Once Upon a Time in Mexico 1. Insomnia

Title: Dark Night  
  
Author: evyg  
  
Word count: 5,351  
  
Rating: R for imagery and strong language  
  
Pairing: El/Sands  
  
Feedback: My first real attempt at this, so please, be gentle.  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, just late-night insanity/fun.  
  
Summary: El is having trouble dealing with his past, and insomnia.  
  
Warning: This is dark. Very dark. Abandon all hope, all ye who enter here.   
  
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"Dark night...it's a dark night..."   
  
The moon shone brightly over the empty, dirt-covered Acuña street. Not a soul to be seen, not a sound to be heard; even the crickets were silent. Suddenly, the sound of a dog barking tore through the night, ripped it apart and tore the silence to shreds...but just for a moment. The Mexican moon watched restlessly over the sleeping people in their dark houses, and over the man standing, face in shadow, backed by a faint glow of light from a solitary candle, half hidden behind the torn curtains.   
  
El sighed, and turned from the window and walked back towards the center of the hotel room. It was a small room, sparse, but he didn't need much. A dresser, a small bedside table, and a bed that was just wide enough to fit the small Mexican and his guns. He turned the radio down and flopped down on the bed to remove his boots. Absent-mindedly stroking the black leather with one hand, searching for a rag to wipe off the dust and mud with the other, he could still hear that familiar voice in his head; the voice that wouldn't go away, the voice that kept haunting him, day and night; the voice that even the sound of his guitar couldn't drown out.   
  
"Listen, fuckmook: I don't *care* what you think. Just get your fucking hands off me."   
  
El shook his head. He found the rag underneath the bed, and polished his boots until they were shining like the coat of a newly brushed horse. He put them next to the bed, swung his legs over the edge and lay down, flat on his back, hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He would have liked to sleep, get a good night's rest, but he wasn't tired; he rarely slept anymore.   
  
"I *know* I can't see. Anything else you feel you should remind me of? How about, "Sheldon, you're hurt"? "Sheldon, you're bleeding, and if you don't get to a hospital soon, you're risking your life"? Did I not tell you to LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE? ...Sorry, i don't speak Spanish, you big dick."   
  
With a sigh, El turned to the rickety chair next to the dresser and pulled his jacket to him. A long gash across the arm bore the signature of the man with the voice, and he stared at it for a while until finally retrieving a needle and some thread from the top drawer. Slowly and meticulously, he repaired the torn garment. It was like closing up a wound, and the black scar tissue remaining would always be there, holding the pieces of flesh together. He felt his own arm, and smiled faintly at the thought of Carolina; that book had come in handy on more than one occasion.   
  
"Hey, cocksucker...what's the matter with you?"   
  
El flinched, and quickly looked around the room. The voice had spoken to him, so close, almost directly into his ear, and yet it had clearly just been a figment of his imagination. There was noone in the room with him; he was alone. He lay down again, changing positions, trying to get comfortable on the thin mattress. His mind drifted, to Carolina, to his daughter, to Marquez, and even further back, to Domino. He thought of the first time he saw her, her dark hair, her sparkling brown eyes; and then someone else's eyes forced themselves into his vision, only these eyes were not eyes, just a threatening darkness staring out at him from empty, hollow sockets, rimmed with congeled blood.   
  
"Look what those fuckers did to me. Can you believe it?"   
  
"I have to take you to a hospital. You're going to bleed out."   
  
El jumped at the sound of his own voice filling the room. He hadn't realized his vocal chords were moving; he'd been thinking out loud. The first sign of insanity, he thought, and attempted a laugh. It sounded as empty and hollow as those sockets filling his inner vision. A glaring skull; a madly grinning, pale face, surrounded by waves of black hair. He reached out in front of him to smooth it out of Sands' face, before realizing what he was doing, and snatching it back and burying it underneath his pillow. Turning over on his stomach, he softly traced the white sheet with his fingers, pretending it was ivory skin. 


