He was on a bed. Not his. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to breathe. Dream. Batman, Nightwing--it had been a dream. He couldn't decide if it was a good one or a bad one.

Then he heard his dad's voice, soft and strained.

"So you don't know where he was?"

"No. Some costumed guy dropped him off at my door." Dick's voice. Murmuring.

"But a doctor's seen him?"

"That's what he said."

"Thank God."

"Mr. Drake. Mrs. Drake. There's something--have you heard of Stockholm Syndrome?"

Tim flinched. Heard a door close. Footsteps walk away. Could still make out the rise and fall of voices, but not the words. Heard Dana crying.

It wasn't a dream.

He dozed, fading in and out of reality. He thought he heard Cassie. Screaming. Saw Batman standing at the window, watching him. Felt the bed dip, and a hand rubbing his back.

He opened an eye. Lying on his stomach. A leg near his head. A hand still moving up and down his spine.

"How is he?" Dana's voice.

Tim shifted. "Hey." The word was a croak.

It was his father sitting next to him. "Tim? Thank God. Tim, you okay?"

He felt hands slip under him, haul him up, turn him until he fit against his father's big chest, arms wrapped all the way around him and somehow both squeezing and cradling.

He breathed deeply. Smelled hair and aftershave and the lingering scent that meant "Dad" like nothing else could.

And realized, suddenly, that this was real. He wrapped shaking arms around his father and held on. He trembled from weakness and relief. Felt Dana sit behind him, a hand on his head, kissing his hair, breathing him the same way he was inhaling his father's scent. Something basic and right about it.

Tim started crying. It made no sense. It was silly. He wasn't locked up anymore. It hadn't really been that bad. But he couldn't stop crying. Then he realized his dad was crying, too, and so was Dana, and maybe it was okay.

He cried a lot. More than they did, even. He held onto his father's shirt, as if the man might disappear, while wracking sobs tore through him, hurting his chest. He couldn't stop. By the time exhaustion calmed him, his eyes were swollen and red. His father's shirt was soaked.

His dad pressed their cheeks together, rocking him and telling him it was fine, everything was okay, he was with them and safe and it was over. Kisses in his hair and on his ear--the only thing, apparently, his dad could reach without loosening his grip--and hands rubbing his back and shoulders. He fell asleep like that, resting against his father's chest, Dana's hands on his arms.

**

When he woke later, he was lucid enough to realize a few things. It was still night. Whether he'd been waking a lot (which he doubted) or had slept through the day (seemed more likely) he didn't know. He also realized he wasn't in his own room. There was a poster of the Flying Graysons by one window, and a photo of Babs and Alfred on the nightstand. Alfred looked unimpressed at whatever Babs was saying.

The last thing he noticed was Batman.

"Hey."

Batman just stared.

"Do you mind if I go to the bathroom?"

For a moment, the man looked almost pained. "You don't have to ask that, Robin."

Tim smiled reluctantly. "No. I guess not." He pushed to his feet and staggered toward the adjoining bathroom, nearly tripping over his wounded ankle.

"You okay?" Through the open doorway, he saw his dad, sitting with Dick and Dana, stand.

"Bathroom," Tim croaked. Then he made it in. Used the washroom. Stared at himself in the mirror for the first time in--what had Dick told Leslie? Five weeks? He was scruffy looking. His hair was shaggy. Greasy, and he suspected dandruff. He had stubble. He still smelled.

And Lord, he was skinny. His head looked too big for his body. All the lean, wiry muscle he'd developed was gone. There were dark circles under his eyes. Pale skin. He shook his head and staggered back into the bedroom.

"Tim?"

"Bed," he croaked.

His father nodded and sat back down.

Tim collapsed into the bed. He looked at Batman, still standing by the window. How did you find me? He didn't say. He willed Batman to hear it anyway.

The cloaked figure took two steps closer. His voice was soft. "It shouldn't have taken so long. I--apologize."

How did you find me?

"She'd been kidnapping boys with blue eyes and black hair. All teenagers. It's not a common combination. She hoped to hit on the real Robin. Your leads were dead. We had to solve the whole case first."

Tim nodded. Tried not to think about why they hadn’t sent Superman. It was just one kidnapping. Not important enough to involve the Justice League, obviously, so--

"The basement was painted with a lead-based paint. Superman tried scanning for lead-lined basements, but there are so many fall-out shelters in and around Gotham that looking for lead and hoping we'd find you would have taken years."

Tim closed his eyes. Swallowed several times. Just knowing they had looked--it was better. He opened his eyes and watched Batman for a moment. She just wanted a friend, he didn’t say.

