His heartbeat. Again. Tim hurt. All over. Not the bone-ache he'd felt before, but a burning in his stomach (hunger, his mind whispered) and his leg (you got shot, it whispered again) and his back (television fell on you), and his head (that's the drugs).

All right. Maybe, if he was going to be kidnapped by someone this prepared, it wasn't so embarrassing. After all, she must have covered her tracks pretty well if Batman hadn't found him yet. (The hardest kidnapping cases to solve are those without motive or ransom.)

He opened an eye. The room was dark. Tim thought about turning on the lamp, but decided not to. Eventually, his sight adjusted.

His wrists were free. That was new. Carefully, he started to shift, biting the inside of his mouth and blinking back sudden tears when fire burned up his thigh.

It took him several moments to recover. He pulled the blankets aside and looked down.

She'd taken off his pants. Dressed the wound that sat just above his knee. He peeled back the tape with hands that shook, not out of fear--he'd had worse injuries--but because he just couldn't steady them. (Muscles lack protein. Synapses running low on fat. Causes mis-firing and problems with coordination.)

It was just a graze. There were four stitches in a neat line. Tim remembered the medical texts he'd seen upstairs, and wondered if she was a doctor, or just thought she was.

That was a creepy idea, but would explain how she got her hands on the drugs she kept giving him. (Approximately 15% of doctors are addicted to drugs or alcohol.)

Tim shifted, and realized suddenly why his hands were free. He kicked with one leg, throwing the blankets up. Sure enough--she'd cuffed his damn ankle to the footboard (Smith and Wesson Model 1 Universal Chain Handcuffs open 12% wider than normal handcuffs). On the loosest setting, it was still too tight. It dug into his skin. At least it was the same leg he'd been shot in. If he only had one to move, better it be the healthy one.

Tim dropped back into the bed. All right. He was going to have to… um. He put an arm over his face. Sleep. He was going to have to sleep. Between mild starvation and blood loss, he was toast. He couldn't add exhaustion onto that and expect to function.

His whole body was trembling. He tried to ignore it. (The human body can go for three weeks without food. Assuming body fat was higher than his was.)

Tim dropped into a fitful sleep. He dreamt of dancing cheeseburgers.

**

When he woke the next morning, it was to light in his eyes. He muttered something and pulled away, trying to bury his face.

"You'll be fine."

Tim jumped at the unfamiliar voice. Then everything came flooding back. Cassie. Kidnapped. "Shit," he breathed, lying down again.

"Forgot you were here?" She smiled sympathetically. "It happens. Your thoughts won't be working so well today, anyway. Blood loss and hunger."

He listened with half an ear, trying to clear his head. He knew she was right. But, damn it, he was also a lot more resourceful than she thought.

"This might sting."

He flinched, but it was only hydrogen peroxide. She dabbed at his thigh, then his wrist, where he'd torn the skin getting out of the cuffs. "Poor hand," she said, examining his swollen pinky.

"You going to feed me soon?" he murmured, not trying in the least to sound any stronger than he was. If she thought he was farther gone…

She smiled. "Please. I'm not a fool. I won't let you starve to death, but I know you well enough to know you'll try to escape again the second you have your strength back." She sat on the bed, a hand on his knee, just below the stitches. "We could be friends, you know. We will be. Just as soon as you stop fighting it. I mean, Stockholm Syndrome will kick in, and then I can even give you the run of the place. Just go with it."

Tim glared at her half-heartedly. "I am not going to get Stockholm Syndrome." (Captive identifies with captor, finds justifications for abusive treatment, grows fond of those holding them.)

She sighed, fingers moving on his skin, tracing whorls of hair. Tim tensed and inched away. (Sexual exploitation happens most often in kidnapping cases where the kidnapper is an acquaintance. He wondered if it counted when the person knew him, but he didn't know them.) Cassie jerked her hand back, smiling sheepishly. "Sorry. Relax, kid. I'm not going to jump you."

He did more half-hearted glaring.

"In another week, you'll look forward to seeing me. I bring food, company, entertainment. You'll anticipate my visits."

She'd done her homework. Tim focused on that, rather than the fact that she could be right. He rubbed his face with one hand, trying to think. He had to escape. Get a message out to Batman, maybe, or--his things. He needed his things. He hadn't seen his backpack upstairs, and it wasn't in the basement. Maybe she'd left it at the park. At least that would be a sure sign he'd been taken forcefully. "There's a change of clothes in my backpack," he said, thinking as fast as his sluggish brain would allow. "Could I--"

"I don't think so. I already went through your backpack. Burned everything. I don't need any of your superhero pals tracking you down." She smiled. "Nice try, though." She patted his knee. "I need to go. But, Robin? If you try and escape again? I'll break your fingers."

He tucked his hands under the covers protectively. She stood and headed out of the basement.

**

He spent the next day fighting fatigue and weakness and confusion. He was cold (starvation lowers the body temperature).

After that, it got worse. He curled under the blankets and tried to sleep, hoping to God that she was as good at keeping people alive while starving them as she'd claimed. He didn't know if she'd considered all the blood he had lost (surely it couldn't have been that much).

