So I've had this idea in my head all month, but I only got around to writing it this week. That said, it hasn't been beta'd or even proofread very well, because I wanted to finish it before Christmas. No idea how it's going to go over, because it's a little unusual, subject-wise. But here it is. Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all.
Disclaimer: We should probably all be glad I don't own the Teen Titans.
Lessons and Carols
Two days left until Christmas, and Raven honestly didn't think she was going to make it.
It wasn't just that the Tower was bursting with lights, enough garland to choke a reindeer, and sneaky bunches of mistletoe Beast Boy had hung as a joke. And it wasn't the stress of trying to find, or make, gifts she thought her friends would actually enjoy in time for their annual Titans Christmas party. It wasn't even that Starfire kept playing obnoxious, badly written Christmas movies and specials on the giant TV in the common room.
"IIIIIIIIII SAW MOMMY KISSING SAAAAAAAAANTA CLAUS—"
No. It was definitely the Christmas music, and Raven was ready to scream.
She turned up the volume of her iPod to a level that threatened her eardrums, but the dreary instrumentals and her closed bedroom door still couldn't drown out the sound of Cyborg belting in the kitchen.
"OH WHAT A LAUGH IT WOULD HAVE BEEEEEEEEN IF DADDY HAD ONLY SEEEEEEEEN—"
"Silent night, my ass," she muttered to herself, trying desperately to focus on her mantra. It had become progressively harder to meditate over the last week, thanks to her teammates' holiday exuberance. Annoyance bordering on fury roiled in her like a funnel cloud.
This would not do. Since her birthday, when her father's marks had glowed on her arms, her inner peace had been delicate, so easy to shatter. That feeling of having a storm inside was growing, getting stronger, to the point where she sometimes found it hard to breathe. Every now and then, flashes of rage or the growlings of a soul-deep hunger would shudder through her body. They terrified her, because she knew they weren't hers.
If she could meditate, if she could find some quiet plane, she might be able to keep it at bay… lull it back to sleep, or at least pretend…
There was a loud knock at her door. Raven yelped in surprise and dropped heavily back onto her bed. She hadn't even realized she'd been levitating.
Damn it. She'd been so close to a meditative state, but there would be no reclaiming it now. Not with Cyborg's Greatest Holiday Hits, featuring the Vocal Non-Talents of Beast Boy, ringing through the Tower.
"Raven?"
"It's unlocked," she said, trying not to snap. The door hissed open, and Robin stuck his head into the room.
"I'm heading out for a few hours. I just wanted to give you a heads-up. Everything okay?"
"Fine," Raven lied reflexively. Robin had been doing this a lot lately—not hovering, exactly, but being around, being aware, checking in on her while acting like he wasn't doing anything of the kind. It was annoying and intrusive. Raven refused to admit how much safer it made her feel.
And anyway, she had the sneaking suspicion he knew she was lying. She had tried to sever the mental link she'd established when Robin needed rescuing from his own mind, but she wasn't sure she had managed it. There was an electricity between them, a cautious awareness, that led her to believe Robin was as sensitive to her emotions as she was to his.
Again, annoying. Mildly intrusive. But, at this moment in her life, not at all unwelcome.
"What are you wearing?" she asked, to deflect the conversation. His uniform had been replaced with a green hooded sweatshirt and jeans, with a red knit beanie over his hair. Instead of his domino mask, he wore a pair of snug-fitting sunglasses over his eyes.
"Civvies. It's, um, a personal thing."
He looked a little awkward, as though expecting her to ask him to elaborate, or feeling like he should do so unprompted. She opened her mouth to tell him his business was his business, when a mighty CRASH! resounded from the living room.
Raven fell back on her bed and put her hands over her eyes. "What in the name of Azar are they doing now?"
"Um…" Robin stuck his head into the hallway, and then came back to report. "Cyborg is singing 'I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas,' and Beast Boy is obliging. I think Starfire is actually about to die from laughing."
Indeed, the pealing laughter from the living room had reached a frankly alarming frequency, and the thunderous stomping of Beast Boy's pachyderm feet.
"If this doesn't stop soon," Raven said to the ceiling, "I am going to murder every last one of you."
Robin's face cracked into a wide grin. On a normal day, Raven thought, he would have heaved an aggravated sigh and stomped off to wrangle his team into order. But even he wasn't immune to the Christmas cheer. Dirty traitor.
