With thanks to the Teentitansslash livejournal community and especially
to Grey Sniper, as without her aid, this story would suck muchly. Also
because she's awesome. Really. Go read her stuff. It's
amazing. What are you still doing here? Go on with you!
Title: Beyond the Borders
Part: Prologue/?
Author: Ginzai
Series: Teen Titans
Timeline: AU Post Haunted
Rating: PG-13 for this part, R for series overall
Warnings: Violence, disturbing themes, and language. Also, slashy undertones, but if you've ever read anything by me before, you'd know that was to be expected.
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Sweet child of innocence
Living in the present tense
Father Time will take his toll
Rack your body and steal your soul
What became of all the years?
Are you drowning in your tears?
Who will catch you when you fall
Who will hear you when you call
I will comfort you, take your hand and see you through
I will take you through the door
Who do you think you are
Try to live forever and you won't get far
I wait behind your door
"Sweet Child of Innocence" by Kansas
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He stumbled on the fourth step, left foot dragging on the ground. It was almost enough to make him fall. Robin cursed the clumsiness, uncharacteristic and unwelcome. He had never been anything but agile and that now, of all times, he would loose his balance was a strange notion. He blinked under the mask; it was night in Jump City and the shadows which ordinarily held no mystery for him loomed large and dark. Perspiration beaded on his brow and sunk down his neck into the collar of his uniform.
It was bizarrely cold; though a summer night, he was amazed that he couldn't see his breath. He rubbed his hands against his upper arms in an attempt to warm up and then felt foolish, letting them fall aside. Showing such obvious signs of weakness would only serve to endanger him further.
But it was cold. And his head hurt, nearly enough for him to not care about showing weakness and instead simply want to raid the nearest drug store for the strongest over the counter pain relievers they sold.
Batman would be utterly disappointed in him.
Robin didn't pause to ponder it.
Ignoring the temptation to abandon the search (what had he been searching for? He'd known just a moment ago) in favor of Sudafed, Robin steadied himself, gathering balance with force of will. He really did not feel well. Living with four metahumans, and the Bat before that, sometimes it was easy to forget that he really was just a normal person under the mask. When all was said and done, he was still just sixteen, and tired, and ill, and, he realized looking up and around the unfamiliar terrain, with no idea where he had found himself.
Robin blinked again and let himself sag against the crumbling brick wall nearest him. Three of the street-lights he could see were burnt out; the one remaining cast shadows that concealed things better than pure darkness would. His right eye watered and he had to resist the urge to rub under his mask. It wasn't like he could remove it anyway. The coughing spasm was harder to resist, and Robin had to clutch at a wall in order to keep from falling. It hurt; a strange rasping sort of cough that was impossible to gain control of and after it finally ended, he almost couldn't breathe.
There was a scream, not far off by the sounds of it. He turned and was dashing towards it before the echoes faded. A leap off a parked car to the awning of a store sent him sailing into a neat forward flip. He landed on the rooftop of a one-story building, was across it in seconds and then paused, catching his breath while staring down at the scene below and trying to ignore just how fast his heart was beating.
Jump City didn't really have the same dark side that Gotham did. It had more than its fair share of meglomaniacal villains and the occasional mercenary H.I.V.E. grad student, but the number of purely normal homicides or thievery attempts was almost non-existent. It figured that he'd run into a rape attempt on this of all nights.
He hated rapists. There were three would-be ones here, cornering a white-faced brunette into an alley. She was clutching at two brown bags, full of groceries. One of the men, a tall brash looking fellow with hair dyed red enough to be seen even in the dim light, twirled a knife around the fingers of one hand as he leered at her. The other two hung back, cloaked in shadows and dark clothes, but Robin could still hear them snickering.
"Pretty girlie," the redhead said, blade flashing silver. "Don't wanna hurtcha, do we boys? A pretty little thing like that."
"Nah, man," one of the others spoke up, voice rumbling with horrible laughter. "Never see girls like that out at night. Wanna show her a good time, eh?"
"Please no," Robin could barely hear the woman's whisper as she backed up further. "Please, just let me go-"
"Sure thing, toots," the leader grinned at her, knife now still and steady in his right hand as he stepped closer to her. "But you see, me and my friends here, we own this particular stretch of land, and, well, those who wanna go through it? They've got to pay a toll. Right, guys?"
The big one sniggered his affirmation. The other, a whip thin fellow who had yet to speak, merely sneered and stepped closer, hands outstretched.
"You... You want money?"
"Sure, we'll take that too," Redhead moved closer now, moving within three feet of the girl and she squeaked, threw her bags at him and took off, only to caught by the arm. "Now, that wasn't nice at all, was it? You're gonna have to show me and my friends here a real good ti-MMPH!"
He cut off as Robin, tired of listening, leapt from the rooftop and landed a booted foot to his mouth. He dropped the woman's arm, stumbling back as Robin pushed forward, not giving him time to recover. He really hated rapists.
A swift uppercut to the chin dropped the redhead and gave the other two enough impetus to recover from their shock. Robin barely had enough sense to process the woman racing out of the alley like the hounds of hell were at her back before the thin one rushed him, his own knife out now as it cut the air, whistling as it narrowly avoided slicing Robin's face. He fell back into a smooth double flip, letting adrenalin take the place of exhaustion. Big and Dumb glared at him before swiping forward, no knife, but two heavy fisted hands that were each almost as large as Robin's head. He ducked one but the second caught him to the side of his face, sending him flying.
Robin hit alley wall and fell heavily, ears ringing, vision blurry. He managed to push himself to his arms and knees before someone fisted their hand in his tunic and yanked him upright, slamming his back to the wall and causing his head to crack loudly against the brick. It hurt, made his already swimming vision darken around the edges and little star flecks to pop up and dance. It was more force of will than anything else that kept the stars at bay and Robin managed a glare that would have been far more impressive if his feet were on the ground. It was the leader, recovered apparently, who had him.
"Christ, it's just a kid," the big one muttered to someone at Robin's left side.
"A dead kid," the first goon responded.
"But Boss," big man whined, suddenly looking nervous. "That's the Bat's kid, you know, from Gotham? He'd kill us,"
Irritation at that. As if criminals should fear messing with him just because of his past partner. Robin transferred the glare, but Big and Ugly wasn't looking.
"Not if he doesn't find out." Red was grinning again, knife back in his free hand. The blade of it curled up the side of Robin's mask, point digging in slightly just beneath where it ended under his left eye. "You cost us our fun, little boy. I think you should make it up to us."
Robin answered by driving a well placed kick to the man's groin. He winced inwardly, hating that particular move, but it was enough to cause Red to squeak in pain. His fingers loosened and Robin wiggled out of his grasp, dropping to the ground and rolling away.
