Title: Waiting is the Hardest Part
Spoilers: None
Rating: Pg-13, language, and not even my usual usage of the f-word!
Summary: Robin ends up in Cook County General, in the care of its ER
staff.
Author's notes: Ok, I got into a writing frenzy, insperation hit, but
as the story went on, I lost track of the crosse over. You see, it
was supposed to be a YJ/ER (acronyms, dontcha love 'em?) crossover,
but in the end, the ER characters became periphery to the story.
Well. Ok, lemme let you judge it for yourself...


**
It was supposed to be simple: Show up and 9:15 pm for a YTV
interview. But dammit, it's never simple with us, is it? So when you
got shot, jeez, I never thought I would write that down, when you got
shot, we had no idea what to do.

What do you expect? We have superpowers, god-dammit, we can't even
comprehend the idea that a *bullet* would hurt us; it's just a flying
piece of lead and steel. Sure, we realized you never had superpowers,
we got it that you couldn't fly like Superman, or run like the Flash.
You were…you always seemed perfect. You always had the right answer;
you always knew what to do. You could break up fights between men
five times your size who could burn you to a crisp just by looking at
you. You could do anything because you never faltered.

Shit. Sorry. I didn't mean to get the paper wet.

You're scaring me. You haven't moved since they brought you in,
wrapped in gauze and smelling of antibacterial soap. It gives me a
headache just to look at you, so I turn the chair and face the wall.
The nurse gave me a pen to write with. I have to write this down and
let it out before I break something. You know I can, so don't argue.

Maybe I shouldn't be here. People are staring. Maybe they recognize
me, or maybe they're wondering why a nice girl like me is sitting by
your bed. You scare people, and you know it too.

…

Wake up, dammit, you're still scaring me.

**

Don't ever do that to me again.

Shit. I'm still shaking.

You won't remember any of this. You never woke up through it all
that's why, even though you were screaming. They tell me they don't
know when you'll wake up. It better be soon, because I'm getting
hungry, and I don't think I can stomach anything until you wake up.

You were shaking and vomiting and dammit, I didn't know what to do;
that's been happening a lot lately, hasn't it? I think I caused a few
heart attacks screaming down the aisle, trying to find a nurse. A
nice woman, a Nurse Hathaway, I think, finally understood my frantic,
disjointed, hiccupped-laced cries. A crash cart, a surgical team, and
a truckload of drugs later, you were calm again, asleep. They tell me
you didn't feel a thing when they stuck that needle in you chest.
They tell me you didn't feel a thing when they stuck a needle into
your spine and god, when you screamed.

They tell me you didn't feel a thing.

**

I went to go get a drink. The stupid machine broke down, so I found
myself standing in line at the cafeteria. Kon and Cissie were there.
They had been talking about something and looked ashamed when they
saw me.

I didn't bother to ask what they were talking about. I just nodded
hello and ran back to your room.

You see, I know what they're talking about.

They think you're going to die. They think that it might be soon,
that you might just give up and expire in the next few days.

They think I can't handle it.

I never did get that drink.

**

I remember when we rushed you to the hospital. We didn't know where
to go. We hadn't bothered to get a map of Chicago, we weren't
planning to be here at all. I remember you grinning over your
shoulder, shouting a "It will only take a few minutes" before the
Super-Bike headed down into the city. You had spotted something in
the myriad convolutions of Chicago city streets and alleys: Gang war.

You were able to hear the gunshots from 1,000 feet in the air.
Amazing. We flew down. You promised us it would only take a moment,
that we would get to the YTV interview in time, and don't worry, you
do this all the time. So we followed. We fought. You were able to
swing in and grab a little girl and her brother from the middle of
the crossfire. You were always doing heroic things like that. It was
never about the image or the adventure for you. It was about helping
people. So Impulse grabbed all the guns, Cissie was able to knock out
those with the knives. Kon was grabbing a pair of hoods who were
ganging up on a some kid. We were all distracted when it happened.

That was the great thing about you, you could never leave someone in
trouble. You always had to help.

That's the problem with you.

You always had to help, and this time, it might just kill you.

The ER staff looked at us as if we came from the circus. Not
surprising, as Kon was floating slightly off the ground, and Bart
running around the hospital in an effort to burn off energy and not
get in the way of the hospital staff. One of my pigtails was coming
off, and your cape was dragging on the floor as Kon set you down on
the table. Cissie was being treated for GWs (that's gunshot wound in
hospital-lingo, I'm learning a lot just by hanging around your bed.
Loser, making me learn even when you're in a coma.)