"You need to get out of here for a few hours. Come with me."
"Come with you where?"
"You'll see."
She glared at him.
"Oh, come on. It's come out with me, or stay here and listen to the sing-alongs all night."
She groaned. Robin's grin widened.
"Awesome. Oh, hang on—"
He disappeared for a moment, then returned with another hooded sweatshirt, which he tossed to her. "We're not going as Titans, so bundle up."
Raven glowered, unclasping her cloak with ill grace.
"This had better be good," she said, and he smiled.
-T-
Raven transported them to the mainland by portal, bringing them to the city center in an alley they often used for such a purpose. Robin set off with his hands in his hoodie pocket, moving confidently through the holiday throngs. He called out a street name for Raven to look for, adding a little sheepishly that wearing sunglasses at night made it difficult to see where he was going.
Raven wore Robin's red hoodie, which was a little too large on her, and tucked her hair up into a black knit cap so that it was completely obscured. Her skin and eyes still set her apart from the average humans around her, so she had added a fuzzy scarf, dug with some effort out of a closet, to the ensemble for a thoroughly ragamuffin look. Even in winter, the temperature for northern coastal California didn't dip below the fifties, so the Titans were short on the kind of cold-weather clothing that worked well for disguises.
The festive street was an assault on her senses. The light displays on store fronts were excessive, sometimes gaudy, and holiday shoppers kept bumping her with their bags. Their raw feelings rubbed against her psyche—stress, irritation, impatience, pedestrian road rage. She recoiled, trying not to make it obvious that she was clinging to Robin, who through some Jedi mind-trick was able to keep people from shouldering into him as they walked. To make it all worse, obnoxious, poppy Christmas music jangled through every open door:
"Rockin' around the Christmas tree at the Christmas party hop…"
"In Pennsylvania, folks are travelin' down to Dixie's sunny shores…"
"I don't want a lot this Christmas, I won't even wish for snow…"
She ground her teeth, already plotting revenge on the Boy Wonder for dragging her into this hell.
You will end all of this, said a blithe little voice in her head. Commercialized, materialistic little people, all of this frantic, pointless rushing—gone!
Raven flinched back from the thought. She, of all people, knew better than to throw the word "hell" around so lightly.
The crowds began to thin as stores gave way to neat townhouses, neighborhood groceries and box gardens. Raven saw the street sign Robin had told her to look out for, and tapped him on the shoulder. He turned them onto a wide tree-lined street, leading them to—
A church. St. Andrew's Anglican Church, judging by the sign.
She felt a stab of panic. Above her, a string of lights flickered and died.
"Robin—"
He turned on the steps. For the first time, she could see his eyebrows—black, like his hair, long and angled. They were raised questioningly above the rim of his sunglasses.
"It's okay," he said, spotting her discomfort at once. His voice was quiet. "Trust me."
He walked through the heavy wooden door, which was propped open to the street. Swallowing, the demon's daughter followed him.
The church was small, but grand it its own way. Stained glass windows sat in wood-paneled walls, with neat rows of pews facing a slightly raised platform. Overhead, a high ceiling with exposed rafters vaulted; on either side of the platform, people in choir robes rustled their sheet music. Candles twinkled from wall sconces, and simple greenery lay along the backs of the pews.
Just beyond the front door was a basket, piled high with canned and boxed goods. Robin pulled two cans of cranberry sauce out of his hoodie—god only knew where, or when, he'd gotten them—and placed them near the basket, then picked up two programs. He passed one to Raven silently as he led the way to a pew, choosing one in the very back, near the door.
"Why are we here?" Raven hissed once they were seated.
"You were sick of the music around the Tower. I think you'll like this better."
"I highly doubt that—"
He shushed her as, all at once, the choir rose to its feet. The slim congregation fell silent as a single chorister stepped forward. Raven felt the tug of their shared anticipation like a hitch in her own breath.
Then a voice, high and clear, wavering like the candlelight:
"Once in royal David's city—"
The chorister's voice filled the quiet like the first birdsong of the morning, floating light and airy to the rafters. Raven's breath really did catch in her chest at the unexpected beauty as the rest of the chorus joined in, singing the refrain softly behind the soloist's clear voice. The song's pace was slow, the arrangement stripped-down and simple, with three or four vocal parts singing harmony and counterpoint.
She risked a glance at Robin, who smirked and mouthed, Told you.
