A/N: Hmm...yes...this one's quite a bit darker than my norm. Warning: it's not overly graphic but some may find it a bit disturbing...
Before anyone questions what's going on here in a review, allow me to clarify some things without giving too much away:
1. Yes, he could survive this exact type of injury and remain conscious. I had to get some data for a particular script about a year ago and watched actual ER videos with patients suffering through this phenomena, awake and talking to the doctors before they were taken back for surgery. So as you read, don't question the reality of the situation. I've witnessed it happen in real life and for some reason felt the need to make poor Ez suffer through it. (I'm sorry, I can't help it!)
2. Yes, the tactic he uses to deal with his...situation...is also valid. I suffer from a mild condition that, on occasion, will throw my own system out of whack. Listening to and focusing on a steady rhythm does help to set things right. Of course, his problem is quite a bit more serious than mine, so I did take creative liberties with that, but I still wholly believe it could be possible given the right about of stubborn tenacity (which we all know Ezra has in overflowing abundance!). If you are unfamiliar with the music selections, you may want to listen to them for a little bit as you go along so you can better visualize the entire incident. Not needed, but it'll paint a better picture. :)
Hope I don't scar you guys for life! You've been warned!
He watched the twitching wooden stick with morbid fascination as it ticked out a perfect, steady rhythm. Years of music lessons flooded his mind, and he found himself softly gliding his fingers across a few invisible piano keys on the ground by his side, keeping in time with the object of his fascination.
I must be losing my mind, he thought, laughing lightly even as he felt the tears stream down his face.
Here he was, lying alone just far enough into the alley to be kept from sight, unable to yell out, unable to call anyone, a fire in his chest like he'd never known, a small rivulet of blood winding its way across his flesh and soaking into his clothes; and he was humming Beethoven's 7th Symphony to the cadence set by the tool that would most likely be responsible for his death, and yet was also currently the only thing keeping him alive.
Every fiber of his being screamed at him to pull it out, that the pain would go away if the foreign object was removed from his body, and he knew it to be true. However, he also knew that the only reason the pain would go away would be because he wouldn't live more than two minutes if he did as his body requested. No, it would have to stay in, and he would have to lie still until somebody found him. If he moved, if he shouted, perhaps even if he dared breathe too deeply, he might shift the object and disturb the weak seal holding his life inside him. It was nerve-wracking enough watching the thing move back and forth, wondering if the working muscle ensnaring the object would inadvertently cause its own demise with its constant contractions. He marveled at the fact that the living pump was still functioning at all.
As gruesome and disturbing as the sight was, he couldn't tear his eyes away from it. As long as the wood kept moving, held onto its perfect rhythm, he knew he was alive and that the muscle beneath was still functioning at a fairly regular capacity. If he could just hold still long enough, wait long enough until some light reached his dark corner of the alley, then perhaps the tiny stream of warm liquid barely escaping from the sealed hole would be of no real concern. He just had to wait. Someone would find him.
His mind drifted as he watched the hypnotic tick of the wood. How many times had he warned Tanner about this very possible scenario? Far too many to count, that was for certain, but the warnings would hold no merit now.
If you would simply move to a safer area of town, I would not feel the need to point out the potential hazards of your living arrangement, he had told the sharpshooter over and over again.
Safer area, indeed. His own neighborhood was supposed to be within one of the safest residential zones in the entire city, and yet here he was. It was supposed to be a pleasant evening stroll in the warmth of a clear spring night. Instead, only half a mile from his home, he found himself being dragged into an alley and robbed of the few meager possessions he had on him – his Rolex, a simple gold ring with a jeweled Ace of Spades inset (a lovely gift from the team for his birthday just four months prior), and his cell phone. He hadn't even been carrying his wallet, assuming it wouldn't be needed for his short jaunt. That was apparently where he had gone wrong in the thieves' eyes. They wanted cash and he didn't have any to offer. The price for his insolence? A knife buried deep in his chest, trapping itself in the clutches of his most vital organ where it remained clenched in the confines of the strong muscle, dancing along with every pained beat of his heart. It taunted him, waving at him…it shouldn't be there...
Don't pull it out, he quickly admonished himself, stilling the hand that was inching its way towards the handle, threatening to bring an end to his time in this world.
The blade began to twitch a little faster. He absently thought the 3rd Symphony would be a better choice for this rhythm before realizing that the lazy stream rolling down his side had widened out into a slightly faster-moving flow. Slowing his breathing down further, he focused his gaze on the knife handle, willing it to ease back on its rapid tick. It complied. The stream evened itself out.
