Hey. I'm not that clever with disclaimers, so I'm just going to out and admit that none of these characters belong to me, etc. etc. Please r/r. Enjoy!
"Will you be okay?"
Sands bit back a highly sarcastic response- 'you see, kid, when one finds five brand-spanking-new holes embedded in their person, their natural instinct is to openly and loudly express the fact that they are most assuredly NOT okay'- and muttered a soft "I don't know" under his breath.
"You will be."
Had Sands had eyes, they would have been rolling visibly at this point. However- tragedy of tragedies- there was nothing there to roll. Sands had to be content with nodding his head and slipping a little further down the wall.
He did not know, in all honesty, how close he was to death. For all he knew, he could be dead within the hour- who knew what Guevara had given him? Then again, he was pretty sure that he wouldn't die of blood loss, no matter how attractive the concept was at the moment. Neither of the leg wounds were bleeding terribly copiously, and he could tell that the bullets hadn't come anywhere near the bone. The arm wouldn't even require surgery, in all likelihood.
With a faint noise of distaste, he realized that he had, in fact, been avoiding his biggest problem. 'Physically, that is.'
Turning away from where the kid still stood, he removed his right glove- quickly, before he could change his mind. He had undoubtedly been given a powerful painkiller, and it- whatever it was- was wearing off. Fast.
He roughly probed both sides of his face. Curtains of a wet, sticky substance dripped down his cheeks and neck, pooling at the hollow in his throat. Solid bits of matter were interspersed with said fluid, and Sands couldn't help but cringe inwardly as he felt them. 'Stop this. Show's over; it's time to face the critics.' With his left hand, he lifted his sunglasses a slight amount and let his probing right index finger approach the now-empty socket.
"Shit!"
Explosive pain emanated from the small contact point at the edge of his right socket. 'Hell, that's not a socket. Cavernous hole, maybe…' Morbidly, Sands continued his exploration. 'They took my fucking eyelids. Well, we know he's thorough.' He replaced the glasses; there was no need to explore the left side… Already, Sands knew what he would find.
'I wonder where El is… I need that phone back. Never before have I lost so much Company equipment in one sitting… Pilfered, maybe…' Briefly, Sands thought back to their first phone conversation.
"Are you still standing?"
"Still."
Which was really more than he could say for himself at the moment. "Are you still standing, Sands?"
'Why, yes. With the aid of this wall.'
Damn. He had never finished that book- the one that he had dragged along to the church, expecting a nice long time to read while El fought his way out. It hadn't taken El as long has he had expected; Sands had only been about twenty pages in when he had seen the cartel stationed outside the church scatter. Oh, well. He had never liked Judy Garland that much to begin with.
Enough.
He pulled Ramirez's phone from his vest pocket, somehow managing to slide further down the wall in the process. His left arm was beginning to stiffen, and the legs of his pants were beginning to feel uncomfortably tight. Shit.
"Senior?"
"I can dial a phone by myself. Thanks," Sands added cuttingly.
The show was over. And he'd either have to face the critics or the God-forsaken cane waiting to drag him off before the final curtain call…
He'd take his chance with the critics.