Disclaimer: If I owned Sands, he would still have eyes, and be in good ol' USA. With me.
A/N: This is just a short ficlet...don't know if I'll continue. Inspired by too little sleep, too much college, and an overdose of OUATIM. Although, I don't know if the latter is actually possible....
Sands slumped against the stucco wall as Ramierez walked away, the rough texture raking painfully across various bruises on his back. The bullet wounds in his legs and arm oozed blood lazily and began to throb from the Mexican street dust blown cruelly into him. But, most of all, his head hurt like blazes.
His eye sockets still wept blood. Ironic phrasing that. Likely blood would be the only form his tears would ever take again. Not that he cried much to begin with; it would just be nice to have the option.
As if in further spite, the sky opened up in a little weeping of its own. Doesn't it figure, Sands thought dismally, that this day, of all days, it chooses to rain in Mexico.
"Señor?" If Sands had still possessed eyes he would have rolled them. The kid was back. Why couldn't he just leave the man alone and let him die?
"Screw off, kid," Sands said, without conviction. He heard the boy shift his stance.
"Una mujer esta aquí para ti."
"A woman for me? What do I want with a woman right now?"
"Ella busque para it...quiere ayudarte."
"She was looking for me, was she?" Sands asked, a slight lascivious tone in his voice. "In what way, precisely, did she say she wanted to help me?"
"I was going to save your life," a woman's voice snapped suddenly, "but now I'm having second thoughts."
Sands frowned. The voice was distinctly un-Spanish. In fact, it wasn't even American. In fact...
"You're British?"
An arm slid under his good side –well, his better side at any rate- and yanked him none-to-gently to his feet.
"Does it matter?"
"It might."
Sands wrapped an arm around very firm flesh, covered by a denim jacket, a cotton T-shirt...and a shoulder holster with at least two guns. The woman pushed her shoulder under his armpit to support him, then secured a hand around his belt.
"Do you think Americans are the only ones with foreign drug problems?" the woman asked. "Although, if you were to ask a tried-and-true Brit about it, it would be staunchly denied. Truth be told, Latin American cartels are everywhere; it's just easier to ship the rubbish through the Colonies."
"States, sugarbutt," Sands corrected, grunting as she began to walk him...somewhere. "We've been the United States for quite some time, now."
"That's only because you Yanks don't know a good thing when you see it."
A few feet in front of him, he heard a car door being opened.
"Thank you, Joaquin," the woman said, "run home now, and keep quiet about all of this, won't you?"
"Denada, señorita. No voy a decir nada."
"Good boy."
The sound of running footsteps receded as Joaquin made his way home. Carefully, the woman helped Sands into the passenger seat of a car. Slamming the door, and nearly catching his fingers ("Easy on the goods, sugarbutt." "Bugger yourself.") the crunch of gravel and click of the driver's side door sounded as she slipped behind the wheel. The engine rumbled, and they began to move.
"Why are you doing this?" Sands asked suddenly, fear clenching his belly against his will. In his fog of pain he had accepted this strange woman's help; now he realized he knew nothing about her. Not where they were going, who she worked for. Holy crap...he didn't even know her name.
"I've heard of you, Agent Sands," the woman told him. "You're a good agent, and a good man...even if you are a pain in the rump."
"I do my best."
"My point is," she continued pointedly, "a man such as yourself doesn't deserve to bleed to death in some dusty back-ally of a barely developed country."
"Mm-hmm." Sands was more touched than he wanted to admit. So he didn't. "Warming up to me, are we, sugarbutt?"
"Would you stop using that ghastly name to refer to me?" she snapped.
"That's the only name I know to use, sugarbutt."
"Adele," she told him succinctly. "Adele McChullain. And don't think that it's pure altruism that drove me to save you."
"Mmm...Adele," Sands murmured, pronouncing it slowly- Ad-ELL-ay. "What do you want from me, then?" he purred seductively. He reached over to touch her thigh. A sharp slap to his fingers caused him to remove them back to his own space.
"Information," Adele said flatly, ignoring his tone. "And for you to keep your bloody hands to yourself if you please. Unless, of course, you wish to lose several other parts of your anatomy."
Sulkily, Sands folded his hands between his knees. This woman was obviously very far away from home; farther than himself. And if she'd been sent here, just as he had, as a means of exile...