"Kill the little bastard!" Red managed, uncurling enough to swipe the knife in Robin's direction again. Thin and Big rushed him again but this time Robin jumped out of the way, legs sweeping open above their heads in a perfect split that gave him the leverage needed to crash both skulls together as he leapt over their heads. He reached behind his back, snagging his bo and snapping it to full length with a practiced, easy motion. A quick roundhouse strike later and both sunk to the ground, unmoving.
Fire rushed through his shoulder and it took a moment for the cracking peal of the gunshot to make itself heard. The bo dropped, fingers of his right hand suddenly spasming. Robin clutched his good hand to it, palm automatically adding pressure to stanch the blood flow. It hurt, unsurprisingly, but it was hardly the first time he'd been shot. Redhead grinned at him over the gun (Glock 27, his mind supplied), face bloodied with a dark amused sort of glint in his eyes. It made Robin wonder, in a thought that seemed wildly funny at the moment, why criminals insisted on shooting him and just what it was about the prospect that they found so entertaining.
Red lifted the gun again, sighting down the length of it. The shadows gathered over his face, cloaking half of it in pure blackness to join that pooling around the edges of Robin's vision. It was hard to breathe. In perfect condition, dodging the next bullet wouldn't be a problem. If he were in top shape, he wouldn't have been shot in the first place and all three criminals would be down for the count, awaiting the authorities. He tried to assess the probability of knocking the gun away, tried to think of how much energy it would take to overtake the man, but his mind was full of a strange buzzing that made logic an arcane, distant thing.
Red was talking, but Robin couldn't hear what he was saying. He could only lean against the wall, left hand clutching right shoulder, eyes staring numbly. He blinked and suddenly the gun was resting against his forehead. How had he moved so fast?
"Say nightie-night, Bird Boy," the man whispered, leaning down to push his face close to Robin's own. "I'm gonna enjoy this..."
"Indeed." A familiar voice from behind the goon spoke and Robin automatically looked to see who it was, but Red's bulk filled his entire vision and blocked his sight. "As am I."
Something dark flashed across his vision and Red was swept aside, screaming as he flew. It cut off with a gurgled sound as he hit the other side of the alley and slumped, crumpled, to the trash strewn street.
Robin blinked back up, trying to make his eyes focus and failing utterly. All he could see was tall, a dark form and a steadying hand that caught his left shoulder as he stumbled.
'Batman.' The thought flickered through his mind like light through molasses. Relief warred with utter embarrassment; both were lost as the darkness swam in again, this time coating everything, and Robin collapsed into it, not even feeling the hands that grasped him as he fell.
The room was stifling. Was it on fire? The air itself had to be burning to reach this amount of heat. What had happened? He was lying down, sheets that burned against his skin. Robin tried to sit up but couldn't manage it; certainly he was restrained somehow. Why? He tried again, twitching his right fingers, panic beginning to filter through. He lifted the arm and had to stifle a scream as lightning shot down the limb.
"Shh, now..." the voice from before spoke and he had to strain to remember when he had heard it. He'd been fighting, hadn't he? What had happened? The speaker pressed him back into the heated sheets, and he winced at the contact.
"I gotta go," he managed to mutter, the words slurred. "The Titans-"
"Will understand. You must rest," the voice said again, and he felt a hand, cool flesh, on his brow. "You've caught a fever, Robin."
Robin blinked his eyes open. They felt thick, like something as weighting his lids down and making the action difficult. A face was above his own, shadow covered in the dim light. He could barely see the curl of a smile, the slight white gleam of teeth somewhere seemingly far above him. For a moment he thought he could see an outline around it, short dark hair and the amused stare of a dead man but the thought shuddered away.
"Where are we?"
"I thought I'd trained you better than this, Robin," the figure ignored the question and spoke with a wryly amused tone. "I wouldn't think that three no account street thugs could take you down."
"I'm sorry," Robin strained upwards again, but was once more pushed back down. "I don't feel well." He admitted hoarsely, letting his eyes fall shut again.
"I'm not surprised." The ironic hint that had been halfway hidden before was completely exposed now. "You're ill, Robin. The flu, I'd imagine. And you've been shot. If I hadn't been there, that man would have killed you."
"...'m sorry," Robin said again, hearing the words slur. Somehow it seemed very important that the other understand that. "I can take care of myself."
"Are you so certain of that?" The cool fingers played again on his forehead, tracing down to stroke his hair, feeling along one eyebrow. His mask had been removed. When had that happened?
"I worry about you, Robin. I wish that you wouldn't give me reason to."
Robin tried to think of a response, but all that came to him was that his arm hurt, his head was pounding, and he was so tired. The heat of the room was leaving, draining away like water down a drain, and its sudden absence caused him to shiver.
"It's cold." he muttered, and the hand returned to his forehead and rested there. It was like ice against his skin, and he tried to turn his face away from it. Something about those hands, while he himself was lying helpless, tied down by his own weakness, brought back terrible memories. For a moment he expected to feel the heavy smack of a fist against his face, to hear the awful buzz of a taser, too close for comfort, to feel light and electricity racing through his veins instead of blood. He panicked, thrusting upwards again, but a finger met the open hole in his shoulder, pushed inside. The resulting agony sent Robin reeling. The man's fingers curled themselves into his hair, holding him steady.
"Your fever is climbing." The hand disappeared and he was left for a moment, staring up at a blackened ceiling, before the face moved over his own once more. His left arm was lifted, the sleeve of his uniform pushed back and before Robin could think to protest, he felt the small sharp prick of a needle sliding home. He tried to pull away from it but was no more successful than he had been before.
"Ungh!"
"Shh... It's only Demerol, Robin. Nothing to be worried about. That bullet still has to come out of your shoulder, you know. It would be best if you weren't conscious for it."
Robin would have liked to protest but already the room was spinning into a single speck in the middle of utter blackness, the pain from his head and shoulder rushing away and taking awareness with it.
He awoke, briefly, teeth clenching to prevent crying out as something thin and ice cold dug into the wound on his shoulder. Thrashing, he tried to pull away, but someone held him down. Hands pressed him back and he didn't have the strength to fight it. Robin bared his teeth upwards, a vain attempt at defiance, but all that he was met with was laughter, dark and sinister, and the odd comment that if Robin didn't hold still, he would find himself restrained.
"It would bring back fond memories." the man went on, voice musing. Robin tried to make sense of the phrase, but already another needle was sliding into the skin of his uninjured left arm. Understanding as well as everything else in the room faded into a strange grey light. He heard the clink of the slug hitting a metal tray, felt the coolness against bare skin of a hand touching his chest, fingers as they lifted him up to wrap bandages.
"But perhaps we'll wait for that until you're coherent enough to enjoy it."
