Bright Line

Chapter Thirteen: One-to-One Correspondence

"You need to tell him."

"No."

"I am damn well going to tell him myself if you don't, Robin."

He laughed dryly. "That would go over well."

Raven rolled her eyes, reaching into the bag she was holding for another piece of chocolate and unwrapping the foil with deliberation. "You need to tell him."

"How long have we been arguing about this?" Well, arguing wasn't really the right word: it had mostly consisted of Raven repeating herself over and over and Robin refusing over and over.

"Two days. And I'm not getting bored if you're not," said Raven. "Seriously. It would help. He's—Robin, you've unconditionally refused therapy, and I don't agree, but that's your decision. But you're sixteen years old, as of last Friday. You shouldn't have to deal with this on your own."

"I'm not," he said, and he'd only meant to reach over and touch her free hand, but somehow neither one of them let go. For a moment, there was only silence and the waves crashing against the rocks as they walked the perimeter of the island. The others were having a video game tournament in the living room, and there was no chance of being overheard outside. Besides—it was nice.

Raven squeezed his hand, smiling and shaking her head. "That's not what I meant. It's become this horrible secret that only one person knows—a teenage girl with no qualifications to deal with trauma, might I add—and it's hurting you to keep hiding it from the people you care about."

Robin was fairly sure she wasn't talking about the rest of the team. "Who says I care about him?"

"That," said Raven, pointing the bag of chocolate at his forehead.

"And the only time you've actually seen him, he was yelling at me and I was crying hysterically."

"Actually, for what it's worth, he wasn't yelling at you, from what I saw. And you didn't cry hysterically until after I hung up on him." She paused, pretending to think about the statement. "Which I suspect he still hasn't quite forgiven me for."

No, probably not. Truthfully, he didn't have much memory of that day, except that he had talked to Raven about statistical analyses for a wholly inappropriate amount of time, then had finally shuffled to his room, Raven half-supporting him with telekinesis, and slept for the rest of the evening. "But, why? What is talking to him going to solve?"

Raven stopped walking, looking out at the water and squinting into the afternoon sunlight. "Okay, you're right, I don't know. I don't know any more than what I've felt from you and what everyone knows—and I don't need to know, so if security is what you're concerned about, stop being concerned. But I do know that—" She bit her lip. "He's the closest thing you have to a parent, isn't he?"

The tightening in his chest that he'd always had to shove aside whenever that subject was brought up wasn't there. He just nodded, marveling at how she'd figured that out, then wondering what else she knew about him. Robin decided that it didn't bother him, whatever she knew. So he just nodded.

"You need to tell him, then," she repeated seriously, dropping his hand and twisting around to face him. "And not over the vidphone. Or email. Or smoke signals."

"You're not saying I should—"

Raven finished the thought before he could. "Visit him? Yeah. You really should. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that he isn't stupid. He's probably all but figured it out on his own, anyway."

That idea did make his chest tighten. "Have I been that obvious?"

Although Raven just sighed without actually answering, Robin could fill in the blanks himself. Replaying all of their recent conversations in his head didn't exactly instill a great sense of confidence: Bruce would know that something was wrong by now. And once he decided that the risk of whatever he thought was wrong outweighed the possible consequences of coming to California, it wouldn't matter what Robin thought about visiting him.

"He did email me a few days ago. Implying that I should."

She nodded. "And what did you say?"

"Nothing, yet," he said, hardly pausing to be annoyed with himself for forgetting a responsibility again. After the email from Slade, he'd forgotten why he'd been on the computer in the first place—which, considering the circumstances, wasn't exactly unreasonable. "I need to answer him, though."

"Do you really not want to see him? Or are you afraid to?" She asked the second question as she brushed gently against his mind, not to gather information, just making it clear that there were other options if he couldn't answer her with words.

He considered for a fraction of a second, decided that it was a fantastic idea, and let her see some of the unexplainable emotions that he associated with Bruce and the whole situation. Robin knew that she was capable of reading him whether he wanted her to or not—though she never would...well, almost never—but it was easier when he wanted her to see, and through practice he'd been able to learn how to do that, what it felt like when she asked permission and how to grant it.

"Yeah. That's what I thought," she said, taking a step toward him. "It'll be okay, Robin. I know I said back in February that I wouldn't say that to you as a trite reassurance, but this is different. It's true. Your father is not going to be mad at you because a psychopath kidnapped and raped you."

