She gave him orange juice and an apple for breakfast. He didn't complain. When she left, Tim curled around his stomach and tried to ignore how hungry he still was. He didn't look at his arms or legs, knowing that starvation signs would be most obvious there. He tried not to think about how much weight he was probably losing (the body eats fat first, his brain recited, but on a very lean person it must quickly switch to eating muscle). He tried not to think about how long it would take to re-gain the fitness he'd had before.

He counted the swirls in the ceiling. Then flies. He spent a while swatting flies. Or trying to. He picked at the scab on his wrist. Wondered if he'd have a scar there. Like a wrist band. Then he counted scars. Sorted them by who he'd been fighting. Figured out which ones he hadn't told Batman about (usually because he was embarrassed that he'd done something really stupid, like mis-judged the height of a wall he was swinging over) and which ones he hadn't needed to tell Batman about (usually because Batman noticed them as soon as Tim walked in). Counted the number of times Batman had said something nice to him. Counted the number of times Batman had said something nice that other people would consider nice as well (significantly less). Tried to count the number of times when Dick had said something nice to Batman, but couldn't think of any times at all, so quit. (He couldn't decide if it was because Dick didn't think about it, Dick was secretly bitter about the whole Robin thing, or just because Batman didn't need compliments.)

He thought about the window in the laundry room. Thought about how hungry he was. Ignored that he was still shaking. That a constant low-level tremor ran through his body. Tried hard not to wish Cassie would come down. He didn't want to see her. She'd probably dump more lemon juice on him or something. He tracked her footsteps around the upstairs. Napped. Tried to do sit-ups, but had to quit due to exhaustion (muscle could be half of what it was by now). Picked at his scab some more.

Cursed Batman. He should have found Tim by now. He was supposed to be the world's greatest detective. It had been long enough, Tim was sure of it. Maybe he wasn't looking. Maybe he figured if Tim had been stupid enough to get kidnapped--

Tim shook his head. The last thing he needed right now was paranoia. He stared at the ceiling and tried to come up with something else to think about. Failed miserably.

Napped again. Woke when Cassie came down. He wasn't happy to see her. Absolutely not. Not in any way. Well, except so he could go to the bathroom and stretch his legs (Stockholm develops, in part, because captives begin to see their captors as those who give them life--bringing food, water, allowing them to meet basic needs).

She gave him a plate with half a cup of rice, and a glass of water. Enough to keep him alive. Not enough to keep him more than half-starved. Tim ate it. Then he stared at the ceiling. Sorted out blankets and sheets. Tried to decide which smelled worse, him or the laundry room (he did). Rubbed a hand over his jaw and wondered if he'd grow a beard. There was stubble there. Disappointingly little. He lectured his chest on why, exactly, it should grow more than two hairs. Finally, he slept.

In the morning, Cassie brought him another glass of orange juice and some toast. She left without speaking.

He ate his toast carefully, turning it into little shapes. First, a smiley-face. Then, a bat-symbol. It didn't look much like a bat-symbol. He tried for Nightwing's mask. Then he gave up and just ate it. He shifted around, looking for a comfortable way to sit with his ankle cuffed. Failed. Stared at his trembling hands. Willed them to stop trembling. Failed.

He thought he might go insane. His stomach hurt. Various wounds hurt. He slapped at a fly. Maybe he'd start naming them.

He listened to Cassie's footsteps. Wondered what she was doing. Maybe she'd do more laundry. (Humans crave companionship. Stockholm is furthered when the captive is isolated, and the only companionship is that of the captor.)

Tim shook his head. He knew the warning signs. Besides, you needed to have contact with your captor to relate to them.

He imagined being rescued. A lot. Stared at the baby monitor by the door. Wondered if she could hear him, shifting and moving around. He almost called her name. Just to see.

Refrained.

He napped. Pulled out the romance novels. Read "The Ravishing Knight." Debated whether or not they actually had knights in colonial Jamaica. He was pretty sure they didn't.

Tim napped again. Dreamed about his mother. Woke feeling woozy and hungry and hurting.

