Disclaimers: First chapter still holds the essentials.

Summary: It's over. It's finally over...

A/Note: This chapter will be the only one with a quote of a song lyric. I promise.

Again, I couldn't have done it without Char's help as a fantastic beta, let alone the assistance of everyone who took the time to tell me what they thought of this and even to occassionally "put the squeeze on me" to make sure I delivered the next chapter. Thanks a million everyone!

ONE FINAL NOTE:

As I indicated in my opening summary, this fic was actually inspired by something that happened fairly recently. About halfway through January this year, a gunman opened fire on a lunchtime crowd in Melbourne, Australia, then hopped into a taxi. The driver threw himself out the door when the car was already travelling about 40-60 kph. He lay stunned on the road for a few moments before he shakily moved off. Meanwhile, a "brave young constable" entered the car and subdued the gunman. In the process, however, the taxi hit a tram stop, flipped, and ended up on its roof. Despite that, the gunman was taken into custody. He also had a room all his own (if you didn't count the police guarding him) at the local hospital for treatment. The young constable suffered only cuts and bruises. (For more details, check "The Age" in australia (online) about Jan 15...)

And so this story was born...with more than a little touch of literary license. ;-)

CALL OF DUTY
High Noon

Part Eight
The Greatest Love

Wake me up inside
Call my name and save me from the dark...
Before I come undone
Save me from the nothing I've become
Evanescence

Bruce had still been standing at the end of the bed, waiting, when Dr Leslie Thompkins – the Wayne family doctor from before Bruce's birth, and one of the few people in the world that could change Bruce's mind when it was made up – stuck her head around the door. The tear tracks were still fresh on her face; she, too, had come to say her farewells. "Bruce!" she exclaimed in surprise as she came fully inside to stand beside him, never expecting him to still be here. "You're still—"

"Shh!" he half-turned to her and hissed. "Listen!"

"But Bruce—" she tried again, the note of a sigh in her voice.

"Listen!" His tone, though a whisper, allowed for no arguments. It was an order of the Bat.

Raising only one eyebrow to show her surprise at being spoken to in that way, Leslie nevertheless listened...for what, she had no idea. All she knew was that it had to be very serious for Bruce to break her single cardinal rule she had with him: that the Bat should never speak to Leslie when he should be Bruce Wayne. And given the stress he'd been under the last few days, she reluctantly decided to let it be long enough to see what was so important.

So the two of them stood there in the silent hospital room, two frozen puppets waiting for someone or something to pull their strings.

The silence stretched.

Finally, unable to take it any longer, Leslie spoke again. "Bruce, I really don't appreciate you—" And then she broke off again, but voluntarily this time.

—Beeeep—

She looked at Bruce. He looked at Leslie.

"Did you—?"

"Was that—?"

They broke off together and stared at each other.

Leslie was the first to speak. "Wait here, Bruce. I'll get the doctors!" And so she rushed outside, moving faster than she probably had in years, leaving Bruce behind...to wait. Again.

But this time, he knew what was happening.

Drifting.

Numb.

Grey.

The greyness is back. That's good. It went away for a while, left him behind to suffer without. Didn't like that, didn't want the things that came to him. Knows it's better to stay where its grey. Sheltered. Protected.

Drifting.

And it comes again; the Noise is back. Feels it, can't see it; never there when he looks. It'll be like that again this time, he knows. So ignore it. Just leave it be, don't worry. It's already been there for a while; it'll be there later. Can't concentrate on it, because that makes the grey leave. That's what happened last time. Can't lose that. Mustn't lose that.

But he's already lost. Its gone, and it won't come back. Not this time. His thinking made it go. It won't answer his calls. Why not? He called it back last time; why not now? Maybe concentrate on sinking back down, back to silence and peace. Maybe that will work.

It doesn't.

Blocked. It's blocking him...or is he somehow blocking it? Whatever. It won't come.

He doesn't panic; he doesn't know how. Not yet. But he knows how to struggle. He can do that. He fights it, fights what pulls him to the waiting pain. Even here he knows pain, knows it well, enough to know he doesn't want it. Felt so much already; no point in adding more. Make it go away.