He allowed himself a small victory sigh, shutting his eyes for only a second. That one second was almost enough to cause him to go into a panic as he couldn't see the proof that his heart still worked to keep his body alive. Snapping his eyes back open, he reminded himself to keep his panic in check as he watched the handle trip over a beat, pushing a too-large bubble of red out from around the blade. That wouldn't do at all. He forced himself to relax further.
What time is it? he wondered. He realized he had no idea how long he had been playing Beethoven to that living metronome. Not like he had any way of knowing – his watch and cell were absconded with. It hadn't been that late when he had meandered out for his innocent desire to commune with the gentle night breeze. He wondered if he could make it through to morning when his friends would realize he was missing. It would be late morning. He cursed his habit of perpetually sleeping in passed the time to make it to work at the designated start of the day. They would never find him in time… He'd die here, alone in the dark, would probably bare witness to his own demise as the metronome in his chest slowed to an eventual stuttering halt…
Mozart – The Marriage of Figaro, his mind ticked off to the new rhythm suddenly pounding away in his chest. No, that's much too fast, much too fast.
The stream was becoming a river. Again, he pushed aside his thoughts of despair, dulling the panic until the cadence was easing back to something more manageable. He couldn't let himself give in, he couldn't do that to his friends. They would blame themselves for taking too long to look for him; they'd fall apart. No, he couldn't do that to them. He'd have to wait, keep the rhythm steady and keep the red flood behind the dam in check. He needed to take control of the metronome.
Debussy - Claire de Lune.
That one always did calm him down. He did his best to hum the song against the too-fast rhythm struck out by that damn handle. He would make it thrum in time to his mind's song. Slowly, thankfully, it began to comply. As the two warring cadences lined up, he made himself hum the song a tad slower, still, than it was intended to be played. He needed it slower, calmer, safer, easier for his heart to keep his blood sealed back where it belonged.
The melody was lulling him to sleep. No, no, he had to stay awake. If he slept, he might roll his body; or worse, his traitorous hands could rip the blade from his chest and the dam would be broken. With the pressure building up behind the blade, once removed, his blood would push up from the hole like lava spewing forth from a volcano - there'd be no stopping it. He imagined himself trying in vain to hold back the flow, feeling his warmth seeping out of him as it easily slipped through his fingers, until it would slowly trickle to a stop, leaving his body cold and empty…
Double time to Vivaldi's Storm. Oh god.
He watched, horrified, as his nightmarish vision was becoming a reality. The blood was pumping up around the handle with startling speed. He knew he wouldn't last long like this.
Think, Standish… Chopin – Marsz Pogrzebowy - keep the slow, steady rhythm.
He hummed it only a few bars before he realized his error – most people knew that song as simply "the funeral march." Perhaps it was fitting in this situation, but he wasn't quite ready to hear that one just yet. He needed a different tune.
Back to Beethoven. Moonlight Sonata.
Yes, that was much better. It was soothing, peaceful, and actually coaxed him to pull his eyes away from the thinning flow of warm liquid emerging from the wound. He looked up at the full moon above him, just visible from between the buildings shadowing him from would-be good Samaritans that might be passing by on the street. Sighing again, he reached a tentative hand up to his chest, careful not the bump the blade but needing to confirm that he had been able to slow down his blood loss. It was back to its lazy trickle, though he could tell some damage had already been inflicted. He was feeling light-headed. At this rate, he knew he wouldn't be able to last the night. Perhaps Chopin's tune would actually be more appropriate…
His heart stalled, then thrummed abruptly hard in his chest. He felt a searing, tearing pain deep on the inside of the muscle and the knife lost its steady rhythm, yet again. His breaths quickened as he watched the metronome jump once, stop, jerk three times, stop, twitch twice then lurch through four more beats. It was no longer ticking away the cadence, but had now taken on the entire melody. With detached awe, he lifted an eyebrow as he swore the wooden handle had actually become a conductor's wand.
Bach's Toccata and Fugue…
The red flowering around the wand accented the music beautifully…
"Oh god, Ezra!"
He looked up into the eyes of a very fearful Nathan Jackson who had materialized out of thin air beside him. Mesmerized, he followed the fast movements of the medic's hands as he carefully taped a thick wad of gauze around the knife handle, securing it in place while at the same time staunching the blood pouring out of his chest. "Hang in there, Ez, the ambulance is on its way," he could hear the man repeating over and over again.
"Nathan?" he asked, holding up one bloody hand, which his friend quickly grasped.
