snorted, a harsh sound that always sounded to Sands like it hurt. "You, with an ego the size of Mexico itself, have the nerve to lecture me on pride?"

"Not a lecture—just an observation." His fingers curled tight on the rippling wood beneath them. "You really do need to learn that some people are better than you."

"Well, clearly your little visual instruction was unsuccessful in daunting your own arrogance—just what did you have in mind for me?" Snape sneered.

Sands turned towards him, his jaw tight. "Bend over the desk, fucker, and I'll show you the true meaning of humility."

He could hear the smirk in Snape's voice, and oh, how he wanted to wipe it right off his face. "Missing your old girlfriend, are you?"

Sands moved, walking in the direction of the bed but around where he could hear Snape's voice, flanking him so that he stood between him and the door. "On second thought, that probably wouldn't be the wisest thing for me to do," he crooned. "Wouldn't want you to start pining for the good old days as Harry Potter's bitch."

The air dropped ten degrees just before the fist connected with his jaw. He'd been expecting it, but while Snape's aim was a bit off from all the whiskey he'd been drinking, there was still plenty of force behind it, and the clip to his lip nearly knocked him off his feet.

Sands grinned, licking his throbbing lip and tasting blood, and feeling his cock twitch in response as he raised his head back up. "Tender spot, hmm? Well, how about this one, instead?" And he grabbed Snape's crotch.

Snape let out a sound somewhere between a shout and a yelp—which would have been funny under any circumstances but here was just hilarious—and tried to twist away, but there was only so much a man could do when someone had you by the balls. "What are you doing—?!" Snape grated, his voice spiraling upward, before his gyrations tripped him up and Sands took the opportunity to tackle him onto the bed.

Sands landed on top and felt the air rush out of his opponent in a whoosh. He took the opportunity to change his grip in order to deliver a few well-timed and expert strokes through the coarse twill of Snape's pants and felt an amusing hardening in response. "Looks like I was right—you do need a little 'humility,'" he remarked.

Snape snarled something inarticulate in reply and started fighting him again, but Sands just tightened his hold every time it felt like Snape was getting away, squeezing him into submission and moving around so that they faced each other. "Now, now—that's not the way at all," he admonished. "You're ruining the moment—trust me, I know what I'm talking about here."

"Well, I know nothing about this, and I have no intention of finding out, so get off me!" Snape was twisting on the mattress in what Sands knew was an attempt to free his wand from where it was trapped beneath him.

"Oh, how cute," Sands simpered. "A blushing virgin."

"I am nothing of the kind! But I'm no bloody poof, either, now let me go, Sands, or so help me—"

"You can't get to your little stick, peckerwood—so you'll just have to play with mine instead." Snape's burgeoning erection hadn't seemed to have gone down, making something of a liar out him, and Sands's own was already straining cheerfully against his jeans. "At the Academy, they told us that 'a wizard is only as good as his wandwork,' you know," he said conversationally, moving his hand back and forth.

"As if I haven't heard every lewd wand joke in existence already," Snape sneered, trying desperately to roll over in order to get his wand where he could reach it. Sands took advantage of his letting go of his wrist to flick open the buttons of Snape's pants. Snape realized what he was doing and stopped reaching for his wand, instead going back to grappling with him, trying to get Sands's hands away from his groin.

It wasn't working. Sands knew that his neighbor always got a bit fumble-fingered when he'd been drinking, and a few good twists could make him lose his grip entirely. He himself didn't have that problem—he just had issues standing up (on his feet, anyway). So at the moment, he had the high ground on this particular battlefield, and he intended to use it.

Snape's hair was short, but not enough that he couldn't tangle his fingers in it, and so he grabbed him by the back of the head and jerked, pulling Snape's chin up. Sands went for the throat, snatching a mouthful of his collar and ripping it open with his teeth.

Snape swore, went to close the torn fabric (how predictable), leaving Sands free to reach in his open fly. With nothing between their skin but the thin fabric of Snape's tighty-whities (also predictable), it didn't take much to bring him to full attention.

It was bigger than his, dammit.

Oh, well—you worked with what you had. And what he had right now was Snape's prick, and he planned to work it, all right—make the little pissant squeak.

"Contrary to your previous assertions," Sands informed him, "it feels to me that you're right at home in this situation."

"Fuck you," Snape rasped, "and get your hands off me!"

Sands clucked reprovingly. "Tsk, tsk. Such language, and when I'm trying to do you a favor. Relax, my good man," he said in his best posh-British. "You are the clay in the hands of a master sculptor."

"While I have no doubt that your right hand is as well-traversed as a whore's minge, I want no part of it!"

"You're just jealous that your hand is such a crappy lay. Let me show you how it's done—it'll do wonders for your personality."

Sands lunged for his neck with his teeth again, and when Snape let go of his wrist to fight him off, Sands snatched down the front of Snape's underwear and curled his fingers around the hot flesh he had uncovered.

Snape let out a hiss; his fingers tightened where he'd gripped Sand's arm and he shook him. "Dammit, you gayarse, let go!"

"I ain't no goddamn queermo," Sands said levelly, circling and prodding at the tip with his thumb. He was rewarded with a choked curse and an abrupt jerk against his hand.

"Then what, exactly, would you call this?" Snape demanded, his sarcasm robbed of some of its sting by emerging as a strangled croak. Sands could feel the tension radiating off him in waves; his one hand was still clenched on his arm, the other wrapped tight around his right wrist.

