LOVE + FEAR

RADIOACTIVE

— T I T A N S    T O W E R —

Raven glanced quickly between the Ipad and the pan before her. One half of the screen displayed Cyborg's notes on the Flashpoint theory; the other showed a recipe for shawarma.

The dish of roasting chickpeas hissed before her. Raven idly raised a hand and shadowy tendrils mixed the saucepan with a spoon. With her free hand, she pressed a finger to her lip as she studied the Ipad.

Raven's eyes traced the timeline on the screen, an array of events listed by Barry Allen. Most of it matched the log below, which displayed their current timeline. She recognized many overlapping incidents; Trigon's attempt to invade earth, Deathstroke's attack on the Titans. Things started to shift when she reached Doomsday...

Raven thought about Bruce's comment on electrocution at the end of their shopping trip. It sounded like he was familiar with the Flashpoint. Perhaps he was in on it, too? Damian mentioned once that Bruce was oddly open to the theory. If Bruce Wayne remembered the Flashpoint, why hadn't he convinced the Justice League it was possible? What was he hiding —?

The chickpeas spat in retaliation of the heat. Raven's eyes widened, her attention averted. "Oh — crap."

She lowered the temperature of the stove as steam billowed into the air.

"I can get the fire extinguisher."

Raven looked up, which was pointless with the hot vapor. She parted it with a waving hand, and the mists retreated to unveil Damian's face.

"Not necessary," Raven kept her concentration on the dish. "I'm not Gar, who's murdered countless microwaves."

"You seem very confident," Damian came around the kitchen island and peered over her shoulder. "What are you making?"

"You can't tell?" Raven turned her head to the side, catching his emerald orbs. Turtlenecks had become a rising fashion with Damian; the ebony fabric strained against the outline of his throat and collarbone. A black trench coat similar to hers was folded over his arm—both garments too hot for San Francisco's hideously high temperature. He must've visited Gotham recently.

"I'm not an expert in charred remains, but it smells like burnt chickpeas." said Damian, lips curved up. He reached over and slung his coat over one of the kitchen bar stools.

"They're not burnt —! I'm making shawarma, the vegetarian version."

"Or just the regular version."

"Whatever you want to call it." She beamed at him.

"So...is there a reason why you decided to make my favorite?" said Damian.

She glanced over at the Ipad screen, "I wanted to say thank you for the Flashpoint files."

Damian's gaze softened. "It was a gift. I don't require anything in return."

"You're not the only one allowed to give gifts." said Raven. "I wanted to do this for you."

"...Thank you."

His response made her fingers awkwardly fumble around the spatula. Goosebumps flared on her arms. Gratitude from him was rare, usually.

Damian adjusted his position, standing right behind her, "Here, let me,"

His arms came around her, lightly clasping his hand over her own over the spatula. With skilled strokes, he spread the chickpeas evenly across the pan.

"I didn't know you cook," Raven's voice sounded foreign to her ears; too light and breathy. She would've pondered it, but the heat radiating off of Damian was very distracting...