After All, Tomorrow is Another Day
Disclaimer: Nope, still don't own them
Rating: R for language and violence
Summary: El and Sands have it out, and matters between them come to a head.
Author's Note: Switching POVs again. Mild slash warning. Also, ff.net seems to be eating my reviews and I'm not getting e-mail alerts about them, so I'm sorry if you left a review and I haven't responded to it.
Thanks are in order for Melody my beta, who always makes me see things in a new light. She's a bit like Sands in that way, I guess. g (And I can't decide if she'll kill me or laugh her head off when she sees this.)
****
El drove straight through to Durango without stopping. He was afraid if he stopped he would start to think about what he had done and then there was no telling what would happen.
So he kept on driving. He focused on the road. He turned on the radio and although he did not sing along, he would occasionally tap out the time on the steering wheel with his left hand.
Back in Durango, he returned to the bar where he had watched the news report about the destruction of the cartel. The place was open even though it was only early afternoon, so he slouched at a table, nursed a beer, and finally allowed himself to think about what had happened.
He had his answers. After years of wandering and uncertainty, he had at last found a purpose again. He had found the person who set off sparks in his soul. Someone who challenged him, who kept him honest. Someone he could respect.
Someone who made him feel.
He finished his beer and grimaced; it had grown warm. Of course usually in situations like this, it was a good idea to like the person you wanted to spend time with. And he did not like Sands.
But he did respect the man. He greatly admired Sands' courage and his refusal to admit defeat. And Sands had changed, there could be no denying it. He had been concerned about Jorge Ramirez, and for someone as selfish as Sands, that was no small thing.
And himself? He was not magically cured or anything, and he knew it. But he had hope for himself now. He had goals for the future. He was filled with a nameless yearning for something he did not have – and now he knew how to get it.
He had been right all those months ago to believe that his fate lay with Sands. He had just not realized the proper way to achieve that fate. All that time he had thought he needed to be the cold hard killer, and he had turned his back on the things that had mattered. Now he saw it differently. He could not deny who he was. He was a mariachi, not a killer, and he was so lonely he ached for someone to spend his life with.
The day he had realized this, he had wept for the first time in years. He had buried his face in his hands and cried all those tears he had not been able to shed for Fideo and Lorenzo, or even for himself. Afterward he had slept for hours, the calmest sleep he had known in an age. When he had woken up, he had felt whole again, like he had gone for a long walk under a cleansing rain. Accepting the truth about himself, it seemed, had enabled him discover his heart again, and what it wanted.
The bar's stereo began to play a song with a wall of guitars and pounding drums. An American rock song. El frowned and stared into the amber dregs at the bottom of his beer glass.
Several interesting questions arose now. Whether he had intrigued Sands enough. If Sands could admit the same truths about himself that El had struggled so hard to accept. And most importantly, what Sands would choose to do once he acknowledged those truths.
The grinding guitars of the rock song were too much. El stood up, scattered some money on the table, and walked from the bar. He would go to his hotel room.
And he would wait.
****
Sands had no intention of going after El. For starters Jorge needed him, and then there was Chiclet to consider, not to mention the fact that Carlos Alvarado was still out there. Leaving Culiacan now was really not an option.
Besides, it was not like he wanted to go.
Midnight found him sitting in the living room, frowning morosely at a vapid sitcom on the TV. He was remembering his apartment in Washington DC. Alexandria, actually. He had looked long and hard for just the right place. Rent had not mattered. Location had. Proximity to things like the bank and post office. A corner apartment on an upper floor. Thick walls. Quiet, un-nosy neighbors. Covered parking.
Eventually he had found it. The perfect apartment. He had moved in during the course of one blisteringly cold January afternoon and spent the entire night unpacking. He had not let himself sleep until it was all done, and he had finally fallen into bed at eight the next morning.
Langley had called at nine, wanting to know where the hell he was.