"It's not just—"

"He won't lose respect for you, either, god. Did I lose respect for you? Did I think it was your fault? And he knows you a lot better than I do." Raven took both of his hands in hers—somehow, the bag had ended up on the ground at her feet—and then Robin couldn't think of anything to say in response, so she continued. "It will help you. Even beyond telling him, I think you need to see him. And from what you showed me just now, I think you want to see him."

He wanted to, and yet he didn't. Robin couldn't recall the exact moment where the disagreements had become insurmountable, to the point where neither of them could back down without a loss of pride, of dignity, of…something. There could be no quiet reconciliation, and when he considered it, he did want that; the real problem was that he didn't know how. "Sorta," he muttered, and it wasn't at all what he'd wanted to say, but hopefully Raven understood regardless.

"Unusually articulate this afternoon, I see." She smirked. "So you'll consider it?"

"Fine, I'll ask if it's convenient for him, happy now?" With an immense measure of luck, it wouldn't be. But with the way Robin had been acting, that was about as likely as Starfire kicking a puppy.

"Elated," said Raven dryly, though there was a touch of humor underneath the word that Robin had come to recognize as playful.

The idea of seeing Bruce was beginning to become real, and the only thing that kept the nervousness in check was the feeling of Raven's hand in his as they walked back towards the Tower. It had morphed into a faint—but pervasive—sense of dread by the time they'd gotten into the elevator and let go of each other.

It was convenient for him.

He'd waited two more days before he asked, trying to find the right words, but now Robin had plane tickets and Raven had a self-satisfied smirk on her face. As much as he'd been hoping that he wouldn't have to do it, he knew that he only had his avoidance to blame for the hesitation, and Robin faced his problems. When had Bruce become a problem? He was almost sure that he hadn't always been, except then something had changed and he didn't know if it was Bruce or himself or something else, and he watched the tickets slowly emerge from the printer as if the little lines of barcode could tell him the answer.

He leaned back in his chair, shoulder brushing Raven's hand. "So you came in here because you didn't believe that I'd actually buy them?"

"No," she sighed. "I came in here because I enjoy being around you, revolutionary as that might sound." She let go of the back of his chair, moved to lean against his desk so she was facing him.

"Okay, Rae," he muttered, pulling the tickets out of the printer.

She didn't respond for a moment, slowly crossing her arms over her chest and raising an eyebrow. "What was that?'

"What was what?"

"What did you just call me?"

Realization hit him like cold water and he cringed. "Oh, that, god, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking." He hadn't meant to say it, but he also hadn't thought, and that was the first thing that came out when he wasn't thinking. And he knew how many times Beast Boy had done it, and how many times Raven had looked ready to fry him, and yet he still couldn't—

"Well, Beast Boy never asked. Not like he ever asks for anything."

"I…didn't say that out loud." He was pretty sure he hadn't, anyway. It was sometimes hard to tell with her. "And you're saying that—"

Raven shrugged innocently. "I didn't say anything except that Beast Boy never asked if he could."

He stared at her, wondering if this was a particularly elaborate trap to humiliate him, decided that Raven didn't do unauthorized humiliation, and made himself say the words. "Except what I think you were implying was that you wanted me to ask how much of my lungs you would rip out through my nose if I called you 'Rae'."

She smirked, eyes bright, and didn't answer right away; he wasn't sure if she was buying herself time to think about how best to use this new leverage, trying to make him nervous, or both. "Alright, I'll make you a deal."

"Do I really want to know what this 'deal' is?"

"If you want to use that nickname again, you do." She fixed him with a crooked smile. "You can call me 'Rae' whenever you're not wearing your mask."

"…What?"

"I forgot what color your eyes are."

Forehead wrinkling, he looked up at her blankly. "You forgot…oh." Of course, she was one of the few people he knew who could forget, because you couldn't forget what you never knew—and Raven did know. She'd seen. Twice. One of those times involving her seeing substantially more than his eyes. A stab of humiliation made him turn away, staring intensely at his desktop even though there was nothing of relevance there.

Raven winced and put her hand to her forehead, and Robin was barely able to suppress the guilt of knowing that he'd hurt her—because the guilt would hurt her more. "That's not what I wanted to remind you of. Damn it. It was probably a stupid thing to ask you to do. I'm sorry. I just—" She stopped mid-sentence, looking at the floor.

It would have upset him not too long ago, but somehow, when Raven said it, here, now, it didn't make him nauseated and offended and horrified. He knew that this wasn't the disaster of a few weeks ago; knew that she'd asked just like he'd asked, and that he wasn't pushing her away like he would have a few months past.

