Nightwing landed on the roof beside him. "How you feeling?"

"They want me to testify against her." Tim perched, glaring out. Three days. It had been three days since he'd gotten home. His parents had let him skip school. The Robin suit didn't come close to fitting. "Has she told them she thinks I'm Robin?"

Nightwing slanted him an odd look. "Yeah. They don't believe her, because she's also claiming that Batman has wings, and they know that's not true. And she said Superboy was gay. He wasn't thrilled about that one. I'm sure you'll be hearing from him."

Tim grinned.

"You going to testify?"

The grin vanished. "No. Will you take her a message?"

"No."

Tim glared at Nightwing, then looked away. "Is she okay?"

Nightwing was quiet for a long time. "She's fine."

Tim nodded. His stomach growled.

"Go eat something, Boy Wonder," Nightwing said, prepping a jumpline.

Tim stood and headed toward the window. By the time he stepped inside, Nightwing was gone.

He threaded through boxes toward the attic door, then headed downstairs.

"Hey, Tim," Dana said, looking up as he walked into the living room.

"Hey. We have anything to eat--" (captor is seen as life-giving, meeting basic needs like food). He stopped and shook his head. "Uh, sorry. Anything to eat?"

"Kitchen."

He felt almost awkward just helping himself (victims held for a large amount of time may feel anxiety at not being controlled). He rubbed his eyes and tried to shut the voice up.

He stared at the cupboard sightlessly (sufferers of Stockholm often feel anger and may not understand where it comes from).

"Tim?"

His dad. He made some sort of 'yes' noise.

"The judge on McAdams' case called today."

Not this again. "I'm not testifying!" Tim shouted. "She didn't do anything bad! She just wanted friends!" (Victims minimize abuse. Refuse to testify. Don't tell the full truth when they do.) (Shut up. Shut up.)

"Tim, this isn't healthy."

"I'm fine, Dad! Just because I don't think she should be punished for a shitty life--" (after rescue, victim may have extreme mood swings).

"She killed people, Tim!"

"She didn't have any other options!" (Victim may feel alienated and isolated due to beliefs in captor.) (It doesn't apply. It doesn't.)

"Tim." His father took a deep breath. Obviously trying to stay calm. "Dr. Roberts said--"

"I don't have Stockholm," Tim growled (victims of Stockholm Syndrome must distance themselves from their emotions for survival).

"--that you wouldn't walk to talk about it. That you might just try and ignore it."

(Victims often go into denial.)

"That you'd be angry, but remote from your feelings--"

(Once in touch with their feelings, victims often feel anger, guilt, shame, depression, loss--)

"--and we should just keep talking about it."

(Victims may deny abuse, or not see it as abuse in the first place. Asking about specific types of abuse may help.) (Shut up!)

"But I don't want to hurt you."

Tim swallowed, his hands in fists. "She didn't do anything wrong." (Victims may see nothing wrong with the abuse.) Focus. He had to focus.

"She broke your fingers! She shot you!"

"But she said she would!" (Victims may justify abuse.) Tim pushed the heels of his palms in to his eyes. He needed his brain to just give him a moment's peace. That stupid little voice had been so quiet for so long-- "Fuck."

"Tim?"

He shied back. "Don't touch me." (Flies. Crawling into an open mouth.) He edged away, face still covered. Breathe. Just breathe (victims may experience panic disproportionate to the cause). Something buzzed (crawling over an unseeing eye). He stepped farther away (victims may experience flashbacks) felt the refrigerator (sometimes triggers). "I can't breathe." He sank down onto the floor (fell into something wet) gasping (hand sank into something rotting and moist and crawling) put both hands on the tile (under the sink, flies swarming his wrist).

"Tim. Tim, it's okay. Just breathe. You're okay."

Arms. Warm. Shaking. Him? Them? He couldn't tell (victims may feel confusion, disorientation).

He didn't know how long he sat there. Not crying. Just shaking. And breathing. Wrapped up in his father on the floor.

"I don't know what's wrong with me," Tim whispered (victims may have extreme emotional swings).

"It's okay."

He nodded.

"Do me a favor, though. Talk to the psychologist."

Tim closed his eyes tightly, and nodded again.

**

"I understand you've had quite a time of it, recently."

Tim sat down in the chair opposite the desk and looked around. The office was clean. Neat. "I suppose."

