SB: Chapter 13 - Love Thy Neighbour (Part II of II)

[strngbedfellows]

CHAPTER 13 - LOVE THY NEIGHBOUR

PART II

Really, he didn’t know why he even took the paper here. It was nothing but religion, crime statistics on the more distant states, and stories of how wonderful the local crime lords were-carefully neglecting to mention that they were in fact crime lords.

Snape folded the paper and tossed it on his coffee table in disgust before fishing a peppermint out of his pocket. He didn’t particularly want one, but it was something to put in his mouth; what he really wanted was a cup of tea, but for the first time in he didn’t know how long, he had actually overtaxed his stocks and was out of teabags-undoubtedly due to the late nights he’d been working for the past week and a half. It was Wednesday, though, and Santiago had dropped by this morning as usual (for some reason, he had thought that the young man had looked vaguely distressed today-Snape sincerely hoped that something dreadful had happened to his shit-eating employer), and so he could have his tea when he got back.

If he ever got back, the useless little piglet. It was already past four and he had yet to show up.

Snape leaned his head back and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He was tired-not sleepy, but just worn out. He’d spent all of last week babysitting that tissue-regenerative-he’d forgotten just how hideous the brewing process was. He probably had never managed more than four consecutive hours of sleep all last week-he was constantly up and down, adding this and mixing that, and in the end all that it yielded was a single dose. He’d meant to try and experiment with that after the first time he’d brewed it, after finding out just how horrid it was, to see if he might be able to tone it down-but he’d quickly decided that it simply wasn’t worth the effort to brew and re-brew it to try all the possible different variables. And this time, well, he would have been gambling with a man’s life to satisfy his own academic curiosity, and that was out of the question.

So he’d slavishly followed the standard instructions and had produced a picture-perfect end result, and had promptly delivered the thick red potion to the Rosas family.

That had been a very near thing, really; when he’d beaten on the door, it had been answered by a little boy with a tearstained face who had told him that his mother was upstairs with his father and a priest. Alarmed that he had been too late, he’d raced up the stairs to find the man nearly insensate, but thankfully still alive. He’d ordered the man’s wife and the priest out of the room and bespelled the potion down his throat immediately.

Even then, he’d worried that it still might be too late. He’d sat by the man’s bedside for nearly four hours, forbidding the family entry, minding Rosas’s pulse, giving him another fever-reducer and forcing water down his throat, and casting the necessary spells to cleanse his blood and restore his humours.

At last, after a tense evening of waiting, Snape had decided that he was out of danger. He’d opened the door and called Mrs. Rosas up; she’d flown up the stairs, her face white, and for a moment right after he told her that her husband would live, he’d been resignedly certain that she was going to faint. But she hadn’t-although in hindsight, it might have been preferable to her sudden, wild histrionics. He’d shouted her down, sitting her in the chair and waiting for her weeping and babbled praise to Dios to subside, and then had given her a battery of pain relievers and fever potions and told her to keep her husband in bed for a week, to give him plenty of fluids, and above all else, to tell no one of the miraculous nature of the cure he had provided, before beating a hasty retreat.

He hoped with all his being that he was through with that family. Inez had tried to drop in on him at various points during the previous week, and he had unceremoniously thrown her out-he had absolutely no desire to be alone anywhere with that girl ever again.

He’d hoped for some rest after concluding that bit of business, but it was only afterwards that he realized that in concentrating so fiercely on that single potion, that he’d neglected his others. So it was that he’d stayed up nearly all night on Thursday and had worked through Friday morning so as to have enough of his usual brews for sale that evening, and then had worked late into the nights every night that weekend to keep up with demand. And even after the weekend was over, he’d still kept up his gruelling work pace, in order to get himself back to where he should be in terms of his stocks. Today was actually the first day since Inez had come to him begging for help that he’d felt comfortable taking some time for himself, to relax.

Now if that little idiot would just get here with his tea, he could enjoy himself.

Almost as if he’d Summoned him, he heard a sudden sharp rap on his door. About time, he grumbled to himself, and he got up and opened the door.

And he froze in horror; standing on his porch was not Santiago, but rather the entire Rosas family, beaming up at him.

The descended on him as a body; he stumbled backwards into his living room as Mrs. Rosas flung herself at him, kissing his hand as if he were the Pope, and her husband was not far behind her, beaming and shaking his hand, and then there was Inez, and dammit, he’d told her to keep away from him, and yet now she was hanging off him again, babbling overjoyed thanks in this ear, and she actually had the effrontery to kiss him, and he couldn’t seem to shake them off!

He was surrounded by a sea of children, all gripping his hands and clothes with sticky little fingers and babbling their thanks that he most emphatically did not want, but he couldn’t get a word in edgeways.

