Broken Is The Man
by Sar
Obligatory Disclaimer: Do I own ER or any of its characters? No, I'm just borrowing them.
Summary: Takes place after Romano's amputation in 9.21 "When Night Meets Day." Romano angst with Romano/Corday undercurrents. References to 9.5 "A Hopeless Wound." And some may interpret a slight reference to 9.17 "The Advocate"
Author's Note: I wrote this quite a while ago, after watching "When Night Meets Day" but I never got around to posting it on ff.net. My first ER fic. Hopefully it does the characters justice. Huge thanks to Kayla for betareading
x x x x x x x x x x x
You cannot help but laugh dryly at Corday's stunned reaction.
"Who sent these to you?"
She, of course, is referring to the numerous cards, balloons, and potted plants that have come to litter your room since the amputation three days ago. Since her first visit immediately after the surgery, the gifts have multiplied at an unimaginable rate. The shock in her voice lets you know she cannot believe her eyes.
"What Lizzie?" you find yourself saying. "Hard to believe that there are people out in the world who actually wish me well?"
She presses her lips together in a tight line. You know you hit a nerve. There is a long pause before she finally says, "You know I didn't mean it like that."
"Yes, you did," is your curt reply.
She begins to argue the point, but you cut her off quickly and neatly.
"I think you should go now."
She looks at you intently, studying you, trying to figure you out. If you weren't such a hard-ass, you would be afraid of what she might see.
But then she suddenly looks away, off to the opposite wall. And you barely catch the soft "Okay" she says before she turns around to walk out the door.
She does not look back.
You wish she would.
x x x x x x x x x x x x
Later in the day, you find you cannot get that question out of your head:
Who sent these to you?
Aside from the ones from your colleagues -Anspaugh, Weaver, and the like- you don't really know.
But you are damn sure of why they were given to you.
These items were sent to you from people who felt required to respond to your situation. Because you lost an arm and they needed to do something - to do anything - to fulfill an obligation in order to feel better about themselves.
You know it. More importantly, you accept it. After all, it's not as if you are the beloved doctor of County General. Nor are you exactly known for your friendly bedside manner.
So instead of paying you an uncomfortable visit, they send over impersonal hospital gifts. The large, shiny mylar balloons have idiotic and irrelevant messages like, "Get Well Soon!" and "Hope You Feel Better!" The cards don't offer anything better.
Your personal favorite is a card that reads, "Wishing You a Full and Speedy Recovery!"
Like your arm is somehow going to grow back instantly.
x x x x x x x x x x x x
The next day, it is your turn to be surprised.
Elizabeth is back for another visit.
"Back again so soon?" you exclaim as she pulls up a chair next to your bed. "My, my, what will the nurses say?"
She shakes her head slightly. "I won't even bother with a response, Robert."
You offer a smug grin. "I suspect you're here to inform me that the ER is falling apart without my proper guidance."
"Not at all." She doesn't even blink.
"Lizzie!" You put your (only) hand over your heart and feign hurt. "Haven't you ever heard of feeding one's ego?"
Without missing a beat she replies, "I highly doubt your ego needs any further boosting."
The grin on your face gets wider. It seems yesterday's awkward visit is long forgotten.
Elizabeth updates you on the latest hospital news and gossip. You interrupt frequently with your usual jeers and rude observations. As the conversation goes on, you find yourself in a genuinely happy mood.
But everyone knows that all good things must come to an end. And your good thing comes crashing down when you find yourself becoming increasingly angry. You do not know why, but suddenly this friendly visit is reminding you of how shitty your life actually is.
The sudden change in your demeanor does not go unnoticed. Elizabeth asks, "Is everything okay, Robert?"
Neither of you are expecting the answer you give.
"No."
You laugh once the word is out of your mouth. And now that you have verbally acknowledged it, you find that you cannot stop.
"Nothing is okay, Elizabeth. My fucking arm is fucking gone. My fucking arm is fucking gone, and I lost my fucking position as fucking Chief of Staff, and I am never going to fucking perform another fucking surgery."
For someone who has said the f-word eight times in under thirty seconds, you sound unusually nonchalant.
Elizabeth has a stunned expression on her face and doesn't say a word. It doesn't really matter though, because you are on a roll in this long overdue diatribe of yours.
"And the best part is," you continue, "Is that no one really cares."
You pause.
"And that's the truth, isn't it, Lizzie? No one really cares that Rocket Romano's life is completely screwed. But of course, they are all spineless jackasses who can't tell me to my face that they think I deserve all this. So what do you think they do, Lizzie?"
She doesn't answer.
"They send up these cards and balloons. Because if they give me something, then their delight in my suffering is justified. But they can't even bring me the damn gifts. They leave them at the nurses station for someone else to deliver.
"I really can't complain," you admit bitterly. "Making friends has never been a priority for me. I should be grateful that this many people hate me enough to send these things."
Elizabeth bites her lip and finally says, "People do care about you, Robert."
"Is that really what you think?" Your voice is rising. "If so, you are a lot more dillusional than I thought."
She speaks again, more firmly this time. "Robert, you have undergone a very harrowing ordeal, and your emotions are clearly --"
"You don't get it!" You are yelling now. "This is IT for me, Lizzie! My career is OVER! Things are NEVER going to get any BETTER! This is MY happy ending!"
And in truth, this is the closest that you will ever get to a happy ending. You will live happily ever after with your one arm, a box full of get well cards, and the memory of your life as a surgeon.
But Elizabeth persists, "This is not the end."
You take in a deep breath to calm yourself down. You know there is no use trying to convince Elizabeth to agree with you. And you know she will fail in trying to get you to remain optimistic. This conversation will go nowhere. You want out of it.
Now.
So just like yesterday's visit, you want to tell her to leave. And you want to tell her to never come back because it's obvious you are unable to have a pleasant chat with anyone.
However, your voice has a mind of it's own and instead you ask,
"Why do you come here Elizabeth?"
You are surprised at how broken your voice really sounds, and you immediately regret asking her the question.
You are afraid of the answer.
Without any hesitation, Elizabeth reaches for your hand. Embarrassed, you find you cannot bring yourself to look her in the eyes. If you do, the tears that you've been holding back will surely fall. And crying in front of her is something you never want to do.
"I visit you because I want to."
You shut your eyes tightly. To your dismay, you are at a loss for words. You can think of no inappropriate remark to get out of this situation.
"Robert, look at me," she coaxes gently.
NO! Your brain screams. DON'T DO IT!
Don't do it.
"Robert," she repeats, "Robert, please."
And for the first time in a long while, you obey an order.
You open your eyes and look at her. You really look at her. And even though your emotions and thoughts are in total disarray, you do not miss the fact that she is beautiful.
Keeping a steady gaze trained on you, she says simply,
"You'll work through this."
You should believe her. You want to believe her. You try to believe her.
Then you remember that she has told you this before. It was on the day of your "momentary weakness." You find it horribly ironic that you are having another one of those weaknesses right now. Yet there is a major difference.
Today your response is not the same. Today you are tired of keeping up your stoic façade. Today your heart is heavy and your mind is numb.
Today you want to give up.
With your head bowed in defeat, you give her your answer in a voice barely above a whisper.
"I'm not so sure."
And as you finally allow yourself to weep, Elizabeth stays at your side, holding your hand.
And it is only when you glance up at her for a moment that you realize --
She is crying, too.
[/end]