Summary: Sands has a moment of weakness.

Pairings: None. Could be implied Sands/Other character if you use your imagination.

Rating: PG – nothing to racy. Slight language and a slight sexual reference.

Legal Stuff: Robert Rodriguez owns Sands. I own Colt and a pork roast.

Bonus points to anyone who can spot the Mort reference.


"I just had a bad day, alright? Can't you just leave it at that?"

Sands weighed his options. If he dropped the matter she would just get even more pissed that he 'didn't give a rat's ass about anyone but himself.' If he continued to pry, she'd turn all manner of violent, probably toward him.

"You know, withholding information from a federal officer is a serious offense." He had to keep himself amused somehow.

"You want a serious offense? If you don't get out of my…room, I swear to God…"

"My room too, ya know."

Colt collapsed on her bed, too emotionally exhausted to even threaten the bastard.

"Fuck it! If he wants to pester me I'll just ignore him. Piss him off, and he'll leave me be."

"She can't ignore me for long," Sands smirked to himself. He strode over to the bed, positioning himself so he stood over her.

"So that's it? You're just not going to talk to me? Not even a decent death threat? I'm disappointed in you sugarbutt."

Nothing. No response at all.

Shit. This was bad. Something had to be terribly wrong for the girl to not even take a swing at him. Sands crawled up on the bed beside the agent.

"Hey, come on Colt. What's the matter?" He slid his hand under her camisole, stroking her stomach. Something felt strange.

"Huh," he mused, "I never pegged you as a lace kind of girl."

"Why?" If Sands didn't already know better, he'd have sworn that the woman behind that voice wasn't capable of even imagining the things she had done to the fuckers who took his eyes.

"Well…you're not…girly. You don't act prissy, you're not afraid of bugs. You can break a man's neck with your bare hands and then shoot his brother's brains out. Lace just doesn't fit that image."

Colt gave a small laugh. She couldn't help but feel slightly better hearing Sands try to be nice. Just wasn't his cup of spiked tea.

"So what happened today to put you in such a peachy keen kinda mood?"

Sands had his head propped on his hand and was staring straight at Colt. Well, not so much staring as just seeming to listen. It did make it easier to talk when he was facing her. She could pretend that behind those glasses he still could see her. She sighed. "Work, some really sleazy men hitting on me, cash flow depleting, cartel still chasing us, mugging, and p.m.s. Sometimes things just get to a girl." Colt decided Sands needed no more details; she really didn't feel like reliving the little slice of hell that had been her day.

"Don't worry about money. If we need anything, we'll get it. Just leave it to me."

Sands was taken off guardwhen Colt rolled over on her side and curled up into his body.

"Just don't say anything, alright." A statement, not a question. "Just," Colt sighed, "I need…somebody…just…hold me."

Colt knew better than to say things like that to this man. She knew he'd be a prick about her lapse of emotional strength. Hell, he'd probably torment her for simply having emotions. But to her surprise, he did nothing. Didn't move, didn't speak. Just held her like she asked.

"Shit," Colt thought, "he's probably laying there thinking…scheming. I really don't feel like being analyzed by this sociopath. Then again, maybe I need to be. After all, I was the one who started flirting with him. Was it flirting? I didn't just come on to a murderer, did I? No…no…that's ridiculous. I've just got a death wish is all. I just can't take all this shit anymore, and I want him to…"

Colt tensed as Sands moved. "It's alright. I'm not gonna hurt you. Not this time at least." He began stroking her hair, cradling the young woman who had taken him under her wing.

Colt was severely confused. This was not Sands. Sands did not hug her; Sands cursed and plotted and demeaned. He did not comfort.

"You've got very soft hair; very pretty. I like it braided like this."

"I'll remember not to do that anymore then."

"You don't have to be nasty. I won't talk anymore if that's what you want." He let go of Colt, but she reached out for him.

"No. Don't…keep talking."

Sands grinned evilly as he wrapped his arms around his fellow agent. Colt rested her head under his chin. "That's new. You're usually telling me to shut up."

"You're usually being a bastard."

"That's my job. That's how I've made it this far. It's better if you've got no close attachments."

"But…don't you ever get lonesome?"