“Don Greene, I cannot thank you enough,” Rosas was saying earnestly, still wringing his fingers. “When Inez told us how much it was going to cost-” Snape felt his face prickle with a horrible heat and he shot a sharp glance at Inez; she blushed a little too but she didn’t stop smiling, and her father was still going on, “-I didn’t know how we were going to pay, but then she told us what you’d said-you are a great man, señor.”

His wife was blowing her nose into a large red handkerchief with a sound like a foghorn. “Yes, you are, señor,” she said, putting a reverent hand on his shoulder. “You saved my husband and the father of my children-we can never repay you!”

“I told you Don Greene could help,” said Inez, her voice warm and choked with admiration.

Snape finally managed to shake off all the grasping hands and tried to distance himself from the bevy of children that had flanked him. “I did no different than anyone else would have done,” he said severely. “And I don’t need your thanks!”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Rosas said fondly. “It’s the least we can do for you after what you did for Ignacio.” And she took from one of her brood a covered dish and shoved it at him. “My best carnitas-just something for me to say thank you,” she said. Then she snatched up a steaming sack from another one of her many brats. “And Inez made buñelos for you.”

“Since you liked them,” the girl in question offered shyly, and Snape glared at her over the stack of unwanted food in his arms.

“And from me,” said Rosas, and he held up a bottle of tequila, which his wife took and tucked in the crook of Snape’s arm. “Truly, señor, we are in your debt-and if you ever need anything, don’t hesitate to call us.”

Snape floundered, helpless under the onslaught of unsolicited gratitude. He juggled his burden a little in an effort not to drop it. “All I ask of you,” he finally managed to grate, “is that you not speak of this to anyone.”

“Oh, so modest, Don Greene,” Mrs. Rosas clucked, her voice admiring.

“Modesty has nothing to do with it,” he growled. “I do not want this town to get the idea that I can work miracles. I just want my peace and quiet.”

Rosas chuckled irritatingly, but his nod was one of understanding. “I can imagine-you’d have people bothering you day and night.”

“Quite,” said Snape tightly. “So please keep the details to yourself.” He caught Inez’s eye entirely by accident, and she flushed, and infuriatingly, he did too. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have work to do,” he said roughly.

“Oh, yes, of course,” fluttered Mrs. Rosas, and she somehow managed to herd the gaggle of children towards the door with remarkable speed. They stopped on the threshold, however, and Snape despaired of ever getting rid of them. “Again-thank you so much, Don Greene,” she said earnestly, and it looked like she was going to start crying again. “You are a saint.”

“I am nothing of the kind,” Snape ground out, uncomfortable, but she just smiled and patted his arm and pushed her children out of the door; as they left he was treated to a chorus of high-pitched thank-yous from the lot of them and curtseys from the girls. Rosas stopped to cut off the circulation in his hand one more time, thanking him again and again-the best thanks he could give Snape right now would be leave and take his brood with him.

Then again, maybe that wasn’t such a good idea, because now that he was gone it was just Inez standing here, and he scowled horribly, but the insolent girl wasn’t put off in the least, and she kissed his cheek again, and burdened as he was he couldn’t fight her off.

“Young woman, I’ll thank you to keep your hands off me!” he snarled as she pulled away.

But she didn’t remove her hand from his arm; rather, she squeezed her fingers as she whispered, “Thank you so much, Don Greene,” and her eyes welled up again, but she thankfully left, hurrying out after her family, and when Snape moved to close his door, he couldn’t avoid seeing the family retreating happily down the street, and they all waved to him.

He hated this place.

With a dark mutter, he kicked his door shut with a bang and went to relieve himself of the bundle in his arms. He set it down on the kitchen counter-what in Morgan’s name was he supposed to do with all of this? He hated tequila. And he hated Mexican food-well, all right, those sugared dumplings were edible-but everything else was too spicy. Although whatever was in that dish smelled very good, at least-maybe he could force it down-but just so he wouldn’t have to cook his own dinner tonight.

Growling to himself, he put warming and preserving charms on the food and took the bottle of tequila and stowed it in his drinks cabinet; he’d decide what to do about it later. Right now he just wanted to sit down.

He’d only just flopped back down in his chair, trying to regain his shattered equilibrium, when someone knocked on the door again.

Oh, for God’s sake, what did they want from him now? With a wordless snarl, he got back to his feet, strode furiously to the door, and yanked it open-and there was Santiago.

“Oh-it’s you,” he said flatly, and went back inside, sitting tiredly back down again. He felt the beginnings of a headache poking him behind his eyes-so much for his relaxing afternoon. Santiago came in behind him, burdened under a particularly heavy load. He managed to bunt the door closed with his hip, but looked over his shoulder as he entered. “Uh, sir?” he asked, sounding perplexed. “Were those the Rosas I saw going down the street from here?”

