fuckyeah robin / raven

Intruder! Tower Main Entrance... Intruder!

Dick bolted upright like a Pavlovian response. Without warning, the room blazed with light, shining red, white, and yellow straight into his face. It was blindingly bright as his computer began to flash incessantly with the same alert.

Intruder! Tower Main Entrance... Intruder!

Something had tripped the Tower's silent alarm. Or maybe even someone. Dick felt an odd excitement stirring in his bones. Surely, he could take care of this one on his own. There was no need to even wake the team. If he were to be completely honest, he longed for danger and the thrill that accompanied it. It was the only thing that could make him feel alive anymore. A leader shouldn’t open himself up to constant risk. But this was different. It wasn't as if he had gone out to seek it this time. So Vic couldn't tell him he was being reckless when it had come to him directly.

Who could fault him for defending the Tower?

He molded with the shadows as he propelled forward, cutting around corners and bending behind archways. He tried not to think about what or whom he was channeling as he crept along. Sleepless nights and overwork meant that Dick had lost a little muscle mass, but he hadn't lost a step. He was silent and stealthy as ever. 

At last, he saw it: A silhouette of an intruder gliding through the west entryway to the Operations Room of the Tower. Were they trying to get in using the cover of darkness? Well, they were in for it now. Trespassing was enough of a pretense. His lip curled into a sneer as he approached deadly and dangerous. 

"Don't. Move."

The figure froze.

"You have exactly ten seconds to explain who the hell you are, and what the hell you're doing here." He paused. There was still no answer, just more dead air. "Staying silent? Bad move. Whoever you are, you better start talking—now." 

His escrima sticks cast crackling spotlights in the dark. They oscillated with blue electricity as he approached—far less cautiously than he should. The shroud leapt backward. And the umbras seemed to move with it, like a squid hovering above the ocean floor, using ink clouds of its own making for cover. Something was eerily familiar about it all. He tried to shake the feeling that he recognized the way this shadowy figure was moving.

But it couldn't be. 

He'd dreamt about it enough times. But… There was just no way.

"Fine." He widened his stance, the escrima sticks moving like electric nun-chucks. Though his body's rhythm was languid, it was seamless. Second nature. But mercy wasn’t anymore. "Don't say I didn't warn you—"

"Wait!" The hoarse voice was insistent. "It's me." The cyan pulses outlined an outstretched hand and a pale visage, widened eyes. That face... Her face. "Please, don't."

The weapons clattered to the floor with a resounding clang.

An ebony brow creased in confusion. He gazed blankly, struck dumb, as a petite girl walked into the moonbeams and electronic sea of dotted blues and greens. It was her standing in the entrance. It was her in a tiny black sweater and baggy low rise jeans. Really her, like no time had passed at all. She took a single step, letting the duffel bag slip off her shoulder to land in a noisy heap on the ground.

He fell out of his fighting stance—he was powerless against her. She had overtaken him completely without drawing her magic or a fist.

"Raven."

"Dick, I—" Her voice was barely audible. "I thought... No one would be awake—at this hour..." But he was. Dick's eyes were growing wider and wider. "Hi..."

"Raven," he repeated, dumbly. He knew nothing else but her name. Because it was her. All he could think of was the fact that it was her.

"I'm sorry I didn't call first," Raven croaked. She swallowed, blinking quickly. "Maybe I shouldn't have come... I can go—"

"You're not going anywhere." Dick's voice rumbled low and threatening. Suddenly, he rushed forward again. Then, he grabbed her. Not to apprehend her, but to hold her, to bring her into a full and tight embrace. Lifting her off the ground, cradling her to his chest. Threading his fingers through her hair. Touching her. Breathing her in as deeply as he could. "Raven, you came back." There was a river of emotions rushing and Raven was quickly swept away as the flood poured through the cracks in the dam of their bond to break free. Her legs shook until they gave out. And she closed her eyes and let him hold her and hold her up.

"You're back—you came back."

"Yes," Raven whispered. "I did—I am."

"You came back to me," Dick said, almost questioningly. He brushed the longer locks out of her eyes as he searched them. They were different. Her hair was different. 

It didn't matter. Not just this second. Not ever. Not when he'd soon be able to open her up and search her at his leisure. He registered this briefly before his mind went blank and he crushed his mouth hard into hers. She melted into him, so he could drink her up, after drinking her in.

Dick was unrestrained, claiming her lips furiously, holding her so tightly, his hands fumbling all over her body. He just needed to feel her. Make sure she was really real. Really there before him. Gods, she tasted so damn good. And she felt just like he remembered.

Perhaps a bit thinner, but he didn't care. It was her all the same.

