Blinded by the Light

Disclaimer: I have no witty way of saying it today. They're not mine.

Rating: R for language and mature themes

Summary: El and Sands finally begin to see the light

Author's Note: Switching POVs again in this chapter. And thanks to Melody my beta, who has been so wonderfully patient in waiting for the events of this chapter, despite the fact that I hinted at them ages ago.

And at the risk of sounding like a silly fangirl, congratulations to Johnny for winning the SAG Award!

****

One month after his rescue, El Mariachi sat in a Durango bar and watched the news on TV of the destruction of Carlos Alvarado's cartel. It was the top news story, and the anchorman at his desk was finding it hard to keep a straight face as he reported on the slaughter. People in the bar raised a glass and drank heartily. Durango, after all, was not too far from Culiacan.

The only dark spot amid all that good news was that Carlos Alvarado himself had escaped. The newsanchor and his paid experts had all kinds of theories on the drug lord's whereabouts. El smiled grimly as he finished his drink. He knew it did not matter where Alvarado had gone. Wherever he was, Sands would find him.

He scowled. There he went again. Just when it seemed like he could go a whole day without thinking about Sands, his mind would find some way of reminding him.

Sands, who hated him so much he had walked away on a wounded leg in order to leave as soon as it was possible. Sands, who had sent the doctor to the house, and in so doing saved El's life yet again.

El sighed.

He would never forget that morning. Looking around and realizing he was alone. Hearing water drip from the eaves of the roof. The gray light coming through the window illuminating the charred remains of the fire.

He had lain back down on the floor. He had not thought he would do anything. His mind had been blank.

Some time later, a knock had sounded on the door. A man had entered.

The American had sent him, the man had said. He was a doctor.

El had stared at him, not quite comprehending. Even now, the memory of that morning was blurred by pain and a streaky white haze that seemed composed partly of old smoke and partly of rainclouds.

The American had walked until a policeman had seen him, the doctor had said. There was an investigation into the accident. The police had taken the American to safety.

"I tended him myself," the doctor had said. "When I was finished, he told me there was someone in the house, but that I should not let the police know." He had given El a narrow stare. "Are you one of them?"

El had raised his burned hand. "What do you think?" he had asked.

So the doctor had treated him. And he had left the house and he had healed. And now here he was in Durango, sitting at a bar watching television. His shoulder was stronger and he could use his hand a little, but he could not even think about touching a guitar without feeling burned all over again.

And he could not stop thinking about that day in the rain.

He kept remembering what Sands had said about a kinship. That moment of recognition, when he had realized Sands was as lonely as he was.

And he remembered other things too. The exchange of conversation. The reassuring warmth of another body against his. The relief of having nowhere left to run, and no more secrets to hide. The knowledge that he could just be himself and not have to pretend.

He wondered if Sands was still in Culiacan.

He wondered if Sands ever thought of that day, too.

****

Sands was most definitely not thinking about that day.

He never thought about it. Not one bit.

It was late; the air was cooler and the crickets were in full chorus. He should be getting back. Jorge would need him soon. But he stayed right where he was, sitting on a flat rock that still held some warmth from the day's sun. He ground his cigarette out under his heel and rested his elbows on his thighs. To a passing observer he would have looked like someone who had been walking along the road who had then decided to sit down and rest.

In truth he was so tired he was surprised he didn't just fall over. He had abandoned sleeping. He didn't like to sleep anymore. He didn't like the dreams he was having.

Hell, he shouldn't even be here anymore. He had done what he had set out to do. The cartel in this area was destroyed. Carlos Alvarado had cut and run, and by all rights he should be chasing after that fucker. So what the hell was he still doing here?

It was all El's fault, he figured.

Except reminding himself that El was to blame only made his mind return to thoughts of that day in the rain, and that was one thing he most definitely did not want to think about. Not now, and not ever.

He sighed.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep that day. That was the last thing he was certain of. But the sound of the rain had gone from being aggravating to being soothing, and El's steady breathing had lulled him into a dull torpor that had moved swiftly toward sleep. When El had slumped to the floor, he had let himself be dragged down too, and shortly after that he had fallen asleep.

The absence of rain had woken him. Birdsong had filtered in through the window, and he had known it was morning.

He had lain very still, hardly daring to breathe. He had been on his side, and from shoulder to hips he had been in contact with El's solid bulk.

Even now, a month later, he marveled at the strangeness of it. Instead of leaping up and recoiling in disgust, he had done nothing. He had just lain there, breathing in tandem with El. He had not wanted to move, or do anything that might disturb the peace of the moment. He had never lacked for lovers before, but very few of them had ever stayed the night. Waking up beside a warm body was a unique enough sensation that it had given him pause. He had been possessed of a bizarre – and mercifully brief – wish that nothing would happen to disturb him.

