Life after Death Chapter 7: Hallelujah, an once upon a time in mexico fanfic

Thank you, thank you, to Midnightmuse and capt'n-jack's-bonnie-lass for taking the time to review! It's always good to know my work is beingenjoyed! ;)

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Chapter Six:

Hallelujah

As soon as I wake, I become aware of a small human body sitting in bed, next to me. Slowly, I reach under the pillow and ease the safety off the Beretta… "Cicily?" I ask, very, very cautiously… granted, I can't think of too many agencies that use pint sized assassins… but you never know.

"Si."

Recognizing her voice, I slid the safety back on. Someone needs to tell thiskid that sneaking into a cold blooded killer's bed is a career limiting move… "Does your mother know you're in here?" I ask, pulling myself carefully into a sitting position – I am wearing absolutely nothing under my bathrobe, for Christ's sake.

"No."

"Well do you think you should be in here then?" I ask.

"I wanted to be here in case you needed anything when you woke up. You slept all day."

"Well – I really don't need anything." Except a cigarette and a shot of tequila – but even I'm not going to ask a kid to fulfill either of those requests. Although if she'd just bugger off, I would reach for the cigarettes – not that I quite care about smoking in front of her, Surgeon General's warnings or not – but I seem to remember that some parents, even smokers, can be touchy about that. I'm in too precarious of a position… too fucking precarious… too many unknowns – too many uncertainties…

"There's left over pork, if you want some. I had some for dinner. I think it's my favourite too."

Charming. And… dinner? Did I literally sleep twenty-four hours? Well – I suppose that even though the fever's subsided, my body must be pretty exhausted. All things considered, I've been through Hell and back on this one. And if I've really been out that long, it would explain the pinched feeling in my bladder. "Maybe later," I say to the kid. "What time is it?"

"Nine o'clock. I brought you some flowers from Mama's garden. On the nightstand."

"How very thoughtful." I wonder if they're the same petunias I puked in. Wouldn't that just be ironic? "Where's your mother?"

"Want me to read to you?"

Great – another one who answers a question with a question… what is it with the women in this family?

"Mama says there's something wrong with your eyes," Cicily continues.

"Ah." Well, I suppose that was 'politically correct' of her. Still – I really don't like the idea of any little kid seeing what's become of my face – so perhaps politically correct is the way to go for a change. "And just where is your Mama?" I ask with growing irritation.

"Next door – with La Senora Rosa."

That stops my mild amusement/annoyance in it's tracks… "La Senora Rosa?"

"Si – it's Friday. Mama always visits her on Monday, Wednesday and Friday."

"Oh." Right. Ok. Sure. It's Friday. And I'm trying very hard not to panic. Just because there are people in this world – in this county – who want me dead… that's no reason to panic… I mean, why would Beth leave her child alone with me, if she was anywhere else but right next door…? If she was going to do something – like, I don't know, call the police or national guard – or the remnants of the Barillo cartel – she wouldn't leave her kid here with me while she did it… Why would anyone trust their kid alone with a guy like me anyway? I'm a menace. I have no illusions. "And she left you here – all by yourself?"

I feel a movement that I imagine might be a shrug. Great. But I don't think snapping at the kid is going to help. One must be gentle with children… I seem to remember someone saying something like that somewhere along the line… one of my old partners, I think… I used to have a partner – first one was killed in the line of duty – next one – I think he got dead too – next few just asked to be reassigned (my record was a rookie named Angela Sorrenson – I ditched her in three days). Eventually it go so the Company couldn't get anyone to work with me… so it would appear my plan worked quite well… except when I actually needed backup. The one time I ask for someone… and Collins fucking hangs up on me…

"Does your mother often leave you alone?" I ask Cicily.

"She's only next door – and I am seven."

So is that a yes or a no, I wonder… probably a yes. But I don't imagine Beth as neglectful – so she really will be back any minute… thank God. I excuse myself to answer Nature's Call – I slide carefully out from under the covers and…

"Other direction," Cicily tells me.

"Hmm?"

"Bathroom – other way."

"Ah." I manage a smile. Terrific.

"I could guide you," she offers, helpfully.

