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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG.
Pairing: Sands/El
Disclaimer: Characters not mine.
Notes: Crossover with Norse myth. For rokeon.
Summary: Breaking the cycle.
***
Some days, when the heat shimmer in the air’s wide as an old señora’s ass, Sands starts to feel himself melt. Slip and slide, flicker into the light boiling his skin that he doesn’t quite recognize and yet does. It should be colder, somehow.
Except the air isn’t. It’s parching, dry, warping, and it’s the cold metal on his wrists and propping up his back that is freezing. He’s been here before, too. So was she, silently enjoying the torture of helping just enough to give a respite—the damnable hope of a moment of relief—but she’s gone now. He’s here instead, and he...looks different, if Sands can use that word for the ripples in his head. Feels different, anyway. Talks less and softer, moves closer to the ground, lets his rage speak for itself instead of telling it to all and sundry. Only his guns speak with the same kind of thunder.
“And how’s your wife?” Sands bites off, slouching against the car. “How’s that necklace? Still the greatest treasure in the land?”
El is blacker on black, a shadow wavering in the blindness that was the punishment for going too far too fast this time. As such things go, it’s better than poison and thwarted blood. But not by much. Real better would be getting out of the cardboard cut-out, really doing what he wants instead of playing to some grand old scheme till the irony just crams his throat solid.
“I just want to play,” El finally says, and there’s the glimmer of music behind the dull heavy words.
And like that, the cuffs come off. Rubbing his wrists, Sands presses up close, and he’s happy to find that El is not leaning away. “Makes two of us. Wanna rewrite the ending, darling?”
***