Of course it had not lasted. Eventually it had occurred to him what he was doing, and overcome with horror, he had sat bolt upright. He had known then that he had to leave, and fast.

So he had left El in the house. He had hobbled back in the direction they had come, reasoning that this was his best chance of encountering someone. Fortunately he had not had to go far before a policeman investigating the accident had spotted him. From there it had been a simple matter to return to civilization.

But annoyingly he could not forget about those hours spent in the house with El. They nagged at him, and popped up in his mind when he least expected it. He had hoped releasing his tension and frustration on the cartel would help, but now they were all dead and he was still filled with an unfocused unease he could not identify.

A night insect brushed by his face, and he swatted at it. It really was getting late. He needed to be getting back. Jorge was still bedridden, and the FBI agent got pissy if he had to wait too long for things.

Sands stood up and waited for the inevitable dizziness to unravel, so he could start walking toward the house. He felt light-headed every time he stood up now, and he knew that was due to lack of sleep, yet he still could not bring himself to lie down at night and dream.

Not when those dreams put him right back in that house again. No thank you.

Because he was not thinking about that day. Not at all.

****

El left Durango at dawn. He had tossed and turned for several hours before reluctantly admitting that he was not going to get any sleep on this night. After that it had taken some time to admit to himself what he was going to do, and still longer to actually find the nerve to do it.

But he was on the road now. Heading north. To Culiacan.

He deliberately did not let himself imagine what would happen when he arrived. It was better that way. Planning things could only get him into trouble.

Still, he couldn't help hoping that everything would go well.

****

The sound of a car door slamming shut roused Sands. It was mid-morning. He was sitting in the kitchen, lazily stirring his coffee. He made two pots these days. One for Jorge, and one for himself that was scaldingly strong. Mornings were the worst, when sleep beckoned most tantalizingly. He needed the coffee to stay awake then.

Now, however, thoughts of sleep were banished from his mind. He rose to his feet and drew one of his guns. Even in the relative security of Jorge's house he was always armed. He had learned his lesson the day the Colombians had come for him, the day El had saved his life and forced him into servitude. Never again would he be without a gun on his person at all times.

Never again, said a snide voice in the back of his mind, except when you're stuck with crazy mariachis in the rain.

He listened hard for approaching footsteps, but heard none. He frowned. Jorge was well-liked and respected in town – nobody held it against him that he had lived in America for some time – and he received many visitors. Whenever this happened Sands had to make himself scarce, so no one would know he was there. He suspected most of the people knew he was there anyway, but they chose to act as if he wasn't. After all, he had destroyed the cartel for them, and they owed him. For his part he was perfectly happy to maintain the fiction. The less people he had to deal with, the better.

But today there were no footsteps. No one walked up to the front door. The doorbell did not ring. Nobody knocked. Whoever was here, they were not here for Jorge.

Deeply suspicious, Sands left the kitchen. He held the gun tightly.

Outside, there was nothing but silence. Sands did not trust that silence one bit. Gripping the gun with both hands, he eased through the house until he reached Jorge's bedroom. Where the FBI agent had been ever since coming home from the hospital.

Jorge had been flipping through a magazine, but when he saw Sands, the sound of pages riffling abruptly stopped. "What is it?"

"Expecting visitors?" Sands asked in a low voice.

"No," Jorge said. A drawer rattled open and then there came the very welcome sound of an ammo clip socking home.

Sands smiled tightly. "I'll go see who it is."

He moved through the house on silent feet. When he entered the living room he crouched down, walking in a path that kept him out of the line of sight of anyone looking in the open windows. He had long ago memorized that path, and he walked it now without even thinking twice about it.

There were still no footsteps from outside. But he could hear the ticking noise of a car engine cooling. Someone was out there.

Whoever it was obviously thought they could play games. As if being blind made him deaf and stupid too. So he knelt down between the front door and the window, and he waited.

It was a long wait. But Sands was a patient man. Especially when he knew his wait would be rewarded.

Still, he was surprised when the sound finally came. Not footsteps, but a voice.

"Sands."

A voice he knew all too well.

As he had promised El on the day of the storm, he gave no second chances. Careful not to present too much of himself as a target, he aimed out the window, and fired.

Glass shattered. Bullets spanged off metal. He wondered dimly what kind of car El was driving.

