Warning: Please note, this will contain slash between Sands and El. I'll place warnings on chapters and such, but I have warned thee. It's likely to get heavy in later chapters as well, but I shall warn you. Also, this story will contain heavy language- but if you've watched OUATiM then you'd have gathered that.

Rated for language and reference of male-male contact in this chapter.

Stockholm Syndrome

Definition: a psychological response in which the hostage shows feelings of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger or risk they are placed in...

Chapter One.
If you thought about it, and had that sick sense of humor, than Sands supposed it really was funny- at the very least it was ludicrously amusing. But however you saw it, in the sick fucked up realistic way that it was, or the doped up optimistic way, they had survived and to Sands, it was all about survival. Who was in control and who was throwing what shapes and setting them up.

He'll admit now (though only to himself, thank you very much) that he wasn't entirely in control to begin with. That his aim was a little to the left and he had set them up rather poorly. That it was really El, that damn mariachi with no name, who saved him. On the other hand, without Sands, none of this would have happened at all. They would not be together in constant hiding, hurling abuse and fists and dropping sadistic quips at one another. They would not be there laughing at the others scream of terror at night the morning after (even though, against Sands' admission, he constantly has these.) Neither would they have been there to get drunk and spill out those vicious statements that hold so much depth and mean so much that one night, after a bloody battle and a few new scars (and the now demanding chore of disposing dead bodies), Sands found his body rammed against Mexico's outside brick wall with El's tongue forcefully down his throat.

He loathed himself for playing the submissive, though he is futile to do anything about it really. He is weaker and slender and more, unfairly, fragile and El's body just had too much fury for Sands that night. He particularly hated himself, though, for loosing the control and letting it be gained by El. He wanted to have his eyes back so he could tear them out again as El, on a handful of occasions later, forced his tongue once more down Sands' throat- each time a little more added until hands had roamed in unwanted places.

He supposes now that this really was inevitable. That if you looked at it carefully enough you'd have seen it; that Sands was really blind to it ever occurring (if you'll pardon the pun.) Which is why its laughable that Sand's enjoys this now; this sort of rough, frustrated groping that's all about dominating, of which they both know Sands will eventually lose, regardless of his admiral struggle. When two men are alone and both seriously fucked up, and constantly fighting the Cartels and CIA and every damn bean fucker who's out to get them for a cowardly reward, he doesn't blame himself for this happening; just of how it happened and of what position he's in from it. But he knows, with a cynical grin, that whatever loathing he's feeling for himself now, El is feeling it undoubtedly twice as hard.

He has, of course, betrayed Carolina. Which, if Sands can be bothered letting his mind continue in this way, is why the anger has been more... passionate, lately. And Sands does know; the bruises around his hips and neck and about every damn inch the guitar fucker have touched him or pushed him into, are proof.

Stubbing his cigarette out with spite, and smirking at El's growled, "Stop using the table- there's a perfectly good ashtray to your left gringo" Sands supposes he better begin at the beginning.

Or more specifically, the beginning of an end.

.SxE.SxE.SxE.

By all logical means, Sands should not be alive; although he's not too fussy about that now. There are days when he smirks in suppressed glee and pride that he's still here, still standing, and not even the knowledge of Barillo and his merry men of fuckers taking his eyes can suppress this. These are the days when he feels, oddly enough, more whole than ever. When he feels more invincible and undefeatable than ever.

Then, there are the days when he's so afraid and depressed and just damn well pissed off that he could eat his gun; but he knows by doing this, by giving into his own desire, he is only giving into their desire.

They believed a blind man in the unfamiliar surroundings of Mexico would never survive; that he would hand himself over to American Federals and then it's bye-bye Agent Sands. What they didn't account for was that for a year and a half Mexico had been his beat and he had walked it.

They underestimated him.

And Sands would make sure that they paid for that costly little mistake.

Every last Cartel fucker and CIA imbecile that had screwed him over would pay.

Which is why, after six months of pure agony, hatred, self loathing and healing, and then another four of keeping his bearings and truly making it on his own, Sands found himself in the local bar.