"She kidnapped you, Tim. Killed four other boys she thought might be Robin, and her brother."

Tim flinched. Not her fault.

Batman looked pained again. A tightening of the jaw that on anyone else might mean nothing.

Is she okay?

"She's in custody."

Can I see her?

"No."

Tim sat up. "Why not?"

"She's a murderer, and a kidnapper. She hurt you."

"Not badly."

"She broke your fingers." Even quiet, it was a snarl. "She handcuffed you to a cot. She starved you. She shot you. She drugged you. She locked you in a room and listened to you scream."

Tim flinched at every word. Drew back. Drew into himself. Started to shake. It wasn't like that. Batman made it sound awful, but it wasn't--"It wasn't like that. She just wanted a friend. Bad way to make friends, maybe, but--"

"Tim. You've bonded to her. Understandable, given how long you were there, but you're not in your right mind. You may not see her."

Tim's eyes flashed. She's my friend, he didn't say. You can't stop me.

Batman's chin rose. The persona draped around Bruce like a shield. Don't push me, Batman didn't say.

"Tim?"

Batman was gone.

"You talking to someone?"

"Just myself," Tim mumbled, snuggling back down under the covers. Five minutes of exercise, and he was out of breath. Shaking again. His father appeared in the doorway. Hesitated, then sat down on the bed, his hand on the lump that was Tim's leg under the blankets.

His dad just looked at him for a long time. "Are you okay?"

Tim nodded wordlessly. "I'm glad to see you." He tried to smile.

His father smiled back. It didn’t touch the sadness in his eyes. "I'm glad to see you, too. I was scared."

"Me too," Tim murmured. "But she just wanted a friend."

"She didn't--" his dad stopped. Looked away. Looked back. "The police said that sometimes--. If she did--anything--shit."

Tim waited.

"You'd tell me if she--if--. Tim, did she touch you at all?"

Tim smiled, feeling it this time. "No, Dad. Not like you mean. It's okay."

"Well." His dad smiled ruefully. Looked utterly relieved at the same time. Patted Tim's leg. "I wouldn't say it's okay."

Tim said nothing.

"The police were by. When you're ready, they'd like to talk to you."

Tim frowned. "Dad, I'm not going to tell them how evil she is. She wasn't. I mean, she made some bad calls, but there were reasons--"

"Let's not talk about this right now."

Tim stopped speaking. "We're in Dick's apartment?"

His dad nodded.

"Why?"

"We thought it better not to move you again. And the police psychiatrist said it might be wise to keep you out of Gotham until that woman’s safely put away. They said--you might want to see her, and we shouldn’t…" He looked down, awkwardly.

Tim was fading again. He could feel it.

His father smiled softly. "Why don't you sleep? I'll wake you in a few hours for some food."

Tim yawned, putting his arm under his head and closing his eyes. "Feel like I've been sleeping forever," he muttered.

His father smiled and made no sign of getting up. "Well, maybe not forever. I think you can sleep for a while longer."

Tim rubbed his face against the pillow. It smelled like Dick. The weight of his father's hand still rested on his leg. He drifted off.

**

(Stockholm Syndrome. Named in 1973 during a bank robbery in Stockholm, Sweden, where the hostages identified with their captors so strongly that they resisted rescue attempts and refused to testify against the robbers.)

Tim jumped awake. He stunk. He was hungry. And he could smell food.

"Hey, Sleeping Beauty."

Tim smiled up at Dick. Then frowned. "Where's Dad?"

"Sleeping. He needs it. He was up all night, sitting with you. Making sure you weren't going to disappear again." Dick sat down in a computer chair obviously pulled from another room, and set a plate of food on the nightstand. Orange juice. Toaster waffles. A very small pile of eggs. Cereal. "Most of it's easily digestible," Dick said, when Tim just kept looking.

Tim sat up, hesitated, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Half of him expected to feel an ankle stopped. It didn't happen. He dug into the food with relish.

"Easy. Don't make yourself sick, huh? I promise I'll give you more later."

Tim threw a mock-dirty look at Dick and kept eating, though he did slow down.

After half of it, he was full. He considered eating the rest anyway. Dick must have noticed; he started to pull the plate away, stopped, and left it. "I'll give you more later," he said, and this time the words were serious.

Tim looked up. Tried a smile. Knew it was weak. "Am I that bad?"

Dick nodded. "That bad. You also smell. Why don't you shower, and if you're still hungry afterward I'll help you into the kitchen." He grinned. "We can stuff you in the cupboard and let you eat your way out."

"The chip cupboard?" Tim asked, standing.

"Absolutely."

"My parents would never agree."

"We'll do it quietly."

