It appears that I'm on a Robin run.
Not that that's bad a thing. :)
Robin watched as Cyborg stood on the roof of the tower, the sunset blazing him in a fiery corona. His gaze was spectral and somewhat blank--to the human eye. It seemed to pierce something. He stood there for a long time, jaw set, staring off into the sky. Robin bit his lip, and closed the thick, steel door, walking a little faster than normal.
He saw Raven cast her eyes to the ground and disappear for hours a time--really disappear. Somehow, they knew she wasn't in her room. There was a fullness that wasn't there, like she had evanesced off into the sky. When she was around, her hands twitched like songbirds, stroking at her arms, fluttering the edges of her hair.
Starfire's smile seemed oddly stretched, like it was only muscles realigning themselves. Late one night, he heard screaming, and the jagged sound of something breaking. The next morning, a shattered flower pot lay forlornly in her trash bin, and there was a terra-cotta smudge on her bedroom wall.
Beast Boy was always visible, but he kept high, for whatever reason--the angular shadow of a hawk soaring above them, nipping at the clouds, or even the Dadaist image of a pterodactyl, seeming to climb higher and higher, to the point where...the point was lost, and he'd come back down. But not for long.
Robin didn't do anything. He redid the overgrown dossier on Cheshire, cleaned dishes, watched five innings of the Gotham-Metropolis game, wrote an email to Babs, reorganized the L section of the evidence room, and didn't think. Finally, the cabin fever forced him outside, where the sun was searing and the gulls' cries seemed distant and almost musical. He walked on autopilot, finding the control panel that activated the plywood dummies, and went to work, punching at things that took on ghostly faces, not noticing the building intensity in each hit until he stopped, his breath strained and ragged.
He wandered over to the shore, strewn with pebbles and vagrant strips of beach grass. His fingers gathered reeds and long, saber-like leaves as he went, subconscious.
Automatically, he weaved the whiplike grass into a tiny, crease-edged structure that looked something like a cup, something vaguely boat-like. He set it in the water, and watched it go until it melted into the technicolor brightness of the city and the sky. Shadows passed over him.
"Happy Mothers' Day," he said, into the wind.