Ok viewers, I'm soo sorry for this huge no-update thing, but I've literally had a crazy writers block. Even this chapter isn't great, but I thought that I couldn't just risk my PM burst, so I thought so hard and came up with this. Please, if you don't like it, don't send me a hate comment. I've run out of ideas, and any ideas you guys have, I'll turn it into something great, I just really do need ideas. Thx.
P.s- Disclaimer! I don't own Star Wars rebels, as much as I want to.
Kanan POV
"He might not make it."
The nurse's words echo in my ears. Her sad expression, her grave voice, her teary eyes- had said it all. They said that they were giving him expert treatment, but his condition was critical. He was recovering from pneumonia, anorexia and trauma, and had just had a fit and a seizure combined together, with disastrous results. So, he might not make it.
I don't even know who he is. In the blind moment when he stole my money, I didn't even see his face, but now, in the hospital, in the middle of the room with pipes going to his arms and an oxygen mask covering the majority of his face, I can see, even unconscious, his face bares the evidence of past troubles, his cheeks are ghostly pale and thin, and his hair is dirty, messy and midnight blue. He looks so young, twelve, maybe? Probably younger. And yet he looks strangely familiar...
I click my fingers. He is the young pickpocket, the thief, the troublemaker with attitude. Con artist, sarcastic and potentially dangerous. Like hell he is. I think raising an eyebrow.
Ezra's POV
When I wake up a feel the same, choking feeling as before, as though my airways are blocked and everything around me looks hazy. Sat beside me is the police who I attempted to steal from and I feel my heart rate pick up. What's he here for? To arrest me? I open my eyes seeing him properly, and frown slightly. He looks worried, upset, and stares at me with intense turquoise eyes. Suddenly I am overcome by a violent coughing fit and I vomit out blood again. The police stares at me and gets up, hitting a button my bed, which calls about a dozen men in white coats towards me. Somewhere, in the back of my mind I feel as though I can recognize them.
Doctors. These are doctors Ezra, remember?
And then suddenly I'm seven again, doctors were one of the first people I stole from. I was hungry, starving in fact. I hadn't eaten in days, weeks, months, and I could feel myself getting smaller and smaller. No one took pity on me, no wanted to have anything to do with the scrawny, underfed kid at the side of the street. I was slowly dying, decomposing, rotting away, and if the police found me I'd probably be fostered. I was later. I was caught by the doctors, yes, they pitied me. They pitied me, and I hated them. My first and last foster family, the nightmare of my life. Because of them.
Even in my position, I don't want them to touch me; I've coped with worse, much worse, before.
And that's when I hear someone whispering my name. Someone frighteningly familiar. I tilt my head slightly and gasp.