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Good Omens/Once Upon a Time in Mexico crossover. Um, sorry.
And in Those Days, in Mexico . . .
Rating: PG-13, for violence, I guess.
Pairings: Um, Sands/War? *sheepish shrug*
Word Count: 1666
Disclaimers: Crowley, Aziraphale, and the Horsepersons belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Most of the rest belongs to Robert Rodriguez.
Notes: Major spoilers for Once Upon a Time in Mexico, spoilers for Good Omens, minor spoilers for Desperado. The Hebrew was very kindly translated for me by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
woapalanne. The Spanish is all mine, has not been beta'd, and is probably very, very bad. But practicing my Spanish was my excuse for writing this, so . . . feel free to correct it or flame it for me.
And in Those Days, in Mexico . . .
Ah, Mexico.
Anthony J. Crowley leaned back in his chair, and glanced around the grimy cantina where he'd been buying his meals the past two days, since he'd arrived in Sinaloa on a long-overdue holiday. Azathoth hadn't been kidding when he'd said the district was known for evil men and good food. The meals here had been great to start with, and after a bit of discreet prodding at the cook, it had become almost . . . divine.
Not that he expected anyone here to be able to make the distinction. Crowley picked up his glass and grinned. The staff had also been slightly shocked to find themselves suddenly boasting a stock of very good European wines.
He could smell the odors of greed, poverty, and desperation in the air; the weather, while not quite warm enough to remind him of home, was still no comparison to London in late October. He heard the rattling of trucks and guns outside that meant cartel business, and somebody slowly began picking at a guitar. Yes, he had most certainly needed this holiday. Perhaps tomorrow he would go see the bullfighting, so that he could bait the angel about cruelty to animals and pagan rituals.
The lovely, curvaceous Señorita behind the bar, whose long, dark hair was burnished almost blood-red when it caught the sunlight, offered him a heavy-lidded glance that would probably have human men willing to take on legions for her, single-handed. She looked strangely familiar; it had been nagging at him since he'd first come here; and he resisted the temptation to lick his lips at her.
She pouted and turned her attentions to the two men sitting across the room, who'd come in with the cartel goons. He followed her gaze, slightly curious. The American in the silly hat was trying to convince the tall Mexican with the guitar to break a vow of peace and kill a man for vengeance. The American was already quite thoroughly corrupt; the other was wavering.
He smiled, reached out and . . . tipped the balance.
No harm in mixing business with pleasure, after all; and this way he could take the lunch as a business expense. He wasn't the least bit surprised when the Mexican got up and left, almost visibly trailing doubt and darkness. He smirked, and turned back to his meal. Shortly afterward the other man left as well, trailing a flurry of gunshots. It was really very good pork.
He cleaned his plate, finished his wine, and paid the striking señorita, who offered him a conspiratorial wink in reply. Feeling strangely disquieted, he left through the back, absentmindedly healing the cook on his way out. He thought perhaps he would spend siesta time in his hotel room, watching mind-numbing telenovelas.
He caught a news broadcast instead. A speech by the new Presidente, who, it seemed, had suddenly decided to declare holy war against the evil Mexican drug cartels. He was going to give a speech here on the Day of the Dead and rally his people to his cause. Crowley smirked, and wondered how much the Colombians had paid him for that. The man couldn't honestly believe he'd be able to get away with it, did he? The drug lords bought the loyalty of the people and the allegiance of the powerful; Barillo owned Sinaloa . . . now the man was going on about peace, and justice, and the true sons of Mexíco. He didn't actually mean it, did he? He couldn't have gotten elected and still be naive enough to think that would work.
Only . . . it almost sounded as if he did. Crowley sat up, very slowly. Something smelled off here. Something smelled of messing around.
Surely Aziraphale hadn't . . . he'd bloody known how much Crowley was looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet and wickedness!
He realized the remote in his hand was smoking slightly, and dropped it on the bed. Snapping off the television, he stalked outside, barely remembering his sunglasses. A bit of a walk would calm him down. He wasn't going to give the angel the satisfaction of acknowledging it. It was not as if this was going to work, anyway. Hadn't the bastard ever heard of subtlety?
That was what was pissing him off the most, anyway. That Aziraphale didn't even respect him enough to try something complicated, if he was so set on bollixing up his holiday. Peace and justice, hah!
