Fic: OUaTiM/Red Eye X-over
Title: United States of Fuck-ass Cold
For: yuna_firerose
Fandoms: Red Eye/Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Pairing: Jackson Rippner/Sands
Rating: NC-17
The request: winter, domination, stalking, pre Red Eye amateur!Jackson
Warnings: Murder, sex, swearing, Sands.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine. The wacky crossover is entirely my fault.
Notes: I found this request in my files of shit I never got around to writing and since YF is in need of teH pettin’s and slashy goodness, I finished it. For the sake of getting this done fast with little spare time I did some weird shit with structure, I hope it works.
Jackson, according to law, was dead. The medical reports said he’d died of a heart-attack at age nineteen and that he’d been autopsied to rule out suspicious death. The attack had been natural and his remains had been cremated, the ashes scattered.
In reality, Jackson was very much alive, was twenty years of age and was freezing his ass off, standing outside by a cheap little diner, wishing he’d brought warmer gloves and waterproof shoes. Michigan, of all the crappy states in the USA, was a real hellhole in the winter. The roads were icy and half the time Jackson felt as though he was driving blind the snow was so thick. He was sick of roadside diners, streets with no lights on them and sleeping in his car when the temperatures were so incredibly low that he woke up with his skin numb from cold.
He was also quite bewildered. Faking his own death had been incredibly easy, a little slip into the system and some forged paperwork and he was dead, dead, dead, without ever breaking a sweat. However, according to the paperwork, the man he was following didn’t exist at all and never had.
Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, currently inside the diner, eating grits and drinking shitty coffee - same as always - had no birth or death certificate. His phone never had any bills. His credit card led to a dead end and a fake company and a fake name. No one Jackson spoke to knew anything about who Sands was or where he had come from, but the trucker disguise usually made him unidentifiable because there were a thousand men with dirty checkered shirts and baseball caps. Those that could remember Sands were of the general consensus that he was a lousy tipper, drank PBR, smiled like the joke was on them, and had a stupid moustache, but Jackson had seen Sands without any disguise on, and the moustaches were all fake. But none of that was important, because without any paperwork, without any real facts, Jackson had nothing to go on.
The rig that Sands was driving was pretty non-descript, no company logos on it, a license plate that changed every few days and good enough locks on the back that Jackson hadn’t been able to break into it without doing noticeable damage.
He watched for a second or two as Sands paid his bill, in cash, as usual, and then hid around the corner as Sands got into the rig and vanished up into the sleeping loft before Jackson crept into the diner to defrost. From inside the warm diner, the weather outside looked even worse and Jackson surreptitiously kicked his shoes off under the table so he could dry out his socks a little. His hair dripped snow down his collar so he used the napkins to towel his hair down and then ordered coffee and a huge stack of pancakes from the frumpy, disapproving waitress.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be out here alone?” she asked, snapping her gum. Her inch long acrylic nails clashed with her uniform; her uniform was pink and her nails a red-rust color, like the color of dried blood.
Jackson gave her a hard look. “No.” He didn’t elaborate and she eventually went and got his pancakes while he shaved in the bathroom and washed himself as best he could in the sink. He changed his underwear and his shirt, but he’d run out of clean socks, so he simply held them under the dryer until they felt wearable again and then did the same for his shoes.
He ate his pancakes and drank terrible filter coffee with as much sugar as he could get into it, and then retreated back to the damp cold of his car which already had an inch of snow and ice on the windshield. If he was really unlucky he’d find himself snowed in the next morning, but so far he’d managed not to get totally stuck, a little digging not withstanding. Jackson curled up in the backseat, wrapped in his duvet and tried to pretend that his breath wasn’t steaming inside the car, or that his teeth weren’t chattering. It didn’t take him very long to fall asleep, but it was an uneasy sleep, and he dreamed of a desert which was freezing cold and a scorpion that crawled out of his throat and ate a blind cat. It was followed by the recurring nightmare he had where his parents crawled out of their graves and followed him everywhere he went, not hindering him or attacking him, just following and staring.
Jackson was awoken rather abruptly by a cold blast of air and a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. He tried to struggle but he was sluggish from the cold and tangled in the blanket. The only light was the neon CL SED of the diner’s sign and it cast his assailant’s face in lurid green and red. His assailant was also his quarry; Sands, face set in hard lines, smiled grimly and Jackson thought to say something but Jackson didn’t have more than a moment before Sands’ other hand clamped down over his throat and Jackson was dragged out into the snow. He shouted, suddenly feeling more afraid than ever before in his life but the leather of the glove and the tightness of Sands’ grip muffled the sound entirely. The parking lot was deserted except for Sands’ rig and Jackson’s own car and no one in the diner was going to risk their necks to help him.
