Bright Line

Chapter Nine: Dagger Function

Robin was avoiding her.

It made him angry, because he wasn't avoidant. Robin faced his problems. He dealt with them because any problem he had, he had earned. And he'd dealt with worse than this; of course he had. So why was the idea of looking Raven in the face suddenly the most insurmountable thing in the world?

He'd tried to justify it by telling himself that she'd demanded to be left alone—and he had no way of knowing what small phrase, what impatient glance might make her angry enough to destroy the disk outright. For all her valiant attempts to keep herself in check, Raven was one of the most emotional people he knew, and when something happened that shook her control, her mood became volatile. And the conversation three days ago was certainly more than enough to qualify. So if he ever wanted the disk back, he'd do well to stay as far away from her as possible and try not to breathe the same air as she did.

Except, that wasn't why Robin was avoiding her, not completely. He was forced to think about it every time he walked past his work room with the knowledge that he didn't have to go in there and... Robin was glad that he could avoid Raven, he was glad he didn't have the disk, and he was absolutely relieved that this meant at least a few days when he wouldn't be watching it. That was it. That was exactly it. He wasn't avoiding Raven because he'd been asked to: he was avoiding Raven because he didn't want to talk to her and would take anything as an excuse to keep away from her.

In other words, he was a worthless coward.

Robin had been spending more time with Cyborg. More time than he spent with the others, at any rate—he mostly just stayed in his room studying. Cyborg was easy to be around because he was friendly but not invasive, and had no problem with long silences. Beast Boy and Terra were attached to each other—seeing them together was more than a little nauseating—and Starfire always got so sad when he didn't want to talk. Besides, whenever she concluded that Robin was unhappy, her inevitable solution was something like those movies she liked to watch. Cyborg didn't mind being quiet, didn't take offense to it, and was perfectly happy with keeping a safe distance from Robin. They'd been working together a lot lately. Yesterday, they had spent three hours debugging the computers. Raven had declined to comment when he'd passed by her afterwards, on the way back to his room. He'd managed not to flinch when he saw her, and was horrified to realize that he considered that a success.

He turned a page in the book he was consulting, squinting at the endless rows of numbers. Statistics wasn't hard as long as you could remember how to calculate the degrees of freedom—though the F Distribution was one of the more complicated tables, and he was very close to giving in and turning on the overhead light so he could see the values more clearly. Robin was trying to get through this class before the summer, and he should have done the ANOVA assignment days ago…it was just too hard to focus when he kept misinterpreting every look Raven gave him. At least, he hoped he was misinterpreting. He coughed, and lost the spot on the table that he needed (Cyborg had warned him that the respiratory symptoms from the flu could linger for weeks). Great. Start over. How many degrees of freedom were in the between-treatments variance…?

Robin had just written down the critical value when his computer started blinking.

He gasped sharply. "Shit." He'd said it before he could stop himself, and that was almost worse than his reason for saying it.

Cringing, Robin bit his lip and placed his pencil on the desk with deliberation. He had a very, very good idea of who was calling him, and it made his chest get tight with that cold, tense feeling that meant he'd forgotten something important. Well—maybe not important, exactly, because keeping promises with Bruce was relatively inconsequential when he was trying to save his friends…but Robin hadn't been trying to save his friends. He'd just been hiding. He'd been avoiding Raven and avoiding his problems and avoiding doing his job, and now he was in a lot of trouble…

Stop it. You're not nine years old anymore. He doesn't control you. You can forget to call him if you want. You don't even have to answer him now. He can't make you.

Except he could make him, and Robin did have to. Bruce would just keep calling, and if he made him angry enough, maybe he would stop funding them, and then how would he ever explain to the others why they didn't have a home anymore—he had to. As if it had ceased to be connected to his brain, his index finger pressed the key that would open the communication. How could he have forgotten? There was no excuse, none…

"Wonders never cease: it seems you're still breathing."

