All right, I admit, the only reason I watched The Tourist was because of Paul Bettany. I don't have that big of a crush on him—okay, maybe I do. However, I also happened to watch it because he's AWESOME. Angelina Jolie and Johnny Depp are pretty cool, too.

Honestly, I wish there had been more to the story, which is why I am writing this fanfic. Well, it's set post-movie, but it'll definitely have more of a plot. I hope so, anyways . The Tourist and its characters do not belong to me.

Dying

Dying.

It hurts like hell.

He is hunched against the wall, a gun held limply in his hand. All he does, or rather, all he can do, is stare down at the two red stains blossoming over his shirt. He should have worn that damn vest. It would have saved him from the pain he is now experiencing, the pain that blots out everything else. He closes his eyes, swallows, and tries to focus on taking slow, steady breaths, but his breathing falters and he feels panic rising within him. Because, well, he quite honestly isn't able to get enough air.

The man hardly notices the wind, or the rain, or the bitter cold. All he is aware of is his gasping and the agony in his chest and gut. I'm going to die, he thinks. This is… this is really happening.

There is absolutely no point in lying to himself. Nobody is coming because they're unaware of what is wrong with him, or they simply don't care. He's going to die alone and needs to accept it.

Richards and Thompson seem to materialize out of nowhere.

"Jesus Christ!" he hears Richards say.

Both men drop to their knees. He thinks Thompson says something into a walkie-talkie, but he's too distracted to notice. Richards pushes against the chest wound with his hand, trying to stop the rapid blood flow, and he cries out in pain.

"Breathe, Acheson," Richards commands him. "You're not dying, you hear me? Not if I can help it."

He is breathing, but it isn't sufficient. Can't they see that? He's pretty much a lost cause.

"I said breathe, Goddamnit!"

He sputters up blood instead. The two men look horrified. Thompson speaks even more urgently into the walkie. He coughs again, and it splatters over his shirt. The world begins to blur and darken, and Richards's words become distant sounding in his ears, echoing and fading. Is he being shaken? He really doesn't know.

He is vaguely aware of what is happening around him, but he is confused and can't quite make out the clouded images. Flashing lights. White coats. Something is moving. Is it… the ambulance? A paramedic asks him a question, but he barely still has his grip on reality. Or was he even asking him? Acheson isn't sure.

And then he is being moved, carted at light speed across hallways. Where is he now? He can hardly think anymore, the pain is so great. The lights, bright and bleached, stare down at him. There are people beside him, pushing him along. He hears a familiar voice, then unfamiliar ones yelling things at each another. Fear rises within him. What's happening?

Suddenly, they stop, and he is moved onto another surface; it's cold, and the transfer nearly makes him scream. They put a mask over his face. Where is he? Why are they…?

A wave of darkness washes over him.