Sands dropped him and kicked him in the stomach before Jackson could cry out, and the blow knocked the wind out of him. He tried to get his limbs coordinated but Sands dragged him up by the shoulder and stuck a needle in his neck.
Jackson only had one moment of panic left before his vision started to swim and he fell unconscious in the snow.
“Welcome back, kid.”
The acrid tang of hand-rolled cigarettes hit Jackson’s senses first, the meaning of the words behind the smooth drawl coming later. He tried opening his eyes but everything was still black and the warm weight across his face indicated a blindfold. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he was also tied down, but Jackson attempted a futile struggle anyway. He was flat on his back, wrists and ankles cuffed down to something, god only knew what.
“You almost had me going for a while.” Now the voice was mockingly kind. “I very nearly didn’t notice the same clapped out old banger following me from state to state, especially since you’re not so easy to spot yourself.” The blindfold was ripped off Jackson’s eyes and Sands grinned down at him, cigarette clamped between his teeth. “Not with those baby blue peepers.” He dropped the blindfold and sucked on the cigarette. “You’re pretty spry for a dead man, eh Jackie boy?”
Jackson swallowed to get rid of the sawdusty taste in his mouth. “Jackson.”
Sands leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “So long as you’re where you are, and I’m where I am, I think you get whatever name I pick.”
Now that the blindfold was off, Jackson could see exactly where he was being held captive. It wasn’t all that reassuring to realize that it was the inside of Sands’ rig. The interior was rather sparsely decorated with a small kitchen table and two chairs, a generator, a space heater, a mini-fridge, a computer station and a bed, all bolted to the floor. It was equally unreassuring since Sands was seated on one of the chairs and Jackson was currently strapped down to the bed in his boxers and undershirt.
“Jackson Rippner.” Sands, without any of his disguises, down to black jeans and a black shirt, was a rather more daunting sight than Jackson had been anticipating. “What’d you do in a past life to deserve that one?”
“Sheldon?” Jackson fired back and then wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Now, now, let’s not go pointing fingers,” Sands said smoothly. “I’m more interested in what it is you want. See, a stalker, a real stalker, would think my name the bestest in the whole wide world. And a real stalker wouldn’t be…” He picked up a manila file from the table and started flicking through it. “Wouldn’t be dead as of last year, parents deceased - I’m going to take a figurative stab in the metaphorical dark and say murdered - and be driving an unlicensed vehicle. Cute graduation photo by the way. So either you’ve got a grudge to settle or some other motive altogether. Since I’ve never seen you before in my life, and I don’t know anyone connected to you, I’m guessing it’s not a grudge.”
Jackson bit his lip and thought about lying. The gun at Sands’ hip and the look on his face convinced Jackson that now might be the time for the truth he had been rehearsing. “I’m not dead,” he said and then winced. He carried on before Sands could say anything. “But I am Jackson Rippner and yes, I did kill my parents.”
Sands raised his eyebrows. “Well that’s charming. But I knew that.”
“I want to join you.” The whole speech Jackson had been preparing on the off-chance that Sands was really the type of man he wanted to be looking for was falling horribly flat and he was screwing it up in such a spectacular fashion. “I mean-”
“You have no idea what you mean,” Sands cut in. “You should be drinking too much beer in a frat house and trying to get into some freshmen’s pants. Get ‘em while they’re thin, as the expression goes.”
Jackson struggled to sit up but the cuffs held tight and he subsided with a frustrated groan. “I killed myself to get where I am,” he snarled. “And I’m ready for the rest.”
Sands blew out a thoughtful stream of smoke. “That’s a funny thing to say to man while you’re strapped to his bed.” He got up and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray shaped like a marijuana leaf. “Who exactly do you think I am?”
“All I know is that you don’t exist and that three states ago you shot a man and since then you’ve paid off two more.” Jackson tried very hard not to squirm as Sands climbed on to the bed and straddled his hips, settling down on Jackson’s thighs. “I want to do what you do.”
Sands laughed, genuine mirth on his face. “You need a more than doctored papers to get into the CIA, pumpkin. And not killing your parents might have been a better start.”
Jackson’s stomach hollowed out. “Oh,” he said. “Oh shit.”
“Something like that.” Sands poked at the spot where he’d stuck the needle into Jackson’s neck. The muscles were sore and tender and Jackson bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing. “Normally that would mean a one way trip to death row, but this is your lucky day. Say the magic words and I can make this bad dream into something that won’t have you picking up the soap.”