"Who is it?" Jorge shouted from the back room. He had broken his leg and his hip in the car accident, and he still could not walk. But Sands did not doubt that Jorge would find a way to back him up, should the need present itself. That was nice to know. It was a good feeling to know someone had his back.

"It's the Avon lady," Sands called. "I told her I wasn't interested but she wouldn't take no for an answer."

Perplexed silence met this. He hoped Jorge wasn't about to do anything stupid.

"Sands." El spoke from the front yard. He was using the car as protection, Sands thought scornfully. It was a cowardly tactic, one he would never have expected from the mariachi.

"Now I know your English isn't that bad," Sands said out the window. "I know you understood me when I told you to leave me alone. And yet, here you are. I can't help but wonder why. Still looking for a way to fulfill that deathwish, are we?"

"I came to see you," El called.

Sands squeezed off a couple shots. The bullets struck the car, doing more damage, but probably not coming close to El's position. "That's not a very nice thing to say to a blind man," he said.

"I am unarmed," El called.

"And I'm going to believe that why?" Sands asked.

From the bedroom Jorge called out, "Should I call the police?"

"No!" Sands snapped. "Just shut up!"

His mind raced. El was here. To see him. The awful tiredness that had dragged down his step for weeks was gone. He felt alert, and very alive. Energy coursed through him, making his heart beat in triple-time. Sweat broke out on his brow.

"Sands?"

He shook his head sharply. Christ, was he really thinking of going out there?

Well, why not? This was his house too now, by God. He lived here. He was practically Jorge's fucking nurse. Why shouldn't he walk out there? He had every right to be here. El did not. El was the trespasser, not him.

So why did he suddenly feel so guilty?

Pissed off at himself, he stood up and flung open the front door. Keeping his gun trained on the place where El's voice had come from, he stepped out onto the porch. He went down the stairs until he stood on the grass. "What the fuck do you want, El?" he asked, letting a light-hearted lilt creep into his voice.

Chains jingled as El moved. Sands tensed, but the mariachi was only putting the car between them again. "I said. To see you."

"How sweet." He held the gun in both hands, the way they had taught him at Langley. "Now what do you really want?"

"My wife asked me that once," El said quietly. "Que quieres en la vida. It means--"

"I know what it means," Sands snapped.

"Sí," El said. "I forget sometimes. You speak Spanish very well."

"So I've been told," Sands said tightly. "And you still haven't answered my question."

"My answer to Carolina was libertad," El said. "Freedom. Now, I do not know what the answer is."

"I get it," Sands said. "You came here for a therapy session." He made a small gesture with the gun. "Well, this doctor is out. Now get the fuck off my lawn, and never come back here."

"When the cartel captured me," El said, "I was on my way back here. I wanted to apologize to the boy."

"Wow," Sands said. "You have no idea how much respect I just lost for you."

The chains on El's pants jingled again. Sands held his breath, listening, counting footsteps. The car was parked longways, he realized, with the headlights on either his left or right. Which meant that in another step or two, El was going to come around the other side, and he would have a clear shot.

"I wanted to ask you a question," El said.

Sands said nothing. He didn't want to be asked any more questions. Too often over the last month he had found himself thinking of what El had asked him during the storm. Do you still dream?

"Will you let me approach? I do not wish to shout it across the yard."

"What if I want you to shout?" Sands snapped back. He was beginning to get the very uneasy feeling that he was not in control of this conversation. Even though El was the one hiding and he was the one with the gun.

"I can wait," El said. "I merely wish to ask one question. And I would like you not to shoot me."

"Well you're just needy all over, aren't you?" To his amazement, he lowered the gun. Not much, but enough. "All right." In his best arrogant voice, he said, "You may approach."

El walked slowly forward. The chains jingled on his pants. Sands wondered why he had worn them. Without those chains El could probably move so silently no one would ever know he was there. If he had truly meant to approach the house, he could have done so without Sands knowing his identity. Which meant he had worn the chains deliberately.

Sands frowned. He didn't like the direction of those thoughts. They led inexorably back to that day in the rain, and that was one place he was sworn never to return to.

"It is a simple question," El said. "And if you answer no, I will leave. And I will never come back."

"Finally you're starting to make some sense," Sands said. He held the gun low, aimed not quite at the mariachi, but not very far off the mark either. He was tense, but not worried. As long as El didn't get too close, he would still have time to bring the gun about and shoot accurately.

A few feet away, El stopped walking. "I want to ask you. Do you think about that day?"

There was no need to clarify which day. Sands knew. He knew right away.

Oh you son of a bitch. How dare you do this to me?

