Title: Good Time at Your Expense

Author: Wilchel

Disclaimer: I don't own Once Upon a Time In Mexico, or the characters. Forgive me if my Spanish isn't right, I'm working with limited knowledge here, but I'm still pretty damn proud of myself.

Fandom: Once Upon A Time In Mexico

Medium: Fan Fiction

Genre: General

Pairing: El/Sands - (For Death Note fans - while I was writing it, I kept putting 'L' instead of 'El' because I am a horrible person. In the end I realized they actually are similar to the LxLight pairing, because - oh fml.)

Characters: El, Sands, mentions the Chiclet kid =/

Theme: 'abc 123' - this sort of prompt was really hard, given the pairing. I'm not exactly sure if it really has anything to do wtih the fic, but whatever.

Rating: T/PG-13

Warnings: Slash, swearing

Author's Notes: EVEN THOUGH I'VE SHIPPED THESE GUYS FOR LIKE EVER I've never taken the time to write fic about them. So here we go! One of the two fics I handwrote this weekend and then took the time to type out when I got home. I'm a fucking saint, rite 8D P.S. By the time I actualyl got back to finishing the whole typing process as far as this fic goes, I'd written it like a month prior. FAIL. Also, as I reached the end I realized that this fic had NO POINT, but whatever. Enjoy, please?

They were in bed when El finally 'popped the question'. Only, not the question you're thinking.

"Do you ever...?" El's words hung in the air, unfinished.

"Do I ever what, señor son of a bitch?" Sands retorted, annoyed at El's unfinished sentence.

"Miss him?" El continued, finally.

"Who?" Sands asked, his voice rising. El had grown used to Sands's impatient persona, so his rudeness - which would have fazed him, no doubt, just the month before - was normal to him now. He had, of course, already come to terms with the fact that he could never call Sands his 'friend' - and it wasn't so much that he wanted to call him his friend (or even be his friend). It just felt obligatory to call him his friend, if he couldn't call him his 'lover', or 'fuck-buddy', or whatever they really were to each other.

"The kid," El clarified. He didn't know much about him. Only that he had acted like a 'seeing eye dog' for Sands. Until El had went out of his way to find him, of course.

(Could 'the kid' be considered a friend of Sands's? El doubted it, knowing him, but -)

What was he thinking? He wasn't jealous of a child. He couldn't be. Sands wasn't that important.

"Chiclet, you mean?" Sands asked.

(He has a name?)

"If that's his name," El responded, his throat suspiciously dry. He felt the sudden need for something to drink - just so he wouldn't choke on air.

"Not his name," was Sands's muttered response, although he offered no more details to his already limited explanation of the name. An awkward silence followed - something that was not common with Sands around. Both the awkward-ness and the silence. "Why do you ask?"

That was a great question, actually, and El didn't have a clue how to respond. He bit his lip, for once in his life not having a clue and being uncomfortable with the idea. "Can't I just ask a question?" he asked defensively.

For a moment, El thought Sands was staring at him, until he remembered that Sands couldn't actually see.

"No," Sands retorted. El flinched, although he wasn't entirely sure why. Maybe it was disappointment that he wouldn't actually be able to learn anything about the Central Intelligent Agency's finest nutcase, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. But then again, what did he expect? This was Sands of all people. If he knew anything about him, he'd probably be disappointed anyway.

As far as El was concerned, he wanted to believe his version of Sand's life was true.

Once upon a time, it began, or maybe not, because he was pretty sure Sands didn't even deserve a 'once upon a time'. But it didn't really matter, maybe, because it was just a story.

Regardless, El was sure that Sands had grown up in some American state that nobody really cared about, where everything was completely different from Mexico. Like Alaska, maybe, because he was pretty sure that, with its small population, that's where Sands started to talk to himself so goddamn much.

Another guess was Las Vegas - to him it would make a lot of sense if his mother had been a stripper who didn't come home every night. As for his father, a gambling addict who used the belt on Sands every time the slot machines didn't turn in his favor. Most likely, his name had been his mother's idea, also.

Sands had probably run away at a young age, and probably lived in an orphanage, where all the kids pissed him off. So he would castrate them or - fuck them?

El liked to believe that Sands had at least one redeeming quality, and that was his intelligence. Well, he had to be, obviously, because he was sure the CIA wouldn't hire a dumbfuck. What's worse, a corrupt dumbfuck. So it was logic that told him that Sands was a corrupt genius - more of the former, obviously.

Sands had most likely raped someone, or broke protocol like the madman he is, and ran to Mexico so they couldn't find him, or arrest him. Of course, since he still had his badge, Sands just made up some lie about having a legit reason to be here in Mexico. And he lived happily ever after, except his eyes were torn out of his head.