Snape glowered at him; by now he’d trained the boy not to pursue a line of conversation if it elicited that particular response, and now was no exception, so he just looked away and set his burden down on the sofa, picking up one of the bags-the smallest one-to take back into the kitchen.

“Leave it,” Snape said irritably. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Oh-all right, sir,” said Santiago, and he put it back down, but didn’t pick up the others again, just looked down at them for a moment before asking again, “Um, sir?”

Snape eyed him; the boy always used that same tentative, hesitant voice when he was about to say something that Snape didn’t want to hear-usually pertaining to that scum next door. “What now?” he asked; he tried to snap, but it just came out sounding tired.

“I-um-can I leave Señor’s groceries here with you?”

Snape stared at him. “What?” he finally demanded.

Santiago looked miserably at the ground. “I don’t know what I did, sir, but it was bad. I-Señor kicked me out. I can’t go over there anymore. He-well, I-I have a girlfriend, and he found out, and he-I don’t know why, but he got really mad at me about it.”

“Oh, dear God,” he grated, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in disgust before looking back at the boy. “And what, exactly, does that have to do with me?” Snape sneered at him.

Santiago seemed to deflate (as usual). “Well…since I can’t go over, I was wondering if-if you would mind taking Señor’s groceries over to him?”

Snape swelled where he sat. “Yes, I bloody well would mind!”

“But, sir-I can’t go over there anymore, and-and he has to eat!” Santiago begged.

Snape could not believe this. He’d forgone better food by refusing to speak with Sands, gone to the trouble to take roundabout routes through town so he wouldn’t have to see Sands, put up new wards on his walls and risking getting caught out as a wizard so he wouldn’t even have to hear Sands-he’d gone to all these lengths just to rid himself of that little parasite, and now here was Santiago, attempting to draft him as some kind of errand boy!

This was it, was what it was. Snape rose abruptly, standing where he was for a moment before pinning Santiago with a glare. “You stay here,” he growled. “Right here,” he added warningly, pointing to his sofa, and Santiago sat obediently down, his hands on his thighs, looking up at him with something vaguely like hope. Snape gave him one last glare before he strode out of his house and into the alley across the way and, after a brief glance up and down the street, he closed his eyes and turned on his heel, Apparating straight into Sands’s living room.

He was greeted with a strangled yelp and a flurry of movement from Sands, who’d been slumped in his favourite chair-sans trousers, as usual. “Don’t fucking do that, you asshole!” he shouted angrily, his gun clenched in his fist and pointed right at Snape, who still held his wand warily aloft. “And who invited you over here?!”

“We’re neighbours, remember?” Snape sneered. “Su casa es mi casa.”

“That’s not part of the Gospel According to Snape,” Sands sneered right back at him. “So you can just march your sorry butt back next door-and you can use the goddamned front door this time!”

“Believe me, I have no more desire to be in your presence than you have to be in mine,” Snape said coolly, “but unfortunately for the both of us, we have very little choice in the matter, as I am here on behalf of your dogsbody.”

Sands bowed up immediately, making a growling noise that was most unbecoming to this otherwise girlish face. “Oh, are you now? Well, the two of you can just go fuck yourselves,” he said tartly.

Snape stared at him before shaking his head in disgust. “I thought you said it was women who didn’t know how to share?” he said snidely.

“This has nothing to do with sharing!” Sands yelled, obviously outraged. “And it also has nothing to do with you, I might add, so why the hell are you even over here?”

“Because, as usual, you find a way to involve me in your little dramas,” Snape shot back. “I happen to agree entirely-your lovers’ spat over Santiago stepping out on you is none of my business, but when the brat tries to foist his babysitting duties off on me, then it becomes my business!”

Sands had risen in an obvious effort to be intimidating, pushing himself up in Snape’s face, but the attempt failed miserably, in no small part due to his lack of trousers. “What, is that little shit afraid to come over here and face me? Is that it? Well, you can go bitch at him for this, then-I certainly didn’t ask you to come over here! And I don’t need a babysitter!”

“Your state of dress says otherwise.”

“I can dress however I want in my own house!” Sands growled. “I’ve been perfectly fine by myself all week-I don’t need that lying bastard, and I definitely don’t need you!”

“Very well,” said Snape smoothly. “Then you can go out and obtain your own provisions.”

Sands’s face twisted for a moment, but then he just petulantly said, “Fuck you,” and flopped back into his chair.

Snape snorted in contempt, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked down at his filthy, pouting, half-naked neighbour. “What is this about, Sands?” His lip curled. “I would have thought that you, of all people, wouldn’t begrudge the boy sowing his oats, as it were.”

