A/N: So...yeah. I'm sick right now, and can't really think of anything useful or even pretty to say here. I wrote this last month and needed some insight into the ending, specifically, so I posted it onto tumblr and got some of the people on there to give me their views on it. They convinced me it was post-worthy, so here it is.

(Did I mention I've got a tumblr account? If I didn't mention it...well, I do. Emaniahilel. Come on over and say "howdy-do"...or, you know, just "hi"...doesn't have to be fancy.)

Thanks: Of course, to the people on tumblr who commented and encouraged me. Also, to the people who consistently fave my stuff on here and keep up hopes that I'll keep posting and commenting and leaving reviews. You guys are really what keep me writing (or, like, wanting to write, anyway) when RL has sucked all the creativity out of me.

Slow Like Honey
(23: I'll Never Forget You)
by Em

"You'll remember me like a melody / yeah, I'll haunt the world inside you..."
- Slow Like Honey, Fiona Apple

-i-

Eventually, it had been time for her to go.

He recognized it, the way he recognized every single shift of emotion or pause of consideration in her moods and her aspect.

He knew her; and he knew when she had to leave.

He didn't know why, precisely, but he had always known that it wouldn't be permanent having her at his side, as part of his team, under his roof.

He knew it weeks before the others.

And one day, they had been alone in the common room, lit only by the flickering glow of the tv he had been watching, volume almost on mute because she had been reading next to him; and she had stood up and turned to go, with a low murmured good night.

He had known she wouldn't be leaving that night; known it would be some time yet, but he found himself reaching out and taking her arm in his hand.

She stopped, turned to look at his hand on her arm even as his fingers slid down her arm and wrapped around her wrist. She was so tiny, the bones seeming fragile, not unlike her namesake, even if he knew otherwise.

He looked at her face only to find that her gaze had traveled from where his skin touched hers to scrutinize his expression.

As usual, They didn't need to speak. After a few moments of shared inspection, she read his intent, and shook her head.

They didn't need to speak, but she must've deemed the meaning too important to leave unsaid.

"We can't do this."

And her voice was soft and almost beseeching; or maybe that's just how he'll remember it.

He let his eyes caress her face, his fingers still around her carefully limp wrist shifting, almost caressing the sensitive skin at her pulse.

"Why?" He asked simply.

She looked at him until his eyes found hers again, and in the shifting shadows he almost saw something flicker in her eyes, like a wave of color wash out the lavender ebbing a deep warm maroon, like heartsblood, but she blinked and it was gone.

"For the same reason we couldn't yesterday, or last week, last year..." She pulled her hand out of his unresisting grip. "Nothing's changed."

She turned to leave, but he stood in her way.

"Everything's changed," he told her, inches away from touching her.

For a moment, she just looked at him, her expression open. Then, she regained control of herself, and she was stoic and unreadable again. She met his eyes and opened her mouth, but he didn't let her speak.

"You're leaving." It wasn't a question, but it wasn't precisely a declaration, either. It was somewhere in between. He saw her aim to deny it, and he raised a brow at her. "Not tonight, I know that," he assured her. "And maybe not for another week or two, but soon," he dared her with his open expression to refute it.

She meant to explain, or apologize, or defend herself, but he wouldn't have that either.

"I understand," he said, nodding. "I really do," he assured her, voice soft suddenly. He swallowed and shook his head. "But it doesn't matter," he added. "Point is, that you're leaving, and everything's changed."

She exhaled. "Not really," she amended. "Not the basic facts neither of us can change."

He echoed her exhale. "I suppose you're right, there," he allowed.

He met her eyes then and she felt something in her gut sink because she recognized that look.

"Neither of us can change the fact that I-"

"-Robin-" she interrupted warningly, and with an undercurrent of desperation.

"-that I love you," he finished ruthlessly.

He watched her lower her head as if in slow motion, the soft strands of her hair rushing forward to hide her face from him. He reached a hand, fingers moments from touching her hair to pull it back like a curtain, when she spoke.

"Stop."

The quiet of it ripped through his heart and nearly tore it in two.