Dick Grayson was seven years old and sick, one of few times in his young life he'd been laid low by illness. His mother wasn't there; there was a show that night and both of his parents were a part of it. He was supposed to have been there as well; this was to have been the night he first showed to the world his long practiced for quad flip. Instead he was lying, cold and sweating, in one of the back tents. Every so often a stranger would peer at him and exchange a cool washcloth for the heated one on his forehead.
He was seven and he was sick. The room was full of long shadows that seemed to twitch and move when his fever grew higher. He huddled under the blankets, wishing more than ever that his mother did not have to perform in the show that night. It wasn't fair and he felt the terrible urge to cry for it. But he was seven and not a baby; seven was too big for tears. So he waited in the dark, listening to the silence around him.
The man hadn't been back for a while. Dick didn't recognize him. Maybe he was a new strongman; he was big enough for it and something about his presence shouted strength and vitality. He made Dick uncomfortable in a way that he didn't understand. The hands that would occasionally check his temperature or stroke his hair did so in a way no different than his own father's might have, but their presence just seemed wrong.
But he was seven and he was sick and he couldn't think too long about these things. The room was too dark and he was beginning to feel too hot again, so he kicked off the covers. His arm really hurt for some reason; had he strained it? It was too hard to think about. The thought slipped away like the remembrance of pain, both falling as he slid his feet out along the side of the bed. He was terribly thirsty. The room gave a single dizzying spin around him, the door to his right suddenly doubling.
Feeling lost in a sense of vertigo, Dick closed his eyes as tightly as he could. The room continued its awful lurch for a few seconds longer before settling, nausea subsiding with it. He opened his eyes again. The door was back to a thankfully single state. It wasn't too far away. He stood, resting his hand against the wall as he pressed weight onto frighteningly unsteady legs.
He was seven and sick, and now he was growing frightened. He hated being ill. He wanted his parents, but a voice in the back of his head was beginning to whisper that his mother and father weren't there, that they wouldn't be coming back. For some reason he saw the trapeze of the big top, saw the shadowed figures of two people falling without a net below, because the Flying Graysons never used a net. It flashed in his mind with such violence that he thought he was going to throw up, the nausea back and roiling, hot and terrible in his stomach and the back of his throat.
It didn't come. The horrible image faded and Robin found himself kneeling on the floor by the bed, flushed cheek pressed against the cool wall. Self awareness came then, and he blinked, mind momentarily clear but still feeling terrible.
Where was he? He could barely remember hands touching him, large and gentle, and automatically he thought 'Bruce', but that didn't make any sense. Bruce only once had come to Jump City to check up on his former ward, and the night had ended with accusations and harsh words on both parts. Even before that, contact between the two former partners had been strained since Robin had struck out on his own with the Titans - against the Bat's wishes. But he couldn't think of anyone else who fit that build that knew him and obviously care for him while he was sick. Unless they wanted something other than his good health. Which could be, alarmingly, any number of people.
And he wasn't wearing his mask.
This bothered him. It bothered him more that he didn't have the energy to stand and hunt it down. The mere thought of it was exhausting; brilliant specks of blue and red and yellow seemed to explode across his vision and the world was beginning another slow spin. Suddenly leaning against the wall seemed to be the most comfortable position in the world. Robin's eyes drifted shut again.
Cold woke him. A horrific shock left him gasping, air frozen in his lungs, unable to inhale. It sent tremors running down all four limbs, made his heart beat wildly and erratically. Automatically he flailed, eyes opening wide.
The Joker loomed above him, terrible grin leering at him. Robin yelped and began to struggle but the man was hideously, horribly strong. Cold water surrounded him; the Joker was trying to drown him! Spluttering, Robin managed to wrench his left arm free and punched outward with all his strength. It connected, knocking the ghastly face and pale hands away from him and Robin immediately wrenched himself to his feet, ignoring how the room narrowed down for one awful moment to a mere pinprick of light.
He was soaking wet and freezing cold. Breathing hard, Robin fell back against the wall behind him as his vision cleared again. He was in a bathroom, standing in perhaps six inches of frigid water. His shirt was gone and covering his right shoulder was a thick swath of bandages, now soaking wet and dripping ice down his chest and back. There were no windows and only one door and that was past the green haired monster, well out of his current reach. He tried to steady himself; if he was going down, it wouldn't be for lack of trying. Hands automatically reaching out in a defensive pose, he tried again to judge the distance. If he could flip over the man's head, rebound off the mirror, he might be able to bounce out of the room and then... And then to where?
The Joker shot him an unamused look and rubbed his jaw, pulling himself back up from where he'd been thrown.
"Feeling better, I see," he said, but oddly enough the voice wasn't the high pitched cackle of Robin's memories. Feeling sideswiped, he gawked at the clown, eyes wide.
"Or not," the Joker mused, giving Robin an impersonal once over. He's sane, Robin thought wildly. Oh God, he looks sane. The Joker was never supposed to be sane. He was the craziest person Robin had ever had the misfortune to meet, which, considering the crowd Robin had fought off recently with the Titans, was saying something.
"What are you doing?" Robin demanded it, voice strong and ringing in its disgust. Or it did in his head. In reality, it was barely audible, a weak and tired sounding thing that scraped against a throat made raw. He was shaking again. It was so cold... In the mirror across from him, Robin could see himself, a pale, trembling thing that stared back at him with a wide blue gaze.
The Joker raised an eyebrow at him. He was missing an eye. Why would he be missing an eye?
"Your fever spiked again, Robin. I needed to bring it down. I assume that you didn't want to go to a hospital?"
Hospital? Fever? Robin blinked and suddenly Alfred was there, eye black with concern as he leaned forward.
"You must lay back down," Alfred was saying, sounding urgent. "You're very sick, Robin."
Which was strange, because Alfred almost never called him by that name and if he did, there would be the preresiquite 'Master' preceding it. Robin stared at him, utterly confused. His hands slipped down to clutch across his chest, arms crossed and fingers digging into the chilled skin. Robin's legs were locked into place, otherwise he would have slipped straight down into the water.
"It's cold," he finally managed. "I can't."
"You must." Alfred said and when had Alfred's voice become so commanding? He reached for Robin again and his hand brushed against Robin's right shoulder. Even bandaged, the touch burned. Robin winced, pulled sharply away from the questing hand, and slipped sideways.
Cyborg was there then, catching him before his head hit the wall again and helping him lie back down. Robin stared up at him, the worried face above filling his vision.
"But your circuits... You shouldn't..."
Cyborg raised an eyebrow at him and suddenly smiled.
"Don't worry about it, Robin. It will be fine. Just listen to me. Do as I say. I will take care of everything."
You can't, Robin wanted to say, but the cold was worse and this time he didn't have the strength to pull his way out of it.
