A/N: Just a random idea that literally made me write it at one in the morning last night.
On the nights when it storms, when the lightning flashes viciously and the thunder echoes as a malevolent afterthought, Starfire doesn't sleep. She can't sleep.
The flashes are power bolts flying haphazardly through the air; the loud crashes are explosions in the not-so-distant battlefield; the hail are the poundings on the doors and windows as invaders try to enter.
The rain doesn't have a comparison; it alone could be comforting, but it seldom is.
Storms don't exist on Tamaran, not as they do on Earth. On the alien world, the closest likeness to a storm are the dust tornadoes that appear every now and then, and—for a Tamaranian—those aren't impossible to weather, even without shelter. But actual storms…they are too similar to the war and its terrors.
Starfire knows she shouldn't be scared. She knows thunderstorms are common on her new home planet, that they are expected and even admired, by some. However, whenever one arrives, sudden and uninvited, she can't help herself. Her room is too large, too empty, the storm too close. The tower is too tall and disproportional, and it wobbles inexplicably in the wind.
So, whenever a storm seizes the surroundings, Starfire utters a small yelp and leaves her room. She always ends up in the 'events' room, the one with the couch and the windows and the television and the kitchen. She could be going to the restroom, or to a training room, or to the basement, and yet her footsteps always lead her to the couch, where she curls up to try to wait out the barrage outside.
The other Titans noticed, of course. The Tamaranian princess, the strong female that can shoot green bolts of energy, scared by a simple clash of thunder and flash of lightning.
They don't judge. Instead, they do what they can to help.
Beast Boy is a deep sleeper, but storms wake him every time. They remind him of his old home, or perhaps his animal instincts kick in, begging him to seek higher ground in case of flooding. As though there could be higher ground than the Titans Tower on its island in the ocean.
When he notices Starfire on the sofa, he does what he does best: he transforms, into a kitten, or perhaps a dog, or even a bear, for that one time that the storm seemed as though it would blow the building over. No matter the form, he lollops over and joins Starfire, cuddling next to her. She'll brush his fur absentmindedly, or perhaps clutch him toward herself, and he'll act as a toy animal, growling at too loud thunder or too close lightning, watching her fall asleep.
Raven has no feelings toward storms. They're natural, they exist; that's all that matters. They're forces of nature, and they're neither inherently good nor evil. She tends to wake when she feels Starfire start to fret.
Her role with the alien isn't one most would expect, and if Beast Boy or Cyborg ever saw what she'd do, she'd never hear the end of it.
When Raven notices Starfire's need, she braids her hair. Meditating would be impossible, with the thunder outside, and Raven doesn't exactly do kind words or gestures. So, instead, she gathers the orange strands and separates them, gently, brushing through them with her fingers—she's learned that her powers aren't the epitome of comfort. And, slowly and steadily, she plaits the hair. It's sloppy at best, but no one can see, and the actual appearance doesn't matter, anyway.
In the morning, when the girls see each other again, Starfire says nothing, but her eyes offer silent gratitude. And Raven nods a small nod, knowing she'll do it again if she needs to.
Cyborg doesn't wake at storms. He wakes when the power goes out, when his battery stops recharging. He notices Starfire after he does a quick systems check to make sure the generators are working correctly, a habit he can't help but repeat at every storm.
He can't offer much comfort; his metal pieces aren't exactly cuddle material. So he has a different approach. He turns on all the lights, enters the kitchen, and makes waffles. They eat, and then they do the dishes, and clean the floor, and wipe the windows—Cyborg does that part, because it may be too much for the alien to handle, so close to the storm. Keeping busy keeps fear away, and so they do, until every chore that had been neglected is complete once more.
When it's Robin's turn—and it somehow becomes turns, caring for the alien during storms, even though nobody mentions it out loud—he simply sits on the couch, next to her. He lets her grab his cape if it's still on for the night, because somehow the cape seems to comfort her. They don't talk; they simply stare at the rain, together. A comforting presence, in a way.
And when the storm disappears and the morning comes, life continues as it always has.