Inter-agency Cooperation
Disclaimer: Robert Rodriguez owns them all. I bow before him.
Rating: M, I suppose, for language and slash. Nothing too graphic.
Author's Note: For me, old fandoms never die. They just sort of fade away…until I am struck by a new idea. I wrote this fic for Melody Wilde and she was kind enough to provide some helpful suggestions, and grant me permission to post it. It was rather nice to walk in Mexico again. I hope this time I can stay a while.
Feedback: Is always desired. Leave a review or send an e-mail, or visit my homepage on my Bio page.
Sands would not shut up.
The incessant complaining was really getting on Ramirez's nerves. He had never known anyone to talk so much. Day and night, Sands bitched about everything. It was too hot. The food sucked. The market in town didn't stock his favorite cigarettes. His non-existent eyes hurt. On and on. The endless litany of complaints never stopped.
On more than one occasion, Ramirez had seriously considered making a discreet phone call. He had taken Sands in from a sense of guilt and vague responsibility, but it had been eight weeks since the botched coup, and surely even a saint could be forgiven for wanting to be rid of the lunatic by now.
He had done his part, surely. With the help of the boy, he had brought Sands to his house. He had called a doctor, paying for both healing and silence. He had met with the representatives from the U.S. Government who had come calling, and he had carefully hidden Sands in a closet before letting the men inside his house. In short, he had done everything that was expected of him.
But Sands – the greedy bastard – always wanted more. More information. More coffee. More tequila, always with a lime. More and more, as if Ramirez was a bottomless pit of money and generosity and time, having nothing better to do than nurse a psychotic spy back to health.
Jorge Ramirez sighed heavily.
Eight weeks, and he had reached the end of his patience. He had been drinking since three o'clock. It was early evening now, and he knew beyond a doubt that he could not wake up tomorrow and endure another morning of insults and complaints. Sands had to go. Tonight.
He squashed the pangs of guilt brought on by this line of thinking. He had already done enough. Now it was time for Sands to make his own way through the world.
He drained the last dregs of tequila from his glass and set it down on the kitchen table with a solid thump. Yes. This was the right decision. The right thing to do. It might get a little messy, but in the end, it was the best thing for all of them. The CIA continued to sniff around Culiacan, and it was time for Sands to hit the road and make good his escape. Time for Ramirez to reclaim his quiet house and his solitude.
He poured himself another drink, and then filled an empty glass. Carrying both glasses, he rose from the table, pleased to note that he only swayed a little. Careful not to spill any of the golden tequila, he left the kitchen and went out onto the front porch of his little house.
Sands sat on a white plastic chair. He was dressed all in black, despite the heat, and he wore his ever-present sunglasses. He had lost weight, and the sharp angles of his face were more prominent than ever. He had not washed his hair in several days, and it hung lank down to his shoulders. To a casual observer, his slouched posture indicated disinterest, fatigue, or both. To Ramirez, who knew better, it meant only that Sands was coiled and ready to pounce.
"Brought you something," he said.
Sands did not move, except to hold out a hand. Ramirez let the glass of tequila touch his palm, and Sands curled his fingers about it. He lifted the glass to his lips and drank. A faint smile touched the corner of his mouth. "Good man, Agent Ramirez."
Ramirez lowered himself into a chair on Sands' left. He felt tired. Little wonder, he thought bitterly. His houseguest kept him running around all the damn time.
He took a sip of his tequila. "There is a suitcase in the closet of your room."
Sands did not speak. He just drank his tequila as if he had not heard Ramirez.
"I can give you five hundred dollars," Ramirez continued. "That should be enough to get you where you're going."
"Where I'm going," Sands mocked. "Where I'm going. Where the fuck do you think I'm going, Jorge? I can't see."
Ramirez forced himself to count to three, so he would not say what he was thinking. "I don't know where you'll go," he said. "Truthfully, I don't want to know. But I would suggest east."
"East." Sands made a rude noise. "There's nothing but desert out east."
"Well." Ramirez shrugged. Belatedly, he tried to bring some logic to this conversation. "North brings you too close to the States. West there is only the ocean. And south takes you into the mariachi's territory."
Sands did not reply to this, but he stiffened at the mention of the mariachi. Ramirez did not blame him. He had looked into that man's eyes once, and that single look was more than enough. He had no desire to meet El ever again.
"Well," he said, "it is up to you. I only know that you must be gone in the morning."
