Title: Lost and Found
Chapter Two
Author: Frost AND Kacey
Rating: PG-13 (Bloody and a tad graphic-for now)
Summary: On the streets of Mexico, Sands is bleeding and alone-lost and resolved to die. El is looking to help the lost.
Disclaimer: We don't own Sands or El, although we're really like to. (El, anyway. He wouldn't kill us. Not too sure about Sands, though.
Archive: We'd be uber honored.
Authors notes: Our writing is in role play form, and so the styles of each character vary ever so slightly. We don't show any separation of character, because it should be pretty clear just by reading it. Sands is played by Frost (empathicfrost@hotmail.com) and El is played by KC (brashwillturner@aol.com). Also, I just -can't- seem to figure out how to use HTML on ff.net, so it may show up weird with viewing. ***
It was still dark, and it still hurt to even think about moving--that was the first thing that Sands noticed upon regaining consciousness. How long had he been out? Where was he? How did he get where he was? He wouldn't allow himself to voice these questions, let alone let out the noise of pain that was resting in the back of his throat. He refused to scream. Refused. He felt as if he moved, he would sink, or float. Fall back into something darker than black.
Enough of that, he told himself sternly. This is serious--wherever you are, it isn't safe. You need to get Iout/I!
It seemed like a good enough idea. He listened for a long moment, but the ringing in his mind made it hard to concentrate. Fuck it, he'd push himself. Gotta get up. Gotta get out.
Wherever out was, anyway. Elbows were pushed back into the soft sheets of the bed (bed? not some cold metal table this time? ...Hell.) and he bit back a cry of pain at the stab of hurt that raced up his arm. Agent Sands knew then that he was royally fucked--at least for the moment. It hurt to even attempt moving, and already, he was feeling the darkness trying to return--to swallow him back up.
INo./I
His head felt heavy, still. And when he turned his head (only a fraction to the side was what he could manage), the feeling of something chaffing against his upper cheeks was present. What had they -done- to his eyes? IOh god. Oh god. /I
The sun sparked off of the dust in the air, casting a diffused column of light into the room, though it was broken by the shadow of a man filling the window where he sat, and the stubborn evening glow simply filtered around him, seeking the safe insides of the room with warmth. The shadow turned at the sound of the bed occupant stirring, and dust bristled beneath the clothes briefly when he moved to stand, if not for any other purpose than just to be more attentive as it happened. As the American came back around from death to greet the cruel new hell. At least the blood was gone, the sand too, the stench, the smoke. It was just filtered sun now. But Sands wouldn't even be able to feel something as subtle as this. The room was wide and empty and high above the guitar town that slept in the blistered day while the Mariachi watched over it and watched over the lost one. He did not say anything, no. But he did not hide himself, clearing his throat and waiting.
Sands' head shot to the side, in the direction of the noise that had been made. That move was too quick, and it made him wince--but then he quickly hid the expression with a scowl. Hands were too weak to really be of any use to him, but they curled up into trembling fists despite this fact. He wanted to ask where he was--demand to know. Demand to be let go--and he had every intention of doing so. So after a long moment, he calmed himself down, and swallowed down the scream that was crawling up his throat, and let out a little cough. Much better. No pain there, just a cough. Really.
His voice was thready and scratched when he spoke, and even he, who was speaking it could barely hear it. "Where...?"
That certainly hadn't sounded as demanding as he would have liked. Still, he'd managed to speak, and that was better than he'd expected. IAnswers now, whoever you are, or you're dead./I
How that last bit would come true, he had no idea.
With the El Mariachi, you were given two choices to a situation. No more, no less. Give him what he wanted or be killed. Fight or run. El, as well, made his own decisions by only two choices. He was the kind of man who was too densely stoic to even imagine anything more than two choices at a time. To stay in one place, or move on. To save one, or to save another. To lie low or come out of hiding. He didn't like questions, in the end, they added up to nothing for him. His life was spoken by actions, his mind spoken by hands. At the church two days ago, he could've left CIA Agent Sands to die or he could've ensured that Sands was temporarily protected as he healed. Instead of asking someone to do it, he had chosen to do it himself. So here the American lie, in the clean and empty room. With two choices. "Water or smoke." Both were on drawer beside the bed. "On your left." Sands might most likely take both - but there was nothing else to give beyond them. The voice was like husky gravel and there was a sound of him sitting beneath the window. "Guitar Town."