Footsteps on the stairs. He sat up, rubbing his face. Watched the door open. Cassie smiled at him. He smiled back. Anything to break the monotony.

Tim went to the bathroom, then took his plate with shaking hands. She started to leave.

"Wait--" he bit down on the rest of it. He didn't need her. He didn't (humans crave companionship. Evolutionarily speaking, this may be because a human alone is easy prey. Instinct tells us to make allies).

"Yes?"

Tim stared at his food. He didn't need her. Even if he was going insane with boredom. "Nothing."

Cassie left.

He ate. Imagined being rescued until he fell asleep. Woke in the middle of the night. Stared into the darkness.

The lamp. He was such an idiot. The lamp. Adrenaline flooded through him, sharpening his mind, brushing aside some of the starvation cobwebs.

Tim reached around and glared at it. There must be little wires and things in there. Things he could use for a lockpick. Of course, to get at them he'd have to break the lamp. He hadn't thought the noise worth it, before. He hadn't been about to die of boredom, before. He twisted, reached up, yanked the cord out of the wall and sat. A normal, porcelain lamp. Nothing to screw off. He'd have to smash it, and--he looked at the baby monitor. She would hear him. Unless the wiring in the lampshade was thin enough to use as a lock pick--

He tore the lampshade off, ripped into it, pulled out the wire with shaking hands. Too fat. Much too fat.

He'd have to smash the whole thing. It meant moving fast. Wouldn't have a lot of time, once he'd broken it. All right. First, a weapon of some sort. He looked around. Grabbed the cord and yanked it from the base. It didn't come out. (Muscle tone would be eaten away.)

Frustrated, Tim put the lamp between his knees and wrapped the cord around his hand, yanking again, using his weight as well as what strength he had left.

The cord held. Then came free, sending him falling back. He ran it through his fingers. Strong. Relatively flexible. It might just do. He whipped the end through the air once, then nodded to himself.

Tim took a deep breath, and dropped the lamp on the concrete floor. It cracked, spewing out wires and bits of plastic. The bulb shattered. Tim reached down, digging through the electrical guts. There--he grabbed two wires, yanked them free of their housing, ignored his newly bleeding fingers. His hands were still shaking, but desperation leant him an edge. He got the wires into the cuffs and carefully started moving them.

Upstairs, he heard footsteps. Tim worked faster. The cuff sprang free. He nearly fell off the bed in his haste, scooping up broken glass and opening the basement door. He dropped the glass outside, hoping it would slow her, then closed the door and looked around. The television. He hurried toward it, throwing his shoulder against the thing and shoving. It moved. Slowly.

It edged toward the door, Tim straining and shaking. There were footsteps in the kitchen. Maybe she hadn't realized he was free. Maybe she hadn't heard the crash. He pushed.

Footsteps in the living room.

His feet slid along the concrete. He switched positions, back against the television, and pushed again. Straining. Heart pounding. Sweat rising on his skin.

Footsteps paused above the stairs.

Six more inches. It was all he needed, just six more inches. The television moved.

Tim fell away from it, gasping, scrambling back toward the bed. He flicked through the broken things. Grabbed the sharpest, longest piece of porcelain he could find. Then headed toward the laundry room, the cord still wrapped around his hand.

The door swung into the basement, rather than into the laundry room. Good. He stepped in, ignoring the smell--more powerful here--and found a light.

There was a refrigerator to one side of him. A bike behind the door. He pulled the door closed, wrapped the cord around the handle, drew it toward the fridge, and tied it around that handle. It would keep her busy for a little while, at least. He turned and surveyed the rest of the room.

He was fading quickly. Even adrenaline wasn't enough to fight off days of near starvation. He needed to get out, find someone, do it soon because he guessed he only had another ten minutes before his body quit functioning. His brain wasn't working so fast. He rubbed his face, and looked around.

The wall opposite the door had a sink. A washer and dryer. And a window. He started toward it. Climbed into the sink, and opened the glass with shaking hands.

There was chicken wire fixed to it. Tim shifted his piece of porcelain, reaching up and cutting.

In the basement, he heard the door slam against the television. "Robin?" came faintly. "Robin!"