He remembered that apartment now. The texture on the walls. The velvet Elvis painting he had bought in college and lugged with him everywhere he went. The bookcase with its biographies of Broadway stars. He had no idea what had become of his possessions. Probably the US government had sold them in an auction. Right now some lady in Denver was sleeping on his mattress, never dreaming that the man who had once slept on it now lived in Mexico and killed men because he had nothing better to do with himself.
He thought very hard about that apartment. About his things. About his life in America as Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, CIA officer. It was important that he cover all the bases. Because if he was going to go back, he had to know what he was getting into.
Of course he was still undecided. He could not make up his mind. It was either return to the States or...
No. He turned off the TV and tossed the remote onto the coffee table. No. There was no "or." He either went back, or he stayed here, but there was no third option. If he left Culiacan he was going home. Nowhere else.
We share kinship. I know you are lonely. As am I. I know you need me, as I need you.
"That is not true," he whispered fiercely.
He had eaten two meals since this morning, and drunk at least two more bottles of beer than were good for him, but he could still taste El in his mouth.
Do you still think about that day?
He remembered waking up with the warmth of El's body beside his. He remembered the sound of their voices, almost but not quite, drowned out by the sound of rain.
On the wall of his bedroom in Alexandria there had been a poster of some anonymous hippies at Woodstock, naked and covered in mud.
The CIA had sent him to Mexico because they hated him, but also because they were afraid of him. Everyone he had ever met had reacted to him in the same way. Wary respect and fear, as if he were a snake that might strike at any moment. He had accepted this and even encouraged it because he had thought that fear was his due -- but he had learned what true fear was since those days. He had been bitten by a snake with a bite more deadly than his own, but in the last few months the poison of that wound had finally begun to leave his body.
He wondered what El would say if the mariachi knew he could play guitar. That in fact he played quite well, although he had not touched one in years.
He had owned a set of black silk sheets, he remembered, just for those nights when he planned to bring his latest date back to the apartment.
Now he wore black always. Black clothing, black boots, black sunglasses. Black to match the world around him. Black of blindness nothingness void.
He rose to his feet and walked through the house to Jorge's bedroom. He opened the door and rapped his knuckles on the wooden frame. "Hey."
Sheets rustled as Jorge stirred. "Is everything all right?"
Sands gave him a thin smile. "I'm leaving," he said.
"Right now?" Jorge asked.
"In the morning," Sands said. "I'll make sure Chiclet looks after you."
"Where are you going?" Jorge asked.
Sands shrugged. "I don't know," he said. "I haven't decided yet."
"Before you go," Jorge said. "I have something for you."
"Whatever." He turned and walked out of the room. He was not interested in Jorge's gifts. Then again, he supposed that was hardly Jorge's fault.
After all, even he didn't know what he wanted.
****
El waited. Money was not an issue for him, but he disliked spending it on things like lodging. Yet he remained at his hotel. He was not sure how long he intended to stay here, but he felt confident that he would know when it was time to leave.
But it was not time yet. It had only been three weeks.
He used his time to wander the streets of Durango. It was September now and the children were back in school. He thought about the boy he had wronged, and hoped he was doing all right.
He visited tourist locations. He drank in many bars. He visited a doctor who told him that his hand was healing well. He began using his right arm to lift things, always being cautious not to put too much strain on the shoulder that had been dislocated.
He went into a music store and he looked at the guitars, but he did not touch any.
One night he came back from the bar and thought someone had been in his hotel room. Nothing was out of place or disturbed, but there was an air to the room as though someone had been there. That night he sat up in a chair facing the door, a gun in his lap, waiting.
But no one came, and he was left to wonder if he had imagined it all.
Then, four days later, he walked into the hotel room and stopped dead still. Sitting on top of his bed, looking perfectly innocent, was a guitar case. His guitar case. The one he had thought lost forever when he had been captured by the cartel.
Still standing where he was, he looked carefully through the room. He knew it was a useless gesture, though – there was no one in here with him.