"Yeah, Ez, I'm here. Just hold on. Stay with me."
"Nathan…do you know…Music of…the Night?"
"…'Phantom of the Opera'?"
Ezra nodded his head, gripping tighter onto the hand holding his. "Can you…can you hum it…pl-please."
Without question, Nathan started into the tune. It was quiet at first, hesitant. Ezra closed his eyes as he sang the words in his head along with the soft hum. He became vaguely aware of the medic's voice increasing in strength and volume. The last thing he remembered was the humming breaking into actual singing, taking over where his mind no longer had the strength to bring forth the words. Blackness enveloped him in musical bliss.
~~~~~~~~~7777777~~~~~~~~~
Music was still playing when the fog began to clear from his muddled brain.
Chopin again…Nocturne op Posthum.
He listened for a while before making the decision to peel open his heavy lids. After a few failed attempts, he finally succeeded in cracking them open enough to take a slow glance around the room. As expected, he took note of all six members from Team 7 scattered around his bed in various uncomfortable positions, sleeping awkwardly in whatever odd piece of furniture they could manage to cannibalize from various areas of the hospital.
The music changed tracks. Boccherini – Musica Nocturna de Madrid… Interesting choice.
He tentatively ran his hand over the bandage covering the left side of his chest, just able to feel a long row of stitches running parallel between the ribs.
"Gonna leave a nice scar," he heard Buck whisper.
"And I imagine an uncomfortable amount of soreness when the pain medication wears off," Ezra whispered back with a tired smile. He then furled his brows in confusion before asking, "How did Nathan find me?"
It was Chris who answered the question. "Got word that a couple guys were picked up beating on a man close by your neighborhood. One of the officers at the station recognized your ring, tried to call you just to find out the stolen cell was yours, so he called me."
"Nate was already in the area visiting a friend, so Chris sent 'im out to look for ya," Vin added.
"I seem to recall being tucked away in a dark alley…" Ezra implied.
"That tends to be the obvious spot for muggers to drag their victims," Josiah reminded him. "Didn't take him long to find you, but you sure scared him when he did."
"Yes, well, it wasn't exactly a joyful experience for me, either," Ezra mumbled, then added, "Is the music a new addition to patient care?"
"For you, yeah," JD jumped in with a wide grin. "Nathan says he swears it saved your life."
"Really? How so?"
"Seems it was the only thing keepin' your ticker workin' like it was supposed to, pard." Buck answered tapping on his own chest in time with the music.
- Waltz of the Flowers from 'The Nutcracker'… It does hold a nice, steady pace…
Nathan stretched in his plastic chair on the opposite side of the bed, yawning before adding to Buck's explanation. "Damndest thing I ever saw. Thought for sure I was gonna lose you in that alley, but when you had me hum that song for you, your heart rate started to even itself out."
Chris's mouth quirked into a smile. "Poor Nate had to sing to you all the way over here in the ambulance. Every time he stopped, your heart'd go into palpitations."
Ezra looked at the medic, stunned, his pale face flushing red. "Mr. Jackson, I don't know what to say…"
"You don't have to say anything, but next time 'Phantom' comes to town, you can buy tickets for me and Raine. I've had that damn song stuck in my head for three days, now."
"Three days?" Ezra said in alarm.
"You lost quite a bit of blood, brother," Josiah said sympathetically, placing a hand on the Southerner's arm. "Takes a bit to bounce back from that."
"And you've all sat here, listening to my music for three days?"
JD and Buck looked at each other before breaking into a horribly off-key version of I Dreamed a Dream from 'Les Miserables.'
"Oh, good lord," Standish cringed.
"Good thing Nate found ya and not these two," Vin laughed. "You wouldn'ta made it."
"I dare say I may have been tempted to just end my misery right there," Ezra said, appalled at the destruction of what should have been a beautiful song.
"Hey!" JD and Buck said in unison. Then, with a determined nod, they started the song over again, belting it out that much louder. Josiah, Nathan, and even Vin added their own voices to the mix, after which Ezra moaned and threw the blanket over his head. He felt a hand on his shoulder and peeked out to see Chris leaning in close to his ear.
"Good to have you back, Ez," the ATF leader grinned, then stepped back to join the chorus. With a laugh and a shake of his head, Ezra softly sang along with them, feeling the familiar, strong rhythm in his chest keeping perfect time.
The End!
A/N: Yeah, I know, as serious as the story was, I still couldn't avoid throwing some humor in there at the end. I can't help it! The boys are just too fun to write when they're in good spirits! ;)