Those Camsten One Shots (Stitchers)

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"It's nice out, isn't it, Kirsten?"

No response.

"I mean, it's sunny, and it's been raining a lot, so it's definitely improvement."

Not a word.

"More of a night person, Batgirl?"

Not a sound.

Cameron sighed in defeat. Kirsten hadn't spoken a word since she bounced out of the stitch - the stitch from two months ago. She hadn't wanted to leave - but she had, because Cameron asked her to.

He couldn't tell what she was feeling. He never had been able to, and now was no exception. She was cut off, emotionless, nothing more than a self-contained veggie. Nothing made her speak. She would move when prompted, eat when food was placed in front of her, and bath and urinate when coaxed into a bathroom. But she didn't speak; she didn't move on her own; and she did nothing else without someone guiding her.

If it were anyone else sitting in front of him, Cameron would've thought it was pathetic. But this wasn't anyone sitting in front of him; this was Kirsten Clark, the girl who had a reason behind everything she did. Cameron couldn't bring himself to believe that she was broken inside; he could only hope that Kirsten had shielded herself to insure that didn't happen.

Whenever Cameron could force himself to come see her, he spoke to her. Sometimes, he told stories, or brought books to read from. Other times, he just went off on tangents about something he had been particularly agitated about. Kirsten never made any indication that she heard, but that never stopped him from trying. Today wasn't going to change anything.

"It's been two months since I last heard your voice, you know. I bet if you spoke at this point, it would be one of those raspy voices, like you hear described in books and fanfiction. 'When her voice came out, it was small, raspy from dissuse.' I bet if you were speaking, you'd laugh at that. Maybe even make a little comment, filled with that snark you always have."

Kirsten was motionless. She blinked, but not in any sort of code. Just a blink. An action to stop the eyes from drying out and shriveling up into nothing. Done somewhere between a few seconds and a few minutes at a time, depending on the conditions of where a person is, if there is anything in your eye, your genetics, and your water intake.

"I miss you. And your snark, Jughead."

No response.

"I love you."

Not a word.

"Come back. Maybe not for me, or anyone from the team. Maybe not for your mom, or your dad, or Ivy, or anyone else. Maybe not for the people you were fighting for. The dead you were giving a voice. But if there is anything - anything - I'm begging you, Kirsten; come back to me.

Not a sound.

But- wait- that wasn't-

A movement?

Cameron's eyes flicker down to Kirsten's right hand. Her hand, it shifts. Then her pinkie finger taps. Then her ring finger. Then her middle, then her index, then her thumb. Again on the opposite hand, in the reverse order. Another time all around. Pinkie-ring-middle-index-thumb-thumb-index-middle-ring-pinkie. Then her eyes. Blink once. Twice. Three times. Again.

She does this pattern - fingers twice, eyes once - for about three times before she does something new. Cameron watches in a surprised fascination, unsure how to respond, how to act. Then she moves. It's a simple movement, but he can see the clear consciousness that hasn't been there. She sits ups, her entire body putting in effort that it's been sorely lacking.

Then, she looks at him.

And it's - for once - not that blank gaze that makes it seem like she's looking far away, towards somewhere else. No, it's that bright, alert gaze that Cameron remembered. It's full of thought, of intelligence, of humanity. It's unimaginably beautiful, compared to the dullness that had previously been in that murky gaze.

Coffee-colored eyes meet peridot wonders, and the world suddenly seems clearer than the pure water flowing from a sink. The pupils ever expand - a chemical reaction, promoting happiness, love. Finally, after an infinity that neither can maintain, her voice flows through the air - and, yes, it's probably small, and raspy, just like Cameron thought it would be, but he can only hear a sweetness that he hasn't heard in two months, that he wasn't sure how he had ever managed to live without.

"I never left, Archie."