Universe: ATF (Alternative ATF Universe — sometimes I like to write Ezra in his own Southern accent.)
Main Characters: Ezra Standish
Rating: PG13, some language
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I have no money.
Comments: Just a short ATF fic about my baby, Ezra. No real plot, just a little hurting and a hospital visit. Don't know Denver, just made up a road address!
'Please tell me Ah have anotha damn dime,' thought Ezra Standish frantically.
He was sitting on the dirty pavement in his expensive suit and leaning up against the metal pole of the lone phone he had been able to find so far in this sad excuse for a neighborhood. He just needed another dime to make a phone call. He already had out some other change, but it wasn't enough to call who he needed to call.
He raked his bloody finger across his palm. No more dimes, no more quarters and no more nickels.
Damn, damn, damn.
Maybe he could call collect. He knew that Mr. Larabee didn't like it when he called collect.
He heaved a sigh and let the one dime and the other change drop to the ground. It was too much effort to put it back in his pocket right now. He reached up with his right hand and gripped the hood of the payphone unit and dragged himself upright. His left hand reached out and grabbed the receiver off its hook and then stuffed it under his chin as he used his left to dial. He didn't use his right because he knew if he let the phone hood go that he would fall.
After he had dialed, it didn't take long for a connection and an angry voice, a familiar voice came over the line. "Larabee."
Ezra snorted. Someone had a bee in his bonnet today. Probably because Ezra had missed his check in call about six hours ago.
He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Mista Larabee—"
"Ezra, where in hell have you been?" He could hear some of the others in the background noise as Chris Larabee moved the phone around. "And this isn't your cell phone number coming up on the I.D. I damn well hope you didn't call collect again."
Ezra waited for his turn to talk. He knew his disappearance from the radar would upset his leader. It was usually just a matter of riding out the initial wave.
"Well, Ah didn't have anotha dime."
"What about your cell phone?"
"Broken."
That set Larabee off again about costs of equipment. Ezra let the rant go to the back of his mind as he absently watched blood run in little streaks down his very expensive suit slacks.
He must have zoned Larabee out completely because the next thing he knew Larabee was shouting.
"Ezra! Ezra, are you still there?"
'I'm worse off than I thought,' blinked Ezra. He could almost feel the blackness coming for him. Chris' lectures could wait until later.
"Ah know where the meeting is taking place," he suddenly announced. Oh, that shut Larabee up. "1625 Old Mill Road at 9:00 a.m. tomorra. Jensen will be there. Correl will be there. Sorry, Ah won't be there."
The plan had been for Ezra to get the information on the meeting, call it in and then accompany Mr. Jensen to see if he could dig up any additional information on where the guns were being kept. That wasn't going to happen now.
Damn, he hated it when he blew a case.
"And why won't you be there?" asked Larabee. His voice now had a tinny sound to it. Must have put me on speaker phone.
"Mah cover's blown." He felt something tickle his forehead and reached for it with his right hand without thinking. He hit the ground soon after and left the phone receiver swinging by the cord. He could hear what sounded like a tiny little Larabee squeaking from the phone as his hand came away from his forehead smeared with blood.
Huh.
He eyed the phone and debated if getting back up was worth the effort. He heard Larabee shout again and he sighed. Duty calls.
Ezra struggled back up and leaned heavily into the phone and picked the receiver back up with his bloody right hand. Larabee's voice was in full boom and a few others had joined it. It was making his head hurt.
No more talking than necessary.
"Shut the hell up." The sudden silence was deafening for a second. He had shocked them. He grinned in spite of his situation.
"Ah need Mista Dunne to put a trace out for this numba as Ah don't have a clue as to where Ah am. Then Ah need someone to forward mah address to the paramedics. And then get Mista Tanna to follow Jensen. He'll probably go visit his precious guns before going to tha meeting in the mornin'. Correl will need a sample before he'll buy. Tell him not to get too close. Tha man has eyes in the back of his head."
"Ezra, how bad are you hurt?" came Larabee's voice through a dark fog.