Oh crap...what did she do? I'm gonna freak right out...
The car slowed as Adele maneuvered it to park. Stopped. Metal scraped against metal as she drew the key from the ignition.
"We're here," she murmured.
"And where, if you would be so kind, precisely is 'here'?"
Silent, Adele exited the car. Sands sighed.
No, she's not gonna tell you, butthole, of course she's not gonna tell you. She wants the power. Wench.
The door opened next to him and fresh evening air rushed into the car. It was evening, closing on full dark by the feel of the breeze. Sands slipped out, irritated when he stumbled forward, not knowing what was in front of him. The car door closed, and a hand gripped his elbow.
"This way, Agent Sands," she said, leading him. "We're at a small cottage; a cozy little place I save for occasions such as the one in which we find ourselves. It sits on a knoll surrounded by desert grass, and trees. There's a stream nearby."
Yes, Sands could hear the chuckle of water, now that she mentioned it. But her describing the place for him surprised him somewhat. For all her claims that she wasn't helping him out of compassion, it sure seemed like it to him.
I may be blind, but I'm still a sexy beast, Sands thought, grinning. Can you dig it, sugarbutt?
Adele led him inside in silence, and settled him on a couch. He listened, slightly nervous, as her footsteps receded. A few moments later, she returned, and he heard the clack of plastic on wood; she'd lain something on the coffee table. He could feel the heat radiating from her body as she knelt near him, her hands suddenly grasping his shirt collar, unbuttoning it. He gripped her wrists.
"Moving a little fast there, aren't we, kitten?"
He felt her think for a moment before she loosed her wrists from his grasp and stroked his face, ever so lightly. Her hands moved back to his shirt, opening it slowly, her fingertips brushing his chest.
"Better?" Adele asked, grinning fiercely. You want to play games, yank, we'll play games. Who's better, I wonder?
Sands gasped in surprise as her hands caressed his chest.
"Much," he said, clearing his throat, and lapsed into silence. Adele removed the shirt entirely, and tossed it away before opening the medical kit. Carefully, as if he might see her, she admired his finely toned chest and arms, the strong –though bloodstained- cheekbones and jaw beneath the sunglasses. Her contacts had told her Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was the man she needed, a dangerous man, an intelligent man. But they didn't tell her he was a looker.
She put some antiseptic on a cloth and looked up at him.
"This is going to hurt."
Sands shrugged, smiling a little. "I like it rough."
Of course, Adele thought, smiling as Sands flinched at the antiseptic, they didn't tell me he was pervy, either.
"The bullet's still in the wound. I'm going to have to take it out."
"Won't be the first thing gouged out of my body today," Sands replied cheerily. "Can you dig it?"
Adele only shook her head and went to work. At the first lance of pain, everything –Ajedrez's betrayal, his blindness, the hurt already rampant in his body- everything came crashing down on Sands' world, and he fainted dead away.
Oh, no...I can't see! I can't see a cursed thing...what in blazes...? Sands sat up jerkily, gasping in panic and pain. He felt the upholstery of the couch beneath him, a blanket atop him. The stitches in his arm and thighs pulled as he moved; he winced. Something was wrapped around his head...That's why I can't see...he reached up to touch it, and found the roughness of a bandage. Memory flooded back to him. No...Ajedrez is why I can't see, he thought. Breathing deep, calming breaths, he leaned forward, realizing he still had no shirt on. In fact...Sands ran his hands under the blanket and down his thighs.
He wasn't wearing anything except his boxers.
What a day to put on the smiley underwear...
Sands sighed, registering for the first time the scent of cooking meat. His stomach rumbled indignantly. I never did get to finish my pibil, last time. He frowned. Where's Adele? Sands strained his ears, listening, and heard a shower running close by. A grin stretched across his face. He knew from her ministrations so far that she was well-built, firmly muscled, and smelled very good. He couldn't help but be attracted to her, to tease her as much as he could. Especially now, when he needed to anger, needed her to lash back at him. What a sight she must be right now. His smile faded.
Not like you'll ever see it, Shelly-boy.
The water stopped. Minutes passed before the bathroom door squeaked open and soft, barefoot steps sounded in the hallway. The sound of terrycloth against wet hair came to him.