"Need some alone time, Jorge?" The words were acidic, but the voice lacked the proper sting to pull them off. To his horror, Ramirez realized that Sands was afraid to leave.
Even worse were the things he was now feeling. Like he had just kicked a puppy or something. Now that he had said the words out loud, it seemed very cruel to make Sands leave. The man was blind, for Christ's sake. And wanted by one of the most vicious drug cartels in all of Mexico. How on earth could he be expected to survive out there?
And then Sands put down his drink and opened his mouth. And within seconds, Ramirez felt his sympathy melt away, to be replaced by a dull anger.
"Sure thing," Sands said. "Just point me in the right direction, and I'll march away. Why would I want to stay? You can't even make a decent cup of coffee. This shit--" he held up the glass of tequila -- "is so weak it makes American beer taste like German lager. Your house stinks of garlic and the windows in my room face east so every morning the damn sun falls on my face so I can't even sleep in when I want."
Sands took a deep breath, clearly just getting started.
"That stupid kid keeps coming around here even though I keep telling him to fuck off. You treat me like I'm a goddamn invalid. It's fucking hot, and you don't even have the courtesy to have air conditioning. These chairs feel like you got them at a blue light special at K-Mart, and my ass is asleep. Some freak drilled out my eyes, and every drug cartel in Mexico is looking for me, but hey, that's all right. I understand you want some privacy so you can jerk off at night without anyone hearing. Fine. I'll be out of your hair starting tomorrow morning, and then you can drink your watery tequila all by yourself."
This tirade over, Sands blew out so the hair over his forehead fluffed up. He downed the last of his tequila and let the glass fall to the floor. It broke into several pieces, the sound as loud as a gunshot in the stillness of the evening.
"Are you finished?" Ramirez asked coldly.
Sands shrugged, lifting one shoulder. "For now." He smirked.
"Good." Ramirez rose to his feet and seized Sands' upper arm. With one spastic jerk, he hauled the CIA officer out of the chair. Using that same momentum, he turned and shoved Sands forward so the man went sprawling on the wooden boards of the porch. "Get out," he said.
On his hands and knees, Sands laughed. His hair hung in his face. His sunglasses thankfully stayed put. "Oh, Jorge. I never figured you were the kind who liked it rough."
"Only with assholes," Ramirez said, then winced. That was the tequila talking. He shouldn't have let himself be provoked into replying. Sands liked verbal sparring matches, and rarely lost one.
Sands chuckled. "Didn't you know played for the other team, Jorge. What with the wedding ring and all."
Knowing he shouldn't do it, blinded by rage and too much drink, Ramirez stalked forward. He grabbed Sands by the shoulders and hoisted the man to his feet. Then he punched Sands right in the face.
Sands staggered backward. His flailing feet struck one of the chairs on the porch, and he fell heavily on his butt. His sunglasses drooped alarmingly low on his nose, but stayed on.
And incredibly, the asshole was laughing. "Guess I hit a nerve, hey?"
"Get out," Ramirez said again. "And count yourself lucky I don't beat the shit of you first."
"Oh, I do, Jorge," Sands said lightly. "I consider myself lucky for a lot of reasons." He stood up and dusted off his palms. He reached up and readjusted his sunglasses, then gave Ramirez a thin smile. "Very lucky."
The threat in those words made Ramirez react like a snake ready to bite. He leaned backward, itching to lash out with his fists again. "I suggest you leave now," he said, pleased by how calm he sounded.
"You're the boss," Sands said. But he did not move.
"What are you waiting for?" Ramirez asked. He was starting to wish he had never said anything. This was just ridiculous. Forced into a showdown on his own goddamn porch, of all things. This was not how he had planned to spend the evening.
"Hell if I know." Sands shrugged. He sauntered forward two steps, then stopped.
"The door is to your left," Ramirez said with icy politeness.
"Say, Jorge, would you mind dropping me off at a random destination of your choosing? The taxi service in this country sucks. Not to mention I'd never know if the cabbie decided to rip me off about the fare. And I couldn't exactly shoot him, since then I'd be short one driver. So what do you say?"
"Do you ever stop complaining?" Ramirez snapped. He closed the distance between Sands and himself. "Every word out of your mouth since you have come here has been something negative!"
That damn smirk reappeared on Sands' mouth. "So sue me."
"As if a lawsuit could shut you up," Ramirez said sourly. Tequila buzzed about his brain, turning his thoughts to mush. Just five minutes ago, it had seemed terribly important that Sands leave, but now he could hardly remember why that had been so.
