"You planning on ever letting that heal?"

He dropped his hand away from the scab on his wrist.

"My son does that. Of course, he's five."

Tim gave Roberts a half-hearted glare. "So, what if she wasn't my friend?" he said, returning to the conversation.

"Well, then she was your captor."

Tim flinched. "But it's not like she was evil…"

"People who do bad things are rarely evil. In fact, they usually have good reasons for what they do. It doesn't make what they do acceptable. Stop that."

Tim dropped his hand away from the scab again. "I don't have Stockholm Syndrome."

Dr. Roberts watched him closely for a long time. "Will you testify against her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"She did nothing wrong." Damn it, she hadn't. She'd told him what the consequences of his actions would be. She had reasons for kidnapping him. (Captives justify--he forced the thoughts away.)

"You look upset."

"Because everyone keeps saying how awful she was! I bet you'd do the same as she did, if you'd been abused and everything!" That was why he was upset. That was the only reason.

"Maybe. I like to think I wouldn't."

Tim rubbed his face. "I'm just tired." Everything was fine. Everything had to be fine. Tears burned the back of his eyes.

Shit.

**

"Hey."

Tim jumped. Looked up. Smiled faintly at Nightwing. "Hey. Sorry. Little spacey today." (Victims often have difficulty concentrating, confusion, have a tendency to disassociate or be mentally absent.)

"You've been going to the shrink?"

Tim nodded. "Twice, now. In two days." He made a face. Nightwing chuckled and crouched beside him. "Batman hasn't come by," Tim said quietly. "Not Bruce, either."

Dick cringed. "He's… actually, I think he's feeling guilty."

Tim looked up. "Guilty? For what?"

"Taking five weeks to find you. He was working as fast as he could, but…"

Tim nodded. "Not his fault. Tell him that, would you?"

"Sure. How're your fingers?"

Tim eyed them. "Healing."

"Nightmares?"

He hesitated. Saying it made it real. (Flies crawling across an open eye.) He closed his eyes and breathed deeply. "Not as many."

"How do you like your shrink?"

He picked at gravel on the roof. Flicked it into the air. "He thinks I have Stockholm, too."

"He said that?"

"Didn't have to."

"What do you think?"

Tim frowned again. Looked at Nightwing sidelong. Back down at his shoes. "I don't know. I guess I fit some of the symptoms."

Nightwing clapped a hand on Tim's head, ruffling his hair. "That's my widdle biddy detective."

"I'm going to beat you up."

"Cute widdle Boy Wonder."

"Boy short-pants."

"Awww. All defensive."

Tim jabbed Nightwing in the ribs. Not that it meant much. Nightwing was wearing light armor, and Tim only had his bare fingers. It was more the thought than anything.

"Careful. You'll hurt yourself." Nightwing grabbed the jabbing hand and held onto it, grinning.

Tim squirmed around and tried to kick him. "Will not, dork-face."

Nightwing blocked all of it, laughing. "Stupid-he--"

Tim flinched. Wrists held. Yanked back. (Flies crawling into an open mouth.) "Don't--Don't put me--"

"Whoa, it's okay, relax. Tim."

Tim blinked. Breathed. Sat up. "Sorry." (Victims may have triggers.) "I guess--I'm not--" he tried to smile. Almost started crying. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

"Sorta like Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder," Dick said softly.

(Signs of Stockholm after the captivity often include those found in PTSD.)

Tim rubbed his face. "Yeah."

"Did you just agree with me?"

Tim smiled reluctantly. "Gotta agree to get better, right?"

Dick looked at him intently. "Yeah. That's right. Bruce said to tell you that as soon as you're ready, the suit's still yours."

Tim nodded. "Good to know." He attempted a smile. "I think I need a few more push-ups first."

**

"What's wrong, Tim?"

He looked up at Dr. Roberts. "I'm mad."

"Why are you mad?"

He dug his fingernails into his palms. "She hurt me. And she mad me feel bad for it."

"She's going to jail for murder."

Tim nodded. Part of him wanted to cry. Wanted to see her again. Tell her it wasn't his fault. The other part was glad. Wanted her to rot in jail for the rest of her life. Was furious. (Signs of recovery include disbelief, anger, depression, bargaining for captor's love, reassessment and acceptance. Often the victim will return to some of the former feelings, or even feel several at once.)

"What would you think about testifying?"

Tim froze. Looked up. (Flies swarming around his bleeding wrist.) "I can't do that." Hated her. Felt guilty for it. Shame at everything that had happened. Should have been able to escape. She was just hurt. Tim shook his head and rubbed his face with a sleeve.

**

"You should testify."

