Asphodel | Chapter 3

A Once Upon A Time In Mexico Fanfiction by Majokai Yukiko

Pairing: El/Sands, Sands/OC

Rating: R

Warning: Slash. Mind control. Sexual torture. Stockholm Syndrome

Timeline: Post movie

This is an amateur effort and does not intend to infringe on the rights of the movie producers and their associates.

A/N: This story took a major turn at this chapter. Before that it was basically ranting on my part. Did not have a clear plot in mind. Now I do. Yeah.

***

Eight years ago.

"What's wrong?" Sheldon placed a hand gently on a bare arm, looking into the sea blue eyes of his lover. James Conner sighed, knowing that the loving gesture was no more real than the enigma Sheldon Jeffrey Sands was. After seeing the man at work that afternoon, James believed…no, he knew, that the new agent would not hesitate to kill anyone, as long as the order's passed down and he was promised the amount of fun he wanted. Anyone, him included.

"You don't have the right to ask, Sands."

"And why is that so?" Sheldon removed his hand and laid back on the soft sheets. James kept silent. After a while, he heard a soft rustle beside him as warm arms pulled him into a spoon. He felt Sheldon breathing calmly against his shoulder. "You don't think I will kill you, do you?" Sheldon whispered in askance.

James did not answer. The answer, they both knew it well deep within their hearts. There was no need to say it out loud, or so they thought.

They never realized their answers to the same question were different.

Sands waited till his lover was asleep before he pulled away, propping himself up on his elbow to watch how the moonlight played on James' blond hair. He did his first official legal murder that afternoon. He had murdered his mentor under CIA's orders. The old man had taught him all that he knew. And because of that, he was not at all surprised when his student pointed a gun at him with a smirk. Old Misery had long suspected whom the CIA would send to put him out of his miserable existence.

The job was done without much of a hitch. Agent Sands had completed his job, as ordered. But what the CIA did not know and could not know, was how the agent had reacted after he put that bullet through the old weak heart. He had walked up to the dead body, and kneeled down on one knee beside it. Placing his unarmed hand on Old Misery's face, he slowly eased the dead eyes close.

A drop of tear fell from his eyes. It was the only form of mourning he would allow himself to give.

Watching the grime crusted blond hair, Agent Sands immediately thought about another blonde he knew. Would he kill him when the situation called for it? Instead of his mentor, could he imagine his lover dead and bleeding at his feet?

He probably could. But he would save another bullet in his gun for himself too.

***

Present

The office was dark, except for the ghostly light from the laptop screen. The night was silent, except for the clicking of the computer keys.

James Conner lightly tapped his cigarette over the edge of his ashtray, and then brought it back to his lips. This was interesting, he thought, reading carefully the report off his screen.

Eight years was an awfully long time for anyone to remain unchanged. James Conner definitely had changed. For the better, he supposed. Spending almost a decade killing and fucking his way up to the top of the Agency could do that to anyone. Life was getting terribly boring, until he received the news that the one who had messed him up so many years ago had finally gotten his retribution.

The blond man could not help but smile a little at that thought.

"Sheldon Jeffrey Sands," he whispered a little to himself, testing that long-forgotten name on his lips. That man had left him that night eight years ago, took an one-way ticket from CIA to Mexico without as much as a parting glace, leaving him to pin after him like an abandoned puppy. How the tides had turned.

Conner chuckled gleefully and ground out his cigarette, closing the lip of his laptop with his other hand.

Sands had more to learn about himself.

***

Eight years ago

He had no idea where he was, or how long had it been since they shut him in there. There were no windows in the room, or so it seemed. The room was totally dark because he could not see a thing. The sunlight was not shining anywhere in the room because he could not feel heat on his skin.

Actually, as a matter of fact, he could not feel anything. Or hear anything. Or smell anything.

It might have been death. But it was not death because he remembered something very vital. For example, he knew his name was Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, he knew he was not part of the CIA and that this, whatever this was, was part of his training as a field agent. He vaguely recalled something about them stripping him before pushing him into this cell. What did they call it? Oh yeah, sensory deprivation.

He felt empty. On the first day he had yelled and screamed and cursed and shouted, panicking when he realized not only could he not hear what he was saying, he could not even feel himself saying those words. He was air, as insubstantial as a fucking fairy. He tried rubbing his fingers over his face, trying to feel the warm skin beneath his fingers. But it was numb. All of it.

On the second day, he tried thinking erotic thoughts, rubbing where he thought his cock should be, trying to force himself to feel pleasure. And then he tried pain, thinking that if all else fails, pain should jolt him back into reality soon enough. He banged his head repeatedly on the floor he was on. But he might as well have been bouncing on air. Nothing. He felt nothing at all, as if his brain had been disconnected from the rest of his body.

He held on for a couple more days. Days of course, he was speaking in extremely vague terms. He had no idea how to tell time in this empty place. But anyway, he soon started begging.

He crawled, he cajoled, laughed when he thought he should laugh, cry when he though he should cry. He could not hear a single thing he said, but he knew they could, and that they must have, for they later gave him back his sense of touch. It was then he felt an overwhelming sense of love for them. All other love he felt before, for his lover, for his family before they fucked him over, for the girl he used to have a crush on back in high school, paled in comparison.

He could not hear himself, but he heard them, like the voice of God, telling him that they would give him another sense if he were a good boy.

And a good boy he was. He masturbated for their pleasure; he prized open his cheeks for them to view his tight puckered entrance. Most of all, he did not protest when they took him. Hands roaming all over his body, fingers probing where he had only allowed one man to touch. He had never felt so keenly before. He never felt so loved.

They were so good to him. He could feel. They let him feel.

His next reward was his hearing. They told him they liked to hear him moan. They told him illicit suggestions of what they wanted to do to his body. Their voices became more substantial as time passed, no longer speaking into his mind; they were now beside him, right beside his ear. He moaned for them, loudly, realized how much he loved the sound of his own voice, and moaned some more.

His smell and taste came next. The pungent smell of cum and urine was like sweet aroma to him. This taste of hot salty but bitter liquid burning down his throat was like heaven's wine. He loved it. He loved it all. He loved the one who had given all these to him. He did not need to see him to worship him. In this darkness, His brilliance was like that of God. You do not need to feel him, to touch him to learn how to love him. Nothing. Just a voice. Just a taste of that essence. And he would be his again.

Anytime.

***

2 months ago

"My name is Sheldon Jeffrey Sands. I work for the CIA, and I'm livin' la vida loca."

The man staggered from the room, suddenly glad for the sunglasses over where his eyes should have been, protecting the sun's harmful rays from his raw nerve ends. His other senses were overloaded. The sounds of the market, the feel of the blood crawling down his cheeks, the smell of the human pollution in the air had all yelled out to him. This was familiar. Too familiar.

Sands shuddered, bracing both his hands on the rough brick wall. The hair on his nape stood up right, his shoulders itched, like how it had always been when he was being hunted. Whispering his mantra over and over again under his breath, he quickly worked out what he had to do to survive.

This was not the first time this was happening to him. What happened the last time? He tried to remember. And then smiled when he did.

He saw God.

Yes, that's right. God would come for him soon enough. Right now, like he did the last time, he had to prove himself worthy of His affections.

***

End of Chapter 3

Continue to Chapter 4