A/N This is a two-chapter short story following on from the events in the movie with one or two changes. I wrote it a good few years ago and decided to dust it off and bring it out so hopefully it'll be enjoyed. Rated for M/M sex in the second part.

Part One

A MOMENT OF WEAKNESS

El's POV

Sands had taken to wandering about at night the week before. I assumed it was so he would remain largely invisible and would be able to find his way around the town without drawing any unwanted attention to himself. From the talk I had heard on the streets and in the bars, most people assumed he had been on killed on the Day of the Dead and he wanted it to remain that way, at least for the present.

How we had ended up together was an obscure twist of fate. The boy had come to find me, taken me to where Sands leaned against a crumbling wall, bleeding from gunshot wounds in both legs, another above the elbow, dried blood on his face from where his eyes had been drilled out. He still held a gun in each hand, alert to every sound, but how he stayed on his feet was a mystery to me; until I got to know him better and learned that he refused to let anything affect his ability to kill – even agonising wounds and blood loss.

The boy had called out to him as we approached, announcing the arrival of 'El Mariachi'. Sands had turned his head to the side and spat into the dust, which indicated exactly what he thought of the boy's choice of help. However, he wasn't in any position to refuse it. He allowed himself to be assisted to the boy's home where his parents tended to the gunshot wounds, afraid to say no, and I hovered, wondering how I had got myself into this and realising that bizarrely, I didn't want him to die. Probably because he reminded me of myself. Tough, strong, impenetrable, dangerous.

Some days later, healing fast and becoming more ill-tempered, Sands enlisted my help to find the remaining members of the Barillo Cartel and kill them. I was reluctant at first, but in the end I had nothing better to do and I had my own reasons for wanting them dead. So for the past few weeks we had travelled around from town to town, Sands staying mostly out of sight while I frequented bars, listened and slowly caught up with the wanted men. We stayed in poor hotels, sharing a room, Sands forced to rely on me to announce the layout of the furniture, to order in food, to drive the car to the next destination. He hated relying on anyone, but seemed to tell himself he was in charge of me and by this method, accepted my help.

Tonight Sands left the hotel as usual around midnight, but by half past he was back. A storm had broken, thunder and lightning crashing down from the skies and when I looked out of the window, I saw Sands stumbling back towards the hotel almost at a run, arms outstretched to save himself if he tripped in his haste, for the first time looking flustered, unsure of his direction. I restrained myself from running down to open the door and calling to him. He would hate that. I sat down on one of the chairs in the room and simply waited.

Some minutes later I heard footfalls on the stairs and Sands came in, dripping, and sank into the armchair inside the door.

"You are soaked," I pointed out.

"You don't say." His voice dripped with sarcasm as his body dripped with rain. He pulled out his cigarettes, fumbled one from the packet and cursed as he discovered it and the others to be sodden. He tossed the pack onto the floor in disgust.

"You should get out of those wet clothes before you come down with pneumonia."

"When you've finished stating the obvious, you could make me some coffee," Sands said through his teeth. I wondered if he was clenching them to stop them chattering. He stood up, limped into the bathroom and closed the door.

I picked up the kettle from the corner unit, checked the water level and plugged it in. I made coffee, drank it. Kicked off my boots and lay on top of the bed covers. Sands eventually emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, unusually for him, clad only in a pair of grey cotton shorts with innocuous looking yellow smiley faces on them. I felt my lips stretch into a smile and wondered if he'd obtained them before or after he lost his eyes. Before probably. Sometimes he had the strangest dress sense. That 'I'm With Stupid' shirt he wore regularly had me baffled.

Now he made his way around to the far side of the bed and lay down with his back to the wall, his hand tucked under the pillow and no doubt resting on the handgun hidden there.

"You still want coffee?" I asked.

"No."

Soon he slept. I lay awake in the darkness for some time, but eventually I slept too. When I woke, Sands was in the throes of a nightmare. He jerked me from my sleep by smashing his hand down on my forehead and thinking he was attacking me, I grabbed for my gun. But then I realised he was simply thrashing about in his sleep. His breath was coming in harsh gasps and whimpers like that of a wounded animal. I reached out and shook him.

"Sands!"

He froze and apparently woke. His permanent dark glasses had become dislodged in his nocturnal fight and I found myself staring into the hollow sockets where his eyes had once been. He immediately lashed out again, disorientated by the dream. I raised my hand to prevent his fist landing on my nose and grasped both his wrists to stop him causing any further damage. He struggled with amazing strength, but I held on.

"Fucking let go!" he cried. His voice was more of a squawk and his breath caught in his throat. His whole body was rigid and shuddering. I was astounded to realise he was terrified. For Sands to lose even a margin of control of himself was unheard of.

"Sheldon, it's me," I said. I'd never used his first name before. I only knew what it was because I'd seen his CIA badge. I'd never told him my own and he'd never asked; he just called me 'El' which was pretty ridiculous when you thought about it.

Now hearing his Christian name had the desired effect, shocking the fight out of him. He lay still, locked muscles twitching, breathing hard, trying to control his sounds of fear. I slowly released his wrists and leaned across him with one arm to snare his dark glasses from the pillow behind him. His hands instantly flew up in front of his face as if to ward off a blow he couldn't see.

"Your glasses," I said, putting them into his hand. He lowered his arms again for a moment, replaced the glasses over his eye sockets, his hands shaking. Then he clenched his fists and I knew he was angry at his own weakness.

I withdrew a few inches and lay watching him. Much to my surprise, one of his fists uncurled and his hand snaked out suddenly across the mattress, encountered my arm and fastened tight around my wrist. His fingers sank into my flesh like claws, gripping tight and still trembling. What it must have cost him to reach out like that. I covered his white fingers with my free hand, carefully pried them off my arm and held his hand.

"Do something for me," he said after a minute.

"Yes."

"Don't ever throw this back in my face. Or I'll shoot you."

"I wouldn't do that."

He gave an almost imperceptible nod as if he trusted that I would do as I said. I would never have dreamed of holding his fear against him; I had enough pain and fear of my own. So far it hadn't emerged in my dreams. although the long months hadn't lessened it any. An image of Carolina and my baby girl lying side by side in the dirt, bleeding, came to mind and I pushed it aside again the same way I always did. Maybe when every last one of Barillo's men was gone, I would feel some kind of relief, or maybe it would take something else.

A moment later I felt his hand relax in mine. Then he pulled it free, slid closer and dropped his head against my shoulder. I lifted my hand and rested it on his upper arm. He flinched, but then relaxed again. I knew how he hated to be touched. Even the most casual brush of fingers together when handing over a plate of food or a gun would rile him. I risked moving my hand a couple of inches down his arm and he didn't move. I slid my arm slowly around him and felt his muscles start to bunch up again, but he didn't jerk away or punch me. He forced himself to let go of his tension again and then was resting calmly in my arms, his face against my neck.

The dark glasses were digging into my flesh and I moved slowly, removing them from his face again. At once his hand came up in front of his face, but then he let it fall back against my chest and he was calm again. I put the glasses on the bed table.

Eventually Sands slept again. Completely vulnerable, unarmed, eye sockets uncovered, he slept in my arms. For one brief moment in time, he needed me and somehow it helped me too, just a little.