Fiddling with his ring, hands still across his face, on his back on the bed in his dark room, El started singing softly to himself. At first, he couldn't quite get the words out, but as the song went along, it grew and swelled and became more secure, but also more sorrowful. It was a song about love, a song that he had learned long ago, although from whom and where, he could no longer remember. As the notes ebbed out into silence, he turned over onto his side and stared at the wall. Specks of dirt on the light background; specks of blood on ivory cheeks. His eyes drifted; his vision became blurry, as if a great white fog was sweeping over him. He let it embrace him, letting himself get lost in its soothing caress, and closed his eyes. The wind ruffled his hair, almost blowing out the candle on the dresser.

"Fuck you man."

Pulling the feeble American to his feet, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other supporting his elbow, El had more or less dragged the struggling, unwilling man to the hospital. There, securing a bed for him, and watching them wheel him away, heavily sedated (the only thing stopping him from kicking and biting his nurses), fatigue had finally overcome him, and he had fallen into a chair on the spot and slept.

He awoke from something poking him in the face. Annoyed, he lifted his hand to chase whatever it was away, but the thing moved expertly to dodge his flailing fingers. He grudgingly opened his eyes, and saw Sands standing there, dressed in a hospital gown, cane stretched out in front of him.

"They said I can go home, if someone goes with me to fucking babysit my ass, and change the fucking dressings and so on and so forth." El looked at his face, and could see sterile white bandages covering the hollows beneath. Without a word, he rose, went to collect Sands' things, and took him back to his hotel room. The other man didn't even protest, but neither did he by any means acknowledge that he was at all grateful for El having more or less volunteered for this task.

El grunted and turned in his sleep. Letting out a sigh, his hand felt underneath the pillow, and closed around the gun. With a soft smile, he murmured something inaudible, and his body became motionless again.

The American had recieved his leave from the Agency, and was peparing to go back home. The sockets were almost healed, the bandages had been removed, and the fresh air would have to do the rest of the job. El watched silently as Sands felt around the room for his things, grabbing them, folding what he could, haphazardly, and fitting them into his suitcase that was laid out wide open on his bed. He had already refused El's help a number of times, and snarled like a wild wolf if he even dared approach.

"Don't go."

Sheldon froze, in the middle of reaching for the gun on his bedside table. He turned black sunglass-draped eyes slightly towards El, a wicked smile twitching at the corner of his lips.

"What was that?"

"I said, don't go."

"And why not? Why the hell should I stay in this stinking country?" Sands stood up, hands folded behind his back, bending his head slightly backwards, and gazed at El (or so he imagined).

"Because I want you to."

"Well there's a good reason." Sands sniggered as he resumed his packing.

With one swift move, El was at his side, and taking the surprised man in his arms ("Hey, what the..."), pressing hot lips against his, rendering Sheldon speechless for probably the first time in his life. Through closed lips, El kept murmuring softly "Please don't go. Don't go. Please", and Sands finally silenced him with his tongue. They both tumbled onto the bed, locked in each other's embrace, sending the open suitcase flying to the floor, contents spreading in all directions. Neither man paid it any attention.