He kept cutting. Something buzzed at his consciousness. Something he should notice. Tim paused for a moment, letting his trembling muscles rest, and listened.

It was actually a buzzing. A beehive? Maybe. He went back to cutting and hoped he didn't disturb them.

The first wire gave out. At this rate, she'd be through both doors before he was a quarter of the way done. Tim twisted in the sink, looking around the room for anything sharper. He slapped at a fly, shook his leg when two more landed, regretted it when his thigh-- healing slowly--protested.

There was an old rug, rolled up. A wooden rocker. The bike. A door.

A door.

He nearly fell out of the sink in his haste. The world twisted around him, and he leaned against the washer, trying not to fall over (anemia, caused by starvation, can lead to dizziness and fainting). Slowly, it cleared. He could hear Cassie. She wasn't into the basement yet. He staggered toward the open door, peering into the darkness.

The buzzing was louder. He didn't want to just go bumbling inside. He'd end up hitting the damn hive. He waited precious seconds while his sight adjusted. It was gloomy; the bare bulb hanging above the sink didn't penetrate.

He heard the television screech across the floor. Just a little. Not far.

Tim waited. His vision darkened, then got lighter again (starvation causes weakness, anemia, which causes a fast pulse, fainting, dizziness, shortness of breath, confusion, lack of focus--Tim shook his head. But not now. Please, not now. Just a little more strength). He breathed deeply and willed his body to keep going. Just a little bit more (burn a few more calories, eat a little more muscle).

A fly landed on his face. He brushed it off. Felt the fat little body hit his palm. Wiped it on his jeans.

He could make out shapes. Insects, some of them zipping around. Others sluggish and slow. Fat. Iridescent. Shining green and black.

Flies. Not bees. Flies. Crawling all over everything. Tim shuddered, and slapped two more off his arm. Another on his leg.

He twisted his head, looking for a light switch. No such luck. Tentatively, he took a step into the room. Another.

A cloud of flies rose up, buzzing and angry, crawling on his skin. Landed on the bare stitches. He brushed at them and resisted the urge to walk back into the light. They landed on his wrist. On the raw flesh. He shook his hand. Two of them hung on. He slapped at them. One fell, dead. The other flew lethargically away.

There was another window, at the other end of the room. He started toward it. Stopped, when flies buzzed up, the noise rising from a thrum to a swarm. He batted at them, closing his eyes. They flew into his nose, his ears. He shut his mouth and shook his head. They crawled over his body.

"ROBIN!"

She was at the laundry room door.

He took another three steps. Tripped. Fell into a rug of flies. Yelped, coughed, spat, closed his mouth and eyes and tried to stumble away. Landed on cloth. Moving. Snapped his hands back. The bugs hummed around him, angry. Trying to land anywhere they could. The air was thick with them.

He had to find the window. He looked down, pushing up to his feet. Saw flies land again, returning to their favorite spot.

He wasn't even halfway across the room. He waited for the flies to settle. Watched them. Biding his time. Trying to think. Ignoring the whimpering in his body that just wanted him to lie down and save his strength. Grabbed the wall when the world spun and twisted drunkenly. He wouldn't faint. He wouldn't.

Saw a fly crawl over something silvered by moonlight. Spotted. Blotched, really. Something dark and open like--

Tim pulled back. Blinked. Refocused. A face. He was looking at a face. The fly crawled into an open mouth. Out again. Across mottled skin. Over a sunken eye. Stopped at rotted flesh. Rubbed its little legs together.

"Oh, shit," Tim whispered. (Black hair, his mind catalogued. Young. Teenager.) Tim looked away.

The world twisted, faded, righted itself.

Another body. Crawling with flies. Fresher. More recently dead. Something small and black inched across a dried eyeball. (Light eyes. Blue eyes.) Hair moved with hundreds of little bodies. (Black hair. Teenager. Killed by no means visible.)

A third.

"Oh, fuck," Tim breathed. The room pulsed. He took a step back. Another. Hit a body. Fell. Flies swarmed up around him, landing on him, crawling. Feeding on anything moist. Eyes. Mouth. He screamed and shook his head, scrambling up.