“I’ll do anything.”
Sands’ smile was positively feral. “You catch on quick.” He leaned over Jackson and then, much to Jackson’s surprise, uncuffed him from the bed. “You were wet and, truth be told, cupcake, kind of stinky, so your clothes are being washed.” Sands climbed off of Jackson and went back to his chair. “You can have them back later.”
Jackson sat up and pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. It was plenty warm in the room because of the heater, but Sands was staring at him and it was making Jackson’s flesh goosepimple.
“CIA?” he asked finally.
One corner of Sands’ mouth quirked up. “Sometimes.”
*~*~*~*
Jackson’s life becomes surreal.
*~*~*~*
Sands doesn’t introduce him to anyone. Jackson is allowed to tag along in the rig, and he’s Jackie-girl and Cupcake, sugarlips and good girl, and all that means is he’s Sands’ bitch, getting the coffee, doing the laundry, riding shotgun and making sure good music is always on and that the GPS isn’t fucking with them.
“If possible, please make a U-turn, my tight keister,” Sands complains and rummages through the glove box (One guns, thirty four fake IDs, one old Snickers bar, a strip of expired condoms, three elastic bands, half a pack of Kleenex, tobacco and rolling papers and half a dozen badly folded maps) to hand Jackson the roadmap. They’re not on the right highway. Sands makes the damn U-turn.
They go to New Jersey, Jackson waits in the van while Sands talks to shadow figures. Jackson argued about it in Pennsylvania and Sands just looked at him over the top of his sunglasses and asked him if he wanted to get out or what. No joke, none of his crude humor, and Jackson caved.
Jackson puts up and shuts up for Sands like he’s never done for anyone else. Sands says jump and Jackson is learning to already know how high.
They go to Maine and it’s bitter cold, Sands buys Jackson better gloves. He fills the van up with smoke from cigarettes that Jackson has handrolled for him and shows Jackson how to hack the government. Young Grasshopper and Young Padawan and Boy. Sands starts kicking Jackson’s ass, outside, in the fuck-ass cold. Shows him how to fight, how to throw or block a punch, how to break a man’s neck, how to knife fight. He puts Jackson on his ass every time.
Jackson has an enormous crush on Sands, he can’t help it. Sands is ridiculous and dangerous and he looks really fucking good in black jeans and a t-shirt. Jackson stops caring about what he wanted and wants nothing more than Sands will give him. Except for the part where he wants Sands, and Sands doesn’t seem inclined to take what Jackson’s been trying to subtly offer.
They go to Washington, Montana, North Dakota. Sands turns on Jackson, breaks him down with nothing but words and when Jackson is afraid of him and at the same time desperate for his attention, Sands sits down with him and points out the lesson in psychology that has just happened. Jackson feels like an idiot. He sits on the edge of the bed and is furious with himself that he failed to figure out what Sands was doing, that it worked and that even though he’s embarrassed and angry and all sorts of things, he’s also distracted because Sands’ jeans are really tight and he can see the line of Sands’ cock and his mouth floods with saliva. He wonders if Sands would punch him if he went to his knees and sucked his dick.
They go back to Maine. It’s still cold and Sands bitches but doesn’t seem to feel it. He buys a six pack of good beer, a bottle jaegermeister, and a bottle of red wine and gets Jackson drunk. Jackson wakes up the next morning with a hangover that could kill an elephant, spends an hour puking his guts out and has the uncomfortable feeling that he managed to slur out that Sands could fuck him and he really wouldn’t mind, some time just before he passed out. Sands doesn’t mention it.
Sands takes Jackson to a meeting. Doesn’t introduce him at all, just lets Jackson shadow him, watch him mind-fuck people stupid enough to think they’re the ones doing the mind-fucking. Watches Sands kill a man.
They go to Illinois which might be even more miserable than Maine and Michigan, but it’s a tough contest. Sands introduces Jackson as Saucy Jack and Leather Apron, and on one occasion Rip Torn. Sands tries to teach Jackson how to shoot. Jackson sucks at it, Sands rolls his eyes and they go back to knife fighting.
They go to Ohio.
*~*~*~*
Sands pulls a rubber band out of his pocket and ties his hair back. “You still want to bump uglies?” he asks, unconcerned and Jackson spits his coffee halfway across the formica table of the shitty little diner they’re eating in.
They go back to the rig. Jackson’s hands are shaking so bad he has trouble getting his buttons undone. He lies back, naked on the bed and Sands sits in a chair and smokes a cigarette, just looking at him.