Guitar Town. Great. A voice he finally recognized. Even better. El Mariachi. The man he had employed as his "in" to the president's place. The man who was supposed to kill General Marquez, and allow the President to be killed off. How had it all turned out? Sands didn't want to ask. Probably not as well as he'd hoped.
Guitar Town. El Mariachi. One of the mans' friends had been killed here, by a man Sands had hired himself. Cucuy. Was El planning revenge for the death of his friend? It would figure. It would be an appropriate.
Water or smoke. Agent Sands pushed all other thoughts away from his mind, and tilted his head to the left, as though he were going to look at the table that he imagined to be to the side of the bed. No images. No color. No outline. Nothing. Just. black. Then again, there was bandaging on his eyes.. Maybe he'd been wrong? Maybe (oh, god, please) vision was still an option? A look of hope was quickly covered by reality---leaving his mouth in a straight blank line.
Water or smoke? ...Water for now. Because smoking would just take too damned much effort. And El was the kind of prick that wouldn't bother to hand him the glass. .... Maybe that was for the better. He didn't need help. He was the best. Left hand slowly moved to where he imagined the table to be, and was not surprised when he did find it. The sharp corner of it. Good. Good enough. Slower yet, it edged over the top of that little stand. Don't spill the drink. Don't drop anything. And most of all, do -not- cry out in pain. You've been through worse. ...At some point.
No, there was no revenge to exact upon the head of Agent Sands. There could truly be no thought of it when you were watching a fine boned hand experimentally slip into the air and grope for solidity. What more harm could you do to the harmed? Laugh at them? El didn't laugh. So, it appeared that there was no safer place for the Agent than this room. This is the first, El thought; that Sands has ever woke in a bed without sight. Ever taken a sip of water without sight. Ever... And the dark, brimstone gaze of the Mariachi turned down and he did not watch. He did not want to let himself slip into the shoes of Sands, did not want to imagine it at all. For he knew of having wounds that he thought could never be worse. But Sands was one big wound, and worse off than any El would know. When he does look again, his legs slide out and kiss/scrape the floor boards with heels and a cloud outside makes the room darker and colder against the deep openness of his collar. The guns and anything that Sands could ever harm him with were all in the guitar case behind the door. He felt unconcerned for his safety despite the promise he had made to give his life after the Church recovery.
Glass was now securely cupped between both of his hands, and Sands found it more than a big deal to move his head in the backward direction to take a drink. He did it anyway. IFuck it. I am not weak. /I
El Mariachi's chained pants were loud, even though the man was quiet. Unconsciously, Sands head shifted, so that he was now faced directly with El--or where he was, anyway. He took another short drink of water, the cool liquid sliding down his throat gratefully. He'd rather have liquor. Where had that choice been? Sands scowled at the other man that he knew to be on the other side of the room. "Why?" His voice was still soft, but it had a stronger quality to it, now that he'd drank something. He wondered how long he could even keep that up. IWhy? Why? Why am I here? Why aren't I dead? I -chose- to bleed to death on that dusty little street, you bastard! I chose it! So tell me. Why. Why am I here?/I He knew there was a frown playing on his lips still, and he didn't bother hiding it.
I Set them up, watch them fall--right? Not anymore! /I Shut up. Shut up! ...Answer me, you Mexican fucker!
"It is what I do." The response was undisguised and frank. It was not without emotion, however, for how could a musician be completely without passion? It was not pity he felt, it was resignation and clear surrender to rest. The day of the dead had only been a few days ago, and these hours were still reserved for recovering. El's tone held his repose, his quiet patience. For long before he had been a killer, he had been quite calm and content with song and love. Now, only the patience remained while the satisfaction he had felt over life before now dimmed into dumb acceptance. Accept the sour taste of silence. Accept the ghosts. El knew how to move on, you see. One foot after the other. One bullet after the next. Perhaps he could teach it to Sands, or maybe Sands would die before he could. For El doubted that the Agent was going to get very far from where he was now. "It's been three days."
Three days. He'd been out for three whole days. Too long. His head swam with the idea of it, and he shook it lightly, and it hurt. His head still felt too... different. Tingle. Pain. Black. Oh, how it was black. Painted black--everything.
