In another few days, he was feeling much better. She'd put a chain on the handcuffs, so he could move a little bit, and she put clean boxers in the dresser, which he could now reach. He did some exploring, again. Checked the nightstand. The top drawer had a stack of books. A quick glance at the covers convinced him he wasn’t really interested--the top one read, "The Ravishing Knight" and the one beneath that, "The Indian Maiden." The bottom drawer had a box of Kleenex, a pad of paper, and a cookbook.

There were no cryptic notes. No strange photos of him, or of the guys he normally fought, or of anything remotely unusual (except a poster he found under the bed of a kitten dangling off a branch with the caption, "Hang in there," which he didn’t really think could be termed ‘unusual'). He had no idea how she'd found out he was Robin.

He put on new underwear and his old pants. Didn't bother with a shirt, since the handcuffs and the chain got in the way.

Then he bounced on the bed, in a I-can't-stand-up-all-the-way fashion, stooped over and awkward. He was hoping for a spring, but the mattress seemed new. He wasn't going to get a lock pick that way. He checked the notepad again, but it used glue, not wire, as binding. He eyed the lamp. It didn’t look like much help. Not unless he broke it, and, well, she had that damn baby monitor. Maybe if she left…

"Trying to escape, I see."

He glared at Cassie.

"Don't worry. I know you'll do it. You kinda have to, being Robin and all."

"I'm not Robin," Tim ground out.

"I know." She rolled her eyes.

"My parents are worried about me," Tim said.

She shrugged. "They don't need you as much as I do."

That didn't sound good. "What do you need me for?" he asked slowly.

She smiled. "When I was little, my brother and his friends used to pick on me. A lot. I always wanted a superhero of my own to make them back off."

Tim stared at her. "That's why you want Robin?"

"Well, Superboy or any of the metas might have just punched through my house or something. It's easier to keep someone who's only human."

Tim kept staring at her disbelievingly. "You can't keep me here because you think I'll be your personal bodyguard!" he shouted.

Her face closed. She stiffened. "You're obviously in a bad mood," Cassie said. "I'll just go."

Tim thought about throwing his Tic Tacs at her. He managed to restrain himself. The door closed.

That was when he realized his dinner was across the room. "Crap," he muttered. He yanked at the cuff one last time, then collapsed and rubbed his face. When he looked up again, there were flies on his food.

**

The next morning, she let him loose so he could go to the bathroom, but didn't bring breakfast. She’d taken the bathroom door off the hinges, too, though she always stood out of sight when he went in.

"I probably need a shower," Tim said. He could smell himself, and he stank.

She just looked at him. He re-locked the cuff around his wrist, unable to repress the cringe as the metal hit raw skin. He left it loose. She didn’t move the tranquilizer gun. She did, however, look pointedly at the handcuff.

Tim sighed and tightened it. Not as snug as it had been, but too tight to slip out of.

"Do I get breakfast?" he asked.

"Not this morning." Then she left and closed the door.

Tim frowned. (The human body can go weeks without food. A lean human can still go two weeks without food, though weakness will begin within a matter of days, his mind announced.)

He plotted until noon. If he could loosen the cuffs every day as much as he'd managed that morning, he'd be able to slip his hand out fairly soon. She didn’t lock the basement door. All he would have to do was pick a time. He had no idea where he was, but once he wasn’t tied down he figured he had a good chance of escaping.

Then he thought about the math test he’d probably missed. He wanted to go home. He even missed school. And he was hungry.

Batman would be finding him soon. Surely. His stomach growled. He rubbed it absently. He couldn’t decide if Batman finding him was a good thing or a bad thing. After all, it was pretty embarrassing to be kidnapped by a normal person. On the other hand, he did want to go home. And he was hungry. He wondered if his father and Dana were looking for him.

Of course they were. Probably had his face all over the news again.

He counted cracks in the ceiling. Then flies. He jumped on the bed some more. Tried to ignore his growling stomach. Read half a romance novel. Scratched doodles into the pad of paper.