“Jerk yourself off,” Sands says, like they’re talking about the weather. He blows smoke out of his nose and watches Jackson. “I want you to get yourself off and then open yourself up. Use your jizz for lube.”
Jackson comes so hard it almost hurts. He expects Sands to say something cruel about stamina but Sands just shucks his shirt over his head and unbuttons his jeans. Jackson can see the head of Sands’ cock in the V of the fly of his jeans. He fucks himself open on his own fingers while Sands lazily strokes himself, content to watch. Jackson’s never done this before and his thighs shake and his shoulder muscles feels strained from the position. He’s already getting hard again. Sands barely blinks, the harsh lights making his brown eyes look black.
Sands stubs out his cigarette and gets on the bed. He kisses Jackson, tangles his hand in his hair and pulls Jackson’s head back so he can chew his way up Jackson’s throat, leaving bruises and pushes a finger of his other hand in to Jackson, twisting and Jackson isn’t sure he’s ready for this after all. Sands lays him on his back again and pulls his wrists up over his head, presses them down and tells him to keep them there and Jackson’s sure again. Sands doesn’t even take his jeans off all the way, just shoves them down his hips and pushes his cock into Jackson. It’s a little too dry and a little sudden for a man who’s never had a dick in his ass before but Sands licks away the moisture when Jackson can’t relax and his eyes start watering.
Sands calls him Jackson and leaves bruises on his hips and wrists. He fucks Jackson open and loose until Jackson’s panting and trying so hard not to move his hands but it’s not easy when all he wants to do is clutch at Sands’ back and mark him up the same way Sands is doing to him.
Jackson comes again when Sands tells him to and does move his hands then, gripping Sands’ shoulder and the back of his neck as Sands fucks him through his orgasm, until he’s whimpering from the overstimulation. Sands shoves into him one last time and shudders before pulling out and rolling over, reaching out a hand to snag another cigarette.
“Oh my God,” Jackson says when he can do more than just gasp for air. Sands puffs out smoke rings and offers a drag to Jackson.
“If you’re still talking,” Sands says, “we’re not done. Gimme half an hour and a beer.”
*~*~*~*
Jackson kills a man and remembers how much he likes it. He and Sands fuck three feet away from the corpse, Jackson bent over the arm of a sofa. He leaves teeth marks in his own arm from trying not to scream and Sands leaves teeth marks on Jackson’s neck and shoulders. They go to another building and kill three more men with Sands’ come still slick on Jackson’s thighs.
Sands lets Jackson talk to the contacts and watches as Jackson mind-fucks people stupid enough to think they’re the ones doing the mind-fucking. They’re unstoppable.
They go to Wisconsin and everything changes.
Sands tells Jackson he’s going to Mexico on assignment. He introduces Jackson to what he calls The Company and it’s not the secret service. Jackson goes out and gets drunk and punches a wall and breaks two fingers. Sands calls him an idiot and bandages his fingers and lets Jackson curl around him in bed that night. He gets on the plane the next morning with his CIA badge and Jackson’s phone number. Jackson thinks, “I’ll never see him again” and goes and joins The Company.
*~*~*~*
Sands is tanned. Mexico, Jackson thinks, and tries not to stare. He looks good, bundled up against the weather. It’s not sunny out, dark already at six in the afternoon but Sands is wearing big, dark sunglasses. The wind is whipping off of the lake and Jackson had forgotten how much Michigan sucks in the winter.
“How’s it hanging, Jackie-boy?” Sands asks, and he sounds the same. He lights up a roll-up and Jackson would be getting hard if it didn’t feel like his balls were about to freeze off.
Jackson presses a hand against his throat and grates out, “I’ve been better.” Tracheal Fistula and arytenoid dislocation means he can’t talk above a whisper and only then when he’s pressing on the cartilage that built up in his throat. He still has track marks in his arm from the hospital IV. He killed three nurses and a doctor getting out of there but he’s still alive, even if The Company is going to want to kill him for the fuck-up.
Sands snorts. “So I hear.” He tips his sunglasses and Jackson can see the ruin of his face where his eyes used to be. Jackson thinks there might be something a little wrong with him since he still wants Sands to fuck him till he screams. He tells Sands this and gets a laugh that makes him blush like he’s still twenty.
“Ever been to Europe?” Sands asks as Jackson guides him to his stolen car. “I’ve got a friend in Italy who says it’s nicer than this shit-hole this time of year.” Jackson kisses him and Sands traces his fingers over Jackson’s face like he’s trying to figure out what’s changed. Nothing much has.
