A/N: i know i uploaded these right on top of each other, but this is such short chappie and rather filler-like that it seemed cruel somehow to post it later all on its own. plus i'd already written it. plus God knows when i'll get anything more up.

A/N the second: this contains references to London/Britain/British people. i have nothing against British people or London. in fact, i think it'd be really cool to live there someday and acquire the accent. so the somewhat-stereotypical references are not meant to offend in the slightest. good? good.

How Long Is Never?

Chapter 5

"And it's been awhile

Since I could hold my head up high

And it's been awhile

Since I first saw you

And it's been awhile

Since I could stand on my own two feet again

And it's been awhile

Since I could call you."

--"It's Been Awhile", Staind

It was a rainy, dreary day. Of course, it was always rainy and dreary in London. Except, as Starfire recalled, when she had finally purchased an umbrella—then it had ceased raining until she had forgotten it in her flat one day, and then the pouring had recommenced. But on the whole, the constant clouds and near-unceasing drizzle rather failed to bother her. It was comforting, in a strange way, to hear the tap-tap-tap of drops striking the windows. It was always there, and she supposed that was the comfort of it. She could always, always, always depend on it to rain. She hadn't quite had that luck depending on other people in other places at other times.

She frowned, just at the corners of her mouth, and adjusted the position of her obnoxiously striped umbrella, angling it to shield her from the most droplets. She didn't like when her thoughts drifted to those memories; it wasn't like they had ever contacted her. It wasn't like he had ever seen fit to come after her, to drag her back. He apparently hadn't cared enough. She didn't know why she had ever believed that he would in the first place. She was hopeless; that much she knew. After all this time, and she still cared.

Trying to force her thoughts to happier places, Starfire juggled her umbrella while she dug in her purse for her keys. They always managed to sink to the bottom, even though the purse was not large at all or filled with a surplus of things. She had concluded long ago that purses were an evil designed to torment human women, or at least designed with magnets in the bottom. One of the two. But she finally managed to fish the keys out—from the very bowels of the purse, as per usual—and went about rifling through them to find the one that opened her flat. And then in the keyhole. Like so. Turn, click, shove, inside.

She shook the rain from the umbrella before collapsing it, wrinkling her nose in an attempt to dislodge the stray droplet squatting there. That failed, and she brushed the raindrop away irritably with her hand. And sometimes she passionately hated the rain. All it reminded her of was the day she was shot after that stupid goddamn prank call. Stupid prank callers. She dearly wanted to find that kid on occasion and beat the crap out of him. Her frown deepened as she scaled the stairs, winding up and up until she reached her third-level flat, which was actually the fourth floor. British people never counted the first floor, for some bizarre reason. She never bothered to question it; she merely accepted it. Like she had accepted that the Titans wanted nothing to do with her after failing utterly to express any care about her absence. She had, at the very least, expected Cyborg to do something. He was such an older brother to her; certainly he would be the hyper-protective one. But no. Nothing.

Not even a call to tell her whether or not her would-be murderer had been caught. Some friends.

Her mood steadily worsening, she shoved another key in the door to her flat and nearly kicked the door down. What she needed was some tea and a book and a reprieve from memories. She almost laughed bitterly. Tea. She had been in London far too long.

Hooking both umbrella and coat on the peg by the door, the former Titan kicked off her waterlogged shoes on the way into the kitchen section of her one-room home. It was small, and she had assumed (before living there for as long as she had) that she would never get used to not living in a royal palace or a fancy Tower. But then she had found out that she could get used to anything, that anyone could—rejection being high on that list. Rejection by the one person she had thought would always be there for her. Oh, that had been fun.

"How long is never, Robin?" she mocked herself as she filled a cup with water and stuck it in the microwave. Cheap tea. "Oh, I don't know, Starfire. Why don't you go look up the definition? It's only so bloody obvious…" she trailed off angrily, wondering briefly why she thought it fitting to reopen old wounds. Nevermind the gunshot scar. She had more scars than that one, and they ran far deeper and ached much more.

The small ding of the microwave dragged her from her dismal recollections and reminded her that in the present, she had some tea to steep. Having done that, she wandered over to the window, nursing the steaming cup. She gazed out at the dreary, darkening sky, watching the sheets of rain lancing from the heavens and collecting in the streets below. It was cold in the flat, so cold that it seemed more like November than March. March seventh…wasn't that someone's birthday? Her frown deepened considerably as she stared out at the rain. Today was one of those days when she hated the rain.

She slumped down on the edge of her bed and was reaching for the half-finished novel on her bedside table when she realized that the light was flashing on her answering machine. So she had messages. She poked the button but then stood up, not wanting to sit in one place. She was too restless, for whatever reason. Hopeful, perhaps? After all this time? No.

"Tuesday, 6:36 PM…" the mechanical voice of the answering machine droned as she detoured into the kitchen and sat herself down on the counter. She kicked her feet for awhile, wondering why the message did not play. Her eyebrows slanted together and she began to walk back to the machine when it started speaking again.

"Tuesday, 6:38 PM…" Click. A hang-up. How pointless. Why bother calling anyway?

And then… "Tuesday, 6:42 PM…"

"Starfire…sorry about the last two messages. I kept forgetting what I was supposed to be saying, and then Raven got all mad at me. But anyway…we need you back at the Tower. Something's come up, and it concerns what happened to you before you left." The recording of Beast Boy's voice paused, only static sounding for a moment. "We all want you back. See you soon, then. Bye."

The twenty-two-year-old stared at the silent machine before reaching down and poking one of the buttons.

"All of your messages have been erased."