Robinnnnnn. ♥ Some Robinfic for you. I tried something different in terms of style...experimental, I guess. I'll see if y'all like it.
Once, he'd been sick. And it'd been like every illness he'd dodged so far had reversed their spectral flights right around, and hit him like the one-oh-four commuter express. Right in the middle of June (irony seemed appropriate), Robin was thrown for a loop with a wallop-worthy case of some nebulous, flu-like disease that was not just composed of the requisite fever and runny nose, but also crammed in frequent vomiting, disorientation, and catatonic spells where he'd simply stare off into space.
Needless to say, this frightened the rest of the team. They got on all right without him, and they were especially lucky that nothing very serious occurred, but still--it was disconcerting. To not have him there, to not see that little (the phrase carried extra heft now, ever since the described had been bed-ridden) figure-blur whipping around, punching things like a caged dog. They missed him.
But they did what they could. Raven had done what was within her healing jurisdiction, which had turned out to be not very much (a fierce blush had stained her face momentarily, but she made up for it with Tylenol runs) and Cyborg had him running on every med he could, which the semi-aware Robin was not too happy about--he hated medication, he had hissed. He didn't like "not being aware of my actions." Beast Boy, in his own way, tried to cheer him up, but often got bored. Starfire, as expected, never really left his side. Cyborg had, while on a one-AM sandwich run, seen her comforting him, while in the thrall of a chillish spell, having actually gotten into bed with him. It had been professed, by the afflicted one himself, devoid of usual inhibitions, to be quite effective--she kept her starbolt energy on at a slow, internal burn, so she became a sort of furnace. Cyborg had smiled, and let them sleep.
It was bad, though. It was upsetting. It was as if something parental had been installed in them all, something that made them recognize how small he was--Cyborg had done a double-take at the chart, is that really his height? Something of the protective instinct in them all.
Especially when his fever spiked, when the infirmary had been a clanging tangle of confusion, when finally, in a fit of desperation to quell the climbing degrees, Cyborg had ripped off his mask, and then--stopped. The entire room stopped. And stared.
The boy himself was suspended in some sort of semi-conscious state--his eyes were open, but his head was rolling, and his breath came in short pants. His face was pale and looked like parchment, and he didn't seem to realize what had just happened.
Disconcerting. He looked human.
And that was stupid, of course, as they had all carried some awe at that fact ever since they had met them--he had always, always exhausted his limits. His human limits. It was why he was crazy and determined and...well. Him.
Silently, Cyborg replaced the IV in his arm, and plopped an icepack right onto his forehead. No one had moved.
Later on, after he had rose once more to vitality and was flipping off walls as usual, there had been a moment--a moment of complete clarity and celestial understanding between the four outsiders--a moment of telepathy, of the non-Raven-induced variety. Robin had picked himself up after a routine battle with Johnny Rancid, having sustained a quick, decisive slash to his arm which was now seeping red down his gloves.
The moment was quick. It was not so much a word as a feeling, or perhaps an image. A feeling of helplessness, or maybe awe or sorrow or worry or some aching cocktail of them all. And the image of that boy on the bed with the eyes that rolled like marbles, searching but not finding, the kind of electric blue that makes you wonder at the genotype's flighty ways.
It had ended soon, and he had given them all a puzzled look. The princess, the changeling, the mystic, and the android. And the boy.
That word that seemed too hard to swallow.