Robin
Contrary to the beliefs of his teammates, Richard's peculiar and disturbing habit of isolating himself for long periods of time with naught but a desk and old newspaper clippings, was not for the sole purpose of brooding, nor was it to prevent the last shard of his sanity from shattering irreplaceably.
Occasionally, when he excused himself early from dinner, or opted to research rather than watch a movie, he would be vaguely discomforted by Raven's knowing glances- he knew that when she had gone into his mind to develop that psychic link she had not purposely invaded his memories, yet he still felt naked and ashamed whenever she gave him a look.
For, in the recesses of Titan's Tower, he would take from his room a dusty reel- to his team mates, he had dismissed the retro object as an antique, given to him by Bruce- he joked that he might one day sell it for a million bucks, but no paper guarantees were to be made regarding its value.
It had taken him an astonishingly long amount of time to find a projector suited for such film, even for a young man with such an aptitude for research, but when the water-marred sepia of the photographs fell against the wall like the bittersweet fading of heat on summer-warmed skin, he was grateful for the work he had put in to obtain it.
The first picture struck him as a rather unfriendly one, as it always did. A young thumbprint had etched its way gracefully in the left-hand corner, and the veined wrinkles of the padded digit only slightly obscured the figures, standing on a rocky bluff. The man stood, with pale eyes and one hand shoved into his pocket, and another draped happily around the shoulders of a young woman with dark lips and a wistful smile. She was leaning against a small trailer with a bucket of paint, and had apparently written in neat lettering 'The Amazing Flying Graysons!' on its side, and she held tucked in her arms a bundled child.
He pressed the button, making the next slide click into place, and the bright eyes of a grinning young boy smiled out at him, clad in a skintight spandex suit with shining gold-star appliqués across the chest- in one hand, he held a balloon, and the other was thrust forward carrying a disgruntled frog.
As each picture rolled by, his eyes grew heavy, until he succumbed to the urge to close his lids behind the mask.
Robin scratched the back of his head idly, ignoring the fierce aching in his heart and the odd throbbing in his throat- even though he knew, with a sinking feeling, the truth, he still liked to pretend that the two reactions were a symptom, perhaps, of the dust caught in the old machine- it was well known that such particles could cause allergies.
As the last image shifted into place, he reached over to desk and fingered his MP3 player, sliding a headphone into his ear.
The quiet rattling of an old drum skin, polished by the fingers of the generations.
The squeak of a violin, glissing over octaves, and playing a minor, melancholy waltz to beat of the drum.
The calloused pads of the hands, plucking softly on the old classical guitar, and the chords and the chromatic progression speeding up in time to the shake of the tambourine-
The picture comes into full focus- the edges, to him, seem a little sharper and clearer.
She is staring shyly away from the camera, her lids dark and her lips pressed softly into the crown of his head.
Both are dressed in bright red leotards with high necks, and his broad hand is covering her significantly smaller one. Though he doesn't smile, in the strictest sense, there is a tentative curve to his mouth, and the warmth emanating from his eyes is rich and full in contrast to his rather lean, stoic face.
Robin shivers.
Strike up, band and play…