A/N: This story is a sequel to Sons of Mexico (story id 1900497). I'll give it a title when I know what it's about.
Disclaimers: I own nothing to do with Once Upon A Time in Mexico, except a copy of the DVD. The rights to everything here belong to Columbia, or Troublemaker Studios, or Robert Rodriquez, or someone, not to me.
Deja Vu All Over Again
El Mariachi was being followed. This did not surprise him, but it was a nuisance. He had no desire to lead any enemies to his village, and home to his village was where he was headed.
He was returning from a visit to El Presidente, where he had been presented with a medal, and the irony still amused him. Not a year ago, he had been on the AFN's most wanted list, as well as Enemy Number One of most of Mexico's drug cartels. "Is there anyone who doesn't want you dead?" CIA Agent Sands had asked him.
Not many, he would have had to admit, but now "El Mariachi," the only name he would give even the President, was a hero to the country, and even more hated by the cartels. Not that the country knew anything of his medal; he'd insisted on that, but at least the police and government forces were no longer among his enemies. He'd accepted the medal for saving the President's life, but it made him uncomfortable to receive credit for dismantling Julio Delgado's drug empire. That had been the doing of another man.
He stopped in the next small town, and entered a bar. The town looked like hundreds of other Mexican towns, and the bar had the familiar layout. It would do.
Agent Sands was the man who had brought down the Delgado empire, and El was still in awe of how he'd done it. When he'd tried to explain to El Presidente that a blind, amoral, wounded American agent, a prisoner and hooked on cocaine, had been the architect of that deed . . . well, he hadn't been very convincing.
Dressed in his black Mariachi suit, he was confident he would be easily recognized. He kept with him his guitar case full of weapons, and leaned it carefully next to a barstool. The man behind the bar looked younger than he expected, and regarded him with wide eyes as he ordered a beer. He took his beer and a bottle of soda water to an empty table, ignoring the stares of the usually sleepy local patrons. He positioned his guitar case beside him for easy access, and drank the water. The beer was only for normalcy's sake. Even its minor effect on his responses would be dangerous now.
As he waited to be attacked, he thought about Sands. Sands had lived through detox, locked in a room in the old fort in Guitar Town, but he didn't seem to have recovered. Weak and listless, he seldom ventured from his room in the fort, and he did little to occupy himself that El could see.
"I put a razor and a comb and a toothbrush on the sink. Your clothes aren't back yet, but I think these will fit you." El studied the wasted form of the other man, wondering what he was feeling. Was he angry at El for freeing him from cocaine? Had El made yet another mortal enemy?
Sands lay face down on his pallet on the floor, his head turned to one side. "What are you still doing here?" he asked. "Don't you have, you know, mariachi things to do?"
El frowned. Of course he was still here; he was responsible for Sands, now. At least until he could get the agent back on his feet and restored to his own people.
"How do you feel?" he asked. He tried not to ask it too often, but he wanted to know. Only a week before, this man had been screaming in desperation for a fix.
"Why do you care?"
"I am curious. What do you feel like?"
"I feel like I was hit by a truck and knocked off a cliff, okay? Just leave me alone."
El nodded to himself. That would feel pretty bad. "Do you still have a fever?"
"How the fuck would I know?"
It didn't seem like a good time to check Sands physically for fever. At least he was responding more than he had been. Father Soto said that Sands had used up his supply of strength and joy, and wouldn't recover either for some time. El glanced around the windowless room, looking for any inspiration to encourage Sands to make an effort.
"Are you hungry?" Sands's appetite had been intense since the cocaine had left his system, and the snack items El tried to keep stocked in his room were gone, paper wrappings on the floor testifying to their demise.
"Geez, El, you are such a woman."
El waited. The meals he cooked were not gourmet; he was a practical man, and Father Soto was little better. However, some of the women in the village, curious about the blind invalid, had been sending food to the fort. Rumors of a blind gunfighter wiping out dozens of Barillo's men in Culiacan had reached El's village. Señora Perez had sent some delicious meals via her two daughters.
"Yes," Sands admitted through tight lips.
El smiled. "Come to the kitchen. I will be the woman some more and cook." It was the first time El had suggested that Sands's meal be taken somewhere other than his room, but he dared not make it an ultimatum. El's instincts told him it would be fruitless to try to make Sands get up and leave his room for his own good. Sands knew El or Father Soto would bring him food if he refused to move; nourishment was too important to his recovery to neglect.
To El's mild surprise, a woman approached him from the bar, an apprehensive expression on her face. El had not noticed a woman in the bar before.
"Señor," she said, with a respectful dip of her head.
El looked at her, not responding. There would be shooting soon, and he preferred that there not be a woman in the place.
The woman glanced back toward the bar, where the young barkeeper watched the two of them, also looking apprehensive. "Señor, the other bar in town serves much better beer. They have an excellent cook, as well, and could give you a good meal." She gulped. "My husband, he is happy to buy you this beer, but then could you please leave?"
El Mariachi stared at her. "You're kicking me out?"
"No! No, Señor," she said, with a frightened glance back to the bar. "We're inviting you to patronize a better establishment." Her expression changed, and she settled gingerly into a chair at his table. "Please, Señor. We have only just finished repairs from the last time you shot up our bar. The other bar is owned by my husband's rival - a very wealthy man. Couldn't you go there?"
No wonder the place seemed familiar. El looked past her to the bartender. "You send your wife to do your work?" he called.
"No!" cried the wife, before the man could answer. "I was afraid you would shoot him if he asked you to leave. Please, Señor? The other bar is very nice."
Bemused, El stood and collected his guitar case and his water, leaving the untouched beer. "Tell them where I am, when they come," he said, ignoring the chorus of "gracias" he left behind.
Mierde.