Tore into something wet. Moving. Yanked his hand out. Saw bits of *things* caught in his fingers. Looked down. (Don't look down.) Looked down. Saw a hole in someone's stomach. Gave way when he'd pushed. Entrails on his hand. Moist. Wet. Moving. Larva. (Maggots.)

Tim screamed. The flies rose, angry. Buzzing.

"Robin!"

He backed toward the voice, tripping, trying not to look, trying not to hear the buzzing. Trying not to see sunken eyes. Hands. A broken leg, there.

Shaking. The feel of hands on his shoulder, and he jumped and screamed, the room darkening. Couldn't breathe.

"It's all right. You're safe. It's all right." Familiar voice. "It's okay. They weren't Robin. They weren't you."

Shaking. Twisting. Bile rising in his throat. Bent over, vomiting. Flies on his back. Crawling over (blue eyes) his skin. Something cold and hard around one wrist. Yanked back, toward the window above the sink. Buzzing. Crashing to the ground. The zipping click of a handcuff, tightening.

"You're Robin. I know you're Robin. Right?"

Robin. Black hair. Blue eyes. Tim. He shook his head. Blue eyes. Flies crawling over them. Punched through someone's stomach. Entrails--

He twisted, vomiting again, unable to get away, caught, trapped, liquid on his skin. World swimming and blackening and spiraling up again.

"They had--" blue eyes "--to die. They--" black hair, moving "--weren't Robin." Wet on his fingers. Little things. Moving. Tim screamed and shook his hand. Hooked to the pipes under the sink. Screamed again and yanked, hard, trying to get away from the blood and the pieces of intestine, kidneys, stomach--he didn't know what. "--But you are. You're Robin. Right?"

"Robin." Feet scrabbling against concrete, pulling at the handcuff. Get it off. Get him out. Out. Out out out outoutoutoutout.

Flies crawling on his legs. He screamed.

A hand on his throat, yanking him up, forcing his eyes (blue eyes) to meet hers. (A fly on her face. Crawling.) Tim pulled back. Smashed his head into the sink. Froze.

"I told you not to escape. You want to get out this way, fine. You stay here."

She retreated. Flies on his arm. He screamed and struck at them. She was walking away. He tried to follow. Get out. Get to the door. Get away from the (bodies) flies (people) creatures (blue eyes) smell (black hair).

The handcuff caught him. Stopped him. He screamed and yanked, felt skin tear and bleed.

She turned out the light.

"Cassie!"

Closed the door.

"Cassie! Don't!" He ripped again. Felt the sink shudder. Again. His feet slipped. He crashed to the concrete. He scrabbled. Pushed against the back wall. "Cassie!" Voice was hoarse. Panicked. Shrieking. Had to calm down. Had to--

Flies on his skin. Crawling toward his wrist. Blood.

"No!" He twisted, trying to shake them off. They stuck. Hung on. Feeding. Tim screamed, scraping his skin against the underside of the sink. Smearing blood. Writhed.

He stopped. Shuddering. Had to stay calm. A fly on his leg and he twisted again, yelling. Stopped. Froze.

Everything buzzed. He closed his eyes (crawled into a mouth) opened them again. Stared wildly around the room.

Made out the pale shape of the fridge. The bike--

Fly landed on his face. He screamed and flung his head. Sat there. Shaking.

Rug. There was the rug. (Moving.) Something dripped on him. Something above.

Water. It was just (blood) water. From (his hand) the sink. He brushed at it. Something dropped off. Tim scrabbled away. Realized his hand was still covered in (guts) blood. Screamed again, hysterical and trying to wipe it off.

Calm. Had to be calm. He took a deep breath. It wouldn't hurt him. It couldn't hurt him. Calm.

A fly crawled up his leg. He jerked. Another landed on his arm. A second. He twisted. They ignored him. He slapped at them. They flew off. Around. Landed again.

Tim screamed for help. She wouldn't leave him down here. She couldn't.