It was the hottest part of the afternoon, and the streets were nearly empty, so nobody was going to notice the slight steam rising off the demon. He paused to glare at the cathedral. Bloody angel, who did he think he was, anyway, inspiring politicians to honesty?
Somebody was playing a guitar again. He didn't process it until the sound stopped, and then he realized, with a bit of a shock, that it was the Mexican he'd tempted in the bar. The man was staring up at the cathedral; a moment later, with a set look on his face, he walked in.
Crowley looked after him, and then sank down on the bench he'd vacated. Didn't that just top it off. He couldn't even tempt somebody properly anymore; the man had run right to the cathedral to repent and confess. Lovely.
Then he noticed half-a-dozen well-armed Cartel men slipping out of lurking positions and moving on the church, and he sat and watched for ten minutes, thinking, to the sound of rapid gunfire and splintering wood and a pause for a little old lady with a rosary to totter out of the church.
Well, hopefully the man had been shot to pieces before he made it to the confessional and Crowley could still put his soul down on the credit side of the ledger. There was no way he'd be walking out of that mess, short of a miracle--
And then he did, unscathed except for his guitar, talking calmly into a cell phone with a bit of a smirk on his face.
Crowley realized his mouth was hanging open. And then he realized why the señorita in the cantina looked so familiar---
The cantina was empty of customers; she was idly wiping down the bar, a reminiscent smile on her face, and didn't look up when he opened the door. He very carefully pulled off his sunglasses one-handed, folded them, and slipped them in his pocket.
She smiled at him, then, brightly, "¡Bienvenidos!"
He shook his head and sat down. "¿Quienes?" A hiss.
"¿Aqui? Ahora?" She tilted her head to the side. "Me llaman Carmen Espada."
"But that is not, in fact, your real name."
"No, it isn't, Señor Crowley." She handed him a glass. "Here, have a drink on the house." She spoke English, this century, with a distinct Texan accent.
He circled his hands around the drink and then banged them down on the bar. "Why did you have to pick here and now to play your games? I'm supposed to be on holiday!"
"But I am not on vacation," she said, sitting down beside him with a bottle of cerveza. "I am only doing my job. In fact, I am only sitting here and watching; they seem to be handling the rest of it pretty well on their own--"
"The rest of it? The rest of what? What exactly is going on here?"
She looked rather bored. "A war, of course. I thought you'd recognized me."
Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. "I know a war. What sort of war? I heard the president was just going to take out a few cartel leaders, but that hardly justifies your presence--"
She giggled, and ran a finger around the bottle top. "You didn't think that would be it, did you?"
"Damn it, tell me! What's going to happen?"
"Well, since you're cute, perhaps I'll make an exception." She tilted her head, and began drawing patterns on the bar with a perfectly-manicured fingertip. "Tomorrow, el Dia de los Muertos, el nuevo presidente is coming to Culiacan to give a speech. While the people are distracted with their celebrations, and he is trapped in the compound, General Marquez and his troops will move into the city for a very pretty little coup d'état. Barillo of the cartel has paid him to do this. However, it has not been kept as quiet as it perhaps should have been. There will be people in the city with private grudges and vengeances to fulfill, against Marquez, Barillo, el Presidente, others . . . Desperados who do not mind if they start a bloodbath early, and will not worry about the political implications. And the people in the street will maybe not be unprepared, either. Los ojos de los Estados Unidos are watching. There will be chaos, and hate, and blood running in the ditches . . . " she smiled reminiscently.
"And if it isn't you who has arranged it, who has?" he asked, a sour taste in the back of his mouth as he almost regretted her answer.
She shrugged.
"Guerra," he growled. "Who?"
"That is not my concern, demonio. I am here, I do not worry about who. No se, y yo no deseo saber."
"There is someone, then. It isn't just happening on its own."
"Oh yes, there is. He's left his marks all over the place-- even you saw them, and you've got a lot less experience than I do. Did a good job, too; nearly as well as I could have done. Should you see him--" she gave him a look of significance, "Give him my compliments. My kind of guy, that one."
Crowley tapped his fingers very slowly on the bar, and then, noticing his glass, took a drink. Choked, and spit it out. "That's tequila! You served me tequila?"
She shrugged, grinning again. "Bienvenidos a Mexíco, Señor Crowley."
