Russian Roulette

Summary: Sometimes, you really wish you forgot which chamber you put the bullet in... ( Rated for adult themes).

Author's Note: Yes, this is a cliche. No, I am not incapable of writing anything orriginal. Yes, I do think that these could very easily be Robin's thoughts at one point or another. However, yes, I do believe his speech is out of character. Unfortunately, you'll have to deal with this story's discrepincies. No, you do not have to be a Rae/Rob fan to enjoy this story. You could just as easily be a Rob/Star fan and enjoy it just as much. As an author and fan of the series, I try and leave possibilities for whatever pairings the reader sees fit, as you can see in my story "Crimes of the Heart," in which I think I made that point quite clearly.

And now, I give you Russian Roulette, a One-Shot fan fic by me serving as a snapshot into Robin's head and a turning point in his philosophies. I hope you enjoy.

I keep a revolver in the bottom desk drawer on my right. It's been there for so long that I don't remember how it got there... but I do know why I keep it there.

Often times I stand up on the roof and let the wind do what it will to my hair. I like to watch the sun as it sinks into the sea like a blazing battleship, killed before its time. I stay up there sometimes until the stars come out. I think about all sorts of things as I try to find myself up there. But more than once, my mind has drifted to a question I've been asking myself for years.

What is it all for?

Everyday, I see her, hear her, smell her, and like poison she consumes me, until I'm writhing on the floor in agony, begging for an antidote. She haunts me like a specter straight out of Dickens's novel, taunting me with her scythe, asking me what I'm going to do with my future. And I never have an answer.

I fight beside her everyday, and once in a while, she catches me staring and seems to glare at me reprovingly, as if she knows my darkest intentions... Other than that, I can keep very composed. Out of all my friends, I treat her with the most indifference. And yet, because I've spurned them all, I have no one now to talk to. Not even her.

She reminds me of the revolver in my desk. Day after day, I barely dodge her bullet. After every fight, I scarcely escape with my life.

And today... today we nearly lost her.

It's a terrifying feeling. To love someone so much and never say a word until they're dangling over a vat of boiling picric acid, about to be chemically destroyed. And then, you say things you think you don't mean, but beneath the surface, it's things you've been screaming for a long time. You just never heard it before yourself.

"Raven, no! I love you..."

The burst of dark energy from the girl blew the warehouse sky high.

I guess you could say I saved her life.

I still don't know if that's a good thing.

Now that the words have escaped me, there's nothing left. I used to be full of myself. Then I was full of her. And now... now, there's nothing. And I don't know which is worse.

I guess it's a masochistic sort of obsession that I need to get rid of. Now that I said it, it doesn't feel half as powerful as it did yesterday. It's almost as if it doesn't matter anymore.

It's funny how the teenage mind works. One minute, you're madly in love. And then, you're not. And life goes on.

The thing is, it's amazing how fickle I am. My attentions move from friend to friend, until I eventually become bored with them.

Raven's only my most recent obsession.

The first was Starfire. God, was she gorgeous. Everything a guy could want. Absolutely... everything. She was my world. She was the only one who really tried to talk to me, who really wanted to get inside of my head. She wanted to love me for me. And that made me feel like somebody. And it worked, teasing her, playfully flirting for a while... and then, I got bored. And I forgot about her.

For a while, it was Cyborg. I marveled at his stamina, his strength, and his courage, and wished that someday, I could be even half of what he was. I couldn't believe I was the one leading this God forsaken team and not him. It was obvious that he was so much better than me in almost every respect. I wanted to know everything, learn everything, be everything he could help me to be. So I did everything with him.

And then, I realized, he wasn't the demigod I'd thought he was. And somehow, he lost his appeal. And I felt secure in my place in the scheme of things again.

Before Raven, there was Beast Boy. He even makes Raven secretly smile, though she'll die before she admits it. To be so carefree and relaxed... he was the ultimate free spirit. I felt like I was trapped in the cage of society, unable to stretch my wings. Once, we went up together, just the two of us and shared a few jokes. I watched him as he leapt off our roof, turned into an eagle, and then did loops and barrel roles in the setting sun. God, to be able to do that...