Tim headed into the bathroom. He stayed in the shower until his fingers turned pruney and the hot water started to run out. Until he was shaking from standing for so long. Then he wrapped himself in a towel--he couldn't stand the idea of putting on his dirty clothes--and staggered out.

There were clothes across the bed. Clean clothes. His clothes. He pulled them on, rubbing them against his skin, then had to sit down and rest.

A slender hand knocked on the door.

"Yeah?"

Dana came around the corner. "Dick made you some more food, if you're interested."

Absolutely. He tried to stand. Dropped back down. Dana helped balance him while he got to his feet, and then she looped an arm around his back. He tried not to lean on her. Failed miserably.

She sat him down at the little table.

"Hey, Tim. Feeling better?" his dad asked.

"Hungry again," Tim muttered, watching Dick cook.

"Tim, the police asked if you'd be willing to talk to a psychologist."

Tim glanced at his dad, then away. "Sure. I guess. Can we go home soon?"

"They want you to talk to him first."

"Oh. Sure." Tim scratched at the scab on his wrist. Dana pulled his hand away, and held onto it.

**

He knew he shouldn't say it. He knew he shouldn't say it. He said it anyway. "Is Cassie okay?"

The shrink, sitting in Dick's computer chair, looked at him. Tim was on the bed, knees pulled up, arms looped around them. In the living room, he could hear the cop talking quietly with his dad and Dana.

"Ms McAdams is in police custody. Does that bother you?"

McAdams. He hadn't known that was her last name. "I guess."

"Tim, can you tell me what happened?"

He tried to think of something that would pacify the man. Couldn't. His mind just wasn't working. Kept thinking about what might happen if he said something wrong. Even though he knew nothing would happen. "I don't want to talk about it, if that's okay."

"That's fine. Tell me about Cassie."

He shrugged. "She had a rough time. What did you want to know, specifically?"

"She kidnapped you, didn't she?"

Tim squirmed. That was still a bit embarrassing. "Yeah."

"Handcuffed you to a bed."

"Yeah."

"Did you try and escape?"

Tim thought about the aborted attempt the first day. Then having the television fall on him. Then getting shot. Then the bodies. He shuddered. "Yeah."

"It didn't work?"

He shook his head.

"Must have upset her."

"Well, she did tell me she would be upset if I tried to escape," Tim pointed out.

"So you think her responses were fair?"

Tim stared at the man. "I think she told me what she would do if I tried to escape, I tried anyway, and she did what she said she would."

"But was it fair?"

Tim rubbed his head. "I don’t know. Maybe. This is--I'd really just like to go home."

The man looked at him intently for a long moment. "Cassie's going to jail. Will you testify against her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

Tim glared. "She's my friend." He knew as soon as the words were out that it was the wrong thing to say.

"I see. Tim, I’m going to give your parents a few phone numbers of some psychologists in your area. I'd like you to see one of them."

Tim glared some more. "I don’t need a shrink."

"Humor me." The man was writing.

"I don't have Stockholm!" Tim yelled. In the other room, the voices went quiet.

"What do you know about Stockholm Syndrome?" The man was still writing.

"A lot."

He stopped writing. Crossed his legs. Looked up. "Tell me about it."

Tim hesitated. "Why?"

"I'd just like to know how familiar you are. Tell me about it."

Tim narrowed his eyes. "The origin or the symptoms?"

"The symptoms, please."

Tim folded his arms over his chest and considered. "There need to be four conditions met for the syndrome to arise. The captor has to be seen as able to carry out threats. The captive has to be unable to escape. The captive has to be isolated, so the only perspective available is the captor's. And the captor has to be perceived as showing some sort of kindness."

"Do you think those conditions were met?" the man asked.

"No," Tim answered stubbornly.

"Okay. Keep telling me about the symptoms."

Tim hesitated. He didn't like this. "Victims start to identify with their captors out of self-defense and fear of violence. Small acts of kindness are amplified, because in such a situation there is no sense of perspective. Victims start to try and please their captors, becoming very attuned to both pleasure and displeasure. They develop extreme dependence. Thoughts become confused and unclear. Captors may be seen as life-giving, because they have the ability to take life and yet aren't, and because they hold the only food, water--"

"Bathroom privileges?"

Tim scowled.

"Still think this doesn't sound familiar?"

"It's not the same."

"Okay."

"If it were the same, the symptoms would bother me."

"All right."

Tim glared.

The shrink looked at him calmly.

"I want to go home."

"That's fine. I don't want you seeing Cassie."

Tim flinched. "I hadn't planned on it," he muttered.

The man just watched him. "Okay."

***********

Back to the Survival index
Back to the living room