Chapter 18

When All is Said and Done

Disclaimer: I do not own El Mariachi and Agent Sands, much as I might want to. That honor goes to Robert Rodriguez. I've only borrowed them for my own pleasure. Now it's time to give them back.

Rating: R for language

Summary: After the storm.

****

November 2. The Day of the Dead.

El Mariachi sat on the front porch of the house in Culiacan. It was late morning, almost noon, and he was feeling sleepy. The windows of the house were open, and he could easily hear the voices within.

"Here?"

"No, no. Here. Like this."

"I am never going to get this."

"Yes, you will. If I can do it, you can too."

"Didn't I tell you to stop that? Quit closing your eyes when you play. I fucking hate that."

"I want to. That way we're learning together."

"Oh Christ. Whatever."

A long pause.

"Your hand doesn't hurt anymore, does it?"

"No. No."

"Are you ready?"

"Yeah. I think." Pause. "All right. Here goes."

El listened as the clear notes of piano sounded. The song was simple, but fast-paced. The notes rang out, a waterfall of sound that evoked a tug in El's chest.

Until the wrong key was struck. The song stopped. "Damnit. That wasn't right, was it?"

"No. But it was close. Here. This one." A single key was pressed.

"Fucker. I always miss that one."

"I know. I do, too."

And then, shockingly, the boy burst into tears.

"Hey!"

The boy just cried, his tears muffled now, like he had covered his face with his hands. El considered getting up, but he was falling asleep, so he didn't.

"All right. Let go. Let go. What's wrong?"

The boy started talking, but El heard none of it. He was fast asleep.

Dreaming. Remembering.

*****

Fideo called the doctor, and the police. The doctor arrived first.

He was a small man, very compact. He was familiar with the house and its strange occupants; he had been Ramirez's doctor. He told Sands that he needed to get to a hospital, and have surgery on his hand, or he might never be able to use it again.

"Fuck that," Sands said. "I'm not going. You can stitch it up here."

"But Señor," the doctor tried.

"Just do it," Sands said, enunciating each syllable.

El said nothing during all this. He could have told the doctor that it was not an argument he could win, but he didn't have the strength. The doctor had already stitched his wound, and he was light-headed with painkillers and antibiotics and whatever else the man had given him.

So the doctor tended to Sands right there. Chiclet sat at the agent's side the whole time, holding Sands' right hand. His big eyes watched the doctor carefully, and before the doctor did anything, he told Sands what to expect next.

In return, Sands told the kid to shut the fuck up. Neither El nor Chiclet held this against him, however. It had been a very trying day for Sands, and neither of them was surprised when he passed out halfway through the doctor's ministrations.

The doctor treated Chiclet last, but El didn't remember this. He had finally succumbed to unconsciousness himself.

****

Fideo stayed at the house for eight days. During this time he took care of his two patients, growing ever more sulky and bitter. Chiclet came around as often as possible in order to help, which was probably the only reason Fideo stayed as long as he did.

On the ninth day, Fideo walked into El's room. El was sitting on the edge of the bed. He felt stronger today, and he had been idly thinking of asking Fideo to bring him his guitar. He felt like playing.

"I'm leaving," Fideo announced flatly. In the whole week he had been there, El had not seen him take one drink. He wondered if maybe the enforced sobriety had something to do with Fideo's sour mood.

"I'm not coming back," Fideo said. "And I don't want you to call on me again. I won't come, if you do."

El stared at the floor, and said nothing.

"Lorenzo was like my brother. He was all I had, after Carmen died. And now he's gone, too."

"I am sorry," El said, very quietly.

"You should be," Fideo said. He walked out of the room.

El remained where he was, staring at the floor. After a time the floor lost touch with reality, and became just a blur of color swimming before his eyes.

He heard the front door open and close.

Some time later, footsteps sounded in the hall. A voice in the doorway said, "So the little mariachi is gone."

El nodded. He blinked, and the floor regained its clarity. But he still did not lift his head.

"He blames you for Lorenzo," Sands said.

El nodded again. "I can see why he would think that," Sands said. "But he's wrong." He walked away.

****

The hurricane had done minimal damage to the village. A few roofs had been torn away, windows had been smashed, and one man had been killed when his car had been swept away in the rising waters.

El went down to the market two weeks after the storm. He was forced to move slowly, but he was starting to feel suffocated in the house. He had to get out.

The familiar singsong call of the vendors soothed his jangled nerves. They called out to him, cajoling, demanding, flattering -- anything to get his attention and make him buy their wares. He walked past them all, his head down, his eyes on the dusty street beneath his boots. He had not come here to shop. He had come here to get away.

Over the next few weeks he went to the market often. During the day he would walk the streets of the village, tiring himself out, hoping that tonight would be the night when he slept all the way through, with no dreams.

And every night, he saw it all happen again. Belinda Harrison sitting on the couch, smiling. Sands at the window, covered in blood. The dead man on the carpet.

Lorenzo, falling into the door, his eyes wide with shock.

Fideo was not alone in blaming him for Lorenzo's death. El blamed himself, more severely than Fideo ever could.