Robin was always hearing from just about everyone how scary Bruce was when he was angry. They were right and wrong. Bruce was terrifying when he was angry, but most people didn't really know what it looked like. The cold, callous looks that he reserved for criminals weren't the kind of anger that Robin associated with him. He knew that Bruce didn't really mean it, then. It was somebody who stole something; he wasn't angry at them, personally. But Robin knew the real anger when he saw it, and he was one of the only people who had ever seen it: the look that affected him even three thousand miles away on a computer screen, made him a stupid, helpless little kid again. He didn't even like the stupid vidlink. Robin never wanted to watch another video on this computer again. He felt sick.

"I'm not tolerating the silent treatment, Richard. Answer me." His tone was low and dangerous. Robin had learned to avoid that tone at all costs.

Robin couldn't even remember what the question was. "Yeah…?" He shrugged evasively.

"Look at me and speak like a human being," said Bruce. "I hope you have a good explanation for why you didn't keep the agreement you made two weeks ago. Because otherwise, I'm going to assume that you've just become negligently irresponsible."

A good reason. He had some reasons; he could say it was about a video and Raven and the flu and his team fighting without him, but none of those were good ones, and they definitely weren't reasons he was going to offer. "I was…I…" Robin tried to look away again but couldn't. Not like Bruce could have known, because of the mask, but you didn't look away from Bruce, and if you did, he always did seem to know, even though he couldn't. "…busy," he finished at last, feeling the panic rising in his chest.

"Busy." He paused for a long moment, glaring. His jaw was tight. That wasn't good. "Yes, I'm sure you were very busy. I'm busy, Richard. But if I make a commitment to call someone in fourteen days, I don't wait around for them to call me after seventeen days."

Robin leaned back in his chair, trying to put as much distance between him and the computer screen as possible. "Look, I'm sorry. I've just…" He swallowed the rest of that sentence because he couldn't think of anything to put on the end of it that wasn't incriminating. But he didn't need to worry about what to say next. Bruce had that covered.

"You need to get your act together. What's the matter with you?" The force behind the words made Robin cringe. "Have you lost the ability to count now? Has time lost meaning? Have they changed the calendars in California and made weeks longer?"

Once, when Robin was twelve and they'd been working, he had disobeyed Bruce and gone off on his own—he couldn't remember why. That was the number-one rule: Robin wasn't supposed to leave his side, but that one time, he had. Nothing had happened to him, but something could have, and he'd been in trouble to the nth degree. It wasn't so much that Bruce had been angry, but the way he looked at him with that disappointed almost-pity that meant he had absolutely no respect for Robin at that moment…

And this. This was the same look. Only it was worse now, because he didn't deserve any respect, and Bruce didn't know the half of it.

"Everything's about choices, Richard. You'll never be a real leader if you keep making the wrong ones. Calling me, maybe it doesn't matter—but you gave me your word, and that used to mean something to you."

His breath quickened a bit at mention of choices, and his eyes widened behind the mask. He forced his thoughts to the present. It did mean something, but that was before…before his word stopped being worth anything because he wasn't worth anything anymore… "I'm sorry…I forgot…" His hands were shaking. He gripped the underside of the desk tightly but that didn't make it stop.

"Are you going to tell Slade you forgot when he's captured your entire team?"

He couldn't breathe, lungs catching on a barely-restrained sob that had nothing to do with the cough. Bruce was right. That's exactly what he'd been planning on doing, because he'd been hiding from that stupid video for three days instead of doing his job, and he'd been glad of it, he had—how could he ever face the others? Robin forced his voice to work again. "No, I…I tried…I never…" He had to pause, trying to get at least some air into his lungs because he still… "…please don't be mad at me," he whispered, and at that moment he was nine years old again, nine years old and all he wanted was for Bruce to say he didn't mean it, that he would make everything okay even if that was impossible but Bruce did the impossible on a daily basis and if anybody could…

Bruce sighed heavily. "Oh, I'm mad, but I'm mostly incredulous. Is keeping a simple appointment to make a phone call really so far outside your capabilities?" He shook his head, giving Robin that look, the one he hated, the one that meant he thought Robin was worthless. "One might start to wonder what is within them."