He was vaguely aware of her voice, of warmth and hands and, for a while, he thought he was home. That everything had been a nightmare. That he was ten again and his mother hadn't died, but was rubbing his neck with strong hands and reading to him while he slept on the couch with his head in her lap.

He dozed a lot. Curled around his painful stomach. Knees to his chest and cold.

She fed him. He was aware of something warm and wet, and he swallowed convulsively. Realized then that he was sitting up, braced against someone soft. Croaked something that could have been a name. Tried to bring his hands up when the broth started to move away. Found the hand holding the spoon and moved with it until it returned to his mouth. Felt a chuckle against his spine.

The food seemed to last forever, and not long enough. He thought he might have fallen asleep while being fed. He knew he fell asleep after.

There were a few more feedings before he woke one morning and realized his mind had mostly returned. He suspected that when he was really together again, the whole thing would be scary.

The door opened. Cassie peered at him. He looked back, too tired to do more than gaze blearily. She walked across the room and knelt in front of him, looking at first one eye, then the other. Checked his pulse. Smiled. "Back with the land of the living?"

Tim licked his lips and swallowed. "Guess."

She unlocked the cuffs and hauled him up, helping him stagger toward the bathroom. He used it, and staggered back. Ate more. Slept for most of the day, waking only to eat.

By that evening, he was starting to feel vaguely human.

He was still shaking. Cassie tossed him the keys that night, but he couldn't unlock the cuff around his ankle. Couldn't make his hands fit the key in the hole. She set aside the gun and came over to help.

(Perfect time to make an escape. She's here, unarmed, you're free. Provided you actually could, his brain thought. He figured it was an accomplishment that his brain was thinking.)

She uncuffed him, looped an arm under his shoulders, and helped him stagger to the bathroom. It was vaguely embarrassing. He held onto the dislike (hate was too exhausting) and remembered that he wasn't going to get Stockholm. He was not. He didn't care if she was the source of food and life.

She helped him back to bed and re-cuffed him. He slept.

**

Two days later, he was definitely stronger. Tim lay on the bed and looked as pitiful as he could, hoping she'd keep feeding him.

"You're a doctor?" he asked, watching as she took laundry into the room he hadn't entered yet. It stank in there; every time she opened it, foul air wafted out. Rotten clothing. Moldy corners.

"Not really. I went to medical school, but dropped out. I work part-time as a paramedic."

Tim nodded sleepily. Inside the laundry room, a window opened. His head snapped around, and he stared hard at the door. Window? Freedom. She came out. He pretended like he hadn't been paying attention. "You can support this house with a part-time job?"

She smiled. "After my father died, this house was given to me. I don't actually have all that many bills."

He tried to file that information away for later. Wasn't actually sure how successful he was. "So you live here alone?" He already knew the answer to that one.

"Not anymore. Now you're here." She smiled and headed up the stairs.

Tim sighed and closed his eyes, reviewing what she'd told him. He was back to gathering information. Not much else he could do, at the moment.

Until the gun incident, he would have said she was fairly harmless. She smiled a lot. Obviously didn't want to hurt him. Wanted a friend. Maybe if he played along, got her to let him free--at least in the basement--even if she locked the doors there were wires and things in the television. He could rig a lock-pick…

Tim fell asleep, trying to ignore his rumbling stomach.

He woke an hour later, when she came down to swap laundry. "Hey," he said. More for something to say, than anything else. She smiled at him and walked into the laundry room.

Tim shuffled himself up into a sitting position--not easy to do, considering the shaking and his injured thigh--and waited for her to come back out.

"Hey yourself," she said, closing the door behind her.

Tim scratched at stubble--not much. At this rate, he'd never grow a beard--and considered what else to say.

She leaned against the wall and watched him. "Getting bored?"

That seemed safe enough. He nodded. "You busy?"

She shrugged and wandered over, sitting on his bed. He shuffled so he could see her, but carefully. His ankle was killing him.

"We could switch that, you know," she said, nodding toward the cuff. "I mean, after your little dislocation stunt, I'm not going to put it back around your wrist. But we could put it on the other foot for a while."

He considered. "Nah," he said at last. "Then both would hurt."

She smiled.

"So… you want a superhero to be your friend?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Why? I mean, why not get a normal friend? There must be people at work…"

She sighed and pulled one leg up, wrapping her arms around it. "Not really. I'm not very good at making friends. Besides, I always wanted one that could protect me. Like in the movies. You know, the girl has some big guy as a friend, and if anyone messes with her he beats them up?"

Tim just looked at her.

She smiled and shrugged. "It's a thing."

"You could learn to protect yourself," he said. "I'll teach you." When he was stronger, anyway.

She shook her head. "Girls don't fight."

Tim tried to snort. It wasn't terribly successful, but the implication was clear. "Heard of Batgirl?"

"It's improper."

Tim stared at his toes. Better NOT to argue with his kidnapper.

"My brother and his friends, they used to lock me in the closet and make me eat moldy bread. I'd sit and imagine someone would come and beat them up, rescue me, and we'd go do fun stuff together."