"Dick. Dick, what are we doing—" She whispered on each erratic breath falling between their lips. 

But she knew what they were doing. And what she was doing to him. She let out a squeak of surprise as he pushed into her mouth. He hissed when her tongue pressed back against his. It was so hard and hot, their teeth clashed before they had to breathe. 

"I missed you." Her words tumbled out clumsily. Drunkenly. But she couldn't fight it. "I did."

"Gods, Raven." He grunted in approval, tucking her lip between his. Dick sighed. "I really was losing my mind. A moment ago, I thought you weren't real." Each day had been more painful than the last. "I just...missed you so much."

Acknowledgments came back uneven, overlapping, and less polished than they should have been, but enough.

"And, Cyborg—do something about that alarm."

The Tower cut to silence mid-blare, abrupt and almost jarring in its absence. A few relieved, tired exhalations drifted over the comms.

"Come on, team," Robin added, forcing his tone lighter than it felt. "The faster we move, the faster we're done."

He didn't wait for a response.

He took the stairs two at a time, boots striking metal in sharp, controlled impacts, his body moving on instinct even as something underneath it lagged half a beat behind. His mind tried to fall into its usual rhythm—floor layouts, blind spots, containment points—but it kept snagging on the same thing.

Fire alarm. Too sudden. Too loud. No warning.

His breath came a fraction too shallow, the inhale stopping just short before he forced it deeper, evening it out before it could show. He adjusted his grip on the railing, grounding himself in the solid, familiar weight of it, in the pattern of movement he knew by muscle memory alone.

Routine. This was just routine—just another Monday.

"Upper levels clear," he reported into the comm as he hit the landing, even though he'd barely crossed the threshold yet, already stepping into the hallway, already scanning. "No visible smoke." His voice didn't waver.

The corridor stretched out in front of him, quiet now, the red emergency lights still pulsing in slow intervals along the walls. Too similar. Too close to something else—something his brain tried to fill in before he shut it down. His breath came in short pants. Not now, he pushed down the rising panic. Bootsteps steady. Breathing measured. Focus forward.

"Starfire?" he prompted.

"All is clear on my end, Robin," she replied, bright even through the comm.

"Beast Boy?"

"Yeah, yeah—nothing here but my desire to go back to bed."

"Stay sharp." He reached the upper landing door and pushed through without slowing, scanning as he moved—hallway clear, lights steady, no heat signature, no smoke. Good. Keep moving. Keep it contained. Inhale. Exhale.

He pivoted toward the corridor Raven had been assigned without thinking twice.

"Raven, status," he said into the comm, already moving.

Silence. Not static. Or interference. Just—nothing.

Something in his chest tightened before he could stop it, sharp and immediate, the kind of reaction he usually caught before it surfaced. His next breath came too fast, too shallow—he cut it off, forced it back into rhythm.

"Raven," he repeated, a fraction more force behind it now.

No answer.

He picked up his pace. "Raven, respond."

Nothing.

The hallway narrowed, then widened near the observation windows—and as he rounded the corner, he stopped.

She was there.

Standing in the middle of the corridor, exactly where the space opened up, her back half-turned toward him, shoulders rigid beneath the fall of her cloak. The red emergency lights pulsed over her in slow intervals, catching in her hair, along the edge of her jaw, painting her in something that looked too close to fire.

And she wasn't moving.

Not scanning. Not reacting. Not even turning at the sound of his approach. She was just… still.

"Raven." He said her name out loud this time, sharper, closing the distance between them in three quick strides—but something in the way she held herself made him slow before he reached her.

It wasn't hesitation. It was wrong.

Her hands hung at her sides, fingers curled just slightly, tension locked into them without release. Her breathing was off—too shallow, too uneven, barely there—and even in the silence, he could hear it. Her cloak was missing.

For a split second, something in him mirrored it.

Her breathing was too fast and too sharp.

The quiet, the red light, the sudden stop in motion—it pressed in at the edges of his awareness, threatening to pull him sideways into something instinctive and unhelpful. He shut it down. Not now. Not here. Robin took control of his mind and snapped into leader mode.

"Raven," he tried again, lower this time, stepping into her line of sight, angling himself so he could see her face.

Her gaze didn't shift. She didn't track him. Her eyes were locked onto something that wasn't there.

Recognition hit, fast and precise. This was not a physical threat. It was internal.

Robin exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing the breath to steady, to even out, to give him something solid to work with. The edge left his voice—not because he didn't feel it, but because he chose not to let it stay.

"Raven," he said again, quieter now, controlled in a different way as he stepped closer, careful not to crowd her. "We're going to move, okay?"