For: yuna_firerose
Fandoms: Red Eye/Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Pairing: Jackson Rippner/Sands
Rating: NC-17
The request: winter, domination, stalking, pre Red Eye amateur!Jackson
Warnings: Murder, sex, swearing, Sands.
Disclaimer: The characters aren’t mine. The wacky crossover is entirely my fault.
Notes: I found this request in my files of shit I never got around to writing and since YF is in need of teH pettin’s and slashy goodness, I finished it. For the sake of getting this done fast with little spare time I did some weird shit with structure, I hope it works.
Jackson, according to law, was dead. The medical reports said he’d died of a heart-attack at age nineteen and that he’d been autopsied to rule out suspicious death. The attack had been natural and his remains had been cremated, the ashes scattered.
In reality, Jackson was very much alive, was twenty years of age and was freezing his ass off, standing outside by a cheap little diner, wishing he’d brought warmer gloves and waterproof shoes. Michigan, of all the crappy states in the USA, was a real hellhole in the winter. The roads were icy and half the time Jackson felt as though he was driving blind the snow was so thick. He was sick of roadside diners, streets with no lights on them and sleeping in his car when the temperatures were so incredibly low that he woke up with his skin numb from cold.
He was also quite bewildered. Faking his own death had been incredibly easy, a little slip into the system and some forged paperwork and he was dead, dead, dead, without ever breaking a sweat. However, according to the paperwork, the man he was following didn’t exist at all and never had.
Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, currently inside the diner, eating grits and drinking shitty coffee - same as always - had no birth or death certificate. His phone never had any bills. His credit card led to a dead end and a fake company and a fake name. No one Jackson spoke to knew anything about who Sands was or where he had come from, but the trucker disguise usually made him unidentifiable because there were a thousand men with dirty checkered shirts and baseball caps. Those that could remember Sands were of the general consensus that he was a lousy tipper, drank PBR, smiled like the joke was on them, and had a stupid moustache, but Jackson had seen Sands without any disguise on, and the moustaches were all fake. But none of that was important, because without any paperwork, without any real facts, Jackson had nothing to go on.
The rig that Sands was driving was pretty non-descript, no company logos on it, a license plate that changed every few days and good enough locks on the back that Jackson hadn’t been able to break into it without doing noticeable damage.
He watched for a second or two as Sands paid his bill, in cash, as usual, and then hid around the corner as Sands got into the rig and vanished up into the sleeping loft before Jackson crept into the diner to defrost. From inside the warm diner, the weather outside looked even worse and Jackson surreptitiously kicked his shoes off under the table so he could dry out his socks a little. His hair dripped snow down his collar so he used the napkins to towel his hair down and then ordered coffee and a huge stack of pancakes from the frumpy, disapproving waitress.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be out here alone?” she asked, snapping her gum. Her inch long acrylic nails clashed with her uniform; her uniform was pink and her nails a red-rust color, like the color of dried blood.
Jackson gave her a hard look. “No.” He didn’t elaborate and she eventually went and got his pancakes while he shaved in the bathroom and washed himself as best he could in the sink. He changed his underwear and his shirt, but he’d run out of clean socks, so he simply held them under the dryer until they felt wearable again and then did the same for his shoes.
He ate his pancakes and drank terrible filter coffee with as much sugar as he could get into it, and then retreated back to the damp cold of his car which already had an inch of snow and ice on the windshield. If he was really unlucky he’d find himself snowed in the next morning, but so far he’d managed not to get totally stuck, a little digging not withstanding. Jackson curled up in the backseat, wrapped in his duvet and tried to pretend that his breath wasn’t steaming inside the car, or that his teeth weren’t chattering. It didn’t take him very long to fall asleep, but it was an uneasy sleep, and he dreamed of a desert which was freezing cold and a scorpion that crawled out of his throat and ate a blind cat. It was followed by the recurring nightmare he had where his parents crawled out of their graves and followed him everywhere he went, not hindering him or attacking him, just following and staring.
Jackson was awoken rather abruptly by a cold blast of air and a gloved hand clamped over his mouth. He tried to struggle but he was sluggish from the cold and tangled in the blanket. The only light was the neon CL SED of the diner’s sign and it cast his assailant’s face in lurid green and red. His assailant was also his quarry; Sands, face set in hard lines, smiled grimly and Jackson thought to say something but Jackson didn’t have more than a moment before Sands’ other hand clamped down over his throat and Jackson was dragged out into the snow. He shouted, suddenly feeling more afraid than ever before in his life but the leather of the glove and the tightness of Sands’ grip muffled the sound entirely. The parking lot was deserted except for Sands’ rig and Jackson’s own car and no one in the diner was going to risk their necks to help him.