"Wrong answer." That was Agent Sands' stubborn response. El had no right answering questions like that. "Wrong." More quietly now. This fucker was going to be pistol whipped, just as soon as Sands found a gun. "It's what I do, my Iass/I. -Why-?" Definitely louder. As loud as he could get.
Angry. Each word held a frantic note to it that he didn't even notice. Fingers that were oddly delicate trembled against the glass, and Sands moved (a little too rashly) to sit up in his prison of soft, clean sheets. This guitar playing killer had had -no- right!
It seemed that Sands had no intention of wanting to learn anything from Sands but the answers to his own questions. My way or no way. Such was the way of Agent Sands.
"For no one's intention but my own." Not even offended, tone not even gruffer - if anything, more uncoiled, more given up. "You are not to be sold or delivered...If that is what you were thinking." El did not know the measure of Sands' paranoia, but he knew that the Agent had a great deal of it, and rightfully so, for he had been betrayed. El could only guess who had punished Sands like this in the end. Did it matter to him? They were all dead.I I have only helped you./I But El would not say this, for the American would not believe it. The dark midnight of his head bent back toward the stone wall and rested. Would Sands eat, he wondered? Would Sands rant and rave? He felt unaccustomed to having a presence around him and vaguely wondered what he might have forgotten about having a conversation or aiding someone else's needs.
Boiling anger. For his own intention? What the hell did that mean? Was it supposed to be relieving? It wasn't. He let out an angry noise, even as his hand (filled with the glass of water) moved over a bit to redeposit it's belongings to the table beside him.
He missed. He missed and the glass crashed down to the floor with an angry, and seemingly accusing tone. Hundreds of little broken pieces of glass were now on the floor. Unfixable trash. Sands felt like that glass, just now. But he'd been cracked before, hadn't he? He was just a tad insane, and he always had been. But now it was worse. He wasn't just cracked--he was broken. "Fuck this," usually conversational tone was changed into a snarl, and teeth were even slightly shown. Don't come near this one--he bites!
And then, Agent Sands couldn't stand it anymore. It was black, and pain and he just couldn't stand it. So he fell back into unconsciousness.
Author: Frost AND Kacey
Rating: PG-13 (Bloody and a tad graphic-for now)
Summary: On the streets of Mexico, Sands is bleeding and alone-lost and resolved to die. El is looking to help the lost.
Disclaimer: We don't own Sands or El, although we're really like to. (El, anyway. He wouldn't kill us. Not too sure about Sands, though.
Archive: We'd be uber honored.
Authors notes: Our writing is in role play form, and so the styles of each character vary ever so slightly. We don't show any separation of character, because it should be pretty clear just by reading it. Sands is played by Frost (empathicfrost@hotmail.com) and El is played by KC (brashwillturner@aol.com). Also, I just -can't- seem to figure out how to use HTML on ff.net, so it may show up weird with viewing. ***
It was still dark, and it still hurt to even think about moving--that was the first thing that Sands noticed upon regaining consciousness. How long had he been out? Where was he? How did he get where he was? He wouldn't allow himself to voice these questions, let alone let out the noise of pain that was resting in the back of his throat. He refused to scream. Refused. He felt as if he moved, he would sink, or float. Fall back into something darker than black.
Enough of that, he told himself sternly. This is serious--wherever you are, it isn't safe. You need to get Iout/I!
It seemed like a good enough idea. He listened for a long moment, but the ringing in his mind made it hard to concentrate. Fuck it, he'd push himself. Gotta get up. Gotta get out.
Wherever out was, anyway. Elbows were pushed back into the soft sheets of the bed (bed? not some cold metal table this time? ...Hell.) and he bit back a cry of pain at the stab of hurt that raced up his arm. Agent Sands knew then that he was royally fucked--at least for the moment. It hurt to even attempt moving, and already, he was feeling the darkness trying to return--to swallow him back up.