He also knew that Raven definitely hadn't really forgotten what color his eyes were.

He released a long, slow breath. For some reason, once he considered the idea, it wasn't as monumental and appalling as he'd always thought it would be. He'd avoided her for days after the incident in February, but this felt completely different, with Raven leaning against his desk, making sure she wasn't disturbing any papers and looking like she was seriously considering falling through the floor. It was different, and it didn't—well, it still meant something, but it didn't mean the things he'd expected it to mean, and after everything that had happened—it was okay.

"You know, you have sort of been letting me see every private emotion that's crossed your mind. I think the least I can do is show you my eyes."

Her head snapped up. "Robin, seriously, you don't have to, this was a bad idea, I'm sorry…"

"I know I don't have to," he said. "Maybe I want to. Rae."

As if disconnected from his brain, his hands reached up to his face and he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was looking at Raven without his mask, just as he'd done when she'd teleported into his room, furious, with that disk spinning in front of her—except this time she was shocked, not furious, and instead of wanting to find a dark corner in which to quietly die, Robin couldn't fight the smile.

She opened her mouth, closed it, tried to speak a few more times and failed, and then Robin decided to save her the embarrassment. "Really, it's a little ridiculous that it took me this long—any weakness you could have seen, you've basically already seen. I guess it was habit more than anything else that kept me from doing it sooner."

"I—and—thank you," Raven breathed. She was staring at him, and he'd known she would stare, but it wasn't like the way Slade had looked at him and he didn't mind.

"A deal's a deal, and I keep my word," he said.

He shifted uncomfortably, not really knowing what else he could say, and Raven still seemed thoroughly out of words. Silence didn't bother Robin, but awkward silence did, and even though they didn't have much of that, he didn't like it. Finally, his eyes fell on the tickets, and he gestured to them self-consciously. "I'm…leaving on Friday."

"That was fast," she commented.

"He has connections."

Raven nodded. "Fair enough."

"I really don't want to do this, just so you know," Robin said. Didn't want to upset whatever delicate balance they'd achieved over the past year. Knew that before any understanding could be reached—if one could be reached at all—they'd have to both get visibly angry first…and as much as it made him a coward, Robin wanted to omit that part.

"You do and you don't." She laid a hand on his wrist, rubbing his forearm with her thumb. "Like you said two days ago. But I admire you for going ahead and doing it anyway; I don't know if I could, if it were me. Just so you know."

"And it's after seven and I'm hungry, just so you know."

"You want pizza?" She smiled, letting go of his hand. Robin missed the contact when she did.

"I thought we all ate too much pizza for your tastes," he said, standing up.

"No, we eat too much pizza when Terra and Beast Boy decide to see who can blow their straw wrappers the farthest. But Terra and Beast Boy are at a carnival so I think that's taken care of."

A trickle of fear wormed its way into him. "Didn't they say they'd be back early?"

"Robin, it's seven. They're still early, and if something happens to make them not early, I think Starfire and Cyborg can handle it. You promised me you'd stay out of Neurotic Land."

"It's eight minutes after seven, and I promised that I'd stay out of the It's All My Fault Realm. I said nothing about the other one; that was you."

Raven rolled her eyes, a grin stretched across her face. "Let's just go eat; the resident therapist is taking the evening off."

It felt like cheating. Sitting here in the restaurant, staring out the window and just pretending that everything was fine, ignoring the fact that he was going to see Bruce in three days, that he still had no idea if they could put even an ounce of trust in Terra, that Slade's silence couldn't possibly be permanent…that he was supposed to save the world. Not forgetting all of that, exactly, because he did recognize it but…

Somehow, it felt like cheating. And somehow, when he thought he was just putting his hand on the table and ended up touching Raven's fingertips, he didn't mind.

He minded even less when she turned her hand around so their fingers laced together. And for a few seconds, he didn't care if he was cheating, because it was worth cheating for.

"What the goddamned hell are we doing?"

He turned back to face her, pulling himself back to full awareness as he dropped her hand abruptly and focusing on her horrified face, her fear tangible even to him. It had been sudden and obvious, the change in her emotions sharp, undeniable, and he was rapidly failing to fight down the panic. "We're…waiting for food—I think. Are you alright?" he asked, not entirely sure if he wanted to know the answer.

She shook her head, hands slamming down on the table, grabbing the first thing her hand touched—Robin's fork—and picking it up to twirl it fitfully. "No. No, what are we doing, in general, what's happened?

