A/N: I saw Once Upon A Time In Mexico the other day. It was very good. (understatement) I must admit to being a slight fangirl though, so, you know…

Summary: Sand's is stuck out in Mexico, courtesy of the guilty conscience of the CIA. Correction, he's stuck in a bar, in Mexico. A woman comes in, and does a very strange sort of 'get yer coat luv, you've pulled'. The next thing he knows, he's tied up in a search for El Mariachi and the rest of her gang, and together, they are going to pull off one of the greatest heists in Mexican history.

Disclaimer: Know it? Don't own it.

Agent Sands was sitting in a bar in Mexico. He was playing guitar. For his own pleasure of course. He had known how to play it before the thing with the mariachi, but had had to completely relearn after, so he could play by sound and feel. The CIA had sent him to Mexico. He wasn't an agent any more. Unfit for service. But he kind of liked it here. He could carry a gun without having to get a licence. He was getting special treatment because of the thing with the mariachi. Someone sitting next to him pulled him out of the dream.

"Who are you?" he asked

"Someone you probably don't want to mess with," Sands' brain registered the voice as feminine, England to Mexico probably, a smoker, or had been a smoker. Then he felt the cold steel of the gun. It was hidden, pressed against his stomach, where no one could see it.

"Hey!" he protested.

"Shut up, Sands. Now, act like you know me." The voice was quiet but urgent. Sands forced a smile onto his face and moved for his gun

"Don't even think on it sweetheart. Not unless you wanna se- hear how a armour piercing bullet goes through unprotected muscle." Sands stopped moving for his gun. "Good boy," the gun began to move away. Then it stopped. "There are armed men sitting in this bar. And they're with me. So no funny business,"

Sands carried on strumming. He knew how to act as though nothing was wrong. Then another guitar joined his melody, adding chords.

"Is that you?" he muttered.

"Yes. Now I'm gonna talk, and you, sweetheart, are going to listen,"

"Don't call me sweetheart," he said. She told him to shut up and listen.

"I'm looking for the one they call El Mariachi. I was told you knew him,"

"I might," he said cautiously

"I can pay,"

"Last time I… saw him, he was going to save the President."

"You saw him?"

"Yeah. I didn't always used to be this way, chickie,"

"Can you describe him?"

"Why should I?"

"'Cause I can pay, sweetheart,"

"Don't call me that. How much?"

"For a description? Ten thousand,"

Sands thought for a moment. Déjà vu. Then he held out a hand. It was taken and shaken. The woman had a firm grip.

"Done." She said. "Now, tell me,"

"About five seven, five nine tops. Well built. Wears black with a white shirt, the jacket has a scorpion on it. Latino, with high cheekbones and hair tied back most of the time. Speaks English, but with a Spanish accent. Carries an old guitar case. Don't be fooled. It's full of guns. He's got a bullet wound in his left hand, but covers it with a sort of leather wristband thing that goes between his forefinger and middle finger. Got that?"

There was the sound of a pencil scratching

"Yeah, I got it,"

"Good. Money please,"

"Here y'are, sweetheart,"

"Seriously, don't call me that," Sands turned back to his guitar, suggesting the conversation over. Then curiosity got the better of him

"Why do you want El Mariachi?"

"Because he owes me. And I want the favour,"

"You want someone dead?"

"Nope, I want back up." He heard a guitar be put down, and a case being snapped shut. She paused then said to someone,

"Tequila and lime,"

Sands sighed and ignored her. A moment later she caught his hand and gave him a glass. He sniffed it suspiciously. Ah, the tequila.

"I want you to come with me."

"Err, why?"

"Because I need someone who knows the man. He might be… disinclined to listen to me,"

"What makes you think he'd listen to me?"

"Because, quite obviously, he's met you and not killed you, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that. We had an agreement, yes,"

"Good. And if you come, I will pay you,"

"How much?"

"Into the eight figures, sweetheart."

"Don't call me that!" Sands put down the empty glass. "Jesus, don't you understand English?"

"Obviously I not enough, sweetheart. So, do you know where to find this El Mariachi?"

"No,"

"Do you know the man who might?"

"Yeah, I knew him. Really pissed him off,"

"OK, where is he?"

"Dead,"

"Alright, did you ever see him?"

"Are you paying me for this?"

"Yeah, that ten thousand, sweetheart,"

"That was for the description of El Mariachi!"

"So? I believe that I am calling the shots," the gun was suddenly against his side

"Bitch,"

"Love you too sweetheart,"

"Don't call me that!"

"Tell me, what did he look like?"

"Err, long hair, scar on his chin, long face, weather beaten. Tallish. Carried throwing knives."

"Oh, him, yeah. OK. Pay up sweetheart. We're going,"

She gave him his guitar case, and he paid the bill. Then she led him out side. They stopped and she put her hand on his head

"What are you doing?"

"Making sure you don't crack your head sweetheart. You are getting in a car,"

"Don't call me that,"

"Whatever sweetheart. Like I was saying," the door slammed shut. Then another door. Why was it so far away? "We don't want you to crack your head before the pills kick in," Why was her voice so far away? He should be sitting next to her. He tried to reach out, but his hands seemed to be made of lead.

"Wha' pills?" he mumbled, and then nothing, a big soft pillow of nothing what so ever.

A/N: So, that's the first chapter done. Sorry it's a bit short, but this was a evil plot bunny of the six foot talking variety that wouldn't shut up until I wrote it down. See ya next time sweethearts!