But struggling makes it worse. The more he fights, the more he loses, the more his peace recedes. And that's wrong; fighting should make him win. It's worked before, he knows that, because he also knows he's fought it before. How, where, or why, he doesn't know, but he knows he's fought and won.

Losing. Not supposed to lose.

And the noise comes again, breaking focus, losing grip. This time he can make out a word:

"...fighter..."

Yes, that's what he is. The rush of joy in him tells him he agrees. He's a fighter. Redouble his efforts, can't loose now. Focus harder! Fight!

"...coward..."

What! Coward? Rebellion: he's no coward. Not a quitter, he never runs. Never!

Redouble the efforts. Strain at it. Prove it. He'll show them. And it works. He slowly sinks again, grabbing hold of regained peace. Keeps a tight hold of it too; not gonna lose it now. Not willingly. Now has to drift again, relax and be numb.

But he can't. Have to let go first, let go his peace. Can't do that either. So stay, keep his peace, keep his hold. Ignore the part that pulls away. It's not what matters. The hold does. Hold is everything. Stay like this. As long as there's peace, he can fly anywhere, soaring endlessly on clouds...

...only to fall. Always falling. What is it now?

The noise. Again! He can hear it, clearer than before. He can hear the voice behind the words. Promises. Something about promises and breaking them. Against his will, he's curious. Listens to the pain, the sorrow, the fear; an unusual mix. Instincts tell him it's someone he knows, someone he trusts.

So wait, not drawing near nor sinking down. Waiting for it to come again. Knowing it will. It always does.

"...Dammit Dick!"

Dick?

Is that who is he is?

The instincts tell him yes. He's Dick; that's him. He has a name. Names are good. Aren't they?

"...stop being such a damn coward!"

Again he rebels. Not a coward; never were, never will. How could The Caller think that? Someone He Knows should also know better. Not a coward! The anger pushes him forward, forgetting the consequences, forgetting the pain...

The doctors' conversation and frantic calls swirled around Bruce Wayne, but he paid it no heed. He ignored it completely and stayed where he was, a steady rock in the heaving ocean of movement. The doctors just had to work around him, because he wasn't moving one inch for anything...for anything but this.

This moment, this grip, was all that mattered to Bruce. It was really the only thing he was aware of. The way his fingers curled around the object in hands, maintaining a steady, gentle pressure. Not to heavy, not tight enough to break bones, but not to light either, nor so feather-light that he didn't feel it.

Because feeling was important right now. It was the only way to make the reaction he sensed real and tangible. He wasn't imagining it.

...Consciousness, when it finally came to me, came back as a flood.

I was drowning. I was drowning in an imaginary sea, a sea of darkness and pain, and there was nothing here to save me. Wave after wave crashed over me, swamping me with their power and the sheer mass of them. I felt myself go under again, felt the world darken and swallow me down.

'Dick! Hang on for me!'

The voice that called my name told me to hang on. I tried to, striking out blindly, thrashing in the water and struggling to find something to hold on to. I couldn't find it, couldn't find that thing that I needed. And I saw the surface above me, saw the light reflecting off the water, and knew that was where I needed to be. But nothing I did seemed to have any effect. Hell, if they wanted me to hang on, they should at least give me something to help me!

I looked up, straining for one last glimpse of the surface before it would disappear. I saw it, distant and far away and getting further, and knew it was too far. It was over...

Because this had to be real. It had to be. Bruce knew he hadn't imagined the gentle return pressure on his hand, the gentle squeeze that made him feel like the sun was coming out from behind the clouds, like the heavens had righted themselves, like the pure smell of clean air after a thuderstorm. Catastrophe averted. Disaster avoided. He was safe. It was going to be okay. Smiling giddily, Bruce gave the hand he held another gentle squeeze, just to feel the response.

Nothing.

The hand was suddenly limp.

And then the heart monitor faltered and flat-lined.

...I struggled instinctively, suddenly afraid of being consumed and swallowed up by the pain that held me fast.

