12. Body Count

When I awaken, it's to the unfamiliar presence of a warm body beside mine in bed. Memory comes back in a rush - I stare at the slumbering man next to me and carefully extricate myself from the sheets and his outflung arm. I'm not a cuddler, and I have a vague sense of panic at winding up in this position. My arm is throbbing; I swallow a couple caplets and more antibiotics with the dregs of the warm, flat root beer, and put my clothes back on, bloodstains a faint rust spot on my right sleeve. I'll have to live with that, at least until I get back to the warehouse and my overnight bag.

The idea of sticking around to make morning-after small talk with George is excruciating. Never mind that it's actually four in the afternoon, or that technically, nothing...much...happened. It's still awkward. Checking out the damage to the Batmobile comes to mind as a legitimate reason to get the heck out of there; I grab my keys and flee. The first thing I see as I get out of the elevator is Sands, slouched in a chair in the lobby. Okay, fine. I don't have to talk to him; I could be anyone getting off the elevator for all he knows. So I saunter confidantly to the front door, patting myself on the back for ignoring the asshole.

"You! Kate! Wait up!" Sands springs out of the chair and skitters over to me. "What, you weren't even going to say 'buenas dias'?" he asks, a mock-pout on his lips.

"I was trying to avoid you," I say bluntly, stepping outside. How the hell did he know it was me? He's as antsy as my friend's Jack Russell Terrier, but I can't believe he's got a nose like one, too.

"Aw, now my feelings are hurt!"

"Sands, if my boss didn't like you for some ungodly reason, I'd be spending this afternoon watching NASCAR and eating buffalo wings, without any bullet holes in me! Yes, I'm trying to avoid you!"

Sands grins. He's keeping pace with me as we cross the parking lot, as briskly as if he could see. "One good thing about you, Kate - you're no back-stabber. I know you'll put the knife right between my ribs, just so you can watch the look on my face. Isn't that right?"

There's no one less than twenty yards away. "Sands," I say quietly. "I know you think I'm just RC's tame techno twink, but I assure you, I've got a body count that's well into double digits. Stop trying to fuck with me, okay?"

"You've killed people?" There's an amused accent on the pronoun.

"In a variety of inventive ways that don't usually involve firearms."

"Ever drill anybody's eyes out?"

"No. I like nice, clean kills."

"Good enough for me." He extends his hand, smiling. "Truce?"

"I'll be as civil as you are," I reply, shaking on it.

When we get to the Batmobile, I'm dismayed. The back window is gone, except for a few crystalline fragments around the edge of the frame. There are two bulletholes in the lid of the trunk. Jiggling the keys, I wrestle the trunk open. The spare's been punctured. Tracing the path of the other shot, I discover it's gone through the back seat - there's a round hole with beige wadding poking out on the backrest - and through the back of the front seat. With a little chill, I look at the red-stained hole in the front of the front seat and realize I know exactly where that bullet wound up.

Sands smokes a cigarette as I pop the hood on the Studie and check the fluids. It's probably due a ring job - it's about a quart low - but there's a half-case of 40-weight in the truck, and I fill it up without making a production of it. Everything else is in good shape, although we're gonna need gas soon. I look sadly at the old car. The Batmobile needs more TLC than Sands is ever gonna give it, but I don't think this is the time to broach the subject of finding it a good home.

"So, what's the story with you and El?" he asks, flicking the butt away and lighting up another.

"There is no story. I found him in that plaza where you got captured, dragged him back to your place, and that's it."

"Uh-huh...and last night?" His voice is sly.

"That was last night." I slam the hood down for emphasis.

"I mean bath time! Come on, I know what I heard"

"I don't know what you think you heard, Sands, but if you know what you heard, then why are you asking me?"

quick29: I'm not ignoring Sands; he just doesn't happen to be the focus of this particular story. I originally had Clockwork Mexico posted in The Silence of the Lambs section, since it's really Kate's story, but decided that because there are two charecters from OUaTiM and only one of her, that it was better off in OUaTiM. She and Sands are too much alike in many ways to "click" that way, even if Sands was ready for intimacy - and after what happened to him, I think it's gonna be a cold day in hell before he lets himself have warm fuzzies again. After killing Marquez, El finally has closure about Caroline's death, and hey, it seems like every third OUaTiM fan-fic out there is Sands/OFC (And half of the rest are El/Sands slash.). Show me one where El gets a happy ending and a little nooky.

dawnie-7: Gee, Dorothy, I don't think we're in Mexico anymore...no, it wasn't a dream. Although I know what you mean about the good ones that aren't real. I've killed alarm clocks for untimely interruptions...there was this one, no, that's definitely NC-17. Never mind!

mssparrington: Yeah, a cold shower...what a guy. Kate knows some of his backstory from Sands, but she has no idea how surprised he is by his own feelings right now. More fireworks and UST to come...!