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Andrew doubles over, the pain racking his body - a gripping, tearing feeling within him. This is worse than being shot, he thinks, and then, as he looks down, the blood begins to seep through his fingers. He pulls his hand away, eyes going wide as the shock sets in. Shot. He's been shot and he's bleeding and he's going to die.
A soft, calm voice cuts into his frantic thoughts, driving away the panic. "It's alright," the voice shushes him, strong arms encircling him and rocking him gently. "It's not your blood," the voice assures him.
Strangely, the voice isn't trying to convince him that he isn't bleeding, or even that he'll survive. Just that the blood he's seeing, real or not, isn't his.
And it isn't.
Delores smiles sadly at him, looking up into his face, her upper body draped over his, heavy, as though with sleep or...
The blood is hers and she's bleeding, oh, God, she's bleeding so much, too much. He wraps his arms around her, around himself, holding her close, holding her together, holding himself together, clutching at the agony he can't deny in his gut. She's dead, he's dying and it'll all be over soon, but he wont throw in without a damn fight.
The voice shushes him and the arms hold him and rock him and eventually he comes back to himself.
"It hurts," he murmurs, stating the obvious.
"I know, boss," the voice whispers back to him, a warm wind in his ear, a patient familiarity. "I know. it'll be over soon."
There are warm lips at his temple. Delores. No. Chuck. No, that's not right either, but it's enough. Andrew's eyes slide shut and he ignores that tug inside him - the one that tells him he's bleeding again - still - again because nothing else could hurt this badly. It doesn't matter. It'll be over soon enough.