Chapter 2 – Plops cause Ripples
Tim was waiting for the evening, trembling with fear. The Joker always came back for dinner with new candies, which meant he would realize Tim had disobeyed a direct order.
He really wasn't eager to find out what his punishment would be.
This had started because Tim had wanted to find the exit. During the night – or so the Joker called that moment of the day: he had no way to know for sure that the clocks on the kitchen wall showed the real hour form outside – he was locked in his room. The rest of the day, however, he could go around freely.
Except in the living room.
The first floor counted a corridor, three bedrooms – his, the gorilla's and the one the Joker pretended to be his, though he'd never slept in it as far as Tim knew – a bathroom and a little office. None of those rooms had a window or any other opening to the outside. Tim had even moved the furniture away from the wall and still hadn't found anything, except hidden cameras he hadn't dared to touch.
Then there were the stairs, the hall where a fake door was painted on the wall, a cupboard and the door going to the living room and the kitchen. The one the Joker locked whenever he left.
The easy deduction was that the exit was over there.
So Tim had taken a look to the living room's door. He didn't have any tools – his utility belt had already been missing when he had first woken up – and the wooden panel hid metal: the door was reinforced. He still had tried to force it open.
He had only managed to get himself electrocuted because of course it was trapped.
When he had come back to his sense, he had realized the shocks weren't the real problem: glue had spurted from the door while he'd fell, sticking him effectively to the ground.
And now, he had to wait for the Joker without being able to get away from the damn door.
Noise came from the other side of the door. Steps. He was back. He was smiling, Tim was sure. He probably knew what happened already because no one trapped a door so effectively without it to triggering an alarm somewhere. It had been hours ago but the Joker would have loved to know he was there, waiting for him to come back, hoping he would not.
Tim was sure he had watched him being scared. That would be like him, wouldn't it? And he did have cameras everywhere but on his own bedroom.
Thinking didn't calm the fear down at all.
"Birdie", the Joker called from the other side. "Are you ready for mommy?"
Tim shuddered, not daring to answer. The steps came closer. A key was put in the lock, which unbolted. Then the door creaked open.
The Joker was grinning.
Tim tried to move away, but couldn't, of course. Maybe he should have removed his clothes and left them there to lock himself in his room. He would also have left some skin behind but that suddenly seemed secondary.
"Now, now, what did you do? I am very disappointed in you."
"I'm sorry! I was hungry", Tim lied. "I just wanted to grab something to eat!"
The Joker blinked.
"You should have told me so, kiddo. I would have brought you something! Instead, you tried to break the door and now the floor is a real mess."
"I will clean everything, I promise!"
The Joker leaned toward him, looking dubious. Then he smiled, which only made it worse.
"Alright then. I'll give you something to clean up."
Tim paled. From anyone else, this affirmation would be reassuring but nothing the Joker said ever reassured anyone.
The madman went away whistling. After some time, he came back with a sponge and a bucket.
"Here you go! Make it all go away before dinner or you'll do without, though. I'm not keeping anything warm for a bad-mannered child."
Tim looked him go back to the kitchen, then struggled to get free. Being on the back, he didn't manage to get enough speed to snatch his clothes from the ground: he really had to get out of them. His left arm was glued though, impossible to move it enough to undress. He either had to free his arm first or to cut the clothes off.
He wasn't sure asking the Joker for a blade was a good idea. On the other hand, taking his arm off the ground was going to be tricky, even if he accepted the idea to lose some skin on this. Tim tried to pull, which hurt like hell. He couldn't reach the sponge from where he was. Besides, that kind of glue could only be cleaned with dissolvent. He wasn't sure he wanted to have any on his arm.
He only had a few minutes before supper was ready. He had to hurry.
"My dearest", he called softly. "I know I have been a bad child, but may I ask for one last tool in order to make the place all beautiful like you like it?"
"Of course!" The Joker answered. "What do you need?"
"A pair of scissors, if you will let me."
"But you might hurt yourself! No, no, no. No way."
"But my clothes are glued, I can't clean like that! I need to get out of them."
"Alright", the Joker agreed. "I'll cut them for you."
And that's what Tim had been afraid of. On the other hand, he wouldn't be cooking dinner at the same time?
The Joker arrived with a big smile. And a butcher knife.
Tim fought back a terrified moan.
"Come on now, don't move. This is delicate work."