Slowly he walked over to the bed and stared down at the guitar case. He undid the latches and opened it. Inside was his guitar, the one that he had carried for years, the one that he never played but only used as another case. It was not a true guitar. It was only the shell of one.
He reached out a hand, but his fingers began to tremble before they could come into contact with the smooth wood, and he snatched his hand back.
Not yet. He wasn't ready yet.
He closed the lid and latched it. He removed the guitar case from the bed and set it on the floor. He went back out to the bar where he had just come from, and he drank heavily until closing time.
When he woke the next day it was already after noon. His head pounded sickly and the bright sunlight made him squint painfully. He stood under the shower until the water turned cold and after that he felt a little better, but not much.
He spent the day in the bar, but he did not drink. He just slumped at a corner table and glared balefully at the other patrons. When the waitress asked him if he wanted anything he snapped at her and pissed her off so much that she ignored him for the rest of the evening. This suited El just fine, and when he left just before midnight, he was stone-cold sober.
The moment he put the key in the door he knew. He opened the door, walked inside, and then stopped, just one step over the threshold.
Sands was sitting in the chair in the corner. El had not turned the light on in the room, so he had to rely on the light filtering in from the hallway. The shadows were long and deep, and he could not see the expression on Sands' face, but he had no trouble seeing the gun the man was holding.
"Did you like your birthday present?" Sands asked.
El frowned. Involuntarily he glanced at the guitar case. He had not opened the guitar to see what lay inside, and it suddenly occurred to him that not doing so might have been a large mistake. "How did you find it?" he asked.
"Oh, well," Sands said lightly, "I found it when I was killing Carlos Alvarado's men and I thought I'd keep it as a souvenir."
"You had it when I came to see you," El said. He pushed the door behind him, and it swung toward the frame but did not close all the way. "Why didn't you give it to me then?"
"I would have," Sands said, "but I was too busy being kissed."
El flushed. He realized he had no idea if Sands was going to kill him or not. "So," he said, hoping he sounded as casual as Sands did, "you came all this way just to give me my guitar back. That's very thoughtful of you."
Sands smiled. "Well I'll be damned. You really can teach an old dog new tricks. And here I was thinking you didn't have a sense of humor."
"Then why are you here?" El asked again.
Sands stood up. When he did his face became visible in the light coming in from the hall, and El could see how pale and tired he was. "We have some unfinished business."
"We do," El agreed somberly. Because one way or another, whatever Sands decided, it all ended today.
"After I got your friends killed, why did you let me live?" Sands said. "And I'm looking for something a little more substantial than 'I don't know.'"
"But I have no answer," El said. "I wish I did."
"You need to try harder than that," Sands said, and the light tone of his voice belied the seriousness of his words. His hand holding the gun did not waver, and there was another pistol in the holster at his left hip. "Because after this the questions get complicated."
"I don't know why," El said. "I should have killed you. But there was always a reason not to. So I didn't."
"That is very lame," Sands said. "Even for you."
El said nothing.
"All right, let's try another one. Why did you say I was lonely?" Something flickered across his face too quickly to be defined. "Why did you say that?"
"Because you are," El said. "The same way I am lonely." He took a deep breath and went for broke. "Whether you wish to admit it or not, we are all each other has in this world. And the sooner we recognize that fact, the sooner we can go on about our lives."
"Our lives together," Sands sneered. But there was a question in his voice -- El could hear it.
"If that is what we decide," El said. His heart was pounding so hard he could scarcely hear himself speak. At any moment he expected to feel the blinding pain of a bullet entering his skull.
"You think just because you kissed me I'll say yes?" Sands demanded. He must have taken a step forward, El realized, because he was suddenly closer than he had been. The dim light of the room played on his face, creating blocks of shadow and light on his skin and reflecting off his sunglasses.
And that was right, El thought. That was where Sands belonged. He was a creature of both shadow and light, belonging wholly to neither world. And so am I, he thought. I tried to live in the sunlight with Carolina, but that is not where I am meant to be. Neither can I live in the shadows, like I did for so long. I am in-between, and so is he.