INo./I
His head felt heavy, still. And when he turned his head (only a fraction to the side was what he could manage), the feeling of something chaffing against his upper cheeks was present. What had they -done- to his eyes? IOh god. Oh god. /I
The sun sparked off of the dust in the air, casting a diffused column of light into the room, though it was broken by the shadow of a man filling the window where he sat, and the stubborn evening glow simply filtered around him, seeking the safe insides of the room with warmth. The shadow turned at the sound of the bed occupant stirring, and dust bristled beneath the clothes briefly when he moved to stand, if not for any other purpose than just to be more attentive as it happened. As the American came back around from death to greet the cruel new hell. At least the blood was gone, the sand too, the stench, the smoke. It was just filtered sun now. But Sands wouldn't even be able to feel something as subtle as this. The room was wide and empty and high above the guitar town that slept in the blistered day while the Mariachi watched over it and watched over the lost one. He did not say anything, no. But he did not hide himself, clearing his throat and waiting.
Sands' head shot to the side, in the direction of the noise that had been made. That move was too quick, and it made him wince--but then he quickly hid the expression with a scowl. Hands were too weak to really be of any use to him, but they curled up into trembling fists despite this fact. He wanted to ask where he was--demand to know. Demand to be let go--and he had every intention of doing so. So after a long moment, he calmed himself down, and swallowed down the scream that was crawling up his throat, and let out a little cough. Much better. No pain there, just a cough. Really.
His voice was thready and scratched when he spoke, and even he, who was speaking it could barely hear it. "Where...?"
That certainly hadn't sounded as demanding as he would have liked. Still, he'd managed to speak, and that was better than he'd expected. IAnswers now, whoever you are, or you're dead./I
How that last bit would come true, he had no idea.
With the El Mariachi, you were given two choices to a situation. No more, no less. Give him what he wanted or be killed. Fight or run. El, as well, made his own decisions by only two choices. He was the kind of man who was too densely stoic to even imagine anything more than two choices at a time. To stay in one place, or move on. To save one, or to save another. To lie low or come out of hiding. He didn't like questions, in the end, they added up to nothing for him. His life was spoken by actions, his mind spoken by hands. At the church two days ago, he could've left CIA Agent Sands to die or he could've ensured that Sands was temporarily protected as he healed. Instead of asking someone to do it, he had chosen to do it himself. So here the American lie, in the clean and empty room. With two choices. "Water or smoke." Both were on drawer beside the bed. "On your left." Sands might most likely take both - but there was nothing else to give beyond them. The voice was like husky gravel and there was a sound of him sitting beneath the window. "Guitar Town."
Guitar Town. Great. A voice he finally recognized. Even better. El Mariachi. The man he had employed as his "in" to the president's place. The man who was supposed to kill General Marquez, and allow the President to be killed off. How had it all turned out? Sands didn't want to ask. Probably not as well as he'd hoped.
Guitar Town. El Mariachi. One of the mans' friends had been killed here, by a man Sands had hired himself. Cucuy. Was El planning revenge for the death of his friend? It would figure. It would be an appropriate.
Water or smoke. Agent Sands pushed all other thoughts away from his mind, and tilted his head to the left, as though he were going to look at the table that he imagined to be to the side of the bed. No images. No color. No outline. Nothing. Just. black. Then again, there was bandaging on his eyes.. Maybe he'd been wrong? Maybe (oh, god, please) vision was still an option? A look of hope was quickly covered by reality---leaving his mouth in a straight blank line.
Water or smoke? ...Water for now. Because smoking would just take too damned much effort. And El was the kind of prick that wouldn't bother to hand him the glass. .... Maybe that was for the better. He didn't need help. He was the best. Left hand slowly moved to where he imagined the table to be, and was not surprised when he did find it. The sharp corner of it. Good. Good enough. Slower yet, it edged over the top of that little stand. Don't spill the drink. Don't drop anything. And most of all, do -not- cry out in pain. You've been through worse. ...At some point.
No, there was no revenge to exact upon the head of Agent Sands. There could truly be no thought of it when you were watching a fine boned hand experimentally slip into the air and grope for solidity. What more harm could you do to the harmed? Laugh at them? El didn't laugh. So, it appeared that there was no safer place for the Agent than this room. This is the first, El thought; that Sands has ever woke in a bed without sight. Ever taken a sip of water without sight. Ever... And the dark, brimstone gaze of the Mariachi turned down and he did not watch. He did not want to let himself slip into the shoes of Sands, did not want to imagine it at all. For he knew of having wounds that he thought could never be worse. But Sands was one big wound, and worse off than any El would know. When he does look again, his legs slide out and kiss/scrape the floor boards with heels and a cloud outside makes the room darker and colder against the deep openness of his collar. The guns and anything that Sands could ever harm him with were all in the guitar case behind the door. He felt unconcerned for his safety despite the promise he had made to give his life after the Church recovery.