Tim looped his arms around his legs and stared at his bare feet. "She's already going to jail forever."

Nightwing nodded. A gloved finger tapped Tim's ankle, almost healed now. "That's gonna leave a fugly scar."

Tim snorted. "As fugly as your face?"

"Fuglier."

Tim laughed softly. "I'll call it an ankle band."

Nightwing grinned. It faded. "Why won't you testify?"

Tim rested his chin on his knees. "Batman hasn't come by."

"He's not so personable these days. I'll tell him you miss him."

"I wouldn't go that far," Tim said with a weak smile. "But--he's not mad at me, is he?"

Dick look horrified. "What? Why would he be angry at you?"

Tim shrugged. "I should've been able to escape."

"Tim, you tried. It didn't work. She was good. She held me, Oracle and Batman off for five weeks. He's not mad at you for being unable to escape."

Tim shrugged.

Dick sat silently for a while. Then, finally, "Why won't you testify?"

Tim buried his face. "I don't know. I can't."

"She kidnapped and tortured you."

Tim closed his eyes. "We played Scrabble."

Nightwing rubbed his back.

"I really thought we were friends."

"I know."

"And if I say it out loud, it makes it all real."

"I know." Nightwing pulled him close.

Tim let his head fall on the big chest, and found that for the first time in a while, he didn't need to cry.

**

He woke. Laid in bed, trying to convince himself it was nothing. The nightmare would go away. It didn't.

Tim groaned and rolled to his feet. He shuffled downstairs, turning on lights as he went. When he reached the kitchen, he realized he wasn't sure what he was doing. He stared blankly.

"Tim?"

He turned and smiled faintly at his dad. "Hey. Didn’t mean to wake you."

His dad just walked closer. "You okay?"

He nodded. Then cringed. "I had a nightmare." (An important step in healing is being able to admit when something is wrong.)

"Want to talk about it?"

He felt at the scab, then dropped his hand away. "Not really."

His dad just nodded. They both stood, awkward. Tim felt naked. It seemed like he was building his Robin masks back up from scratch. Until he repaired them, everything was there, on his face for anyone to read. All the guilt. The stupidity (he cringed) of being held for five weeks. Should have been able to get free. To resist, at least, getting Stockholm. His dad watched him. Probably saw it all in his expression.

"Tim--"

He didn't quite flinch.

"Tim." The word was softer. "I just--I know this is hard. But we'll get through it."

He nodded.

"I'm proud of you."

His head snapped up. "What?"

"You've endured a lot. I can't even imagine--" his dad stopped. Choked up, Tim realized. "You're an amazing kid," he said after a minute. His eyes were wet. He chuckled softly, dropping his gaze before looking back up with a rueful smile. "Sorry. Young man."

Tim ducked his head. "I don't feel like it."

"I know. But you are."

**

"You look better."

Tim glanced up, smiled at Kon hovering above him, and looked back over the city. "I feel better."

"You don't look like you're gonna hurl."

Tim stifled the urge to roll his eyes.

"Anything new?"

He considered the question, and all the answers he could give. (I have Stockholm Syndrome, and it's playing havoc with my emotions. I went to class for the first time today, but had to come home because I nearly freaked in History. Dr. Roberts wants me to take sleeping pills for the next week because they'll help decrease the nightmares that keep waking me up. My dad and I talked. I terrified Dana by having a panic attack when a fly landed on my wrist. I came to some realizations.) "Not really," he said.

Kon nodded. "Yeah. Me, too."

**

"You okay?"

He glanced at his dad, then nodded. Absently, he rubbed at the slowly healing scab on his wrist. Dana's hand landed on his, squeezing.

"Tim Drake?"

He stood, as if yanked up by strings. "Yeah?"

"This way."

He took a deep breath, offered his dad a smile, and followed the suited woman toward the end of the hall. He paused, glancing toward the front doors. Bruce loitered, looking vacantly at forms hanging on a wall. Then the man caught his eye, smiling slightly and nodding once. Batman mouthed, "Good job."

Something broke and released inside Tim. He smiled back. Then he was ushered through doors that whispered closed.

There was a woman, in her forties, sitting behind a big mahogany desk. She smiled warmly. "Good morning. May I call you Tim?"

He nodded.

"Sit, please."

Tim sat in the big leather chair, crossing his legs. He tried to remember to breathe. (A fly crawling over--. Let it go.) A slender man appeared, set a tape recorder down, and retreated to the door.

"You're all right?"

Tim nodded.

"Are you ready?"

He nodded again.

"Testimony of Mr. Tim Drake regarding Ms Cassie McAdams. Tim, tell us what you remember."

*******************

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