Sands glowered, clamping down on the words that clearly wanted to escape from his lips. “I am attending to some very important business right now,” he finally bit out, “so he doesn’t have the luxury of hanky-panky time.”

A smirk crept across Snape’s face. “I thought you said you didn’t need him?”

Sands just showed him his middle finger and took a drink of that wretched tequila, and Snape knew that he’d won. It was with a satisfied harrumph that Snape walked over to Sands‘s drinks cabinet and looked inside to see if he had any real whisky hiding amidst the tequila bottles. He was pleased to find that his own bottle of purloined Firewhisky was still hiding at the back, with a respectable amount in the bottom, but his pleasure was mitigated by his sudden recollection of exactly why it was still here, that he’d forgotten it in his haste to leave during his last ill-favoured visit over a year ago.

He picked it up, scowling and now somewhat ill at ease, but he went and sat down opposite Sands anyway.

The silence between them was not exactly a comfortable one, but it was one that Snape could live with. Sands was still sulking, of course, but Snape had found over the years that he oftentimes honestly preferred him that way-at least when he was sulking, he didn’t talk.

Not much, anyway-eventually Sands couldn’t stand the silence anymore, and he said, “What the hell is that kid doing with a girlfriend anyway?”

“The usual, I would presume,” Snape replied.

Sands’s lip curled at him. “Oh, yeah, tell me another one. That brain-damaged kid probably doesn’t even know what to do with a girl,” he groused.

“I doubt it,” Snape said dryly. “If I’m not mistaken, the boy is seventeen-unfortunate, to be sure, but well old enough to drive a car and grow a moustache and go out with a girl.”

He doubted Sands heard the last bit; he had just taken a drink, but the minute Snape had said the word “moustache,” he choked and nearly sprayed tequila all over the table. “What?!” he yelled shrilly.

Snape raised an eyebrow. “No, you wouldn’t have seen it, would you?” he said snidely. “I suppose he has quite a few secrets from you, then, doesn’t he?”

“Where is he?” Sands demanded, quivering with indignation in his seat.

“Waiting next door for me to talk-or beat, if necessary-some sense into your otherwise empty head.”

Sands slammed his bottle down on the table and stood up, and then marched right outside, his loose shorts flapping in the breeze and his skinny legs white and pale in the afternoon sunlight. Snape watched him go, bemused, and heard him stomp across the street outside and throw Snape’s own door open. “Get over here, you little shit!” Sands bawled, and stalked back over to his own house, Santiago scuttling along behind him, his expression one of confused hope.

The minute Santiago was across the threshold, Sands, who had been lying in wait just inside the door, grabbed him by the collar and jerked him close, reaching up with blundering fingers to prod at the boy’s upper lip, where he had been carefully cultivating a sparse, fuzzy moustache for the past six months.

Sands growled in his throat as he felt the meagre crop of hair under his questing fingers. “What the hell is this?” he snarled.

“It’s-it’s a moustache, Señor,” Santiago answered, sounding pathetic and bewildered.

“It’s a moustache, Señor!” Sands mocked in a high-pitched warbling lisp. “What it is,” he then said, “is history.” He chucked the boy toward the back of the house; he stumbled but caught himself. “You get in the bathroom right now, and you’re not leaving until that is gone!”

“Hey!” Amazingly, Santiago actually stood up for himself. “It took me three months to grow that!”

“And it’ll take you three minutes to shave it off!” Sands retorted, herding the boy into the lavatory. “You look ridiculous-I’m not having Salvador Dalí working for me!”

The two of them disappeared into the bathroom, Sands still ranting, Santiago now going quietly, his brief burst of defiance spent, and Snape snorted to himself. He carefully corked his whisky and stood to leave.

Sands heard him, apparently, and shouted from the bathroom, “I still want my food!”

“Then send your errand boy to fetch it,” Snape replied evenly. “I’m not waiting on you.”

“The hell you aren’t!” Sands snapped, his head poking around the doorjamb. “I want my eggs sunny-side up tomorrow, and you’re going to make them that way!”

“Your egg,” Snape said frostily. “I have tried time and time again to impress upon you that I am a man of limited means, and yet it seems that it has still failed to penetrate.”

Sands pursed his lips at him, huffing through his nose, and then retreated back into the bathroom; Snape heard him order Santiago to go back out after he shaved to buy some more eggs, and some better bacon, too-and some sausages, while he was at it. Santiago agreed meekly enough.

Snape sighed head-shakingly, and after a moment, put his whisky bottle away back in Sands’s cabinet; he wanted to have something decent to drink the next time he was over here.

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