Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Closer

Disclaimer: I had forgotten how annoying these things are. Of course I don't own El and Sands.

Rating: PG-13 for language

Summary: El and Sands catch up a little.

Author's Note: Thanks to Melody, who not only beta reads, she slices and dices and can still cut through a tin can. And to Bainpeth for the very sweet and unexpected plug on LJ.

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It was dark out by the time the doctor left. Night insects hummed and sang reedy songs. Stars were strewn haphazardly across the sky, as if a giant hand had thrown them against a sticky black backdrop.

El sat on the back porch of the abandoned Salazar estate and smoked. He needed some time alone with his thoughts.

He was uncomfortable with himself and his actions today. This morning everything had seemed so clear. He had planned to come here and kill Sands. Then he had figured he would sleep the night at Lorenzo's house and figure out what to do next with his life. He had never imagined he would be sitting here, puzzled and feeling like a stranger to himself.

So why had he done it?

He hadn't really lied to the doctor. If anyone was going to kill Sands, he wanted to be the one to do it. And in a way, keeping Sands alive was helping himself. Sands was killing cartel, and that meant less pressure on him, less people looking for him. After the botched coup and his murder of Barillo, he had truly expected the hunt for him to reach almost hysterical proportions. Yet that had not happened, and now he knew why. The cartels had been busy looking over their shoulders for the blind gunfighter. El Mariachi had become almost secondary to them. For that, he owed Sands a vote of thanks.

Also he pitied the CIA officer. No one deserved to be blinded like that, not even someone as evil as Sands. Again he wondered how it had happened, and who had done it. He remembered Sands as being cocky and arrogant. He had tried to rule Mexico from a cell phone. Obviously someone had decided he was tired of being manipulated, and figured he would turn the tables on Sands.

He finished his cigarette. He ground it under the toe of his boot and went into the house.

It was dark inside. No electricity meant no lights. Sands had a flashlight, but it didn't work. El had to trail his fingers along the walls and walk with the other hand held out in front of him, scouting out the territory. He didn't like it.

He reached the back bedroom and stopped in the doorway. It was lighter in here because of the missing window, but it still took some time for his eyes to adjust. He heard Sands before he saw him. The CIA officer was breathing in soft little gasps of pain and fever. The doctor had taken one look at the wound and said there was nothing he could do. Sands would either have to go to a hospital, or the bullet would have to remain inside.

The doctor had left some drugs, and a promise to return tomorrow with more. Sands, however, had rebelled at taking the pills. He had twisted and fought, twice spitting both water and pills at El until the mariachi had finally lost his patience and simply poured water down Sands' throat until Sands had to swallow the pills or else choke to death.

The doctor had observed all this from a safe, dry distance, then remarked, "It's the fever. He isn't himself."

El had raised an eyebrow and mopped water off his face, but he had said nothing.

Unperturbed, the doctor had pointed at Sands' face and said, "He won't want the drugs. Whoever did that to him surely drugged him first." He had shuddered. "I hope."

Now El looked down at Sands and thought the doctor was probably right. He could see the man now, although not in any detail. Just as a shadowy shape huddled on a smelly mattress that leaked stuffing from a long tear down the side.

Even in the dim light, El could see the sunglasses. "Who was it?" he asked.

Sands did not move, but the change in his breathing revealed that he had heard the question.

"I am thinking...Cucuy maybe," El said. He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "No?"

Sands said nothing.

"Someone else you tried to use for your own benefit? Someone else you coldly manipulated?" He became aware that a jeering note had entered his voice, but he did not care. "Who was it? I wish I could meet him. I would like to thank him in person."

Sands' breath caught. El was glad to hear it. That meant he had struck a nerve.

"Why haven't you killed me yet?" Sands asked. His voice was hoarse.

El scowled. He wanted to be the one asking the questions. Asking questions didn't require as much thought as answering them. Right now he was unhappy with himself. He didn't want to be doing any more thinking than he had to.

After a while, Sands said, "Looks like we each have our secrets."

El's frown deepened. He wasn't keeping a secret. He didn't want to kill Sands yet because...well, just because.

"Are you in pain?" he asked. "The doctor left drugs for you."

He thought Sands would refuse. But no. "Give them to me."

El hesitated. Sands was at his mercy now. He could withhold the painkillers and make the man suffer. He could throw away the antibiotics and watch Sands' fever climb until he had convulsions. But these thoughts held little appeal. In truth, they actually made him feel a little sick.

He got the drugs and poured a cup of water from the jug he had bought at the store. He carried these things over to Sands and hunkered down beside the mattress. "Here."

"Christ, I know you're there," Sands snapped. "Everyone in this whole damn state can probably hear you jingling away like it's fucking Christmas morning." He held out his hand and El dropped two of the white pills into his palm. Sands popped them into his mouth and held out his hand again. El gave him the cup and Sands drank, his Adam's apple working.

El took the cup back and stood up. He started walking off, and Sands said, "I'm surprised you don't already know."

He stopped. "Know what?" he asked, his back to Sands.

"It was Barillo."

El blinked. He had not expected that. "Did you know I killed him?"

Sands sighed, a sound of exasperation. When he spoke he sounded as bored as he had when he had informed El that he knew of Bucho's death. "Yes, I knew that."

"Oh," El said. He set the cup down and walked back toward Sands. His head was beginning to ache again. He thought of the little white painkillers, but then decided against it. The drugs had made Sands sleep, and El had no intention of letting his guard down around this man. Even sick and injured, Sands was dangerous.

"You see, unlike some people, I try to stay abreast of current events," Sands said.

El glowered down at him. "I have been busy."

"You've been busy," Sands repeated.

"Yes," El said. He had the sinking feeling he had just walked into yet another trap.

