The Isle: A refuge for fan fiction: Once Upon A Time In Mexico

A Stray Woman
By Lillavicke Vire

Rating: T | Status: Completed | Genre: Romance | Series: None
Summary: A woman discovers Sands. Each chapter is an individual vignette.

Warning: Some adult language and sexual reference.

Vignette I: Intrigued

Through the spinning pain Sands suddenly realized someone was near. He felt the presence looming there, the moment stretching into an eternity - or was it only a few seconds?

Then slow soft steps toward him, inexorably coming closer, too close, bringing smells of burnt hair, blood and powder. Sands had to fight for each painful breath he took, and he felt a burning anger, a burning fear, because all he could do was to clench at his awareness, and struggle to keep the black infinity away.

A low, dull, female voice said "Hi." Fingers poked away some strays of hair, plastered to his face by sweat. The soft touch still sent a bolt of pain through his head, making him gasp. The hand was close to his face, hesitating, then she lowered his sunglasses. He tried to catch her reaction, but he could only hear distant gunfire and racket singing from afar; she was all silence, black and numb. A force of stillness, making time stretch - stretch - and then finally he heard her take a deeper breath, and the tension eased when it turned into a sob. She leaned her body close to his while she wrapped her arms around his waist, her face inches from his and voice husky "Come with me."

Sands feebly tried to pull away, but she stilled him by putting her lips on his, making him feel wet salt from tears, and a warm gentleness, scorching him. Suddenly going limp, she broke the kiss with a whisper, dragged down and wrapped in tiredness, but still insistent "I'll help you. Come."

When she stepped back, her intruding warmth was replaced with the stifling hot dust (known as "air" by the suckers on location) and - she left. Panic turned his bones to fragile ice and joined the spiral of spinning pain. Something tearing, he couldn't make out the noise. Back, she was coming back. Close again, but everything was still spinning, spinning faster. Too much, it was too much, a circle, a circuit pressing into his leg - searing - electrifying -

Red, using the forgotten banners, deftly wrapped and tied the gun wounds. Then gently laying the beautiful black, bleaching gringo on a large dusty flag, she dragged him to the nearest car, hauled him into the backseat - unconsciousness was one of God's greatest gifts - and drove off.

Vignette II: Disturbed

It was more midday than morning, the sun slowly increasing in strength, blazing down merciless heat. Red plunged herself into the dangling heat, riding the bike like she was haunted. That way, the pain in her throat was lack of water, and the itching in her skin was only sweat bursting and trickling down.

Sands heard the bike, it came with unusual speed, wheels skidding when -probably- Red made an abrupt stop. He relaxed more when the steps came closer, comforting him with their familiarity. The door opened, stirring the air when she slammed it shut. A basket of groceries hit the floor, and the next thud was Red falling back against the door. "Oh fuck" she wheezed, breathing so heavy she barely could speak. Somehow she managed to continue with a strained chant, desperate and pleading, "Oh god, of fuck oh god oh... fuck-fuck-fuck."

The fact that her frantic chanting filled him with unease- Sands cut off the thought, but it didn't go away. Instead it spread through him like something rotten and foul, making his voice so dry his words came out as dust. "That explains a lot."

"Nothing to worry about" Red panted, "I just have a private freak out." She grabbed the basket and heeded to the kitchen, disturbing the house with her speeded anxiety, shoving and banging and crashing everything to its proper place. She gulped down water and splashed her face, then she came back and wrestled off some clothes.

"You know" Red had a quick glance at Sands, sitting in the center of his bed, making her vision discordant; his slackness was like a coat, not able to disguise that he was wary -radiating- harboring a restive force. This meant trouble. Trouble, trapping tangling trashing toll- and she just couldn't concentrate. "I don't care about your mood" she decided, shrilly, and started to pace the room. "Fuck fuck fuck those prissy fuckers. How can people be so cold in Mexico?" She walked round and round, striding, pacing, panicking, "God! I need-" Sands could almost feel his ears turning pointy, trying to read her blind, but the stupid teaser halted and calmed her breath. "You'll have to do."

"What?" His intense concentration scattered.

