ANI don't write disclaimers, cuz this is FANfiction, meaning FANS rite them, not the owner or any co producers and what not. Kinda short, the title doesn't really make sense at first, and I'm not too sure that there was a well constructed plot. The plot exists, but I think it was poorly administered…OH! Nd cud someone tell me what beta-ing is? I'm a bit outta the loop. ( . )

Rated: T – due partly to miniscule ref. to love-making, and partly because I label pretty much all my stories as T.

Genre: General, with slight tragedy (I think).

Past Tense

I want it. I want it, want it, want it.

Like Hell, I want it.

There is nothing in my life I want as much as that.

Or more so, wanted as much as that.

I would never have expected to want sleepless nights so badly, never would have wanted any more noise, any more utter chaos in my life so badly.

But I did.

God dammit, I did.

I wanted to feel it: wanted heavy bags under my eyes, wanted sore arms; I wanted that splitting migraine every blaring second of my life.

Hell, I already have to run out each week for more aspirin.

I already had all those things, but never in my life had I wanted it.

Those idle relics, those sacred talismans, those symbolic trophies would be like the merit badges on every Boy Scout's dream sash.

Not that I was Boy Scout.

But to feel it in my arms like seven pounds of feathers and Johnson & Johnson's™ brand baby wash—that would be heaven.

A holy and blessed kind of uncharted waters just beyond my reach, but filling up every space in my head.

With my eyes, I see Cyborg and Beast Boy battling it out over the Gamestation, Starfire concocting some kind of Tameranean delicacy, Raven (my Raven, I'll have you know—marked her myself…not that Raven is property…) indulged in some Edgar Allen Poe-come-alive kind of novel.

But that's not what I see in my heart, in my very existence. No, I don't cheer on the boys—because I can't; I'm not really seeing them.

Instead I see Raven, coated in a fine layer of sweat, hair tousled, in a sterile white hospital gown, contradicting her dark indigo locks, and uncannily reminiscent of her pale, porcelain skin. I see her eyes shining, cast downward to the bundle in her arms, unidentifiable to any stranger, yet wailing with such familiarity in its tone to none but Raven and me.

I don't cringe at Starfire's attempt at cooking.

Instead, I flinch in bed, as loud crying infiltrates my sleep. I turn on my side to see a slight depression where Raven's form once lay—we share a bed in my fantasy (for purely clean intentions, mind you). I shuffle out of bed, and down the imaginary hall of my imaginary house to the imaginary bedroom of my—here, in reality I wince—imaginary child, and I see my sweet Raven, half asleep in a wooden chair overstuffed with pillows, rocking the miniscule heap in her arms, singing some lullaby I vaguely remember from some distant memory of my short-lived and long forgotten childhood.

I'm too lost in fiction even to read the back of Raven's paperback book.

Instead I step from the threshold of the decorative, infantile room and lift not one, but two bodies up into my lap. I can feel the warmth of Raven's body lingering on the back and seat of the chair, and I continue singing where Raven's voice left off. And the voice that's singing is mine, but not mine—it's my mother's voice, my father's voice—lulling the baby to sleep. And even as the crying ceases, and the movement stills to none but the rise and fall of that tiny chest, I sing and sing, and the faint hum of the overhead fan and the small, rhythmic, squeaking of the rocking chair and the choir of crickets all seem to interlock and mold together with the singing and the warmth on my lap and it spreads from my thighs; down to my toes, and up and up through my stomach, and as it reaches my heart, as though it's part of the very blood that makes me, it spreads through my entire system, filling up each and every capillary more and more with each heart beat. And there's heat in my head, and it's not an ego, but love. And everything starts to become fuzzy, and I can't hear anything but that lullaby and the hum, and the squeak, and the grand choir of some cricket cathedral.

And everything sounds like music, conducted by some legendary conductor, before the audience of some high monarchy, rising in some vast, breathtaking, climactic crescendo, and soon it becomes so strong and overwhelming, I can't help but cry, and my eyes begin to burn, and I need to blink, but I can't, I can't pull my eyes away from this dream and I feel as though an unseen force were sucking the breath, the very soul out of me, and all that tension pulling at my lungs, my back is beginning to arch, I can feel it, and the pit of my stomach clenches and tightens, and I can feel my legs numbing and my elbows locking, and my fingers pulled together in a white fist, and all the while that music is playing louder and louder and the orchestra reaches its highest peak of volume, and stops so suddenly.

And my muscles relax so suddenly and without warning that it feels as though I were a slingshot, being stretched forward so far, that when your fingers slip, it snaps back like a whip, and I feel like my entire body is flying backwards, snapping like a rubber-band.

And a loud, throaty sob is yanked out of my mouth so violently, that I blink, and I see….

The living room. And for the first time all day, I see Cyborg, and Beast Boy and Starfire and Raven, all looking at me, concerned and wide eyed.

It takes me a moment to realize the errant tears on my cheeks, and I feel one drip onto my arm with such a quiet 'plop'. And I know that the sob was real. And loud.

And I feel like crying, but I am Robin, protégé of Batman, and all I can do is turn and run up the stairs to my room.

And I want to see that wonderful fantasy again, but I don't even try to, because I know I won't be able to.

I yank my mask off so hard, so aggressively, that you can hear it peeling off my face.

And standing there, staring at my puffy-eyed, bloodshot reflection, I know that as much as I say I wanted it, the truth is, I want it. I still want it.

But standing there, watching the crystalline drops of liquid catch the light on their descent, I know that….

I can't.

I want to, but I can't.

And I wish with such desolation and dejectedness, and above all else, bitterness, that I could put that dreadful word, 'can't' into past tense.

I think the ending was kinda lame….but wut I meant by that was that by putting 'Can't' into past tense, it becomes 'Couldn't', meaning that before, he couldn't, but now Robin could. Did that make any sense at all? Idk if I wrote it well, or if I kept mentioning similar things at two completely different times. And the stuff in parenthesis, was still Robin speaking, not me, even though in a way, if taken the wrong way it could be considered an AN. Which it wasn't…does that make any sense at all? Nd please tell me if u think it was a good idea never to actually mention the words fatherhood, parenthood, or baby (except in reference to baby wash). It's open for discussion.

Review. Flames accepted. Constructive criticism appreciated.