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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R for themes. BDSM
Pairing: Fideo gen, but implied El/Sands.
Disclaimer: Never mine, always R. Rodriguez's, dammit.
Notes: //words// in Spanish.
Feedback: Yes, please. Whatever you can spare.
Summary: Fideo and Sands discuss their common denominator. Gift ficlet for madam_h in return for LJ help.
***
//You want me to watch him?// Fideo called after the retreating back.
El barely slowed as he shook his head, shoulders jerking so much that the negative was almost completely hidden. Fideo shrugged and slouched into the next room's doorframe to check out the damage. New dents in the floor and wall. Crescent spritz of blood over the table, which really could be from either of them. Arms wrenched behind his back, which was propped up against one metal bedpost, Sands smirked up from the middle of it, his teeth for once as white as they should be. "Your friend's pretty lame for a killer."
"You're hurting." Fideo examined the bottle in his hand and found it mysteriously empty. He tossed it over Sands' head, ignoring the clink of handcuffs, and had another one to his lips before the one had settled into the overflowing trashcan. "You weren't before. When you two were fighting."
"No. Fucking. Shit." The smile finally cracked, plinked shards with every kick that Sands made. "Your goddamned plastic-gun country's all like that-that mariachi. Music on the weekends, criminal doings for the weekdays. You go to Church and think you're absolved with a little water and a priest that's probably higher up on the payroll, you fuck your neighbor's wife and think it's fair when he throws a shotgun blast in your face over your diamond pinky ring. You follow a psychotic grief-deranged shit like El because he's the closest damned thing you've got to a hero, and then you ignore-"
The gun didn't shake. Fideo's vision was shot to hell, but his hands were all right. And his senses were still too sharp, despite the poison eating out his veins. "I don't ignore you."
"Yeah?" Sands' face turned slyly shy, cocked so the light touched upon frail cheekbones and blank eyelash-fringed flesh. "You don't?"
"No," Fideo laughed, switching metal for more tequila. "I hate you, you little blind prettyboy. We hurt because we're not done breaking. And he can't finish with me if he's busy with you. Bastard."
He drained the bottle, then stood there and felt the stinging antiseptic wash him raw.
***