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OUaTiM Fanfiction
New fic...at Last 
10th-Oct-2005 10:48 pm
copperrose
Title: Pity
Author: Garnet
Pairing: El/Sands
Rating: PG probably (sorry)
Disclaimer: Don’t own em. Probably be dangerous to, if I did.
Notes: A short piece that came out of a weird ass mood. And I know its been a while since I wrote any OUATIM fanfic, but this one insisted on getting itself written.
Thanks: To Sheldon and the Muse.



Pity

by Garnet

Sometimes, he just liked to sit in the sun and think. His head tilted back and the heat beating down and the chickens scratching and pecking in the dirt around him and each breath rasping in and out and in and out until he lost track of what he was doing, why he was here, of everything really but the familiar flavor of his own brain doing what it did best. Puzzling things out, piecing them together, putting all those dominos in a row. It was one of the few pleasures left to him, after all.

Now wait just a freaking minute. Just who the fuck you trying to fool, huh? Cause you ain't fooling me, mister. It ain't thinking that's your thing these days, is it, is it? Its not thinking...not feeling, not...being. Not anything anymore. Got that in one. Got it right up your keister. Ah, yup. Right there, yah stupid fuckmook.

El thought he was more than a bit loco-not that those were his exact words, of course, El being a big more verbally flamboyant than that when he actually deigned to say anything at all-in sitting out in the sun like that when even a stupid Americano like him should know better, but then El tended to think he more than a bit loco in general and it wasn't as if El was the poster child for sanity if you wanted the real unvarnished truth.

And do you? Do you really?

Not that he was much interested in the truth, these days. Or even in the lies. Or in lies that insisted on going around pretending to be the truth all decked out in paint and feathers and with one of those funhouse smirks on their faces. He was all done with that or it was all done with him and what else was there, except to sit around in some dried up excuse for a town in the middle of Nowheresville, Mexico and get fat and lazy and even more useless than he already was.

Naw, you really don't care, do yah? And hell, why the fuck should you, you asswipe? You poor pitiful excuse for a humanfuckingbeing. You never cared before. Why change your tune now. It worked out so damn well for yah, didn't it? Well, didn't it? Damn straight, it did. It worked you right out of a job and a life and that sweet fucking retirement you had your eyes on...yeah, those eyes...why, you don't think that's funny anymore? You trying to tell me to shut up? Me? Give me a break.

Not that El ever came right out and asked him why he did what he did these days and not that he would tell the man if he did ask him. He had never explained himself before, so why change things now?

Sure, uh huh, got everything in your favor, got everything going for you, got the whole goddamn world beating down your door for a place in your back pocket.

Though it was simple really. It was while he sat there in the unrelenting heat of the Mexican sun that he sometimes could allow himself to fancy that there was still such a thing as light left somewhere in the world. Even one shiny shitty particle of it. One thing left to believe in, when all he used to believe in was himself.

So, tell me then, tell the truth for once in your worthless ass life. Pick a clue, any clue, and put it all together like you used to, like you were goddamn good at. Cause I can get rough with you if I hafta. Do you really think I give a rat's ass about your pain? Do you think anyone does?

So that when El finally would come out, mumbling under his breath, and drag his poor white ass back into the shade and press a glass of lukewarm piss-poor water into his hand and he would slowly drink it as the sweat ran down his back and into his empty eyeholes, sharp stinging heat and dust like razors in his sinuses, he would feel like maybe, just maybe, he could make it through another day, another week, another month...

Cause I will if I have to. Don't think I won't. I can be as big an asshole as you, you stupid shit. Bigger even. Don't think I can't. And I know all your secrets, ever last freaking one of them. Don't think I don't.

Well, until he curled up and died or went completely bugshit loco from the sun or turned so damn fat and lazy and impossibly useless that even El would finally figure out what was what and take the teensiest bit of pity on him and blow his freaking brains out with one of those big guns he always carried around in his back pocket.

Ah, shit...you mean that, doncha? Ah, shit. I hate this I hate this I really hate this...

"El..."

"Sands..." A clink, a jingle, an in-drawn breath as the glass is taken away, as El leans over him, close, so close, too goddamn close.

"Again..."

Closer still, close enough that it makes him want to scream, to run away, to hide, to do anything but what he is doing which is just sitting there waiting...wanting...needing...

The nothingness that comes as El kisses him, as he pulls him close, as he rides him over the edge of pleasure into outright pain and back again.

And all the voices stop, just for a little while.

Yeah...like that, just...like that... Jesus...Sheldon you like are so fucked up.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.

The heat beating down and the sun filling up all those empty holes and El filling up the ones that need filling even more, the ones that he can't stand being empty anymore, until he's so full that there is nothing left, nothing left to him at all, and only then...only then...

Can he believe.

Comments 
6th-Nov-2005 02:45 pm (UTC)
I'm really impressed by this and can only apologise for not wandering in here and commenting a lot sooner! I love the voice in his head that won't leave him alone, and I love the way you convey the misery of his situation, but also the way he's still a survivor, almost against his better judgement.

This is just wonderful:
Now wait just a freaking minute. Just who the fuck you trying to fool, huh? Cause you ain't fooling me, mister. It ain't thinking that's your thing these days, is it, is it? Its not thinking...not feeling, not...being. Not anything anymore. Got that in one. Got it right up your keister. Ah, yup. Right there, yah stupid fuckmook.

As is this. I love the way he's managing to disparage what he misses, at the same time as he's obviously missing it so very badly:
Though it was simple really. It was while he sat there in the unrelenting heat of the Mexican sun that he sometimes could allow himself to fancy that there was still such a thing as light left somewhere in the world. Even one shiny shitty particle of it. One thing left to believe in, when all he used to believe in was himself.

This is almost frightening:
Well, until he curled up and died or went completely bugshit loco from the sun or turned so damn fat and lazy and impossibly useless that even El would finally figure out what was what and take the teensiest bit of pity on him and blow his freaking brains out with one of those big guns he always carried around in his back pocket.

And I love this:
The nothingness that comes as El kisses him, as he pulls him close, as he rides him over the edge of pleasure into outright pain and back again.

And all the voices stop, just for a little while.


May I just point out a couple of typos?

Here, I think big should be bit:
El thought he was more than a bit loco-not that those were his exact words, of course, El being a bigbit more verbally flamboyant than that when he actually deigned to say anything at all-in sitting out in the sun like that when even a stupid Americano like him should know better, but then El tended to think he more than a bit loco in general and it wasn't as if El was the poster child for sanity if you wanted the real unvarnished truth.

And there's a letter missing here (ever should be every):
Cause I will if I have to. Don't think I won't. I can be as big an asshole as you, you stupid shit. Bigger even. Don't think I can't. And I know all your secrets, ever last freaking one of them. Don't think I don't.
7th-Nov-2005 01:50 am (UTC)
Am glad you liked the story and feedback is always welcome. As is pointing out typos...oops...

I can only seem to write OUATIM fic when Sands talks to me. And then its like he just spouts off and I have to struggle to keep up with him.

Thanks again!

CopperRose
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