Sands laughed, the sound of nails on a chalkboard. "Can't arrange any more coups, Jorge. No more secret agent crap. I suppose all that's left is reminiscing about my glory days and complaining about the sorry state of the world." He made a tight smile. "And that includes you, buddy."
Nothing was ever going to shut him up, Ramirez realized. The bitterness ran too deep. Sands was the kind of man who could win the lottery Saturday night and on Sunday morning bitch about having too much money. Nothing would ever make him happy. Nothing would ever silence his unending litany of dissatisfaction.
Nothing, except one hell of a shock.
Tequila singing in his veins, Ramirez grabbed Sands and dragged him forward. He swooped down and his nose bumped Sands'. He captured Sands' lips, bruising, punishing the mouth that never seemed to stop talking.
When he let go, Sands was not smirking anymore.
"Looks like I finally shut you up," he said in triumph.
"Only because you cheated," Sands said.
And then Sands lashed out and had hold of him, and before Ramirez could protest that he had only done it as a joke, Sands was kissing him again.
There was nothing gentle about that kiss. It tasted of blood and tequila, two things Ramirez would forever associate with Sands. It hurt his mouth and his gut. Fingers gripped his arms, leaving bruises he would not find until the next day. A lean stomach pressed against his belly, letting him know in no uncertain terms the effect the kiss was having on his adversary.
And surprise, surprise, his own blood was now racing. His cock rose to meet Sands'. He growled low in the back of his throat.
Sands tore his mouth free. "Now now, Jorge. Play nice."
"Fuck you," Ramirez panted.
Sands laughed cheerily. "If you insist."
They stumbled across the porch. Ramirez almost got the door open, then lost his grip on the handle as Sands' hand brushed across his crotch. Hissing with combined anger and pleasure, he fumbled at the door again and this time managed to get it open.
There were too many damn buttons, he thought. And it wasn't fair that Sands should be so good at undoing them even with no eyes. His own fingers wouldn't stop shaking.
Sands stalked him, moving with the grace of a large black jungle cat. He was forced to move backward through the rooms of the house that had become strangely unfamiliar. Surely he had never lived here before. Surely he was not meek Jorge Ramirez, former FBI agent. Surely he had become someone else, a stranger bold and daring, who had his tongue down another man's throat, a man he professed loudly and daily to hate.
In the door to his bedroom, he balked. "I don't--"
"Shut up, Jorge." Sands tugged his belt free of its loops and pushed him backward.
His legs touched the bed. His knees buckled.
Sands knelt over him. Dark hair framed his face. A bead of moisture pearled his lower lip. "You know you want it," he husked.
Ramirez could only nod. Sands could not see him, of course, but right now that scarcely mattered. All that mattered was his raging hard-on, and finding release.
Somehow his pants disappeared. The black jeans Sands wore every day wound up on the floor. Two pairs of boots clonked to the carpet. Completely naked with another human being for the first time in many years, Ramirez lay on his back and trembled with fear and need.
"Why, Jorge." Slim fingers tweaked a nipple. "What's this? Worried about what I'm going to do to you?"
"Shut up," Ramirez groaned. "Shut up. Just shut up."
"Shut up and kiss you? Isn't that usually how that sentence ends?" Sands leaned in, close enough that his breath warmed Ramirez's lips.
Ramirez arched upward, seizing Sands' mouth. Anything to make the man shut up. After all, that was why he had started this, wasn't it?
Hands roamed over his body. He groaned, needing, wanting.
It hurt a little, but he was beyond caring. His need was too strong. He growled and thrashed, and Sands wrapped a hand in his hair to hold his head still. When he came, he cried out loudly, but Sands remained silent even in his climax.
Afterward, Sands chuckled. "Well, if that wasn't inter-agency cooperation, I don't know what was."
Dazed with sex and too much tequila, Ramirez slurred, "You don't have to leave right away."
Sands just laughed again. Warm weight settled next to him on the bed. "Go to sleep, Jorge."
He was too drained to resist. He closed his eyes and fell instantly asleep.
He woke to bright morning sun and an empty house.
The only sign that Sands had ever been there was his prosthetic arm lying on the kitchen table. The fingers were all curled under, except the middle one, which stood up in a proud fuck-you.
Ramirez stared at it for several long minutes. Then he just threw back his head and laughed.
END