'Hold him, dammit!'

And something ensared my feet, held it tightly within its grip. It was holding me still, stopping me from getting to the surface. It was dragging me back down into the darkness, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

I just struggled harder, determined to escape...

—B-Be-Be-bep-Be—

Dick's heart was beating again. Fainter, weaker than it should, but it was beating.

But he was still convulsing, still thrashing, albeit weakly. Now it wasn't just the shock of how they'd had to get him started again. It was something more, had to be something worse. And it was all hands on deck as they quickly moved to hold him down, to prevent him hurting himself even more despite his weakened state.

Somehow, Bruce never let go of the hand the entire time. And through it all, Dick was still so silent. Not awake enough to know what was happening and speak, too far under to stop it. But his eyes were suddenly moving rapidly under his closed lids as the thrashing continued.

...Then I saw the hand, the hand of my salvation breaking the surface and plunging down to the depths towards me. If I could reach it. I struggled harder, flailed my limbs and struck the water with all my strength. Had to...reach it! The hand, and all it offered, consumed my thoughts. I struck out blindly with my feet, smashing my free foot against whatever held me down while straining upwards with my arms.

'Come on, son. You can do it!'

I felt myself gasp aloud as I finally broke free and shot towards the hand, grasping hold and allowing it to pull me back, back to the surface...back to the pain...

Dick suddenly stilled, falling back limply onto the bed as a breathy moan slipped past the tape holding the ventilator tube inside his mouth. The team of four that had restrained him – the Blüdhaven doctor and nurse had held his legs, while Leslie and Bruce had had an arm each – paused as one, heaving a collective sigh of relief as they tentatively released their grip on his limbs.

The medical team exchanged a measured glance, mixing consternation and relief. That was close. Too close. And they had no idea what had caused it. Out of the three, Leslie was the only one of them who had a suspicion, but it was one she couldn't quite bring herself to hope in. Not yet.

Bruce just stood there, breathing heavily and almost too focused on his son to notice that his hand was still gripping flesh. Because of that, he was the first to notice the fluttering eyelids.

"He's waking up!"

...Pain.

It was everywhere.

My entire body felt like one big bruise, and parts of me felt like those bruises had been punched six ways to Sunday. I tried immediately to roll away, instincts telling me that movement would get me away from the pain. I didn't get far. Something pressed down on my shoulders, holding me in place but sending spikes of pain through my body to join with the agonising pain coming from my chest and arms and legs. I groaned, or tried to, but only guttural moans came out past something in my throat that blocked all sound I made. I gagged, trying to breathe around the obstruction.

There were voices in the distance, frantic voices, but I couldn't focus on them to hear anything through the almighty rushing in my ears and the pain that was quickly consuming everything I had. That was when I felt the warmth suddenly rush into my veins and flow deeply under my flesh. Drugs. I felt myself twitch spasmodically until the warmth reached my chest and then my limbs, finally taking the edge off the pain that had stolen my thoughts.

But I still couldn't breathe around the obstruction in my throat.

Suddenly frantic, I opened my mouth and tried to speak, to tell them I needed air and to ask what the hell was happening. Again, nothing more than guttural sounds came out. Now I really started panicking. I couldn't breathe and I had no way to tell anyone—

"It's okay, Dick honey," a female's voice suddenly crooned somewhere above me. I knew her, even if I couldn't quite place her. "You're on a ventilator to help your lungs breathe. Don't fight it Dick, just relax and let it help you."

Damn machine. I obediently tried to relax, tried to stop fighting for breath, striving to obey even if I couldn't seem to remember who the woman was nor why she was so familiar.

"That's it, hon," she continued soothingly. "Just relax and let the machine breathe for you." I forced myself to keep still, concentrating as best I could on trying not to breathe. It was hard. The drugs were already making it hard to think, to focus.

At long last I felt my lungs expand then contract as air was forced in and out, finally allowing me to relax into the soft warmth spreading throughout my body. Ohhh...that feels good...

"Now open your eyes for me, Dick," she instructed in the same soft, soothing tone. "Let me look at them pretty blue eyes of yours."