"Doing what?" Sands smirked. "Running for your life?"

"Yes," El said. It sounded lame even to himself.

"Well, jeez El, so have I. But I've found time to keep up, and I can't even read the fucking newspapers anymore!" Sands shifted on the mattress, trying to find a position that was more comfortable. His face tightened with pain, but he did not make a sound.

"It's easier for you," El said. He resented the implication that he had had his head up his ass for three years. After all, staying ahead of the cartels did require some intelligence on his part. "You're CIA. You probably have contacts all over this country feeding you information."

Sands gave him a small smile. "I was CIA. And I don't have any contacts anymore. If they aren't dead, they've gone silent. Going on with their lives like I never existed. That's the rule."

"So you, what?" El asked. He sat cross-legged on the floor. "You have spent all this time hunting the cartels. For what? You think if you kill enough of them they will give you your eyes back?"

"Can they give you Carolina back?" Sands retorted.

El lunged. The mere thought of this man speaking the name of his dead wife infuriated him. He was going to wrap his hands around Sands' throat and squeeze, so Sands could never again say that name, never again say anything at all.

His ass had barely left the floor when Sands brought the gun up. "Surprise, fuckmook," Sands grinned. "Did you think I wouldn't find where you hid them?"

Stunned, El could only stare. Sands must have gone looking for the guns while he had sat outside, smoking. He had only gone out because he had believed the man was asleep. But Sands, once again, had fooled him.

"It's been nice knowing you, El." Sands pulled the trigger.

A dry click filled the air.

The grin faded from Sands' face. He did not bother pulling the trigger again. "Nice one. Letting me find an unloaded gun." His voice was light. Only the set of his jaw was proof of his anger.

"I thought you would try," El said. Just not this soon, he thought.

"Hey, you never know when you'll get lucky," Sands said. He tossed the gun in El's direction. It hit El in the knee, eliciting a curse from the mariachi.

El picked up the gun, fingering it thoughtfully. Sands was constantly surprising him. He never knew what to expect next. The man should have been unconscious at the least, yet here he was, fighting his own mortality so he could crawl around a room he couldn't see and look for a gun he had to know wouldn't be loaded. But he had done it anyway.

Despite his hatred for the man, El found himself respecting Sands. Surrender was clearly not a word in Sands' vocabulary, in either English or Spanish. "How do you do it?" he asked.

"Do what?" Sands said. He rolled onto his back, raising his right leg so it was bent at the knee. He rested his hands on his chest, just above the place where the bullet had entered his abdomen.

"All of it," El said. He remembered how helpless he had felt just trying to make his way through the dark halls of the house in order to reach this room with its dim light. He could not imagine being blind, and not being able to see the world around him. He could not imagine the courage it would take to get out of bed every morning, knowing you were not going to see anything. If it happened to him, he would want to curl up in a corner and retreat from the world. He could not fathom the strength required to walk in constant darkness with your head held high.

His respect for Sands went up another notch. "How do you do it?"

"You want a dissertation? How To Cope With Blindness 101?" Bitterness laced Sands' voice. "Go fuck yourself."

"I want to know," El said.

"Then give me my knife, and I'll let you have some firsthand experience," Sands shot back.

"Is that what Barillo did?" El asked. "Used a knife to take out your eyes?"

"Oh no. That would be too tacky," Sands said. He spoke in his trademark drawl, but every word was like brittle glass, and El winced to hear them. Surely he had to be cutting his mouth to shreds with those words. "I believe it was something of Dr. Guevara's own invention. Part drill, part pincers. Very creative, actually. You'd think the man ripped people's eyes out every day."

El felt sick again. Since the day a man named Moco had shot him in the hand and started him on his dark path, he had seen some terrible things done to people. But this cruelty went beyond anything he had heard of.

The pity he had felt earlier was back. "Madre de Dios," he breathed.

"Are you going to do anything useful, or just sit there and ask me shtupid questions?" Sands asked. Judging by his last few words, the painkillers had obviously begun to take effect. It wouldn't be long before he was asleep. Hopefully for several hours.

El shrugged. "That depends on what you consider useful."

Sands was silent for a long time. Just when El thought he had fallen asleep, he said, "What are you going to do with me?"

"I do not know," El said honestly.

"Thass very comforting," Sands sighed. He was almost out of it.

"All I can promise you is this," El said. "You will live to see the morning. That is all I can offer you." The moment the words were out of his mouth, he winced. It was a hard habit to break, using words like "see" and "look", when talking to a blind man. It was all the harder to stop doing it when the blind man in question used those very words himself all the time.

"I'd like to see morning," Sands whispered. There was a note of longing in his voice. It was the drugs talking, El knew, but even that cold rationalization could not stop the sharp knife-twist of sympathy that settled in his chest.

"El?"

"Sí?"

"Did you lock the front door?"

"No," he said. "It does not close. I broke it when I left this morning."

"Shit," Sands breathed. And then he was deeply asleep.

El looked at him for a long time. After a while he rose to his feet and walked toward the front of the house. He gazed at the door hanging crookedly from its bottom two hinges only. The gap at the top was not big enough to let a man through, but it was still big enough to worry El.

He grabbed the door and manhandled it erect. He shoved it into the frame and threw the bolt quickly, before it could realize it wasn't meant to stand upright anymore. He stood back cautiously, but the door stayed put. There was a narrow sliver of black space around the top section of the door, but it was only half an inch wide, so it no longer concerned him.

With a satisfied nod, he turned around and made his way into the back bedroom again. He stood in the doorway for a moment, just listening to Sands' breathing. When he was sure the man was truly asleep, he sat down in the far corner and tilted his head back against the wall.

Five minutes later, he was sound asleep.

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