Begun: March 11, 2006
Finished: March 12, 2006
Summary: Robin, Raven A simple conversation between two very reticent people. Some things just weren't mean to last. He knew that. He knew that probably better than anyone. The funny thing was—he didn't think it applied to them. The gang's splitting up—and Robin's going to miss one member in particular. RobStar, RavenBB
A/N: Uhm. Not much to say about this. Whimsy. Rambling. Probably going to be two-three chapters. I wrote the last part first, and then went back and wrote the beginning, so the tone might kind of change a bit. Last third written with Les Mis in mind—beginning was written listening to Savage Garden and Howie Day, so it's probably going to be a little lighter.
Don't be a stranger. Reviewers brighten my world.
I.
It was raining, a gentle hush-hush of falling droplets—a healing, tranquil sort of rain. Pleasant and lovely.
Robin tolerated rain. He didn't really like it—
(starfire loves rain. starfire loves walking in the rain and dancing in the rain and laughing in the rain and jumping in rain puddles and—)
—but rain was a necessity, and he realized that. He was very patient, very uncomplaining when it came to rain—he thought it was something that had to happen, like brushing your teeth, or flossing, or helping old ladies across the street, or picking up litter, or writing thank-you notes for every Christmas present he got. It was just something that was required. It was a way of life. It was that simple.
Robin liked simple things. Simple things could be neatly organized and properly structured. Plans were simple things; preparation was simple; stratagems were simple; tactics were simple—simple and orderly and logical and tidy.
Simplicity, really, was very beautiful.
(starfire is always spontaneous. unorganized. complex. unplanned. impulsive. spur-of-the-moment. beautiful.)
Raven didn't really have much of an opinion on rain. Or, at least, she never stopped to think about rain. That would have been crazy. That would probably mean one had too much time on one's hands…Brooding sessions were not to be wasted on trivial things like—rain. Rain was rain. Water fell from the sky. What else was there?
They had escaped from the din of the common room a short while ago, although from the eerie silence that permeated the halls, it appeared that the other three had all retired to their own rooms. Quiet was an especially rare commodity—rare and odd.
Even he and Raven—impassive, imperturbable, composed, cool—even they felt the urge, after a few moments of savoring, to fill the quiet. So they did something even rarer than the quiet—they initiated and held a conversation.
And it wasn't monosyllabic.
He supposed that the common room, with its couch and pillows, would have been a more comfortable place for conversation-holdings, but he didn't quite feel like cleaning up pizza boxes and soda cans at the moment—and the kitchen was certainly not uncomfortable.
And it had food.
So he'd put a kettle on (for her), and Raven had semi-smiled, and they sat at the table and she had tea and he had ginger ale, which was all that was left in the fridge, since apparently Dumb and Dumber had deemed it too mild for their "extremeness."
Because, certainly, they were extreme.
"They're going to miss each other, very much."
He looked up, and Raven was tracing the rim of her cup with one finger.
"Projecting my thoughts again?" He asked.
"You were," she replied, neutrally, "rather loud." He grinned, and was not very surprised when she peered up at him through her eyelashes, and smiled back faintly.
"I'm going to miss them—and you," he said, abruptly. "When, you know—" and he was resorting back to hand gestures, as he always did, whenever he found himself searching for the appropriate words, "—we're all…split up. With actual lives and…stuff."
He really didn't know what people who had real lives did—people who got up a 7:30 instead of 4:00, people who didn't have to fend off two resident black holes to finish their breakfast, people who went to school or work or whatever normal people went to, who came home and had dinner and watched TV and maybe had friends outside the family, who could sleep the advised eight hours a night and not be woken up by some freak accident-of-circumstances caused by a freak accident-of-nature who a) was mental, b) had weird accents, c) was related to him in some way (because, really, his team was his family) or d) should have, by all rights, died of extreme old age…
He supposed that such a life would a drearily predictable.
He wanted that kind of life. There was something to be said for ordinariness.
He thought maybe Raven didn't understand what he'd meant by "with actual lives"—and maybe he should explain his whole thesis-theory-whatever thing to her—but that really would take too long—and what was he supposed to explain to a telepath?
So he merely said, "I'm going to miss you. I mean, we all knew this was coming—couldn't be Teen Titans forever—but—I didn't like to think about it, and—well, I'm really going to miss you."
He didn't let himself think about whom else he was going to miss.