She was the lucky one. She only got hit in the arm and leg; the
bullets missed all major arteries and such. It's funny, almost, to
see her limping up and down the hall in a matching bright pink casts
and unwieldy crunches.

You, on the other hand, weren't so lucky.

Multiple GWs to your chest, legs, arms and head.

Fuck.

**

Sorry, had to compose myself. I have that image of your head snapping
back with the impact of the bullet.

It was something out of a movie. Everything slowed down; no one
moved; it was unreal. You had in your hands a little child, no older
than two and clutching onto her stuffed elephant with all her might.

And then someone shot you.

It seemed like forever before the gun emptied into you. You had spun
around, had the girl in your arms, head ducked beneath that triple-
weave Kevlar cape of yours. Some of the bullets were stopped by it,
but others took advantage of the stress fractures in your cape (I
overheard your doctor, a Mark Greene, something or another) and
embedded themselves in your chest cavity (hospital lingo!) and arms
and legs.

That in it self could have killed you. But it wasn't enough, was it?
You just had to go and get yourself shot in the head.

It always has to be complicated with you, doesn't it?

The doctors are here.

**

That was Dr. Courday. She's married to the other doctor, the one with
that cut on his head. You've turned me into a snoop, are you happy
now? All your harping from past YJ meetings have turned me into a
gossip-monger. It's just that I'm worried about you. We haven't been
able to contact anyone, except that Bat of course, but we didn't
contact him. He just…knew. It's scary really.

A lot of things scare me lately.

Dr. Courday wanted to take off the mask today. I almost laughed, and
I would have, if it wasn't so inappropriate. She looked uncomfortable
asking, her English accent slurring some of the words. You would have
been proud of me, I didn't even bother asking, just gave her a
patented Bat-Staretm and she shuffled away. God, what a sense of
power, no wonder you're always brooding, you can control anyone with
that stare of yours!

After that this pig- excuse me- Doctor Romano came in and began to
act like an ass. He was getting all high and mighty about how they
had to know your identity in order to treat you.

I gave him the Bat-Staretm and he flinched. He became flustered and
skittered out of the room as quickly as he came in. Dr. Courday was
in a state akin to shock. She smiled and asked me to teach her how to
do that.

I pointed to you, "I learned from the best."

She faltered, looked at his charts one more time, and gave me a shaky
smile, "I hope he can teach me as well." It was the smile that
frieghtened me the most about the incident though, I didn't worry
about your mask, or your identity; the way everyone was acting…

I miss you Rob.

Jesus, just wake up already.

**

I wonder if you remember the bullet hitting your skull.

It's a depressing start, I know, but I can't get the thought out of
my head.

It must have hurt. (Cassie Sandsmark: Mistress of the Obvious) But
I'm not talking about the bullet itself: it must have hurt that after
taking five bullets into your body, trying to protect that tiny girl,
she died anyway.

After that first clip was emptied into you, after we realized what
was going on and rushed to your aid, that's when you found out.

You weren't even trying to stop the blood flow from your chest and
arms and legs. You didn't even bother to wipe the blood that was
dripping from your mouth as you cradled her head, as you realized
that the bullet in her head was something you couldn't fix and you
couldn't make better.

We all froze. It wasn't because of the dead girl, it wasn't because
you were shot or that you were bleeding so much that green of your
suit was turning a murky brown. We froze because we never saw you
look like that.

It was a mixture of- damn, I can't even begin to describe it; I don't
want to describe it.

And because you were trying to understand why this little girl was
dead, despite all your efforts to prevent otherwise, you never
noticed, we never noticed, the guy pull a gun that Imp wasn't fast
enough to collect. You looked up, horror mixed with anger, and then
he shot you.

Your head snapped back and the girl, dead and limp in your arms,
slipped from your grasp, her elephant beside your feet.

…

Kon beat the guy pretty bad. Funny, he's in the room next to you, I
didn't mention it before, but it's true. It takes a whole lotta
willpower to stop me from killing him. (Guess who taught me that
too?). But unlike you, he's going to make it in time for his court
hearing.

You're depressing company, you know that? All you do is sit and
listen and wait. God forbid you ever make a move. You must be
horrible on dates.