It was the most miserable time he could ever remember spending. He had never known a torture like it. Finally Bruce laid a hand on his forehead and said something that Robin couldn't hear, his teeth chattering too hard to listen to anything save the awful pounding of his own heart. He reached for the boy, pulled him up out of the water and wrapped him still dripping into a fleece blanket.
Robin could sense that he was being carried, felt the sickening lurch with each step that came when one's body had to follow another person's movements. He wasn't warming. Fingers reached out and leached themselves into Bruce's shirt and he moaned, trying to push his face into the warm chest he was cradled against. The footsteps paused for a moment before the arms tightened around him and they moved on.
Sometime later, they stopped. He had tried to count the steps but lost count once at fifteen and another time at twenty-three and after that had given up the attempt.
"Your friends will be worried, you know."
Again that strange, off sounding voice. Robin couldn't find the strength to answer it. The blanket wasn't helping. It felt like he would never again be warm. The speaker laid him down on a bed, one that he vaguely remembered climbing out of. At the circus, he thought, but of course that was impossible. A bizarrely hot hand found his fingers, pulled them away from the shirt they'd been clutching, and left them on the bed. The man's face was bruised and dazedly, Robin commented on it. He heard a chuckle.
"Despite the assurances of your companions, Robin, bruises aren't caused by themselves. Rest now."
The speaker was turning to leave. Suddenly the worst thing in the world was to be left alone. Robin reached out again but couldn't quite manage to catch the other before he moved away from the bed.
"Don't go."
The figure turned back, face shadowed once more.
"iPlease./i" Robin added miserably, knowing that he sounded pathetic, knowing that he would have been horrified at any other time to hear himself like this, and not caring at all. It was so cold, and his head hurt so much. It didn't matter who the other person was, so long as they didn't leave him.
"Robin..." The voice was strangely hesitant, the syllables of his name drawn out. The tone sounded completely wrong, like hearing a six year old attempt to be seductive, or Raven on a sugar high. That voice should never sound like that. "You'll regret this later."
Robin wanted to ask again but had to close his eyes tightly as the room started once more to spin. He would never ride another roller coaster again. There wasn't one on Earth that could possibly match the nausea inducing sick roll of the walls and ceiling at that moment.
There was a moment's pause, and then he felt more than heard the fall of steps coming closer to him. He definitely felt the upwards motion as the man picked him up again, as though he were a child, and then settled back in the bed, Robin tucked to one side. He could feel hands on his back, a gentle movement that stilled when Robin began to cough. The man held him through the spasm, and then even tighter afterwards, when Robin's throat felt like raw meat and he was so exhausted that he couldn't move.
Robin didn't look up. The suspicion of a man supposedly dead had started in the back of his mind again and he didn't want it to be confirmed. Letting his face fall against the other man's warmth, he felt the darkness closing in again, and this time didn't fight it at all.
"Robin!"
Starfire's voice was muffled somehow. She had to be standing outside of the bedroom door, begging entrance again. Wondering vaguely what she wanted, Robin screwed his eyes shut tighter and tried to escape back into sleep. Sleep was good. Sleep was painless. He sent a hand questing out for a pillow to toss over his face and was surprised when he didn't find one. He felt awful; his legs and head ached and his arm was painfully sore. It was strangely cold too; he felt as though he'd been under an electric blanket that someone had recently turned off and the absence of heat was notable. Sniffling, Robin finally cracked open one eye, and followed quickly by the other, when he found that he didn't at all recognize the ceiling.
There was a crash somewhere not too far off, and Robin automatically tried to sit up to assess its location. He had to press a hand almost immediately to his forehead as it suddenly broke out into a series of throbbing aches. Biting his lip against the pain, Robin peered about the room. It was completely unfamiliar and completely without personalization. A hotel room? Perhaps, but it was larger than any Robin had seen before.
A scene flashed into his mind, of himself lying on this same bed at night while a man leaned over him, cloaked in shadow, visible eye concerned. He shuddered.
There was another crash, closer by, and the door to the right of the bed slammed open to reveal Starfire, green eyes glowing and face drawn.
"Robin!" She exclaimed, and immediately flew forward to throw her arms around the boy in question, knocking them both back down onto the bed. Inadvertantly, she fell against his right shoulder and he had to clentch his teeth to prevent calling out.
"Hey, Starfire," he managed from somewhere in the sheets.
"Robin! We've been so worried about you! When you did not return home, I thought..." Starfire trailed off, sitting up and taking a long look at her leader. "But you have been wounded! What happened?"
"I'm not quite sure," Robin admitted, levering himself up on his left elbow as his friend backed off enough to do a more through examination. Ignoring her exclaimations on his apparent state - and given how he was feeling, he was certain that he didn't look all that impressive - he glanced about to see if any of the others were following. It didn't appear likely. But there had been someone else there, the night before, hadn't there? The answer to that was obvious, Robin thought, looking down to where his shoulder was neatly bandaged. Where had he gone? Starfire, meanwhile, had darted one slim hand forward to press it against his cheek.
"You are burning up," she said seriously, green eyes worried again. "We must get you back to the Tower so that you can receive medical attention."
"No complaints there," Robin muttered, looking around once more for his shirt. Finding it didn't take long; it was lying neatly over the top of a chair across the room. He asked Star to retrieve it for him while he managed to gingerly find his feet again. Dizziness washed over him once more. It was a sickeningly familiar sensation, but one that he had the willpower in the morning to resist as he hadn't the night before. It had been only one night, hadn't it?
Suddenly concerned at that, Robin glanced back to where Star was leaning down over the chair, examining something.
"Starfire?" He asked, steadying himself with one hand on the wall. Starfire started, glanced over her shoulder at him, and then turned completely. One hand slipped behind her back while the other held out his shirt as she moved back towards him. "Is something wrong?"
She shook her head at him, red hair flying.
"I'm just happy to see you again," She murmurred. "When you didn't return home last night..."
She trailed off, but the relief in her eyes was obvious. Feeling uncomfortable, Robin accepted the outstretched shirt. It answered one question, at least.
"I'm sor-" he started, but Starfire placed a finger against his lips. Startled, he fell silent.
"It's enough that you are safe," She smiled at him as Robin tried to figure out how to get shirt and cape over the thick swath of bandages. The effort seemed too much and eventually, somewhat embarrassed, he simply went without the one and wrapped himself up in the other.
Robin didn't remember too much afterward that point. He remembered wind on his face and Starfire's strong arms holding him up. He remembered Raven looking worried with the Titan's medical lab floating somewhere behind her. He could remember the feel of Cyborg's human hand against his forehead, cool and large like another's had been. He remembered Beast Boy demanding something of him, but the words had started to blur again, the darkness started to fill his peripheral vision. Eventually everything faded away, leaving nothing but the dark and the cold and the vague desire for a dark figure.