But since you are obviously unable to hold up your end of an intellectual discussion, let's move on to something more within your capabilities…

He didn't know why he did it. Didn't know why that one sentence was somehow too much, the pebble that shattered ten feet of solid granite. Robin was not easily upset, so he wasn't used to classifying what it felt like, but there was a kind of moment, a point where something split inside of you, and anything that came after was beyond any semblance of control. If he was thinking rationally, he would know…but he couldn't think rationally and couldn't remember a time when he had ever been able to, and he shouldn't be feeling sorry for himself like this but he was, was so, so selfishly sorry for himself because of everything and now Bruce was mad at him and then it was Slade, amusement in his voice, and then Bruce again, and the anger, and it wasn't fair and why did this have to…

"Richard, are you listening to me? What's…"

Bruce said some other things, but Robin didn't know what they were and he didn't care. He put his head on his desk and prayed that the disgusted voice and the glare and the set jaw would go away. Prayed that the amused, superior tone and the anticipation would follow. He had to get Bruce to end the call. That would probably make him even more angry but it was better than…well, better than what he'd see. Robin just wanted to be alone. The idea almost made everything even worse because Robin didn't want to be alone, not really, and yet he did, because it was easier that way, made the weakness less evident because at least then nobody knew. At least then he'd be alone…at least… It had been the same after…after it had happened. He'd showered for forty-five minutes and then went to his room and stayed there. For a long time. Though he hadn't acted like…like this…but oh god he was thinking about it again—

A hand on his shoulder. Robin lost whatever composure he'd been holding onto, jerking his head around to see whoever was attacking him, to try and get away…and it took him awhile to realize that the hand was attached to an arm that appeared very similar to Raven's…he didn't know what she was doing in here or how she got in here, just that he couldn't breathe and he wanted her to go away and that he'd die if she left him alone with Bruce almost-yelling in that too-controlled voice, and Slade sneering and touching him.

Raven was talking to Bruce, casual and unperturbed, and that was suddenly hilarious because—well, he didn't know why it was hilarious, come to think of it, but he almost laughed, though it came out more as a sob. She didn't even appear disconcerted by Robin's reaction: it was as if this was how he acted every day and Bruce was clearly out of his mind for not being perfectly used to it by now. But she did do something: he noticed the way her eyes narrowed in concentration because he was staring at one spot on her face hard enough to bore a hole in her head. Raven winced, trying to hide it but not quite succeeding; and then, whatever she did with her powers, it took the edge off the emotions that were strangling him, gave him the ability to close his mouth and be quiet and think about how strange his hands looked when they were shaking like that—

"…very sick and shouldn't even be out of bed…call him later if it's this important, but right now…"

"…is between him and me, and…" Bruce looked really mad. Of course, it wasn't Raven's fault, he was mad at Robin, not her, and Robin really should apologize but if he tried to talk he was just going to…

"And you will call him later." The tone was sharper than Raven's usual—at least, it sounded like it. Robin hoped that she wasn't mad at him, too.

She reached out and stabbed the appropriate key to cut the communication; the screen went instantly dark and silent, which Robin liked because the screen reminded him of the three days of watching the video. Three days and every time he reversed the player to the beginning he had to fight down the nausea and the shame and the oh-please-god-don't-make-me-do-this, but he had to do it, he had to, and it took him several shaky breaths to realize that he was speaking out loud, speaking to Raven even as he stood up and tried to back away from her.

"Robin…Robin, can you hear me?" Her voice was as level as it always was, though he thought that maybe she had tears in her eyes, or maybe that was him because he wasn't sure anymore, just that it was hard to see and that he kind of wanted the mask off—and what was the point because she already knew what he looked like, anyway, but even so, the idea of her seeing him again, looking into his eyes, into his mind, seeing what he had become—it was sickening, as sickening as he was, as the cold lump in his stomach that was making it hard not to throw up.

