Chapter 23
Healing
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Rating: R for language
Summary: Three little words.
Author's Note: Slash warning ahead.
Thanks as always go to Melody for the wonderful beta read.
****
The doctors in Sinaloa de Leyva – or at least the doctor El chose – were used to seeing injuries such as Sands'. Living so close to a cartel's base of operations, they had ample opportunity to see men who had run afoul of Diego Sanchez.
Unsurprisingly, the doctor wanted nothing to do with them at first. "Please, señores. If they found out..."
"They will not find out," El said. "There is no more cartel here. Now, will you help us?"
The doctor's eyes widened, then he opened the door to allow them in.
They told Chiclet to wait out in the hall, despite his angry protests. At last El said, "Do you think he would want you to see this?"
The boy stared at him through wide eyes. "You'll come back?" And El realized his reluctance to accept his banishment to the hall was not entirely due to his concern for Sands. Chiclet, quite simply, was afraid to be alone. After what he had witnessed while waiting on the hilltop, El was not at all surprised.
"I will come out as soon as I know something," he said. He patted the boy's shoulder. "I promise."
Chiclet scowled, but he sat down, and waited.
****
The doctor's name was Roberto Lopez. As he washed his hands, he looked up at El. "Is it true? What you said? That the cartel is gone?"
El nodded. "We have destroyed them."
"We." Lopez dried his hands and looked at Sands, who was unconscious on the examining table. "You and your friend?"
"Sí," El said. "Junto." Together.
"The people of this country are in debt to you, then," said the doctor. "To you both." He reached out to remove the dirty blindfold about the upper half of Sands' face.
El's hand shot out, and he grabbed the doctor's wrist. Startled, Lopez looked up at him.
El shook his head. "Don't."
Lopez gave him a long look, then nodded. He started to pull his hand back, and El let go of him.
"All right," the doctor said. He sounded brisk now, and professional. He gave El a cool nod. "Stand back. I need room."
****
The sun had been up for an hour when El went out into the hall. Chiclet was dozing, his chin resting on his chest. When he heard the door open, however, his head shot up. "How is he?"
El gave the boy a small smile. "He is still sleeping, but he will be fine. As soon as he wakes up, we will leave."
Chiclet's brow furrowed. "So soon?"
El sighed. He had just fought this same argument with the doctor. It was not a good idea to move Sands, but it was just too dangerous to stay here. With the destruction of Diego Sanchez's cartel, other drug lords would rush in to fill the vacuum. Their first task would be to sift through the carnage and take what was left, like all good vultures did. That meant staying anywhere near Caimanero and the pink-and-glass drug house was a very bad idea.
"That soon," El said. "Go back to sleep. It will be a few hours yet."
****
El was there when Sands woke, but Sands was not.
It took El a long time to realize this. At first, he had no idea. He merely smiled at his waking friend, and gave Sands' right hand a squeeze. "You're back."
Sands made a neutral noise that could have been anything from, "Here I am," to "Fuck off."
"We are in Sinaloa de Leyva," El said. "At the home of a doctor. He wanted you to stay here for a few days, but I told him we could not. We can go home as soon as you're ready."
"I'm ready now," Sands said. His voice was still hoarse, and deeper than usual, a result of all the screaming he had done, no doubt. He pulled his hand free of El's grasp. "Get me the fuck out of here."
"Chiclet is waiting out in the hall," El said. "He would really like to see you."
Sands was silent for a while, then he said, "So? Let him stay out there."
El frowned. "You don't want to see him?"
"First of all," Sands drawled, "I can't see a fucking thing, and you of all people should that, fuckwit. Secondly, let the kid stay out in the hall. Kids don't belong in places like this."
Something was off about his speech, El suddenly realized. It was like he was listening to someone doing an impression of Sands. They would almost have it for a few seconds, then they would lose it again.
"All right," he said. "Here." He took hold of Sands' right hand again, so he could help the agent sit up.
Immediately Sands stiffened and yanked his hand away. "Don't you fucking touch me," he snarled in that hoarse voice that was a few notes lower than his normal one.
El's blood ran cold. He suddenly realized he knew that voice. He had heard it once before.
Stay back! Don't you fucking touch me!
If that's what you want.
Yeah right. Since when has it mattered what I want?
This was not Sands. His friend was not here right now. This was the voice of the madness, the voice of the other that lived in Sands' head.
"What do you want?" he whispered. He had backed away an involuntary step in horror, and now he glanced around the room. He was wearing his guns, but Sands still had the scorpion dagger. If Sands chose to attack him now, things would turn ugly, very fast.
"What do you think I want? I want to go home," Sands said petulantly, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Groaning, he sat up. He swayed forward, and his head hung low. "Oh shit."
"Maybe we should stay a day," El suggested tentatively. If he could get Sands to go back to sleep, maybe when the agent woke up the next time, he would be in control again. "It's still too soon."
"Fuck that," Sands said. "I'm getting out of here." He turned and swung his legs off the cot where he had been lying. He took a deep breath and stood up. "There. See?" His lips parted, and he gave El a terrifying smile. "Can't keep me down for long."