Swell. I don't want help. I don't want help from a seven year old. I don't want a seven year old hanging around… I really don't want to think about falling so far that I'm forced to accept the aid of a child… and yet, I've already fallen so far I had to rely on a child's aid. I didn't think about it at the time – but now… damn. Is this really what the rest of my life is going to be like?

I manage to get to the bathroom and back without falling on my face. And surprise, surprise, the child is still on my bed.

"I speak three languages," she tells me eagerly, as I sit back down.

"You do, do you?" English, Spanish and what, I wonder… but to ask would be inviting further conversation…

"Uh-huh."

"Well that's – just swell." How the Hell does one converse a seven year old anyway? I try to remember how my mother spoke to me – but I don't really remember her ever saying much…

"Do you speak more than English?" the kid wants to know.

"I do."A creeping pain starts come over my head, beginning just between my… what used to be eyes… that's it, I must be allergic to children, they give me headaches… "So what have you brought to read to me?" Perhaps sitting and listening to her read would be easier on my nerves than trying to converse with the child. I have mentioned I don't like children, right?

"Peter Pan – have you ever read it?"

"I have," I tell her – well, I suppose that the upside is that at least I won't be forced to endure some insipid tale like Charlotte's Web – that was my sister's favourite book. She'd ask me to read it to her – and when we got to the end, she'd cry. For a week. And then ask me to read it to her again… women. They make no fucking sense... "But I would love to hear Peter Pan again," I tell Cicily – partially I'm afraid of what else she might pull down from her bookshelf and partially because I honestly have always loved that story. (Surprised?)

"I like the Indians the best," she tells me, rearranging herself next to me. "But I'll bet you like the pirates."

Great – she's just like her mother there too – because I do indeed like the pirates the best. "How'd you know?"

"I'm a very good guesser."

I am living la vida loca, I tell myself sullenly… I lean my head back against the headboard and she begins to read – it's the original version (not a re-cap of any of the movies.) She's quite a good reader for seven… I think. I don't have much of a frame of reference… but her voice is clear, and she annunciates well. And... she definitely has her mother's voice.

Everything is going just fine… until the child rearranges herself again so that she's leaning against my arm. Instantly I tense up… I don't know what to do when a small child snuggles unnaturally close to me…

"I don't bite," she assures me, as she takes my arm and drapes it around her shoulders… which makes meveryuncomfortable… kids don't like me, and I don't like kids.

"What if I bite?" I ask. It just comes out…

She giggles. I breathe again… because scaring the shit out Beth's kid is probably not going to go a very far towards endearing myself to her – and I still need her. Damn. I hate the sound of that, even in my own head. I'm not used to needing anyone. But – at least for just right now – I do. Just right now, I try to tell myself… and I try to relax… and I wonder, fleetingly, what my life might have been if I'd made other choices… but even before I met Holly, I knew the road I was going to take… and it didn't involve white picket fences and a dog named Spot or even Nanna. It didn't involve children or PTA meetings or Boy Scouts… it involved guns and travel and not having to worry about the fact that I fucking hate people.

"Shall I continue?" Cicily inquires – she sounds so grown up when she says it that way, I can't quite help but smile.

"Sure," I tell her and try to get comfortable again…

I let my mind drift a little – I listen for the sounds in the rest of the house… but all seems quiet. And really – Beth won't leave her kid alone with me for long... no mother would.

We're about half way through the second chapter when we both hear the back door open and a small ut-oh escapes Cicily's throat.

"Are you supposed to be in bed?" In inquire softly. Don't ask why I didn't think of that sooner...

"Uh-huh."

"What'll happen when your mother finds you in here?"

"She'll ground me forever."

I almost chuckle, "Forever huh?"

"Uh-huh."

Hmmm… I seem to remember a scam my sister and I used to play… "I'll go distract your Mom – you sneak into bed where you belong. Savvy?"

She giggles – it's a conspiratous giggle if ever I've heard one…

"But you can't get caught – then we'll both be in trouble," I tell her. Well – rule number one has always been don't get caught… I suppose that applies to all manner of conspiracies, even if it's just getting a seven year old back to her bed without her mother noticing…

I slip out of bed and get Cicily to steer me in the direction of the bedroom door – I remember it's twenty eight steps to the kitchen – I'm on step number twenty when I hear Beth's voice.

