He was on the bed. Handcuffed. One ankle. Both wrists. Cassie was watching him. She looked drawn. Haggard.

Good.

"Do you remember what I said I'd do if you tried to escape again?"

He licked his lips. His throat hurt. Screaming. He'd been screaming. When he spoke, his voice was a croak. "Lock me in with the other Robins."

Cassie smiled. "No. I said I'd do that if you did anything stupid."

He stared at her. She stood.

"I said I'd break your fingers."

Tim shuddered. "Look--"

She walked to the headboard and stared down at him. "Which ones?"

"None of them!" He twisted, yanking at the cuffs. Neither wrist budged. Both hurt. He curled his hands into fists and glared.

"If you do that," Cassie said, walking back to the chair she'd been sitting in--the rocker from the laundry room, Tim realized suddenly--"I will crush your hand." She lifted a mallet.

Tim's mouth went dry. His heart was pounding. Calm. He could deal with this. He could. (Starvation leads to exhaustion. Exhaustion makes it almost impossible to cope. The brain slows down. Stress levels rise.)

She was staring at him. Waiting. Tim closed his eyes. He relaxed both hands. Heard her put down the hammer. Heard her move back to the headboard. He squeezed his eyes tighter.

"Which fingers?"

He took a deep breath. Another. A third. He could do this. It wouldn't kill him. He'd broken fingers before (never had to choose which ones). Her fingers touched his wrists (never had to let it happen). He flinched. (Making a victim take part in the crime gives the victim a sense of responsibility.)

"Which ones?" (Makes them feel as though they should have been able to stop it.)

"Left hand," he whispered. (Makes them feel that they are, in part, to blame.)

"Pinky finger."

(Can force a faster bond between victim and persecutor, because it is perceived that they are working together to find the best solution possible.)

"I said fingers."

(Makes the victim feel as though their persecutor is trying to help them.)

He tensed.

(May even give the victim the idea that their persecutor is only doing this because they 'must.')

Felt her hand wrap around his pinky and ring finger.

(Because the victim has earned it.)

She twisted down and back.

(Making the persecutor a hero.)

He felt the bones snap. Heard it through his skeleton. He clenched his teeth and didn't scream. He couldn't stop the whimper, but he didn't scream. Air hissed through his teeth.

The handcuffs loosened and dropped away. He kept his eyes closed. Brought his hand down. Carefully. Heard Cassie leave. Come back. He opened his eyes. Blinked away tears. Tried to ignore the fire burning along his hand. Wrist. Arm. Shoulder.

"Let me set them."

He shook his head.

She looked hurt. Sad. Sympathetic. "Let me set them." She held out her hand. "I’m sorry. I’ll be as careful as I can." (Stockholm bonds strengthen when the captor is perceived as granting small kindnesses.)

Tim let out a long, shuddering breath. He was going to be sick. He breathed. Again. Put his hand in hers. Shaking. Her free hand rose, very gentle along his wrist. His broken fingers. Tim closed his eyes and buried his head. Bones ground. His other hand tightened into a fist. Fingers snapped into place. Pain raged. He heard himself cry into the pillow, and saw flashes of light behind closed lids.

Another movement. Tim felt his body tense, tighter than seemed possible. The world spun. He passed out.

When he woke, they were splinted. Cassie sat on his bed, smoothing his hair back, rubbing his spine, telling him everything would be all right and she was so sorry. His arm was on fire. Every movement anywhere in his body made his nerves scream (the fingers, unlike other areas of the body, do not dull at constant pain. The pain stays at a steady level).

"I fucking hate you," Tim said at last, face buried in the mattress, hand cradled against his chest. He couldn't keep from crying. It hurt. Fuck her, it hurt.

"I know," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She bent. Picked him up. Held his body against hers and rocked back and forth, soothingly. "People forget, huh? You're just a kid. It'll get better. I promise."

Tim thought he should struggle. Break free. He found himself curling into her instead, crying as if something had broken. Something inside.

It was too long before he could get himself back together. Pull away. Sit huddled at the other end of the bed. He dried his face on the blanket and held his hand close. "You killed them. Those boys."

She nodded. "It was easy for them, though. I didn't hurt them."

"You didn't break their fucking fingers?" Tim bit off.

"Language. And no. They didn't try to escape. Not so many times, at least." She sat silently. "Some sedatives in their food. When they'd fallen asleep, I came down and… added morphine. They just drifted off."

He stared at the plate sitting on the floor. "Why?"

"They weren't Robin."

His chest froze. He breathed carefully. Shifted, and bit back a cry as his fingers flared up.

"They told me after just a few days that they were. I know you must be Robin. You're the only one who's denied it for so long. You're the only one who's tried to escape." She paused, then corrected, "More than once. That broken glass thing was really sneaky, by the way. I can see why Batman overlooks your size."

Tim bristled. "There's nothing wrong with my size. I'm an average height for my age."

"Not quite true. But you're close. Anyway, I would imagine that anyone trying to be a vigilante would be a big guy. You're sneaky, instead."

Tim said nothing.

"You are Robin, right?"

