La Canción de los Pistolas by Auburn (NC-17) Fandom: Once Upon a Time in Mexico Type: Fanfic Title: La Canción de los Pistolas Author: Auburn Pairing: Sands/El Warnings/Rating: NC-17 Where to find more by this author:Author's Website, "Allusions" Link: La Canción de los Pistolas Why should people click?
A classic example of an El-Comes-Back-For-Sands story, and a wonderfully well written one, too. This is the most believable version of that setup that I've read, and the story goes on into a gripping plot and character driven tale. Auburn opens and closes with versions of the "legend" surrounding these two, which sets the tone nicely for the story in between. I should mention, this story also has really hot hurt/comfort sex.
Sands took in a hissing breath. The pain was eating through him. He pressed onto his wounded arm and realized he was still holding the cell phone Ramirez had thrown at him. He'd heard the object moving through the air and caught it instinctually.
He could use it to try to call for help from the Agency. Except the only number he had had been compromised. In the taxi when he'd tried calling for backup, there had been nothing, no answer, just nothing. They'd cut him off, given him up and left him to fend for himself. It was what they always did. Not exactly surprising he'd wanted to grab the money, the girl, and get out. He'd known they were getting ready to screw him over.
He managed a cynical smile. He'd really screwed the pooch when he'd trusted Ajedrez with his plan. The Agency hadn't needed to set him up or take him out, his girlfriend had done it for them. Wouldn't they be pleased when they found out?
Screw them anyway. He just wanted to know who he was going to meet in hell.
Maybe, just maybe, if El Mariachi had survived, he still had the cell Sands had given him along with Marquez' picture. It was worth a try, he decided. Not like he was going anywhere or had anything else to do.
For a long minute, he couldn't force his brain to give up the number. When he remembered, he had to fumble and press the tiny buttons with his thumb, by feel.
Then he waited, not really expecting anything.
But the tone that signaled that someone had answered sounded. Just a breath, no words, and Sands knew that his inside man had made it after all. He caught his own breath and said, remembering to sound flippant, "Are you still standing?"
El Mariachi replied the way Sands hoped he would, just the way he had after the church shoot-out. "Still."
Sands smiled, ignoring the pain that ran through his face from his violated eye sockets.
"So Marquez isn't."
"Sí."
Sands lets his head drop back against the wall. He almost let go of the cell. What more was there to say? Marquez, Ajedrez, Guevara or Barillo, they were almost all gone. Their play was finished, it was time for the final curtain to come down. Time to let go ...
"And El Presidente is still alive," El said, sounding pleased and defiant, thinking this would throw a spoke in Sands' plan.
It wouldn't please the CIA, but personally? Sands couldn't give a toss. He'd never had anything against the President of Mexico, just orders to preserve the status quo and keep the country weak, divided and corrupt.
He laughed, thinking about it. "Am I good or what? I knew you would save him." El had done exactly what Sands had predicted.
"You ... knew?"
Sands said lightly, "El, El, my friend, why else would I want you involved? Cucuy could have killed Marquez. I was going to walk away with Barillo's money and Ajedrez and leave your good man alive as one last, big, fuck-you to the Agency."
El obviously missed that Sands had spoken in the past tense.
"My friends have the money, Sands."
The other mariachi gunslingers. Cucuy had said there were two of them, a pretty boy and a drunk. Sands bared his teeth.
"You know," he said, "if I wasn't having such a bad day, that would really, really get up my craw." He laughed harshly and began to cough, each cough jarring his wounds and making his head throb agonizingly. The words spilled out when he could breathe again, "Fuck, that's starting to hurt. Guess the drugs are wearing off."
"Sands?"
Sands concentrated on breathing through the pain and not screaming. The pain burned and stabbed through him now, but he'd begun shivering too. He clutched the phone, glad for any contact, any voice to accompany him into the long dark. He couldn't watch the sun set along with his life, his light was already gone, and he was so cold now.
"Sands?"
He didn't want El to hang up and go away, so he said breathlessly, "I made just one wee miscalculation, you see, El. Ajedrez. I told her everything ... Love really fucks you up, doesn't it, El?" He began coughing again, bringing up something that tasted like blood, and couldn't bite back the moan of pain that came with it. Oh, damn, had he said love? He didn't want to admit that, not to El, not to himself. He didn't want to die a pathetic loser in love with a woman who had used him. He tried to sound angry. "She set me up. I had to dust the bitch. She just ... stood there ... and watched them do it."
That was not a sob and if it was, it was from the pain, the physical pain of having his eyes gouged out. He didn't have a heart. Maybe that was why Ajedrez had had Guevara take his eyes instead ....
"Sands?" El asked. "Do what?"
He couldn't say it. He didn't want pity, just the company of El's voice for little while longer.
He thought he heard El say something else, but couldn't be sure, the throbbing waves of pain were filling his head, obscuring everything else.
"Sands? Where are you?"
Confused, he asked, "Why? You want to come and kill me?" It didn't matter. "The main square." He added, "You can put me out of my misery."
Maybe El would deliver him with a merciful bullet to the head.
"Stay there."
He managed a raw chuckle and whispered, "Really, El, I can't think of anywhere I'd rather be."
The call disconnected.
He was cold and alone in the dark. Maybe ... maybe he should just do it himself, Sands thought wearily. He tossed the cell phone away, heard it crack, and fumbled for a gun.