(no subject)
It takes a moment for you to remember that this is- yes, this is where you’re meant to be. Chairs upturned on the tables and shutters closed, light filtering in through the gaps between the slats; it’s darker than you remember.
You almost look back, see if you can catch one final glimpse of Millways through the door before it fades away into Mexican street and Mexican sun. Then the kid touches a steadying hand to your arm, mistaking hesitation for confusion (“Señor?”), and the world snaps back into place.
Here, you are blind, and the guys across from the table from you are staring with the unguarded expressions of those who know it. The one in the charcoal grey suit (… Pedro, wasn’t it?), he’s the one this is all about, the one you’re here for.
You can’t, you realise with a sinking feeling that is part dread and mostly adrenaline, remember what it was you wanted from him in the first place. And you’ve left your gun behind.
“Go get an ice-cream, kid,” you murmur, sliding your hand down onto his shoulder and pushing him away. Your ears follow him to the door and out onto the sudden burst of noise that is the street.
You let your hand brush against the edge of the table as you step forwards, and there’s the telltale rattle of cutlery. Charcoal suit, he’s grinning like you’re just a stupid gringo with no eyes.
Idiot.
You smile, trailing a finger over the cool metal of a fork and then across the serrated edge of a knife. This is going to be easy.
-
Time passes.
In the end, it always does.
-
The face Ramirez makes as, one day over breakfast, you pull off your sunglasses and murmur “Surprise,” almost makes losing your eyes in the first place worth it. “Never knew you were so religious,” you add as he crosses himself fervently.
“Your eyes-” he begins, but he just can’t find the words to finish the sentence and his mouth stays hanging open. Ramirez- cool, unflappable FBI Jorge Ramirez- speechless leaves you unable to suppress your grin any longer, one part amusement to two parts triumph (with just a hint of ‘look what I’ve done’).
The mug of morning coffee, forgotten in his hand, finally makes its presence known by smashing on the kitchen floor.
Later, once he’s calmed down and cleaned up the mess (you remained seated, helpfully pointing out all the bits he’d missed), Ramirez drags a stool around the table and sits right up close. He stares at you (you stare back), and no matter how cautiously his hand moves, you can’t hide the flinch as he catches your chin with his fingers and turns your head from side to side.
But you hold your tongue, and the fact that you’re letting him touch you at all seems to convince Ramirez that something, at least, has happened.
“One day,” you say awkwardly, turning your head away as his hand drops down into his lap, “I might even tell you what.”
He breathes out through his nose, close enough to laughter to count, and pushes the stool back out of your personal space with his heels. Back to business, “Have you told Miguel?”
You stare cross at him, frowning, and when he raises an eyebrow you shake your head with a distracted “No.” All these months, you realise, he’s been calling the kid by his actual name, and you never noticed.
“He’s an innocent little Mexican boy. He probably still believes in magic. Hell,” you add brightly, as Ramirez snorts, “he’d probably been expecting them to grow back anyhow.”
You kick the chair back with your foot, sliding your sunglasses back on (Mexico is brighter than you remember). It wobbles, falls over, and you ignore it, and you ignore the feel of Ramirez’ eyes following you around the room too.
“Nobody knows, okay?” you snap eventually, back to him as you busy yourself with a fresh cup of coffee. “As far as fair Mexico is concerned, I’m still el pistolero sin ojos, and I’d like to keep it that way.” Arms braced against the counter and hair hanging in your eyes, it’s almost like being blind again as you hear him rustle (leaning back in his chair) and cough (head on one side, thinking of what to say).
“You don’t… need,” he says, in the precise manner of a man measuring every word, “to stay here anymore.”
“Why, Jorge, are you breaking up with me?”
He ignores you, soldiers bravely on. “I let you stay here because I felt sorry for you; because you were blind, and your life was ruined.”
“My life still is ruined,” you point out testily, fingers drumming on the countertop. You close your eyes. “Now I just get to watch it fall apart.”
“That is your own doing,” Ramirez remarks, and there’s the rustle of paper this time. He’s gone for the newspaper; he’s said his piece.
“You didn’t feel pity. You felt guilty. Guilty because if you hadn’t fucked up so royally, Barillo wouldn’t have had the chance to play doctor and-”
“I fucked up so royally, Sands, because you completely overlooked the fact that your girlfriend was-” One moment he’s talking, and then you turn around and he’s not. It’s partly from the look on your face, and mostly from the gun barrel rammed into his throat.
“Keep talking, Jorge,” you whisper, “and find out just how little I need you.”
His eyes are narrowed, but his mouth is shut, and there’s an almost imperceptible shift of his chin that counts- in the language of agents- as a nod.
“Great. Swell.” You lower the gun, smiling brightly, and stroll away.
-
You don’t remember there being this many people.
Sometimes, you see a smile or hear a laugh that makes you rub your neck and look around for strange little vampires. The first time you see a little old man with a white beard, it’s all you can do not to pull out your gun and start shooting, your internal alarm screaming ‘Dworkin’.
Most often, it’s a swish of long, dark hair and the scent of tequila, and your blood runs cold.
-
Days run into each other in a way not even the bar at the end of the universe could manage, but this is a Sunday, and you’re almost certain it’s March (or maybe April), and you end up, somehow, sat on her gave. It’s small, elegant, carved in something smooth and white, and all it says is:
Beatriz Barillo Trejo
Dutiful daughter
1977-2003
Looking at it, nobody would think the daughter of one of the (formerly) most dangerous cartel bosses was buried six feet under.
You’re dressed in faded jeans and an old white t-shirt you had no idea you even owned, hair tied back and you haven’t shaved. You don’t look like an agent, or a tourist, or someone pretending to be a tourist, or even a Mexican legend. Looking at you, you figure with a faint smile, nobody would think you were the one who put her there.
You press the heels of your palms into your tightly closed eyes, head bowed, and for a while it’s all you can do to breathe.
It’s only when it gets cold that you realise it’s gotten dark too. You wipe your face and stare up at the stars and, after a while, you leave.
-
This is your life, corrupt and futile and fuelled by the clockwork thrum of revenge, and it’s a surprisingly easy rhythm to fall back into. You plot, and smoke, and use up all the gas until Ramirez relents and tells you where your own car is stashed. You buy shades so black nobody can see your eyes.
You kill people, and mostly it’s doing the country a service.
You’re always cautious when you open doors, at first, just in case.
And then, a little.
And later, not at all.