The door of the small recovery room opened, and Chiclet's bright face peeked inside. "I heard voices," he exclaimed.
Both El and Sands turned toward the door, but Sands had to turn to his right in order to do so. The moment he did, all the color left his face. He uttered a breathless cry, and his legs folded beneath him, spilling him to the floor.
Chiclet hurried forward, and El pointed at him. "No! Stay where you are." Ignoring the boy's wide-eyed confusion, El cautiously crouched down. "Sands?"
Sands rolled onto his back. His face was a mask of pain. "El?"
It was his voice. The other was gone. Slumping with relief, El went to him. "I'm here." He helped Sands sit up, leaning back against the mattress of the cot. "You fell."
Sands laughed, a sound completely devoid of humor that broke off on a gasp of pain. "I fell. Such a polite way of putting it." He let his head fall back on the mattress. "What did you give me? I can't feel anything."
"Morphine," El said. He looked up at Chiclet and motioned for the boy to fetch the doctor. "You were in a lot of pain."
"Yeah..." Sands swallowed hard. "It came out to play, didn't it?" Before El could respond he said, "Don't lie to me. I know it did. You fucking drugged me, and I couldn't stop it."
"I'm sorry," El said. In truth he had not thought about the consequences, when he had given Lopez the consent to administer the painkillers. His only thought had been to make sure Sands was not suffering.
"You're sorry. Christ, El. You're the sorriest mariachi I ever met," Sands sighed.
El caught his breath. His first instinct was to be pissed at the insult, but as was so often the case with Sands, following his instinct was not a good idea. So he cleared his throat and said, "Well, how many mariachis have you known?"
Sands shook his head. "Point taken. And besides, I think Fideo wins that prize, not you."
At the mention of his former friend, El sobered. "I am sorry," he said, more sincerely this time. "I didn't think what the drugs would do to you."
"Don't let it happen again," Sands warned. He shrugged his left shoulder, feeling the sling there that bound his left hand to his chest. "What's the verdict? And don't lie to me."
It was the second time in as many minutes that he had said that. El frowned, remembering that Sands had accused him of keeping secrets. "I don't lie to you."
"Yes, you do," Sands said. "But that isn't the point. The point is, how fucked am I?"
"You are not fucked," El said. "You will be fine." He looked down. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, speaking his next words. "The doctor says you will regain some of the use of your hand, but you will never play the guitar again."
For a single moment grief stood out on Sands' features, stark and terrible. Then he sighed, and the moment was gone. "Well," he said. "At least you were honest with me."
"Doctors have been wrong about that before," El said. "For both of us." He wanted to give Sands hope. And he needed that hope too, for himself. He could not bear to think of the silence that lay in Sands' future.
Sands did not reply to this.
El frowned, but Chiclet and the doctor arrived then, and there was no more time for talking, anyway.
****
They arrived back at the house in Culiacan shortly before sunset. They could have been there sooner, but El had driven slowly, out of deference for Sands' condition.
Under the setting sun, the house looked peaceful. Except for the broken windows, there was no sign of the destruction within. El glanced at Chiclet. "Go on home," he said. "You can come by tomorrow. Spend tonight with your family."
Chiclet nodded and got out of the car. His bike was still propped up along the porch, where he had left it yesterday morning.
El shook his head. It didn't seem possible that so much had happened in just two days.
He twisted around in his seat and looked at Sands. "You ready?"
"Sure," the agent said wearily. "Have I mentioned how sick I am of this? I'm tired of being the one getting the crap beat out of him."
"You weren't the one with the concussion for three days," El reminded him as he opened his door and stepped out of the car. He opened the back door.
"I guess that was my lucky day," Sands said. "All I got was the skeletons in the closet coming out to play." He stumbled out of the car.
El was ready for him. "And who got shot at the casino? Me. Not you."
"I think I win that one, too," Sands muttered, as they stumbled up the walk.
"All right," El said. "But I win this one. Escalante shot me twice, and you only once."
"Okay," Sands said, so low El could barely hear it. "I'll give you that one." He was barely conscious anymore.
"I win," El said in triumph, and picked Sands up. Carrying the now-unconscious agent in his arms, he walked up to the house.
****
Over the next two days, El remained on his guard, but Sands' madness did not resurface. Sands slept most of the time, and although he refused to take anything for pain, he did grudgingly swallow the doctor's antibiotics. El thought about switching the pills once, but he didn't dare. When Sands found out – and he would find out – he would be furious.
Chiclet came to visit, but not as often as El had expected. Going along on the quest to rescue Sands had changed something fundamental in him. He had lost the last of his innocence, El thought. In a way he was glad the boy did not come around so much – he felt too guilty about this to look Chiclet in the eye any more.
He cleaned the house a little, although only the most basic of things, like throwing away the rotting food and picking up the broken glass. He hadn't the heart to do anything else. Most of the time he sat with Sands, wondering who would speak to him when the agent woke up next.