He had never thought (when he allowed himself to think of it at all) that it would be easy, but hearing her ask him to stop telling her how he felt pierced him just the same. His hand stilled, his fingers twitched, before he reluctantly pulled it back. "I won't take it back," he said, just as quietly, his hand that still ached to touch her fisting at his side in order to resist. He thought she flinched, but he couldn't be sure. "I won't let you go without..." he trailed off, unsure of how far he needed to take this or what he actually expected to come from this conversation. "I can't live without you, knowing that I did nothing..." Again, words failed him.

Still, she refused to look at him.

"Raven, look at me," he called softly.

She didn't.

"Tell me you don't love me," he invited. He watched her swallow before she turned entirely away from him. "Tell me," he urged. "And make me believe it," he added meaningfully. "And this will end right here." He took a step toward her and he could feel her warmth. Before he knew it, he had reached out and cupped her chin, slowly turning her when he found no real resistance on her part. When their eyes met, he saw the emotion swirling in hers and it almost took his breath away. "Do you love me?" he asked, his voice rough and tight.

"Robin," she started, and tried to look away, but he stopped her with a firmer grip, taking hold of her shoulder with his other hand and bringing her all the way around to stand toe to toe with him.

"Yes or no, Raven," he insisted.

She stared at him, but didn't speak, and his hand was traveling from her chin to her cheek, his other hand tracing the curve of her back as his eyes sought hers.

"I'll make it easy," he prodded after a moment, his gaze devouring her expression even as his thumb traced circles on her smooth cheek and his left hand found her waist. "Just..." he shuffled a little closer to her, "...tell me..."

He felt the shift of her center as he pulled her a little closer and she acquiesced, their eyes still locked.

He leaned forward, felt her breathing quicken and his heart started to race, "...to stop."

He gave her precisely four seconds before his lips touched hers, and when she didn't immediately pull away, all thought except the taste of her fled and his right hand migrated to the back of her head while his left pulled her against him all without a conscious command from his brain.

-ii-

Later, when he allowed himself to think of her, he would remember her like a melody, and nearly every moment of that night with the clarity and recall of a movie playing against his memories - a movie that he could pause and rewind or fast forward - but never quite in sequence and never at his conscious command...

He would close his eyes and see the contrast of his skin against hers as his fingers glided softly over the curve of her hip, tracing the line along her torso, skimming the profile of her breasts, rounding her shoulder and cupping her shoulder blades, pulling her close...

Or the cold of metal against his bare back when she turned them and pressed him against her door, lips never parting, hands lingering on his chest rather than searching out her door's keypad...

The soft weight of her on the mattress next to him...

The warmth of her breath on his shoulder as she slept...

The throaty way she said his name...

The coolness of her fingers as she discovered his ribs, arms, waist...

The way she moved against him, slow and intense, like honey…

How she yielded to him like a scent in the breeze…

The gentleness of her kiss...

The way he fit inside her like coming home...

-iii-

Afterward, he would ask her, "You're still leaving, aren't you?"

She didn't look away from her inspection of the roof above their heads, her hand prone in his. "Yes," she said quietly, after a while.

After several moments, when neither spoke and neither moved, she shifted and sat up, sliding away from him, but he caught her hand in his before she could stand, sitting up himself to follow her if he had to. "Right now?"

She looked at him over her shoulder, but he couldn't read (didn't want to read) the meaning of the furrowed brow and shining eyes. "Robin," she sighed wearily.

He brought his other hand to her cheek and gently brought her back toward him, pressing a kiss to her lips. When he felt her surrender, he led her until she was lying on the mattress, their lips experts now at coaxing each other, his hands holding her delicate wrists against the mattress at her side as he fit himself against her. After a few moments, he broke the kiss and searched her eyes. "Not yet."

She swallowed hard, but surrendered.

-iv-

Weeks later, when she finally did leave, and months after that when he'd conceded to her invasion of his dreams, and yielded to the way her (scent, taste, voice) haunted the world inside him, he would remember her words as the sun crept into her bedroom after their first night together with the force of a prophecy in hindsight.

"You've damned us, you realize," she had whispered, near his ear as he tasted the skin between her neck and shoulder blade.

He hadn't answered her.

A/N: So? What'd you guys think about the ending? Or, any part of it, really.