"Sands?"

"Hey there," I try to smile. It isn't easy. Twenty God damned steps and my legs are ready to give out. But I feel the smooth stone floor of the hall give way to the tile of the kitchen. So it's only about twenty steps when my steps are more steady. I file that away…

"How long have you been up?"

"I woke up a few minutes ago," I tell her. "I heard you moving around and figured you must be out here somewhere," I shrug. "How long have I been out?"

"Since yesterday – it's almost ten o'clock at night," she sounds tired - drained. But not like she's lying – or hiding anything – or even particularly nervous. She doesn't sound like she's just come back from ratting me out to the late Armando Barillo's successors - or anyone else who might like my head on a pike.

"You ok, Sugar Butt?" I ask her.

"Just one of those days. I've had a few more patients than usual in the aftermath of last week – plus my regulars. And no – no one knows you're here," she adds.

I really do want to believe her… "You work out of your house?" I ask, feeling around for the chair.

"Left – yours," she directs me. "And yes. Although you're the first patient I've ever had stay."

"Guess I should feel honoured," I favour her with one of those charming little smiles – I find the chair and sit. Then, "I thought I heard the back door open when I woke up," I begin tentatively, wondering what she'll tell me… I mean – kids tend to be pretty honest, most of the time… so I can take it on a certain amount of faith that Beth was really at this neighbour's house – or at least that that's what she told Cicily… And I still can't quite believe that if she was going to rat me out, she'd leave her kid here while she did it. Beth doesn't strike me as stupid…

"I was next door – Lupe Rosa had a hip replaced six months ago – I help her with physical therapy three days a week. You hungry?"

It honestly doesn't sound like an attempt to change the subject… but I honestly didn't think Ajedrez was the kind of woman who would sit there while her fuck-buddy's eyes were drilled out either…

"A little hungry," And I realize I left my cigarettes in the other room… miraculously, a pack is set down in front of me. I smile my thanks.

"Left over pork ok?"

"You sure you want to take the chance?" It really is just a joke…

Beth laughs, "I have to figure that if I survived the initial taste test, I'm safe. And if you reach straight out, there's a candle on the table – keep your hand low," she warns.

I nod – it isn't hard to find. It's a little interesting getting the cigarette lit but… "So you're one of those chicks who digs candle light?" I inquire – I can hear her getting the leftovers out of the fridge – getting a pot down. It sounds like she has a pot rack just over the counter – just to my left… that would put it just to the right of the fridge, if I'm not mistaken. "Cold's fine," I tell her of the pibil.

"You sure?"

I just nod. I miss civilization… microwave ovens. Decent booze… the Rolling Stones… Arsenio Hall… Traci Lords… damn, it suddenly occurs to me that I'm going to have to cancel all my porn subscriptions… now, that, my friends, is a truly depressing thought …

And I wonder what they'll really do with me if I make it out of this alive… I'll never work in the field again… but what the Hell would I do as a civilian? What I told Ramirez is true – real agents don't retire – we just take it a little easier… but what can I do…? (I can just see the look on my sister's face as I show up on her doorstep after almost four years without a word… she might shoot me on principle alone…) Well… one thing at a time…

I hear the pot being hung back up and plate come down from the cupboard – it clinks softly against the ceramic tile.

Beth sets the plate down before me. "Fork's on the plate – bout four o'clock – and what's so wrong with 'chicks who dig candlelight'?" I'm sure I hear her smiling.

"Nothing, I suppose," I try to hide my own grin. I was right – she's one of those sappy types… I'll bet I was even right about that bathrobe of hers being pink… probably the nightgown is, too.

Beth sighs – she apparently knows I'm laughing at her. "I'm going to go take a shower – I assume you can stuff your face without a chaperone?"

I smirk up in the direction of her voice, "I'll manage – unless you'd like me to come in and wash your back?"

"Eat your pork, Cowboy. I won't be long."