He glared at her, and then he stalked out of the bar.
tbc
Rating: PG-13, for violence, I guess.
Pairings: Um, Sands/War? *sheepish shrug*
Word Count: 1666
Disclaimers: Crowley, Aziraphale, and the Horsepersons belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman. Most of the rest belongs to Robert Rodriguez.
Notes: Major spoilers for Once Upon a Time in Mexico, spoilers for Good Omens, minor spoilers for Desperado. The Hebrew was very kindly translated for me by
woapalanne. The Spanish is all mine, has not been beta'd, and is probably very, very bad. But practicing my Spanish was my excuse for writing this, so . . . feel free to correct it or flame it for me.And in Those Days, in Mexico . . .
Ah, Mexico.
Anthony J. Crowley leaned back in his chair, and glanced around the grimy cantina where he'd been buying his meals the past two days, since he'd arrived in Sinaloa on a long-overdue holiday. Azathoth hadn't been kidding when he'd said the district was known for evil men and good food. The meals here had been great to start with, and after a bit of discreet prodding at the cook, it had become almost . . . divine.
Not that he expected anyone here to be able to make the distinction. Crowley picked up his glass and grinned. The staff had also been slightly shocked to find themselves suddenly boasting a stock of very good European wines.
He could smell the odors of greed, poverty, and desperation in the air; the weather, while not quite warm enough to remind him of home, was still no comparison to London in late October. He heard the rattling of trucks and guns outside that meant cartel business, and somebody slowly began picking at a guitar. Yes, he had most certainly needed this holiday. Perhaps tomorrow he would go see the bullfighting, so that he could bait the angel about cruelty to animals and pagan rituals.
The lovely, curvaceous Señorita behind the bar, whose long, dark hair was burnished almost blood-red when it caught the sunlight, offered him a heavy-lidded glance that would probably have human men willing to take on legions for her, single-handed. She looked strangely familiar; it had been nagging at him since he'd first come here; and he resisted the temptation to lick his lips at her.
She pouted and turned her attentions to the two men sitting across the room, who'd come in with the cartel goons. He followed her gaze, slightly curious. The American in the silly hat was trying to convince the tall Mexican with the guitar to break a vow of peace and kill a man for vengeance. The American was already quite thoroughly corrupt; the other was wavering.
He smiled, reached out and . . . tipped the balance.
No harm in mixing business with pleasure, after all; and this way he could take the lunch as a business expense. He wasn't the least bit surprised when the Mexican got up and left, almost visibly trailing doubt and darkness. He smirked, and turned back to his meal. Shortly afterward the other man left as well, trailing a flurry of gunshots. It was really very good pork.
He cleaned his plate, finished his wine, and paid the striking señorita, who offered him a conspiratorial wink in reply. Feeling strangely disquieted, he left through the back, absentmindedly healing the cook on his way out. He thought perhaps he would spend siesta time in his hotel room, watching mind-numbing telenovelas.
He caught a news broadcast instead. A speech by the new Presidente, who, it seemed, had suddenly decided to declare holy war against the evil Mexican drug cartels. He was going to give a speech here on the Day of the Dead and rally his people to his cause. Crowley smirked, and wondered how much the Colombians had paid him for that. The man couldn't honestly believe he'd be able to get away with it, did he? The drug lords bought the loyalty of the people and the allegiance of the powerful; Barillo owned Sinaloa . . . now the man was going on about peace, and justice, and the true sons of Mexíco. He didn't actually mean it, did he? He couldn't have gotten elected and still be naive enough to think that would work.
Only . . . it almost sounded as if he did. Crowley sat up, very slowly. Something smelled off here. Something smelled of messing around.
Surely Aziraphale hadn't . . . he'd bloody known how much Crowley was looking forward to a bit of peace and quiet and wickedness!
He realized the remote in his hand was smoking slightly, and dropped it on the bed. Snapping off the television, he stalked outside, barely remembering his sunglasses. A bit of a walk would calm him down. He wasn't going to give the angel the satisfaction of acknowledging it. It was not as if this was going to work, anyway. Hadn't the bastard ever heard of subtlety?
That was what was pissing him off the most, anyway. That Aziraphale didn't even respect him enough to try something complicated, if he was so set on bollixing up his holiday. Peace and justice, hah!