He stared at her in confusion. "I wasn't aware that something had happened between five minutes ago and now."

"No, listen, what's happened with us, the past few days—maybe it was even weeks, I don't even know anymore—this is bad, this is my fault, I'm such an idiot—"

"I'd listen to you if you were making any sense whatsoever, but you're not!"

She took a deep breath, bit her lip and paused, closing her eyes as he felt her draw into herself. The nervousness started to take root, because if this was bad enough to make Raven have to consciously calm herself—no matter how sudden and ridiculous it seemed, it was bad.

Finally, she opened her eyes, shaking her head slowly. The fork floated out of her grasp and down to the table. "I'm sorry. And it's not bad, and I'm not upset, and you shouldn't be either."

"You sounded pretty upset…"

"I know, but just listen, and I promise I'll make sense this time. I just…" She stopped again, swallowing. "I need to know if this is okay."

It wasn't like Raven to be so indirect; she said what she meant, without fear, but now she was stumbling over the words like Terra always did when she had something to say that she didn't want to say. "Is what okay?"

"This," said Raven. She took another deep breath. "Robin, maybe you haven't noticed, but this is kind of a date."

He stared at her, frozen. The first thing he thought of was Terra, squirming in her seat and confessing that she'd told Slade that—that they were—and he couldn't get the irony out of his head, because that had been only a week ago—except maybe it was like Raven said and it had happened long before that, but neither of them had realized...

"Are you okay?" he asked slowly, a large part of him afraid that somehow she wouldn't be—and the rest of him shocked that it existed, that he wanted it to be okay, wanted it desperately. But he had to make absolutely sure, so he forced himself to continue. "I mean, you couldn't actually want to—"

"Want to what?" she interrupted. "Date you? Yes. Yes, actually, I do, and I don't know if this will make things better or worse but I need to say it anyway. Of course it's okay with me, it's better than okay, but I'm not going to push something on you that—that you're not ready for."

He leaned back in his chair, forehead wrinkling. "Wait a minute. You—think I'm scared?"

"No!" Raven sighed heavily. "It's not about you being a coward or anything like that, just…just tell me if you can do this, alright? If you want to do this," she amended, seeing something in his expression—or feeling something.

Robin looked back at her from behind the mask, and he would have taken it off if there hadn't been people around, because then it would be easier to make her understand. But he couldn't do that here, so he settled on the truth. Bruce had always said he was a terrible liar, anyway. "It's okay. Really. And I'm not scared."

"But look, if you start getting uncomfortable—"

"Then I'll let you know. You'd probably know first anyway. In the meantime, it's okay with me if it's okay with you." He still felt the doubt and the shame and the sliver of concern that it would stop being okay, but it was dormant, manageable—and Robin thought that this might be the best way to make sure it stayed so. He laughed suddenly, surprised at how real it was. "The others will—I don't even know what they'd do." Except for Terra, who would probably start picking out names for their children or something similarly ridiculous.

"And we won't know what they'd do, because there's no reason to tell them," Raven said. "They already think we're dating." Seeing the surprise that must have been all over his face, she rolled her eyes and smiled. "I know you don't exactly notice that kind of thing, but yeah, they did. I seriously doubt they'll be all that surprised."

"Okay, so that's a moot point. In any case, I'm glad we…got thisstraightened out," said Robin. They both knew what this was, but neither of them said it—and they didn't need to. It didn't matter what they called it, really.

"Yeah. And you'll tell me if it's too much?"

"As you keep reminding me, you're an empath. Somehow, I don't think I'll need to actually tell you."

Her smile widened considerably, and then her glass fell to the table, ice and soda spilling out as she swore and sprung to her feet. It immediately reminded him of that day they'd all gone out and he'd spilled his drink when Beast Boy—he'd said something, but Robin couldn't remember and didn't care. Except Raven hadn't actually touched the glass. On very rare occasions, Robin was glad that he didn't have superpowers.

"God, I'm sorry, I'm still getting used to this," she muttered as she grabbed for the napkins, dragging the dispenser along with her for a few inches when she couldn't get a good handful. "For some reason, it's really easy to forget that the good emotions can screw things up, too."

Robin rose to his feet, leaning across the table to help her. Holding her glass in one hand, he tossed the ice cubes back into it one by one, telling her that it was fine and that one spilled drink—or two—was the least of their worries. Their fingers brushed together, and he felt his heart beat faster. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but he did know that Raven had a great smile, especially when she was embarrassed, and that he hadn't been this happy in a long time.