I quite obviously bite my tongue on what I'm about to say – the gesture elicits a giggle from her – I decide it's a sound that I rather like…

I listen to her leave the room – the soft sound of her bare feet on the stone floor – I hear a door close – then the shower kicks on. I can almost imagine her shimmying out of her cloths, stepping into the warm running water… I decide to eat my pork before I need a shower. A cold one. (Hey, I'm still a man… not that any woman is ever going to… I really need a shot of tequila… but I strongly suspect that plundering blindly through Beth's kitchen could get me hurt… )

I finish my pibil – the shower is still running. It must really have been one of those days… well, ok, I am capable of being a considerate houseguest. Hell, I shot four men blind - surly washing one dish won't be that much of a challenge...

I have a rough idea where the sink is – I carry my plate to the counter - I'm only off by a couple of feet - everything else is easy enough to locate - wash rag over the faucet, dish soap on the back ledge...

I'm just setting my clean, rinsed plate into the dishdrainer, when Beth returns, smelling of vanilla and flowers. Yep, a girly girl.

"You didn't have to do that," she tells me.

I just shrug. I realize she's stopped barely two feet from me...

"It's a gorgeous night, Sands. I was going to sit up for a while on the veranda – you're welcome to join me."

My brain screams set up. It screams danger. It screams that even if I want to trust her, I know better... I just happen to need her. Fuck me. I don't want to need anyone!

"Come on – the fresh air will do you good – I'll even crack open a bottle of wine if you're willing to trust that it isn't poisoned."

"Am I really that transparent?"

"Only to someone – sorry," her voice is pained.

She was about to say 'to someone with eyes'… I wave it aside. I know she didn't mean it. But it still hurts. God it hurts. "Wine sounds good."

"Red or white?"

I shrug, "Red." It's always been my favourite – and finding someone else who appreciates a good red wine is rare (and I do have to guess that if she buys good tequila, that her taste in wine must be equally good.)

I listen to Beth get the glasses down from a different cupboard – this one is on the other side of the room – a bottle slides out from – a wine rack, maybe? Silverware drawer opens (the distinctive clatter of silver is pretty hard to miss.)

"What kind of cork screw do you have?" I ask, feeling the sudden urge to be a gentleman – hey, I'm capable that too.

She presses something into my hand, "Ever use one of those?"

I smile – it's the good kind – not those cheesy things used by people without a clue – now I'm sure she has good wine. Of course doing this blind is going to be a little interesting… getting the knife out is easy – me, knives… I feel for the lip of the bottle and gently guide the sharp little knife around it – getting the corkscrew into the cork is actually pretty easy – even with eyes to see, it's really a job done by feel.Now, there's the matter of the injury to my left arm… but I manage to ignore it long enough to do the job. "Voila." I announce – and take a quick sniff of the cork. "Nummies."

She giggles again – I had the feeling 'nummies' coming out of my mouth might get that reaction.

"Merlot?" I ask.

"I'm impressed. Did you learn about wines at spy school?"

Now that gets a laugh out of me – "No, I'm just a lush," I tell her quite honestly… and for about ten seconds I feel… normal. It doesn't last… but it's a nice ten seconds.

I carry the bottle in one hand and rest the other on the elbow she crooks for me… My legs feel steadier than they did when I sat down – I think I was probably hungry… my heart beats just a little faster as we near the door… pots are just above and to my… left… pots make good weapons in a pinch. So do wine bottles.

"I don't suppose you'll believe me if I tell you you really can trust me," she says, very softly, as she nudges open the door.

"Sorry, Darlin' – just my nature," I reply smoothly; every available sense is strained to hear what's on the other side of her door… but there are, to the very best of my ability to perceive, no armed gunmen waiting to shoot me… I stand at the threshold for a moment longer – she seems content to wait while I satisfy myself that it's safe. She seems to understand… she seems to care. I don't get it.

The night is quiet – pleasant. Cool – but not uncomfortably so. Her garden smells like… jasmine, I think it is. Maybe orange blossom… maybe both. Something sweet, anyway – sweet and tangy. It reminds me a of the cologne she wears… I like the smell.