No response. That was fine. He adjusted.

"Just a few steps," he added, softer, reaching out—not grabbing, not pulling—just enough to guide.

Her body resisted for a fraction of a second, then followed, stiff, unsteady.

He led her to the wall, easing her down with deliberate care, his hand steady even as he had to consciously slow his own breathing to match the pace he was asking of her.

"Okay," he murmured, lowering himself in front of her, bringing himself into her line of sight. "Good."

The alarm cut through the space again, louder here, closer to the source, vibrating through the walls and the floor. Her shoulders flinched—just barely, but it was there. He saw black energy spark at her fingertips, her eyes flashing white for the briefest second, and that was enough to snap something sharp and immediate through him.

"Cyborg," Robin bit out into the comm, the word tight, controlled only by force.

"I know, dude," Cyborg shot back. "It's Gizmo trying to break in. Give me a second."

A moment later, the noise dropped out, the flashing lights cutting with it, leaving the corridor in a sudden, almost disorienting silence.

Robin didn't waste it. He dropped into a crouch in front of her, closing the distance fully now. "Raven," he said, steady but low, like he was speaking directly into the space she was trapped in rather than the hallway around them. "You're not there. You're in the Tower—top floor, west corridor. You're with me." He reached for her hand, pale against the green of his gloves, grounding himself as much as her when he closed his fingers around it.

Still no response.

Her breathing hitched again, sharp and uneven, and her grip tightened around his so suddenly it bordered on painful. "Raven," he tried again, softer now, slowing everything down on purpose. "Focus on my voice."

The alarm screamed back to life.

Her eyes squeezed shut like she could block it out, but when they opened again, they were still gone—still locked somewhere he couldn't reach.

"Cyborg," Robin hissed, the control slipping just enough to show through. "Now."

"Working on it!"

The sound cut again, the silence returning in jagged pieces.

Robin exhaled slowly, forcing his own breathing back under control, and made a decision before hesitation could take hold. He took Raven's other hand, lifting both of them into her line of sight, anchoring her in something physical, something immediate.

Her entire body went rigid at the movement.

"Easy," he murmured immediately, not pulling away, not tightening his hold. "Just me."

He shifted closer, deliberately placing himself where she couldn't avoid him, lowering his voice even further so it settled beneath everything else instead of competing with it. "Listen to me," he said, each word spaced and intentional. "You're here. You're safe. See? There's no fire on this level."

Her breathing stuttered again as the lights flickered back to life, red washing over them in slow, pulsing intervals, and that was when he noticed it—her lips were moving.

"Raven," he said, a little firmer now, grounding without pushing. "Look at me."

Another pulse of red light followed by another sharp blare, and this time she broke. She yanked her hands out of his grip, clamping them over her ears as she folded in on herself, burying her head against her knees with a strained, desperate cry. "Stop it!"

Robin's jaw clenched, frustration flashing hot and immediate before he forced it back down. "Cyborg, private channel."

"What!" Cyborg spat. There was a moment of silence before Cyborg was back. "Look, I'm trying—"

"Raven is having a panic attack," Robin cut in, the words controlled but urgent. "We're lucky nothing in this tower is exploding right now."

There was a beat of silence, and then Cyborg's voice shifted completely. "Oh. Okay. Is she—?"

"I'm handling it," Robin said, exhaling sharply through his nose. "But every time the alarm goes off, it sets her off again."

"Got it. Look, I'm going to have to reboot everything. Just keep her steady."

"Do it." The channel cut, and Robin's focus snapped back to her immediately. "Raven," he said, gentler now, reaching for her again, lifting her head just enough so she couldn't disappear completely. His fingers settled lightly at her temples, not restraining, just anchoring. "Talk to me. Anything. Tell me what's going on in your head; tell me what you're seeing." He didn't expect her to respond, nearly giving up when he was met with silence. The pressure in his chest lessened when she finally spoke.

"It's—" she gasped, the word breaking apart as her breath hitched. "It's loud—so loud—"

"I know," he said quickly, brushing damp strands of hair back from her face without thinking about it. "I know. Cyborg's fixing it."

She shook her head hard. "No. No, that won't— they won't stop—"

"It's just the fire alarm," he tried, though he already knew that wasn't where she was. "You're okay."

"There's so much smoke," she choked out, the words catching over each other. "And—stones—they're breaking—through the walls—no—" She sucked in a sharp breath, the sound scraping on the way in.

Robin didn't interrupt her or try to correct her. Whatever she was seeing, she wasn't here, and forcing reality on her too soon would only push her further away.

"They—he's burning them," she gasped, her entire body beginning to shake now, the tremor running through her like it had nowhere to go.