	2. Blood

The silence soon became unbearable, and he stretched out a hand to turn the radio back up. The first notes of Tito & Tarantula's "Strange Face of Love" rang into the silence like a sudden epiphany, and El sat up in bed, crouched, hands around his knees, rocking gently back and forth to the rhythm of the song. He felt like crying, except he had never cried in his life. He was a man of action, not a man of regret, and as much grievance as his past existence had taught him, he had never once shed a tear. What good would it do to dwell on the past? The shadows in his mind were threatening to take over, and he rubbed his temples as if to force them to go away. They would never leave him though, and he knew it. Exasperated, he lay down again, pulling the blankets over him, and closed his eyes. Darkness creeped slowly into his vision, and he slept. But even within the darkness, there were shadows...   
  
And blood. So much blood. El looked around. He was standing in the same street where he'd stood so many times before, this time surrounded by bodies, and by several grim-looking men with their weapons drawn. Twirling around, he caught a glimpse of each and every one of the dismembered corpses: there was Carolina, long dark hair stained with blood, eyes glazed over, one hand outstretched, with blood dripping from the fingers. There was his daughter, the sweet little girl, missing an arm and a leg, the fragile little body torn to pieces by some terrible force. Domino, stretched out on her back, bare arms haphazardly thrown about her, a single bullet wound to the stomach, oozing its liquid poison onto the ground, staining the light soil with darkness.   
  
He swallowed hard, and passed his left hand over his forehead. It left a streak of something warm, something familiar, something that for a second blurred his vision. He wiped the substance out of his eyes, and forced himself to concentrate. Looking at his hand, he realized it, too, was bleeding. The scar, not a scar but an open wound, a hole shot straight through his hand, was shedding tears of dark red lava. He was becoming increasingly dizzy, the scenery floating in front of his eyes like the air on a gruesomly hot day, and suddenly, his feet were no longer firmly planted on the ground. He could feel himself falling, desperately grasping after someone, something, that was just beyond his reach...   
  
El awoke with a start. Kicking the covers away from him, he sat up, and buried his head in his hands.   
  
"Having nightmares again, are you? I told you sleeping was for sissies...We see enough horrors awake, you and I."   
  
"Shut up."   
  
El reached over to his case and flicked it open. He slowly stroked his guitar with two fingers, and carefully lifted it out of the case and onto his lap. For a long time, he just sat there, looking at the shiny finish, letting his hands roam up and down it, caressing it, almost as when comforting a lost child, or a long-lost lover. After exercising his left hand, which was throbbing slightly with a dull ache, he resumed position, and began to play. The soft notes filled the room, and El closed his eyes. His fingers knew their way across the strings, and for a moment, everything else was drowned out by the gentle cries and moans of his constant companion, filling him with the strangest emotion: the one of peace. 


	3. Darkness

He played for a long time, until the moon had shifted so that he could see the shadows move across the wall in front of him. His own body, outlined and filled in with black marker, loomed above him like some threatening figure from one of the tales his mother used to read him as a child. She had told him about ghosts and monsters, and yet he had never been afraid, knowing he was safe with his mother, father, and older brother all watching over him. He had never slept as soundly as he did after having been told one of her stories. Sometimes, when she was sick or tired, his brother sat on the edge of his bed, telling him the stories he remembered from his early childhood. Hazel eyes gleaming with excitement, the child had curled up in bed, clutching his teddy bear with one hand, the other hand curled into a fist in his mouth, listening to the older boy regaling him with his tales, wishing he would never have to stop.   
  
El had seen plenty of pictures of these moments, and the thought of how the relationship with his older brother had ended was enough to make him curl that same fist, and bite those same knuckles until they bled. The life of a brother in return for the life of a lover - a lover who had her life taken away from her just a few short years later. The people he loved seemed to always be snatched away from him. It was dangerous to love. Too dangerous. Love had made him careless when he should have been cautious, blind when it should have made him see.   
  
"Jesus, The...look at you, fucking wallowing in self-pity. We're in Mexico, for fuck's sake! Just go out and get yourself a girl. There's plenty of tail to go around in this country, I'm telling ya. What's your problem, fancypants? Are they not good enough for you?"   
  
"Noone's good enough." El let his hands rise to his forehead, rubbing the creases and marks, then ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing it back from his face. He paused at the sensation of warmth against his neck, and then shook his head to get rid of a sudden rush of emotions he thought had abandoned him long ago.   
  
"Aw hell. You know, I'm just going to say this once: if you don't watch out you're going to end up an old man, with only that goddamn piece of shit to keep you company."   
  