On the third morning he rose from his bed with a sense of determination. Today was the day.
****
He shut himself in the kitchen, making breakfast. Yesterday the priest had come by with groceries and apologies. The people of the village, the priest had said, were concerned about their fate. What would happen to them now?
Nothing would happen to them, El had said. It was over with.
He put the food on a tray, nibbling absently on a piece of bacon. His stomach rumbled in a content little way. He shouldered open the swinging door to the kitchen, and went into Sands' bedroom. "Good morning."
Sands was awake, reclining on several pillows. Black silk covered his eyes, and he had taken the wrapping off his right wrist. The fabric of the sling was very white against his tanned chest, and the hectic color of the bruising on his abdomen. "What?"
"I made you breakfast," El said. He sat on the edge of the bed, the tray on his lap. He knew Sands had to be sick of eating soup. He remembered how good it had felt to eat solid food again after days of liquids in the hospital, after the gunfight at Escalante's hacienda.
Sands sniffed disinterestedly. "So?"
"Eggs, bacon, and pancakes," said El. He munched on another strip of bacon.
"I'm not hungry," Sands said.
"You need to eat," El said.
"Fuck you."
El used the edge of the fork to cut off a mouthful of the pancakes, and pushed it through the pond of syrup gathered on the edge of the plate. "Here. Try some."
Sands batted his hand away with a snarl. The fork went flying, sending pancake and syrup everywhere. "Don't treat me like a fucking invalid!"
El wiped at his face and the stickiness on his cheek. He said nothing.
Sands turned his head to one side, deliberately ignoring him.
El set the tray down on the floor. The fork lay near the bathroom door, one layer of pancake still clinging to the silver tines, the other one disappeared, only god knew where. A small puddle of syrup was pooling beneath the fork.
He looked down. Two perfectly round drops of syrup trembled on Sands' stomach, just above his navel.
El hesitated. Then he leaned down, and carefully lapped at the syrup with his tongue.
Sands flinched. "What the fuck are you doing?" His fingers twined in El's hair and pulled sharply, forcing El to lift his head up. His wrist was not healed enough to let him do this easily, however, and he had to let go right away.
"Cleaning up the mess you made," El said. He bent down again, kissing and nibbling at the sugary place on Sands' stomach.
"Don't," Sands said.
El paused, then took a chance. He continued doing what he was doing.
Sands let his right hand fall back to his side.
"You don't have to do anything," El said, barely picking up his head, so his lips brushed Sands' skin when he spoke. "Just let me."
He reached blindly for the sheet with one hand, and pushed it down. He spread gentle, featherlight kisses over Sands' stomach, kissing every bruise, every place where those men had hurt him. Sands tensed beneath him, but El was careful, so very careful. He wanted to kiss those hurts, to prove that he would never hurt.
Lower he went, kissing, loving, showing without words what he felt for this man he shared a bed with.
Sands did not make a sound. At the end he caught his breath, and his back arched a little, but he remained silent.
El sat up, frowning. He said, "You didn't have to keep quiet." He stretched out on the bed so he was lying on his side next to Sands, his head on the edge of the pillow. "You don't have to hide anything from me."
Sands said nothing. He just lay there. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.
The time had finally come. It had taken so much, so long, to get here. El wanted nothing to spoil this moment.
He sat up on one elbow, so he could look down into Sands' face. He kissed Sands, once on the little furrow in his brow, and then again on the mouth. "I love you," he said.
Sands turned away. "Yeah, right."
"I am serious," El said. "Do you think I would say those words lightly?"
"I think you would say it if you thought it would make me feel better," Sands said bitterly.
"But I know it doesn't," El said. "It makes you feel worse."
Sands said nothing to this, but his jaw clenched.
"Has no one ever said that to you before, as I have?" El asked. He was afraid he knew the answer, but he hoped he was wrong.
"What do you think?" Sands said, the bitterness more evident than ever in his tone.
"Then I am the first," El said, and kissed him again.
"Stop it. You don't love me," Sands said. He pushed at El's chest with his right hand, but it was an ineffectual push, without much strength behind it.
"I do," El said. "I love you. I know it is hard for you to believe, but--"
"Stop it!" Sands shoved him hard, knocking him onto his back.
El sat up straight. "Why?" he asked. "Tell me why I don't love you."
"Because," Sands snapped. His right hand remained curled in a fist. A tremor ran through him.
"Tell me why," El repeated.
"Because..." Sands tossed his head. "No," he muttered, not to El, but to the voice in his mind. "Shut up."
El took his face between both his palms. "Don't listen to it," he said. "Listen to me. I love you."
"I don't believe you," Sands whispered.
"You don't have to," El said. "I believe it, and that is enough for the both of us." He pressed a firm kiss to Sands' mouth.
"I don't believe you," Sands said. He reached up with his good arm and seized a handful of El's hair. He dragged El's head downward and captured El's mouth in a burning kiss. "I don't believe you, and I don't love you."
El's heart sang, proof that there was still music in his life, after all. "I know," he said, between kisses. "I know."
******