She’d even taken his watch. She was smart. He had things in his watch. Of course he had things in his watch. Bruce had given it to him. He fantasized about the little lock pick under the face of his watch.

He spat on his wrist, which was gross, but made it hurt a little less. He recited times tables. Tried not to think about food. Calculated how long it would take for a person with an abundant supply of food to row single-handedly from China to Australia. He curled up, attempting to ease the gnawing hunger in his stomach. He thought about the last time he’d eaten. Yesterday. Lunch. Then he napped.

When the door finally opened and Cassie walked in, his relief was unimaginable. Except, she didn’t have dinner. She did have the tranq gun, and tossed him the keys.

"You are going to feed me, right?" Tim said slowly. He unlocked the cuff and let it fall onto the bed.

"Bathroom. Get yourself some water from the tap."

He used the bathroom. Drank water pooled in his hands. (The human body can go 3-4 days without water, regardless of size.) Drank more than he wanted, really, because he was hoping it would make his stomach happier. Then he edged back into the basement. "I’m really hungry."

"I bet you are. Bed."

Tim padded toward the bed. He eyed her the whole way. Television. If he ducked behind the television, she’d have to come around to get him out, and--

He dropped a shoulder and rolled, coming to his feet beside the large TV.

"Shit. Robin. Come out."

He ignored her, listening intently.

She sighed. "Robin."

He stayed put. There--footsteps. He slid the VCR into his hands, carefully, and waited. If she came close enough, he could use it as a block, maybe get the gun, get out…

The television fell on him. Tim yelped, throwing both arms up to protect his head, and started to struggle out from under it. Big--it was huge, and heavy, and it couldn’t pin him but it could slow him down enough--he felt a sting and--

Damn it.

Tim pushed against the TV. Felt his arms give out. Then his legs. Dimly, saw her kneel in front of him.

"…wish you wouldn’t…"

**

He woke handcuffed. Again.

"None of the others were this difficult."

His breath caught in his throat. "Others?" Tim opened his eyes, pushing himself upright.

"I just want to be friends, Robin."

"What others?"

She sighed and settled on the floor by the door, the tranq gun cradled across her lap. "The other boys. But it was all right. I realized they weren’t Robin."

Tim supposed that was good.

"I brought you a sandwich."

Thank God. He saw the plate, stooped to get his food, and curled back on the bed. He leaned against the wall and watched her, eating his sandwich.

"You have to stop trying to escape. It’s not going to work, and I don’t want to have to keep punishing you."

"You’re not going to put me back in the shower--" he started.

"No. I couldn’t wrestle you in there conscious."

He nodded slowly, and swallowed. Then his eyes widened. "Oh, shit," Tim breathed, and dropped the sandwich.

Cassie just looked regretful. "There are consequences for our actions." She stood up and left.

Tim’s stomach twisted. He lunged for the edge of the bed, made it before heaving up the food he’d just eaten. Lord, he thought his entire stomach might come up.

He coughed and choked, spitting bile out onto the floor. The smell of acid burned his nose. He trembled. Still queasy. Tim closed his eyes and tried not to think about it. Think about--about--the Salton Sea. Think about math. Think about--

His stomach twisted again. Whatever she’d put in his food, it was potent. He had the presence of mind to be grateful he hadn’t had more than five or six bites.

Two hours later, he didn’t even have that much mind. He laid on the bed, the blankets pulled up over his face, trying not to smell the vomit on the concrete because it would only make him sick again. Before, he’d been hungry. Now he felt like he hadn’t eaten in days. He was shaking. His throat was raw. His stomach had settled enough that he knew he wouldn’t throw up anything more, but the queasy feeling was still present.

It was morning before Cassie came back down. She moved around the basement, ignoring Tim’s watchful gaze. She shifted the television into the corner, grunting and sweating. She cleaned up his mess--the flies were awful--and, as much as he wanted to hit her, he didn’t. It wouldn’t do him any good. It wasn’t like she was holding the keys to the cuffs. She let him go to the bathroom, where he rinsed his mouth and drank more water, hoping it would stay down. Then Tim headed back to the bed, and cuffed himself in--loosely. He was shaking. (One of the first symptoms of starvation is anemia, causing weakness and fatigue.)

