Disclaimer: I don't own Teen Titans. But I do own some Oreos. Now that's somethin.

The title is from the song "Such Great Heights" by The Postal Service.

and I won't deny that this story was/is somewhat inspired by a fabulous book titled "Nick & Norah's Infinite Playlist". YES it was a book first.

. . . . .

Sometimes I wonder if there's any sort of undiscovered meaning between us.

It is in times like tonight . . .
Like the day the two of us were working in the kitchen; Robin told us to make something special for Starfire while she was ill by some kind of "rare Tamaranian glaufnikar" or . . something that sounds like it. And we were trying to make some simple chocolate pudding, until he stirred in one of our alien's forbidden spices mistaking it for sugar, and the whole thing exploded. Brown gloop was everywhere; our faces, our clothes, the counter, the stove, the ceiling, Silky . . . all the typical stuff. And he knew I'd be steaming furious once I turn around ready to give him the kill, yet there he was, just smiling at me. And I was so taken back that I dropped my whole angry expression and just looked at him . . and he started laughing his high giddy laugh.

"Duuude, you shoulda seen your face when the thing EXPLODED outa nowhere, hahaha!"

I still didn't respond, because while he was standing there laughing his green ass off, chocolate pudding smothered all over his hair and dripping down his face, I couldn't help but feeling it . . . and I couldn't really point out at the time what it really was. But it was definitely there. I just knew these things.

Same thing as when Cyborg was driving us to get pizza after we'd taken down Plasmus for the gazillionth time ('cause these guys just keep breaking out of freakin' jail somehow . . .). Cyborg and Robin were in the front, and Starfire, him and I were in the back, like usual. He was tired, so he'd turned into a dog and curled himself onto the middle seat, falling asleep instantly . . . his slobbery snores clouding up the quiet atmosphere of the car, his head on my lap . . . and I turned my gaze away from the window to look down on him.

And, I don't know . . I just start thinking about him. This short, grass-colored, vegetarian thing of a guy, who's jokes are full of effort yet far from funny, and who's beaming overconfident look practically gives off a flashing sign reading, "LOOK, I'M NAÏVE AND ANNOYING!" He'd been on my nerves for a number of years that I've already lost track of. I'd known him to be in love once . . . or at least somewhat in love; somewhat in love with someone whom I knew was nowhere near to my liking, yet I pushed that aside, for the sake of the team. And she still stabbed this guy deep in the heart—twice, in fact. Maybe not intentionally deep, but stabbed deep nonetheless. And to be honest, I'd never picked up the sense that he'd completely gotten over it.

So I looked down at him, thinking this, and once again, it came back. Damn it. I ignored it, and moved my hand up to scratch him behind his ear; that I could tell got the ends of his doggy mouth to turn upward, deep in his sleep. I remembered my last thought about his past love as I did this oddly affectionate thing and said to myself (silently): ". . . You sad little puppy."

Even though I've rarely ever seen the guy truly, deeply sad, I've lived with him long enough to know that he's at least strong enough to pretend he really isn't when he is. He's kind of good at it, too—that or I can be too careless to notice when he is. Sounds kind of harsh when you think of it . . .

But there are obviously times when I know he's acting happy when he isn't. Like the occasional visit to Terra's statue with him (when nobody else was available, of course.), just to keep him a little company, or to be there if he ends up breaking down or attempting to slap her awake or some crazy crap like that, which has actually happened once or twice. I walked with him to where she stood, and there he was again, just smiling up at her. Only I knew it wasn't the same as the pudding thing. Maybe time is what made him stronger, but at the time I knew that behind his smile was an already-been-there-long-enough-but-not-yet-left kind of pain. . . Then of course it came back, and I couldn't stop looking at him and thinking of such a sad little puppy.

I saw/felt the exact same thing when I saw his face this morning. . For it is the anniversary of her somewhat-death. . . and it is so clear that even today, even though it's been too long to remember, he is still not completely over it.

I think I've had this strange it feeling long enough to call it the Spinnies (childish, but accurate) . . . because what exactly happens is that the entire world around me seems to start spinning, and then my mind starts spinning right along with it, and occasionally my stomach would start spinning as well. Practically everything and all of creation and the entire universe seems to be spinning, all except him. And I start feeling as if he's the only thing keeping me in tune with reality and that if I start falling into the spinning pit of nothingness he's the only thing I'll be able to grasp onto.

And within the spinning, I feel like seeing him, and only him, makes me feel this odd sensation of . . . I don't know . . . comfort. . like I wouldn't rather see anything or anyone else but him, which is unlikely because I nearly despise him.

It is how I feel during each time I get the Spinnies, during each of those moments I feel like there's a meaning between us. During moments like now.

Mumbo had just been taken down after trying out another one of his ever-failing robbery scams. I'd been knocked out by a kind of giant cartoon pig blowing bubbles that'd been thrown out of Mumbo's hat, so here I lie on the pavement looking up at the stars in the city sky, when a hand is felt supporting my head and a familiar green face obscures my view.

"Hey, are you alright?"


"Yes, I'm fine," I reply sharply. I begin sitting up so he could back away a bit. He's got that caring/worried/honest look in his eyes as he looks at me and it's not helping the world spin any slower.

I look back up. Maybe the stars will seem comforting, even if they are spinning.
If there's one thing I know for sure in this mess of a world, it's that the stars can always bring some good to whoever looks at them with an open heart.

I feel shifting from the one sitting on the pavement in front of me, which reminds me that he's still, which brings a totally new feeling of awkwardness along with the almost-faded Spinnies.

And then what happens next? He speaks—and asks the absolutely oddest, unpredictable, un- . . . helpful thing that could be asked at the moment. I mean, does he really think that my answer would be anything at all useful or to his interests . . . if my answer was actually able to come out?
Because this nitwit doesn't bother to ask a "Do you wanna go home?" or "Why are you still lying here?" or even a "Are you sure you're alright?" No, he goes for 'the road never thought by the mind with common-sense to ever be taken', and simply throws it out like it's just any other night, like it's something he should always ask in a common situation like this:

"So . . . wutchu wanna do?"

. . Really.

Ummm . . . can't make any promises as to when I'll update, so . . . sorry!
I'm a mess, I know.