But eventually, he got annoying, and I learned why Raven was so bothered by him.

And then I thought... Raven.

But we already know how that turned out.

And now, for once in my life, there's nothing. Not with Slade gone and the city clean of crime for the time being, or with my friends... gone.

As though they were all victims of that revolver in my desk drawer.

It's not that I don't care for them. Hell, I love each and every one of them. I mean, why shouldn't I? They're my family. It's just, I've closed myself off for so long, I substitute obsession for love and attention.

There are times when I wonder if I'm just holding them back, or making them run around in circles for my own enjoyment. I can't really tell if I do things for their own good, or mine. It's hard to distinguish these days, seeing as I convince everyone, including myself, that everything I do is for someone else's own good.

Which is exactly what I'm doing up on the roof tonight.

There's a revolver in my desk drawer. It's never been fired, never even seen the light of day, and there are no finger prints on it other than mine. It'll sound odd, but I often dream of firing it. Except, my heart pulls the trigger and it seems to fire from inside of me, creating an exit wound the size of Kentucky as it fatally wounds one of my friends. Only, I never know which one is hit. And I never know why the revolver is always inside of me.

So what is the point of it all? What's the point of having a gun if you never fire it? What's the point of having a soul if you never show it? And what's the point of chasing down bad guy after bad guy when they always seem to get their way in the end.

The news stories like to make you believe that the good guys came and saved the day, but that's never really the end. The end is, they always get away, and they always come back. And they always cause a ruckus and end up getting their name in the paper. Publicity is what makes us king. Villains always love to have their name strike fear in the hearts of others. That's what Slade always got a kick out of. Seeing the title "Titans Save Jump City from Slade," with the footnote attached: "However, the dark and dangerous antagonist alludes capture, and indeed even contact once again as the Titans in fact really battled his clone." Or his robot. Or maybe even his flying monkey in a Slade outfit. God, who knows the difference anymore.

Really, it's futile. Even when we really did get Slade in the end, there's always the possibility that we didn't. That his flying monkey will show up and say "Haha, you idiots, I fooled you again." There's always the possibility. My friends think I'm paranoid. Maybe I am. But anything can happen.

My point is... there will always be criminals. They will always do crime. If we don't stop them, the police will. Many would say we help the city, and I suppose we do. But the city doesn't really need us. And my team doesn't really need me.

What is the point? It's a very good question, I think. I can't seem to find an answer. Can you?... Huh, I thought not. Really, this whole thing is ridiculous. Like a childhood fantasy going on for far longer than it should. My childhood died years ago. My dreams died with it. My last shred of hope was this... this pointless position: Robin, Leader of the Teen Titans. Sounds like a snazzy title, doesn't it? I liked it. It made me feel like somebody. But it didn't take long for me to realize that I couldn't hide behind a name. I couldn't hide behind a role. I couldn't hide behind obsessions either, with work or Slade or otherwise. I couldn't hide... from me.

Or that revolver inside of me. Never been fired, never seen by anyone, and worst of all, with no one's fingerprints other than my own. So if it ever did go off and it hurt something, I'd be the only one to blame.

Sometimes, I think of aiming that damn revolver down my fucking throat. Some would call it suicide. I call it swallowing my pride. Haha, get it?

Yeah, I know, not so funny.

I look out across the sea, at the blazing Sun Ship, set aflame by the match of the Ship of Darkness. I feel a strange tingling feeling in my chest, a little to the left, right above my stomach. The sight moves me particularly tonight for some reason, I don't know why. Symbolic, in some ways, one might argue, but that's not it. At least, not the death of the sun itself. Something about the way the stars look as the sun slowly falls over the edge of the earth. The sun's light dims them during the day, but as it dies, they begin to shine. And when the last glimmer of orange withdraws its last finger over the horizon, the stars blaze full force, a universe of tiny suns, dancing, jumping singing... The stars are alive.

Alone in the starlit darkness, I look over my shoulder at the door. It seems so far away from me now. Slowly, I start my long walk towards it, thinking of each of my friends with every step.

Raven.

Beast Boy.

Cyborg.

Starfire.