And for a long time after that, he remembered nothing at all.
To be continued.
Title: Beyond the Borders
Part: Prologue/?
Author: Ginzai
Series: Teen Titans
Timeline: AU Post Haunted
Rating: PG-13 for this part, R for series overall
Warnings: Violence, disturbing themes, and language. Also, slashy undertones, but if you've ever read anything by me before, you'd know that was to be expected.
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Sweet child of innocence
Living in the present tense
Father Time will take his toll
Rack your body and steal your soul
What became of all the years?
Are you drowning in your tears?
Who will catch you when you fall
Who will hear you when you call
I will comfort you, take your hand and see you through
I will take you through the door
Who do you think you are
Try to live forever and you won't get far
I wait behind your door
"Sweet Child of Innocence" by Kansas
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He stumbled on the fourth step, left foot dragging on the ground. It was almost enough to make him fall. Robin cursed the clumsiness, uncharacteristic and unwelcome. He had never been anything but agile and that now, of all times, he would loose his balance was a strange notion. He blinked under the mask; it was night in Jump City and the shadows which ordinarily held no mystery for him loomed large and dark. Perspiration beaded on his brow and sunk down his neck into the collar of his uniform.
It was bizarrely cold; though a summer night, he was amazed that he couldn't see his breath. He rubbed his hands against his upper arms in an attempt to warm up and then felt foolish, letting them fall aside. Showing such obvious signs of weakness would only serve to endanger him further.
But it was cold. And his head hurt, nearly enough for him to not care about showing weakness and instead simply want to raid the nearest drug store for the strongest over the counter pain relievers they sold.
Batman would be utterly disappointed in him.
Robin didn't pause to ponder it.
Ignoring the temptation to abandon the search (what had he been searching for? He'd known just a moment ago) in favor of Sudafed, Robin steadied himself, gathering balance with force of will. He really did not feel well. Living with four metahumans, and the Bat before that, sometimes it was easy to forget that he really was just a normal person under the mask. When all was said and done, he was still just sixteen, and tired, and ill, and, he realized looking up and around the unfamiliar terrain, with no idea where he had found himself.
Robin blinked again and let himself sag against the crumbling brick wall nearest him. Three of the street-lights he could see were burnt out; the one remaining cast shadows that concealed things better than pure darkness would. His right eye watered and he had to resist the urge to rub under his mask. It wasn't like he could remove it anyway. The coughing spasm was harder to resist, and Robin had to clutch at a wall in order to keep from falling. It hurt; a strange rasping sort of cough that was impossible to gain control of and after it finally ended, he almost couldn't breathe.
There was a scream, not far off by the sounds of it. He turned and was dashing towards it before the echoes faded. A leap off a parked car to the awning of a store sent him sailing into a neat forward flip. He landed on the rooftop of a one-story building, was across it in seconds and then paused, catching his breath while staring down at the scene below and trying to ignore just how fast his heart was beating.
Jump City didn't really have the same dark side that Gotham did. It had more than its fair share of meglomaniacal villains and the occasional mercenary H.I.V.E. grad student, but the number of purely normal homicides or thievery attempts was almost non-existent. It figured that he'd run into a rape attempt on this of all nights.
He hated rapists. There were three would-be ones here, cornering a white-faced brunette into an alley. She was clutching at two brown bags, full of groceries. One of the men, a tall brash looking fellow with hair dyed red enough to be seen even in the dim light, twirled a knife around the fingers of one hand as he leered at her. The other two hung back, cloaked in shadows and dark clothes, but Robin could still hear them snickering.
"Pretty girlie," the redhead said, blade flashing silver. "Don't wanna hurtcha, do we boys? A pretty little thing like that."
"Nah, man," one of the others spoke up, voice rumbling with horrible laughter. "Never see girls like that out at night. Wanna show her a good time, eh?"
"Please no," Robin could barely hear the woman's whisper as she backed up further. "Please, just let me go-"
"Sure thing, toots," the leader grinned at her, knife now still and steady in his right hand as he stepped closer to her. "But you see, me and my friends here, we own this particular stretch of land, and, well, those who wanna go through it? They've got to pay a toll. Right, guys?"
The big one sniggered his affirmation. The other, a whip thin fellow who had yet to speak, merely sneered and stepped closer, hands outstretched.
"You... You want money?"
"Sure, we'll take that too," Redhead moved closer now, moving within three feet of the girl and she squeaked, threw her bags at him and took off, only to caught by the arm. "Now, that wasn't nice at all, was it? You're gonna have to show me and my friends here a real good ti-MMPH!"
He cut off as Robin, tired of listening, leapt from the rooftop and landed a booted foot to his mouth. He dropped the woman's arm, stumbling back as Robin pushed forward, not giving him time to recover. He really hated rapists.
A swift uppercut to the chin dropped the redhead and gave the other two enough impetus to recover from their shock. Robin barely had enough sense to process the woman racing out of the alley like the hounds of hell were at her back before the thin one rushed him, his own knife out now as it cut the air, whistling as it narrowly avoided slicing Robin's face. He fell back into a smooth double flip, letting adrenalin take the place of exhaustion. Big and Dumb glared at him before swiping forward, no knife, but two heavy fisted hands that were each almost as large as Robin's head. He ducked one but the second caught him to the side of his face, sending him flying.
Robin hit alley wall and fell heavily, ears ringing, vision blurry. He managed to push himself to his arms and knees before someone fisted their hand in his tunic and yanked him upright, slamming his back to the wall and causing his head to crack loudly against the brick. It hurt, made his already swimming vision darken around the edges and little star flecks to pop up and dance. It was more force of will than anything else that kept the stars at bay and Robin managed a glare that would have been far more impressive if his feet were on the ground. It was the leader, recovered apparently, who had him.
"Christ, it's just a kid," the big one muttered to someone at Robin's left side.
"A dead kid," the first goon responded.
"But Boss," big man whined, suddenly looking nervous. "That's the Bat's kid, you know, from Gotham? He'd kill us,"
Irritation at that. As if criminals should fear messing with him just because of his past partner. Robin transferred the glare, but Big and Ugly wasn't looking.
"Not if he doesn't find out." Red was grinning again, knife back in his free hand. The blade of it curled up the side of Robin's mask, point digging in slightly just beneath where it ended under his left eye. "You cost us our fun, little boy. I think you should make it up to us."
Robin answered by driving a well placed kick to the man's groin. He winced inwardly, hating that particular move, but it was enough to cause Red to squeak in pain. His fingers loosened and Robin wiggled out of his grasp, dropping to the ground and rolling away.