Another fly landed on his back. His ribs. His face (crawling across a blue eye). Tim curled tighter. They were only flies (crawling on rotted flesh). They couldn't hurt him. Calm. His breathing was ragged. Gasping. He was hyperventilating. He took deep, long breaths. Inhaled something small. Choked and coughed (crawling into a mouth) and spat. Vomited again. Not much came up. Bile. Liquid. (Fly.) Tim curled around his arm, tucking himself under the sink. Away from the vomit. He shuddered. Hid his face. Something crawled across his leg. He kicked. His shoulder. He twisted. It ignored him. He bit off a scream and slapped at it. Another on his arm. Several, suddenly, swarming to the blood around his handcuff. The entrails. Something squirmed over his skin, and Tim screamed and tried to bolt out of his hiding place. It was still squirming. (Maggots.) He struck at it.

Calm. Find the calm. (Dead.) Fell to his knees. Arm outstretched. Head bent. Shuddered when a fly landed on him. Calm. Peace. Turn inside. Breathe deeply (crawling into a mouth) through his nose. Shaking. Heart hammering. (Flies crawling along his skin.) Take a breath. Count his heartbeats. (More on his arm.) Think of nothing else. (Punching through the stomach, into the intestines.) Don't hear the buzzing. (Swarming around his blood.)

Tim whimpered and shook his arm. A cloud of flies rose, banging into each other, into the underside of the sink, into Tim. He hid his face. Shaking. Tense. Too tense. He hurt.

On his chest. Over his skin. Flies resting where he'd thrown up on himself. He cursed and jumped, hit them with his free hand.

Just flies. Flies couldn't hurt him.

Light. Pale. Through window. Over the sink. He almost cried in relief.

Something (corpses) buzzed in the other room. He didn't look (punching through a stomach). He focused on his wrist, torn and crusty with blood. Focused on keeping the flies away. Focused on not throwing up. Focused on not noticing the (guts) liquid that covered his hand. Shivered. Cold. (Rotting.)

The door opened. Tim nearly dove under the sink again.

Cassie knelt in front of him. Calm. Serene. A fly landed in her hair and crawled (black hair, moving with hundreds of little bodies).

"If you do something stupid again, I will lock you in that room with those other Robins. Do you understand me?"

(Punching through a stomach.) Tim shuddered. Nodded.

"Are you going to behave?"

He nodded again. Flinched when a fly came close to his face. Yanked back when it landed. "Let me out," he heard himself say. "Please let me out. I'll behave."

She stepped away.

"No--" Tim's voice broke. She stopped. "Please. Please let me out." A fly landed on his leg. He kicked. Shuddered. Didn't throw up. They were still buzzing.

Cassie reached into a pocket, and tossed him the handcuff keys.

Tim scrabbled for them, shaking, jerking back and slamming his own elbow into the sink when a fly landed on his hand. Then forward again, shoving the key into the lock, almost dropping it, trying to ignore the flies crawling up his back, under his hair (black hair, crawling). He whimpered. Twisted. The cuffs came free and he scrambled out from under the sink. Flies buzzed around him, lifting off puddles of vomit, following him out.

She had her gun. He didn't care. He scrambled out of the room, slammed the door closed with shaking hands, staggered to the bathroom.

Off. He had to get it (the guts) off. He snapped the water on. Scrubbed at his bloody wrist. Re-opened the wounds. Scrubbed at his skin until it was raw and violently red. Washed his face (crawling into an open mouth) and his neck (hair sliding with little bodies) and nearly screamed when a fly tangled in his fingers before moving sluggishly away.

"Robin."

He saw her in the mirror. He ignored her. Scrubbed at the skin between his fingers.

"Robin. You've been doing that for fifteen minutes."

Scratched at his wrist, peeling away scabs and letting it bleed.

"Robin, stop!"

Scrubbed both hands through his hair, nails raking his scalp. Flies that weren't really there jumped away, swarming up and around. Tim whimpered. Felt a bump on the back of his head. Scratched at it. His hands were bloody.

"Jesus, kid! Cut it out!"

He saw her pull the trigger. Felt the tranquilizer hit. Dropped hard to the floor. (Blue eyes, black hair. Crawling into an open mouth.) Everything faded.

******

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