TITLE: El Corazon de la Leyenda
AUTHOR: Garnet
SERIES: follows "El Hombre Sin Ojos", pt 1 of ?
PAIRING: El/Sands, though El has yet to really get with the program
RATING: R, probably, though maybe a hard PG-13
SUMMARY: Sands on the run, while El makes like the cavalry
DISCLAIMER: belongs to this other guy, not me, nope, though I wouldn't kick either of them out of bed for eating crackers
THANKS: to Laura for the Spanish, gracias!

A man can get used to the taste of his own blood. But then a man can get used to a lot of things, and not all of them particularly nice.

He was walking in darkness and darkness was not his friend.

In fact, it had already earned him a couple of bullets and a kiss he hadn't wanted and one he had and a firefight that had ended up with him taking a tumble down a flight of stairs that he hadn't, for some odd reason, known was there. Being a little blind and all. And in
the middle of running for his life.

He'd made it out of the building all right, but they had been right behind him. Near enough that he swore he could smell them. Certainly, he'd felt as much as heard their bullets whizzing right by his head, slamming into the wall just behind him, fragments of cheap brick and mortar spanging around his ears—the gunshots loud enough to wake the dead, if they weren't already coming along for the ride.

He was not having a good time. His head was pounding like the bass line at a really bad blues club. His leg was screaming ever more impossible insults at him. He had bitten his tongue sometime during his little trip down the stairs and he had lost his goddamn shades. Again.

For that alone, someone had to die.

He swiped at his face with his free hand, swallowed down yet more blood, and held his breath. The rest of him was plastered against the wall, his gun held lovingly near to his chest. His own small circle of rosary beads. Six precious bullets. That's all that remained between him and them. He doubted it was going to be enough. Even if he could get them to stand still for it. Line up, like helpful little ducks all in a row. Bang, bang, bang…ow, you're dead. I'm dead. We're all dead here, folks. But thanks for playing. Sincerely.

Sure, there was no way he was getting out of this alive. But then he was the god of no ways and no hows and never gonna happens. He was the joker in the deck. The one who always dealt from the bottom.
More a clown than a fool and more right than left and the one who'd turned a good day to die into a good day to limp away, a good day to come out swinging again.

Even if he honestly couldn't keep his eye on the ball anymore.

He heard footsteps, a hint of an indrawn breath, and aimed his gun in that general direction.

It would have been nice to know who he was up against here. But you can't have everything. And, some days, you couldn't even have anything.

Except one chance to put a little lead where it might count the most.

Another footstep. And it must be pretty damn dark out there as well, or whoever it was would have seen him already. A fatal mistake. Don't play footsie with a blind man at night. Even one who's only been blind for a day, day and half tops.

Another quiet breath and he shifted his aim. Then, following that only half realized instinct that had served him well in the past, he shifted it yet again, a little higher, and squeezed the trigger.

There was a loud crack, the breath of evaporated gunpowder, a muffled impact sound, and then the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. Followed by something metallic sparking across stone.

As the other man's gun struck the bottom of the wall he currently stood against, rebounded, and landed near his foot. When he bent down to claim it, his fingers brushed plastic, his lost sunglasses. Well, hell…fortuitous happenstance must be his fortune cookie for the day.

Even though frantic voices were already filling the dark. Followed by the sound of someone—no, make that two someones—running right towards him. Fuck. Time to get his ass out of here. He slid the shades back on his face, shoved the spare gun into the top of his pants, then shuffled along the wall until it turned to the right.

Reaching out his other hand, he felt the rough stone of another wall and realized it was a narrow alley of sorts. The kind that this whole town was riddled with, secret passageways lined with drying laundry and drunks and scavenging cats. This one would either lead
him to a dead end or to yet more alleys and he could easily lose himself in the maze.

He moved down it as fast as he could, one hand holding his gun and the other reaching out into the darkness, aware on some level that he was chancing another tumble down unseen stairs or any number of other obstacles. He could have used the kid right about now, not that he had anything left to pay him with but his charming personality.

He couldn't hear anyone coming after him now, but that was no guarantee of anything.