"Kill the little bastard!" Red managed, uncurling enough to swipe the knife in Robin's direction again. Thin and Big rushed him again but this time Robin jumped out of the way, legs sweeping open above their heads in a perfect split that gave him the leverage needed to crash both skulls together as he leapt over their heads. He reached behind his back, snagging his bo and snapping it to full length with a practiced, easy motion. A quick roundhouse strike later and both sunk to the ground, unmoving.
Fire rushed through his shoulder and it took a moment for the cracking peal of the gunshot to make itself heard. The bo dropped, fingers of his right hand suddenly spasming. Robin clutched his good hand to it, palm automatically adding pressure to stanch the blood flow. It hurt, unsurprisingly, but it was hardly the first time he'd been shot. Redhead grinned at him over the gun (Glock 27, his mind supplied), face bloodied with a dark amused sort of glint in his eyes. It made Robin wonder, in a thought that seemed wildly funny at the moment, why criminals insisted on shooting him and just what it was about the prospect that they found so entertaining.
Red lifted the gun again, sighting down the length of it. The shadows gathered over his face, cloaking half of it in pure blackness to join that pooling around the edges of Robin's vision. It was hard to breathe. In perfect condition, dodging the next bullet wouldn't be a problem. If he were in top shape, he wouldn't have been shot in the first place and all three criminals would be down for the count, awaiting the authorities. He tried to assess the probability of knocking the gun away, tried to think of how much energy it would take to overtake the man, but his mind was full of a strange buzzing that made logic an arcane, distant thing.
Red was talking, but Robin couldn't hear what he was saying. He could only lean against the wall, left hand clutching right shoulder, eyes staring numbly. He blinked and suddenly the gun was resting against his forehead. How had he moved so fast?
"Say nightie-night, Bird Boy," the man whispered, leaning down to push his face close to Robin's own. "I'm gonna enjoy this..."
"Indeed." A familiar voice from behind the goon spoke and Robin automatically looked to see who it was, but Red's bulk filled his entire vision and blocked his sight. "As am I."
Something dark flashed across his vision and Red was swept aside, screaming as he flew. It cut off with a gurgled sound as he hit the other side of the alley and slumped, crumpled, to the trash strewn street.
Robin blinked back up, trying to make his eyes focus and failing utterly. All he could see was tall, a dark form and a steadying hand that caught his left shoulder as he stumbled.
'Batman.' The thought flickered through his mind like light through molasses. Relief warred with utter embarrassment; both were lost as the darkness swam in again, this time coating everything, and Robin collapsed into it, not even feeling the hands that grasped him as he fell.
The room was stifling. Was it on fire? The air itself had to be burning to reach this amount of heat. What had happened? He was lying down, sheets that burned against his skin. Robin tried to sit up but couldn't manage it; certainly he was restrained somehow. Why? He tried again, twitching his right fingers, panic beginning to filter through. He lifted the arm and had to stifle a scream as lightning shot down the limb.
"Shh, now..." the voice from before spoke and he had to strain to remember when he had heard it. He'd been fighting, hadn't he? What had happened? The speaker pressed him back into the heated sheets, and he winced at the contact.
"I gotta go," he managed to mutter, the words slurred. "The Titans-"
"Will understand. You must rest," the voice said again, and he felt a hand, cool flesh, on his brow. "You've caught a fever, Robin."
Robin blinked his eyes open. They felt thick, like something as weighting his lids down and making the action difficult. A face was above his own, shadow covered in the dim light. He could barely see the curl of a smile, the slight white gleam of teeth somewhere seemingly far above him. For a moment he thought he could see an outline around it, short dark hair and the amused stare of a dead man but the thought shuddered away.
"Where are we?"
"I thought I'd trained you better than this, Robin," the figure ignored the question and spoke with a wryly amused tone. "I wouldn't think that three no account street thugs could take you down."
"I'm sorry," Robin strained upwards again, but was once more pushed back down. "I don't feel well." He admitted hoarsely, letting his eyes fall shut again.
"I'm not surprised." The ironic hint that had been halfway hidden before was completely exposed now. "You're ill, Robin. The flu, I'd imagine. And you've been shot. If I hadn't been there, that man would have killed you."
"...'m sorry," Robin said again, hearing the words slur. Somehow it seemed very important that the other understand that. "I can take care of myself."
"Are you so certain of that?" The cool fingers played again on his forehead, tracing down to stroke his hair, feeling along one eyebrow. His mask had been removed. When had that happened?
"I worry about you, Robin. I wish that you wouldn't give me reason to."
Robin tried to think of a response, but all that came to him was that his arm hurt, his head was pounding, and he was so tired. The heat of the room was leaving, draining away like water down a drain, and its sudden absence caused him to shiver.
"It's cold." he muttered, and the hand returned to his forehead and rested there. It was like ice against his skin, and he tried to turn his face away from it. Something about those hands, while he himself was lying helpless, tied down by his own weakness, brought back terrible memories. For a moment he expected to feel the heavy smack of a fist against his face, to hear the awful buzz of a taser, too close for comfort, to feel light and electricity racing through his veins instead of blood. He panicked, thrusting upwards again, but a finger met the open hole in his shoulder, pushed inside. The resulting agony sent Robin reeling. The man's fingers curled themselves into his hair, holding him steady.
"Your fever is climbing." The hand disappeared and he was left for a moment, staring up at a blackened ceiling, before the face moved over his own once more. His left arm was lifted, the sleeve of his uniform pushed back and before Robin could think to protest, he felt the small sharp prick of a needle sliding home. He tried to pull away from it but was no more successful than he had been before.
"Ungh!"
"Shh... It's only Demerol, Robin. Nothing to be worried about. That bullet still has to come out of your shoulder, you know. It would be best if you weren't conscious for it."
Robin would have liked to protest but already the room was spinning into a single speck in the middle of utter blackness, the pain from his head and shoulder rushing away and taking awareness with it.
He awoke, briefly, teeth clenching to prevent crying out as something thin and ice cold dug into the wound on his shoulder. Thrashing, he tried to pull away, but someone held him down. Hands pressed him back and he didn't have the strength to fight it. Robin bared his teeth upwards, a vain attempt at defiance, but all that he was met with was laughter, dark and sinister, and the odd comment that if Robin didn't hold still, he would find himself restrained.
"It would bring back fond memories." the man went on, voice musing. Robin tried to make sense of the phrase, but already another needle was sliding into the skin of his uninjured left arm. Understanding as well as everything else in the room faded into a strange grey light. He heard the clink of the slug hitting a metal tray, felt the coolness against bare skin of a hand touching his chest, fingers as they lifted him up to wrap bandages.
"But perhaps we'll wait for that until you're coherent enough to enjoy it."