It was the hottest part of the afternoon, and the streets were nearly empty, so nobody was going to notice the slight steam rising off the demon. He paused to glare at the cathedral. Bloody angel, who did he think he was, anyway, inspiring politicians to honesty?
Somebody was playing a guitar again. He didn't process it until the sound stopped, and then he realized, with a bit of a shock, that it was the Mexican he'd tempted in the bar. The man was staring up at the cathedral; a moment later, with a set look on his face, he walked in.
Crowley looked after him, and then sank down on the bench he'd vacated. Didn't that just top it off. He couldn't even tempt somebody properly anymore; the man had run right to the cathedral to repent and confess. Lovely.
Then he noticed half-a-dozen well-armed Cartel men slipping out of lurking positions and moving on the church, and he sat and watched for ten minutes, thinking, to the sound of rapid gunfire and splintering wood and a pause for a little old lady with a rosary to totter out of the church.
Well, hopefully the man had been shot to pieces before he made it to the confessional and Crowley could still put his soul down on the credit side of the ledger. There was no way he'd be walking out of that mess, short of a miracle--
And then he did, unscathed except for his guitar, talking calmly into a cell phone with a bit of a smirk on his face.
Crowley realized his mouth was hanging open. And then he realized why the señorita in the cantina looked so familiar---
The cantina was empty of customers; she was idly wiping down the bar, a reminiscent smile on her face, and didn't look up when he opened the door. He very carefully pulled off his sunglasses one-handed, folded them, and slipped them in his pocket.
She smiled at him, then, brightly, "¡Bienvenidos!"
He shook his head and sat down. "¿Quienes?" A hiss.
"¿Aqui? Ahora?" She tilted her head to the side. "Me llaman Carmen Espada."
"But that is not, in fact, your real name."
"No, it isn't, Señor Crowley." She handed him a glass. "Here, have a drink on the house." She spoke English, this century, with a distinct Texan accent.
He circled his hands around the drink and then banged them down on the bar. "Why did you have to pick here and now to play your games? I'm supposed to be on holiday!"
"But I am not on vacation," she said, sitting down beside him with a bottle of cerveza. "I am only doing my job. In fact, I am only sitting here and watching; they seem to be handling the rest of it pretty well on their own--"
"The rest of it? The rest of what? What exactly is going on here?"
She looked rather bored. "A war, of course. I thought you'd recognized me."
Crowley rolled his eyes behind his sunglasses. "I know a war. What sort of war? I heard the president was just going to take out a few cartel leaders, but that hardly justifies your presence--"
She giggled, and ran a finger around the bottle top. "You didn't think that would be it, did you?"
"Damn it, tell me! What's going to happen?"
"Well, since you're cute, perhaps I'll make an exception." She tilted her head, and began drawing patterns on the bar with a perfectly-manicured fingertip. "Tomorrow, el Dia de los Muertos, el nuevo presidente is coming to Culiacan to give a speech. While the people are distracted with their celebrations, and he is trapped in the compound, General Marquez and his troops will move into the city for a very pretty little coup d'état. Barillo of the cartel has paid him to do this. However, it has not been kept as quiet as it perhaps should have been. There will be people in the city with private grudges and vengeances to fulfill, against Marquez, Barillo, el Presidente, others . . . Desperados who do not mind if they start a bloodbath early, and will not worry about the political implications. And the people in the street will maybe not be unprepared, either. Los ojos de los Estados Unidos are watching. There will be chaos, and hate, and blood running in the ditches . . . " she smiled reminiscently.
"And if it isn't you who has arranged it, who has?" he asked, a sour taste in the back of his mouth as he almost regretted her answer.
She shrugged.
"Guerra," he growled. "Who?"
"That is not my concern, demonio. I am here, I do not worry about who. No se, y yo no deseo saber."
"There is someone, then. It isn't just happening on its own."
"Oh yes, there is. He's left his marks all over the place-- even you saw them, and you've got a lot less experience than I do. Did a good job, too; nearly as well as I could have done. Should you see him--" she gave him a look of significance, "Give him my compliments. My kind of guy, that one."
Crowley tapped his fingers very slowly on the bar, and then, noticing his glass, took a drink. Choked, and spit it out. "That's tequila! You served me tequila?"
She shrugged, grinning again. "Bienvenidos a Mexíco, Señor Crowley."
He glared at her, and then he stalked out of the bar.
tbc