Sands dropped him and kicked him in the stomach before Jackson could cry out, and the blow knocked the wind out of him. He tried to get his limbs coordinated but Sands dragged him up by the shoulder and stuck a needle in his neck.
Jackson only had one moment of panic left before his vision started to swim and he fell unconscious in the snow.
“Welcome back, kid.”
The acrid tang of hand-rolled cigarettes hit Jackson’s senses first, the meaning of the words behind the smooth drawl coming later. He tried opening his eyes but everything was still black and the warm weight across his face indicated a blindfold. It didn’t take a genius to guess that he was also tied down, but Jackson attempted a futile struggle anyway. He was flat on his back, wrists and ankles cuffed down to something, god only knew what.
“You almost had me going for a while.” Now the voice was mockingly kind. “I very nearly didn’t notice the same clapped out old banger following me from state to state, especially since you’re not so easy to spot yourself.” The blindfold was ripped off Jackson’s eyes and Sands grinned down at him, cigarette clamped between his teeth. “Not with those baby blue peepers.” He dropped the blindfold and sucked on the cigarette. “You’re pretty spry for a dead man, eh Jackie boy?”
Jackson swallowed to get rid of the sawdusty taste in his mouth. “Jackson.”
Sands leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. “So long as you’re where you are, and I’m where I am, I think you get whatever name I pick.”
Now that the blindfold was off, Jackson could see exactly where he was being held captive. It wasn’t all that reassuring to realize that it was the inside of Sands’ rig. The interior was rather sparsely decorated with a small kitchen table and two chairs, a generator, a space heater, a mini-fridge, a computer station and a bed, all bolted to the floor. It was equally unreassuring since Sands was seated on one of the chairs and Jackson was currently strapped down to the bed in his boxers and undershirt.
“Jackson Rippner.” Sands, without any of his disguises, down to black jeans and a black shirt, was a rather more daunting sight than Jackson had been anticipating. “What’d you do in a past life to deserve that one?”
“Sheldon?” Jackson fired back and then wished he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Now, now, let’s not go pointing fingers,” Sands said smoothly. “I’m more interested in what it is you want. See, a stalker, a real stalker, would think my name the bestest in the whole wide world. And a real stalker wouldn’t be…” He picked up a manila file from the table and started flicking through it. “Wouldn’t be dead as of last year, parents deceased - I’m going to take a figurative stab in the metaphorical dark and say murdered - and be driving an unlicensed vehicle. Cute graduation photo by the way. So either you’ve got a grudge to settle or some other motive altogether. Since I’ve never seen you before in my life, and I don’t know anyone connected to you, I’m guessing it’s not a grudge.”
Jackson bit his lip and thought about lying. The gun at Sands’ hip and the look on his face convinced Jackson that now might be the time for the truth he had been rehearsing. “I’m not dead,” he said and then winced. He carried on before Sands could say anything. “But I am Jackson Rippner and yes, I did kill my parents.”
Sands raised his eyebrows. “Well that’s charming. But I knew that.”
“I want to join you.” The whole speech Jackson had been preparing on the off-chance that Sands was really the type of man he wanted to be looking for was falling horribly flat and he was screwing it up in such a spectacular fashion. “I mean-”
“You have no idea what you mean,” Sands cut in. “You should be drinking too much beer in a frat house and trying to get into some freshmen’s pants. Get ‘em while they’re thin, as the expression goes.”
Jackson struggled to sit up but the cuffs held tight and he subsided with a frustrated groan. “I killed myself to get where I am,” he snarled. “And I’m ready for the rest.”
Sands blew out a thoughtful stream of smoke. “That’s a funny thing to say to man while you’re strapped to his bed.” He got up and stubbed the cigarette out in an ashtray shaped like a marijuana leaf. “Who exactly do you think I am?”
“All I know is that you don’t exist and that three states ago you shot a man and since then you’ve paid off two more.” Jackson tried very hard not to squirm as Sands climbed on to the bed and straddled his hips, settling down on Jackson’s thighs. “I want to do what you do.”
Sands laughed, genuine mirth on his face. “You need a more than doctored papers to get into the CIA, pumpkin. And not killing your parents might have been a better start.”
Jackson’s stomach hollowed out. “Oh,” he said. “Oh shit.”
“Something like that.” Sands poked at the spot where he’d stuck the needle into Jackson’s neck. The muscles were sore and tender and Jackson bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep from wincing. “Normally that would mean a one way trip to death row, but this is your lucky day. Say the magic words and I can make this bad dream into something that won’t have you picking up the soap.”
