Author's Notes: A little one-shot dedicated to El's short attention span. I mean, let's be honest, who hasn't watched that opening sequence and thought 'El… Where are you going?' Seems just like Sands to use that to his advantage, in my personal opinion. So here's my little fluff. There's not really any slash, unless you think them on the run together is slashy.
"… I just walked away."
"What the fuck? You were still sitting right here the last time I checked, dip-shit," Sands scoffed across the table of their current motel of the month. Sands had his legs sprawled out on the bed lazily and El had been sitting opposite of him in a ratty old chair where he had been playing guitar.
"He gave me the guitar to make sure it was in-tune and of good quality… I started playing…" El's voice trailed, "Then I just walked all around town playing it. When I got up to the top of the hacienda, Cucuy had gotten there and so… the man from my village, the one who gave me the guitar in the first place, was killed."
Sands could feel El's eyes on him now and he smirked, "Sounds like you-- to just walk off like that."
"… Who does that?" El borderline huffed with a pout Sands could practically imagine.
"You do," came Sands's helpful reply.
"Yeah, I know that," El grumbled, "But what the fuck was I thinking? He probably didn't want me to disappear for an hour to check his guitar over."
"If he gave you the guitar in the first place? He probably knew you well enough to know he wasn't getting it back immediately," the blind agent mused on the bed and he stretched like a lazy house-cat.
"Huh?" inquired El dumbly.
"Anybody who's had a conversation knows that you have major A.D.H.D.; therefore," Sands sat up and directed a sightless 'hah I'm so smart, bitch' gaze to the mariachi across from him, "he probably wasn't expecting your short attention span to let you remember 'oh, hey, this guitar kind of ISN'T mine'."
Sands shrugged and lied back down at the compliance.
"I don't have A.D.H.D.."
The black-clad American barked a condescending laugh, "Yes. Yes, you do."
"You just have an unusual amount of patience," El stubbornly insisted.
"It's to even out your lack of any patience," Sands informed him.
"I am very patient."
"I don't even want to have this conversation with you," Sands rolled away from him so his back was the only thing El saw.
"Because you're going to get distracted half-way through, due to you're A.D.H.D., and I'm going to be pissed that I won't be able to finish whatever marvelously witty thing I was going to have told you."
"How do you know you'd be about to say something witty?"
He's already forgot about being mad at me. I'm so dog-fuckingly smart.
"Because you're so cute; you're my muse of cleverness, El," Sands said sarcastically at the wall with such perkiness El had to re-run the words through his head before he realized Sands was just mocking the Mexican.
"Don't be a smart-ass."
"Better than being like you."
"And what would I be like, exactly?"
Was it over? Had El seen a lady-bug and lost interest once more?
"I'm going to get some food," El announced, standing up and setting the guitar down.
"Don't get lost on the way to the restaurant because you saw something shiny in the bushes and then promptly forgot why you went out in the first place, El," Sands chimed on the bed.
The door shut curtly and with a slight snap behind it like a cracking whip.
Well, damn. He's mad at me again.
The door opened again.
"You want something?" El asked.
"Damn straight," Sands popped up to his feet and headed out the door with his mariachi.
Thank you, El's A.D.H.D..