"I want some comfort. You're the only available source." When Sands smirked, she carried on, "I can tell you're not ...happy. You can't stand me, can you?" The sounds she made didn't make sense. Was she climbing onto the drawer?

"Oh honey, don't beat yourself up about that. Your boobs aren't big enough, otherwise... You're just adorable."

"If it wasn't pointless, I would be flipping you the finger." There was almost warmth in her voice, but it turned to fever as she continued, "You know what I'm doing now? I'm getting your gun. I need to calm down and I don't give a fuck what you feel - of course you don't like me, you're in my hands - and don't think for a second that I don't know how dangerous you are."

A force seethed in Sands, hot, dark and comforting. Red took a deep breath, it didn't fill her though; when she spoke, she was sore and empty. "I'm starved."

Something intense woke and rose, piling through her compressed throat. "I need ...closeness." Then she sealed, letting everything sink down in silence. When she finally spoke, she was hard and matter-of-factly, "I want you to hold me, and I want to pretend I'm safe." The sound of the safety rang in the air. "Lay down on the bed."

Sands hesitated, staying immobile. Why couldn't the damned woman be consistent? The air started to quiver again, building, until Red snapped, "I'm turning to pieces here!" Her frantic energy was back. Not good. Not good, not good, not good. "Lay dow- Not on your back! One the side. Face me."

Sands was burning. Red was a sweaty heat, plastered to him, face buried in his throat, and there was no way she was getting away with this. He mouthed it in her hair, "No. Fucking. Way." Her presence was a overpowering force, hard and bristling, joining the pressure from a cold muzzle digging into the low back of his head, while her arm snaked under his armpit. Slowly she calmed, and started to soften - except for the hand holding the gun. Bad sign, but fuck - may god screw him if he didn't find a way to take advantage of this.

He listened to her breathing, counting to one hundred and one. Well, ending at one hundred and one... some pee-wee bit of cheating did him good. Then -

slowly, slowly, fingers skating small circles.

Her skin was still clammy, and her hair was damp from sweat ...a sweet scent, mingled with dust. He nudged a bit, hips closer, tiny, tiny movements still not a reaction still those slow deep-

"I do have some issues." It was a soft tickle by his throat.

"No shit."

"Yeah" Sand drawl made her smile, contradicting her next words, when she said, drowsy, but still serious, "You better slow down those hands, amigo."

"Oh yeah? Well, honey-head" a hand drifted lower "I'm thinking this is rather nice."

Red probed herself up on one elbow (the other arm still pressed his-own-fucking-gun against his-own-fucking-head) and just looked at him. Her gaze felt heavy, it made his face itch and his body tense. She let out a soft sound of compassion, but it reached his ears as acid, it infuriated him, made him boil with anger, before it transmitted to poison in his blood. That enabled him to give Red his sweetest smile (own standards, of course), while he made his hands intruding as they roamed her.

Red's dozing nerves woke jolting, slamming Sands down from side to back, the gun now hard against his temple. "Stop it!" she hissed, but Sands smirk only widened, so she forced a knee up his groin, driving away all his air; shutting him down.

She sunk into him, breath a ragged breeze in his face. "Stop it" she repeated, low and raw. "You..." her head bended down, grazing his forehead. "Fuck ass." No anger fumed the words, they were doused in desolation. She rolled away, putting a safe distance between them, "I'm... I can't-" She went further away, flipping the safety back. "I feel empathy. Get used to it."

Vignette III: Explaining A Name

"So if we get separated I ask for a red-headed gringa?" Sands sat cross legged on his bed, Red was in front of the mirror, fussing with a scarf.

"I haven't got red hair" she said distantly.

"Then" Sands paused to lick, gluing a cigarette "why-the-fuck are you called red?" Annoyed and grumpy, he put it away and begun to roll another one. Even if he couldn't actually smoke indoors, he sure as hell would busy himself with cigarettes.

Red obviously didn't give a fuck about him, obsessed with... "Did I just destroy myself?" herself, exactly.

Sands put his new cigarette between his lips and pretended his inhale filled him with lovely poisonous gas. May the tyrannifuckical Nazi daughter burn. "Can't you dye it red?"

"Don't tempt me. It took me years to regain my natural color. You know, when you start t-"

"I'm not interested."