Tim didn't even dare to blink. The knife's blade slid against his chest, between his shirt's tails. A quick movement of the wrist, and the first button was cut out. Tim's body wanted to shudder, but he couldn't, if he did so too much…
The blade slid down – snip, another button – then down – snip, snip, snip – and the shirt was open. Tim took a breath. So far, so good.
Instead than going back up for the sleeves, the Joker let the blade slid on one side to snip the first brace then, slowly, on the other side – snip. The knife went back at the center, right below his navel.
Tim's heart was racing. One movement and his bowels would cover the floor. The Joker was a good fighter with any weapon but knives were is best ones. He could gut and cut and stick anyone with elegance, while dancing the waltz.
The blade threaded its way under his waistband, under the fabric of his pants, cold against his skin. Tim trembled; he couldn't help it. The Joker smiled, mean and satisfied. For a second, Tim thought that was it.
Then the blade cut the fabric with a creek.
Tim realized he had started to pant at some point. He focused to calm his breathing. Everything was fine. The Joker was only cutting his clothes off. Alright, even when he tried to relativize it sounded creepy at best.
The blade caressed his skin, getting his attention back to it. It was lacerating the fabric, down his right leg, point down. It didn't quite cut his skin but still scratched it in retaliation for his lack of assiduity. Tim bit his lower lip.
The blade reached the end of the leg after what felt like an eternity. Then, deliberately, it slid against his skin back up to his waist – only to take care of the other leg, just as slowly.
It was almost done. His right arm hadn't been caught in the blast and was already free, which was why Tim had asked for scissor in the first place: he would have been able to cut his other limbs free without too much contortions. His left arm, though, was glued well enough. He had rolled his sleeves neatly because he had been a bit hot so his forearm's skin was stuck directly to the ground.
The Joker didn't waste time for that one. He just gripped Tim's collar with one hand and cut the sleeve open properly, not touching the skin anymore, as if suddenly bored.
"Here we are!" he declared. "Now I hope you're ready to scrub!
Tim got out of his torn clothes, feeling silly in shoes, socks and underwear. His left arm still glued, he managed to kneel and grab the sponge and the bucket. As he had thought, it didn't contain water but a greenish substance most often seen in cartoons than in real life.
That's when he realized he didn't have gloves.
He glanced at the Joker, busy in the kitchen. He had done this on purpose. Of course he had. Well, he could still ask for something more.
"May I have gloves?"
"You need help for this, you need help for that", the Joker pouted. "Will you ask me to clean your mess so you don't have to?"
That was a warning: clean or I'll find worse. But still… Tim really didn't want to put his hand in that. At least the thing was cold. He dropped the sponge in it. It didn't seem to melt. So at least it didn't attack synthetic fabrics. Right. Tim felt dubious. But he didn't have much of a choice.
He tried to put just the tip of a finger in the unidentified green fluid. It sting but not overwhelmingly so. Tim sighed and took the sponge to start scrubbing the floor. He started far from his glued arm, to check if his other hand didn't start to hurt after a while.
Since it didn't, he decided he needed more mobility and carefully cleaned around his immobilized limb, then detached it little by little. It hurt: the skin was well taken into the glue, he had to leave some superficial skin behind. He wished he had some disinfectant and just hoped the product given by the Joker wasn't too toxic.
Of course, he was still busy when the Joker called him for dinner.
"It's ready! Aw, and you are not done. No dinner for bad children!"
"I am sorry", Tim said, not really hungry if it meant more candies anyway. He hoped he would get something else to eat soon. "May I prepare for the night, then?"
"Shower first", the Joker answered, pouting. "And don't try to go to bed as long as you're not all neat! I will check!"
Tim didn't wait for him to change his mind and hurried to the first floor. His stomach was growling, wanting something substantial to digest. He felt tired and hyperaware both with all this sugar. Maybe tomorrow he'll try to convince the Joker to give him some bread, at least…
He removed what little clothes he had left and entered the shower, turning the water on – then yelped. It stung! And the water was green. It was, Tim realized, the same fluid he had used to clean the floor! His first movement was to get out of the shower, then he remembered what the Joker had said. He would check.
This was his punishment for disobeying.
Tim trembled at the idea of what this could do to him. Then trembled even more because of what the whole situation could do to him, if it kept going. Where was Bruce? Or Dick? Or Jason? Or even Lex Luthor? He needed to get out of there, and soon. He had never felt that threatened when he had been abducted by Luthor. On the contrary: he had been nervous about his freedom but never feared to be hurt.
