A/N: Wow. I hate to admit this to you guys, but I thought that maybe my writing had dried up inside me somewhere the muse couldn't get to it. I kept having ideas for stories (for all sorts of fandoms) but nothing was insisting so much that I had to write it down, and nothing was coming for the TT stories I'd already started!

And then, this one!

No one's beta'd this, and I might be a little rusty, so bear with me, k?

Thanks: To EVERYONE who keeps reviewing and favoriting my work and sending me PMs asking me if I'm dead or planning on resurrecting or what and keeping hope that I might.

A very special thanks to the usual suspects who have never really given up on me, despite having complicated lives drawing their attention, and notably to GuardianKysra, whose birthday it was yesterday. (Well, the 24th - it's 2:15 am here on the 26th, so maybe this'll show up as being posted on the 26th, so I want no confusion).

Also, a special shout out to LeighAidan on deviantArt, who sent me a note on there that had me misting up. Thanks for letting me know.

Chronicle
(20: Diary)
By Em

"Memory... is the diary that we all carry about with us."
- Oscar Wilde, "The Importance of Being Earnest"

July 26, 7:15 am

Robin has offered to make me breakfast, again. I refused, again.

One would think he doesn't realize that I never eat anything heavier than a piece of plain toast with my tea this early in the morning. One might even think that he has not realized that despite my early waking hours (or, perhaps, because of them), I am not a morning person.

He does know, however. Of course, he knows.

I doubt there is very much that escapes his observation.

He knows I don't eat breakfast. I have no doubt about that.

What a useless habit of his to offer to make me breakfast, nonetheless.

I realize that trying to figure out why he does things like that would probably be about as futile an effort as Beast Boy trying to get me to play Stankball.

He must have been running simulations outside this morning - his hair is wet, and he hasn't gotten around to styling it yet.

July 28, 4:25 pm

"That dog won't hunt."

Cyborg said that today when we were discussing possible additions to the East Wing of the Tower. Robin had suggested making it into an emergency command center, but Cyborg vetoed the idea and backed it up with technical reasons why the East Wing wouldn't work.

Even though he made very good arguments, I was left with no choice but to speak up when Robin continued to argue the merits of the idea.

He was very stubborn. Sometimes, it seems to me that Robin argues with Cyborg just for the sake of it.

He saw reason when I mentioned that the East Wing did not appear to me to be logistically sound as an emergency base, since it was facing one of our more vulnerable sides.

Cyborg later made a comment to me about how Robin never seems to listen to reason except when it comes from me; I think Cyborg just does not understand how to reason with Robin.

Cyborg said "that dog won't hunt" was something his grandmother used to say all the time when he was growing up.

My grandmother abandoned my mother. The Batman told me this years later.

She's dead now.

I do not think I care what she used to say.

July 30, 11:20 am

Robin has given me a leather bound journal. He's noticed that this book I write in now is almost completely used.

Alfred gave me this book days after I first arrived on Earth. He told me that just because I did not go around verbalizing every thought I had did not mean that I did not need a place to keep them.

He is a very astute man; I sometimes miss him.

I am glad Robin asked if I would come with him to Gotham today.

He calls it an anniversary.

I never would have thought to celebrate the anniversary of my having come to Earth, but Robin has done it every year, and neither Bruce nor Alfred seem surprised to see us on their doorstep and I am certainly glad to see them.

Alfred at least.

Even after four years, I am still apprehensive around Bruce. I fear I shall always feel small and like a child whenever I am near him.

I doubt this stems merely from the difference in our stature, no matter that this is what Robin believes.

I am rather used to being a short kind of girl.

Even Robin has grown to be almost a full head and shoulders taller than me now.

July 31, 6:20 pm

It's rained the entire day we've been in Gotham. Robin says this is nothing strange for this time of year, making comments about how Gotham insists on being gloomy even in the full bloom of summer, as if the city herself were some kind of living entity.

Great. Even I'm doing it now.

It's still coming down hard outside the window of the lavish suite Alfred always gives me whenever I come to the Manor, but I am even now waiting on Robin to finish his shower; he has insisted that he was taking me out to dinner.

I don't particularly mind the rain, really, but Alfred is not pleased.

Somehow, rain is always associated when I remember my time in Gotham. I think, perhaps, it was raining the first time I met Robin all those years ago.

It would make sense if this type of precipitation is common at this time of year.

I wonder what Alfred would say if he knew Robin planned on taking one of the motorcycles?

That phrase I learned from Beast Boy not too long ago comes to mind: having kittens.

August 1, 5:53 am

I am sitting on the stairs to the Manor, writing this by the faint glow of the rising sun on the horizon, waiting for Robin.

I woke up from an unsettling dream where I was running after something that kept pushing further and further away from me, with the disconcerting feeling that it was not my dream.

When I went to the window, Robin was jogging down the path below my window and disappearing into the copious woods along the side of the property.

That was an hour ago.

And so I wait.

Robin and I had an argument yesterday.

It was after dinner, and the rain had let up and we were walking along that broad stretch of road where restaurants and theaters litter the sidewalk.

The argument broke over us like a sudden storm, and before I knew it, it was too late. In retrospect, I could not say what started it.

He had been quiet and withdrawn on the ride back to the Manor and left me at the door, disappearing into the recesses of the house that despite my relative familiarity with it, I could not follow him down.

I don't think I wanted to, either.

Now, I wait.

Frustration, not anger.

That's what I felt last night.

And as often happens between us, I couldn't tell if it was his frustration or mine I was feeling - perhaps both.

I can feel him approaching, and a glance up confirms his silhouette walking toward me.

August 4, 1:50 am

It occurs to me that the only way to learn anything about Robin is by long-term scrutiny. For example, taken individually, none of my previous entries detailing bits and pieces of collected information would lead anyone (even myself) to any sort of general observations. Taken together, however, as I flip through the pages of this journal as I write what will be the final entry in this book, a picture begins to become clear.

I suppose that I make this observation now only in a way to somehow appease myself that without taking all the pieces together, there was no way I could have realized what I am realizing by a study of the picture as a whole.

Nothing much has changed in the three days since Robin confessed to me his truth that he has carried around for what he has told me is years.

Years.

The evidence of it is here - chronicled in the pages of my journal, in my own hand. Looking at it in a big picture sort of way, I cannot help but see it; all the little ways in which Robin dominated my life, how he insinuated himself into my waking thoughts.

Every entry, he is there. Even during times I was away from the Tower - away from him - there is something Robin said, or something Robin did, or something someone asked me about Robin or something that reminded me of something he had said.

I suppose it is true that nothing has really changed; not in the day-to-day activities of our group, in any case.

But looked at microscopically, the differences show.

Can no one else see how closely he stands to me when it is our turn to do the dishes after dinner?

How he sits next to me on the couch, much closer than the available space requires?

The way he looks at me when our hands happen to touch.

Do I look at him the same way?

Is it his hand that lingers on mine or my fingers that linger in his hand?

Everything has changed.

I almost hate him for it.

Or, I would, if I could.

I can feel him smiling in my head.

Or, perhaps that's just me.