Without turning his head, El's eyes drifted to his guitar. The slender instrument had been a gift from his father, who had spent countless hours teaching him how to play. El had always wanted to be a Mariachi, a wandering guitar player, taking the occasional jobs in bars all over the country, never settling down, moving from place to place. He needed the sense of freedom it gave him, and besides, there was no home for him anyway. He was restless, rootless, cut adrift, like a ship in the night, taken by currents he had failed to see in time, and swept away to places he had never dreamed he'd be visiting, even in his worst nightmares. And there had been a number over the years: he couldn't recall when he'd last had a night of undisturbed sleep.   
  
Life's bitter irony had made him a killer, a widower, a grieving father who feared the past more than any future. A man with a heart like a piece of burning coal, smouldering inside his chest, consuming everything, feeding off of itself, and slowly falling apart into nothingness. A man always walking in a shadow, a man with no life, no hope, and no foreseeable future. A dead man, ashes scattering as he roamed the streets, chains jingling, the morbid announcement of approaching death. Shackled to this age and place and existence, biding his time, waiting patiently to appear at Hell's Gates and spit the Devil himself in the face.   
  
"You and me both, El."   
  
He sat motionless, staring into the emptiness in front of him, eyes flashing with a long-forgotten fire. With a last flicker of light, the candle on the dresser suddenly went out, and he was left in complete darkness. As usual, the memories haunting him grew stronger and more compelling, feeding off the night and the black seeping bitterness that had once been his heart. Head still in his hands, he tumbled back into shadow. 


	4. Dreams

He was back in the dirty street, only this time, the perspective was unfamiliar. Looking up, he could see the blue sky, fractions of white drifting slowly across its surface, the ruthless sun like a fist hammering repeatedly on his head. He closed his eyes. He felt odd, detached, not connected to his body, and when he tentatively tried to lift an arm or move a leg, he found that he couldn't. It was as if someone had tied him to the ground with invisible ropes. Frustrated, he tried to move his head, but the muscles in his neck wouldn't obey him. Starting to panic, he averted his eyes from the stinging sun, and fought to turn his sight right. Something came into his blurry vision, and at first he couldn't quite make out what it was, but the image grew clearer and...   
  
A gunslinger, all dressed in black, sprawled on his back just a few yards away from him. The black sunglasses across his forehead, broken, and the gaping hollows staring directly into the sun. A sickening grin, lips caked with blood, both from his eyes and from within his mouth. A myriad of machinegun tip-toes across his chest.   
  
El turned his eyes back towards the sun. The heat engulfed him, it was getting difficult to breathe, and the increasing panic was clawing at his chest, ripping through his soul, tugging at his mind, trying to eat him alive. Except...he wasn't actually alive, he realized with a start. They were both dead, shot down and left bleeding in the deserted Acuña street. He tried to lift his head again, to see what they had done to him, to his body, but to no avail. His head was as firmly planted to the ground as the roots of a tree.   
  
With an effort that was almost overwhelming, and made his vision blur dangerously close to blacking out completely, he forced his lifeless eyes to watch Sands again. A bright yellow dandelion was growing next to the man's left ear, slowly swaying in the breeze like a gift from the messengers of Hell.   
  
"Don't worry, manito, we've got him right where he belongs."   
  
"Take me."   
  
"It's not your time. But we will come for you."   
  
El jumped from his bed, screaming, clasping his head in both hands, trying to drown out the cackling voices. He walked back and forth in the room, restlessly, and finally made up his mind. This was ridiculous. He had to do something; he couldn't fall asleep again. He mustn't. Lighting another candle, looking around the room, his straining eyes fell on his guitar case. He picked the guns from it, one by one, and spread them out on the bed. Sitting on the rickety chair, he carefully cleaned and polished each one before putting them back into the case. The touch of cold steel had its usual soothing effect on him, and by the time he was finished, his breathing had almost returned to normal, and he could no longer feel the deafening rush of blood in his ears. 


	5. Memories

With the last of the guns, he lingered. It was the sawed-off shotgun that had saved his life on countless occasions, and he let his head rest against it for a moment, feeling the cold steel against his hot forehead. He always carried it with him, if not in the guitar case then tucked into the front of his pants, or hidden somewhere inside his jacket. This was the gun that had left General Marquez in considerable agony on the floor, both kneecaps blown off; El's last revenge, and his friends had been there to help him out and to share his victory. He smiled at the thought of Fideo, of Lorenzo, of his old friends Campa and Quino; together, they had been a team, something to count on, something to remember. After all, what good was a Mariachi without his fellow musicians?   
  