Dammit. It's been two weeks now. You have to wake up Tim Drake, you
have to.

**

See that? That was your name. I figured it out, you know? You were on
TV and everything, it didn't take too long to make that connections;
I think Dr. Greene suspects as well. You're dad is looking for you.
They say you ran away. He's worried about you, he wants to know if
you're safe. I want to call him, to tell him to get over here and
spend the last few moments with you. I want him here holding your
hand rather than just me or Cissie, or, once, Secret.

I want him here to know that you died protecting someone, but he
won't come because I won't call him. I couldn't do that to you. I
wouldn't dare, you would come back to haunt me, and a ghost-Robin I
can't handle.

But you're not dead yet. I can't think that way, I don't want to
think that way.

**

Dr. Greene cornered me in the hallway on the way back from the
bathroom today. He seemed angry.

"How long are you going to wait until you tell us who he is."

I didn't say anything, gave Bat-Staretm and hoped for the best.

He shook his head, "Don't do that to me. His family has to know, they
need be here for him." He sighed, "I know who he is," He looked
around for a moment, as if someone might be listening. Someone always
was. The nurses here talk like crazy.

"It doesn't look good, and I don't know how much longer it's going to
be."

I was in my optimistic mood today, the one where I thought you
blinked or when Cissie claimed you squeezed her hand.

"But you said that the bullet didn't permanently damage his brain.
You said-"

"The damage caused by the other bullets might be to much for his body
to handle, he wasn't even supposed to last this long."

It had been a week since you were shot Tim, I thought you might like
to know that.

"The only reason he's breathing is because of the machine, the only
reason he's living is because were doing all the work for him." Dr.
Greene sighed again; when he does that it means he's getting
exasperated, "Please, Miss, consider calling his parents-" He sucked
in some air and let it out again, nodding to open window in your
room, "His real ones."

I ran back to your room, angry, confused about what to do. He was
there.

Nightwing. (The guy referred to as the "great ass" by Cissie.)

He looked sad. That's what you've been doing to everyone lately:
making them sad and angry and lost.

He's a nice man. We spoke for a while, exchanged stories, sat in
silence, laughed and wiped away tears. As we spoke, Kon came in,
clutching coffee, looking me over with a worried expression. And he
joined us. Then came Cissie and Bart and later, even Suzie. As the
group grew, the stories multiplied and became funnier, happier,
sadder, everything became amplified.

We celebrated you and waited for you to die. We sat around the bed
and laughed and cried and silently stared and the raise and fall of
your chest.

You always knew how to grab hold of a conversation. The red-head
pushed some hair back and sniffed quietly.

**

I've decided that I'll burn this journal after all of this is over.
You'll never see these words, my teen-angst and anger.

I'll burn it, but before I do I have to write down what happened.

You woke up. Against all odds, you opened your eyes behind that green
mask of yours, you looked up at the ceiling and groaned.

The red-head woman had been fingering your mask. By the end of our
little Robfest we were ready to let you go; we were ready to bury
you. We could tell that she was going to pull off the mask, I curled
up against Kon's chest, dug my nails into his chest, and tried to
hold back tears.

I was- we were ready to bury you when you opened your eyes and
grabbed the woman and scared the shit out of everyone in the room.

No one breathed for a long time. All we heard were you're tortured
gasps for air, and the slow scream of the klaxon. We didn't move, we
didn't speak, just looked at your gasping twisting body and froze.

It was Cissie who first moved, running to your bed and grabbing your
tremoring hand. It was what stopped your shaking. When the nurses and
doctors came, moving quickly and efficiently, getting the tube out of
your throat, disconnecting the machine that breathed for you,
adjusting the salinity in your IV and generally, trying to keep you
awake, we still sat there, Kon's arm gripping me towards him even
tighter and Cissie rubbing your arm, soothing your tortured breathing.

When I turned back to the red head woman and "Great Ass" they window
was closed and they were gone.

Kon, Bart, Suzie and I made our tearful greetings and left you with
Cissie.

I don't think I've ever seen her cry like that before, and for the
first time that week, under the gauze and tape and beeping monitors,
you smiled.

See what you do to people Rob?

Welcome back.


**

Did you like it? I don't think it counts as a crossover anymore, but
oh well, I had fun writing it.
R&R and you'll get you're choice of BNs...come on, you know you want
one...
-dafnap