30Kisses Theme Ficlets
Robin/Raven
By Kysra
Theme #17 (kHz - kilohertz): Canvas
Last to appear, first to leave, she had disappeared without a word of welcome or goodbye, gone back to her empty white room and her empty white world full of ghosts and visions and --
"She's broken. You can't fix people, Rob. I can't fix her . . ." That's what Cyborg had said when he had finally come out of his Star-less funk years ago. He could have helped her through the drain of abandonment. They could have helped each other, but he had broken a promise to her made eons ago and her mind had paid for his mistake.
Nightwing looked at his two remaining old(er) friends and opened his mouth to ask after their lives in his absence; but they were looking at the space where she had stood, warm and pale and lovely, seconds ago . . . next to him. He realized then that he had missed her, that he had missed her long before he had ever had an inkling of a thought to strike out on his own.
Now that the shocks of seeing Star again and reuniting the team had passed, he could reflect on her brief presence. She had been more controlled. The white cloak had been a surprise, a pleasant one, and he smiled slightly. "She's rid herself of her rage."
The smile fell as Cyborg clucked his tongue and shook his bald head. "There wasn't anything left to get rid of."
BB was silent, staring -- accusing. "This is your fault. You were the one she depended on, and you let her down! You let us all down!"
When he spoke, it was calm, cold, and deadly. "I was the last one there for her. Where the hell were you?"
He remembered when they were young(er). She had acquired an album of abstract artworks. Her eyes were always searching a specific piece that - to him - looked to be nothing more than a bunch of squiggly lines and paint blotches randomly placed on a dirty canvas; and once, he had even scrounged up the courage to ask after what she found so interesting about it.
With a blush (interesting in and of itself), she had traced yellow zig-zags and white-mixed-red strokes, "It reminds me of flying. Fast. Chaotic. Dangerous. Here is the lights of the city zooming by, and this is the water rushing beneath my body, the cars being left behind, and the endless sky above lit by lightning."
Watching her face, he had been struck by the bitter-sweet frown marring her features. Flying was supposed to be freeing, wasn't it? "Where are you flying to?"
Her eyes had met his at that moment, and he recalled feeling as if it was the first time she had ever looked at him with complete honesty. "The End."
Now that he was older, now that he had seen her "End," he thought he might know how to reach her. Better late than never. Better late than never.
"Where is she, Cyborg? I have to talk to her. We can't be separated again." It suddenly occurred to him to wonder if he was talking about the Titans or just him and Raven. He would be the first to admit he had missed her, but he had never given any thought to just how much until now.
Staring, measuring, Cyborg frowned for long moments, the corners of his mouth wrinkling into shadow. "She's where you left her . . . I don't think she sleeps so you won't be disturbing her, but she's not sane, Rob. She's a lot worse than she was the last time you . . . visited."
And bound to get even worse if he didn't put a stop to her hopelessness. He suddenly knew this wouldn't be a quick fix. She would need his presence, support, and assurance for years to come; and even then, she might never be the same Raven she had been all those years ago. She might never get better. It was a bitter pill to swallow.
"Is her old room still standing?"
BB grumbled, "We left it as it was . . . kept hopin' she would come back."
Never coming back. I'm never coming back. Never.
He nodded but said nothing more. There was nothing more to say.
It seemed an eternity before he reached the Tower, before he reached the cobweb infested wreck of her old bedroom. There was familiarity there, a softness despite the sharp colors and broken trinkets. He found the book of art without much difficulty. Raven had always been meticulously clean and organized, an outward expression of her orderly mind. Perhaps the absence of everything that mattered was reflected in the absence of color in her life. White cloak. White walls. White floor. No windows. No furniture. No personal items. Only her shadow to keep her company. Lack of sleep. Lack of peace. Lack of . . . life.
He ran to her now as he should have years ago. Every minute she was left alone, was another minute she drowned further, flew faster, entangled deeper into "The End."
She was crouched low, her face shadowed by the cowl and hands bunched into the cloak. Her eyes met his through the brightness, and he felt as if their roles had suddenly reversed. He used to be the bright one - all red, yellow, and green - bold and visible. Now he was the shadow and she was the light; but where he was full of the chaos she had so admired and feared in that painting, she was now an empty canvas, all white and dull around the edges.
"Raven."
"Go away."
"And leave you to your phantoms? I don't think so."
She seemed to struggle for long moments, and he took the opportunity to crouch down next to her, reach out and slowly, tentatively lower the hood covering her features. Her hair, much longer than it had been the last he had seen it, tumbled around her shoulders and down her back, framing a face that was still achingly sad and completely exquisite. Time and age had been good to her, even if she was insane.
"You are nothing. Leave. You always do."
He shook his head and grabbed the hand she had raised to pull the hood back into place. "Feel me. I'm real, Raven. I'm not going anywhere."
Silence and staring were his answer, but he wasn't discouraged. It was too early. He had too much damage to work through, but for the moment, he could at least prove to her that he wasn't some figment of her imagination.
"Do you remember that painting? You said it reminded you of flying toward the end?"
Wide, violet eyes watched carefully as he opened the book to the well-worn page, Kilohertz by Bertram Ramsey. Thin, tapered fingers graced the page, tracing the very yellow zig-zags and white-mixed-red strokes she had shown him an eternity ago. She whispered, "Here is the lights of the city . . . but they've all gone out, and this is the water rushing beneath my body . . . but it's all dried up, the cars being left behind . . . dead drivers behind steering wheels and snow piling on top, and the endless sky above lit by lightning . . . too cloudy to see."
He bowed his head, praying to a God he didn't believe in for strength before purposefully tearing out the page that so haunted the both of them. "Where are you flying to now, Raven?"
Her hand still trapped by his, she tried to squirm away, but he was too fast and she was too weak. Her chin was caught between his fingers as he further invaded her personal space. "Where, Raven?"
Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes fixed on his as they used to - somehow finding his eyes through the mask. "I don't know. I don't know anything, anymore."
It didn't matter that her body was tense or that he didn't really know what he was doing, Nightwing could only breathe a sigh of relief as he caught her up in his arms and she let him. "Then we'll learn together. We'll learn together."
In his arms, cradled by his body, she shuddered and wound her arms around him. "Together."
"That's right. Never alone. Not again. I'm so sorry, Raven."
"No more . . . Not the end . . ."
"No." Behind her back, he ripped her personal apocalypse and vowed to burn the pieces later before holding her tighter, pressing a kiss into her hair. "This is the beginning."
The beginning of better times. The beginning of both their healing processes. The beginning of what should have been. The beginning of the rest of their lives. The beginning stroke of a two part portrait upon her blank canvas.
Note: The painting and artist mentioned here do not exist. Also, this ficlet was based on the future shown in the episode "How Long is Forever."