If only he had approached the house alone. If only he had never left that morning. If only he had never called his friends to come help him.

He was forever getting his friends killed.

First Domino, in the town where it had all begun. He had thought he loved her, but he hadn't, not really. He had not known love until he met Carolina.

Quino and Campa. They had come to his aid in the fight against Bucho's men, and both of them had died for him.

Carolina. His beautiful daughter.

Now Lorenzo.

Who would be next?

****

Summer slipped into autumn. Sands began to play the guitar again, haltingly at first, then with growing ability. Early on, he had scoffed at El's concern. "I'll be fine," he had said. "Look at you. You taught yourself to play guitar again, and you were hurt worse than this."

"That was different," El had said.

As it turned out, he was right, but not in the way he had expected. Sands was relearning the guitar much faster than he had. But Sands did not have the emotional attachment to the instrument that El did, and all the baggage that went with that attachment. El knew it was only misplaced love for Domino that had prevented him from playing for so long. When he had found Carolina, he had found his music again, almost on the same day.

Because music was becoming part of his life again, he went ahead and ordered the piano for Chiclet. He told no one what he had done, and the day it arrived, Chiclet was in ecstasies of delight. The boy jumped up and down with excitement, laughing loudly.

In the corner, Sands scowled. "What a waste of money."

El ignored this. Seeing Chiclet's happiness made him smile. For a little while, at least, he forgot to grieve for Lorenzo.

****

He could hardly believe it was over. He had been on the run for so long, from one threat or another, that it didn't seem real.

At night he dreamed of death. Carolina smiled and waved at him, and he ran, oh how he ran, but he was always too slow to save her. She died in the dust, and he could only watch.

Or Lorenzo, at his back, ready to defend him. Lorenzo, so cynical and greedy, who had always been quick with a smile.

So many others, all of them willing to die for him.

All of them had died for him.

****

He started to drink. He smoked in the house. He played his guitar with violence, making the whole instrument shake under his hands.

He yelled at Chiclet, and told the boy to stop being so loud, so clumsy, so annoying.

He cultivated sarcasm, and never missed an opportunity to say things like, "You see?" and "Look at that," or "You should have seen what happened today." He took to slyly moving the furniture, sliding a table or a chair a few inches to the right, so Sands would trip over them and fall. He moved the agent's things, so Sands could not find them.

Sands accepted these small torments with surprisingly good grace at first, keeping his anger in check; he simply relied on Chiclet to help him more, and muttered curses in El's general direction. But as the autumn wore on, so did his patience, and finally one day he snapped. He took a swing at El.

And El, relieved to finally have an opportunity to release his pent-up frustration, held nothing back. He cracked his knuckles, he hit Sands so hard. And he did not stop. He might have killed Sands, but Sands pulled a gun on him, and the sound of the pistol being cocked made El stop in mid-swing.

"You want to stop right now," Sands said. He was on the floor, bleeding from his nose and mouth. His voice was low, and very deadly. "Or I will blow your fucking head off."

Without a word, El turned around and walked out of the house.

****

He woke to the sound of the front door slamming shut. He jerked in his chair, one hand diving for the gun at his hip. He moved his hand away, but he did not relax when he saw that it was only Sands standing on the porch.

The fight had happened four days ago. Sands still bore the bruises, although they were fading now. El glanced at him, then looked away. He felt guilty about what had happened, no matter how hard he tried to justify it.

"We need to talk."

El grunted.

"Did you hear what Chiclet just told me?"

He wondered where the boy was. He did not feel as though he had been sleeping very long.

"Christ, El, are you even listening to me?"

"I'm listening," he said.

"Good. I was starting to think I was living with a deaf-mute," Sands said.

"Fuck you," El growled.

"You're welcome to try, any time you like," Sands drawled, and there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. "But do remember what happened to the last person who tried to fuck me over. We have a brand-new couch in the living room because of that."

"What do you want?" El asked tiredly.

"Chiclet told me that Pablo, his oldest brother, has gone missing. They think one of the cartels is involved. At least two cartels are out there, trying to get control of Culiacan. Chiclet says his parents think Pablo might have seen something he wasn't supposed to."

El was silent for a long time. In the chair beside him, Sands shifted, and at last El realized some response was expected of him. "So?"

"So? Jesus, El! This is Chiclet we're talking about! It's his brother."

El shrugged.

"Big bad drug cartel? You know, those things you like to shoot up and destroy?"

El shrugged again. He felt bad for the kid, but in a vague, distracted way – the way he felt everything these days. He had no desire to take on another cartel.

"Well then, fuck you. I'm going alone." Sands stood up, and began walking toward the front door.

Despite his determination not to get emotionally involved with anything anymore, El could not help but notice this. He sat up a little straighter, and turned to look at Sands. "You would go alone, to find this boy?"

Sands stopped, his hand on the doorknob. "Yeah."

"You're blind," El said.

"Thanks for reminding me. I knew I was forgetting something," Sands said. He turned to face El. "What the hell is the matter with you? I thought you would be halfway to town by now."

"I can't go," El said. He sank back in his chair.

