A/N: Inspired by a song. The italics is the song, but I won't tell you the title until the end. I wasn't sure this was an Echo. I thought it could be a stand alone, but GuardianKysra convinced me it was.

Thanks: To GuardianKysra, of course, for reading through this and letting me know I wasn't on crack thinking this was done. Individual thanks on 'emsscraps.'

The Hardest Part
(12: Is It You?)
By Em

There was a smile she had, and it wasn't even really a smile, not in the conventional definition of the term, but he knew it when he saw it, could read it in the lines around her eyes, the shape of her brow and the set of her jaw.

It was his favorite smile, because it was soft and tender and meant only for him. It spoke to him, that smile, and told him words she could never express, whether because she didn't know how or because she was uncertain of the timbre of her voice if she spoke them. That he never heard them didn't matter, because he saw it, could trace it, his fingers gently painting the shadows in the dip of her cupid's bow mouth, the slope of her cheek.

She looked up at him, her hair fanned out in a wash of purple against his cream colored sheets, only the corner of one pillow cradling her head while the other lay discarded somewhere alongside the bed and she offered him that smile and nothing else existed.

"I thought you were hungry?" she asked, the light from the candles catching the flecks of blue in her otherwise deep purple eyes.

"Oh, I am…" he assured her, bending his elbows and lowering until he could reach her lips.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart, waking up is the hardest part…

His eyes opened slowly, consciousness dawning by degrees, like the sun outside his window beyond the heavy drapes. Automatically, he reached across the bed and touched only cold sheets.

For a moment, his brain refused to comprehend that he was alone. He had just been with her, she had smiled at him, he could still feel the memory of her warmth against his skin, the sweet weight of her pressed against him.

He looked around his room, but there was nothing left of her presence. When had that happened? Still, his eyes searched for her. He lay still and listened, hoping to hear the water running in his bath, almost managing to. Out of the corner of his eye, a shadow seemed to move and he sat up and turned, but she wasn't there – just a trick of the light on a mound of clothes in his desk chair.

Finally awake, he suddenly couldn't breathe.

'She's not here.' It echoed in his mind. 'She's gone.'

He was on his knees on the carpet by his bed and he didn't remember standing from the bed.

When you're dreaming with a broken heart, giving up is the hardest part…

He went through the motions of hygiene, bathing, dressing, he put the mask on, but he didn't bother to spike the hair, merely ran a hand through the dark strands (they were too long now to spike anyway), all the while trying to fight the ghosts of memories that seemed sometimes more real to him than the cold, listless world around him.

He brewed coffee, picked up the paper, poured coffee in a cup, and sat in the booth with the paper open to the crime section in front of him, but he had a hard time making out the print, and although he held the mug in his hand, he forgot to drink.

Unexpectedly, slender, pale arms slipped around his neck from behind and he was assailed by the warmth of her aura, the smell of gardenias and faintly of incense. His coffee cup overturned and spilled across the paper.

"Great, Rae," he chastised, mopping up the mess even while her arms remained around him. "Now how am I supposed to keep up with the news?"

"Right," she drawled, her lips close to his ear and a hint of laughter in her voice. "Because you can't get a fresh paper off the street vendor just inside Jump?" she asked.

"That would mean leaving the Tower, wouldn't it?" he asked, pushing aside the soaked napkins and unrecognizable paper.

"I could always…" her arms started to slip from around his neck but his hands, ever quick, reached up to hold them in place.

"I think," he said, turning just slightly in the seat so he could lead her to stand in front of him before bringing her down onto his lap. "I'd prefer to keep you right here."

"I rank above the news of the day?" she asked, mildly surprised. "I am honored."

"Smart ass," he said, chuckling as he raised hands to tangle in her hair, cradling her head and pulling her down for a kiss.

Then all at once you have to say goodbye…

Cyborg came into the kitchen, and suddenly he realized he was alone again. His coffee in the mug was cold, the paper still untouched and unread in front of him and Cyborg was asking him whether he was getting enough sleep.

"Sleeping's all I want to do lately," he answered, or at least, he meant to. Whether the words came out of his mouth or not, he couldn't be sure. He ran a hand through his hair and met Cyborg's eye steadily. "Waking up's the hard part."

"No it isn't," Cyborg said, sitting across from him. "It's saying goodbye that's the hardest part."

He couldn't argue. He didn't think he'd ever have the strength to say goodbye – to give up hope…to give up her.

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A/N: The italics is NOT me…the italics is a song called "Dreaming With a Broken Heart" by John Mayer. It was listening to this song that made me envision this one-shot, and I had it on repeat the entire time I was writing this, so yeah…to get the full effect, go listen to it.

As for the story itself – I know some of you will wonder: Where is Raven? Is she dead? Has she disappeared? Or did she simply walk out?

Answer: I don't know. It's up to you to decide, okay? It could be any of those things or none of them. GuardianKysra has a theory. (I think I kind of like her theory). If you're interested in knowing what her theory is, comment on my 'emsscraps' journal where I will thank all y'all who reviewed last time. If enough people want to know, I'll post a journal with what her theory is and even have an open discussion on theories.

What's yours?