A/N: Whoa. Nightwing really hates to talk in this one, but he sure doesn't mind thinking. At least, not after I prodded (read: threatened) him some.
Thanks: Kysra read this one chapter like 6 times (at last count). For that, she has my endless, boundless gratitude. She also helped me talk out some of Robin's hangups in this one since he was being such a pri-er-difficult about talking to me for this chapter. Individually: On emsscraps. Tonight.
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Estranged
Part VIII: Robin
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"A kiss can be a comma, a question mark or an exclamation point."
- Mistinguett (Jeanne Bourgeois)
It was the feel of the slightly damp terry cloth clutched in his hand that made him break the kiss. To his credit, rather than gazing at the result of his surprising act, he kept his eyes focused right on her shocked wide eyes.
The seconds ticked by and still they stared at each other. His hand clenched on the towel, fisting around the cloth that he knew smelled of her and he waited, searching her eyes for some sign even he couldn't name. Some permission he didn't know how to put words to. He wished she would speak, yell at him or demand to know why he'd done what he'd done, or even slap him again.
When the shock wore off, however, what replaced it in her eyes surprised him.
Doubt.
What the hell did she have to doubt?
Could she possibly doubt how much he wanted her after that kiss? Could she doubt what it was he was trying to figure out how to ask her permission to start?
Before he could figure out either the answers to those questions or a way to answer them, she misread the angry incomprehension in his expression and realized, really realized that she was standing naked in front of him. She took a step toward him and for a moment, he thought she might have intended to step into his embrace, but she reached for the towel still in his hand instead.
Outside, it started to drizzle in that sudden, annoying way Blüdhaven had and he had the inane realization that he had left the balcony doors open. And in the time it took her to grasp the towel and pull, he wondered what had happened to him and just when it had become so difficult for him to say what he meant to Raven.
Almost from the moment they had met, children still, there had never been the need for awkwardness or explanations. Though they were both wary of each other in the way only people who had been raised and trained to be wary of strangers could be, they had had some form of easy communication even then.
What had happened to that? What had changed it?
Thinking back, days before she left, their conversation had already been strained. He had often thought that she must have been planning to leave in those days. And it wasn't just their conversation that had been strained either, their silences, the moments they used to spend comfortably alongside one another, without the need to say anything changed as well. At some point, he stopped being able to read her, as if she cut him off or maybe he had cut himself off by not wanting to know until she told him.
They had spoken without speaking then and from almost the inception of their acquaintance and although that had changed nine years ago, it occurred to him that if he only tried, he didn't need her to speak to be able to know what she was feeling. With that thought came a memory he had ceased to think of when it kept him from what little rest he managed each night: he had never had to speak to make Raven understand anything.
He held on fast to his end of the towel. With new eyes, he watched as she tried a few half-hearted tugs on her end, and he knew it just the moment she realized he wouldn't let go. She raised her eyes to his from mere inches away and the frustration and annoyance warred with embarrasment and doubt. He could almost physically feel her push the less desirable, weak emotions away by clutching at anger and pain.
When he offered her back nothing but peaceful, waiting eyes, she started and almost let go of the towel. He thought for a moment that she might have realized she could just run away back to the bathroom to get away from him, but she didn't run away. Instead, she looked at him. Really looked at him and with that look, her walls came down and even though he was still looking only in her eyes, he could suddenly see every inch of her.
She questioned his motives, his intentions, his emotions with that stare, asked him why it took him so long and what he was waiting for – had been waiting for. And for the first time ever he realized how very long she had been waiting--for him.
When he realized all the time they'd lost, it was all he could do to not crush her to him, all he could do to gently pull on the towel they both had clutched in their fists until she walked the last few inches to stand toe to toe with him, close enough to feel the heat from her bath still on her skin, the scent of lavender that clung to her hair, the warmth of her breath close enough to graze his exposed neck.
All he could do to caress her shoulder, the line of her back, the curve of her neck, the swell of her cheek instead of holding onto her tight enough to make certain she couldn't leave.
He used every bit of restraint in his considerable arsenal to keep his touch light and although he released his own hold of the towel in order to make use of both hands in his careful exploration, his eyes remained on hers and he waited. He waited for the doubt to leave, the anger to fade away, for the look that would grant him the right to feel more, see more, do more to enter her eyes, not from an overabundance of passion, but of a choice.
He knew what he wanted now: He wanted her, yes. But it was more than that. He wanted her to choose to give herself to his touch, to choose to stay in his arms. To choose him.
And so he touched her softly, exploring the planes and valleys of her flesh in awed reverence, his gaze locked on hers. But it wasn't until he felt her shudder under his fingers, her breath catching in her throat that he had his answer as he felt the weight of their bond crash into him in ways he had never experienced before, even at the height of their friendship.