He needed food. He needed out.

Cassie left.

Tim spent the rest of the day alternately clutching his stomach and shaking. He felt weak and disoriented, and knew it was, in part, because he hadn’t eaten anything in--

It took him too long to remember. 48 hours? He thought that was right. (The human body can survive without food for weeks, but obvious symptoms appear in a matter of days. Within 3-5 days, symptoms can be dangerous.) He tried to sleep. He ate his Tic Tacs. They didn’t help, but they did get rid of the vomit-taste.

That evening, Cassie came down again. Without food.

"I’m really not feeling well," Tim said, pushing up. The arm that supported him was shaking.

"You’ll live. You have water."

He tried to smile. "Cassie, I promise I won’t escape again." Promises didn’t count when they were made under duress.

"I know you won’t. You'll be too weak. Now, use the bathroom."

Tim used the bathroom. He made it back to the bed. Still functional. But shaky. Trembling. His stomach constantly hurt. "Cass--"

"No."

She waited while he locked the handcuffs, and then she left.

Tim laid in the bed and listened. He could hear her walking around upstairs. He heard when she went to bed. Then he waited another hour.

Now or never. If he waited for the next day, he’d be too weak to escape. Tim eyed the handcuffs, then started carefully pulling his hand through. Bit by tiny bit. Tugging the skin so it didn’t bunch up and stop him. Dislocating his pinky and thumb. Trying to ignore that. The thumb didn’t hurt so much, but his pinky would swell.

Had to get out. He was shaking. Hungry. Nervous. (Starvation can cause anemia. Anemia causes confusion.) She’d caught him twice already. Managed to make him ill once (which begged the question--how long had be been sick? And why hadn't Batman found him yet? The longer time between kidnapping and recovery, the less likely the case would ever be solved). She'd managed to make him vomit--well, more than once. But those escapes had been badly planned. He would be fine.

Tim pulled his hand free. Ignored raw skin and traces of blood. Slipped out of bed, making his way toward the basement door. He listened for a long time before opening it.

It didn’t creak. But he'd known that from watching her.

Tim took the tranquilizer gun off the wall--just in case--and padded up the short flight of stairs. His breath seemed abnormally loud. (Starvation can cause shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat.) He shook his head. Not now. Focus.

It was dark. Wearing only jeans, he felt oddly exposed. Naked. He wished he had the mask. His Robin suit would be better. Robin could handle these things. There was a certain power that went with putting on the suit.

Tim Drake could do these things, too. It was just easier as Robin.

The stairway opened up into a living room. Overly cluttered. Shelves lined all the available walls. A floral, overstuffed couch sat under a window. Tim glanced outside.

Trees. A lot of trees. (There are three parks in Gotham, and only one of them is heavily wooded. That one belongs to Poison Ivy.) Not in the city. His heart fell.

He slunk through the room. Ahead was the entrance, with the front door. Across from it, stairs up. Two doors opened off the landing. Tim hesitated. He could leave the house, but he had no idea how far civilization was. Instead, he crept across the entrance. Into the kitchen.

There had to be a phone in the kitchen. There were always phones in kitchens. (88% of households have a phone in or near their kitchen.)

He found it. The base, anyway. The phone was missing. Trying not to curse, Tim started to poke around.

Magazines. Papers. Photos. Mail. Coupons--it was a mess. He couldn’t find the phone.

As quietly as possible, he edged back into the living room. He looked on the end tables, the coffee table, the desk. No sign of a phone. No sign of his things.

He looked at the shelves, crowded with fantasy novels and medical texts. (He'd seen that one in Bruce's library.) No phone there, either.

The ceiling creaked. Tim froze, holding his breath. A glance at the window told him what he already knew; there would be no help if he shouted. It was a forest outside.

