Robin stood awkwardly at the back of Miss Martian's space ship, in spite of the green girl's assurances that it would be okay to sit down. It wasn't the safest arrangement, and Robin's legs absolutely screamed with the effort of remaining upright, but the idea of messing up the upholstery – the psychic upholstery – was too awful to contemplate.
The flight went smoothly enough, but there was turbulence of another kind in the atmosphere, deadly in its own right. The team rode in silence, and there was nothing for Robin to do but run over the events of before, over and over again, thinking about every stupid mistake made that night and how it should have gone differently.
Wally was usually the first to shed his costume after a mission, but this time he didn't take off his mask, not for the whole ride back. Even so, Robin could easily make out the angry red flush to his complexion, peeking out wherever his skin showed. He sat hunched in his seat, eyes locked on the horizon outside, and Robin could imagine him replaying every conversation they'd ever had in his head, every secret he'd ever confessed, every time Robin had flat-out lied to his face.
And Robin had lied almost daily.
Kaldur'ahm, for his part, was deep in thought. His expression betrayed nothing of these musings, though, and Robin couldn't begin to guess what they might be about. The aquatic teen had never shared much of himself with the group, maintaining an almost professional level of distance between them at all times. He might be angry – the trust he'd invested in Robin no less profound than Wally's, even if it was of a different kind – but it was also possible that he didn't mind what had happened at all. He'd never seemed bothered by the younger teenager's secrets.
And then, of course, there was Superboy, but Robin banished that thought to a faraway corner and refused to look in his direction at all.
Especially not at his hands.
It's okay, Robin, M'gann's telepathic message was well-intended, but her confusion, tiredness and hurt was mixed up in it too.
Robin didn't let any emotion seep back the other way, holding tightly onto the self-pity, the frustration, the hurt. All of those feelings were unjustified, and there was no sense in inflicting them on anyone else.
Justice Cave was empty when they arrived, and emptier still when Wally disappeared, bolting out of the cockpit almost before his M'gann's ship had touched down. It was almost a relief; Robin wouldn't have known what to say to him anyways.
Through it all, the silence raged on. Nobody wanted to ask the obvious question.
But everyone was thinking it.
It was a Monday, but instead of returning to Gotham city, Robin spent the rest of the morning in bed, determinedly wallowing in self-pity. Sleep didn't come, so instead of sleeping, Robin lay in the dark, and wondered if it was really too late to salvage the lie.
The wicked edge of one of Robin's batarangs sprang to mind, sharp and clear. Simple. A visible wound would divert everyone's attention, and it would be easy enough to bring it up casual, convince them that it had been there the whole time. (Oh this? I got it the other day. You remember all that blood?)
If the evidence was compelling enough, if it all fit together, the others would be forced to acknowledge that it had all been a big misunderstanding and then everything would go back to being fine. Not great, but fine. And that would be enough.
It was an attractive idea, even if it would probably hurt like hell. But Batman was always saying you had to make sacrifices for the mission sometimes. Once, Robin had seen him dislocate his own thumbs to slip out of a pair of handcuffs. This would be just the same.
Giving up on getting any rest, Robin rolled out of bed with a groan, and hobbled across the floor to the en-suite bathroom. The aerialist's uniform was still in the sink where it had been discarded the night before, rolled up in a wet wad after a failed attempt to clean it up. The utility belt had been removed from the waistline, and carefully set aside on the countertop close by. There weren't many supplies left inside of it after last night's foray, but a couple of batarangs still remained in the third pocket.
Robin closed the door, and then locked it for good measure.
Batarangs weren't exactly made for surgical precision, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Naturally, there were plenty of knives stashed around the base, but there was no way to lift any of those without raising any uncomfortable questions, and a clean cut would look suspicious, anyways.
Clad only in an old t-shirt and a pair of boxers (still clean, thanks to a whole lot of gauze and some creative bandage-work) Robin contemplated the bare skin that was left exposed. The arms, perhaps, or somewhere on the legs? There were important arteries everywhere, and it would be important to choose a discrete location, too. Somewhere the others wouldn't have been looking the night before.
Batman would know what to do, of course. As a detective, he could read stories in blood, see patterns that no one else could. Surely he would know how to do the same in reverse; use it to compose a fiction and conceal the real truth of what was going on.
Robin knelt down by the tub, bracing one forearm against the ledge, palm up. Like a patient waiting for an injection. There were other, less comfortable associations that sprang to mind, but Robin firmly ignored those. Because this was not self-harm. Because there were good reasons to preserve the secret, even from close friends. Because this was the sensible, rational thing to do. It was a means to an end.
The first cut didn't produce much blood at all. Robin had been careful to avoid the two main arteries on the outside of the arm, choosing instead to make a shallow incision in a relatively safe spot towards the center of the forearm.
Robin made another small gouge near the first one, and the wound welled up with blood, more satisfying than the first. That one would leave a nice mark, maybe even a scar. It could be a bit bigger though.
There was a noise outside the room, and Robin stopped in mid-motion, listening.
"Robin!?" It was M'gann, her voice muffled by the door. She sounded scared. "Robin, what are you doing?!"
Robin took a deep breath, wondering how she knew, hoping that she hadn't broken her promise not to pry into her friends' minds. "I'm in the bathroom! What do you think I'm doing?!"
"Please! I know something's wrong. Open the door!"
"I'm fine!" Robin insisted, dropping the bloodied batarang in the tub and yanking the shower curtain closed, to hide the worst of the mess, already planning another story that would explain it all away. Where was that towel?
"I'm coming in!" said Miss Martian. And then she did, yanking the bathroom door off its hinges with a tremendous burst of psychic energy.
Robin remembered that there was nothing to hide her face at the last moment, and covered her eyes with her hands.
"I was just-" she began, but M'gann's arms closed around her, and pulled her close. Robin froze, feeling overexposed. The material of her shirt was too thin. She didn't have her mask, she didn't have her Kevlar.
"Just stop, Robin," she said, "you have to stop. It's all done now."