It wasn't until then that he surrendered to his own need to taste her again.
And it wasn't until he had gripped her under her arms to lift her the last few inches up to his greedy reach that her own arms wrapped around his neck.
The towel, for its part, fell limply to the floor.
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Watching Raven sleep was like being 17 again. It was as if time had not passed and nothing had changed. Although the Raven he had made love to less than an hour earlier had been open and expressive in each of her emotions, from pleasure to anger and in so being had been so strange and alien, this Raven her face relaxed in such peaceful lines was as familiar to him as the lines of his palm. Raven had always looked so settled as she slept, even before her father's defeat, even while she had to keep her emotions on such a tight leash, that upon seeing her in such a way again, he could almost belive the last nine years had never happened.
Not that he had been all that familiar with her sleeping form while they lived together in Jump City. He had, on occassion, had cause to assure himself that she was safe in her bed and the sight of her against her pillow, the stoicism so prevalent to her features back then eased away by slumber was a sight he had cherished, even then.
He had never had the right to touch her then, to hold her tight against himself and let her heartbeat lull him to sleep. He had never even dared to touch the strands of purple that rested against her pillow then.
Nine years later, he found himself sitting next to her on the bed as she slept, aching to touch her, knowing that he could, but wondering if he should. He knew, after everything they had just shared, that he could reach out and touch her, push her hair back from where it fell half covering the left side of her face, run his fingers down the inside of her arm where it sprawled over her head. He could wake her up with kisses or more.
She had fallen asleep from pure necessity, unable to remain awake despite her attempts to the contrary. When he watched her fall into a light sleep, he had contemplated waking her then, perfectly willing to take up right where they had left off, but he had decided to let her rest. And really, that had been his mistake. For letting her rest had given him time to think and even though he wanted to explore other depths of pleasure with her, he wanted to keep it physical between them, now that he had time to think about it, he could no longer deny that the deep desire inside his every pore wanted nothing more than to curl up around her warmth.
He had a feeling he would never sleep as well as he would in her arms. He was a light sleeper by nature, always had been, even while still a child, but he had a feeling that he would sleep soundly and deeply with her scent to calm him, the steady rhythm of her breathing to lull him, and her arms to warm him. He knew it, with the kind of conviction he usually reserved for scientific fact.
He knew it and it scared the crap out of him.
Lust, passion, desire--those he could deal with, he knew what to do with those and could identify them. He knew they were transitory at best, he knew how easily sated or distracted they could be. He could deal with wanting her physically, even though he was surprised by how much he still wanted her even after what would have normally sated him with someone else.
But the intense need to feel her in his arms, against his skin, as totally detached from lust or desire--that utter conviction that even just to feel her breathing next to him was enough, that was completely incomprehensible to him.
For a moment, he wondered what he was still doing there. Why hadn't he dressed and left her room as soon as she fell asleep? At no time during the night had she said she would stay or that things had changed between them. A part of him knew that whatever it was that had happened between them, it was 9 years too late and maybe not even enough. What had they settled? Nothing.
There was all likelihood that she had every intention of checking out of the hotel come morning and go back to her perfect little life in her perfect little town without a thought to what had or might have been.
He could leave. She might even thank him for it. She might expect it. And although he wanted nothing so much as to surrender to the need for sleep at her side, it wasn't for that reason that he crawled back under the covers, shifting as gently as possible so as not to wake her until the line of his body was pressed along behind hers.
It occurred to him as she shifted, allowing him to slip his arm under her head, rubbing her nose against the warm flesh on the inside that he knew exactly how right and comfortable he would feel sleeping next to her. Even such a stark realization couldn't make him move, however, not when she, getting comfortable with the feel of him at her back, drew his arm at her waist up to rest at her chest, their fingers entwining. And although he didn't dare give It voice, he allowed himself to recognize its presence.
And as she sighed, pressing back into his warmth, he knew he stayed because they had lost so much time already and because they hadn't settled anything at all.
There was another reason why he had stayed, however, but he didn't give it shape in his consciousness until just the moment when he found the perfect spot pressed against her hair and he was warm and lethargic. In that moment when he was drifting into sleep, he could not deny it:
He just hadn't been ready to let her go.
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Songs for Inspiration:
1. Bed of Roses, Bon Jovi
2. Pero Te Extrano, Andrea Bocelli
3. Through Glass, Stone Sour
4. Listen to Your Heart, DHT
5. Always On Your Side, Sheryl Crow & Sting
6. Everytime, Britney Spears
7. Boom Boom Ba, Metisse
8. The Bottom Line, Depeche Mode
9. Estranged, Guns N Roses