The voices wound their way through "Once in Royal David's City," then moved to other songs, some of which Raven didn't recognize. She followed the names in her program: "Silent Night," "In the Bleak Midwinter," "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." The names, and the words, seemed so much less important than the music itself.
These were not the bright, poppy, candied radio tunes that so grated on her nerves. These songs were darker, somber. They belonged to a colder clime, where nights stretched long and deep and black. She had read enough Dickens to recognize the aesthetic of a British winter, and when she closed her eyes she could almost feel it wrapping around her like a shroud: a winter so long, so dim, that once upon a time people erected stone calendars and passage tombs to track the light and reassure themselves the sun would come again. If she gave herself over to the feeling, she could almost see her breath pluming in the imagined cold.
A quiet voice startled her from her reverie. Astonished, Raven realized Robin was singing along under his breath to "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel." His voice was soft but clear, a little off-key but not unpleasant. Catching her look, he rolled his eyes a little self-consciously and bumped her shoulder with his.
They were plaintive songs, of seekers and supplicants. Of people looking for a scrap of hope to stave off the darkness. The small group who had gathered at this service on a weeknight, two days before Christmas, responded in kind. She felt them all turning to the music like leaves to the sun, sinking into an almost meditative state, not unlike the meditative sessions of the monks of Azarath. It was a unity she often felt from crowds, but the focus was different. As though they were all breaking down their own barriers, reaching out to one another in spirit, though they didn't have her powers to do so.
At some point Raven could not identify, the music shifted. It became brighter, though no less grave, as subtle as night lightening toward dawn. The spirits around her rose in response, and the singing of the congregation grew louder to keep up with the chorus. Earnest, celebratory joy pressed against her like a current.
Raven opened herself up to it, letting the tide flow into and through her. She gathered it up like a vessel, like a cistern-and then, amplified by her own powers, she sent it back into the crowd. Voices swelled as the singers moved into "O Come, All Ye Faithful." By "Angels We Have Heard on High," they were shaking the rafters. At her side, his self-consciousness forgotten, Robin's voice rang like a bell.
A small part of her brain—the demon part—itched and burned in protest, burrowing deeper, seeking some kind of relief in her own darkness. But another part rose to meet the music, and she let it, feeling the storm inside her quieting at last.
-T-
They got takeout from a hole-in-the-wall Indian restaurant and carried their Styrofoam cartons three blocks to the Jump City Municipal Library. They chose a plinth and perched on either side of one of the stone lions flanking the steps, balancing their dinners in their laps and happily bashing their least favorite Christmas music.
"Wonderful Christmastime," said Raven.
"Ugh, worst. That stupid Band-Aid song, Do They Know It's Christmas. I hate that one."
"Same. Kind of colonialist, to be perfectly honest. Okay. That song from the Charlie Brown cartoons. The one with the creepy children's choir."
"Good one. Santa Baby."
"Yeah, because nothing says 'peace on earth' like flirting with a fat old man." That made Robin laugh. "Oh, and the Grinch song."
"Incorrect. The Grinch is classic. I veto your choice."
"You can't veto my musical tastes."
"Can, and did." Robin used a piece of naan to mop up curry that had dribbled over the edge of his container, and popped it into his mouth. Across the street, a Jump City cop watched them out of the corner of his eye, one hand not-so-subtly gripping his nightstick. He clearly hadn't recognized them, sizing them up as possible troublemakers. Robin gave him a cheeky wave, and Raven almost giggled. "I have this diabolical idea that one year, we'll make Beast Boy put on a Santa costume and act out the whole movie."
"I'll allow the veto, on the condition that you make this happen. That's all I want for Christmas next year."
"Done." Robin grinned. "Alright. I don't know if you've heard this one, but my all-time, least-favorite Christmas song is The Christmas Shoes."
"I've never heard that one."
"Good. It's an emotionally manipulative song about how God makes bad things happen to other people's parents to teach you the true meaning of Christmas."
He shook his head in disgust. Raven chewed her curry slowly, watching his face as he ate. He looked so startlingly boyish, in his hoodie and knit hat.
"I never took you for a religious type," she said lightly, trying to make it clear in her voice that he didn't have to take up the conversation if he didn't want to.
"I'm not," he said, in an equally light tone.
"Then why the church service?"
