Author's Note: Welcome to the second installment of my "Limits" series, where we delve into the hidden depths of our favorite five. This time, it's Robin's turn. Please keep in mind that this language is not precisely that of the character who we are following around, but since I'm working from a third person point of view, I thought I was obliged to use it. If it's annoying, my apologies. Please enjoy.
Disclaimer: If I owned the Teen Titans, I'd be a rich man. I'm not; therefore, I don't.
The clock reads 12:28 A.M. He groans and sits up, casting the heat-trapping blanket aside. Summer nights and heavy comforters really didn't go together, he knew, but it never failed: every night he would collapse with his head on the pillow, devoid of all coverings except for his pajamas (bright orange with pink flamingos and zebra heads), and every morning---or afternoon---he would wake up underneath at least three new layers. It was as if his lithe, yet undersized body subconsciously reached out to take the things it needed when his mind took a vacation.
Of course, some people, like his teammate Raven, would argue that his mind was always on vacation, and he finds himself agreeing for the most part. The brightest parrot in the canopy he's not, that's for sure, but it's not like he was some sort of lowly dung beetle in the intelligence department. Sure, he can't do half of the things normal high school kids could do, like solving simultaneous equations or calculate theoretical yields of complicated experiments, but then again they don't know the exact moment when to pull up to avoid smashing into a wall, just like many of his unfortunate adversaries who had been on the receiving end of that trick. It was more of an instinct, really, than anything, but instincts are still lauded for smarts, anyway, he figures when his mind comes to rest on the subject.
Struggling to make his brain shut up, he encourages his insomnia and stumbles to his feet, the pads never once touching the lush, kelly green carpeting furnishing his room. Instead, they step across discarded, dirty civilian clothing; colorfully animated comic books; detailed game guides he buys religiously in order to help him defeat his arch nemesis and fellow teammate, Cyborg; and something soft and squishy that in his fatigued state he doesn't even want to consider. Finally reaching the doorknob, he yanks backward with all of his human might, forcing the clothes aside just enough so that he can slip out the door and shut it tightly behind him.
Unlike the other Titans, he chooses to use a traditional door instead of a complicated computer panel. After all, if the power goes out and Cyborg's using the back-up generators to recharge or something, why should he have to engage his powers to break into his own room? No, this was simpler, easier, more normal, and that's precisely what he wanted and needed out of his okapi-like collage of a habitat.
Legs carrying him down the familiar corridors, he notices that he is heading towards the common room. It's a good choice; there's television there to keep him occupied until all the shows are too boring or informercials reign supreme. There's also the kitchen, and his not-so-famous popcorn pasta. Although he frequently flaunts his acuity with preparing various tofu meals, as a vegan he needs exceptional culinary skills to make meals interesting without using the color contrasts available through meats, cheeses, and other products created from animals he associates with every second of every day. As he's said before, he can't just eat an animal and then turn into it. It's wrong. It's sick. It violates his instincts.
Objective set---to make his delicious popcorn-and-whatever-pasta-he-can-find creation and wolf it down---firmly within his brain, he makes like a bee and zooms for the doors suddenly a few short steps away from him. Forcing them open, he takes two steps near the kitchen before he realizes it's occupied.
Robin sits there at the kitchen table, cradling his coffee cup in both hands like a squirrel does its treasured acorn. He sips slowly, deliberately, as if the coffee is really some sort of hard liquor to be drunk slowly in order to not massacre the muscle tissue of the esophagus. His traditional uniform still adorns the acrobat's form; clearly, the thought of sleep has not occured to him quite yet.
At first, he thinks that Robin hasn't noticed him, but the thought is absurd once he remembers who exactly Robin is. Team leaders don't get to be team leaders because they're quick with witty catchphrases. Team leaders get to be team leaders because of intensive attention to detail and especially synergy within a group of people---in Robin's case, the Teen Titans themselves.
An attempt at a stealthy jig up, he nevertheless pursues his original plan. Striding into the kitchen, he immediately searches for the old-fashioned popcorn pot in the bottom cupboards, where all bulky cooking equipment seems destined to be kept.
"Good morning, Beast Boy. Or evening. Or afternoon. Whatever," Robin greets him. The casuality of it all strikes him rather oddly, as Robin's mood seemed rather despondent upon first glance, but he rides the flow like an aged manta ray in a riptide.
"Hey," he responds simply, the salutation sufficient for his purposes as he's rather busy. "Have you seen that big popcorn pot anywhere?" he adds, scratching his stiff, short hair in confusion, having scoured the lower cabinets to no avail.
"That black antique one Starfire got at that garage sale?" Robin supplies, eyes---mask, really---never leaving his coffee cup's contents.
"Yeah!" he replies, the memory sparking within his brain. She was a sight to behold: childlike innocence, squeals of glee and delight, querying the starstruck vendors about the various uses of salt and pepper shakers or baseball gloves. A sweetheart to the bitter end; as loyal as a dog, but as beautiful as a butterfly; more lethal than a scorpion.
"Try the cupboard above the stove," Robin advises, eyes still set in his coffee.