Robin shuddered and took another step back, running into the desk sharply. He didn't know why he was shaking his head, because he had heard her, obviously, or he wouldn't be responding to the question in the first place. "I—but I—he's mad at me, Raven, he's mad at me, he's mad at me, he's…"

He stopped speaking abruptly, chest frozen in horror when he realized that Raven was touching him, arms around him tightly and not letting go when he tried to struggle away. He hadn't been so physically close to anyone since…for a long time, anyway, and Robin hadn't liked it even before Slade had…done that…and he certainly didn't like it now, and he was shaking so badly that he would have fallen over if Raven hadn't been holding him up—probably using at least a measure of telekinesis, too. He fought her, but he couldn't really remember how to push her away, and besides, his arms weren't listening to him.

"Please, Rae, don't…" He wondered if she knew that he was just saying it because he'd given up. Robin had absolutely no expectation that she'd actually let him go—and she didn't, just held him in silence as he tried not to think about what touch meant to him.

And at some point, he was able to stop thinking about it, because he got distracted by wondering what method Raven would choose to kill him since he called her 'Rae,' though she'd probably wait at least until he stopped crying…he was crying, wasn't he? The last time Robin had cried (really cried), he'd been thirteen years old and had broken his arm in four places. He hadn't even cried when…and after…and…he shuddered and wrapped his arms around Raven's neck and buried his face in them. She was still too close and the panic was still just under his skin, held down by something he couldn't name, but he…he just…he just wanted somebody to care, somebody to hold onto, and…

He didn't know why he was on the floor. More specifically, he didn't know why he was on the floor with his head in Raven's lap, her fingers brushing back hair he could feel was damp with sweat. Somehow, that had happened, apparently—he didn't know when.

"S-sorry, Raven," he stumbled over the words, cringing at how raw his voice sounded and trying to sit up.

She placed a firm arm across his chest, holding him down, and he felt the panic and the tears threatening to return. "No, don't get up yet; mal idée, Robin.

"Huh?" The phrase distracted him enough to keep a hold on his composure.

"French," said Raven. Her hand relaxed as soon as he stopped fighting, resting almost casually on his shoulder, more as a place to put it than anything else. "Bad idea."

"French was a bad idea," he muttered, closing his eyes. "I was never any good at it—couldn't get the subjunctive right…" And as he spoke, something began to make the words too slippery to say, something inside his head that might have scared him if he hadn't know it was Raven, and besides, it felt nice…

Raven let him talk about how to conjugate the subjunctive tense for awhile—he didn't know how long, because the next time he opened his eyes he had the feeling that he maybe hadn't been talking the whole time. His eyes felt like they'd been lined with sandpaper, but moreover they were heavy in that way that meant you'd almost fallen asleep but stopped yourself. He'd done that a lot while working, so he knew what it was like.

Despite a terrible headache, he did notice that his breathing was slower, and he didn't feel quite so close to…collapsing again. Cautiously, wondering if she'd let him, he tried sitting up. Raven supported him until he could lean against the wall, but she didn't try to keep him down.

"Better?" she asked softly. Raven looked really tired. And she'd definitely been crying. Maybe under different circumstances, he would have thought about what to do with those observations—but as it was, all he could do was notice.

It took him a few seconds to remember that he'd been asked a question, a couple more to remember what it was. He nodded, not trusting his voice just yet.

A slight wrinkle in Raven's forehead brought the box of tissues on his desk into her hand, and she offered it to him tactfully. Well. At least she didn't try to get him to blow.

"You should sleep now," she said, moving back slightly to put a few inches distance between them. He still felt her presence in his mind, though—it was a kind of warmth, something that made him want to smile without knowing why. "I'll help you get to your room…"

Sleep—no. He couldn't sleep, not after all that; he hated sleep but this would be so much worse and even if his dreams hadn't been so bad lately for some reason he couldn't take the chance that maybe this time… Something clicked.

Wait. A. Minute.

He took a deep breath, tried to find the courage that had evidently taken a permanent holiday, and turned to face her, putting the tissue box by his side. "Raven, what did you do? What did you do, Raven, god—I thought you'd been doing something when it wasn't so bad anymore and…" Robin felt his pulse quicken as he tried to keep control over himself with little success, mouth suddenly dry.

