The Low Spark

A/N: If they were mine, I'd disown them after this anyway.
Where's all the Cyborg love, people? Don't let all that metal scare you off. Half-robots need love, too. For real.

* * *

What would hit Cyborg the hardest later--much later, when he actually had time to sit down and brood about it for a couple of hours, when the sheer anger had stopped smacking his body and mind around like a ruthless prize fighter--was exactly how predictable the Teen Titans could be.

Months before, the Titans had faced the mysterious Red X, a man who knew exactly how to deal with every single of thf them. Quickly. Efficiently. Cyborg had brooded then, too, turning the problem over and over in his head. How? How could anyone be that good? When the answer came to him around three o'clock that morning it was as distressing as it was undeniable: the team had simply gotten too predictable. And somehow the revelation that Red X was actually Robin, the boy who'd lived with them and trained with them and by the way noticed absolutely fucking everything as far as Cy could tell--somehow that revelation didn't make that very simple answer any less true.

But right now Robin

(the boy who'd lived with them and trained with them and)

lay on the blacktop looking like a forgotten scoop of ice cream on a hot July evening, and the Teen Titans? Were acting predictably.

Starfire was kneeling by his side, all hands desperately touching and eyes desperately watering, quite possibly getting ready to shake the boy until he came to and smiled at her and everything was right with the world. A very bad idea, judging by the rapidly thickening stream of blood that had started at his temple; Cy mentally shook himself until he found the presence of mind to lay a heavy hand on her shoulder and gently, kindly, pull her aside. Beast Boy stood not far away, shifting his weight nervously, and Cyborg could feel him getting ready to test the waters with a horrible joke of some sort, and he thought that nothing could possibly be worse than that. One sharp, red-eyed glare left Beast Boy with nothing on his lips but a whimper and the too-dry tip of his tongue.

Raven had gone looking for whatever had done this to Robin, wordless, calm. She could be level-headed in a fight even when motivated by pure vengeance, as she almost certainly was tonight. She'd be okay. Nobody could ever predict Raven. Cyborg thought suddenly that he quite liked Raven, scary as she could be.

And Cyborg? Good ol' Cy? He didn't know what to do. Only that he would have to do it, and now now now--

That was when Robin opened his eyes and managed an extremely weak smile. It took, of course, nothing less than a heroic effort.

Predictable bastard.

* * *

Robin had assured them that he'd be okay to walk home with them, and he had been wrong about that, so Cyborg supposed he shouldn't trust Robin when he said it was safe to carry him the rest of the way without risking further injury to his head and neck. They all trusted him anyway. Cy still wasn't sure why they felt compelled to honor the wishes of an unconscious boy with his own drying blood crusting his forehead; yet here he was navigating the city streets at dusk with Robin cradled in his arms infant-style, head securely pressed against the remaining flesh-part of his massive bicep. There was just something about Robin that made you want to obey.

Cy wondered, vaguely and not for the first time, whether Starfire were into master and slave games.

The thought was enough to take him away from Robin's dead weight and the seemingly endless streets for a small time. Until he felt something new where Robin's head was propped up against him.

Really felt something which just didn't happen to Cyborg very often lately.

He looked. Robin's head wound (not nearly as bad as it had looked in the heat of the moment, and he just might might might pull out of this with a concussion and a few stitches) had reopened; the blood had started, not so much as before, but enough to slice his cheek red like a blood orange and then fall to rest on Carm.arm.

drip. drip. drip.

Cyborg turned his eyes back to the Tower, not so far away now, and tried to push it out of his mind, to ignore splashy spatters of blood-heat, spots of warmth sliding softly down his skin (skin) like hot humingeingertips, teasing--

He bit back a moan.

"Dude, you feelin' all right?" That could only be Beast Boy.

"I--"

Just in time and far too soon, they were home.

* * *

That's just great, Vic, that's a FINE little kink you're developing there.

Cyborg knew he was in trouble when he talked to himself in that voice. For one thing, it sounded suspiciously like Raven, except for the whole Vic thing. Raven had never called him Vic. Hell, he didn't even call himself Vic anymore, hadn'r a r a long time.