The atmosphere is loud and a little crazy. The air is thick with the scent of smoke and dust and an overload of cheap musk perfume. Giggling female voices sing in the air and gruff men laugh with drunken amusement. The clatter of glass and silverware clink softly in the background of the soft strumming guitar and slightly off key husky tones and if Sands is correct then the set should be finishing in a quarter hour; just like it has for the last three Saturday nights.

He calls the bar tender over with a slender finger and waits resentfully. The small bar is warm and stuffy and Sands is dressed how he usually is these days; in all black. Snug, dark jeans, hip holsters and shoulder ones to match, (four guns in totally plus the one strapped to his left leg), a clingy, long-sleeved, open neck top and his thick black wraparound glasses. A menacing attire, yes, but unfortunately hot.

A weary voice jumps him from thoughts, "Sì Señor?" He notes the still full plate, "Is something wrong?"

He bites back a retort, knowing if the man is agitated he is less likely to comply, "The man killing the guitar, see him?" he waits for the expected nod, "I wish to speak to him after the set. So I want you to tell him some bullshit story that will get him to this table and in return you could find your self a nice hefty sum richer. Ya dig it?"

"Who are you?" The tone is one of refusal.

He sighs exasperatedly, "Look, we can either do this the simple friendly way, or I can ask someone else and shoot you later."

"I will get him." He holds his hand out expectantly and Sands slips an envelope of notes beneath his plate and passes it carefully, but fluently, to the man. "Gracias Señor."

"Now fuck off."

He doesn't have to wait long, he's pleased to note.

-SxE-SxE-SxE-

El smiled and swayed for the patrons of the bar, bowing in many thanks as pesos are tossed to him and grinning at the young ladies whose eyes are glazed with drunken lust. As the song fades to the end he backs into the left wing to grab the bottle of water before the final song.

The ten second break was much longer than usual.

"Señor, a man at a table beckons you."

El frowned a little, unscrewing the bottles lid, "Did he say who he was, or what he represented?"

There's a hesitant pause as the man watches El gulp the water greedily, "No…no, he only said he could offer you something better than all this, for a lot more. If you were interested."

And El was interested. Very interested. The work here was enjoyable but not well paid. He barely had enough money for the basic needs and boredom was beginning to set in, and as the saying goes, 'idle hands are the devil's workshop.'

"I am needed back on stage," a small smile was the only acknowledgment El gave of greeting this mystery man.

A thin smile spread on the bar owners face, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, "He is sitting in the far left back. In the dark."

El did not thank him but instead waltzed slowly on stage, picking the first notes of a long song. The song allowed him to move freely around the floor, smiling at the flaunting women and nodding to the men that tipped. He dared to only get two tables from the one pointed out to him, but it was enough.

The man was alone and silent, leaning against the back of his chair, an arm outstretched holding a cigarette. His charisma was menacing and powerful; the darkness that enveloped him only heightening this. He was beautiful to look at, El noted distantly, and he tried to imagine the mans eyes behind those sleek glasses. An ashtray laid brim full to the right of him and an empty glass to the left. He was the picture of dark nonchalance and cynicism; he looked, almost, like a killer.

Chills ran up his spine and he turned to meet the spot light for the last bars of the song.

Up here, the man looked even more deadly but El had no reason to fear him. The bar owner, Antonio, was a good friend of his, who had kept his job open those weeks before the Day of the Dead when he was needed. He had no reason to lie to him, only reason to lie for him and for that El was grateful; without Antonio, El would have long been dead.

He passed people by abruptly, nodding in thanks with the odd fake laugh to those who complimented him. He neared the table and its lone man and was struck by a sense of familiarity. He knew this man, but he couldn't place him. He seemed so familiar… Someone he knew a long time ago.

"Hey El."

And then El knew. "No…It cannot be."

"I know, right?" He grinned brightly, "Who'd have thought. Not even a year on, and me and you just happen to be in the same bar."

Confused, El floundered, "But he said…Antonio said… You wanted someone to play…"

He gestured to the empty chair in front of him, "Take a seat." A pause of silence and Sands sighed reluctantly, "If it makes you feel any better, he said no at first." He lit a cigarette flamboyantly, "And by the way, that wasn't an offer before. Sit."