Another right, a left, a single step that he sensed just in time to not fall down it, a curve that seemed to go on forever, the smell of meat cooking, voices raised in what sounded like an argument. He angled his head towards the sound, making another left even as he
heard the sharp crack of flesh against flesh, either she'd slapped him or he'd belted her. My, wasn't life just wonderful.

As he moved and moved, his fingers tracking stone, wood, rough brick, his leg jarring painfully with each step, his breathing sounding too loud in his ears. The alley he was in now widening, before it opened up completely. He paused then, reaching out with that unseen sense—and was pleased to be aware on some level, even before he heard the trickling of bright water, that he'd come across a small square.

Thirst immediately roared through him again, but he waited. Open air meant more danger. The chance of being seen. Of getting his ass captured or shot or worse. But the only other sound was the distant muttering of some radio personality, followed in short order by the
swell of guitars and voices, weaving a song of love and death and lost causes. The music of Mexico. The beat of the mariachi.

He took it as a sign.

The edge of the fountain was smooth stone, the water within cool and the best thing he'd ever tasted. Well, if you didn't count the flavor of El's mouth.

El sabor suave de la muerte…

He ran a wet hand back through his hair, realizing only then that, on top of the pain, he felt a bit feverish. Small wonder he was thinking about kisses when he should be concentrating on the simple pleasure of just keeping himself alive.

Fuck it all, it wasn't like him to forget about something like that. Except that he'd been doing a lot of that just lately. Ever since he'd woken up on that table, staring up at the faces hovering over him like pale ghosts in the dark. With a casual cruelty almost as Biblical, nearly as gothic as his own.

He'd seen too much. So they'd taken that sight from him. And if the eyes were truly the windows to the soul, then they'd taken more from him than he'd ever imagined.

He laughed. He couldn't help himself.

Suddenly all too aware that even if he could find a way to get out of this godforsaken town with the rest of his skin intact, that he really had nowhere to go. That America was just a dream to him now and he was already living the nightmare, and that a thin line of ever so warm blood was trickling down his leg again.

"Well shit, Sheldon," he said. "What are you going to do now? You are one fucked up piece of work, so much so that even the goddamned Company wants your ass in a wringer. Let alone half a dozen other tweaks with bigger guns than balls."

No one answered the question, for which he should be grateful. At least, he wasn't as far gone as that. Yet.

As for the rest—he was alive, he was armed, there were still a few cards he could call in if he had to and, if you really sat down and thought about it, he'd been in bad straights before and had survived. And, even beyond that, he was young and free and American
and a veritable demon in the sack. What more could a man ask for?

Well, just a little thing like his fucking eyes back, but pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

Not like he'd ever had much of a sense of humor anyway.

He took another quick drink, then moved on across the square. The scent of flowers warned him before his fingers touched leaves and petals, the worn edge of a window box, a splintered shutter, before he found the side of the house itself. Another few steps, the
passageway more narrow than any of the alleys he'd stumbled down already and he sensed the world opening up before him again.

His foot found a low curb and he stopped, looking to the right and left as if he could actually see oncoming traffic. Not that there seemed to be any tonight—as if the lateness of the hour was keeping everyone off the streets, or maybe just a small thing like a recently attempted coup. Not that they shouldn't be used to shit like that; the fate of this dusty little country was decided more often with a bullet than not.

Hey, whatever turned your crank, and he'd more than enjoyed being the one behind the trigger.

Even if, this one time, he'd gotten himself caught in the crossfire.

The roar of the engine was loud and sudden, and he turned towards it, raising his gun. It could be no one he knew, nothing to do with him, but he doubted it. He dove across the street, half-stumbling when he hit the curb on the other side. His hand was outstretched, finding another opening almost immediately, but just inside the new alley he ran headlong into a pile of wooden boxes.

They crashed to the ground together, but somehow he managed to retain both gun and shades this time. Practice makes perfect, he guessed.

He rolled back to his feet, only to almost fall again as his bad leg gave way beneath him. His shoulder hit the side of a building and he flattened himself against it, holding himself there with his one good leg and a whole lot of determination.

Déjà vu, man, and this time there was no sweaty little kid with sweaty little hands and a limited sense of self preservation to help him pry himself away from the wall and duckwalk him to safety.