It took almost all my strength to pry my eyes open a crack, and when I did everything was a bright blur. I closed them again with a breathy moan escaping my lips. Too bright...waaay too bright.

I heard the woman address someone else, her voice turning away from me, but paid no attention to the words. It was easier just to lie where I was and relax, the pain feeling increasingly distant and detached from me as the machine continued to breathe for me. Must be good drugs, I thought to myself hazily, already feeling the meds calling me down into darkness.

A hand was placed my forehead, smoothing down my hair, relaxing me even further. "Dick, hon? You still with us?"

I nodded slightly and made another moan, unable to find the strength to open my eyes again. Man, was I tired. Sleep would be so nice about now...

The hand continued stroking. "Don't fight the painkillers, hon. Save your strength. We'll be right here when you wake up, okay?"

I nodded slightly again, or at least I think I did, as I relaxed further under the soothing ministrations. It wasn't long before I was again spiralling down into oblivion...

It was only once Dick's heart rate was once again slow and steady, indicating he was well and truly under sedation, that Dr Leslie Thompkins removed her hand from his forehead and breathed a sigh of relief. That was close. Way too close. She looked up and across the bed to Bruce Wayne, who had a similar expression of mixed relief and strain on his face. He, too, knew how close they had come to losing him. Their eyes met across the bed.

"He'll be fine now, Bruce," she told him softly. "Especially now that he's got some meds in his system. We just have to let him sleep it off."

He nodded to show her he'd understood, but the strain and weariness didn't leave his face. He rubbed his tired features with one hand, the other hand still clasped around Dick's good hand. He'd grabbed hold of it at some point, he wasn't quite sure when. That was how he'd known Dick was coming back to them, when the grip had tightened from limp to gentle...and that grip suddenly going limp was also how he'd known before the monitors flat-lined that they'd been losing him.

It was the pain, Bruce knew, that had been the culprit. The doctors had been unable to give Dick any painkillers until after he woke up. It was the same reason for why doctors were always careful about giving pain meds to people with concussions – the risk of increasing the damage to the brain was just too great. But the problem was that Dick would've spent so much of his strength struggling to wake up that he'd had nothing left to fight the pain of multiple injuries. That was why they'd almost lost him...again.

But it was okay now. Dick had woken up, if only for a few seconds, and Leslie had given a small dose of the 'good stuff' for the pain he had to be in. And although he was sleeping again, at least it wasn't a coma. This time he knew for certain that his son would wake up again. He was going to be okay now.

"Bruce?"

He looked up, startled out of his thoughts, to find that it was just him, Leslie, and Alfred in the room – although the doorway was another matter. She must've dismissed the other two medical staff while he'd been immersed in his thoughts, and Alfred...was Alfred. Of course he was here. And of course the other members of their...'family' were gathered at the door, peering over one another's shoulder and watching.

Leslie smiled at him, allowing her relief and her affection for all of them to show now that the danger had passed...and they were relatively alone and she had her back to the door. "He'll be fine," she repeated softly.

"I know," he replied quietly, then looked down at the hand he had yet to let go. "I'm still staying until he wakes up again."

"Bruce—"

"No, Leslie," he answered firmly to her interrupted objection. He looked up and met her gaze, his eyes clear and firm. "I almost— No. I'm staying." He pulled up a chair and sat down, deliberately focusing his gaze on Dick and watching how peacefully he slept.

"Okay, fine," Leslie sighed, knowing better then to argue. At the moment, she knew she'd have more success using a single toothpick to move the entire Great Wall of China. "But you have to promise that you'll call the doctors as soon as his vitals show he's waking up again, and that you still take care of yourself. I don't want you falling flat on your face from exhaustion. Understand?"

He nodded, also knowing better than to argue but relieved she'd still let him stay despite her unspoken objections. "Thanks, Leslie." He met her gaze for a quick moment before dropping his eyes back to his son's face. "I really appreciate this."

"...No problem," she answered, taken slightly off-guard to get a thank-you so quickly. "I'll go get someone in here to see about taking him off the ventilator."