Tim looked at her. (Blue eyes. Black hair. Crawling as if alive.) "If I say yes," he said quietly, "you might think I'm doing it just to keep you from killing me. And if I say no, you might think I'm doing it just to make you think I'm still Robin. So. What do you want to hear?"

She smiled. Her eyes traveled over his body. Tim tried not to squirm. Boxers, and that was it. He was suddenly highly aware of how naked he was.

"No one your age would have as many scars as you do. You're Robin."

Tim said nothing.

Cassie smiled. "I'll bring you down some lunch later. We can talk. I'll tell you about the story I'm writing about you."

**

Her eyes flashed. "You're not being any fun!"

Tim stopped thinking about his fingers long enough to consider her. His stomach was full for the first time in days. All he really wanted to do was sleep (tired. So tired).

That wasn't going to happen. And not because she wanted to talk. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those bodies. Every time he stopped moving, flies would land on him, jerking him into a panic. Which made his fingers blaze in agony, despite the painkillers she’d given him.

"All right," he said now, tonelessly. "How do you want me to be fun?"

Cassie considered him. "I don't know. It was pretty funny when you were screaming in the laundry room. Maybe I should just put you back."

He felt himself go pale. Wordlessly, Tim shook his head.

"Then talk to me!"

"About what?" Tim asked slowly.

"Tell be about Superboy."

A fly landed on his bed (crawling into an open mouth). Tim kicked at it. It swirled up and away. "Okay. Um. Superboy. He's…impulsive. Really nice. Has a good heart."

"Do you like him?"

"I--what?"

"Do you like him? I mean, he's pretty hot."

Tim stared. He shifted, cringed when pain flashed through his fingers. The muscles in his arm hurt from the constant, low-level burn. "No. I mean, I like him as a friend."

She looked annoyed. "Where does Superboy live?"

"With Superman. In the Fortress of Solitude," Tim said guilelessly.

She gave him a doubting look.

"It's true. I mean, with the superhearing and all, living anywhere else is almost impossible."

"I guess that makes sense…"

Tim let his mind drift. Riding on pain. Exhaustion. A full belly.

"I'm writing a story about you and Superboy. Getting 'together.'"

Even he could hear the quotes. "That's interesting." He knew there were stories out there about every possible superhero one could think of. He tended to avoid them. They were kind of creepy.

She stared hard at him. "Do you want to read it?"

Tim rubbed his forehead. "I'd really like to sleep."

Cassie looked contrite. "Oh, of course. I hadn't thought about that. Okay. I'll--I'll bring you food later."

Tim nodded.

She stood, and left.

He thought about lying down. Discarded the idea. Instead, he curled up against the footboard and the wall, and closed his eyes. Jumped when a fly landed on him. Closed his eyes again (black hair moving with hundreds of little bodies).

Tim's head snapped up. He took a deep breath. All right. Maybe just meditating (pushing into something wet and slimy and writhing).

Tim braced his head on his arms and tried not to think of anything. He refused to look toward the laundry room door. She'd left it open a crack (they were buzzing). His skin crawled.

**

She was busy the next day. And the day after that. He couldn't sleep. He barely ate. When the third day rolled around and she still didn't have time for him, he started to worry (captors threaten lives, and show they are willing to carry out threats. It becomes a survival tactic for victims to relate to their captors, to befriend them). He began to starve himself, remembering the sedatives in the food. He ate less than a third of what she gave him. Enough to keep him going. Not enough, he hoped, to drug him.

Even he could tell his thoughts were paranoid. It was probably nothing. It was probably fine. She was going to kill him. Let him rot in that room. With flies eating out his eyeballs. It would be okay. Batman would find him. Batman wasn't looking for him. Batman knew he'd been telling her things only Robin would know, even if he was lying about most of them, and Batman was going to let him die to make sure the secrets were safe.

Batman was there. Standing, large and dark and his suit was covered in flies. Swarming. Moving. Little bodies shining green and purple. "You told her our secrets," Batman said. "You know better."

The flies swarmed Tim. Crawling over his skin. Into his mouth. He screamed and struck at them, but they only shifted and kept feeding on anything they could find, laying eggs in the moist bits of him, hatching maggots and--

Tim woke screaming. Clawing at his flesh, half-hysterical.

He calmed quickly. Sniffling into his arm and trying to tell himself it was all right, it wasn't real, Batman was coming for him. Batman would save him.

Escaping was no longer an option. She’d covered too many bases. Broken his fingers. The idea of escape made him remember those eyes (blue eyes) and the bugs (crawling into a mouth) and the bodies (wet and rotting).

Tim swallowed. No. His job now was to stay alive until Batman got here. It wouldn't be much longer. It couldn't be. Batman was probably getting information and--

He had no idea if Cassie had left any sort of a trail (stranger, or non-family, kidnappings are the hardest to solve).

He just had to stay alive until Batman found him. Batman would find him. He would. He'd call in the Justice League and they'd all look for him. Superman would use his X-ray vision and see him, and come bursting through the wall.

Any minute.

He just had to stay alive.