"Batman left a note with Cassie McAdams for the police. Said she'd confessed to kidnapping you, to things she'd done, to the murders of four young men before you and her brother many years before that. Ms McAdams is denying all of it."

"Smart of her," Tim murmured.

"How much of it is true?"

Tim glanced at him (victims may not see abuse as what it is. Asking about specific types of violence may help). "I don't know. Tell me what Batman said, and I'll tell you if it's true."

The shrink smiled slightly.

Tim frowned. "What?"

"You're a true Gothamite. Didn't even blink at Batman."

Tim returned the smile and shrugged.

"All right. Batman said she admitted to drugging you, repeatedly?"

Tim nodded.

"Poured lemon juice and salt on open wounds?"

Tim shifted (the citric acid in lemon juice burns when it touches something vulnerable) uncomfortably. "Yeah. She was angry."

"About what?"

Tim scratched at the back of his neck. "I don't actually remember." He was surprised to realize he didn't. Something he'd said, but… "I was busy focusing on 'ouch.'"

The psychologist smiled. "Understandable, given the circumstances."

"Besides, she washed it off."

The shrink nodded. He stretched, and set down his notepad. Looked out the window. Thought for a long time.

Tim watched patiently.

Then the man seemed to shake himself, and smiled bemusedly. "Sorry. Didn't mean to space out, there. Tim, you look like a smart kid."

"Thanks," Tim said uncomfortably.

"I have a minor problem."

Tim waited.

"My son--he's five." Dr. Roberts plucked a photograph off a corkboard and held it out.

"Cute," Tim said noncommittally.

"Yeah. Well. Not so cute sometimes. Last Monday, he and his sister had a fight. So, he cut his sister's hair. My wife wasn't thrilled. I got home to a screaming wreck. His sister--who is ten--was wailing. God, she was upset. She's been trying to grow her hair out for two weeks. Not long, at our ages, but at ten…"

Tim chuckled and relaxed a little.

"My son says he's sorry. Then, yesterday, I get home and they've had another fight and he's cut her hair again."

Tim grinned and ducked his head, hiding his laugh.

"Yeah, I know, funny. Not so much when you're in the middle of it. Now, he's only five. So the first time, we gave him a lecture but mostly let it slide. This time--well, he knows better now. He says he's sorry. He said that last time. So, what do we do?"

Tim looked at him, flabbergasted. "I don't know. Take away his desert or something?" He didn't even have younger siblings, much less a kid.

"So you agree that what he did was wrong, and he should know better?"

Tim thought about it. "Yeah," he said finally. "I mean, he's five, so he might not totally get it, but he should at least know it's not acceptable. He did it once before…"

"Yeah. So what would you say if I told you he was thirty-something, and had poured lemon and salt on his sister's open wound because he was angry?"

**

"Gay? You told her I was gay?"

Tim grinned and turned. Behind him, Superboy landed on the roof and tripped toward him.

"I mean, okay, I’ll screw anything that moves, but that’s more like omni-sexual--"

Tim laughed and looked out over the city. Kon flopped down next to him. "You okay?" Kon asked. "We’ve been worried."

Tim smiled weakly. "Hey. It's me. I was fine. Batman found me."

"Superman says ‘hi,’ by the way. And sorry for not being much help." Kon picked up a bit of gravel and threw it. It vanished into the darkness. "You coming back to the Tower anytime soon?"

Tim snorted. "Probably not. The suit doesn't even fit, and I doubt my parents are going to let me leave for a while."

"Hey. What's that big forest? I didn't think they had forests in Gotham," Kon said, stretching his neck and hovering slightly, still cross-legged.

"That's Ivy's. No one actually goes in there. And keep your voice down--Dad and Dana are sleeping."

"So…" Kon landed softly. "You're really okay?"

Tim smiled. "Yeah." He tapped his splinted fingers against the roof. "I'm really okay."

"Nightwing's worried about you."

"He told you that?" Tim asked.

"He told Kory. After, y'know, we all ganged up on Kory about it. "

Tim snorted and shook his head.

"Nightwing thinks you have some weird syndrome?" Kon asked hesitantly.

Tim glared at his bare feet. "I don't have Stockholm Syndrome," he muttered.

Kon pulled away, both hands up. "Whoa, hey, easy. I was just--I mean, I don’t know. I just know Nightwing’s worried. Kinda scares me."