"You're what?" Sands asked, and El realized he had spoken aloud.
"I am in-between," he said again.
"In between what?" Sands asked. With every word he sounded less belligerent, and more uncertain. "What are you talking about?"
"I will tell you," El said. "But I would prefer to show you."
He took a step forward and they must have been walking toward each other all along, because now they both stood in the middle of the room. Scant inches separated them. "I never did thank you for saving me," he said quietly.
"It was an accident," Sands said reflexively, but there was no heat in his voice.
"Not just from the cartel," El said.
"Oh, I get it," Sands said. "I saved you from the darkness within, right? From yourself? All that crap?" He nodded, as if just by asking them, he had answered his own questions. "Let me tell you a secret, El. Nobody ever saves anybody else. You're on your own in this world. That's the way it is. And if you haven't figured that out by now, there's no hope for you at all."
"No," El said fiercely. "I am not alone." He grabbed Sands by the arms and yanked him forward. He seized Sands' mouth with his own, silencing Sands' protests with a burning kiss.
For a moment Sands surrendered to that kiss, then he stiffened and bit down hard. El cried out as Sands' teeth sank into his lower lip. He stumbled backward, but before he could get very far, Sands had hold of his arm with one hand, and was pressing the gun to his head with the other.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Sands hissed. "I never said you could do that."
And then he leaned in, and his nose bumped El's, and then he was kissing El and they were pressed together. The kiss was violent and passionate and everything El had ever wanted. Blood ran from the cut in his lip, copper and salt in his mouth. His skin burned where he had contact with Sands. His arm, his lips, the place where Sands' arousal pressed against his stomach. He was pushed backward with the fury of that kiss, and Sands moved with him, and the gun at his temple never once let up.
Sands broke the kiss. He was panting. "I am not lonely," he swore. "And I do not need you for anything."
"Then kill me now," El demanded. He was breathing hard too, his chest heaving for air.
"I'll kill you when I'm good and ready," Sands growled, and kissed El again.
The bed, El thought. It was as coherent as he could be right now. He made a convulsive twist to the right, wanting to turn Sands so they could back up toward the bed.
Sands had just taken a step when the gunshot rang out.
The light was dim, but El saw it all as though he stood under a hot noon sky.
The bullet had been meant to punch a hole right in the middle of Sands' forehead. But he turned, and instead it clipped him high, along his hairline. His head snapped back, and he uttered a surprised cry. He staggered backward, and the second and third bullet got him in the chest.
El whirled around, his hands already reaching for his guns.
The man who stood in the doorway had a ragged mustache. "Don't even think it," he said. He aimed one gun at El's head. With the other he shot Sands again.
His eyes wide and staring, El turned so he could see the end. Sands dropped to his knees, and then fell forward. He landed facedown on the floor. The gun clattered from his hand and slid across the wood surface.
Carlos Alvarado smiled. He had the gun pointed at El's head again. "You've led me a merry chase. Fortunately, the American led me right to you."
El stared at him. He had never actively feared another man in all his life, but standing before Carlos Alvarado, he felt his knees weaken. A wave of terror swept over him.
"Drop your weapon," Alvarado said. "Now."
El let the gun fall from his fingers. He could not look away from Alvarado, even when the man walked into the hotel room.
Alvarado shut the door and walked over to where Sands lay. Still keeping the gun trained on El, he stared down at the CIA officer. A smirk crooked his mouth. "I always knew I would be the one to bring you down," he said to Sands.
He looked back at El. He shook his head in false commiseration. "I must say, standing in the hallway, the things I heard... They touched my heart. I would never have guessed it, the great El Mariachi and the blind gunfighter finding romance amid a hail of bullets. Then again, I suppose it was inevitable, wasn't it? Two men with their backs to the wall, you two versus the world... you really had no choice, did you?"
El glanced down at Sands. Blood had rapidly pooled beneath his head, but already the flow was stopping.
