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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: R for imagery, language, violence--it's 'Mexico.' Put it that way.
Pairing: Sands/think about it. Reference to Sands/Ajedrez.
Feedback: Detailed comments beloved, but anything's welcome.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Oh, God, no.
Summary: The space between Sands getting eye-scooped and Sands walking out the door.
***
So he doesn't get off the table right away. Why the fuck should he? He's been skull-nutted, socket-fucked, blinded for God-fucking-sakes, and he has the bad feeling that it's not even special. Clear-headed with dizziness and whacked-out drugs, Sands realizes that Guevara wouldn't have gone through the trouble of locating the exact surgical instruments necessary for a proper blinding just for dear old Sheldie.
Ajedrez had called him that once. She didn't spit blood afterward, or hold her broken nose while staring wide-eyed irony-spewing betrayal at him. Nah. Sands isn't--wasn't--that crude. But she did regret it. And she'd never used it again. Not even when leaning over his squirmy paralysis and smiling so those lush lips stretched around her beta-wolf arrogance instead of around his cock.
bitch. literal. hate her, don't you?
Sands is still in the same position, watching nothing, feeling jelly slip right back into its former mold but not quite the right way, not quite the way it should've and goddamn it, if he ever hears Bill Cosby's damn jiggling again, he's going to take heads.
that's it. that's the ticket. little umbrellas in the drinks, fifteen mill in pesos, and beauty on the side. except not.
Hot air's blowing into his head, slipping past the paired plastic coffin lids they've thoughtfully left him and past the mangled optic nerves, and he can feel himself swelling from skull down. He's light as a feather, stiff as a board, some brat's plaything mutilated and abandoned by all except himself, the Old Bastard upstairs and the Fucker downstairs.
Sands isn't religious, exactly. It's just a feeling of dark dirt clotting his blood and shadows choking his mouth. It's just a stroke down, painful, from chest to hip to knee and back up again to fiddle with his eye-holes, and Christ, he's a fucking mask. Puppet with no insides, strings twanging hot and nasty and sharp now that the drugs are wearing off.
It's just Mexico. She does that to him.
arch into it. come on, play a little.
And poor little Ajedrez isn't ever going to get the chance to realize she's been outclassed. Smug bitch, condescension's going to be the...not downfall. Hell, be creative, darling.
Because after all, the worst trip in the world is the one through the looking-glass because then Sands can turn--
down on your knees your face and worship
--and he can see and he can know what he is, where he is, what fucking parts of him are shit and broken and moving jerkily along to the crawling faith-fucking reality that he's gotten himself into. Whereas Ajedrez babe's never, ever going to look at herself and get that scarifying degree of self-knowledge, never going to see Daddy's Italian cock-heeled shoes behind her little dyke tantrum, and she's going to die with that half-born nugget of truth cramming up her throat.
The thought makes Sands smile for a moment, and he staggers on, getting his legs and arms bashed and scraped and tumbled, opening his mouth to the gasping exhaustion and letting it slide all the fucking way down, eating the goddamn shit since it won't leave. And then he's out, street air teasing behind his shades to thoroughly hook his sockets into awareness, and he's blind.
But he knows. For once in this godawful mess of twistabouts and turn-overs, he's the one that knows.
sing to me, darling. sign the papers, join up and i'll always take care of you. promise.
***