Nothing, Nada, Jack, Zip, Zilch

by Twyla Jane

The Magnificent Seven belong to Mirisch, CBS, MGM and Trilogy and were used without prior permission. Disclaimer is and always has been I don't own `em wish I did. Haven't made a plug nickel off `em either. Thanks to Mog for creating and opening up the ATF AU. 1/5/03


Though the words more than adequately described the lack of information there was no comfort in that fact.

Of course what had transpired before was beyond words. Disastrous did not quite cover the bust that had gone down so horribly wrong. Now he was sequestered away deep in the bowels of a busy emergency room without the strength to raise himself off the gurney thanks in part to his own injuries, further depleted by a mild sedative administered by a less than understanding sleep deprived E.R. physician who found little humor in his attempts to escape and firmly held in place by padded restraints thanks to some equally exasperated interns.

Did they appreciate any part of the Hippocratic oath?

“Gawd… now I am really starting to sound like Ezra…”

The words slipped out, he hadn’t intended to say them aloud they were painfully raw and coarse. Reminding him that his lungs burned and it hurt to breathe. Not that it mattered he was frustrated by not knowing what had happened to his friends and by the fact he couldn’t scratch maddening itch that prickled up the side of his face or dislodge the nasal canella that was starting to dry out his nose. Even though he had been stripped of his clothing, a layer of soot liberally coated his flesh and had yet to be fully cleansed or washed away.

There was a metallic clatter as something crashed nearby. A familiar voice grunting out a steady stream of expletives had JD wanting up and out twisting futilely struggling against the bonds that held him securely to the bed rails.

The curtains that surrounded his bed parted causing the young man to immediately cease his struggles and stare wide eyed at his visitor.

“Ez?” The shortened name was all he could rasp out before two shaky fingers pressed against his lips.

“Mr. Dunne… the need for silence is essential…”



Standish didn’t look any better than he did. Expensive designer clothes singed and tattered, hair no longer neatly coiffed but saddened and plastered in clumps against his scalp. Green eyes were dull and bloodshot. The once white linen shirt filthy hung loose un-tucked, rumpled and unbuttoned revealing a pale grimy chest wrapped in pristine white bandaging. JD sat there watching the less than nimble hands, staring at the scraped and blood crusted fingers as they worked to open the buckles. A few frustrating minutes later his wrists were free, the side rail lowered and his slipped bare footed to the floor. Leaning heavily on the southerner while maintaining a white knuckled grip on the I.V. pole slowly shuffled across the cold tiles not caring that his backside wasn’t sufficiently covered. All he wanted now was to get upstairs.

JD didn’t know how long they waited but somewhere along the line he didn’t know exactly when he fell asleep. All he knew for sure it was long after he gave up on feebly pacing the floor on wobbly legs clinging to an I.V. pole, next thing he knew was he was warm and someone was gently shaking his shoulder. After a long moment his exhausted body finally responded to the insistent voice, burning eyes blinked open and he realized Ezra was hovering over him, trying to rouse him from his dead sleep. The older man waited patiently for him to slowly get to his feet and follow.

The glass felt cool, JD pressed his forehead against it as he gazed beyond it to where Buck lay looking more dead than alive. A flashback to another night and another hospital hit him. For a terrifying instant he thought he was too late until a comforting hand settled onto his back and gently guiding him inside. He managed to give Ezra a weak smile as the man steered him to Buck’s side, thankful for his presence.

What can be said without sounding emotionless and rude?

Why the words that come from the depths of your soul elude your lips?

Attempts at comfort fall painfully short of their desired effect.

Ezra’s own head pounded, the simple act of breathing hurt his battered muscles reminding him on each inhalation and exhalation of painfully fractured ribs. Every fiber of his being reeked of smoke and sweat reminding him he was disgustingly filthy as well as bone weary and exhausted. Word of the sting had been leaked, the scheduled meet at a warehouse turned into a fiery ambush. An explosion had set the building ablaze. A pure unadulterated disaster on all fronts, heads would roll.

None of that mattered though discomfort was forgotten the moment he had heard second hand the fate of his friends. Wilmington was O.R. 9 having a lead slug surgically removed from his lung, Dunne suffering from smoke inhalation was lightly sedated and tethered to a bed in the emergency room awaiting transfer to a room upstairs.

The young doctor that had been treating Standish barely succeeded wrapping the damaged ribs, when two loose-lipped E.M Ts trod by discussing the downed agents. The incident ended with the slack jawed physician watching the undercover agent’s departing form never having a chance to utter a word.

No one had dared impede their path as Standish helped Dunne to the bedside of the third man loaned out from Team Seven for few weeks that ended in that morning’s debacle in Albuquerque. Nor had they swayed them earlier as the duo waited three long hours for Wilmington to emerge from surgery, spent with a barely coherent JD draped across the hard plastic yellow seats wrapped in a stolen blanket.

The sun had long set, Ezra stood there watching the light fade from the sky through the seventh floor window, and behind him he could hear JD’s soft snores as the young man slept in a cot by his best friend’s bed. The Intensive Care Unit although far from silent was relatively quiet, the steady woosh of the respirator a reminder that Buck was indeed among the living.

The phone calls back to Denver had been made while Buck was still in surgery first calling Chris and then the Judge, forgoing a long-winded explanation for a concise simple statement that the bust had gone bad, Buck had been shot and JD hospitalized. That tasked accomplished he turned his full attention to his compatriots. There was little he could do for Wilmington, except let the medical staff do what was needed and stay nearby. Now Dunne was another matter, he made sure that the young man wasn’t removed to another room. He did so by cajoling, conning and eventually threatening anyone that dare approach Dunne, Ezra’s efforts finally prevailed with the addition of the cot.

Beyond that there was nothing he could do. For all his education and ability to weave words in more than one language, he had been at a dreadful loss. Unable to find any comforting words at all to impart to JD.


He hoped his actions would speak for themselves, on a day when mere words were not enough to get through the rough ending to an awful day.