Out on the street, he heard the squeal of brakes and then the sound of voices.

They'd seen him. They must have seen him. Or something. Not that it mattered. Either way it was about to get him killed.

He pried himself away from the wall and forced himself to move, even though his leg was dragging big time now. His heart strobing in his ears, his head starting to spin. The merry-go-round goddamn about to run down and not a fucking brass ring in sight. That last fall
seemed to have taken something out of him. Something vital. Something he'd really needed. Or, maybe, it was just the blood loss speaking, the fact that he hadn't eaten much of anything in almost two days now, or was it three?

Time was just an illusion, but he was fast running out of it, as well as energy and options. Especially when he sensed them coming down the alley behind him now. One moment before a shot blasted away at the darkness and he felt the buzz and burn of the bullet as it seared across his flesh, just below his right shoulder. Aw fuck, man, I've got just the one good arm right now…you are really pissing me off here…

He half-turned and fired back, three shots. Each bullet more precious than the last and one of them garnering a yelp, which brought a smile to his face. Fleeting though it was.

Oh yeah, still the baddest bad boy in town.

Except for one, as it turned out.

Another couple of shots tore by him, then he stumbled into another pile of boxes and garbage—shit, didn't anybody ever pick up around this place?—and pitched headlong towards the ground. Knowing he was dead already, knowing it was over.

Only to have strong hands catch him at the last moment and drag him to one side, into what felt like a narrow alcove or doorway. He fought them, but a wave of sick dizziness swept over him and, the very next second, he knew those arms. Just as he knew that voice.

"Don't you know enough not to get shot," it said, the tone chiding, mocking, a threat and promise that was warm as honey and ten times sweeter.

"Why, El," he drawled back. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Down," was all the other man said then, before he yanked him roughly towards him, one of those arms going completely around him now. Pulling him back against a solid body, pulling him straight to the ground.

"Oh, so very butch," he said, before El clapped a hand over his mouth and a warm, somewhat wet, "shush" filled his right ear.

So, if this was a nightmare, it had just taken a turn for the better. He was never one to turn down a wet dream, especially one that smelled of leather and spice and warm sweat and tequila. Lots of tequila.

He put out a tongue and found that El's fingers tasted of tequila as well, and of volcanic red peppers and dust. It made his head dizzy again, but in a good way this time. Not a merry-go-round, but a genuine, middle America, going to so make you wish you hadn't eaten that last corndog roller coaster ride.

Then the fresh scent of cordite joined the mix and made it even better, as the man holding him shifted and began firing. Five shots in quick succession, a blazing heat in the darkness, deafening in the narrow confines of the alley. There was a scream, some answering fire, which didn't seem like it came close at all.

And a moment later El was rising, letting him slide free at his feet, and two more shots roared away over his head.

Followed by a silence almost as crushing.

A silence only broken by the sound of a clip being popped out, and a second one being rammed home. He immediately fixed on the thought of other things ramming home and realized that, despite a little thing like thirst and ever growing exhaustion and a size ten shit-kicking headache, he was half-hard again.

Christ on a crutch, what this man did to him…

"Some of Barillo's men," the Mariachi commented dryly. "They seemed…most determined to have you join them. For a drink, perhaps?"

"That's me all over," he replied, "regular mister popularity." Then belatedly he realized that, despite Sands Junior trying to do some rather exotic push-ups in his shorts, he was sagging more a little. That he couldn't hardly hold onto his damn gun. Which was so not
happening and even more of a fucking shame than not getting some while the getting was good.

"You're bleeding again." That was even more dry, and he couldn't tell if the other man sounded more pleased or disappointed by that little fact.

"Tell me something I don't know."

There was a pause and then he sensed El kneeling down near him. A finger ran itself along the top edge of his sunglasses, as if contemplating pulling them down his nose to reveal the Cracker Jack prize beneath. The better to see you with, my dear. But just who
was the big bad wolf here, him or mister fucking tragedy in the making.

"You're a fuck." El said the word with such innate style and grace and liquid economy that he was almost envious. If he wasn't just so freaking tired, he swore he would be.