Now… Now, every day was a mystery, and no news was a good one.
Tim took a deep breath and started cleaning. He had to be patient. Someone would be there to save him, very soon.
sososo
"We still don't have any idea where Tim is or even who kidnapped him."
Bruce's sentence echoed in the Batcave. Jason felt helpless, a sensation he never liked and wasn't used to feel anymore. He could handle himself, he could fight super-powered villains, he could even handle Lex's damn accounting.
He should be able to find his missing brother.
But he failed to do so, even with Mercy's help, Lex's resources and Bruce's brain. Everyone had been put to the task and what they found was – nothing. Which actually meant a lot, because not so many people were able to mess with Batman in Batman's own town. But knowing as much wasn't enough: they had too many enemies. Moreover, a simple thug might have gotten lucky. Though it was unlikely, Tim could be dead since the beginning instead than missing and his murdered having played with their heads by putting his tracker on a cat. Or this could be a new foe entirely.
The point being, they had no idea of what happened. That was driving Jason crazy.
And not only Jason. Bruce was brooding, Dick had lost his smile and Damian was smirking. The brat. Jason only managed to do so much not to smack his smug face. Which got him wondering how Bruce had stood himself for so long when he was a teenager. Not that Jason wasn't anymore, just, he didn't live there anymore, and Lex wasn't exactly the average kind of guy.
Anyway. Damian's mood affected Bruce as well, which was otherwise dangerous and made him even harsher. Even Dick seemed to lose his patience more often than he should.
"The volunteer are starting to tire", Bruce continued. "We might have to start considering Tim as possibly dead."
Damian's smile widened. Jason jumped on his feet.
"You're kidding me, ain't you? He was possibly dead since the beginning, no one will stop looking!"
"Jason", Dick tried.
"Do not 'Jason' me! He might still be alive! It's only been a month!"
A month was forever, in abducting cases, he knew. Most people would be dead. But Tim wasn't most people, Tim was Robin and Tim was his brother and even if he was dead, Jason would find out who did this so he could fucking end him.
"We aren't stopping", Bruce confirmed. "But we will keep going by ourselves. The League and the Titans cannot afford to provide help for much longer."
"Fine", Jason spat. "I don't care. We will still find him."
"We will. Nightwing and I. You might want to go back to Metropolis."
Damian was positively glowing. Jason didn't have time to loose with his puerility, though. He had enough to handle with his father's.
"Say that again", he answered, his tone dangerous.
"What Bruce is trying to say isn't that he thinks you will leave", Dick translated, "but that he thinks you should."
"Why would I possibly stop helping?"
"I want one of my sons safe."
The smile dropped from Damian's face. Even Jason couldn't pretend not to be affected by Bruce's sudden declaration. It meant, all together, that he was still his son – the dude was masochist –, that he cared about him and that he felt Jason would be safe with Lex.
"I can defend myself, you know", Jason pointed out anyway, but in a non-belligerent tone.
"I know. I don't pretend to always be rational."
Dick put a hand on Bruce's shoulder, soppily supportive. Well, since it was one of the first times Jason heard Bruce say something outright, maybe he was right to be.
Which was the only reason why he stopped to consider this. Bruce had let him go back to Lex while he hated him, even though he thought it was a horrible idea, just because Jason asked him to. Maybe he should reciprocate.
And maybe pigs would learn to fly, someday.
"I'm staying", Jason said. "I'll help from the cave if you want, I know you're not comfortable about me being on the roofs. For your information, neither is Lex. But I'm not leaving Gotham without any lead about Tim."
Bruce and Dick exchanged a glance. 'I told you so', didn't-say Dick. 'I still had to try', didn't-answer Bruce.
Damian wrinkled his nose, unable to follow the silent conversation. The brat had a lot to learn yet.
"You will be on console duty from now on", Bruce confirmed. "I will keep investigating on Tim's abduction full time while Dick handles Gotham's everyday crime. I will still be his backup if needed, of course."
They had talked about this before bringing it to him, Jason realized. Well. They were partners in real life too, now, after all. Parents often did shit like this to their children.
"Should I call you mom?" he asked to Dick.
"Jackass. And I, too, can handle myself, Bruce."
"I know."