Dick Grayson was seven years old and sick, one of few times in his young life he'd been laid low by illness. His mother wasn't there; there was a show that night and both of his parents were a part of it. He was supposed to have been there as well; this was to have been the night he first showed to the world his long practiced for quad flip. Instead he was lying, cold and sweating, in one of the back tents. Every so often a stranger would peer at him and exchange a cool washcloth for the heated one on his forehead.
He was seven and he was sick. The room was full of long shadows that seemed to twitch and move when his fever grew higher. He huddled under the blankets, wishing more than ever that his mother did not have to perform in the show that night. It wasn't fair and he felt the terrible urge to cry for it. But he was seven and not a baby; seven was too big for tears. So he waited in the dark, listening to the silence around him.
The man hadn't been back for a while. Dick didn't recognize him. Maybe he was a new strongman; he was big enough for it and something about his presence shouted strength and vitality. He made Dick uncomfortable in a way that he didn't understand. The hands that would occasionally check his temperature or stroke his hair did so in a way no different than his own father's might have, but their presence just seemed wrong.
But he was seven and he was sick and he couldn't think too long about these things. The room was too dark and he was beginning to feel too hot again, so he kicked off the covers. His arm really hurt for some reason; had he strained it? It was too hard to think about. The thought slipped away like the remembrance of pain, both falling as he slid his feet out along the side of the bed. He was terribly thirsty. The room gave a single dizzying spin around him, the door to his right suddenly doubling.
Feeling lost in a sense of vertigo, Dick closed his eyes as tightly as he could. The room continued its awful lurch for a few seconds longer before settling, nausea subsiding with it. He opened his eyes again. The door was back to a thankfully single state. It wasn't too far away. He stood, resting his hand against the wall as he pressed weight onto frighteningly unsteady legs.
He was seven and sick, and now he was growing frightened. He hated being ill. He wanted his parents, but a voice in the back of his head was beginning to whisper that his mother and father weren't there, that they wouldn't be coming back. For some reason he saw the trapeze of the big top, saw the shadowed figures of two people falling without a net below, because the Flying Graysons never used a net. It flashed in his mind with such violence that he thought he was going to throw up, the nausea back and roiling, hot and terrible in his stomach and the back of his throat.
It didn't come. The horrible image faded and Robin found himself kneeling on the floor by the bed, flushed cheek pressed against the cool wall. Self awareness came then, and he blinked, mind momentarily clear but still feeling terrible.
Where was he? He could barely remember hands touching him, large and gentle, and automatically he thought 'Bruce', but that didn't make any sense. Bruce only once had come to Jump City to check up on his former ward, and the night had ended with accusations and harsh words on both parts. Even before that, contact between the two former partners had been strained since Robin had struck out on his own with the Titans - against the Bat's wishes. But he couldn't think of anyone else who fit that build that knew him and obviously care for him while he was sick. Unless they wanted something other than his good health. Which could be, alarmingly, any number of people.
And he wasn't wearing his mask.
This bothered him. It bothered him more that he didn't have the energy to stand and hunt it down. The mere thought of it was exhausting; brilliant specks of blue and red and yellow seemed to explode across his vision and the world was beginning another slow spin. Suddenly leaning against the wall seemed to be the most comfortable position in the world. Robin's eyes drifted shut again.
Cold woke him. A horrific shock left him gasping, air frozen in his lungs, unable to inhale. It sent tremors running down all four limbs, made his heart beat wildly and erratically. Automatically he flailed, eyes opening wide.
The Joker loomed above him, terrible grin leering at him. Robin yelped and began to struggle but the man was hideously, horribly strong. Cold water surrounded him; the Joker was trying to drown him! Spluttering, Robin managed to wrench his left arm free and punched outward with all his strength. It connected, knocking the ghastly face and pale hands away from him and Robin immediately wrenched himself to his feet, ignoring how the room narrowed down for one awful moment to a mere pinprick of light.
He was soaking wet and freezing cold. Breathing hard, Robin fell back against the wall behind him as his vision cleared again. He was in a bathroom, standing in perhaps six inches of frigid water. His shirt was gone and covering his right shoulder was a thick swath of bandages, now soaking wet and dripping ice down his chest and back. There were no windows and only one door and that was past the green haired monster, well out of his current reach. He tried to steady himself; if he was going down, it wouldn't be for lack of trying. Hands automatically reaching out in a defensive pose, he tried again to judge the distance. If he could flip over the man's head, rebound off the mirror, he might be able to bounce out of the room and then... And then to where?
The Joker shot him an unamused look and rubbed his jaw, pulling himself back up from where he'd been thrown.
"Feeling better, I see," he said, but oddly enough the voice wasn't the high pitched cackle of Robin's memories. Feeling sideswiped, he gawked at the clown, eyes wide.
"Or not," the Joker mused, giving Robin an impersonal once over. He's sane, Robin thought wildly. Oh God, he looks sane. The Joker was never supposed to be sane. He was the craziest person Robin had ever had the misfortune to meet, which, considering the crowd Robin had fought off recently with the Titans, was saying something.
"What are you doing?" Robin demanded it, voice strong and ringing in its disgust. Or it did in his head. In reality, it was barely audible, a weak and tired sounding thing that scraped against a throat made raw. He was shaking again. It was so cold... In the mirror across from him, Robin could see himself, a pale, trembling thing that stared back at him with a wide blue gaze.
The Joker raised an eyebrow at him. He was missing an eye. Why would he be missing an eye?
"Your fever spiked again, Robin. I needed to bring it down. I assume that you didn't want to go to a hospital?"
Hospital? Fever? Robin blinked and suddenly Alfred was there, eye black with concern as he leaned forward.
"You must lay back down," Alfred was saying, sounding urgent. "You're very sick, Robin."
Which was strange, because Alfred almost never called him by that name and if he did, there would be the preresiquite 'Master' preceding it. Robin stared at him, utterly confused. His hands slipped down to clutch across his chest, arms crossed and fingers digging into the chilled skin. Robin's legs were locked into place, otherwise he would have slipped straight down into the water.
"It's cold," he finally managed. "I can't."
"You must." Alfred said and when had Alfred's voice become so commanding? He reached for Robin again and his hand brushed against Robin's right shoulder. Even bandaged, the touch burned. Robin winced, pulled sharply away from the questing hand, and slipped sideways.
Cyborg was there then, catching him before his head hit the wall again and helping him lie back down. Robin stared up at him, the worried face above filling his vision.
"But your circuits... You shouldn't..."
Cyborg raised an eyebrow at him and suddenly smiled.
"Don't worry about it, Robin. It will be fine. Just listen to me. Do as I say. I will take care of everything."
You can't, Robin wanted to say, but the cold was worse and this time he didn't have the strength to pull his way out of it.