The fountain tinkles – it's not quite in the centre of the garden – it sounds – to the left. Bugs buzz – frogs chirp. It's almost hard to believe that this courtyard is in the same city I laid waste to a week ago…

"The courtyard is almost completely obscured from the street," Beth assure me… not that I'd have any way of knowing for sure. "No one can see onto my veranda. There's a chair is about two steps forward. Table'sjust to the right of it," she adds.

Awkwardly, I feel my way to the chair – it feels like its made wicker – I find the seat and manage to park my ass. I feel for the table she mentioned – and set the bottle down.

She pours the wine – hands me a glass – and I take an experimental sip.

"Is it nummies?" She asks - the giggle still seems to be in her voice.

"It is indeed," I smile in the direction of her voice.

I listen whileshe putters around some more – a lighter flicks – she's probably lighting candles…

In the distance I hear a few cars rattling down the main road – but Beth's street seems quiet – one of the out of the way places. Somehow, that doesn't surprise me.My impression is that she's here to get away from the life she left behind - which probably means she'd rather not be found.

And so far, she hasn't even tried to poison me… which may just mean that she's a masochist. Who else would willingly endure my company any longer than absolutely necessary?

"You warm enough?" She asks as she sits down in a chair next to mine.

I nod – the air is a little chilly, but I really don't mind… apparently my doctor does. Beth drapes a knitted blanket over my lap. "Your handiwork?" I ask, running my fingers over the stitches. My mother used to knit… a long, long time ago.

I think I hear the smile in her voice, "First one I made after we settled in here."

"What colour is it?"

"Red."

Red – I wouldn't have pegged Beth as someone who liked red (which just happens to be my favourite colour… bet you thought it was black, didn't you? No, black is just what I look good in.) "What kind of red?"

"I think they call it crimson – it's not bright red or maroon or burgundy – but it's not a browny-red, either."

I just nod. That sounds about like crimson - the useless informationone picks up living with an artist for two months... "I don't suppose you'd consider singing something," I ask after a moment.

The request seems to catch her off guard...it takes her a couple of heartbeats to answer... "Give me a second."

I listen – she stands – I fight back my fears… it's not an easy battle… too many betrayals… I hear her open the door… step back inside… I strain to hear – everything. Anything. God damn it, Sands, you are a fucking idiot… the door opens again… but – it's just her. I'm sure it's just her… she sits down… at my feet? She sets something down – in front of her, I presume – it sounds – leather maybe? Then she straightens and rests her against the chair… between my legs… I swallow hard. "Didn't – uh – didn't your Mama ever tell you not to turn your back on a guy like me?" I manage to ask in a tone that's nearly conversational.

She chuckles, "Yeah, I think she might have said something like that once. I never paid her any mind."

I feel her shuffling around – and I sit absolutely still… flip – flip – metal… I hear a lid open… an instrument case? Or a riffle case. I force myself to assume the former (after all, sitting with your back to the target is a pretty piss poor way to shoot someone.) And I just don't know how to tell her how much I do not want to hear guitar music right now… be a good guest, I tell myself…

Then I hear her strum her fingers experimentally over the strings… and that is no guitar, ladies and gentlemen – in fact, I'm rather hard pressed to figure out what it is. My mother would not be happy – she made me take music lessons for seven years… I listen to her adjust the tuning... "What is that?" I finally just ask the question.

"Give me your hand," she says.

I really wish she'd just tell me – but I give her my hand – she rests it on the top of something – wood… it curves gently – it's a concave curve – I feel knobs – they attach to strings… she holds the thing up a little higher so I can get a better feel – another curve, this one convex – it's big – but not huge. "Harp?" I ask – who in Mexico plays a harp?

"Very good, Officer Sands," she says,and I'm sure she'ssmiling – Beth settles back against the chair, right between my legs and I can feel her tip the thing into her lap. "Of course I fear you're at the mercy of my repertoire – which is a little unusual."

I'm beginning to truly believe that nothing about this woman is at all usual…

I listen as she plucks out the first few notes… it's a song I know... only when she sings it, it's even more heartbreaking – more breathtaking – than I've ever heard it before… or maybe it's just the harp accompaniment… either way, her voice fills the night and I can scarsely breathe...

I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?

It goes like this...the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall
The major lift
The baffled King composing Hallelujah