"Jackass it is, then", Jason noted.
Dick tried to glare, but his eyes were sparkling. At last! Without Tim there to do the job, Jason was a poor replacement. He hadn't even been good at this when he had been Robin. Now, it felt contrived. But hey, someone had to try – and Damian sure wasn't up to the task, however much he wanted to be Robin himself. Despite his skill he was still way too young and didn't understand what the title meant at all. For the moment.
It would have been great to see him learn by watching Tim, Jason thought with a twinge of regret. Then he realized he had just thought that like Tim was dead and felt angry at himself. As long as they didn't have proof, he was alive, and that was the end of it.
"If you stay in the cave for long, people will wonder what happened to Batman", Jason pointed out, trying to fool his own thoughts.
"Dick will be there."
"Nightwing isn't the same."
"I didn't mean he would be as Nightwing."
Dick's eyes widened. Ah, so they still weren't at their best as far as communication was concerned.
"What? No!" he said.
Then Jason saw the realization hit Damian as well. The brat didn't say anything – he was starting to know better – but the incredulity on his face said a story all by itself. Jason smirked.
"I am not wearing the cowl!" Dick protested. "I'm not Batman and I will never be."
"I'm not asking you to be Batman."
"Yes, you are!"
Jason grabbed the brat's arm and dragged him to the stairs.
"Let's leave them alone."
"You shall not order me around!" Damian protested.
"Do you want to see how they're going to settle the problem?"
Damian's mouth clapped shut. Everyone knew Bruce and Dick were together because everyone had stumbled upon them fucking at some point, sometimes 'in the most incongruous places' as Alfred had put it. Like the Batmobile. Or Bruce's desk at the manor. Or Clark's bed at the JLA – Jason was still trying to get the footage of that one, just to see Clark's face when he'd realize. And maybe to find out how that had started exactly, too.
"I thought so. Let's train a bit in the garden, okay?"
Damian didn't quite brighten – he was above things as plebian as showing his emotions – but had a mean smirk.
"Prepare to be vanquished, Todd."
"Yeah, yeah, I like you too, little brother."
Thankfully, they already had reached the library when Jason said that because Damian froze. Jason closed the wall with the clock. This needed to be a private conversation.
He raised an eyebrow.
"Are you going to protest or what?"
Damian frowned.
"I don't need to. You know we are not of the same blood."
"But you are of Bruce's, aren't you, dimwit?" Jason mocked. "And he adopted me, so we're brothers. I didn't take the name because Jason Wayne sounded conceit."
He thought Damian would have known as much but, from the face he was pulling, the kid hadn't realized him being adopted by Bruce meant they were from the same family. Of course, that only lasted for a second: Damian wouldn't get caught surprised if he found Santa Claus robbing the kitchen on Easter Eve.
"I knew that!" he said.
"Of course you did." Jason tousled his hair. "So. You, me, fighting outside?"
"I can take you anytime!"
Jason grinned.
"Then prove it."
The brat jumped, ready to kick his ass or die trying. Jason dodged to grip him by the back of his collar.
"Not inside, we would make Alfred sad. Come on, to the gardens!"
He ignored the brat's mutters in Arabic, most probably insults he wasn't meant to understand anyway, and dragged him along. The kid still had a lot to learn, he'd thought earlier. It was time to start teaching him.
sososo
Tim was cleaning his hands, and his face, and everything but it wasn't going away. He had woke up in the morning with white spots on his skin. There were everywhere but especially on his hands and shoulders. He wasn't supposed to shower in the morning so he had had to wait the evening to finally wash it away. He had felt it scratch the whole day, though that probably was his imagination.
But still, his skin had white spots. It was becoming white, porcelain white!
This was because of the green product.
Objectively, Tim knew it only had attacked his skin superficially. Scrubbing it wouldn't accelerate the process, it just had to grow and it would be back in his original state. But he couldn't help himself: he had to make it go away. He had to, because he knew what that perfectly white skin looked like and he didn't want it, he couldn't possibly tolerate it.
This product had to be the one the Joker drowned into. The one that made him the Joker in the first place.
But it hadn't been boiling when Tim had touched it, Tim tried to rationalize. And he didn't drowned in it. It was superficial, surely. More than surely. It was. The Joker was just playing with his head.
Tim swallowed. He had to make ready for bedtime or he would be labeled as a bad child again. If that meant more showering in this… No. Just… no. He couldn't take it.
