He sat sprawled on his couch, staring through the four empties sitting on his coffee table, the flickering of the television reflecting off them. Almost unconsciously, he scratched at the bandage on his left arm, the healing graze itching.

He closed his eyes and sighed, the images suddenly swamping him.

The gun viciously twisted out of his grasp.

Scrambling back until he hit the wall.

The gun right there, inches from his face.

Cold, cold eyes behind his gun.

Gut wrenching fear at the muzzle flash.

Intense relief washed over by abject terror at the second shot.

The searing pain on his arm, just above his face.

Fear so deep he can still taste it.

A couple inches to the left and that bullet would have gone straight through his face, splattering his brains everywhere.

'Statistically, you're dead now.'

He shoved off the couch and bolted, making it to the bathroom barely in time.

oOo

He coughed, spat and wiped the traces of bile from his lips on the back of his hand, trying not to look as the remains of his dinner and beer.

He drew in a breath and exhaled through his nostrils, a dry chuckle making it past his aching throat.

No Chuck, you're not the only one throwing up over this, he thought bleakly.

He wearily struggled to his feet, heading straight for bed, knowing he'd blame the beer in the morning, still convinced that this wasn't really getting to him.

It wasn't the first time he's stared at a gun from the business end and it wouldn't be the last. It wasn't the first time he'd been shot at either.

It didn't matter that it was the first time he'd actually been hit. Or so he told himself.

Yeah. It was the beer.

Wasn't it always?