"Weren't you going to teach me how to play guitar? You always said I had the fingers for it."   
  
Curled up in bed together, tangled black hair sweeping across his chest, slender white fingers playing with the chains on his trousers. Stroking the other man's head, El looked up at the ceiling. A gigantic moth had found its way into the room, and was buzzing around the single lightbulb above, barely illuminating the bed and the two men on it. Tanned, Hispanic skin in sharp contrast to Caucasian white; a chessboard, but without the usual rules that brought order to the game. Noone ever knew who would make the first move, or draw the first weapon.   
  
El nudged Sands gently, and pointed upwards.   
  
"What?"   
  
"Look."   
  
"Haha. Funny."   
  
"There's a moth in here."   
  
"It's a fucking bug."   
  
"It's beautiful."   
  
"Whatever you say, man." Sands had gone back to playing with his pants, and with a sigh that was part happy, part exasperated, El resumed the caressing of his head. They often lay like this for hours, not speaking, listening to the silence and the wind, sometimes howling, sometimes just letting out slight gasps outside their window, gasps to match their own.   
  
El groaned loudly and flopped back onto the bed, gun still in his hand. Out of old habit, he stuck it underneath his pillow, not bothering to check if the safety was off or on. The gun had replaced his long-lost teddy bear; he sometimes clutched it in his sleep, unaware, but strangely soothed by its physical presence. It made him feel safe, as safe as he could ever feel in a world where every step he took could bring him face to face with someone who wished nothing more than to see him dead. He had very narrowly escaped his followers the last time, but others had not been so lucky...   
  
In a blinding flash, enough to make him cover his eyes with the back of his hand, squinting hard as if trying to shield himself from the painful memories, the day of the funeral came back to him, in full detail. A beautiful fall morning, birds singing, sun high in the air, and the temperature for once bearable, with a soothing wind caressing his cheeks as he stood, head bent, listening to the priest's last sermon. On the ground in front of him, stretched out on his back as if sleeping, arms tucked neatly to his sides, hands joined as if in prayer, lay Sands. Clasped in his grip was a single dandelion, swaying softly in the gentle breeze.   
  
His troubled gunslinger had found peace at last. But his peace had come at a great cost, and even as the dark eyes had begged him to follow, El hadn't been able to do it. He had backed away from the bed, the ivory hand too feeble to retain its grip, and he had run, run as fast as he could, out of the hospital, into the street, down the main road, across the highway and straight into the desert. He had only stopped when his legs wouldn't bear him any longer, and he fell, face first, into the dust. Lying there, unable to move, unable to speak except in mutters, wails and long moans, the man who had at last lost everything turned his dry face to the sun and cursed the day he was born. 


	6. Love

Fiddling with his ring, hands still across his face, on his back on the bed in his dark room, El started singing softly to himself. At first, he couldn't quite get the words out, but as the song went along, it grew and swelled and became more secure, but also more sorrowful. It was a song about love, a song that he had learned long ago, although from whom and where, he could no longer remember. As the notes ebbed out into silence, he turned over onto his side and stared at the wall. Specks of dirt on the light background; specks of blood on ivory cheeks. His eyes drifted; his vision became blurry, as if a great white fog was sweeping over him. He let it embrace him, letting himself get lost in its soothing caress, and closed his eyes. The wind ruffled his hair, almost blowing out the candle on the dresser.   
  
"Fuck you man."   
  
Pulling the feeble American to his feet, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other supporting his elbow, El had more or less dragged the struggling, unwilling man to the hospital. There, securing a bed for him, and watching them wheel him away, heavily sedated (the only thing stopping him from kicking and biting his nurses), fatigue had finally overcome him, and he had fallen into a chair on the spot and slept.   
  
He awoke from something poking him in the face. Annoyed, he lifted his hand to chase whatever it was away, but the thing moved expertly to dodge his flailing fingers. He grudgingly opened his eyes, and saw Sands standing there, dressed in a hospital gown, cane stretched out in front of him.   
  
