Teen Titans one shots

nothing to fear

Prologue

If he had simply left, maybe it would be easier.

If he had packed his bags, walked out the door, the echo of his footprints swept away, maybe she would be okay.

But he had left in pieces, his heart and mind spirited away long before his body followed. A husk of himself tethered to her by a thread, his quips and flirtations the depth of a robot's script. Long ago, before her chest had weighted and her jade eyes dulled, he told her that he would never want anything to get in the way of what they had.

But something did.

Himself.

And not even X'hal would grant her mercy.

Chapter one

"Hey, Star."

Her stomach should not flutter like this. By now they should've been at the part of love where the butterflies of a newfound crush get slowly released, through touches and kisses and secrets whispered in the dead of night.

Or turned to acid that scorches through your veins after heartbreak. Flushed out and broken by the glass of time.

But it is not over.

"Friend Robin. It is good to see you." Starfire shifted her weight. Twiddled her thumbs. Pretended to be interested in anything other than this.

"Yeah." She will replay his simplest expression of agreement over and over again like a broken record. Her personal lullaby.

"I presume you are heading to the training room?"

He shakes his head. "Kitchen."

"Oh."

And there it is. The pinnacle of their interaction for the day. Her glimpses of Robin had become fewer and fewer until his presence amounted to a cross of Batman and a deathly private celebrity. A private celebrity whose iconic catchphrase was "sorry."

"Sorry Star, I have to head to training."

"Sorry Star, BB wants me to watch 'A Vegan Life' with him."

"Sorry Star, I promised a piece of lint I would stare at it."

Just when she was beginning to wonder whether her name was even 'Star' without the 'Sorry,' digits pale as ice tapped her shoulder.

"Meeting. You coming?" Raven's witch-like cape billowed behind her as she wooshed past. Beastboy and Cyborg's video games always chained them to a 6-foot distance of the living room...meaning Starfire would be last.

Again.

"The last one there is a rotten glorfnog," she mumbled.

-

He is speaking. A gargle of syllables, unfamiliar as before she slipped her tongue in his and transferred more than a language. Robin's brain is churning with charts and graphs, of this-that and the Mumbo-Jumbo. But hers is blushed and beaming and so shredded with hormones that could swallow her whole.

Because Robin is staring at her.

Starfire obsessively analyzes every nip, tuck, and swish of her hair. One strand, two strands, three. Her orange curls became more fascinating than an action movie.

But his gaze deepens. Unexplored longing, a pang of pining entrenched so deep that bringing it to his outer layer would be excruciating whiplash.

She challenges him to let go. Locks their eyes in an invisible contest of wills so intently that the tension might zap her with static shock.