Tim said nothing.

Slowly, Kon settled again. "What’s Stockholm Syndrome?"

Tim sighed. "It's where the captive identifies with their captor. They don’t realize that what happened was bad. They figure their captor was in the right."

"That sounds fucked," Kon said, folding his knees up and bracing his arms on them.

Tim eyed him. Kon didn’t seem to be suggesting he had it. He relaxed slowly. "Yeah. It is."

They sat in silence for a while.

"Was it scary?" Kon asked softly. He ducked his head. "I mean, if you don’t wanna talk about it, that’s cool--"

"Yeah," Tim said. "It was." There. He’d said it. He didn’t feel better for it. "Not so much after a while, though. I mean, once I figured out the rules…" He slid a glance toward Kon. Kon was just watching him, silently, his hair doing its best to curl despite how short it was.

Tim folded his arms over his knees and rested his chin on them. Kon unfolded, leaning back on his hands, legs dangling over the edge of the roof. "Was she really awful?"

"No," Tim sighed. "I mean, mostly, she just wanted a friend. Someone to talk to."

Kon nodded.

"So we played Scrabble and Risk, once."

"I don’t know how you play that game, man," Kon laughed. "Drives me nuts."

Tim grinned. "I know. I love it."

"How come you only played it once?"

Tim’s smile faded. He shrugged. "She preferred Scrabble. She was in med school, so she knew all these bizarre terms and stuff."

"So you only played Scrabble?"

Tim thought about it. "Yeah, after a while. She almost always won."

"Man, that sucks."

Tim nodded noncommittally. Then he realized it really did suck. He frowned. "Yeah."

"No wonder she didn’t have friends."

Tim looked at Kon, now on his back, looking up at the stars. "What?"

"I mean, if she only wants to play the games where she wins…"

Tim stared. It sounded worse when said like that. Then he shook it off and laughed. "Oh, right, like you don’t always angle for the games you know you’ll win?"

Kon grinned unrepentantly. "Yeah, but we don’t always play them."

Tim stared at Kon. "No," he said finally. "We don’t." (Friends give and take. Bullies just take. He couldn't remember where he'd heard that.)

"So what else did you do?"

Tim shrugged. "I don’t know. Mostly sat on the cot and was bored. Waited for Cassie to get back."

"That was her name? Cassie?" Kon asked. "Freaky." He folded both arms under his head. "If that's all you had to do all day, I can see why you’d be willing to play games she always won. Damn. I think I’d go nuts alone all day. Really. I’d spaz."

Tim laughed. (Humans crave companionship.) He sobered. "That’s not why I liked playing with her, though." Something buzzed in the back of his mind. Something… something. He ruffled a hand through his hair. Shivered and (black hair moving as if alive) put his hand flat on the textured roof.

"No? Why did you, then?"

"I . . . I liked her. She was nice." His head hurt. It was easier when people told him he shouldn't like her. When he could just be defensive. Tim tried to focus on the conversation. He wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. He took a deep breath and refused to lose it here, now.

Kon snorted. "Yeah, but you’ve got freakish taste in friends."

"Says the boy who befriended Batgirl."

"Man, she’s hot."

"Konnnn," Tim groaned. He really didn’t want to think about Cassandra that way. He’d think of it when he saw her, and she’d see it in his body, and then she’d kill him.

"She is."

They sat silently. Then Kon heaved himself up, fishing in the inside pocket of his jacket. "Got stuff for you. Get well cards and junk from everyone."

"Who’s everyone?" Tim asked, taking the packet that Kon pulled free.

"Bart, Cissie, Cassie, Kory, Gar, Raven--"

"I get the idea."

Kon smiled. "Bart tried to make you cookies."

"Tried?" Tim asked, dread in his voice.

"He turned the heat way up on the oven to make them cook faster. They caught fire, instead, and…"

Tim just shook his head, laughing. "God, cookies. Now I have a cookie craving. I missed cookies."

"You didn’t even get cookies from this friend of yours?" Kon asked incredulously.

Tim snorted. "She barely kept me fed. She was afraid I’d escape." He stopped. He felt…uneasy. He looked at Kon. Kon was watching him. No judgments there, just watching. Slowly, Tim began to talk again. "She’d get pissed about things and… well, she never did anything. I mean, not once we became friends. But before that she’d done some stuff and--" he shook his head. (Victims must see their captors as being able to carry out a threat.) He felt confused, suddenly. Rubbed his face. "Well, okay, not everything she did was nice." He didn't want to think about it. (Victims minimize brutality, often refuse to think of it as abuse.)

