Dove
Litt
--
Whisper
Whisper in the dark.
It takes too many bruises, from too many self-inflicted punches and kicks, for him to realize it and just a few more to make him say it aloud.
His voice is nearly gone by then, a raspy snarl hanging on to the edge of his throat, and he has to push a little, a lot, to pull them past the swelling tongue and split lip (that may as well not be his,) and that push takes too much out of him. The words, the truth, take too much out of him, but they may as well have died in his mouth (like so many other coppery things,) as it comes out in a whisper for no one but a phantom to hear.
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Sometimes she forgets her reasons for caution; sometimes, when she forgets her purpose, (her role,) and allows herself to fall into recklessness, she voices her loneliness.
Like all things, she deals with this in moderation. Not too much indulging, not too much reveling in her own self-pity, goes into these meandering or, most likely, critically brusque mumblings, for she still fears the loss of self (and sometime she whispers about this too).
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One word, one name, one sigh before sleep or unconsciousness claims him.
It will always be her face, her smirk, her hair, and it will always be that name he sighs in his sleep. Strangely, he doesn't dream about her anymore, doesn't (wake up in a cold sweat or with a desperate need; he doesn't) even take much note of when it became a mechanical thing, when grief had turned to routine and had lost all sympathetic connotations, because that had been a dark time. It's (always) dark now, and it will always be that name.
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A litany of familiar words, her first language—her mother tongue—escape her when the days are through and it is all she can do to keep them quiet by timing it to this hour at night.
Though it has been an adventure learning her adopted language, and though the times when corrections are needed have faded over the years, there is still a comfort of knowing she can explain (to at least the shadows) how wonderful and sad this world has become without so many stumbling words. There are more words in her new one and sometimes there is no room for cross-referencing; there are familiar, distant mutterings for blaringly obvious things (her friends will never understand). She can always explain the day's events to herself in a roll of sound the others can't decipher and the shadows of her room are always there to listen.
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Before, it had been a prayer or a song that he'd mutter before the night took him; now, it isn't and he's not sure if it ever will be again.
He had shed his religion just as rashly as he'd shed his older life, without much blame or accusation, but with just that extra vehemence to make others wonder. He can't pray and he saves the songs for the day, for the sometimes-too-long outings and missions, when he can hear himself. There were times when the assurance of a bump in the night (or a snore from another room) would confirm his humanity, his closeness, but he doesn't have that (–even that—) anymore. He has to make all the noise he can before he plugs in; he'll only allow himself to make them softly, just like the rest of his curses.
AN: I wrote this near the time I wrote "Baby Fat" but probably before, so I feel a bit uncomfortable knowing I've pegged my Robin as a masochist (I use the term "self-inflicted" a lot with him) but it fit too well to let go. Since it was focused on words this was the hardest to be comfortable about. There was a set pattern by the time I got to this prompt and the community (Forbidden Love) I posted it at then made a guessing game out of figuring out who I was talking about. They were amazingly thorough in analyzing everything. Beast boy's were my favorite to read by this point, with Cyborg a close second; Star's was my hardest to write period with Raven being kie Raven and Robin always came too easy, so easy I kept trying to figure out if I was missing something.