Quiet After the Storm
The Titans Tower settled into its familiar rhythm once training ended—steel and glass humming softly, the city of Jump City stretching endlessly beyond the windows. Everyone scattered almost immediately, each member slipping back into their own world like this had all been nothing more than another day.
Nightwing and Starfire were the first to leave.
"Date night?" Beast Boy teased, dangling upside down from the ceiling.
Starfire smiled brightly. "Yes! We shall engage in the joyful bonding ritual of combat and criminal disruption."
Nightwing chuckled, already walking toward the hangar. "Translation: busting an arms ring in the Narrows."
The hangar doors slid shut behind them.
Blue Beetle and Beast Boy weren't far behind. An alert had come in—bank robbers, low-level but loud. Beast Boy cracked his knuckles excitedly, already halfway transformed into a gorilla.
"Try not to level the building this time," Cyborg muttered.
"No promises," Beast Boy grinned as he and Blue Beetle launched out into the city.
Cyborg lingered a moment longer, eyes unfocused as lines of data flickered across his vision. He'd been quiet since Washington. Since Batman.
"I've got to check something," he finally said. "Mister Terrific wants a second look at that suit data."
A low boom echoed as he opened a boom tube, the Watchtower visible on the other side. One step, and he was gone.
That left only two figures on the training floor.
Damian Wayne—the Robin—and Raven.
The silence between them was… heavy. Not hostile anymore, but dense with things unsaid.
Damian broke it first.
"Come with me," he said quietly.
Raven studied him for a long moment, violet eyes searching his face for deflection, arrogance, or lies. Finding none, she nodded once.
The world folded.
Raven was used to teleportation, to dimensional shifts and astral spaces—but Damian's personal dimension still unsettled her in a way she couldn't quite articulate. It wasn't chaotic, or dark, or screaming with magic.
It was… orderly.
A vast sky stretched overhead, permanently caught between twilight and dawn. Stone paths wound through carefully arranged gardens. In the distance stood the mansion she had already seen once before—large, elegant, unmistakably Damian.
But something was different now.
Raven felt it immediately.
"Damian," she said slowly, "this place changed."
He nodded. "I added something."
He led her past the gardens, down a stone path that curved behind a ridge of rock. The sound reached her before the sight—soft water, steam curling through the air.
The hot spring revealed itself like a secret.
Crystal-clear water shimmered faintly, the surface glowing with a subtle, almost imperceptible light. It wasn't magic in the way Raven usually sensed magic—no incantations, no demonic resonance, no astral signatures.
It was… restorative.
Raven stopped at the edge, eyes narrowing slightly.
"This energy," she said. "It's not demonic. Not celestial either. What is it?"
Damian removed his gloves slowly, flexing his fingers as if feeling the air.
"It heals," he said simply. "Physically. Mentally. It accelerates recovery. Reduces strain."
Raven looked at him sideways. "You built a hot spring?"
"I improved one," Damian corrected. "The dimension already allowed regeneration. I optimized it."
Of course you did, she thought.
She glanced back at him, noticing the faint bruising along his jaw, the tension still locked in his shoulders from their earlier fight.
"You're hurt," she said.
"So are you."
Raven hesitated. Vulnerability wasn't something she indulged in easily. Neither was comfort.
Damian solved the problem in the most Damian way possible.
He unfastened his cape, then his black combat pants, tossing the Robin gear neatly aside before stepping straight into the water.
The splash caught Raven completely off guard.
Water arced up and soaked the front of her cloak.
She blinked.
"…You did that on purpose."
"Yes," Damian said, deadpan, as steam curled around him. "You were overthinking."
She stared at him for two seconds longer—then sighed, removed her cloak, boots, and gloves, and stepped into the spring herself.
The warmth enveloped her instantly.
Raven stiffened at first, instinctively bracing for backlash or corruption—but none came. Instead, the tension she hadn't realized she was carrying began to ease. Her breathing slowed. The constant background hum of restrained power inside her softened, like a storm settling into distant thunder.
"…Oh," she murmured.
Damian leaned back against the stone edge. "Told you."
For a while, neither of them spoke.
The steam drifted upward. The dimension was quiet—no alarms, no missions, no expectations.
Finally, Raven broke the silence.
"You scared me," she said quietly.
Damian didn't deflect this time.
"I know."
"You disappeared. No message. No warning. I thought…" She stopped herself, jaw tightening. "I thought you chose something else over us."
He closed his eyes briefly.
"I didn't," he said. "I chose survival. Mine. My family's. Yours."
She looked at him sharply. "You don't get to decide that alone."
"I didn't have a choice."
"Everyone has a choice."
Damian turned his head toward her then, meeting her gaze fully.
"And some choices come with consequences you don't get to explain to people you care about," he said. "I did what I had to do so I could come back."
Raven searched him with more than her eyes this time—empathy, emotion, something deeper. She felt no lie. No evasion.
Just a boy carrying far too much responsibility.
Her voice softened. "You could have told me something."
"I didn't want you involved," Damian said. "If things went wrong."
"And if they go wrong next time?" she asked quietly.
Damian hesitated—just for a fraction of a second.
"Then," he said, "I'll tell you first."
That answer seemed to satisfy her—for now.
She leaned back, letting the water support her weight.
"You're an idiot," Raven said calmly.
"Yes."
"But," she added, glancing sideways at him, "you're my idiot."
Damian snorted before he could stop himself.
"…That's fair."
They sat there in silence again, the kind that didn't need filling.
For the first time in weeks, Damian felt something unfamiliar.
Peace.
And for now, that was enough.