Tim checked the tranquilizer gun and waited.

The ceiling creaked again. A door opened.

His palms were sweaty. He was shaking. He should have gotten food while he was in the kitchen.

The thought made his guts turn. Nausea rose. His stomach growled, insistent on eating despite the drugs. He covered it with a hand.

A door closed. Tim waited another beat, then carefully set the gun down. Her purse was on the desk chair. Maybe a cell phone…

He rumbled through it, looking for anything likely. Pulled out her wallet, gum, receipts, a handful of little papers--

No cell phone. Keys, though. There were keys. And where there were keys, there had to be a car. He palmed them and headed silently toward the front door.

The ceiling creaked again. He hesitated at the entry to the hall. Everything remained quiet. He padded to the front door. Put his hand on the deadbolt. Twisted it slowly. Cringed when it thunked back.

Footsteps, upstairs. Tim froze. Looked around. The gun was in the living room, leaning uselessly against the desk. He debated going for it.

One of the upstairs doors opened.

"What--? Hey!"

Shit. Tim yanked at the handle. His hands slid over the metal. (Starvation causes weakness.) He grabbed and twisted again, using more strength than he should have needed. Then the door was open and he was out, tripping down the stairs, his feet not working quite like they should. (Hunger, his mind whispered. Weakens the muscles. Slows the reflexes. Body tries to conserve energy, tries to keep the person from being too active.)

He really didn’t need the biology reminder. Especially since he could hear feet pounding down the stairs, faster than he was going.

Tim hit dirt, and bolted. Trees. Head for the trees, the dark, somewhere to hide--

A gunshot rang out. The ground exploded. Tim twisted, almost tripped, saw the tree line fifteen feet away, ten--

Another bullet hit the ground in front of him. He wheeled to a stop, legs nearly collapsing. His heart hammered painfully in his chest. The world spun drunkenly.

"Don’t move," Cassie said. She stood on the porch, a rifle aimed at him.

Safety was ten feet away. Tim rose on trembling legs, hands up placatingly. "I’m not moving." He was shaking. Felt vaguely ill. He shifted toward the trees.

She glared at him. "One more step, Robin, and I will shoot you. I want you here. I want to be friends. But I will shoot you."

She wouldn’t shoot him. She wanted him. She’d gone to great lengths to find him. To kidnap him and bring him here. (Most people hit their targets 40% of the time.) "Just relax, okay?" He smiled, like he would have to get out of trouble at home. "Like you said, it’s my job to try and escape." His hands were trembling. He was… tired. Hungry. Wanted to rest and sleep and let someone feed him.

He inched toward the tree.

"God damn it!"

Pain ripped through his leg. Tim yelled, dropping, the world darkening suddenly. The silver of the moon was nothing, and there was blood on his hands, on his leg, soaking through his pants. Bleeding. He had to stop the bleeding first.

Shaking, and he could feel himself going into shock. Cold. The world getting darker. He put both hands on his thigh, over black liquid oozing from his skin, and pressed.

Pain flared, and he almost vomited. He took several deep breaths, trying calm himself, trying to stay conscious and aware. He’d had worse injuries. He’d pulled through them. (He hadn’t been half-starved at the time. He tried not to think about it.)

His face was wet. He was on the ground, bleeding everywhere, and he could hear someone cursing--no, he was cursing.

"I told you--why do you do this?" he heard Cassie cry.

"F-fuck," Tim heard himself hiss, hands shaking and muscles too weak to really press. It hurt. He felt dizzy. And cold.

And it wasn’t so bad. Everything seemed far away. Like he was watching it happen to someone else (shock can cause disassociation). A dream, maybe. Watched himself curl on the ground, trying to press his hands against his thigh, eyes dilated. Saw Cassie running toward him, rifle gone, a syringe in one hand. Saw her, crying when she saw that he was crying (he was crying?), inject him.

His mind floated even farther away. For a moment, the pain increased in spite of the distance. Then it was gone entirely.

**

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