Glass was now securely cupped between both of his hands, and Sands found it more than a big deal to move his head in the backward direction to take a drink. He did it anyway. IFuck it. I am not weak. /I
El Mariachi's chained pants were loud, even though the man was quiet. Unconsciously, Sands head shifted, so that he was now faced directly with El--or where he was, anyway. He took another short drink of water, the cool liquid sliding down his throat gratefully. He'd rather have liquor. Where had that choice been? Sands scowled at the other man that he knew to be on the other side of the room. "Why?" His voice was still soft, but it had a stronger quality to it, now that he'd drank something. He wondered how long he could even keep that up. IWhy? Why? Why am I here? Why aren't I dead? I -chose- to bleed to death on that dusty little street, you bastard! I chose it! So tell me. Why. Why am I here?/I He knew there was a frown playing on his lips still, and he didn't bother hiding it.
I Set them up, watch them fall--right? Not anymore! /I Shut up. Shut up! ...Answer me, you Mexican fucker!
"It is what I do." The response was undisguised and frank. It was not without emotion, however, for how could a musician be completely without passion? It was not pity he felt, it was resignation and clear surrender to rest. The day of the dead had only been a few days ago, and these hours were still reserved for recovering. El's tone held his repose, his quiet patience. For long before he had been a killer, he had been quite calm and content with song and love. Now, only the patience remained while the satisfaction he had felt over life before now dimmed into dumb acceptance. Accept the sour taste of silence. Accept the ghosts. El knew how to move on, you see. One foot after the other. One bullet after the next. Perhaps he could teach it to Sands, or maybe Sands would die before he could. For El doubted that the Agent was going to get very far from where he was now. "It's been three days."
Three days. He'd been out for three whole days. Too long. His head swam with the idea of it, and he shook it lightly, and it hurt. His head still felt too... different. Tingle. Pain. Black. Oh, how it was black. Painted black--everything.
"Wrong answer." That was Agent Sands' stubborn response. El had no right answering questions like that. "Wrong." More quietly now. This fucker was going to be pistol whipped, just as soon as Sands found a gun. "It's what I do, my Iass/I. -Why-?" Definitely louder. As loud as he could get.
Angry. Each word held a frantic note to it that he didn't even notice. Fingers that were oddly delicate trembled against the glass, and Sands moved (a little too rashly) to sit up in his prison of soft, clean sheets. This guitar playing killer had had -no- right!
It seemed that Sands had no intention of wanting to learn anything from Sands but the answers to his own questions. My way or no way. Such was the way of Agent Sands.
"For no one's intention but my own." Not even offended, tone not even gruffer - if anything, more uncoiled, more given up. "You are not to be sold or delivered...If that is what you were thinking." El did not know the measure of Sands' paranoia, but he knew that the Agent had a great deal of it, and rightfully so, for he had been betrayed. El could only guess who had punished Sands like this in the end. Did it matter to him? They were all dead.I I have only helped you./I But El would not say this, for the American would not believe it. The dark midnight of his head bent back toward the stone wall and rested. Would Sands eat, he wondered? Would Sands rant and rave? He felt unaccustomed to having a presence around him and vaguely wondered what he might have forgotten about having a conversation or aiding someone else's needs.
Boiling anger. For his own intention? What the hell did that mean? Was it supposed to be relieving? It wasn't. He let out an angry noise, even as his hand (filled with the glass of water) moved over a bit to redeposit it's belongings to the table beside him.
He missed. He missed and the glass crashed down to the floor with an angry, and seemingly accusing tone. Hundreds of little broken pieces of glass were now on the floor. Unfixable trash. Sands felt like that glass, just now. But he'd been cracked before, hadn't he? He was just a tad insane, and he always had been. But now it was worse. He wasn't just cracked--he was broken. "Fuck this," usually conversational tone was changed into a snarl, and teeth were even slightly shown. Don't come near this one--he bites!
And then, Agent Sands couldn't stand it anymore. It was black, and pain and he just couldn't stand it. So he fell back into unconsciousness.