Cassie hadn't had time for him for days. What if she was getting bored? Tired of him? Thought maybe he wasn't Robin? (Captors are more likely to keep a victim alive if they seem him or her as a real person, with thoughts, fears, and family.)

Tim shivered and eyed most of a sandwich on the floor. Flies crawled across it. He looked away.

All right. He had to make himself indispensable. She wanted a friend. He could be a friend.

When she came down that evening, he had a plan. He sat up on his bed and smiled at her. "You still busy?"

She hesitated. "Not so much. Why?"

"Just wondering. If, maybe, you wanted to do something?"

She smiled slightly. "Bored?"

Tim nodded.

"You haven't been eating very much."

He eyed the sandwich. Settled on the truth. "I was afraid. That it might have sedatives."

She looked confused for a moment. Then her face cleared. "Oh. Aw, Robin. I'm not about to kill you."

He didn't meet her gaze.

"Look, how about I get us some food, and we can eat dinner together. Sound good?"

Tim nodded. She left. Returned a bit later with a tray and sandwich fixings. She slid it across the floor. "Make your sandwich, and then slide it on back."

Tim eyed it. Peanut butter. Jelly. Butter. Mayonnaise. A knife. He stared hard at the knife. But there wasn't much he could do with it. It wouldn't do him any good to throw it at her. He picked it up and made himself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, then replaced everything and slid the tray toward her. She made her own, then sat down on the carpet, leaning against his bed, knife and tray out of reach.

"So. Um. What have you been doing?" Tim asked.

"Mostly work. I told you I work part time as a paramedic, right? Well, they've been busy."

Tim chewed. "Where are we?" he asked after a while.

She hesitated. "Outside Gotham. Pretty far outside Gotham."

Tim just nodded. He'd suspected as much. "Do you like your job?"

Cassie smiled (the average paramedic burned out within eight years of beginning work). "I really like helping people. And I'm good at it. In a crisis and all. I like saving lives." She twisted to look up at him. "Same reason you like being Robin, I guess."

He didn't point out that he never murdered people. "Yeah. Makes sense."

They ate silently. Tim picked at his bread.

"You haven't been sleeping well," Cassie said. He looked up. Then back down. "I can hear you," she gestured toward the monitor, "when you have nightmares."

Tim really didn't want to talk about that.

"It'll get better."

"You said that before," he muttered (Stockholm Syndrome can occur anywhere from a few days to several weeks after being taken captive).

"I wish I could make it easier," she sighed (captives are isolated from the rest of the world, begin to see their captors as real people with real problems. Begin to relate to their point of view).

Tim said nothing.

"Is there anything I can do to make your nightmares better?"

He looked toward the laundry room door. Then back down. He shook his head.

Cassie thought. "I'll get some fly strips down here. That might at least make it a bit more livable." (Small acts of kindness are given more weight than previous and possible brutality.)

"Okay," Tim said. "Thanks."

Cassie nodded. "I used to hide in that room, you know. When I was little."

Tim glanced at her. "When your brother was after you?"

She nodded.

"What happened to him?"

Cassie hesitated. Then she smiled. "He's in with the Robins."

Tim felt his muscles tense. He relaxed purposefully.

"I didn't actually mean to kill him. He came after me with a bat one day. I ran down the stairs. Threw a baseball at him. I had awful aim. Now it's pretty good, but then… anyway. It hit his legs. Bounced off. And--he tripped on it. Slid all the way down the stairs. When he got to the bottom, his neck was broken." She shrugged. "I hid the body. I was terrified. But my dad never came down here, and he wasn't home at the time… They announced that my brother had run away. My dad didn't really care."

"Is your dad down there too?" Tim asked quietly.

"No. He died of a heart attack."

Tim nodded.

"So, you see, I have a lot of practice with nightmares. If there's anything I can do… a sleeping pill, maybe?"

Tim shook his head vehemently.

Cassie laughed. "Okay. Well. Let me know if I can help."

"Sure," Tim muttered.

Cassie picked up her things and left.

**

There were Dick and Jason, both of them swarming with flies. Neither had eyeballs, anymore; just sunken holes staring hard at Tim.

"You're next, little brother," Dick said, smiling. His mouth crawled with insects.

"Please, no," Tim said, trying to move farther away. But he was handcuffed to the door, and couldn't escape.

Flies hummed toward him. He closed his eyes and his mouth. Whimpering. Crying. They burrowed into his ears. His hair. Crawling over his skin.

"--wake up!"

Tim jumped, was caught short by the handcuff on his ankle, and lay there, shivering.

"Shhhh," Cassie said, sitting on the bed, rubbing his back. "Shhh. It's all right. You're safe now."

He buried his head in his pillow and tried to slow his breathing. His heartbeat. Tried to stop the constant shiver.

Cassie kept stroking his back, murmuring soothing words, a steady stream that kept the monsters at bay. "Want to tell me about it?"

Tim shook his head.

"Okay. It's safe now. I'm going to sit right here. You go back to sleep."

He tried to stay awake for a while. Cassie hummed above him, soft and tuneless, interspersed with calming phrases and soothing words. Eventually, Tim slept.

**********

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