Bruce just grunted in reply and barely noticed when Leslie and Alfred turned to speak to the rest of Dick's family and get that medical attention, his entire being already fully focused on his sleeping son and the hand he still held.

The next time I remember waking, though I'm not sure how much later that was, the room was silent...except for the machines. I could hear the steady beep-beep of the machines long before I was aware enough to consider opening my eyes. And when I was aware enough to consider doing just that, I didn't. I drifted instead on the edge of the haze of drug-induced slumber, aware enough to know I was almost awake but not really aware enough to go any further. Actually that was probably a good thing, since I already knew I was lying on a hospital bed: the smell of antiseptic was a major tip-off. I didn't often end up in hospital, but when I did it was usually because of something major.

That still didn't explain the dead weight that trapped my right arm.

I thought about that for a while without really thinking, trying to rationalise about what could be causing that weight while my brain still felt like it was wrapped up in over ten layers of cotton-wool. In the end I realised I'd have to wake up more if I wanted to see what it was. Which meant I had to open my eyes.

That took me a while. It felt like I had a ten tonne weight on each lid, and it took most of my strength just to open them to a small crack and hold them there. I blinked a few times at the blurry room and patiently waited for my vision to settle down.

The first thing I could focus on was the wall. Flat, featureless, not quite white but not quite coloured either. Taupe... Beside it, to the left, a window, with curtains pulled open and a blind that was letting in far too much light. Wincing, I slowly turned my head away from that and squinted down at my hand with the weight on it.

Bruce... He'd fallen asleep on my arm, my hand still held tightly in his. I let out a small sigh and relaxed back into the pillow, trying hard not to make a move that might wake him. He looked so exhausted that I wanted him to sleep longer, especially since he looked like he'd been awake for over four days on two hours worth of sleep.

It didn't work. He was already stirring before my head was back on the pillow. He raised his head, yawned and blinked the sleep out of his eyes, then looked up at me.

I gave him a lazy I'm-drugged-to-the-gills smile. "Hey," I whispered then grimaced, my sore and raspy throat telling me exactly what it thought about me speaking.

"Dick," he whispered back, bestowing that half-smile of his on me as he gave my hand a gentle squeeze. There was alsoi something I couldn't focus my vision enough to identify shining in his eyes. "Do you want a drink?"

"Mmm," I nodded gratefully. He reached over me and did something to my left, out of my field of view. He came back after a few moments with a tumbler of something and a spoon. I gave it a curious look, wondering idly what on earth he was planning. My question was answered when he spooned a teaspoon full of ice chips into my mouth. I managed to get down two small mouthfuls to relieve my throat before he took the tumbler away and placed it on the bedside table.

"How you feeling?"

Shooting the ice chips a regretful look, I had to think about that through the fog in my brain. "Mmm 'kay...I t'ink." I murmured softly; my throat was still sore but not as much as before. Speaking of which... "T'roat?"

Another hand squeeze. "They had you on a ventilator for your lungs. That's why your throat's so sore."

"Oh." That made sense, I guess, once it trickled down to me through the cotton wool in my head. "...Drugs?"

He nodded and his lips twitched faintly. "The good stuff, as Leslie calls it."

Bruce suddenly stood and turned around as the door behind him opened. I slowly turned my head and looked over there, but didn't recognise the man standing in the doorway.

The newcomer came over and stood by the bed opposite Bruce, flicking through the papers in his hands for a moment before looking up and meeting my gaze. "Ah, Dick, you're awake. I'm Doctor Noah Callahan, I've been taking care of your case. How are you feeling?"

I blinked. Why all the sudden concern with me? Bruce was the one that looked like he'd twice in the one day been to hell and back. I gave him the same answer I'd given Bruce, then slowly asked a question of my own: "Wha'...happ'n'd?"

"Can you remember anything?" the Doc asked.