He still kept scrubbing until the Joker called.
"Are you ready?"
"I need one more minute, if I might?"
"Alright, but no more than a one!"
Tim closed his eyes. When he opened them, he still was in the silly 50th-like bathroom and his hands were still white. He took a deep breath, thought about his training, Bruce, his brothers, even that little rat of Damian, and started dressing for the night.
A minute later, he was in his bedroom. The Joker was waiting.
"Nice little boy! Shall we read some book before sleeping tonight?"
"I would like that", Tim admitted.
Not that he enjoyed any tale the Joker would tell, but he was bored. Even time spent with him was better than time spent alone with his own thought.
Which was much more dangerous to think than when it had been Luthor. But Tim couldn't help it: his thought were circling around, needing information to process, needing anything to occupy them. He didn't deal well with having nothing at all to do.
"Very well. Manacles first."
Tim pulled a face but laid down. The Joker bound his wrists at the head of the bed. That rule had been established the other day when Tim had tried to get in the living room while the Joker was away. Another had been the disappearing of the cleaning gorilla: his bedroom was still there but it had disappeared from view.
"Here, all settled. You ready?"
Tim nodded.
"Once upon a time, there was a man with a big mouth and a man with big eyes. They both had a garden. It was important, then, you see? Because they needed it to grow candies!"
The Joker actually had a book, with images in it. He showed them to Tim like at a little boy.
"Here came a demon, who proposed them to make a deal", the Joker kept reading. Or inventing, Tim wasn't sure. "'No way', the man with the big eyes said. 'Sure, let's make that deal', the man with the big mouth said."
Why could he not read something normal? Like, the last discoveries in any science field? No, it had to be a tale. And Tim was sure it wouldn't end well.
"The man with a big mouth grew a wonderful garden, full of candies trees. The man with the big eyes was hungry because he was very poor and had no sugar to eat."
The Joker showed him images again. There were indeed two characters on the book. Tim wondered where it came from. It wasn't written in English, he realized. It titled "Velkooký, Velkoústý", which seemed to come from Eastern Europe. But which country? And could the Joker read it or was he inventing?
"The man with a big mouth had much fun. He ate sugar every day and enjoyed himself. Then his garden started dying. He didn't see it, because he was eating and eating and eating! But the garden died. So the man with a big mouth cried, because it wouldn't grow up again. And he said 'I shouldn't have made a deal with the demon!' What do you think happened to the other man, Timmie?"
Tim winced. He didn't really want to participate to this. But well, he had asked for it, really.
"He managed to grow his own garden now that the demon is gone?" he guessed, knowing that wasn't the correct answer.
"No!" The Joker said, unsurprisingly. "The man with big eyes dies from hunger. He was crying too, saying 'I should have made a deal with the demon!' The end! So what do you think? Did you enjoy it?"
There was only one answer to that.
"Yes, I did. Thank you for reading it to me."
"I'm glad you did! We should do this again, sometime. Sleep well now, baby one."
He turned off the light and left, leaving Tim alone in the dark.
sososo
Tim woke up with a punch to the face. He gasped, tried to block the next one – the remembered he was tied to his bed. Panicking, he kicked his blankets away, hoping to shield himself with his legs.
Then he realized the thug who hit him was wearing Batman's mask.
He froze. That was of course a bad idea: he got a second punch to the stomach, which took all air from his lungs, then another in the face, on the other cheek. It wasn't Bruce, of course. He didn't punch half strong enough, for a start. But still… To see his mask used in such a way… It made Tim sick.
Then he was hit in the stomach again, and remembered there were more important things to handle right now. He tried to kick his enemy off him but, while lying, he lacked speed to make his blows effective. They still annoyed the guy who tried to hit his legs to make him stop. Tim only tried harder.
The guy backed up for a second, looking around. He saw something on the desk's chair where Tim had left his clothes after changing for the night and grabbed it.
The braces.
"Stop!" Tim tried, struggling. "Please, stop!"
He kicked and begged, but the thug didn't stop. He caught his legs, one then the other, and tied them together so he couldn't move anymore. Then, he smirked, looking at him. Tim felt so helpless and scared, and angry at himself. He should have found a way to get him! Dick would have; Jason would have. They wouldn't cry on their failures. And yet, he felt his eyes watering with tears.