He sighed instead, and somehow found the strength to smile. Just a little. "You're gonna have to do better than that, my man. Sweet talk will get you nowhere. Least of all into my pants."

"Why do I not believe you?"

"Because you want to get into my pants."

"In your dreams, pendejo." Those hands abruptly took hold of him again and hauled him to his feet. Then held him there when he realized that he couldn't do it by himself. When the other man realized it as well.

He tsked at El, swaying a little in his grip. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?"

"I kissed you." That last said with this rather accusatory tone, as if he were personally to blame for all the bad shit that had ever happened in his life. Or, at the very least, that he had sent a Hallmark to commemorate the highlights. Hey man, so sorry you fucked up your life again, love Sheldon.

"Once," he replied, and felt his smile slowly turn itself into an even so helpful smirk. One lost brain cell away from laughing again. He raised his free hand and tried to touch the other man's face, but calloused fingers caught his wrist in a crushing grip.

"No," El breathed.

"Ah," he hissed, wincing a little. Knowing he was supposed to wince. "Ease off some, big boy, will you? As for that little kiss—pardon me, but I believe it was my idea. Personally, I somehow got the impression you weren't any too pleased with it."

"Maybe, I've changed my mind."

"Maybe hell just froze over."

"That, too."

And there it was. Oh, man. Oh, sweet fucking Jesus. Go to hell, go straight to hell, do not pass go, do not collect 6 million pesos. Not that the money fucking mattered anymore. He'd always known he was good, he just never suspected he was that good. But it did his
ego wonders to hear it, and his dick even more so.

Even though it was a fucking lie.

El had come back because El wanted something from him, and that something wasn't his dainty little gringo ass.

"Come on," the Mariachi said then, dragging him forward.

But his leg really wasn't working at all now and his head was sincerely thinking about just packing up shop and heading on home, someplace where the gravity was a little less extreme, where some stupid kid wasn't setting off molten firecrackers inside his skull,
and the next thing he knew the other man was all but carrying him. Mumbling a series of genetically improbable, though rather interesting, curses under his breath and every step jarring right through him like all his bones had come loose beneath his skin and were rolling around looking for a way out.

Rattle, rattle, rattle…trying for eleven and rolling snake eyes instead, every last time, the game so fucking rigged, and he was seriously thinking about losing the last of his pride and starting to whimper pretty soon. Oh shit, man…morphine, demoral, ether, anything…
he wasn't picky. Even another good right hook straight to the face was starting to sound damn good. Anything to make the pain go away again, to make it back the fuck off.

There should be a t-shirt for that. Give me drugs or give me death.

Though, considering the man seemed to be intent on dragging him over half of Mexico and back again, he was definitely starting lean towards death. Which would be a crying shame considering his most recent conquest. And how much he desperately wanted to know just what his favorite Mexi-can-hump-me-any-time-he-likes was packing beneath those fabulously jingly Mariachi pants of his.

But reality itself was starting to strobe now, a fucking disco in his head, Donna Summers singing some shit about the last dance, the last chance for love, and the next he knew he was being loaded into the backseat of some car that smelled faintly of hairspray and french fries. Probably stolen, but who was he to cast stones. His own glass house had come crashing down around his ears big time already.

A car door slammed, then another, before a key ticked over and the engine roared to life. Loud, so fucking loud. A radio coming on at the same time, full volume, a mix of pounding drums and throbbing guitars, the bass line alone just about drowning out the guy singing his guts out in a mulatto mix of Spanish and English. Road music. Just the kind of thing that the bad guys always chased the good guys to.

Not that anyone down here had ever been too clear on just who was who.

The car roared again, then—if that were possible—the music got even louder and some part of him swore that he could hear the Mariachi singing along with it. His voice worlds better than the other guy's.

Before El peeled out, the back end of the car slewing sideways until the tires finally caught and held and kicked them violently forward. Sending a deadly spray of nose burning white powder dust pouring into the back of the car and a surge of pain spiraling through his head. Pain which peeled down his thoughts one by one until there was nothing left but the dark and the distinct feeling that he'd just gotten himself into deeper shit than he'd ever imagined. And he, for one, had a fucking fabtabulous imagination.

Hell, it even scared him sometimes.

Continue to part 2

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