"Ah, you're awake. I gave you a dose of painkiller after you passed out; it made you sleep, too, I suppose."
"What time is it?" Sands turned his head in her general direction.
"Nearly ten. Are you hungry? I popped a casserole into the oven; a nice bit of American food."
She moved towards him as she spoke, settling on a corner of the couch. He felt her take his arm, touch his stitches lightly. She did the same with his thighs, pushing the blanket away unabashedly to inspect them. Sands jumped a bit.
"Becoming shy, are we?" Adele asked, amused. Not to be outdone, Sands rubbed her back, feeling the satin of a bathrobe.
"Not at all, sugarbutt; look your fill. Mmm...are you wearing anything under this?"
Adele ran her fingers gently around the edges of his face-bandage, her body close to his, their lips inches apart. He felt the breath from her mouth, and his own caught a little.
"No," she answered. "Want to see?"
Sands felt the blow, but saved face nicely. "I see with my hands now, kitten. Savvy?"
It was Adele's turn to stop breathing. Touché.
"I imagine you'll want some clothes, Agent Sands," she said, all business again. She moved away, waiting while he hoisted himself up.
"So formal, Adele?"
She took his hand, leading him slowly. "Would you rather I called you Sheldon?"
"Just 'Sands' is fine, thanks. And I think..." he sniffed gingerly, "I'd like to follow your lead before I put clothes on. Direct me to the shower?"
Adele helped him up and pointed him in the right direction.
"It's the second door on the right. When you enter, the shower is directly to your right, the sink and loo side-by-side to your left. Beyond the shower is a rather large tub if you'd like a soak. Towels under the sink. Oh! Nearly forgot."
Sands heard the brief crinkle of plastic, then felt it touch his arm.
"Stitches," Adele explained shortly.
"Any excuse to touch me, eh, kitten?"
Adele finished, poking his shoulder lightly. "If you need any help," she shot back, "just call me."
"Are you really naked under that robe?" Sands asked. He heard a rustle, then the sound of dropping cloth.
"See for yourself," Adele said insolently, and padded into the kitchen. Sands, swallowing, hightailed it to the bathroom and turned on the cold water full blast.
You may have finally met your match, Shelly-boy.
Adele was fully dressed and pulling the casserole out of the oven by the time Sands had finished washing Mexico away. She heard him bump into a wall, then a couch, the coffee table, cursing all the time. She didn't run to help him, though. He would resent it; besides, he needed to learn how to get around on his own. He won't be able to start sooner.
Adele heard him reach the kitchen entry, but didn't turn around. He cleared his throat a little, and she looked. The British woman clapped a hand over her mouth to contain the guffaw that threatened to spill forth. Sands stood leaning against the doorjamb, his hair streaming, his sunglasses in place...and a mauve towel gripped about his loins.
Sands heard something of her reaction and grinned.
"Like what you see, do you, sugarbutt?"
"Oh, indeed," Adele agreed, smiling. "You do look lovely in pink."
Sands tensed in irritation. She might be lying, he thought. But you know she's not. His first instinct was to toss the towel away; his second quickly overrode this. Teasing was one thing; he wasn't about to go around flashing this woman. Especially when he didn't how she'd react.
"I'm sure that's the truth," he replied blandly. "When you offered me clothes earlier, I assume you meant men's clothes?"
Adele was still attempting not to snort. "Mmm-hmm."
"That offer still open?"
"Yes, of course!" Adele snapped back to herself, leading him by the elbow (of the arm not holding the towel) to the guestroom. There, she told him the general layout of the room, which clothes were in which drawers, etc... He heard the smooth click of dresser drawers opening as she spoke and the slap of cloth as clothing hit the bed.
"There you are," Adele told him. "Five steps to the bed, and you've got a cotton shirt, jeans, and underroos. All black, I'm afraid. No cheery smilies on anything."
Sands' mouth twitched. It was only a matter of time before she mentioned the underwear...
"Question," he said, as he heard her start to leave, "how is it that a woman who lives alone –that fact is evident by the scent of your shampoo, FYI- has men's clothes lying in wait in her guestroom?"
He almost felt Adele grin.
"Why, that's rather simple, Agent Sands. You're not the first man to have stayed here."