AN: Written for the ficathon over at teentitanslash at LJ.

Red sits in Robin's room, fingering one of his old uniform tops. It's a bit moth eaten and dusty, but it still smells of the detergent Robin used, the one Red buys every time he goes shopping, just to remind him of Robin.

He can hear the crash of falling masonry as another part of Titans Tower collapses. It's not too close, so he keeps sitting on Robin's bed, remembering when there was another warm body cuddled up against his. Remembering Robin whispering in his ear, telling him to go to sleep.

It's as if there's a real voice, because he lies down, brings the shirt up to cover his face and falls asleep, breathing in Robin.

--

"Come on kid, you know you'll get him this time!" he laughs, knowing he'll be treating some cuts and bruises, but mostly Robin's pride, when he gets back from failing to win against Slade, again. He doesn't mind telling the white lie though, because someday Robin will. He just has a little growing up to do before then.

"You said that all the last times too," deadpans Robin, but he's still busy pulling on his boots and gauntlets.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Come back soon, sweetie!"

Robin winces at the shrill falsetto, but as he turns around to walk out the door, Red can just make out the hint of a grin.

--

Red dreams of having Robin in his arms, of eating dinner with him, of occasionally helping him catch criminals. Red dreams of his life, when he had everything.

--

Red jerks awake at the sound of heavy boots – heavier than Robin's – coming in through the window.

Slade is standing there, holding a piece of torn, bloody cape. Everything about him is a picture of loss. He stands as if someone has taken something vital from him.

--

Red wakes to the distant sound of boots walking up concrete stairs. He sits up and waits, looking out of the open door (always open, since the hinges rusted away and it fell).



Slade appears. In his hand is Robin's mask; the filters are stained, the ugly brown of old, dried blood.

He leans against the windowsill, looking at Red. It seems as though they should say something, but any accusations, apologies, anything at all, has been said a long time ago.

There's nothing left for either of them.