"Oh, that's right. You're too busy wallowing in self-pity and driving away your friends," Sands said, with a sage little nod.

El's head whipped around. "What did you say?"

"Don't act like you didn't hear me. You think I don't know what you've been doing these past few months?" Sands uttered a humorless chuckle. "I practically wrote the book on how not to deal with people. You think there's anything you can do that I won't know about?"

Shit. So much for his grand plan. Sands had known all along what he was trying to do. Now he felt even worse about their fight. His knuckles twinged with pain, reminding him what a piece of shit he was.

"So Lorenzo got killed. It wasn't your fault." Sands shrugged. "Hell, blame me, if you want. I'm the reason you called him here in the first place."

"I should have told him to wait in the car," El whispered.

"Which he wouldn't have done anyway, because he was your friend," Sands said impatiently, the world's fastest premiere psychologist. "Let's go. Come on."

"No," El said.

"For fuck's sake, El. I'm getting sick and tired of looking at you like this. Get your ass off that chair, and come help me."

El looked at him. For the first time it occurred to him that since the day of the storm, he had not once heard Sands talking to himself. Killing Belinda Harrison had laid something to rest in Sands' head. Not his madness, but a component of it, perhaps. He had avenged himself, and that knowledge afforded him a measure of peace that had been lacking before.

It was good to know someone had found peace. El would never forget what it had felt like to be stabbed, how the dagger had been hot and horrible as it sank into his flesh.

Nor would he ever forget the stark relief in Sands' voice, when the agent had realized he was not dead.

"Why do you care what happens to me?" he asked.

Sands shrugged. "Because."

"No," El said. "That is not an answer."

Sands gave a curt shake of his head, his version of an exasperated eye-rolling. He pursed his lips, and came to sit in the chair beside El again. "All right. Look. Sometimes I hate you. Can't stand the fucking sight of you." He paused, and smirked. "Well, you know what I mean."

El nodded. "I do."

"Good. And I know some days you hate me, and wish you had never brought me with along you."

"I do," El agreed.

"Yes. But, when all is said and done, we are still friends. I have no idea how it happened, but it did. You, El Mariachi, are my friend. Hell, you and Chiclet are the only friends I've ever had."

Sands sighed. "So, is that what you wanted to hear? Does that make you feel better?"

El shook his head. In truth, it made him feel worse. He had been responsible for the death of all the friends who had come before Sands. He could no reason why things would be any different this time.

Then, with that maddening way he had of reading El's mind, Sands said, "And I'm not going anywhere. Savvy? I'm still here, and I'm still standing.

"But just because I'm still standing doesn't mean I'm standing still. So you have a choice, El. You can get up out of that chair, and you can help me find Chiclet's brother, or you can stay where you are, and always wonder what might have happened if you had gotten up."

Sands stood up. "Either way, I'm leaving in ten minutes." He went into the house.

El sat there for a long moment, thinking.

He knew Sands was telling the truth. If he chose to stay here, Sands would still go. Because he felt compelled to help Chiclet. Because he hated sitting still. Because the voices in his head were getting restless. Because he needed a challenge and the thrill of a new hunt. Whatever the reasons were, Sands had decided to go, and nothing would change his mind, even if he had to go alone.

And that was it, he realized. Sands had decided his own future. El had nothing to do with it. He was not responsible for Sands. When something bad happened to the agent, it would not be his fault.

Then he swiftly amended that thought. If something bad happened. Sands was more than capable of taking care of himself; he had proven that time and time again. He bore the scars from the disasters in his life – and not all those scars were physical – but he had survived. He was still standing.

But not standing still.

El rose to his feet. He raised his eyes skyward. "Thank you, my love," he whispered.

He went into the house, but no further. He stood just inside the living room, gazing at the piano in the corner, and the sheet music laid atop it.

Sands walked up from the rear of the house. He wore all four of his gunbelts, two criss-crossing his hips, and the two shoulder holsters. He was carrying a duffel bag filled with spare boxes of ammunition. There was no hesitation in his step.

Then, although El had not moved or done anything to signal his presence, Sands stopped in his tracks. He waited.

So El spoke up.

"Wait," he said. He tried to smile, and found that it wasn't as hard as he had thought it would be.

"I'm going with you."

*****

END

Author's Notes: How can I begin to thank you all? Your reviews and kinds words have kept me going on this story, even when things looked dark and I couldn't begin to fathom how I would keep going. All I had to do was think of you, and I found a way to keep writing. There are far too many of you to thank by name, but to each and every one of you who has written to me, I say: Thank you. I love you all.

I am glad to say that my muse does not want to let these guys go. I am toying with a new story idea, but I'm still undecided about posting it. The story is essentially an exploration of El and Sands' relationship, and would eventually be slash. I am pretty certain there would be no actual sex in it, but I guess you never know. Right now my brain can't see that far ahead. g

I know not everyone is interested in that kind of story, however, which is why I'm mentioning it now. I want to give everyone the chance to decide for themselves if they want to read it.

To all of you who write stories of your own, keep writing.

To those of you who read, never stop reading.

You guys are the best.

Rebecca