I had the idea for this the other night. It's just a scene I imagined sometime in the future. Hope you enjoy!
Legal: Don't own Teen Titans, DC Comics, or much of anything, for that matter.
Reviews would make me happy. Think of them as a donation for services rendered.
Sunlight streamed through the windows in soft waves, doing its best to illuminate the dimly lit but cozy coffee shop. The day was warm, the sky cloudless, and the cherry trees' delicate white flowers were blossoming. There were times when New York City was a very pleasant place to be, and this was one of them.
Pulling the door open, he stepped into the coffee shop. The day was so bright and the atmosphere of the café so traditionally darker that it took his eyes a moment to adjust. He hesitated in the doorway until he could make out the dim outlines of the obstacles on the way to the counter. Normally, he wouldn't be in such a place, but he was dehydrated and it was the closest place to purchase an overpriced bottle of Evian. Sliding money at the disenchanted sales clerk, he turned and cracked open the bottle, taking a long, satisfying drink.
As he lowered the bottle, already feeling much more like himself, he noticed something that caught his eye. A woman, his age, he guessed, sat idly reading a thick, leather-bound book. With a prim and manicured nail she allowed the page to sit delicately on her finger, before flipping it with a slow, graceful arching movement. Her eyes never left the page, even when she paused to sip her tea.
He didn't know consciously what it was that drew him to her, but somewhere in his mind stirred a feeling of nostalgic comfort. Consciously, he perceived it more as attraction, despite the fact she already didn't seem his type. This woman seemed moody, dark, and disinclined to laugh at his jokes—or any jokes for that matter. He much preferred blondes with blue eyes and a party-girl personality. But as much as anything else, curiosity for this feeling drew him to make a move.
With an over-embellished air of pseudo-confidence, he made his approach, laying a hand lightly on the back of the chair in front of her. She made no move to indicate she noticed him and, after pausing only a beat more, he asked, "Is this seat taken?"
For a moment, he wondered if she'd heard him. Still reading, her eyes glued to the page, she replied, "There are plenty of other seats."
Interpreting her response as a classic "hard-to-get" strategy, he chose flattery. "Yes, but none other are at a table with you."
She sighed, hearing the obvious pick-up line. "Trust me, it makes them much more appealing to you at this moment," she growled. "I don't wish to be bothered."
This woman still hadn't looked up from her book! Maybe he was out of his league here. He stood dumbly for a moment, and she continued to read, occasionally sipping her tea. Aside from the moment of hostility earlier, she made no sign of annoyance, anger, sociability, or emotion whatsoever. Her long black hair fell gracefully over her shoulders as she read, and occasionally sneaked out from behind her ear. Other than sipping her tea, tucking strands of hair back into its proper place behind her ear was the only movement she made. From this close, he could see now her eyes were indigo, and that despite the way she hunched over her book, when standing she would be athletic and curvy.
The silence hung in the air, despite the bustle of New York around them. Time froze for him, as he contemplated his next move. Deciding he would probably live through it, he picked up where conversation—if one could call it that—had died moments ago. "I don't wish to leave this table without your number." He sat down.
For the first time, the woman made a move. Closing her book with an exasperated sigh, she finally looked up at him. "Look, I didn't come here to meet men. I came here to be alone, as much as anyone can be in this city. I don't know how to make this clearer: go away."
"Fine. I understand. Why don't you just give me your number so I can call you later, when you feel less like being alone, and maybe we can get dinner sometime when it's better for you?" he thought it sounded a reasonable proposal. He was a good-looking guy, after all. She stared at him blankly. His cheeks turned lightly pink, before he added, "I'll go away if you give me your number."
"Yes. That makes sense. Then instead of bothering me here, you can bother me all the time." She paused. The man's persistence was wearing on her. Her patience was already low, and she was contemplating ways to make him leave. Like fake phone numbers. "How would I know you're not a stalker?"
Mock seriously, he held up his right hand. "I do solemnly swear that I am not a stocker, and will use your number to the best of my ability to buy you dinner." She watched, the curves of a smile only an experienced friend could see pulling at her lips. As he put his hand down on the table, she saw the shine of a ring. Hoping it wasn't the wedding band of a past relationship, she looked at it when he put his hand back down on the table. Her eyes widened in shock.
"Where did you get that ring?" Her voice had the most feeling in it he'd heard thus far. It bordered on urgency.
Looking at his ring for a moment (he often forgot he wore it), he smiled and remembered his old friend. "A good friend of mine, back in the day. He was a computer buff, and made it for me because I liked the look of a similar one he had. His was more a gadget though." It was the way he'd dodged the question many times.
His dark brown hair fluttered a little in the breeze from someone opening the door of the café. His eyes were down, avoiding hers as he thought about his ring.
But she was staring intensely. Suddenly everything in her felt lighted; she had to know. When he looked up, he was taken aback a moment by the intensity of her stare. She was leaning forward, blue eyes locked on his green ones. It was the only thing that ring didn't conceal. Speaking carefully, containing her excitement, she stated firmly: "Victor Stone gave you that ring."
To say he was shocked was an understatement. He gaped at her and, satisfied, she let him. Recovering, he managed, "Who are you? How do you know that?"
She smiled coyly. "I recognize the ring. I know all about you and Victor Stone, Mr. Garfield Logan."
There was only one thing to say. Fearing he'd run into a long-forgotten enemy, he choked, "Who are you?"
She met his gaze calmly, reading his eyes with hers. She chastised herself for not having looked at him sooner; she'd know those eyes anywhere, until the day she died. She sighed again. "I can't believe you don't recognize me, Gar. I don't have a ring to change my appearance." Making sure he was watching, she let a black wisp of power turn the page of her book before she feigned reading.
The silence hung pregnant between them. She continued falsely reading, while he attempted to find the muscles that worked his jaw. No matter what he did, he just couldn't seem to get his mouth to close.
They sat that way for what seemed like hours: she waited patiently, he struggled. That's the way it had always been—like old times.
His eyes wanted to tear up, but he wouldn't allow it. He choked a little, whispered, "Raven?"
She looked up at him again, this time her eyes sparkling and a smile gracing her features. He used to try so hard to make her smile, and here, years later, her face lit up just seeing him. She nodded a little, pleased. "I go by Rachel Roth now, Dr. Roth."
For the next three hours, the two of them caught up, reminisced, and she gave him the number he'd wanted from the start.
Some people are probably questioning how Raven looked different. Hair dye, colored contacts, and for the chakra I'm going to say an enchantment. The chakra would have been a dead give-away, not that the tea and musty old book weren't, but it's my story, so there you go. Reviews welcome and appreciated. I'll just laugh at flames because I like this story.