That was a depressing thought, actually, but it was better than dealing with

(that blood incident on the road there? yeah, let's talk about that)

Robin's injury.

Raven hadn't been able to find the guy who'd taken Robin down--apparently he wasn't the sort to sit around and gloat, or make demands, or do any of the things that anyone talented enough to best Robin had every right to do. There was an unspoken agreement among the Titans that the guy was small potatoes, had probably scared himself out of his wits with his own strength and then run off in a panic before thinking things through. They'd take him down if they got the chance but the agreement was there all the same.

It would remain unspoken because nobody in their right mind would tell Robin he might have been taken down by a lightweight.

But for now Robin was being sterilized and bandaged and bombarded with questions about how he was feeling, and soon he'd be sent to bed, probably against his will. And Cyborg was in his own room, wiping Robin's blood off of his arm (skin) with a chilly, damp washcloth and braving a hailstorm of twitchy delicious shudders.

It wasn't his fault.

He just wasn't used to feeling.

It wasn't that there wasn't any sensation at all in his mechanical parts; there had to be, or he'd have been pretty damn lame in combat. Fighting . . . fighting and winning were all about being in touch with yourself, and with the world around you, and with your opponent. It wasn't something you could do if you couldn't react to the flow of the battle. If you didn't even know what side of your arm you'd been hit on, you couldn't roll with it, redirect the energy, use their own momentum against them. The most you could do was hope your plastic bits didn't shatter when you hit the ground.

Come to think of it, Cyborg was pretty sure most people didn't actually have to worry about that kind of thing anyway.

But the senses in Cy's robotic limbs were . . . false was the only way to describe it. It was like being told you were feeling without actually experiencing it. A punch to his torso and he could tell you exactly where it had connected, with exactly how much force and velocity. And he'd be thrown backwards like any human fighter. But it wouldn't hurt.

(a soft caress and he could tell you exactly WHERE the fingers had spidered across his metallic shell, how warm and how tender they were, whether they were damp with nervous sweat and pulsing with nervous blood, but it wouldn't feel GOOD)

So was it his fault if the few remaining areas of skin that were still exposed to the air had become, well, erogenous zones? And very erogenous zones, at that?

Cyborg's immense height was in some ways just another thing separating him from the rest of humanity, but in other ways it was a blessing. It wasn't often that he had to worry about people touching his human skin, rubbing shyly along his upper arms and maybe even up to that spot on his neck, and, and he should really plug himself in somewhere right now and give himself a few jolts to help get

(off)

his mind off of this.

Hah. Plug himself in somewhere. For anyone else, that would just sound like a really bad euphemism.

Not so for the Cyborg.

He had a post-battle, blowing-off-steam video game marathon with Beast Boy later that night, but there was time . . .

* * *

"I. Beat. Your. BUTT!"

As far as Cyborg was concerned, the only time anything was going really well for him was when he was winning. And so far, this night had gone damn well. True, his impromptu Dance of All Things Victorious had allowed a conniving Beast Boy to start up another race before he could get the controller back in his hands, and--had he just been lapped? Cy landed on the couch hard enough to displace the stuffing and got down to business. Sure, he was already six wins ahead of BB and it wasn't likely he would come out of this night anything less than the Supreme Champ-een once again, but it was the principle of the thing, wasn't it?

He felt better after . . . earlier. It was amazing what a little strategically-routedtagetage and three hours of wasting away in front of the big-screen could do for a guy. Robin was doing all right--well, he was asleep, which everyone except Robin himself considered "all right." Cy had talked to him a little before they'd knocked him out for the night (there'd be hell to pay for that one in the morning) and Robin had seemed lucid enough. He'd lied about not being in any pain, for one thing, which was a decidedly Robin thing to do. The boy was going to be okay.