It was the most miserable time he could ever remember spending. He had never known a torture like it. Finally Bruce laid a hand on his forehead and said something that Robin couldn't hear, his teeth chattering too hard to listen to anything save the awful pounding of his own heart. He reached for the boy, pulled him up out of the water and wrapped him still dripping into a fleece blanket.
Robin could sense that he was being carried, felt the sickening lurch with each step that came when one's body had to follow another person's movements. He wasn't warming. Fingers reached out and leached themselves into Bruce's shirt and he moaned, trying to push his face into the warm chest he was cradled against. The footsteps paused for a moment before the arms tightened around him and they moved on.
Sometime later, they stopped. He had tried to count the steps but lost count once at fifteen and another time at twenty-three and after that had given up the attempt.
"Your friends will be worried, you know."
Again that strange, off sounding voice. Robin couldn't find the strength to answer it. The blanket wasn't helping. It felt like he would never again be warm. The speaker laid him down on a bed, one that he vaguely remembered climbing out of. At the circus, he thought, but of course that was impossible. A bizarrely hot hand found his fingers, pulled them away from the shirt they'd been clutching, and left them on the bed. The man's face was bruised and dazedly, Robin commented on it. He heard a chuckle.
"Despite the assurances of your companions, Robin, bruises aren't caused by themselves. Rest now."
The speaker was turning to leave. Suddenly the worst thing in the world was to be left alone. Robin reached out again but couldn't quite manage to catch the other before he moved away from the bed.
"Don't go."
The figure turned back, face shadowed once more.
"iPlease./i" Robin added miserably, knowing that he sounded pathetic, knowing that he would have been horrified at any other time to hear himself like this, and not caring at all. It was so cold, and his head hurt so much. It didn't matter who the other person was, so long as they didn't leave him.
"Robin..." The voice was strangely hesitant, the syllables of his name drawn out. The tone sounded completely wrong, like hearing a six year old attempt to be seductive, or Raven on a sugar high. That voice should never sound like that. "You'll regret this later."
Robin wanted to ask again but had to close his eyes tightly as the room started once more to spin. He would never ride another roller coaster again. There wasn't one on Earth that could possibly match the nausea inducing sick roll of the walls and ceiling at that moment.
There was a moment's pause, and then he felt more than heard the fall of steps coming closer to him. He definitely felt the upwards motion as the man picked him up again, as though he were a child, and then settled back in the bed, Robin tucked to one side. He could feel hands on his back, a gentle movement that stilled when Robin began to cough. The man held him through the spasm, and then even tighter afterwards, when Robin's throat felt like raw meat and he was so exhausted that he couldn't move.
Robin didn't look up. The suspicion of a man supposedly dead had started in the back of his mind again and he didn't want it to be confirmed. Letting his face fall against the other man's warmth, he felt the darkness closing in again, and this time didn't fight it at all.
"Robin!"
Starfire's voice was muffled somehow. She had to be standing outside of the bedroom door, begging entrance again. Wondering vaguely what she wanted, Robin screwed his eyes shut tighter and tried to escape back into sleep. Sleep was good. Sleep was painless. He sent a hand questing out for a pillow to toss over his face and was surprised when he didn't find one. He felt awful; his legs and head ached and his arm was painfully sore. It was strangely cold too; he felt as though he'd been under an electric blanket that someone had recently turned off and the absence of heat was notable. Sniffling, Robin finally cracked open one eye, and followed quickly by the other, when he found that he didn't at all recognize the ceiling.
There was a crash somewhere not too far off, and Robin automatically tried to sit up to assess its location. He had to press a hand almost immediately to his forehead as it suddenly broke out into a series of throbbing aches. Biting his lip against the pain, Robin peered about the room. It was completely unfamiliar and completely without personalization. A hotel room? Perhaps, but it was larger than any Robin had seen before.
A scene flashed into his mind, of himself lying on this same bed at night while a man leaned over him, cloaked in shadow, visible eye concerned. He shuddered.
There was another crash, closer by, and the door to the right of the bed slammed open to reveal Starfire, green eyes glowing and face drawn.
"Robin!" She exclaimed, and immediately flew forward to throw her arms around the boy in question, knocking them both back down onto the bed. Inadvertantly, she fell against his right shoulder and he had to clentch his teeth to prevent calling out.
"Hey, Starfire," he managed from somewhere in the sheets.
"Robin! We've been so worried about you! When you did not return home, I thought..." Starfire trailed off, sitting up and taking a long look at her leader. "But you have been wounded! What happened?"
"I'm not quite sure," Robin admitted, levering himself up on his left elbow as his friend backed off enough to do a more through examination. Ignoring her exclaimations on his apparent state - and given how he was feeling, he was certain that he didn't look all that impressive - he glanced about to see if any of the others were following. It didn't appear likely. But there had been someone else there, the night before, hadn't there? The answer to that was obvious, Robin thought, looking down to where his shoulder was neatly bandaged. Where had he gone? Starfire, meanwhile, had darted one slim hand forward to press it against his cheek.
"You are burning up," she said seriously, green eyes worried again. "We must get you back to the Tower so that you can receive medical attention."
"No complaints there," Robin muttered, looking around once more for his shirt. Finding it didn't take long; it was lying neatly over the top of a chair across the room. He asked Star to retrieve it for him while he managed to gingerly find his feet again. Dizziness washed over him once more. It was a sickeningly familiar sensation, but one that he had the willpower in the morning to resist as he hadn't the night before. It had been only one night, hadn't it?
Suddenly concerned at that, Robin glanced back to where Star was leaning down over the chair, examining something.
"Starfire?" He asked, steadying himself with one hand on the wall. Starfire started, glanced over her shoulder at him, and then turned completely. One hand slipped behind her back while the other held out his shirt as she moved back towards him. "Is something wrong?"
She shook her head at him, red hair flying.
"I'm just happy to see you again," She murmurred. "When you didn't return home last night..."
She trailed off, but the relief in her eyes was obvious. Feeling uncomfortable, Robin accepted the outstretched shirt. It answered one question, at least.
"I'm sor-" he started, but Starfire placed a finger against his lips. Startled, he fell silent.
"It's enough that you are safe," She smiled at him as Robin tried to figure out how to get shirt and cape over the thick swath of bandages. The effort seemed too much and eventually, somewhat embarrassed, he simply went without the one and wrapped himself up in the other.
Robin didn't remember too much afterward that point. He remembered wind on his face and Starfire's strong arms holding him up. He remembered Raven looking worried with the Titan's medical lab floating somewhere behind her. He could remember the feel of Cyborg's human hand against his forehead, cool and large like another's had been. He remembered Beast Boy demanding something of him, but the words had started to blur again, the darkness started to fill his peripheral vision. Eventually everything faded away, leaving nothing but the dark and the cold and the vague desire for a dark figure.
And for a long time after that, he remembered nothing at all.
To be continued.