I wrote this a while back after deciding there weren't nearly as much Ezekiel-centric fics. I must admit our snarky thief was one of the main things that attracted me to this amazing show, and I'm seriously hoping we get to learn more about his backstory in season 2. I am of the party that believes Ezekiel isn't quite the heartless, selfish thief he believes himself to be.
Speaking of which, there is the briefest of mentions of Ezekiel's past in this fic - it's incredibly minor and you may not even notice but I thought I'd make mention because it's based on a headcanon shared by my best friend and me, not canon.
Anyway, after many computer-related issues I have finally gotten the chance to upload this little one-shot. I've been away from fanfiction for quite a while but I hope you like it!
Can you hear me?
Awareness comes slowly, drifting in and out like a radio station with a poor connection. Senses fade into focus one-by-one, in fragments, mostly offering teasing snippets rather than any real semblance of meaning.
Strangely, it's taste that hits him first. There's a coppery taste in his mouth that only adds to his foggy confusion. Vaguely he tries to open his mouth to spit and get rid of the taste, but his tongue is heavy and his jaw feels glued shut.
Can you hear me?
Smell reaches him next, and he becomes aware of a rusty, metallic smell that seems to match the taste in his mouth. He doesn't know what it is, but it makes him uncomfortable. It's a bad smell – even his muddled mind is able to piece that together. But what is it? Where is it coming from?
There's a familiar scent as well. Something almost reassuring. The scent of a memory you can never quite grasp. But it's comforting in a way and helps him to relax. He supposes this is good because the familiarity might be what helps maintain his fragile hold on awareness when the next sense returns.
Can you hear me?
Touch. Feeling. It's the next to arrive, and he has only the briefest of moments to process the feeling of something cool against his back and pressure on his side before it is washed away by a wave of raw, intense pain.
It's white-hot and explodes throughout his body. It's beyond anything he's ever felt and for a moment his awareness slips away again, but distantly that comforting presence is still there and he manages to hold on by a hair.
He's not sure it's a good thing, however. Part of him longs for that release, wants so badly to return to that place of blackness and blissful lack of awareness before the pain and smells and taste – oh, god, blood? Was it blood? – and thoughts don't work either way, but at least there wasn't any pain.
But at the same time a small part of him knows he cant let himself drift back to that place, has to hold on, because beyond the pain
(god, he can't breathe)
there is something for which he needs to hold on.
He knows it's there, but he can't quite reach it. A second wave of pain hits him and he's vaguely aware of his own body jerking and twisting to escape, to find some way to get away from the flames that must be devouring his core, but –
Jones, can you hear me?
There's a pressure on his shoulders and his legs preventing him from moving. He knows he shouldn't fight it but he can't help it, the red fog is overtaking his thoughts and it's the only thing he could focus on.
Damn it, Ezekiel, can you hear me?
He catches the briefest whiff of that familiar scent – a strong, comforting scent that means family and protection and guidance and is really more of a feeling than a scent and what is it? – and he latches onto it like a safety blanket, vaguely aware that he may be whimpering but too focused on keeping his grip on that thread of familiarity to care.
He holds onto that familiarity and lets it wash over him, blanketing the pain and not pushing it away but covering it up, just enough to allow him to find his breath, just enough to allow his other senses to finally find their way to him.
There are voices around him. Panicked voices, and one that is calm, reassuring. He latches onto this now, finds it even easier to hold onto than the vague, distant-memory of the familiar scents-slash-feelings. He recognizes the voice, and as the pain ebbs away just enough for him to process –
"Eve?"
He doesn't realize until a moment later that it was he who spoke. His voice sounds foreign to his own ears, scratchy and far away. But it is then that a few more pieces fall into some semblance of order.
Colonel Baird. Cassandra. Stone. It's their voices he is hearing. They sound worried – panicked, almost. Did something happen?
"Jones, thank God. Can you open your eyes for me?"
The confusion is fading and he was finding it somewhat easier to ignore the pain. He is aware now of a light beyond his eyelids. He tries to force open his eyes, but they feel heavy and sealed shut. He lets out a groan instead.
"Glue…"
"…What?" Colonel sounds confused now. Ezekiel himself is confused, unsure why he said that, but follows the random string of thought to what he assumes to be a conclusion.
"Eyes… glue."
There is a beat of silence before he hears a round of half-hearted chuckles. "Ain't that just like Jones. Edge of death and can't resist a wisecrack. I betcha he'll be just fine after all." Ezekiel thinks foggily that the voice belongs to Stone, although the relieved tone is one Ezekiel is sure Stone would never direct toward him.
A hand rests gently on his shoulder and he hears the same gentle, comforting voice he only now realizes belongs to Colonel Baird.
"That's it, Jones. Let's see those eyes, huh?"
He doesn't think he's ever heard her use such a tone, but decides he likes it. It drives away the pain and helps him focus, gives him strength.
Distantly, he wonders if it might be what people usually mean when they talk of a "motherly tone." He wouldn't really know, but he thinks it would be fitting.
Slowly he pries open his eyes, wincing as he is momentarily blinded. The light adds to the headache he hadn't realized he had, and he almost shuts his eyes again. But he grits his teeth and opens them a bit more, just enough to make out three blurry forms hovering above him. A spot of red. Blonde. A tall form standing above them all. The forms slowly gather focus and then it's Cassandra and Colonel Baird kneeling beside him, Stone hovering above with his arms crossed but looking surprisingly nervous.
Ezekiel blinks at them and licks his lips as he wills away another small wave of pain. "Did I-" he swallows, throat feeling unbelievably raw. "Save the day… again?"
Stone's face adopts an irritated expression and Cassandra smiles brightly. Ezekiel realizes then that there are tears tracking down her cheeks.
Eve, meanwhile, looks like she can't decide whether to feel relieved or smack him upside the head. Finally, she settles for a dry, "I never thought I'd say this, but it is good to hear your annoying voice."
Ezekiel smiles as best as he can – though, admittedly, it probably comes out more as a grimace. Colonel Baird's expression softens.
"And yes, you did save the day." She pauses, the barest hint of a smile gracing her lips. "Good work, Jones."
Ezekiel means to attempt another smile, but instead ends up wincing as the pain in his core flares up again. Eve catches this and worry dances across her features again.
"Alright, Ezekiel. You just lay still and try to relax; we're going to get you taken care of. Okay?"
She moves to stand up and Ezekiel reaches up with one noodle-y arm, grabbing weakly to her wrist. She looks back and their eyes meet. He opens his mouth to speak but finds himself no longer able to produce words. Instead, he tries to convey his thoughts with his eyes, willing her to understand.
The slight nod and twitch of her lips are nearly unnoticeable, but as she turns away he knows she got the message, knows she understood what he wanted to convey.
I heard you.