Disclaimer: not my characters, just my twisted scenarios.
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A man walks into a bar…

How cliché. He would laugh, if laughing wouldn't quickly spiral down into hysterics. Everything was fucking hilarious these days. Laughter let in the insanity waiting outside the door; he felt it slip in through the cracks in the windows, the chinks in the armour.

Another amusing fact. He, Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, ex CIA Agent extraordinaire, destroyer of empires, player of people, was now reliant on a fucking cane.

Maybe reliant wasn't a strong enough word. Dependent, trusting, what the hell, go all out, needing. The thing led and he followed, unable to trust himself to find his path through the eternal night without it to show him the way. It was a life raft in an ocean of spilled ink, and if he let go and went under, he would never find his way back to the surface.

The bar. The all-knowing cane told him he had hit the far side of the room. Quick sweep from side to side confirmed that yes, this was a bar, yes those are bar stools and a table and a sticky patch of shit on the floor to the left. He was half afraid one of these days he might 'accidentally' end up in the middle of a Laundromat or something. Not that Sands didn't believe in the power of the cane, no, it was himself he couldn't believe in, and maybe one might end up influencing the decisions of the other. He knows how his mind works.

Ordering his tequila and lime, crossing the room to find a table, the cane hits something that shouldn't be there. Curious, tracing the curves of the object with the tip of the cane, he knows what it is before he's halfway around it. And he knows exactly what it's doing here. The dark shade he felt fall on his face told him the owner is watching him, so he finished the job of tracing the guitar case, just for kicks.

"El Mariachi." Cane finds chair, table, another sweep finds a boot, taps the spur on the heel. Follows the underside of the leg up, until the tip is caught. Experimental tug shows El has a good grip. Follow the cane.

Back meets wall. The alleyway outside the bar didn't exactly smell hygienic, but that wasn't really the main concern at the moment. The main concern was the pitiful mewling sounds rolling unbidden off the tip of his tongue, turning into a full purr resonating from deep in his chest. El kissed like fire and death, burning black scorch marks in his mouth, down his throat. His hands could draw music from Sands' skin, leave it humming and taut. And Christ, if the legend was going to break him and shatter his carefully constructed sanity, then he could damn well be the one to clean up the mess and put him back together.

His cane was lost, swallowed up by the black. But instead he had the rough calloused hand that caught his, leading him through the night to some unknown destination. One guide traded for the other. He thinks he will prefer this one.

A blind man walks into a bar…