"They said I can go home, if someone goes with me to fucking babysit my ass, and change the fucking dressings and so on and so forth." El looked at his face, and could see sterile white bandages covering the hollows beneath. Without a word, he rose, went to collect Sands' things, and took him back to his hotel room. The other man didn't even protest, but neither did he by any means acknowledge that he was at all grateful for El having more or less volunteered for this task.   
  
El grunted and turned in his sleep. Letting out a sigh, his hand felt underneath the pillow, and closed around the gun. With a soft smile, he murmured something inaudible, and his body became motionless again.   
  
The American had recieved his leave from the Agency, and was peparing to go back home. The sockets were almost healed, the bandages had been removed, and the fresh air would have to do the rest of the job. El watched silently as Sands felt around the room for his things, grabbing them, folding what he could, haphazardly, and fitting them into his suitcase that was laid out wide open on his bed. He had already refused El's help a number of times, and snarled like a wild wolf if he even dared approach.   
  
"Don't go."   
  
Sheldon froze, in the middle of reaching for the gun on his bedside table. He turned black sunglass-draped eyes slightly towards El, a wicked smile twitching at the corner of his lips.   
  
"What was that?"   
  
"I said, don't go."   
  
"And why not? Why the hell should I stay in this stinking country?" Sands stood up, hands folded behind his back, bending his head slightly backwards, and gazed at El (or so he imagined).   
  
"Because I want you to."   
  
"Well there's a good reason." Sands sniggered as he resumed his packing.   
  
With one swift move, El was at his side, and taking the surprised man in his arms ("Hey, what the..."), pressing hot lips against his, rendering Sheldon speechless for probably the first time in his life. Through closed lips, El kept murmuring softly "Please don't go. Don't go. Please", and Sands finally silenced him with his tongue. They both tumbled onto the bed, locked in each other's embrace, sending the open suitcase flying to the floor, contents spreading in all directions. Neither man paid it any attention. 


	7. Tragedy

With Sands, and the current events, El had lost much of his restlessness, his will to kill, to avenge, even his desire to always be on the move. He was now happy with staying hidden, ducking around corners, spending every day and every night with Sands, without fear of being discovered. He felt a certain responsibility for the other man, owing in much, no doubt, to having cared for him in his helpless state, but also to a fleeting feeling that was at the same time unfamiliar, and the most familiar feeling in the world. It reminded him of lying in his childhood bed, listening to his brother's stories, feeling like the world was his and that he would go to any lengths to protect it, to prevent any harm from coming to him or those he held dear.   
  
But as he was soon to find out, everything was not within his control. Returning to the hotel room late one night, El was startled at the emptiness of it. Sands was nowhere to be seen, and knowing he never ventured far away from the room on his own, El searched the premises for his friend, but came up emptyhanded. Upon re-entering the room, something fell against him from behind the door, and his quick reflexes caught it before it hit the ground. With one hand, he held it out to the light. It was the white cane, speckled with irregular spots that to the untrained eye could easily be mistaken for rust; but El knew the sight of blood far too well to be fooled. Throwing it aside, he ran from the room, and out into the quiet street.   
  
The moon was shining brightly, illuminating the otherwise dark road, its silver light reflected in the knives and guns of several men, forming an impenetrable ring at some distance from him. Something stirred suddenly, and a man stepped out from within the group, one hand firmly closed around a straining neck, the other wielding El's shotgun, the one he always left behind with Sands, for protection. The Mariachi took a step forward, but stopped dead in his tracks at the soft click of the safety.   
  
"Not so fast."   
  
El watched helplessly as the two men approached him; Sands, stumbling, head bent forward, muzzle of the gun held firmly against the left side of his neck. He stood, motionless, unarmed, eyes straining to see in the darkness. Finally, his friend and his assailant were close enough for him to barely be able to make out their features, and as Sands raised his head, El couldn't keep a gasp of horror from escaping his lips.   
  
The bandages had been ripped off, the freshly healed sockets mutilated by God knew what, and he was bleeding profusely, face even paler than usual. His frail body shivered in the chill of the night, and El felt an uncontrollable rage rising within him. His clenched fists shook, as he helplessly watched his friend writhing in agony as the cool wind touched the newly torn open flesh.   
  
"What the hell do you want?"   
  
