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Starfire’s crying.
No one else knows; no one else is supposed to know, judging by the fact that the Tamaranean is doing so in her room on just the other side of the Tower, alone.
But unlike her teammates, Raven is uniquely gifted with the power of empathy. Every strong emotion that comes over them, every little thing they don’t bury deep within themselves, she feels tenfold. It radiates off of them in waves, hitting her with the full force of their emotions if she isn’t prepared.
Normally, she’s ready. Normally, she has her mental walls up, twenty-four-seven, every minute she’s around her friends; even with the recent demise of her father, his power still resides within her. She is free from his influence, but not truly free; unless freedom means being tethered on a slightly-longer leash. Her tolerance for feeling and letting in others’ emotions is growing, day-by-day; and though she is nowhere near normal, not yet, when she is certain the rest of her friends are in for the night, their emotions muffled (and sometimes, outright muted by sleep), she lets her guard down.
It is stressful to keep that up constantly, after all, and it is particularly difficult to do so while meditating.
So it is that Raven feels it with all the force of a brick wall crashing against her when Starfire breaks down. Startled from all concentration, she drops from where she’s been floating in the air, gritting her teeth and clutching at her head. A faint tremor rumbles through the Tower—something that could be mistaken as no more than one of Jump City’s frequent, little earthquakes, but the sorceress knows it’s her powers acting out.
She tries to put up her mental walls again, tries to calm down, but it’s futile; the damage has been done. Starfire’s feelings are now her own, intense with their might, and Raven finds tears coming to her own eyes, her shoulders shaking with repressed sobs. She doesn’t know what it is that has her friend so worked up, but Raven feels it just as keenly as she. For a few long moments she remains there on the floor, hunched over, rocking in place, desperately trying to fight it; all she succeeds in doing is keeping it at bay, away from her expression but still jabbing deep within her heart.
What am I supposed to do?
Leave Starfire alone, and hope that whatever it was that was going on, it would resolve itself?
…No. That would be cruel, and she cares far too greatly for her fellow alien to do something like that.
Tell one of the boys—Robin, perhaps—what was happening, and hope they approached her?
…That’s not right, either. Raven, of all people, knows how hurtful it is when personal secrets are spread without permission; she’s not about to go and be a hypocrite.
There’s only one thing left, then—and as much as she hates giving them, as much as she feels hers are awkward and stiff and cold and uncomfortable, it’s the only option Raven can think of. It’s something that’s given comfort to her, in the past: ones full of warmth and motherly love that Arella would give her, the rare times they were allowed to see one another; ones rigid but gentle, tender at their core, given on even rarer instances by Azar; group ones, from the whole Titan team, that stole the air from her lungs but were so sweet, so genuine, so full of love, she couldn’t help but yearn for them.
The girl she loves most deserves this much.
Raven’s at Starfire’s door before she knows it; instead of knocking or calling out for her, she simply taps in the keycode, sending the door opening with a faint whirr.
Starfire’s head jerks up at the noise, her frame still shaking like a leaf where she’s wrapped up in her pink blankets upon her bed. Those too-green eyes of hers that Raven can’t help but envy, that are always so bright, so powerful, so happy, are rimmed with red; she tries to give her a smile, but it wobbles and doesn’t meet her gaze, more mournful than happy. “O-oh, Friend Raven!” she sniffles, rubbing hastily at her tear-streaked cheeks, “Should you not be in your bed, having the sweetest of dre—”
She’s cut off by the feel of her friend’s arms around her. Raven’s embrace is fierce but quiet, like the girl herself; at once both hard and yielding, cradling her head against her chest, her taller form nestled against the empath’s shorter one. Her hand begins to gently stroke through her red locks, as her monotone is pitched softer, murmuring quiet sympathies against her temple.
It is then, without thought or question, that Starfire returns her hug, her tears muffled against her friend’s shoulder.
They don’t speak; they don’t need to.
A hug is worth a thousand words.