The man slapped him on the face. Grabbing his hair, he put his head back straight, then slapped again. And again. And again. Tim was crying now. He knew this would go on until the man was tired of it, and he couldn't do anything to stop him.
He was right.
sososo
A noise waked him. It took a few seconds for Tim to realize it was someone calling him.
"Good morning sunshine! How are you feeling today, baby of mine, mh? Well I hope!"
Tim shuddered. It was the Joker. He came every morning since he started tying him up during the night – he had to, otherwise Tim wouldn't be able to get up, and the Joker was very strict on daily routine – but Tim had hoped he wouldn't be there today.
Was it even the morning? Was it the tomorrow of… that night?
The Joker slapped his arm gently. Tim moaned. He was tired and hurting.
"Aw, I hope I didn't harm you? Come on, you have to wake up! What do you say when you wake up?"
"Good morning", Tim managed to articulate.
The manacles opened, freeing his wrists at last. He pulled them against his chest, curling into a ball reflexively. He didn't want to get up. He didn't want to eat more candy.
A hand played with his hair, gently.
"Did you have a nightmare? You can tell me, if you like. You can tell me everything. What happened?"
Tim shuddered, not answering. His wrists were blue with bruises. He had tried to get free several time during the night. He had almost dislocated his thumb.
"That bad a nightmare, mh? I'm sure it won't last. The day is there, now! Get a shower and we'll have a nice breakfast."
Tim didn't want breakfast and he didn't want to play nice with the Joker! He just wanted to stay in bed and cry some more like the baby he was. He could feel no real damage had been done to his body, but it was still bruised everywhere. His lips had been cut at some point; he could feel the crust on it and taste blood in his mouth.
He wanted to go back to sleep.
"I'll make it a treat", the Joker continued. "What about bacon and eggs?"
Tim raised his head. Real food? The Joker laughed.
"Yes! I knew you'd like it. Let's make today special! You'll also have vegetable, meat and potatoes at lunch and dinner, what about that? But only if you get up now!"
This was… basic manipulation, Tim realized. But it still worked. He was feeling ravenous after so many days eating only sugar, especially now that he was so tired physically.
He wanted to do what the Joker was asking. This was very, very bad. He had to control this or that wouldn't end well.
"What kind of meat?" he asked in a complaining voice.
"What would you like?"
"I want beef! A steak? With potatoes and peas!"
"Alright. Now get up, time to go to the bathroom."
Tim forced his body up. He managed to sit, hurting but whole. He had nothing broken, probably no internal damage. He could get up. He just had to try. He pushed on his trembling legs, leaning against the wall. The Joker put a hand on his back to help him.
"There. It's the very next room."
Tim nodded and took the first step. His body slowly became suppler while he walked, rusty but working. The hand was removed before he reached the bathroom; he heard the Joker head back downstairs.
The shower first made things worse. All the little cuts hurt like hell under the water and it was even worse with the soap. But when he was done, he turned it hotter, and it became bliss on his rigid muscles.
He smelled the odor of bacon. He didn't dare to hope. This probably was another trick. It was going to be under glass instead than on the table or something. He was still salivating at the only thought of meat and that got him out of the shower.
Then he saw himself in the mirror and startled. He was bruised everywhere. His ribs, his arms and especially his face were covered with contusions. Moreover, besides the white spots fading on his skin, he was livid, dark rings under his eyes, and visibly famished. There better be meat and vegetable in the next few days.
But he couldn't waste time thinking about that right now; he was already late. He dressed quickly and combed his hair – if he didn't, he was punished – then made sure his clothes were pristine before going downstairs to join the Joker for breakfast.
There really was bacon and eggs, and even a toast. Tim sat down, still not believing those would made it to his mouth, much less his stomach. The Joker was grinning.
"Are you sure you want some?"
"Yes, please", Tim answered, not daring to raise his voice.
Bacon, eggs and toast were served in his plate. He thanked the Joker politely and waited for him to start eating. Then he took the first bite himself. It was delicious. Real food! Even if it was only breakfast, it tasted like paradise. He ate slowly – he was also punished if he was too quick or took too much food in his mouth. No one stopped him. The food didn't start walking away. The table didn't disappear in front of him.
He was feeling stupidly grateful for the damn bacon when the Joker had been the one to deprive him in the first place. Human's brain was really strange.