"You."   
  
"Then take me, and let him go. He has done nothing to you."   
  
The man pursed his lips. He seemed to be contemplating El's proposal, turning it over, examining it in his head for a very long time. Finally, appearing to have made up his mind, he leaned forward to softly whisper something into Sands' barely conscious ear. The he looked straight back at El again, gun wiggling slightly in his hand, as if to tease him.   
  
"...No."   
  
El woke at the loud, reverberating bang, which continued echoing in his skull until he forced it out by repeating Sands' last words, whispering them over and over again, into the darkness.   
  
"Don't worry...I'll come back for you."   
  
After the men had left, El knelt to the ground, clutching the barely alive body tightly, picking him up; slowly, stumbling under his weight, Sands bleeding helplessly in his arms, they made their way to the hospital. 


	8. Peace

He lay motionless on the ground for what felt like days, but finally, thirst forced him to move. With slow, heavy steps, he walked back into town, taking a left instead of a right at the sight of his hotel, arriving in the alley behind it. On the ground, still tainted by Sands' blood, was a trampled dandelion. El knelt beside it, picking it up, straightening the wrinkled petals. Holding it up to the sun, gently grasping it with two fingers, he twirled it around, and it was almost as if it reflected the very rays, glowing with an ethereal fire, sending shivers down El's spine. He took it back to the room with him, and put it between the covers of an old Bible he had found in one of the drawers of his dresser. When the day of the funeral came, he brought it to place in Sands' hands, and it followed him down, the only thing still bright and alive, as he was lowered into the ground.   
  
The candle suddenly flickered, and went out. The curtains billowed as the wind grew stronger, and El, shuddering, rose from his bed to shut the window. He left a small gap to let in some fresh air, and a fraction of moonlight to illuminate the room, as he didn't have any more candles. Turning back towards the bed, preparing to lie down again, he froze, mid-movement.   
  
A bright yellow dandelion on his pillow.   
  
Carefully, minding his step, as if afraid he might scare it away, he approached the bed, and stared at the small flower. Picking it up, nipping it gently around the waist with two fingers, he held it close to his face and breathed in the scent of summer, the scent of green grass, and the indistinct scent of...something else, something vaguely familiar, that made some dark part within him stir. Closing his eyes, he let the scent engulf him, and it was all suddenly clear as day.   
  
"It's beautiful, isn't it?"   
  
Soft tickles of breath across the back of his neck.   
  
"Yes."   
  
A barely audible murmur in the dark.   
  
"I told you I'd come."   
  
Pale fingers caressing his jawline.   
  
"I know."   
  
"Are you ready then?"   
  
A cool forehead resting against his shoulder.   
  
"...Yes."   
  
El stood in silence, holding the dandelion between his thumb and forefinger. He could feel Sands looking over his shoulder, but when he turned around, the other man was further away, motioning El towards him.   
  
"Come on."   
  
Beautiful brown eyes where there had before been none: beckoning, soothing, loving.   
  
"Take my hand."   
  
Reaching underneath his pillow for the gun, sliding it out, and weighing it in his hand, El rose from the bed and walked up to the window. Looking out at the still empty street, glowing in the dawning light, his eyes burning with a strange fire, he made up his mind. Drawing the curtains, he stepped away from the ray of light seeping into the room through the small gap.   
  
"Come on...what are you waiting for?"   
  
He looked at the gun, turning it, examining it at close range, twirling it, aiming it at nothing in particular. If Sands had really been there, he would have tried to take it from him, and then playfully pointed it at his head, only to have it drift downwards to caress, with its deadly metal breath, his cheek, his chin, his neck, his chest...Almost as if in a dream, his hand rose, and reached a point where it steadied.   
  
El stood in the center of the room, barrel of the gun pressed firmly against his temple. He hesitated for a moment, looking around him, letting his eyes roam over the only things he had left, the inanimate objects he held dearer than anything or anyone alive. Then, eyes wide open, looking straight ahead, he pulled the trigger. After the initial blinding flash of light, the darkness was definite.   
  
"I thought you'd never come."   
  
El smiled. The gun fell clattering to the floor, followed by a heavy thud, and a last jingle. The yellow dandelion floated softly through the air, and landed next to his head.   
  
And all was calm. 


End file.