So there it was, albeit shortened and sweetened, but still El's idea of Sands's life.

He knew it was mostly bullshit; but he had to have some idea about someone he'd spent as long of time with as he had currently been spending with Sands. Otherwise, he only knew that Sands liked to be on top more than the bottom, and he wouldn't let El take his sunglasses off during sex.

None of that seemed to be enough, however. And El had never been so bothered by someone's personal history before.

"What are you thinking about?" The words caught El off guard since it just didn't seem like a question he had ever expected a person like Sands to ask.

That and, come to think of it, Sands was generally just not a very question-oriented person. It made sense, actually, for El to assume that he was just too full of himself to admit that he needed to ask a question.

Maybe, however, this situation's question didn't offer the same instability as other questions would.

Unless he looked at it -

(Shut up, you fucking pansy. There's no unless. There is no jealousy.)

"What?" he managed to finally ask, thinking that he had maybe just heard Sands wrong. And, of course, that made lots of sense. He had been mid-thought when Sands had interrupted him, anyway.

Besides, what would he tell him if that had, in fact, been what Sands had said?

"I said," that you're an asshole, "what are you thinking about?"

"Damn," El muttered, feeling cornered.

"What was that?" Sands asked, urging El to give him a coherent response. He cupped his hand around his ear.

"I said," El snarled, "that I think you're an asshole." (Just repeat what you wanted him to say, smart one.) "All I did was ask about the kid, I mean, Jesus Christ Sands -"

"Señor son of a bitch," Sands interrupted, using that stupid name again, "I just really don't feel it's necessary to talk about him."

"Jesus Christ!" El repeated. "¡Acabo de me ayudar! Acabo de querer saber que no tú estás -"

"No hablas español, El," Sands interrupted.

El stopped, as he had barely realized he had been speaking Spanish. "Hablo," he suddenly corrected Sands, even surprising himself. He usually let Sands just sound like an idiot when it came to his Spanish.

"What?" Sands asked.

"It's, 'no hablo español'," L said quickly. "You were telling me that I don't know Spanish."

El half expected to hear Sands say that El probably didn't know Spanish, and he was a hypocrite for critiscizing him. Instead, Sands quickly said "you're not my fucking Spanish teacher, El. I'd rather talk about Chiclet than deal with this shit."

"You walked right into that one, Sands." El grinned. "Ahora, pienso tú tienes me decir -"

"What the fuck is it you want to know about him, El?"

"Anything," El said, "y sé que tú estás un muy simpático person, Sands, y que -"

"Shut the fuck up," Sands sai quickly. "He tried to sell me bubblegum. Before, I mean - " Silence. "He just happened to be there after - and I don't know. He wasn't very smart, I don't think. Didn't know his ABC's from his 123's - but maybe not. He only spoke - why am I telling you this?"

Well, it hadn't really been as dramatic of a story as El had expected. However, he now couldn't complain about knowing nothing about Sands. Sort of.

"Because I wanted you to tell me about him."

Sands scowled at him, and El found himself wondering why he had given up so easily. That was so unlike him; he should have been blabbering in Spanish for an hour before Sands had given in.

He would have blamed it on his sour mood, until he remember that Sands was always in a sour mood. Was it possible that the emotionless Sheldon Jeffrey Sands had reached a point where he actually wanted to talk about his past?

You're just over analyzing everything, El, his conscious berated him. You're a fucking pansy, you know that?

He did know that, of course. He just didn't want to admit it. Mostly not to himself, and never to Sands.

"Stop that," Sands said suddenly, his voice coming out in a low growl. El lifted his chin so he could see Sands, rolled over on his side, facing him. The way Sands acted - his body language - El frequently forgot he couldn't see.

"Stop what?" El asked.

"Thinking," Sands hissed, like it was a bad thing.

"I think quite a lot, Sands," El said quickly, suppressing a laugh. "I don't know why its so unnerving all of a sudden.

"Because, otherwise, you always hum some stupid lullaby when you think, El. You're not even this quiet in your sleep."

"Shut up," El retorted, doing the only thing that would make Sands be quiet. He leaned forward, pushing his lips against Sands's, knowing the man enjoyed it far more than he pretended to.

Sands was unresponsive until El moved himself closer to him - to make himself more comfortable, that's it. Before he knew it, however, Sands fingers were clasped around his wrist, pushing him away.

At first El was disappointed. That was until he realized he was being pushed down into the mattress, not away.

As soon as Sands had found a presumably comfortable position on top of him, he hissed El's ear, "fuck you."

"Oh yea?" was El's thoughtless response, earning a shove farther downwards into the mattress.

"You know I like to be on top."