He pushed the thought away and finished eating, savoring each little bite of meat.
sososo
There were no words to express how much Dick hated the damn cape. It restricted his movements, physically and figuratively. While wearing it, he couldn't move like he wanted, he couldn't smile, he couldn't joke, he couldn't jump as he should, he had to be the goddamn Batman and he hated it.
To say he had secretly hoped to become Batman when he was a kid… It had been a long, long time ago, back when he hadn't realized only ten years separated him from Bruce. For him to become Batman meant Bruce would be too badly hurt to go on. When he had realized that much, he stopped hoping instantly.
Even later, he'd realized Batman was Bruce. Not the whole of him, but still tailor-made to fit him, his needs, the mission as he saw it. It wasn't a costume meant for Dick. Some reflexes that were natural to Bruce were for Dick too hard a weight for him to carry.
Dick jumped to the next roof, gritting his teeth. Jason would have made a much better Batman, given time. He was stronger, closer to Bruce is some aspects. He would have been able to fit the role without it weighting heavy on him. Of course, he would have had to control his anger first, but… Well. It wasn't happening now, Jason being mostly out of the roofs.
Tim… Tim would have made a wonderful Batman too. He was yet too fragile, but, as an adult…
Dick pushed those thought away to grapple a gargoyle. He crouched on it, looming over the city. Being Batman didn't have only disadvantages. But still.
"Playing the big bad Batman, birdie?" Jason's voice mocked in the com.
"What is current status?" Dick growled.
Jason laughed as an answer, unimpressed.
"No warning sent for the last hour."
Forewarned Gothamite, he didn't add any silly comment about the night probably being over. They both had learnt that nothing was certain until patrol was done. And even then, there was always the possibility of an emergency.
"Then please keep the communication to a minimum", Dick answered.
"Ah, don't start. You're as bored as I am. And I can hear you swear about the cape from the Cave."
"It's heavy!" Dick complained before he could stop himself.
Jason laughed again. In the background, Dick heard Damian protest.
"I should be the one wearing it! I am worthy and I wouldn't complain!"
"No one get to be Batman before hitting twenty, so don't even try", Jason said.
"I could manage!"
"You're eight."
"You not having been skilled enough at that age doesn't mean I am not."
Dick smiled secretly. It felt good to hear the little birds bickering. That's what Robin was about: to remind Batman what he was fighting for.
Tim's absence was a constant ache. If at least he had him at his side, laughing, playing… Maybe then he would be able to stand the cape. But Tim not being there was the exact reason why he was wearing this costume in the first place.
"I am not skilled enough now", Jason was answering. "And you've lost all our battles so far. So don't even try to deny it."
Damian grumbled, not daring to protest. He had learnt not to, since Jason was one to prove his point given the opportunity. Saying he was stronger meant starting a new fight, which Jason would undoubtedly win.
This behavior annoyed most people but it worked wonders on Damian. It also had the great advantage that since Jason respected Dick as a best fighter while himself being better than Damian, the kid reluctantly started to listen to him, too. Dick still didn't see him becoming a Robin anytime soon, but they were getting closer.
That was, if Talia would give them enough time. She had dropped Damian on Bruce to distract him from her plans, which had worked very effectively, especially with Tim going missing shortly later. Dick didn't doubt that when she would be done with them, though, she would want her son back.
"Shooting near the courthouse", Jason suddenly declared. "Apparently, it's just the mob getting nervous, but it's near one of Cobblepot's lairs so…"
"On my way. ETA ten minutes", Dick said, grappling to get enough speed to start gliding.
"Batgirl is closer. Dispatching?"
"She only needs to intervene if the situation degenerates before I get there."
"She ain't going to like that."
Dick didn't answer.
"Alright", Jason sighed. "You're the boss. But it ain't you she's going to shriek on."
"Didn't L. cure you of that turn of phrase?"
The com link was shut down with a raging click. Dick grinned. No one could see him when he was gliding in the shadows of Gotham's sky, anyway.
sososo
It was hard to be sure, without natural light, but Tim thought his skin was recovering. He turned his arm so the lamp would reflect better on it. Yes, it was getting slightly pink again. Of course, without sun, it wasn't going to become much better, especially since he had a very white skin to begin with – he always envied Dick's healthy darker tone.
