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Author: Guede Mazaka
Rating: PG
Pairing: El/Sands
Disclaimer: Never mine, always R. Rodriguez's, dammit.
Feedback: Yes, please. Whatever you can spare.
Summary: There are some things Sands shouldn't want to know. Gift drabble for lil_neko.
***
Backseat, springs all shot dead by at least a decade of hard use. It made for a lousy bed, only marginally improved once El snapped out of his groaning nightmare and stopped twisting about underneath Sands. "Hey, Bojangles. Strangle the goddamn boogeyman already and wake up. Tell me a bedtime story, or something."
"What? Why?" The mariachi sounded drowsy and disoriented, but Sands had stuck around long enough to know that those weren't sufficient reason to spare El. Not that he'd been planning to. He poked the clinking treble-noted idiot till El pinned his hands down and irritably savaged his mouth to bleeding. "Stories aren't real."
"Then tell me something that is." Sands slowly licked the copper-salt from his lips, smirking. "Come on. 'less you want to dream again?"
"Fine." El breathed hot, heavy air into the curve of Sands' neck, quietly scorching off the fine hairs there. "I can read the eyes of men."
A snicker lolled itself out of Sands' throat. "I don't have any."
When El shrugged, casual and indifferent, the undulating movement momentarily knocked Sands' sense of balance askew. "I know. But I've read them anyway. And I've read mine, everyday in the mirror."
"So? What'd you see in yours?" Sands asked idly, settling his head onto El's chest.
"Destruction."
"And in mine?"
El framed Sands' face with rough-skinned fingers, the balls of his thumbs very lightly stroking over the dead flesh plumping out Sands' sockets. The mariachi's voice smiled in the dark. "Judgment."
***