The world screamed around him, shaking in the throes of chaos. Sounds so loud they deafened him completely giving only the occasional relief in the form of dying screams. None of this registers only a thought mindlessly screeching in his head; Bosco's been shot.
One of those screams escaped his lips, drowned out by the ring of white hot explosions – Bosco's been shot.
His gun fired at some point, smoke still caressing the tip, Bosco's shooter twitching the last of his life away across the room of the tiny dug out. He pulls Bosco close onto his lap racing through his mind are images of dancing with abandon in the woods, shivering wet on a shore line a faint heat still on his lips, body draped over another's like now as if his gangly limbs could offer protection.
Bosco's been shot. And the thought is killing him.
"I'll be your candle on the water," he sobs, "My love for you will always burn," striving to hold on to good times, "I know you're lost and drifting," when the words made sense, "But the clouds are lifting," when the world made sense, "Don't give up you'll have somewhere to turn."
Nothing changes, louder – his mind shouts, sing it louder, "I'll be your candle on the water," louder, "'Till ev'ry wave is warm and bright," even louder, "My soul is there beside you," even more louder, "Let this candle guide you," louder – louder – louder, "Soon you'll see a golden stream of light!"
Voice hoarse, he coughs, lungs heavy and he doesn't know why, "A cold and friendless tide has found you," he only knows Bosco's been shot, "Don't let the stormy darkness pull you down," and he needs to do something, "I'll paint a ray of hope around you," anything to open those closed eyes, "Circling in the air,"
The ceiling cracks, shelves tumbling down onto them, smashing him further into Bosco, "Lighted by a prayer…"
"I'll be your candle on the water," he wheezes pushing against the steel shelves, "This flame inside of me will grow," he thinks Bosco moves, blinks, twitches, something, "Keep holding on you'll make it," grabbing a heavy wrist he fumbles for a pulse, "Here's my hand so take it," maybe it was the way the plaster fell in the dark but he's almost positive a hand wrapped around his.
"Murdock? BA?"
Bosco's been shot – he screeches, "Look for me reaching out to show!"
"Murdock? Murdock! Hannibal – here over here!"
"As sure as rivers flow," the hand around his goes slack, "I'll never let you go," or maybe the plaster just shifted, "I'll never let you go," for the first time he looks at his chest sees the red stain on his voltron shirt and laughs in despair when the first crack of sun rains past Face's form, "I'll never let you go..."