Raven's hands grabbed his even as he tried to pull away, held them to forcibly stop the shaking. She stared at him, straight at the mask with the gentle confidence that meant she knew he was looking back at her. "Okay. You wouldn't have let me do it if I'd asked, and you weren't getting any rest otherwise—Robin, you had a fever high enough to kill you. I can think of a lot of things that might have happened to you if you didn't actually sleep while you were sick, and none of them are good."

"But what did you do?" He wrenched his hands out of her grip and she let him.

She shrugged as if she was informing him that she'd cleaned the kitchen sink that morning. "I took the emotions from your nightmares—I can't experience the dream itself, so don't think I was trying to spy on you—so you got the memory, but not the feeling behind it."

It connected in his head a split second after she'd said it, the magnitude of exactly what she'd done, and he realized what an idiot he'd been for being concerned about a simple invasion of privacy. "Raven…" He caught his breath with effort. "You've been experiencing my pain for me?" All this time. He'd been so selfish and never realized what it was doing to her. How could he…how could he have hurt her so terribly… Robin blinked back tears—not again.

"Yes, actually, I have, but I wanted to, okay? Don't even do that, Robin. The last thing I'm going to allow is for you to start apologizing. If you're going to be pissed at me for not asking permission, then be pissed at me, but don't you dare start blaming yourself for my decision."

"Raven, you've gotta stop; it's hurting you…" His voice broke and he could only shake his head ineffectually, hoping she'd understand what he meant.

She closed the small distance between them and pulled him close, her mind touching his and calming him, somehow, and he wondered fitfully if she was empathically suffering for him even then. "Robin, it's okay, it's okay—I won't do it anymore if that's what you want."

He nodded against her shoulder. "Yeah, please, you have to stop," he whispered after a long moment. "I can't live with myself knowing that my weakness is hurting you."

Raven released him, seeming satisfied that he wasn't going to dissolve into another breakdown. "You," she said firmly, "are one of the strongest, most amazing people I have ever met. But that's not the issue here." She paused, seeming to weigh her options. "Okay. I'll make you a deal."

"I wasn't aware that there was a deal involved…"

"Stop talking, please. I'll stop helping you with your dreams if you'll make me a promise." She waited for a response, didn't get one, and sighed, continuing. "You have to talk to me, Robin. I know you've forbidden me to tell anyone—and I'm not going to. But I'm also not going to let you bottle this up. If something's bothering you, I want you to tell me. If something's bothering you at three in the morning, I want you to come wake me up, do you understand me? Answer me, Robin."

"So basically, if I share my every waking thought with you, you'll leave the thoughts I have while I'm not awake in my head where they belong?"

She nodded.

Robin bit his lip, avoiding her eyes. "I…guess that's fair."

She exhaled forcefully and with more than a little relief. "Good. And don't even think about trying to fool an empath into thinking that something isn't bothering you when it is, okay? That's how I found you tonight, you know—I would have picked up on what you were feeling from five miles away."

"You're not that powerful," Robin snorted.

Raven raised a delicate eyebrow. "Alright: now I believe that you're feeling better." Turning her head to look at his desk, she pointed at the Statistics textbook with some combination of incredulity and distaste. "…what is that?" She asked the question as if it was something foul she'd discovered on the bottom of her shoe.

"Factorial ANOVA." Robin shrugged, voice wavering slightly, small and hesitant and nothing like him, but at least he could get the words out without choking on them.

"Excuse me?"

"Analysis of variance," he offered, the phrase slightly steadier.

"Sounds vile," said Raven. It was the most cheerful thing she'd said in quite awhile. "Explain it to me?"

Robin glanced at her for a brief moment, trying to piece together why Raven would ever want to know how to calculate a factorial ANOVA, but then she'd placed the textbook in his hands and was asking what the F-Max table was for—and after that, it didn't matter why she'd wanted to know, because he had to focus on explaining.