“I’ll do anything.”
Sands’ smile was positively feral. “You catch on quick.” He leaned over Jackson and then, much to Jackson’s surprise, uncuffed him from the bed. “You were wet and, truth be told, cupcake, kind of stinky, so your clothes are being washed.” Sands climbed off of Jackson and went back to his chair. “You can have them back later.”
Jackson sat up and pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. It was plenty warm in the room because of the heater, but Sands was staring at him and it was making Jackson’s flesh goosepimple.
“CIA?” he asked finally.
One corner of Sands’ mouth quirked up. “Sometimes.”
*~*~*~*
Jackson’s life becomes surreal.
*~*~*~*
Sands doesn’t introduce him to anyone. Jackson is allowed to tag along in the rig, and he’s Jackie-girl and Cupcake, sugarlips and good girl, and all that means is he’s Sands’ bitch, getting the coffee, doing the laundry, riding shotgun and making sure good music is always on and that the GPS isn’t fucking with them.
“If possible, please make a U-turn, my tight keister,” Sands complains and rummages through the glove box (One guns, thirty four fake IDs, one old Snickers bar, a strip of expired condoms, three elastic bands, half a pack of Kleenex, tobacco and rolling papers and half a dozen badly folded maps) to hand Jackson the roadmap. They’re not on the right highway. Sands makes the damn U-turn.
They go to New Jersey, Jackson waits in the van while Sands talks to shadow figures. Jackson argued about it in Pennsylvania and Sands just looked at him over the top of his sunglasses and asked him if he wanted to get out or what. No joke, none of his crude humor, and Jackson caved.
Jackson puts up and shuts up for Sands like he’s never done for anyone else. Sands says jump and Jackson is learning to already know how high.
They go to Maine and it’s bitter cold, Sands buys Jackson better gloves. He fills the van up with smoke from cigarettes that Jackson has handrolled for him and shows Jackson how to hack the government. Young Grasshopper and Young Padawan and Boy. Sands starts kicking Jackson’s ass, outside, in the fuck-ass cold. Shows him how to fight, how to throw or block a punch, how to break a man’s neck, how to knife fight. He puts Jackson on his ass every time.
Jackson has an enormous crush on Sands, he can’t help it. Sands is ridiculous and dangerous and he looks really fucking good in black jeans and a t-shirt. Jackson stops caring about what he wanted and wants nothing more than Sands will give him. Except for the part where he wants Sands, and Sands doesn’t seem inclined to take what Jackson’s been trying to subtly offer.
They go to Washington, Montana, North Dakota. Sands turns on Jackson, breaks him down with nothing but words and when Jackson is afraid of him and at the same time desperate for his attention, Sands sits down with him and points out the lesson in psychology that has just happened. Jackson feels like an idiot. He sits on the edge of the bed and is furious with himself that he failed to figure out what Sands was doing, that it worked and that even though he’s embarrassed and angry and all sorts of things, he’s also distracted because Sands’ jeans are really tight and he can see the line of Sands’ cock and his mouth floods with saliva. He wonders if Sands would punch him if he went to his knees and sucked his dick.
They go back to Maine. It’s still cold and Sands bitches but doesn’t seem to feel it. He buys a six pack of good beer, a bottle jaegermeister, and a bottle of red wine and gets Jackson drunk. Jackson wakes up the next morning with a hangover that could kill an elephant, spends an hour puking his guts out and has the uncomfortable feeling that he managed to slur out that Sands could fuck him and he really wouldn’t mind, some time just before he passed out. Sands doesn’t mention it.
Sands takes Jackson to a meeting. Doesn’t introduce him at all, just lets Jackson shadow him, watch him mind-fuck people stupid enough to think they’re the ones doing the mind-fucking. Watches Sands kill a man.
They go to Illinois which might be even more miserable than Maine and Michigan, but it’s a tough contest. Sands introduces Jackson as Saucy Jack and Leather Apron, and on one occasion Rip Torn. Sands tries to teach Jackson how to shoot. Jackson sucks at it, Sands rolls his eyes and they go back to knife fighting.
They go to Ohio.
*~*~*~*
Sands pulls a rubber band out of his pocket and ties his hair back. “You still want to bump uglies?” he asks, unconcerned and Jackson spits his coffee halfway across the formica table of the shitty little diner they’re eating in.
They go back to the rig. Jackson’s hands are shaking so bad he has trouble getting his buttons undone. He lies back, naked on the bed and Sands sits in a chair and smokes a cigarette, just looking at him.