Robin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"My…grandfather. Used to take me." Raven nodded, trying not to act like it was a big deal that Robin had dropped a detail about his family. "Anglican churches always do a Lessons and Carols service in the week before Christmas. I asked if I could go with him one year, just out of curiosity, and it kind of became a tradition."
"Was he British?"
"He is."
Is. Raven filed that away, wanting to check it later against the memories she had gleaned in her past foray into Robin's mind. She vaguely remembered a voice with an English accent, the taste of Earl Grey tea with milk and sugar—dim, sensual details, nothing clear.
Another piece to the puzzle that was her roommate, leader, and friend. She hadn't known he still had family living. Somewhere out there, Robin had a home to which he did not return during the holidays.
"I wasn't really raised to be religious," Robin said suddenly, pulling—likely deliberately—her thoughts away from that direction. "And even if I was, it would be pretty hard to reconcile with the lives we lead."
"How so?"
"You practice magic. Cyborg's mostly a robot. Beast Boy is part animal. Starfire is from a different world, and her people worship different gods. I don't see the Christian religion bending to accommodate all of that."
"No." From her own readings on the major world religions, Christianity seemed among the least likely to make those kinds of allowances, when some denominations still wouldn't let women lead from the pulpit. "So going to church is a once-a-year deal for you? Just a Christmas tradition?"
"I think it's that way for a lot of people, to be honest."
"I suppose you don't have to be religious to appreciate the music."
"Well, it's a little more than that."
Raven looked up, a little taken aback that he hadn't accepted the obvious out she had given him. Robin looked almost as surprised, but he pressed on hesitantly. "I like the…ideas, I guess, that people talk about at Christmas. Kindness. Coming together. Looking out for each other. All that."
"Those ideas still exist through the rest of the year," she said, a little bitterly.
"I know that," Robin replied. "But I think people buy into them more at Christmas. Whatever you believe about the religious bits, the story basically boils down to a bunch of scared people leaning on hope in a very, very unlikely source. Trying to be brave, even though they don't have a real reason for it. Having faith that things will turn out okay, even when it seems impossible."
She rolled her eyes, because it was such a Robin thing to say. Only the Boy Wonder could make Hallmark-card speeches without getting any crap about it.
"I mean, you felt it too." She shot him a sharp look, but he met it unflinchingly. "It was a neat trick you did, at the church. I felt you amplifying everyone's emotions. I felt you…open up."
Raven shrugged.
"Why?"
"I felt like it."
"Yeah, okay."
His tone made it clear that he wasn't going to push, but that he knew she was deflecting. They sat in a stalemate silence, irritated—but not seriously. Not uncomfortably.
She knew the calm she had felt in the midst of all the singing was temporary. Already, the darkness inside her was starting to swirl again. Christmas would come, and go, and a new year—the final year—would begin, and the days would tick down and down and down until the last. That was what had been foretold, and that was what would be.
And yet…
Raven had felt her nature divided, more than she usually did, as she rode that tide of song. Her demon half had recoiled, sought refuge, from the welling-up of hope in so many souls. Even if it was nothing more than an endorphin high, no more than a lie, that feeling had given her a few moments of much-needed peace, and strength to keep the demon down a little longer.
Because while she knew her destiny was inevitable, some stupid, stubborn, flint-hard part of herself refused to believe it. And that stupid, stubborn part of herself had lately started speaking in the voice of the person sitting across from her.
The person who, having decided he no longer liked her silent treatment, was giving her a shit-eating grin.
"You know what I think?" Robin said, in a voice that indicated he did not really think it at all, and was saying it mostly to annoy her. "I think you're just finally getting into the Christmas spirit."
"Incorrect."
"I can't wait to tell Cyborg. Our resident Scrooge, seeing the light at last, no ghosts required—"
"I am throwing your present into another dimension as soon as we get home."
"You actually got us presents this year? It's a Christmas miracle—"
Raven shot her takeout fork at his head, giving it a magical boost to make it land tines-first in his hat. Laughing, Robin leapt down from the plinth. He held out his hand to help her. Raven squinted at it suspiciously.
"Did you plan this?" she asked him bluntly. "The service, the 'hope and faith' speech?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Right. We've just been talking about Christmas this whole time."
She couldn't see the eyes behind his sunglasses, but she imagined, from the sound of his voice, that they were shining mischievously.
"Exactly. Christmas. No ulterior motives here. Now, are we going home or what? Apparently there's another dimension with my present's name written all over it."
Raven rolled her eyes again. But she took his hand.