Tim stared at her. He shook his head. "Cassie, you realize you've just done the same thing? Locked me in a basement and haven't hardly fed me at all--"

She stood, scowling. "It's different."

"No, it's not," Tim said. "Well, actually, I guess it is. You shot me."

"You were trying to escape! And, please, at least I haven't hit you until you passed out, or--or--stabbed you!" She stood, stalking toward the door.

"Just because someone did that to you," Tim said loudly, "doesn't make it okay for you to do it to someone else!"

"I'm trying to be nice to you!" she shouted back. "Just remember that, Robin!"

The door slammed. He heard her stomp up the stairs. Across the floor above. Footsteps stopped in what he guessed to be the kitchen, then came back across the floor again. Down the stairs. The door opened.

Tim watched her warily.

She was furious. "Give me your fucking hand," she snapped, stopping by the bed and unscrewing the bottle of peroxide. She put cotton over the top and sloshed it around.

Tim held out his wrist, still scabby and raw. "If your brother really did that, it's awful," he said quietly. "But I want to go home."

She grabbed his fingers, started to dab, then dropped the cotton and just sloshed liquid over his arm.

It burned. Tim pulled back with a scream as it tore through his flesh, not the sting of peroxide, but something else entirely. Something that burned into every little cut or scratch or raw spot of skin.

"You see? You see? This is what I lived with! You stupid little shit, you don't have any idea what happened! You can't tell me what's right and wrong!" Cassie screamed.

Tim rocked back, trying to wipe whatever it was off on the blanket. It didn't work. The pain was getting worse. "Fuck--fuck--" he heard himself gasp, and then slammed his hand against the wall, as if he could knock the pain free. He did it again, using the blank, dull throb of the slam to at least distract him from the burning sting of whatever it was.

He grabbed his wrist, hanging onto it, squeezing as if it might make it okay. He cradled it against his chest and tried to breathe, tried to--

He smelled lemon. He stuck his wrist in his mouth. Tasted lemon and salt. Son of a bitch. She'd--

He sucked (salt increases the concentration of ions), hard (around pain receptors, which then sends), trying to draw it out of his skin (more pain-signals to the brain), knowing it wouldn’t work. He could hardly breathe except in short, sharp gasps. He was crying. He hated her. His hands shook. Tim curled as close to a fetal position as he could get, biting down on his lip, squeezing his eyes shut. Ride it out. He just had to ride it out.

"I'm sorry," he heard dimly. He opened his eyes, blinked tears away, looked up. "I'm sorry. Let me see."

He pulled away.

"No, it's all right. I shouldn’t have lost it like that. Let me see."

She was holding a pitcher. Tim glared at it, lungs shuddering.

"Water. Let me see."

Slowly, Tim held out his hand. She put a bucket on the floor underneath, then took his fingers, holding him steady, and started to pour.

He flinched when the liquid hit. Then he realized it was better. Cool and soothing. He started to relax, though he was still shaking, air still breaking in his lungs in short little gasps. She stopped, picking up dish soap and smoothing it carefully along his skin.

Tim relaxed a bit more, watching her bathe his forearm, his wrist, his hand, between his fingers. Thorough and careful, never pressing too hard, making little circles and washing away the lemon and salt.

"You had that prepared," Tim said. She hadn't been in the kitchen long.

"Yes," she said after a minute. "Sorry." She poured more water over his wrist, rinsing away the suds. "Better?"

He nodded. It still burned, but it was a dull throb now, rather than a blazing pain. He pulled his hand in and cradled it against his chest. "Please let me go home." The words were out before he was aware of them.

She was almost crying. "Poor baby. So young. You don't understand this, I know." She ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it away from his face. "But it's something I have to do. It'll get better for you. I promise."

"No. It won't. I want to go home. Please, Cassie, let me go home. I have--my dad, he'll be worried. Looking for me. And my step-mom, Dana, she's really great. We're only just starting to get along and--"

"It'll be better with me," Cassie said. "No curfews. You can eat whatever you want. You'll never get in trouble."

Tim felt tears burning the back of his eyes. "They're good people, Cassie. My family's not like yours. They love me, and they would never hurt me--"

She tightened her fingers in the back of his hair, and leaned her forehead against his. "You can't go home. It'll be all right." Then she let go.

"Cassie--wait--"

She'd already left.

"Fuck," Tim hissed, curling up and trying not to cry.

He'd been there for too long. He didn't feel like Robin anymore. He didn't feel smart or resourceful or able to deal with anything (starvation causes exhaustion, weakness, confusion, loss of focus). He wanted to go home and see his dad and Dana, his school friends. He wanted to sleep in his own bed, with his own sheets. He wanted to wear the stupid sheep pajamas that Dana had bought him, and he wanted to be woken up by his dad making bacon on Sunday mornings.

She came down an hour later. Switched clothes. Went back up. Tim ignored her.

That night, she let him loose to go to the bathroom. Gave him half a cup of brown rice to eat and some water. They didn't speak. She went back upstairs, and Tim turned out his light. He fell asleep, and dreamed of school.

**

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