Interlude
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.
Rating: R, to be safe.
Author's Note: This chapter is more of an interlude, really, hence the title. It's a stepping back from the story proper. It can be skipped without missing anything important to the story.
Essentially this is my foray into slash territory. Sort of. I use that word "slash" with great hesitance, because this isn't really slash. Certainly there's no sex in it. It's just a very intimate moment between our heroes. Anyway, my brain compelled me to write this, and I wanted to share it with all of you. It seemed to belong in this story, but you can skip it and not miss out on anything. It's your choice whether you read it or not.
But if you read it, I hope you like it.
****
There was drink involved the night it happened. Otherwise, El knew, it would never have happened at all.
It was late in the evening; sunset had been over for a full fifteen minutes. He was sitting in the backyard, his guitar on his lap, idly picking out a tune. He felt disenchanted with the guitar and with all music in general.
He was having a bad day. He had not dreamed of Carolina in almost a week, but this morning he had woken up with her name on his lips and tears on his cheeks. He had felt so guilty about those nights he had not dreamed of her that he had forced himself to remember every detail of her death, replaying it over and over in his head until he felt weak all over with loss.
He had been drinking off and on for most of the day. The alcohol had not only dulled the pain, it had dulled everything. He felt like he was looking at the world through a silver mist. Some things were clearer than others, but even those had blurred edges and rounded corners.
He played a few more notes. He looked up and saw Sands crossing the backyard, and he scowled. Sands had gone down to the market earlier in the day, but from the looks of things, he had bought nothing but a bottle.
El sighed and resigned himself to going hungry tonight.
Sands marched into the yard and sat down on the grass a few feet from El. "Bitch," he muttered.
"Who?" El asked, without any real curiosity. Sands always came back from the market in a bad mood. But he insisted on going, several times a week. It was a testament to his adaptability, and his stubbornness, that he could make it to the market and back all on his own. But El always refrained from saying that. He didn't want a black eye.
"Some woman selling crap," Sands said. He gave the bottle a shake. When he did not hear the slosh of liquid within, he tossed it aside. "She called me 'el hombre lindo' and tried to give me a flower."
El laid his guitar on the grass. Being called pretty was hardly something to get pissed about. He wondered if Sands knew most of the people in town called him "el Americano ciego" -- the blind American. Then he shook his head. Of course Sands didn't know. No one was stupid enough to call him that to his face, after all.
"How is that a bad thing?" he asked. "A beautiful woman wants--"
"She wasn't beautiful," Sands interrupted. "She was some peasant's wife, okay?"
El shrugged. There were plenty of beautiful women living in the town. He had seen them trying to catch his eye, but he had no interest in them. There could be no one for him. He held Carolina's memory sacred in his heart.
"And I don't need some ugly peasant woman's pity," Sands snapped. "I know what I look like now, and believe me, it isn't pretty."
This was not entirely true. While they had been hunting down Escalante and the cartel, they had visited many towns, and many bars. Sands had not seen, of course, and El had never told him, but the agent had received plenty of interested looks from women in those bars.
El could see why, too. If you didn't know what lay behind those sunglasses, Sands was intriguing to look at. Everything about him proclaimed that he was a killer, except his face, which was oddly delicate somehow. It was the face of a man who could be anything, a face that made you want to find out just what he was.
He gave another half-hearted shrug. "I don't think you are so bad," he said.
"Oh, well coming from you, that's real reassuring," Sands said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.
What was he supposed to say to that? El gave a mournful glance at the bottle Sands had brought, and wished it was not empty. He needed more to drink. "It is true," he said. "You think the worst, but I have seen the way women look at you."
Sands let out a short laugh. "Yeah?" He whipped off his sunglasses. "Think they'd still look at me that way if they could see me now?"
El winced. No matter how many times he saw those empty eyesockets, it never got any easier.
"You see? Even you can't look at me. And you think a woman is going to want me? I'm too revolting to even touch anymore," Sands sighed bitterly.
El heard the self-loathing in that sigh. All day long he had been drinking in an effort to numb the pain inside him. Here, right in front of him, was an opportunity to ease that pain, and maybe make someone else feel better, too. The mist that had obscured his vision all day suddenly burned away. Things became very clear.
"Not revolting," he said. He moved closer, and laid his hand on Sands' face.
The agent jerked back immediately, with a whispered, "What are you doing?"
"Proving my point," El said. He reached up and touched Sands again.
Sands tensed, but did not move away.
The worst part about being alone, El had long ago decided, was the loss of touch. Touching another person made you feel connected to them, and from there, connected to the larger world. You felt like you belonged. Without touch, the soul withered.
He wondered who had touched Sands so badly that the man mistrusted the whole world.
He closed his eyes, and explored Sands' face with his fingertips. The exquisite angle of his jaw, the high plane of his cheek. His fingers brushed over Sands' mouth, the full lower lip. He let his hand trail higher, over Sands' temple, feeling the thick, dark hair that framed the agent's face.
Gently he traced around the cavity where Sands' left eye had been, barely exerting any pressure. Sands hissed and flinched.
"Does it hurt?" El asked quietly.
Sands nodded; El felt the movement beneath his fingers.
El frowned. He had not expected this. "All the time?"
Sands shook his head.
Encouraged, El continued exploring. He swept his fingers over Sands' brow, followed the curve of his ear. His hand moved lower, over Sands' throat. Obligingly, Sands tipped his head back a little.
El opened his eyes. Sands was barely breathing. One hand was behind him, supporting his weight. The other was balled into a fist about his sunglasses.
For just a moment, he wondered what Sands would do if he kissed him.
But things had gone far enough. He removed his hand, and sat back. "You do not disgust me," he said.
He picked up his guitar, stood up, and began walking back toward the house.
Long after he had gone in, Sands remained outside, sitting on the grass under the moonlight.
*****