El sat on the grounds of astonishment. He couldn't believe that Antonio, a friend of three years who had saved him from cartel many times before, would betray him like this. And for what? Money? His life? "What do you want?"

He smiled to the left, "Really, is that any way to great an old friend?" A hand silenced El's predictable 'you are no friend of mine.' "How 'bout something to eat or drink? You've been killing that guitar for an hour now." He beckoned the waitress over.

Disgruntled, and strangely calm, El replied, "I'm one of the best mariachi's around."

"Can you play slide?"

"What?"

He flicked the cigarette ash, "Then you're not the best. Now what'll you have?"

El glanced at the waitress and thought quickly. There was a chance he could escape Sands, "Tequila, no demasiado fuerte. Cuáles son las salidas traseras?" Tequila, not too strong. What are the back exits?

"Dos. A la izquierda y derecho. Tres si usted cuenta la salida delantera." Two. On the left and right. Three if you count the front exit. His tone was light and airy, "I'll have the same, two of them actually, and strong, sugarbutt." He brandished out a few notes, in perfect change, effectively getting rid of her. "Gee El, that wasn't very bright of you."

El mentally hit himself. He should have known that Sands would know Spanish. He'd been here before the days of the Coup and, obviously, after. He would know the language well by now but El was still surprised at how flawless it was. "Why are you here?"

Sands' face rapidly changed into seriousness, his tone somber. "They're going to kill you, El-"

"-And they have sent you." He finished.

"No." He physically felt the relief pour off of El, "I'm not CIA anymore and I only kill those who fuck with me. I suggest you remember that."

El, of course, would, "Then?"

"I'm here to help you, because you are going to help me."

"I am not helping you, because no one is out to kill me. I have no more enemies, I have cut my ties. I am simply a mariachi anymore. Not The mariachi; just a mariachi." Which was true. El had no business now in killing or revenge. For the last six months he had been as content as he would ever be, and it was known that El mariachi was only that; the guitar player of local.

"Oh my Christ." He stubbed the cigarette out furiously, "Would you listen to me? They're going to kill you El, tonight. And I'm here to save you. Your knight in shining armor if you like."

"If they are going to kill me, why are you helping?"

He snarled, "Get this through your thick fucking head El: They are going to kill you; there's no 'ifs' to this. And by helping you, I help me. It's all about balance and control; you seeing the big picture yet?"

"No, I cannot" he spoke honestly, "So you are not here to kill me?" The waitress had unfortunately chosen this time to place the drinks on the table and from alarm spilled one of the tequilas.

"I suggest you pretend you're deaf sugarbutt, else I'd have to kill you. So toddle off would ya and forget the mess." He smiled thinly at her retreating form, "And no El, I'm not here to kill you, but I swear if you keep this up I'm going to."

"But I have cut all my ties. I am no longer-"

He waved the glass in the air, "Yeah-yeah, I know. You know that, they know that, Hell, everyone knows that. Don't you think I'd have killed you a few months ago if that weren't the case? The problem is El," and he nudged Els drink across to his hand, "is that you were once El Mariachi and frankly, you still are to them."

"Who is them?" he ignored the glass against his hand.

"Jesus El. Where the fuck have you been? Listen, you're a threat okay? Just get that concept around your head first. You're a big threat too them. It doesn't matter that you've laid low for a few months. Once the shit hits the fan you're gonna get that damn pride and honor of yours in the way and try to stop 'em. And believe me; the shit is going to hit the fan. And badly."

El stared dumbfounded, the ice cold of the glass the only sensation he could feel. Twenty minutes ago he had been but a humble mariachi. Now he could be starting on his old ways again as, it seemed, a fiasco was about to begin. What was stranger still, El marveled, was that Agent (or ex he dully noted) Sands was here to help him. Regardless if doing so, somehow, meant helping himself; Sands was here to help El.

This is where the story truly begins.

Feedback is greatly appreciated. I'd like to continue this, but only if there's an interest really.

This is just a peek to next chapter too:
This time, when Sands trained the gun on El, he clicked the safety off, "I suggest you drive or I'll blow out your knee caps and you can drive in excruciating pain. That's if I don't decide to leave you here dying from blood loss though. Comprende?"