"Oh, sweet!" he exclaims in response, finding his loot inside and eagerly easing it out with his fingertips until he can get a solid grip on it, safely setting it atop the stove and shutting the cabinet again. As he reaches for a pot from the drying rack, Robin addresses the silence.
"Beast Boy?" Robin says, and for the first time in all the time he's known Robin, he finds Robin's tone so tentative and unsure that he nearly fumbles the pan. To be tentative and unsure in Robin's eyes, he is sure, means exhibiting a weakness, and that's not acceptable. Robin doesn't have weaknesses, doesn't underestimate opponents, doesn't make mistakes.
"Yeah?" he responds, busying himself by filling the pot with water from the sink.
"Do you...you remember when...it was...Raven was gone, vanished, and we found you...and we...I...said that it was your---" stumbles Robin, gripping his coffee cup tighter as he fumbles along.
"Dude, that's all water under the bridge, now," he assures, setting the heavy pot on the stove and reaching for the burner.
"No. It's not. Not for me, it isn't. Beast Boy...will you sit down for a minute?" Robin asks, but doesn't command. The tone is different, one he's never heard before, and so it convinces him. He turns the burner off and takes a seat near Robin, who is sitting at the foot of the table. He isn't all too confident that he wants to have this kind of one-on-one conversation with Robin; usually all of their "heart-to-hearts" ended up with Robin scolding him for one thing or another.
"What I said that day...it was out of line, and...I'm sorry. I was wrong. Wrong to think you, of all people, would do anything like that to...to any of us. I wish I had an explanation why, some...justification...but I don't," Robin admits, right hand breaking from the coffee cup to halt his teammate's protests.
"Please...I've been wanting to say this for...a long time. And I've wanted to make it up to you, but all this time...I couldn't find the right way. Now...now, I think I have," Robin reveals, hands back on his coffee cup.
Beast Boy says nothing. It's obvious, painfully obvious, that Robin has something that he needs to get off his chest, and so he listens, remembering a certain violet-haired girl who listened to him as he admitted his insecurities out by the rocks.
"When I go to bed at night, the last thing I do before going to sleep is to take off my mask," Robin starts, "And the last thing I do before I leave my room in the morning is to put it back on. It's like...like I've got...multiple personality disorder, or...or something like that. I'm one person with it on, and...and one person with it off.
"The night that that...incident...happened, when I tried to take it off, I couldn't. It was like...like Robin had taken me over, and that other personality was...gone. It's been like that ever since, and I think I...I finally know why.
"Everybody on this team, including you, I count as my family. And to think that...that I betrayed my own brother," and here Robin's voice breaks before he steels himself to continue, "By thinking he would do these...terrible things to my---our---sister...I think that that...guilt...was what was stopping me from taking it off. From letting me be...just...me," says Robin, his voice wavering.
"So tonight...I want to show you something," Robin finishes, and both hands come free of the coffee cup. Slowly, quaveringly, they reach up and nimbly detach the mask. It flutters down onto the table, and for the first time, the blinds on Robin's eyes are lifted and the dim lighting of the room comes flying in at full strength.
"Hi, Beast Boy. My name is Richard Grayson. But you can call me 'Dick'...or 'Rich'...or...whatever, I guess," Dick says, biting his lip slightly.
Beast Boy is floored, to say the least. The bright blue eyes staring at him reveal a side of Robin that he has never seen before. And then he realizes that that's the point---that this is like a manifestation of Robin's soul, poured out here for him to see, and it would be folly for him to not try and give the same gift in return, or at least a portion of its magnitude. It's only fair, and, besides, he finds himself thinking, he wants to do it.
For his friend.
No, for his brother.
"Hi, Dick. I'm Garfield Logan, but you can call me 'Gar'," he says, slowly removing his gloves to reveal scarred hands ending in unusually pointy, clawlike fingernails. They are one of his biggest secrets, but not the biggest of them all, and so he feels both able and compelled to share them with Dick.
The two look each other fully in the eye for a moment.
Dick holds out his hand.
Gar looks at the hand for a moment, then rises from his seat, firmly grasping the proferred hand and bringing Dick to his feet with a surprising strength.
For a second, Dick looks as if he's a naughty puppy expecting the newspaper, but Gar simply smiles and pulls Dick forward into a one-handed hug, their clasped hands still united between them.
"You're forgiven," Gar whispers, and two silent tears stream down Dick's face, the beaver's dam finally eradicated by salty torrents. Gar feels them drop onto his back and he takes them with ease, holding onto his brother like a drowning man gasping for air. When he feels that Dick has had enough, he leads the two of them into the cessation of the embrace, breaking away first, all smiles.
"C'mon, I'll make you some of my popcorn pasta. It's awesome, dude, seriously," Gar insists.
Dick laughs, shaking his head.
"I guess it won't kill me," he relents, "Do you need any help?" he offers.
Gar thinks for a second, then nods, turning on the stove burner once again.
"Yeah, actually," he agrees, and the two of them work together in the kitchen to make the meal, Gar leading Dick in its preparation. Together, they laugh and cook and eat with vigor, knowing that this harmony they have found will be strained in the coming weeks, but never broken, never again: the bonds of family always prevail.
Author's Note: Like what you've read? Review!