"I've got the voices in my head to keep me company. Who could ever ask for more?"

A long pause. Colt had never heard Sands talk about his insanity, no matter how apparent it sometimes seemed. It made her feel for him: something other than hatred and annoyance. Remorse? Grief? Pity?

Sands cleared his throat. "Who are you?"

"Huh?" The woman was snapped back to the present situation.

"Well, it seems like we're going to be sticking together for the time being and it has occurred to me that I know jack shit about you, while you, in turn, know several things from my wallet. I don't like the situation…makes me feel icky."

Colt wasn't quite sure she knew as much as Sands thought. His CIA badge just gave the generalizations.

Sheldon Jeffrey Sands


Dec. 12, 1970

The only other things in his wallet were cash and a package of mustard. She wasn't sure exactly what she was supposed to have deduced from that.

"What's your name?"

"What does it matter?"

"You know mine. It's only fair."

Had it not been for Sands absent-mindedly rubbing Colt's upper back so very sweetly, the girl might have flatly declined. Instead, she decided she could give a little.

"Lynne Marie Scott."

"Why Colt?"

"Why Sands?"

"Completely different. You've got a very nice, normal name. I am a pet turtle."

Colt had to laugh. The image of a murdering turtle with greasy near-black hair ran through her mind. When she stopped giggling, she explained her name to the terrapin.

"I got a Colt .45 when I was 16, and it hasn't left my side yet. During my CIA training, people starting calling me Colt. It made me…fit in a little better. I was just 'one of the guys.' It didn't make them feel any less ashamed when I excelled beyond them though. So it just stuck. And it's a hell of a lot more kick-ass than Lynne."

"Mmm." Lynne thought the conversation was done with that reply, and was partially correct. Given several minutes however, Sands spoke. "You know, I've only seen you once."

Shit. What was Colt supposed to say to that? 'Sorry'? Somehow that didn't quite seem to be enough.

"I don't know what to say." Honesty. "I — you didn't deserve — you don't deserve…"

"Shh." Sands shook his head, and Colt understood pity was not the right path to be treading down. Sands let go of her and pushed her away slightly. Colt thought she had pissed him off, but then she understood.

Sands' fingertips were exploring her face. They ran along the woman's high cheekbones and over her nose. He traced her jaw line, from the bottom of her ear to her chin and back.

Colt was now stunningly aware of her clothing situation. She had been getting ready for bed and consequently was wearing nothing more than a lacy camisole and a pair of boy shorts panties. And she was still excruciatingly close to Sands. Right now his thumb was brushing over her bottom lip, a touch lighter than she ever could have dreamed coming from him. He cupped her face in his hands and ran his thumbs over her cheekbones again. "Oh God. This is too much," she reflected. Colt was getting thoroughly aroused; she could feel her panties beginning to get damp. She had to stop this — had to regain control.

Sands kissed her eyelids: first her left, then her right. He let his mouth linger, allowing for Colt's eyelashes to brush his lips as her eyes opened.


Sands' voice cracked, "What color are they?"

Colt was holding Sands now. She fought to keep her composure. "Green."

She was going to cry. "Please God, don't let me cry. Not when he can't. I don't want to hurt him. Not anymore."

Sands cleared his throat. "Right." He took a deep breath, but his words still did not come out as nonchalant as he hoped. "Well then. If you're done with this little girly 'hold me' spell, I'm going out. I can only take so many of your whimpy emotions in one day."

Colt was relieved, albeit, only faintly. She was glad she didn't have to deal with a broken Sands, but she also knew bottling everything inside was going to make the man explode. And that scared her.

Sands was out the door before Colt could protest. She wanted to hold him — wanted to be held by him. But there was nothing she could do to help him. Not tonight at least.

Colt laid down and cried herself to sleep.

Author's Notes: This got a little sappy here and there, didn't it?

I'm sorry…I hate how this ends, too. It's not my fault. Sands doesn't want to be helped — he just wants to be a bastard. I couldn't stop him.

Comment/review! Pretty please. I think there might be more to this trivial little story, but I need feedback! Suggestions for this or any story you'd like me to work on would be greatly appreciated! Gracias.