"But the story has a happy ending," Alvarado said with a thin smile. The sight of that smile struck fear into El's heart, making him tremble all over. "Because I have you now, and one phone call from me will bring the Colombians here. They aren't very happy with me, as you might guess. So I am very pleased that I finally get to deliver on my promise to them."
He must have been running from them, El thought wildly. That was why Alvarado's formerly neat mustache was mussed. The drug lord was thinner than El remembered, and there was an unhealthy light burning in his eyes. Where his shirt sleeve bunched up about the wrist of his gun hand, needle tracks adorned the skin.
"Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head," Alvarado said. "Do it slowly, or I will shoot you in a place that is guaranteed to be painful but not life-threatening."
Carefully El lowered himself to his knees. He laced his hands together behind his head. His stomach churned with fear and sick dread. He prayed the Colombians would arrive soon, so he would not have to spend much time at Alvarado's mercy.
Alvarado started forward and then stopped. His eyes narrowed as he gazed at El's guitar case. "So that's where it went," he muttered. "Our little CIA officer had a sentimental side, it would seem."
El looked at Sands. He saw the blood in Sands' dark hair. His hand limp on the floor, inches from the gun that had not served him in the end.
And then El frowned. That blood. There was not enough of it. Sands had been shot four times, yet the only blood El saw was what had come from his head wound.
And he remembered that even though they had been pressed tight against each other during that last kiss, he had not felt any contact with Sands' skin.
Alvarado came toward him. Keeping his eyes on the floor, El asked, "Will you let me keep the guitar?"
"I might," Alvarado said. "If you're good." With his free hand he reached into his pocket and withdrew a set of handcuffs. They caught the dim light from the hall and gleamed. "But you really shouldn't get your hopes up." He grinned. "After all, you can't even play anymore."
El looked up at him. "You're wrong," he said. "I can still play. I play just fine." He dove for the gun on the floor.
Alvarado shot him. The bullet struck him in the upper arm, but El barely noticed. His hand closed about the gun. Lying full-length on the floor, he tilted his wrist up and fired.
And on the floor, Sands rolled onto his side. With his left hand he pulled his second gun and fired three times.
For several long seconds the only sound in the room was the rattle of gunfire.
Then two dry clicks filled the air. Carlos Alvarado dropped to the floor, extremely dead.
Sands let go of his gun and flopped onto his back. He groaned. "Oh, shit."
"How?" El asked. He rolled over so he could stare up at the ceiling.
Sands tapped his fingers below one of the bullet holes in his shirt, and El heard the dull thump of Kevlar. "A gift from my good friend Jorge Ramirez." He groaned again. "I think that fucker broke my ribs."
"He shot me," El said.
"Good job," Sands said wryly. He reached up and found the wound at his hairline. His breath hissed in. "Shit."
"Why?" El asked. His arm was beginning to throb painfully. The wound itself burned like cold fire.
"I didn't know what would go down here," Sands said. He grimaced. "And you know, I was a Boy Scout. Be prepared, is their motto."
El nodded. He stared at the ceiling, and the rectangle of light cast on it from the hallway light. He knew he had to get up, that sooner or later someone was going to come investigate the gunshots they had heard, but he could not find the strength to move. He felt weak with aftershock, and relief. He was not going to be tortured again, or turned over to the Colombians. He was safe now.
He lay there, Sands beside him. If he had wanted to, he could have reached out his hand and touched the other man's arm.
"Sands?"
"What?"
"Do you think we were inevitable?"
Sands was silent for a very long time. Then he said, "I have no idea. But it does seem that way, doesn't it?"
Despite the pain he was feeling, and the horror he had so narrowly escaped, El smiled. "I think so, too."
They said nothing for a while. El felt his eyelids grow heavy, so he closed them. "Sands?"
"Yeah?"
"What's your name?"
"Ah, I don't think we're ready for that just yet, El."
"All right," El said. "But you'll tell me someday?"
"Someday," Sands promised.
"All right," El said.
And then he slept.
******