"I'd call this damned funny—there you sit, your balls as blue as B. B. King and your dick stiffer than Jimmy Hoffa, and you're debating semantics." He leaned forward again, towards Snape's gaping collar. Snape didn't answer him, but nor did he let go of his wrist this time. Sands reached up with his free left hand and yanked off a few more of his shirt buttons, and then nosed into the folds of his collar.

Snape was taut beside him, his hand locked around Sands's wrist, when Sands flicked out his tongue and licked his throat. Tucked under Snape's chin like he was, he felt his tiny gasp as much as heard it, and when the vice-like grip on his right hand loosened, just a little, it was all he needed to start working his hand in earnest.

A helpless noise wrung itself from Snape's throat, and Sands chuckled against his neck, moving his free hand to unzip his own fly and get a good grip on his own aching erection, jerking the two in time.

Snape was still stiff and tense, but he wasn't struggling anymore, and Sands was rather enjoying finding out what maneuvers it took to make the man gasp and twitch beneath his curled fingers. He bumped Snape's chin with his head, pushing for room to explore that secret, torn flesh always hidden beneath his neatly starched collars, delving into the twisting landscape of scar tissue with his tongue.

Snape's bristly beard was rubbing his forehead raw. Sands hated facial hair, dammit, especially in bed—and the bastard was obviously doing it on purpose. He made his displeasure known by moving to the side and biting Snape's earlobe. Snape's fingers were flexing where they were digging into his arm, and Sands felt the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

He let go long enough to spit into his left palm and then reached back down to slick himself up, and then he moved, pushing his hips forward to wrap both hands around both of them at once, gripping them together, and the slide of skin against flushed skin under his palms made him suck in a sharp breath just as he felt Snape groan and push back against him.

"Hands of the master," he muttered before dragging his tongue down behind Snape's ear and back towards that funny little twisting knot of scars that was shaped sort of like a flower, beneath which he could feel the racing of his blood.

"Bastard," Snape panted, pretense gone as he fucked the circle of Sands's hands.

Sands just hmmed against his neck, sucking lightly at that cluster of scars. He moved his hips away again, but kept both hands where they were; one slid into the confines of Snape's pants to rub the heavy sac within, and he heard the accompanying abrupt inhale. Grinning to himself, he deliberately moved his fingers even further back and snickered when he felt Snape go rigid at the thought of an imminent invasion, before retreating back out of his pants and returning his left hand to the better man.

Snape's movements were getting jerkier, less coordinated, and Sands smirked against him, tightening his grip and speeding his movements. His grin widened as he felt Snape pick up his own speed, plunging between his fingers with small, rough grunts.

Sands slowed, eliciting a mewl of frustration from his erstwhile companion and forcing him to take the lead, to push against Sands's hand, to move his hips while Sands was still—to work for it. And then Sands switched tactics and suddenly pumped his fist furiously against the frantic thrusting, and Snape abruptly came with a hoarse cry, choking on what sounded like a name (What was that? Lily? Did he say Lily?). For a moment Snape was frozen, his back arched against him and his body quivering like a guitar string, before he suddenly sank back into the mattress, limp and breathing heavily.

Sands didn't move from where he was buried in the crook of Snape's neck. He experimentally rubbed at the wetness on his fingers before gripping his own stiff cock with a well-practiced hand.

Now who's the faggot, bitch? Snape's skin was flushed and damp beneath his cheek, and his fist worked faster. I think you need to practice your wandwork. He was close, his face pushing hard against Snape's neck. You just need to learn that I'm better than you.

He came with a thick grunt, sinking his teeth into the unmarked flesh where Snape's shoulder met his neck, tasting blood and making him gasp. And then he relaxed, releasing his grip, his chin drooping so that his nose was pressed against Snape's collarbone.

The room was quiet, save for their ragged breathing. Sands tilted his head down, rubbing his face in the coarse, well-worn material of Snape's shirt. He always smelled like his potions, eleven herbs and spices or whatever, and those stupid peppermints that he was never without. He fisted his right hand in the loose fabric hanging around his chest, his left on Snape's narrow hip, using his limp weight to pull himself in closer. Sands moved his mouth higher, back towards his neck, the movements of his lips and tongue on the knotted skin slower now, lazy, no longer so aggressive. He slid to the side, moving upwards, and as he neared Snape's earlobe, he felt him move, just the tiniest bit, tilting his head to give him room.

Sands grinned against him and whispered in his ear, "Humility 101."

After all the time and effort that Sands had just spent on his behalf, the wand-waving fuckwad could have at least had the decency to punch him in a different place this time, he thought as he hit the floor—not to land one right on the same spot on the corner of his mouth and reopen the same old wound.

He thumped his head pretty good when he landed, so he just laid there, listening to Snape's furious stride down the stairs. Sands could tell by the sound of his quick, prissy footsteps that the pole was firmly back up his ass again. You'd think with that in mind he'd have enjoyed himself more.

Halfway down the stairs he heard the tell-tale crack of Snape disappearing. He smirked—the old goat must have been really pissed off if he was so intent on storming out that he forgot to just Apparate out in the first place.

Sands dragged himself to his feet and fell on his back into the bed, not bothering to get in it, or take off his clothes, or even to zip up his pants.

He needed a cigarette.