He could lie, of course. He should lie. But he couldn't. Partly because he was curious to know what El would do if he answered yes. Partly out of sheer stubborn perversity, the same streak in his nature that had always made him do the unexpected and defy convention. And partly because, damnit, he wasn't sure he really wanted El completely out of his life. He had a worthy adversary in El, and he felt a grudging respect for the mariachi. El was the first person in years whom he had felt was an equal. It would be a shame to lose that.

So he held his head high and he said, "Yes."

"So do I," El said. He took another step closer. "You were right," El said. "I did what I did because I had let the darkness take me. I wanted to feel again. Now I do. I feel guilt. Bewilderment. Curiosity. Passion." He took another step closer, and then another. "Kinship."

Sands scowled at hearing that word thrown back at him. He had repeatedly kicked himself for saying it that day, and now here was his punishment. For the rest of his life he would get to hear El say it.

"You asked me why I came here. What I wanted. This is what I want. I want to know how this feels." A hand touched his wrist, and he instinctively recoiled. El pushed his arm to one side, and when he pulled the trigger anyway, the bullet plowed harmlessly into the ground.

El kissed him.

He had never been kissed like that before. It was a demanding kiss, insisting that he acknowledge it not just with his body but with his entire being. El's mouth was hot, and El's breath tasted like tequila. El's hands gripped his upper arms, pulling him close, preventing him from backing away.

Not that he could have. Sands was too shocked to move. He simply stood there and let El kiss him.

El tore his mouth free and let go of him. Released, Sands staggered back a little. He was breathing hard but he could not speak. His rational brain was flooded with sensations too alien to process.

"Are you feeling what I am feeling?" El asked in a hoarse whisper.

The sound of the mariachi's voice broke the spell. Sands swallowed hard. "That depends," he said. He had meant it to come out wry and ironic, but instead it sounded small and uncertain.

"No, it does not matter what I am feeling," El admitted. "What matters is that I feel it at all."

This was too deep for Sands right now. He had just been kissed by his mortal enemy, and he had not disliked it. He could not understand it.

"Are you going to shoot me now?" El asked.

Sands frowned. He was still holding the gun, but he could not seem to remember how to use it.

What the hell is going on here?

"You were right," El said. "We share kinship. And I think I have just proved it."

The confident nature of this statement gave Sands some of his self-possession back. He raised the gun, although it still felt like an unwieldy foreign object. "You don't know jack shit about me," he said. He was horrified to realize his voice was shaking.

"I know you are lonely," El said. "As am I. I know you need me, as I need you."

"That's where you're wrong," Sands snarled. "I don't need anything from you except for you to leave me alone." He took a quick couple steps back, putting distance between himself and the mariachi. His legs quivered, and he cursed at himself. What the fuck was happening? What had El done to him?

He suddenly remembered that El had listed passion as one of the things the mariachi was feeling these days. He tightened his hold on the gun so hard that pain shot up his wrist. "If you came all the way out here just to get laid, you were sadly mistaken, El."

"That is not why," El said. "I have what I came for." He started to walk away.

Sands' confusion grew. What the hell? El had kissed him and that was it? "Where the hell do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"I don't know," El said. "But there is no reason for me to stay." His voice rose a little at the end, turning the sentence into something of a question.

Reason to stay. Reason to stay? The hell. I am not lonely. I don't need anyone, and lest we forget, I'm living with an injured retired FBI agent in a house where a kid comes and goes as he pleases. That's hardly the lifestyle of someone who is alone.

But he knew that was bullshit. It was possible to be alone while surrounded by people. In fact, in Sands' experience that was often the case. And until recently he had preferred it that way. He didn't like the entanglement of relationships. Not to mention the last time he had tried to form a connection with someone, she had betrayed him and had him blinded.

And now?

El had stopped walking. "I will stay away," he said, "if that is what you truly want."

He could not say it. He seemed to have lost the power of speech. El's kiss had robbed him of his free will, and he could not say anything at all. He could not even think what he wanted to say. He did not know what he wanted.

"Then I will see you around," El said. A car door opened. Keys and mariachi pants jingled. The door shut. The engine started. It sounded unhappy, but it did not quit. The car drove off. Up the driveway and onto the road. It turned right, heading east, toward town.

Sands stood very still. Cautiously he touched his tongue to his lower lip. He could still taste El. A shudder swept through him.

It was a long time before he went back in the house.

******

Author's Note: I must apologize to my readers who don't like slash. Normally I would put a warning at the start of the chapter, but I felt in this instance that such a warning would give too much away about what happens in this chapter. Rest assured, future chapters will contain a proper warning, if they need it.