Cyborg was suddenly brought back to his earlier thoughts about Red X. The man who had predicted their every move. Yes, that was right; Red X had been a man, while Robin was somehow still a boy. It wasn't true, but it would do for now. It was the only way Cy could keep them separated in his mind, could move past the betrayal--

"Awww, man! That's it, I'm done." Beast Boy tossed his controller carelessly to the floor, looking everywhere but at the screen, which was now flashing with the words "Best time! Please enter name!" Cyborg snickered and did so, pronouncing each letter very carefully aloud. "Let's see . . . beeeeeee . . . no, wait, not B! Ceeeeeeee . . . "

Beast Boy threw a cushion at him. , co, come on dude, get it over with! I can't even believe you beat me that time. You were totally spaced out. Do you have robot instincts or something that make you good at this game?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out, little man."

Beast Boy snorted. "Yeah, right. Loser chooses next game, and I can still kick your butt on Quantum Fighter X, so we'll see who's the little man then, huh? Come on, turn that thing off and let's get some sleep, already. It's late, everyone else is in bed, and not all of us are lucky enough to have batteries to recharge."

"Sure you do, you're just not very good at it. Man cannot be powered on tofu alone, you know. Anyway, I haven't decided on your punishment for losing to me this time, so get your tail back here."

"Punishment? Oh come oooon, Cy! I was your slave for a week last time, wasn't that enough?"

Cyborg spread his arms and beamed widely. "It's never enough, my man! You keep my room cleaner than I do, after all! Why can't you take care of your own, by the way? I've seen you with those dusters, you can't tell me you're not enjoying that. Come on, try telling me you're not yingying that. Come on."

Cy rocked back against the couch smugly and winked; Beast Boy pouted. Cy waited. Beast Boy pouted.

Cyborg sighed.

"Fine, fine. No slave this time. You got off easy though, BB. Instead, you can . . . " It took a moment to come to him. "You can be my dog! All day tomorrow. After all, I owned you at this game, didn't I? Might as well own you for real, parade you around town or something. Maybe I'll even buy you a collar if you're good. Would you like that, Fido?"

Beast Boy rolled his eyes, but Cyborg could see the relief in them. BB liked being a dog, no matter what he claimed otherwise to save face. It was liberating to spend a day in the skin of someone not expected to wear clothes, or eat with utensils.

"So, Fido, sit!"

There was that strange feeling in the air, the feeling of shifting matter, of air currents being displaced ever so slightly, of crackling energy, and then it was over and Cy was looking down at the goofy green dog sitting obediently on the floor in front of the couch. It panted at him, tongue wagging in the air like a Kansas windsock.

"Good boy! Maybe I'll even let you sleep on the couch, as long as Raven doesn't find out . . . "

The dog--his best friend, and he still had to remind himself sometimes, when BB transformed--yipped his encouragment and leapt up onto the forbidden upholstery, pawing excitedly at Cy's metallic chest with a heavy front paw. A boy and his pet. Cyborg threw his head back and laughed as loudly as he dared this late at night, closing his eyes against Beast Boy's lost-puppy gaze.

Until he felt the dog's tongue

(bb's tongue his tongue)

on his neck

(skin).

Then his eyes snapped open, and then his back arched so hard his head snapped onto the back of the sofa, and then Beast Boy was snapping back into himself and Cyborg was staring at the ceiling trying to get his breathing under control and then.

Fingers, on his arm, on the skin of his arm.

"Okay, dude. What's wrong? You've been weird all day, you were weird about Robin earlier, weirder than anyone else and that's just not you, man . . . "

Cyborg couldn't answer around the golf-ball sized lump in his throat; could only watch the fingertips softly stroking circles on his bare skin.

(and he could still tell you how tender they were, and that they were slick with nervous and confused sweat, but it felt good, oh it felt GOOD)

He knew the exact moment when Beast Boy realized exactly what was wrong with his mechanical best friend. The pulse in the soft fingertips--a pulse he could feel and not just be told about by complex mechanical processes that were occasionally a mystery even to him--sped up ever so slightly, and a dazed glance at BB's throat revealed he was suddenly having almost as much trouble swallowing as Cy himself was.

That was that moment.