"Okay, okay." She sighted. "You don't need to describe me. Just ask for 'Red; the gringa' and everyone will know who you mean."

"Why don't you tell me what you look like?"

"I enjoy the power."

Sands tried to scorch her with a black glare. He really tried. To his amazement it seemed to work, because Red spoke and actually told him something. "Somehow, it's nice. The less you know... it's free. Appearance is so trapping." She made a conclusion, "It feels fresh being around you. I'm blank, and unknown and new."

It would be nice to stuff down all his cigarettes in her throat, lighted, and watch her choke to death.

Watch. Sands stabbed his unused cigarette till it broke. Red had turned transparent, was watching him, and he couldn't feel her. Only the time. It twisted and lingered and ate at him, till he had to speak. "I don't like unknown areas."

Red walked over to Sands bed and sat down beside him, leaning back against the wall, just as he did. Near but not close, nothing touched. "Of course you don't" she whispered, not comfortingly; she was bleak, talking to herself.

Sands was cold, and the silence started to twitch, creeping up along Red’s back. "I have light brown hair. My eyes are grey. Not ordinary.” She shifted “More dark. Like oily, poisonous smoke. Eh...” This road was too steep; Red constantly fell back. “Yeah.”

Sands took benefit. "Why are you called Red?"

A nice long fine murderous silence.

"It was my own doing, I guess. Not that I told people to call me Red, but... it was fitting. So, I responded to it." she searched for something to follow, but found herself in a dead-end, once again.

"Go on."

Red didn't feel comfortable. She suddenly moved off the bed, reacting with her spine. Sands arm flew after her, but not quick enough. His hand dropped, and then his head tilted back, face hard, blank, lean, merging with the black sunglasses.

With this healthy space between them, Red could finally find her bearings. "It's such a silly thing. I can't tell you in this strained setting - it’s the wrong atmosphere."

Sands was waiting.

"Fine." Red gritted. "I use red lipstick. All the time."

Vignette IV: Home

”Once in this cottage there lived a man. His wife was dead, but he still had a small girl and a little, little boy. Even his old mother shared the house.”

“Was this man good looking?” Sands voice was laid-back, gleaming with amusement. Red turned away from the sun and squinted at the man in the shadow, all colors faded by the bright light. She settled back into the sunny heat while her thoughts got caught in a current, drifting backward.

When she returned, the answer was quiet and somber. “Yes, he was.” She continued with more light. “He was a Mexican, you know? Brown hair, eyes like –eyes of chocolate.” The warmth in the last word was fusing with the air. “A bit short, of course, but with my bed kinks-” she paused, teasingly “-that’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

“Oh please, spare me your sleazy perversions.”

“Sure.” Red rolled over to her belly, dark eyes glittering at Sands.

He smoked. One – Two – lightening his third cigarette, he asked “Don’t you have any social manners, Red?” Exhaling a cloud, “'Spare me' means fill my sick brain with all greasy details, or I’ll bite off your fucking clitoris.” Sulking, “When we finally fornicate.”

“Uh um” Red’s dry throat woke a wicked grin, shining in Sands face. “Is that supposed to ensure that you’ll never go down on me?”

“Oh come on,” Sands leaned forward, with an innocent, eager smile, “perve me, perve me, perve me.”

Vignette V: Sands Sleeps

The night was late, floating in peaceful darkness. It drifted and seeped into a little cottage, filling it with shadows, overwhelming a moribund fire. The subsiding glow flickered over a wooden floor, gleaming on an empty bottle, and woke flames in Red's brown hair.

Was there anything more beautiful than watching Sands sleep?

Red had her back to the fire, sitting on the bare floor, hypnotized...

Sands always moved like he owned the world, claiming his place, and unbothered by any social restrictions. He was floating in the world, black grace... black, scarlet... Red edged closer, fingers longing to touch those lines, poke in his hair, skim around the scarlet ...blankness. No eyes, no eyelashes, just two hollow graves, locking him in.

They had drilled his eyes out, she knew that, but the ...aftercare must have involved some burning, she thought, otherwise he would have ...bled his brains out.

Sands stirred, burying his face in the mattress and Red wanted to sear into Sands; press every inch of her body to his and open him with a kiss.

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