Eventually, I reach the door, faces and names swirling in my head, aiming a deadly weapon, threatening to shoot... Only none of their guns are loaded.

Except one.

With heavy step I walk, hypnotized, down the hall. I think of her, Raven, and the words I said today, and how they hold no meaning anymore.

It would be easy for me to dismiss the thought, tell her I love her as a teammate. Except, she heard it differently. Damn her and her powers. She heard it... how I'd meant it... at the time, anyway. Should I take it back now, what would she think of me? She'd hear the sincerity... would she be angry or upset? Or simply relieved?

That burst of dark energy that had emitted from her had been hard to read. I don't know if she was surprised, angry, or...

Or...

I'm in my room. I don't even realize where I'm going anymore. Mechanically, I open my desk drawer.

I finger the revolver, silver and never-been-used. What should happen should I finally fire it? Would chaos ensue? Or would my soul finally find peace. The soul that has never been shown, with no one's fingerprints but my own.

I stare at the gun in my hands a moment curiously, thinking of all the possibilities my palm now holds. It's so easy... so easy...

Carefully, I open a box of silver bullets. Without thinking, I pick one specific one up out of the box and slide it into the cartridge. Silently, I close the gun and spin the cartridge.

Yet somehow, instinctively, I know what's going to happen next.

Sometimes, you really wish you forgot which chamber you put the bullet in...

With a steady hand a put the gun to my temple, not down my throat as I had so often imagined I'd do. I don't know why, somehow it just doesn't feel right.

Suddenly, I catch sight of a photo on my desk, my friends grinning up at me, carefree and innocent. Even Raven seems to be somewhat less bitter. Her smile isn't on her lips. Oh no, it's in her eyes, hidden behind veils of disillusion, and further behind that lays a childlike hope of brighter days. While the others display their joy proudly on their face, she stares with a half-smile painted on her lips, and a knowing look, like the Mona Lisa smugly hiding a secret she'll take to the grave.

The look pierces me deeper than any dagger, and I don't really know why.

Sometimes, you really wish you forgot which chamber you put the bullet in.

I take a deep breath and close my eyes.

What is to become of us all? What is to become of them?

My forefinger feels the steel under its tip. Cold to the touch, sharp, yet somehow comforting. The barrel of the gun is pressed threateningly against my scalp and I can hear hollow winds swirling inside it.

It's now or never.

But then, I think logically.

I take the gun down from my temple and stare at it, thinking of the impact. No, I say to myself, it would be better to put it in my mouth. Should I shoot the gun, the blast would rock my hand backwards, grazing maybe my ear and the top of my head. But it wouldn't kill me.

Then again, I really don't want the nauseating taste of metal to be the last thing I really knew.

The dilemmas of a suicide.

I change my mind again and return the barrel to my temple. The whispering winds return and I ignore them.

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Slowly, unwavering, my finger tests the trigger. Finally, I work up the courage and pull with all my might.

Click.

That hadn't been the sound I'd been expecting. I frown, but keep my eyes closed. Maybe the next one.

Click.

That was lucky. Some might say it means something. But they also say third time's the charm.

I'm about to pull the trigger for the third time when I make the worst mistake one could make. I open my eyes.

And then I see them, watching me, smiling, laughing, hoping... all so innocent. And loving. Love.

I tilt my head at the photo. It would be too easy to just turn it away from view. So instead, I sigh, and take the cosmic hint.

I take the gun down and look at it, resting in my two hands, still as lustrous as it was when it was new.

I was meant for more than this.

I have saved so many lives in my brief period on this earth, suffered through much of my teen years in silence and solitude. I still don't know what it's all for. But I know it wasn't for this. Who am I to try and take my own life away when I worked so hard at saving others? Hypocrisy is humanity's downfall.

Sighing, almost relieved, I open my desk drawer and place the gun carefully in place. Right where I always leave it. As I close the door, curiosity claims me, and I throw it open again, taking out the revolver.

Delicately, as if handling a sculpture that could fall to pieces in my hand, I open the cartridge.

There lay the bullet, dormant, in the very chamber that could have blown my brains to bits had I pulled the trigger that third time.