The next moment was maybe the longest of Cyborg's life and he had time to feel all of it. Stressed springs in the sofa (already? They'd just gotten this one!) giving and supporting as Beast Boy shifted his weight, shifted to get closer, knelt and rested a knee on a metal thigh in a position that couldn't possibly be comfortable. Leaning in, and in, and dead air thick with the pounding of blood, and breath, tiny spiders of breath on his cheek. And then, for the second time that night

(how did i go years without this?)

a tongue petting the crook of his neck.

A human's tongue is better than a dog's tongue in a lot of ways. It's wetter, for one thing, and much thicker. The tip comes to a sharper point, a sensitive and intelligent and almost alive point, strong and insistent and above all very fond of salt.

It's like it wasmademade to explore the human body.

Beast Boy licked a wide trail along Cyborg's jaw, and then a thin one down his neck right to the spot where man met machine, and this time Cy couldn't suppress his moan, couldn't do anything but pull his teammate into his lap and closer, closer, not close enough. When BB traced a circle right over his wildly twitching jugular vein and then filled that circle with a hard, sucking kiss, Cyborg was left gasping for air, only to have Beast Boy suddenly cover his mouth with his own and deprive him of it.

Ohhhhh. That was good too. Was it always like this? Must remember to put up mistletoe around the Tower next Christmas. Yes, he'd insist on it, he'd--

--mmmmmmm . . .

Beast Boy had broken the kiss and had started quickly nuzzling Cy's neck, short spiky ticklish hairs setting his nerve endings on fire, and Cy almost slipped right then and there and said something ridiculously robotic.

I think my circuits are overloading.

(that's what the normal 99% of the human race calls an orgasm, vic)

Shut up, Raven.

But they weren't anyway, nothing was overloading yet, and suddenly Cyborg had what to his addled brain at the time seemed like the best idea a man could ever have. He moved one of his hands from Beast Boy's back down and around to the front of his tights and touched.

Beast Boy froze mid-nuzzle.

He's afraid, Cyborg thought wildly. And who wouldn't be? I remember how I felt the first time I woke up after . . . after. When I saw these metal monstrosities I'd be calling hands for the rest of my life.

But it's okay. It can be okay, I'm careful, I have sensors, I can . . . how can, how can I show him it'll be okay?

He swallowed and drew in a couple of shaky, tattered breaths. "It'll be okay."

And Beast Boy leaned against his throat (god he would never get over that feeling) and nodded.

Trust. Like they had trusted Robin's judgment earlier--maybe good ol' Cy had something of the leader in him after all.

And all at once there wasn't time to think about that now, or anything else, because BB was moving again, was sucking and licking and pinching with his lips, and Cyborg was sliding his hand under cloth and touching and wrapping around and there wasn't much time for anything anymore but this.

Beast Boy's mouth was even more fun when he was getting something out of it. Soon enough the slyly talented tongue gave way to hot, ragged gasps for air against Cy's cheek; little teasing squeals and moans of pleasure as he rocked against Cyborg desperately; a sharp nip and suction, so much suction when he tried to hold back a little longer, and failed. Cy felt the slight, spent body slump bonelessly against him, still latched onto his neck, just as the nerves and circuits crackled sharply within him and he was shuddering out a final

"Mmmmmmaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, eeeeee . . . "

He knew he'd spend the next week or so trying to convince himself he hadn't been about to yell anything about his circuits overloading.

But for now, he couldn't convince hif off of anything, much less move.

Hadn't he promised Beast Boy that he could sleep on the couch, after all?

That was looking really good right now.

"Cy?"

Questioning. Here it comes, here comes all the self-doubt and regret and--

"Do I still have to be your dog tomorrow?"

Pause. " . . . only if you want to, BB."

"Mmkay."

Another pause.

"Cy?"

"Yeah?"

"I thought, I mean I was sure you were going to make some sort of a joke there about being your bitch . . . "

Cyborg cracked his neck thoughtfully. "I'm a bigger person than that, BB."

"So I noticed."

Shifting, quiet snoring, and the ghost of even breathing skittering across his bare human cheek.