Kon still said nothing.

He wasn't a victim. There were reasons for what she'd done, and they made sense. "But I understand why she did it all," Tim said, shoving the factual voice to the back of his mind.

Kon nodded. Then he just looked confused. "Why’d she do it?"

"Her brother used to beat her up. Him and his friends. She wanted someone who could protect her."

"Why didn’t she talk to the cops?" Kon asked.

Tim froze. Frowned. Shook his head. "I don’t know." (Victims rationalize captive's behavior.) "She was a kid. I don’t think kids always think of those things."

Kon nodded. "Sad."

"Yeah." Tim picked at a pink envelope. He turned it over. Bart’s. He shook his head and tucked it aside. "But we should talk about something happier."

"Why?"

Tim looked up. "Because talking about crap sucks?"

"Yeah, but if you need to--I mean, you don’t have to--but, man. Damn, Tim. We’re friends. That means helping each other with crappy stuff, too, right? I mean, how many times have I whined to you about having to stack hay? Dude, that stuff never gets out of your clothes…"

Tim laughed. "I think that’s a bit different."

"Yeah, but if you were to pile all those little whinings up, they’d probably amount to you whining about being kidnapped for seven weeks."

"Five," Tim corrected.

"Seemed longer."

A corner of Tim’s mouth kicked up in a smile. "Yeah." He picked up gravel and rolled it between his fingers. "I wonder what’ll happen to her now."

"Maybe she’ll get her head together. Make some friends."

"In jail?" Tim asked disbelievingly.

Kon shrugged. "You never know."

They sat quietly again. Tim studied the gravel. Rough and pitted. (She'd taken him away for five weeks.) Dark gray. (Chained him to a cot.) Sharp on one edge. (There were reasons for it.) Hurt if he squeezed. (Friends were allowed to whine to each other.) Roughly the size of his thumbnail. (If he said something Cassie didn't like, she'd hurt him.) Small. (Threatened to lock him in with the bodies.) Ugly. (There were reasons for it.) Useless. (If a five-year-old knew better than to cut his sister's hair, a thirty-something should know not to hurt someone over an argument.)

He folded the gravel in his fist, then flung it as hard as he could. The darkness swallowed it. Tim blinked several times. Breathed deeply. Tried to stop shaking. He needed to get his mind together. Needed--

Kon was watching him intently.

Tim looked at his feet. The anger was gone. He stared at his toes self-consciously.

"You're not really okay, are you?"

He shook his head. Couldn't actually bring himself to say it.

Kon scraped mud off a boot. Looked back up. "Can I do anything?"

Tim rubbed his face. "Not really." He stared at the pile of dirt now beside Kon's feet. "Tell me what a friend is."

Kon just stared.

"Really. Describe a friend."

"You mean like, describe one of our friends? Like Bart?"

Tim smiled. It faded. "No. I mean, define the term 'friend.'"

Kon rubbed a hand through his hair. It stood up in little spikes. "Aw, man. You know I'm not good at this stuff."

Tim just waited.

Kon sighed heavily. "Okay. Um. A friend is a person you talk to about stuff. And hang out with. And…stuff." He cringed. "You know. Someone you like. Only, not like, like, just--. Damn. Okay. It's that person you talk to when you're upset or really excited, or just bored. And they help with things. Not that I'm doing terribly well right now…"

Tim smiled. "Yeah, okay. Thanks." He hung out with Cassie. (He had to.) They talked. (About things she wanted to talk about.)

"Tim, you okay? You look a little… like you're gonna hurl."

"I'm not."

"Not okay? Or not gonna hurl? 'Cause these jeans are new, so I'm gonna shift over if you're about to blow chunks…"

Tim grinned and glanced up. "Kon, if I barf, I'm so going to aim at you."

"Aw, man. That's just not cool."

Tim laughed. He leaned his chin on his folded arms and stared down at the yard. "I should go to bed."

"Yeah. It's late. Then go eat something 'cause man, you're skinny. Like, skinnier'n Bart."

"He's gaining weight."

"Whatever."

"And muscle."

Kon just rolled his eyes. "Man, go to bed."

******

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