And then the words came faster, spilling out in fragments, some in English, some not—temple, stone, cracking, something he couldn't translate, something about the sky, something about blood, more he couldn't translate—and Robin felt something twist tight in his chest because he didn't understand any of it. He just knew it was wrong, and that she was reliving something awful. For the umpteenth time since the team's formation six months ago, he wished he knew more about her.

"Raven," he said softly, wiping at the tears slipping from her unfocused stare, the gesture automatic, unplanned. "You're not there. You're here. With me."

"I can't—stop it," she choked, tears falling freely now, unrestrained in a way he had never seen before. "I can't—stop it. They're—all in pain."

Something sharp hit him in the chest, but he pushed it down, locked it away, because she needed him steady. "Raven," he said, firmer now, grounding again. "Look at me."

Her head shifted, just barely, but it was enough.

"You're here," he pressed, slower, deliberate. "On Earth. In Jump City. In Titan's Tower."

Her eyes dragged toward him, unfocused but closer. "They're screaming," she whispered. "I can't help them."

"They aren't screaming," he spoke steadily despite the way something in him resisted saying it. "They aren't, because you're not there anymore."

"Everything is burning—and I can feel it all—"

Robin didn't understand the place or the memory or the way she carried it like sensation instead of recollection, but he understood enough to know she was drowning in it. "Raven," he said, quieter now but more urgent, "you're here. Top floor. No fire. No collapse. No one's hurt."

Her breathing stuttered again—but it didn't spike.

"Feel this," he said, guiding her hand up, pressing it lightly against his temple. He took her other hand and placed it over his chest, leaning forward until his forehead rested gently against her chakra stone. "Sense me. This is real. I'm real. Focus on that. Stay with that."

Her fingers twitched.

Robin didn't know how he knew, but he could feel it—the shift, subtle but real, like something fragile beginning to settle back into place. "Good," he murmured, the word soft, almost instinctive. "Stay here. Feel my heart. You're doing fine."

Her head dipped slightly, not quite a nod, but no longer resisting. "They—" she tried again, weaker now, like the words were losing their hold. "They didn't—"

"It's over," he said gently, cutting in before she could fall back into it. "Whatever happened—it's over…and you're not there anymore."

Her lips parted, like she might argue, like she might correct him—but nothing came out.

"You're here," he said again, quieter now, no force behind it this time. "With me. Just breathe."

Robin felt the exact moment she began to come back to herself.

The silence had settled fully now—the alarm gone, the lights no longer flashing—so Cyborg must have finally gotten the system under control. As if on cue—

"Yo, Rob," Cyborg's voice came through a private channel. "How's Raven?"

"She's calming down."

"Keep me updated."

"Will do."

Raven's eyes finally settled on him, focus sharpening in slow, uneven increments, like she was pulling herself back piece by piece. Her brow furrowed when she realized how close he was. "R-Robin?" she said, her voice still unsteady.

"You're okay," he said, like it was already true.

"I—"

"Just breathe," he said gently. "Give your mind a second to catch up."

She nodded faintly and began matching her breaths to his.

He adjusted slightly, his thumb brushing once across the back of her knuckles in a small, grounding motion that felt more deliberate than he intended.

"That's it," he murmured. "Stay here."

Raven exhaled, longer this time, steadier, the lingering edge of panic fading into something distant, something she could manage. "I'm… fine now," she said, though it didn't quite sound like she believed it.

"Yeah," he replied quietly. "You are."

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then Raven became aware of it all at once—the closeness, his hands, the way her back was pressed firmly against the wall behind her, leaving nowhere to retreat even if she wanted to. "…Thank you," she said finally, more sincere than she intended.

"No problem," he said, already beginning to pull away—slowly, carefully, like he didn't want to disrupt whatever balance they had found. "Do you remember what happened?" he asked.

She hesitated, then exhaled. "The alarm went off… and I was already in a nightmare." Her voice softened slightly. "I don't think I fully woke up."

Robin nodded.

She was about to say more, but something caught her attention—subtle, almost imperceptible. His breathing.

Each inhale was measured, deliberate, like he was forcing it into rhythm rather than letting it come naturally. His chest rose just a fraction too sharply for someone who claimed everything was fine.

Her gaze lifted, studying him more closely. Robin held steady, posture composed, expression controlled—but the longer she looked, the more it showed. The tension in his jaw. The way his shoulders hadn't fully relaxed. The careful pacing of every breath.

Raven flattened her hand slightly against his chest, grounding herself in it as much as reading it.

He wasn't calm, though he was trying to be. "You're not…" she said quietly, hesitant but certain. "You're not okay."