"Bad enough, but that's not important right now. They think Ah'm dead so the meeting is probably still on for tomorra. You gotta get Mista Tanna to ... ," was all he got out before he slid to the ground, once again leaving the phone dangling on it's cord.
The team didn't like it, but it was their job and they were paid to do it. After the mad rush to find Ezra and get him to the hospital, they couldn't stay to find out if he was going to live or die. He had looked really bad when they had converged with the paramedics on the isolated phone. Ezra had not woken as the paramedics strapped him down and wheeled him away.
No, they didn't like it and Ezra would understand. The bust came first and it was even more important now that Ezra had almost died to get them the information. Larabee felt a wash of guilt go over him. 'If I'd have just shut my damn mouth and listened instead of reaming him out about his cell phone. Maybe ... but no, Ezra wouldn't have commented on his health if not directly asked. And even then he had his ways of sidestepping the question.' He shook his head.
"Come on, guys, let's get a move on. This one's for Ezra."
The staff at the hospital was having just a hard of time with Ezra Standish, ATF agent, as Larabee and his men were having at the bust with the gunrunners.
The doctor had taken one look at him and rushed him to the OR for emergency surgery. Two bullets were taken out of his chest, his heart was looked at and his collapsed lung was repaired and re-inflated.
Twice Ezra had decided to code out on them. And twice they got him back. His doctors were fearful that another code could be damaging to his heart, so a careful watch was set up to monitor him with a nurse stationed in his room for the next 24 hours.
His cracked ribs had been lightly wrapped and they placed four sandbags on his bed, two by his chest and two by his hips to keep him still when he woke.
Ezra's other wounds, bruises on his face and torso, were just bathed and let go.
The nurse sat in the corner using one of the food trays as a small desk to do her paperwork as she kept an ear out for his heart monitor that was about three feet away from her chair.
The waiting had begun, with or without his team.
Ezra woke in a magnanimous mood. His first thought on becoming conscious was that he hoped his information had been correct and the gunrunners truly had believed him dead. If not, the others may have walked into a trap. He shuddered and opened his eyes. He felt strangely held down, but couldn't think on it at the moment.
Not one foot away was Josiah Sanchez, the team's profiler. Josiah looked up from his book and smiled. Worry lines marked his face around the eyes. "Son. How you feeling?"
Ezra felt such a deep relief at seeing the man that he didn't even correct the man's assumption that they were related as he usually did. "The others?" he whispered.
"They're fine, son. Filling out reports on the bust even as we speak. Chris and the others will be here by five." He reached out a hand and touched the bed's top blanket. "They were mighty worried about you. I think we need to discuss what information is more important; the case or your health."
Ezra lazily shook his head on his pillow. "Case comes first." He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
Josiah just heaved a sigh and went back to reading.
By five, the rest of the team had shown up at Ezra's room making it hard for the nurse to keep her corner chair and do her paperwork in peace. She would have ordered them out, but knew it was a lost cause. Even for enigma that was their seventh member, Team Seven was ready to stay until they were certain he would recover.
Ezra woke to hear her telling the team medic, Nathan Jackson, to keep an eye on the heart monitor and to call her at the nurse's station if there were any changes in his condition. Without opening his eyes he tried to move and felt a pressure holding him down. He opened them to see the sandbags. "Aww, hell."
And suddenly his vision field was no longer clear. Six intent faces were looking down at him.
But he wasn't worried about the others. Just one man.
"Mista Larabee, Ah'm sorry Ah—"
Larabee raised his hand. "The bust went down fine. Vin followed him right to the guns just like you said. We got them all. You did good."
Ezra closed his eyes in relief. God, he hated to mess up a case.
"But, we're going to have to have a conversation on what your priorities should be when you've been shot twice in the chest."
Ezra wanted to raise his hand, but couldn't. "Ah believe Mista Sanchez has already had that conversation with me."
Ezra saw Vin elbow Larabee in the ribs. Larabee's hand went to the bedside table that was currently out of his view. The hand came back into view holding six rolls of dimes from a near by bank wrapped in a red bow.
Larabee held them up for Ezra to see and smiled. "These are for the next time you need to drop us a dime."
The End
Date: January, 2003
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