“Jerk yourself off,” Sands says, like they’re talking about the weather. He blows smoke out of his nose and watches Jackson. “I want you to get yourself off and then open yourself up. Use your jizz for lube.”
Jackson comes so hard it almost hurts. He expects Sands to say something cruel about stamina but Sands just shucks his shirt over his head and unbuttons his jeans. Jackson can see the head of Sands’ cock in the V of the fly of his jeans. He fucks himself open on his own fingers while Sands lazily strokes himself, content to watch. Jackson’s never done this before and his thighs shake and his shoulder muscles feels strained from the position. He’s already getting hard again. Sands barely blinks, the harsh lights making his brown eyes look black.
Sands stubs out his cigarette and gets on the bed. He kisses Jackson, tangles his hand in his hair and pulls Jackson’s head back so he can chew his way up Jackson’s throat, leaving bruises and pushes a finger of his other hand in to Jackson, twisting and Jackson isn’t sure he’s ready for this after all. Sands lays him on his back again and pulls his wrists up over his head, presses them down and tells him to keep them there and Jackson’s sure again. Sands doesn’t even take his jeans off all the way, just shoves them down his hips and pushes his cock into Jackson. It’s a little too dry and a little sudden for a man who’s never had a dick in his ass before but Sands licks away the moisture when Jackson can’t relax and his eyes start watering.
Sands calls him Jackson and leaves bruises on his hips and wrists. He fucks Jackson open and loose until Jackson’s panting and trying so hard not to move his hands but it’s not easy when all he wants to do is clutch at Sands’ back and mark him up the same way Sands is doing to him.
Jackson comes again when Sands tells him to and does move his hands then, gripping Sands’ shoulder and the back of his neck as Sands fucks him through his orgasm, until he’s whimpering from the overstimulation. Sands shoves into him one last time and shudders before pulling out and rolling over, reaching out a hand to snag another cigarette.
“Oh my God,” Jackson says when he can do more than just gasp for air. Sands puffs out smoke rings and offers a drag to Jackson.
“If you’re still talking,” Sands says, “we’re not done. Gimme half an hour and a beer.”
*~*~*~*
Jackson kills a man and remembers how much he likes it. He and Sands fuck three feet away from the corpse, Jackson bent over the arm of a sofa. He leaves teeth marks in his own arm from trying not to scream and Sands leaves teeth marks on Jackson’s neck and shoulders. They go to another building and kill three more men with Sands’ come still slick on Jackson’s thighs.
Sands lets Jackson talk to the contacts and watches as Jackson mind-fucks people stupid enough to think they’re the ones doing the mind-fucking. They’re unstoppable.
They go to Wisconsin and everything changes.
Sands tells Jackson he’s going to Mexico on assignment. He introduces Jackson to what he calls The Company and it’s not the secret service. Jackson goes out and gets drunk and punches a wall and breaks two fingers. Sands calls him an idiot and bandages his fingers and lets Jackson curl around him in bed that night. He gets on the plane the next morning with his CIA badge and Jackson’s phone number. Jackson thinks, “I’ll never see him again” and goes and joins The Company.
*~*~*~*
Sands is tanned. Mexico, Jackson thinks, and tries not to stare. He looks good, bundled up against the weather. It’s not sunny out, dark already at six in the afternoon but Sands is wearing big, dark sunglasses. The wind is whipping off of the lake and Jackson had forgotten how much Michigan sucks in the winter.
“How’s it hanging, Jackie-boy?” Sands asks, and he sounds the same. He lights up a roll-up and Jackson would be getting hard if it didn’t feel like his balls were about to freeze off.
Jackson presses a hand against his throat and grates out, “I’ve been better.” Tracheal Fistula and arytenoid dislocation means he can’t talk above a whisper and only then when he’s pressing on the cartilage that built up in his throat. He still has track marks in his arm from the hospital IV. He killed three nurses and a doctor getting out of there but he’s still alive, even if The Company is going to want to kill him for the fuck-up.
Sands snorts. “So I hear.” He tips his sunglasses and Jackson can see the ruin of his face where his eyes used to be. Jackson thinks there might be something a little wrong with him since he still wants Sands to fuck him till he screams. He tells Sands this and gets a laugh that makes him blush like he’s still twenty.
“Ever been to Europe?” Sands asks as Jackson guides him to his stolen car. “I’ve got a friend in Italy who says it’s nicer than this shit-hole this time of year.” Jackson kisses him and Sands traces his fingers over Jackson’s face like he’s trying to figure out what’s changed. Nothing much has.