He blinked once, caught off guard. "I'm fine," he said automatically, too quickly.

Raven didn't look away. "You're not," she repeated.

For a moment, he said nothing. Something in his expression shifted—not breaking, not unraveling, just… loosening, like he was deciding whether to let her see it.

When he spoke again, his voice was still controlled—but not as tightly. "Does it matter?"

Raven held his gaze, her hand still resting lightly against him. "I think it does," she said. Because this quiet, deliberate effort, this refusal to let his own reaction take precedence over hers wasn't something she had expected. Not from him. "You stayed," she added softly. "Even when you didn't understand. Even when you were unsteady."

Robin studied her for a moment. "I don't like them," he admitted finally.

Raven frowned slightly. "Alarms?"

"Not just alarms," he said. "Anything that hits without warning." He paused, searching. "Fireworks, for example. The kind that go off when they're not scheduled. People in Gotham are always looking for an excuse to set off fireworks. Used to drive me nuts."

Raven blinked. That was… oddly specific.

"They're loud," he continued, quieter now. "Disorienting. You don't know where it's coming from, how long it's going to last, if it's just noise—or something worse." He exhaled slowly, slowly caressing the hand resting against his chest. "I don't like not knowing."

Raven watched him carefully, something in her expression softening—not in pity, but in recognition. "You don't show it," she said.

"Show what?"

"The unsteadiness."

He shook his head slightly. "No." A beat passed. "I manage it."

Something in her chest tightened at that, because she understood it too well. She looked down at her hands, her fingers curling loosely into her palms, the echo of panic still lingering in them. She paid attention to his green-clothed fingers subtly rubbing circles into the back of her hand. "You do more than manage," she said quietly. "You were panicking too, and you still stayed in control."

"Tricks of the trade," Robin replied with a faint smirk.

"You'd think with all the meditation I do, I'd be better at controlling the panic." Her voice faltered.

"Raven—"

"I mean, I usually am," she corrected, softer now, reluctant. "I don't let it get that far." Her jaw tightened slightly. "But I wasn't… here. Not completely."

Robin didn't interrupt.

"I think I was still in the nightmare when the alarm went off," she added, the words slow, deliberate.

That explained it.

"I'm sorry," she said after a moment. "I should have handled it."

"Raven," Robin said, steady but firm, "there's nothing to apologize for. And you did handle it."

She frowned faintly. "I froze."

"And then you came back," he replied. "That counts."

She didn't argue—but the shame didn't fully leave her expression.

Robin watched her, something shifting in his gaze. Not analytical. Not strategic. Just… thoughtful. Because this wasn't something he had planned for. It wasn't something he could prepare for or study or solve from a distance.

And for the first time, he realized that had been the problem. He'd been trying to understand Raven the same way he understood everything else—through patterns, observation, controlled distance. Learning what she liked, what she avoided, where her boundaries were, and staying carefully within them.

It wasn't enough.

Because this—this wasn't something she showed. This was something she hid. If he wanted to understand her—not just work beside her, not just anticipate her—then he couldn't keep approaching her like a problem to solve. He'd have to move differently. More carefully.

He couldn't operate like a strategist mapping out terrain— but like someone standing too close to an open flame, aware that one wrong move, one careless assumption, could burn.

Robin exhaled slowly, the thought settling into something real. "…I've been doing this wrong," he admitted, almost to himself.

Raven glanced at him, confusion flickering through her exhaustion. "Doing what?"

He hesitated, then shook his head once. "Trying to understand you."

Her expression tightened immediately. "Why would you want to do that?" she asked, quieter now, but sharper. "I'm not—" She cut herself off, then forced it out anyway. "I'm not worth it. Why do want to know me?"

Robin stilled.

She was already pulling back, folding in on herself, retreating behind something familiar.

"We've been a team for six months," he said, keeping his voice even. "I want to understand know everyone."

"I'm not worth it," she repeated, more force this time, her eyes hardening as the mask snapped back into place.

"Why do you think that?" he asked, genuine, not pushing—just asking.

Raven went completely still. Then, slowly, she pushed herself to her feet. "Thank you for calming me," she said, controlled again. Distant. "I'm sorry. I just… I'll finish checking the west corridor."

And before he could respond, she turned and walked away. Robin didn't stop her. He just watched.

She moved like nothing had happened—like the last several minutes hadn't existed at all—but he knew better now. He could see it in the way she held herself, in the things she didn't say.

He'd been wrong about her. Not completely wrong—but wrong enough. If he wanted to figure out what she was hiding, he couldn't push. He couldn't corner her. He'd have to approach her the same way he'd approach anything volatile—carefully.