Again, I had to think about that through the cotton-wool in my head. What came back was disjointed images I could barely make sense of. "Sorta... Somet'n' 'bout...a car...an'...chasin' someone?" My brow furrowed as I struggled to understand the images and feelings that were coming at me. "An'...not bein' able t' breathe." I shot a look at Bruce, wondering why it was so hard to remember. The difficulty in speaking coherently I just put down to the drugs – it was a side-effect that seemed familiar, at least.

The Doc made a note on the papers in his hands. "That's probably just a side-effect of the drugs, Mr. Grayson," he told me as if he'd read my mind. "You'll probably remember more after they've worn off. Do you feel any pain anywhere?"

I shook my head slightly. "No' really... Th' drugs...workin'... So wha's wrong?"

Callahan put the papers down and sat on the bed. "You were shot, Mr. Grayson," he told me without preamble. "Three times: a graze along your left shoulder, a bullet in your right thigh, and another where your left lung should've been. The lung wound actually didn't do as much damage as it should've done because your lung had already collapsed. That's why you'd remember not being able to breathe."

"Oh." That also explained the distant pain I was feeling. "Why'd...th' lung...?" I struggled to ask.

"Why did your lung collapse?" he elaborated for me.

I nodded slightly, relieved I'd been understood.

"Diablo Simmons, the guy you were chasing, apparently hammered you in the ribs and cracked a few of them for you while you were apprehending him. Witnesses tell me you later tackled him, and that was probably what caused a rib to puncture your left lung. Air escaped through the hole in your lung and was trapped in the lung cavity, and the pressure eventually causing your lung to collapse."

I nodded again, a trickle of amazement drifting down through my hazy thoughts that something that painful could be made to sound so simple.

"Also," he continued, "you're going to need extensive physical therapy on your leg to help you rebuild all the damaged tissues. The bullet did a lot of damage because it didn't exit and it probably nicked the femur as well. It might even require surgery if the bullet damaged some ligaments or tendons, but at this point I want to focus on those lungs and making sure you don't get an infection over the next few days. Follow me so far?"

Another nod. To be honest, I wasn't really following everything he was saying, but I could follow enough to get the general drift: I'd really messed myself up this time.

"As for your left hand," Callahan continued, flicking over a few pages on my chart, "we've splinted the broken bones and put it in a cast as tightly as we could manage. You won't need surgery if the bones heal correctly and you keep that arm in a sling practically 24/7, preferably for as long as six weeks. Your leg probably won't be up to you walking on it until about that point in time anyway."

Six weeks... I looked down at my left hand and suddenly realised that I was indeed feeling quite a bit of pain from it, all things considered. It was actually covered in so much fiberglass that it seemed to me that it looked less like a hand and more like a dark-blue ball at the end of my arm. Ouch. That's really gonna hurt when the meds wear off...

Then the haze cleared enough that I suddenly registered the name he'd said a few moments ago and I flicked my gaze back to the doctor. "D'ablo...?"

"Diablo Simmons," Callahan explained. "He's the guy that shot you. After you arrested him and your backup arrived, he managed to get out of his cuffs and steal the gun off another cop." A moment later, a laconic smile stole across the doctor's face. "Actually, he's confessed to everything and is currently 'resting' quite uncomfortably at the moment on another floor, under constant police guard." He stood and picked up his papers again. "Now Mr. Grayson, everything seems stable at the moment. Do you feel up to many visitors?"

I paused for a moment, thinking hard, then carefully shrugged the uninjured right shoulder. Too much cotton wool, that's the problem.

"Very well," he noted, making another mark on the chart, "I'll pass that on to the nurses. Now, I want you – or whoevers with you – to call me again when the pain becomes too much, and we'll see about giving you some relief, okay?"

I nodded numbly once more and watched as the doctor left. I relaxed then back into the pillow and allowed my eyes to close, suddenly tired again. All that talking had worn me out.

Bruce gave my hand another faint squeeze. "Go to sleep, Dick. We'll be here when you wake up."

"Mmm'hmm," I nodded. Feeling safe and secure despite the distant pain, I closed my eyes and allowed myself to sleep off the last of the painkillers.

The End...for now ;-D

(Epilogue to follow)