(A/N: I fixed it!)

It was night again, the rain fell heavily upon the roof and windows of the silent Titans Tower. The wind blew coolly past an open window in the bathroom, long bursts of howling, the shower faucet dripping methodically, loudly with an unseen certainty, echoing into the halls, the open window chilled its companion to the bone, and to him it felt wonderful.

The steam rising in steady gasps outward to be drenched with the early downpour.

Cyborg awoke to a steady annoying drip coming from that very bathroom.

"Man I thought I fixed that leak…"

Groggily and slowly he stood up, swinging tired legs to the side of his steel bed, letting them droop to the floor. Even for a man with cybernetic enhancements, the dreary days could still make him tired, odd.

Steadily he stepped forward, seemingly in slow motion.

Through the dark halls, the damp carpeting stuck to him as badly as the morning air, the kind of air that made you hack and spit, tainted with city smog at a horrid level, disgustingly thick.

That feeling was only enhanced by a sick smell of something horrible, metallic like copper with a hint of chamomile and cinnamon; this caused him to start up a small cough, easily stifled with a good effort.

"Ack, God what the hell is that?"

From the source of that petulant drip came a small glow, the horrid stench, biting at his nostrils and burning his eyes had its origin there and was accompanied by what seemed to be a low quiet murmuring.

"well old friend...may you be given bread and wine..."

The speaker of these words was unknown to him, stiff and dull, with a strange charisma to it. Thus instinct began to take over and he raced to the door and its strange glow, the smell once again became over powering, strengthening with his approach.

"...May you be given mutton and fowl, clothing and herbs and everything good and full in death as you were in life... bastard"

With a resolute slam the door flung open and a flood of solemn glow assaulted him. A modest row of tiny candles sat quietly, beaming flames flaring up in the sudden wind. Small traces of dim light revealed smoldering pieces of burnt cinnamon held neatly on an old plate, the copper smell came out from the candles and a decent sized mug of tea sat with it on the countertop.

The open window dripped with condensation and rain, the tiles were thoroughly covered in a thick sheen of water and the air itself was the thickest, heavy and laden with the afore mentioned herbs and spices. Despite the smell, once adjusted, it proved extremely relaxing, numbing his senses as his tensed muscles spread out, a strong feel of sleep threatened to overtake him.

There in the bathtubs shallow dirty water sat Robin, loud waters dripping onto his head from the shower head and falling from his hair.

Per usual his face gave no hint of emotion and yet at the same time it seemed to scream,

What the hell are you doing here?

His body was slender, true to his constant outlook, but what caught Cyborg, was the numerous scars that littered his fair, lightly tanned skin, covering his shoulders and snaking down his back. The small ridges of his spine showed through and his finely toned muscles put forth his compact and yet robust shape. His raven hair fell over him, across his face and resting by the nape of his neck, slathered in thick water.

He looked entirely like a man who had to be twice his age, for one so young, it was incredible, almost impossible to look that way, as if he'd seen so much.

Through all that what shocked him to the bones, through steel and flesh and to the very core, was that his mask was off.

Cyborg could see his eyes, and what gorgeous eyes they were.

Strong, bold, shadowy eyes with thin lines of soreness and a clouded look to them. They showed a glinting sapphire, with a dull hint of shimmering jade, all over thick and discolored in a long suffering pain.

Turning slowly to meet his own gaze, neck muscles visibly moving under his skin, wet hair swaying, ears twitching slightly as if to acknowledge his presence, however unwanted.

He looked almost blind.

Those same tired eyes seemed to speak out of horrors and hells unlike any others, like an old man on his deathbed, deprived of speech.

To Cyborg's numb protest, Robin began to stand, the oily water slid down his rough, rigid features in methodic drips, just as the rain outside fell, slick and soothing.

Steam rising, Robin turned around fully and reached for a towel on the counter, the pitch black of his hair streaming around like quiet rivers, reflecting silent moonlight, a quiet observer, all facing Cyborg.

Within mere seconds of having opened the door, that same door came crashing closed into his face with a huge slam to sit nicely in its frame.

Cyborg just stood there, completely numb, shocked and in many ways horridly embarrassed for his intrusion, overall a deep sense of respect and a wisp of dark lay over him, washing over him just as the thick air that clung to him once had.