He slid down the skin, where he had climbed upon in order to get closer to the light bulb. Then he took his comb and did his hair. He was starting to hate the perfect parting imposed by the Joker. If he was nice enough, perhaps instead than a meal he could ask for a free hair style? No, that was stupid. He had to take care of his most basic needs first. Balanced food was the most important of those for the moment. He had managed to get one of those meals per week now and the Joker had promised he would get one per day if he kept behaving.
Not trying to escape felt horrible, though. He couldn't help but to consider himself weak and incompetent. He should be able to look for the exit while not being caught.
Maybe… Maybe tomorrow he would try again. But if he failed, that would mean losing the food and probably get punished again. Tim shuddered. He had to try anyway. If he didn't, he would never get out.
He froze at the thought. He was going to be freed! Very soon! Bruce was looking for him, he knew. Even a faked dead wouldn't work this time. He would never, ever stop looking! Batman needed a Robin. And Bruce needed his family to be safe. Tim had only been adopted four months ago and had been captive for three of those but he was still part of the family.
Wasn't he?
No. He couldn't doubt Bruce. Bruce was the strongest man he knew.
But he was still going to try getting out of there tomorrow. To send a signal, if not to freed himself. If only he could get past that door…
Tim shuddered at the idea of what was expecting him when he'd fail. If, if he'd fail, he corrected by rote. More acid showers, or something even more horrible…
He couldn't wait for the next day. He had to try it now.
He got downstairs and took a look at the clock which hung on the hall's wall. It wasn't always giving the correct hour but it did, most of the time. It gave the same estimation as Tim's internal clock, which said he had a solid hour before the Joker would be back.
Tim quickly went back upstairs, to the Joker's room, where he had hidden the few tools he'd managed to steal or make – it was the least obvious place where to have a cache and the only one where he hadn't found any cameras so of course he had chosen it. There, he had a knife – which he hadn't used on the Joker because he wasn't desperate enough to fight him with his weapon of choice yet –, a fork, two nails he had keened on the sink's metal pipes and a paper clip. That would have to do.
He took everything but one of the nails: better to keep something for later in the case he didn't manage to get away. Then, he went back downstairs and started to work.
Last time, he had had the time to see what had triggered the glue trap and started by disabling that. His hands were trembling but he didn't stop until he was sure it couldn't hurt him anymore. Then, he started working on the lock.
He wasn't very good at this kind of work. He remembered Jason mocking him, calling him a rich boy, during the few weeks they had been able to live normally together. Jason had had incentive to learn how to open doors, back when he had lived in the streets, Tim had understood on that occasion. He himself only started doing this when he had become Robin, years later.
He wished he had had more time. He tried to remember Jason's advices but opening a reinforced door was really, really hard, especially without his utility belt. He still kept trying. He had looked everywhere else and there was no exit. He had checked if the wall sounded hollow, he had moved the furniture – after having marked its exact place in order to put it back precisely where it had been, of course – and the frames. He had controlled the fake windows and the fake front door in case the walls had been thinner there.
There was no exit. It had to be in the living room.
So Tim kept working on the lock. He didn't dare to look at the clock, though he knew the hour was passing. His brain was counting the ticking seconds in the background, even though he tried to concentrate exclusively on his work. To bolt just a bit on the left – two thousand and forty-six, two thousand and forty-seven – and now on the right – two thousand and forty-eight, two thousand and forty-nine.
Then it reached three thousand. Then four. Then five. At that point, Tim checked the clock, just in case he had miscalculated – but no. It had been an hour and twenty three minutes since he'd started. And the Joker wasn't back yet. He should probably stop. Wait for him to come back and continue the next day.
Tim collected his tools and went upstairs to put them back in the cache. Then, he sat at his desk to read a bit. The Joker always left behind the books he had read him during bedtime. Sometimes, they contained more than the unique tale he had told, so Tim could kill some time by reading them. Of course, they were all gruesome.
The one he was on now was a collection of Oscar Wilde short stories. The Joker had read him 'The Nightingale and the rose' which thought a lesson about despair and life's meaningless – or so Tim had understood it. The other stories weren't much better. Tim read them nonetheless, too bored to care.
When he turned the page to realize it was the last one, he blinked. The book only had sixty-four pages. He could read an average of a hundred pages by hour but here, the characters were big so he couldn't have taken more than half an hour – but still. The Joker was late.
He put the book back on his shelve, which counted now forty-six novels, one by bedtime story. Then, he quickly went to the bathroom to check his hair – still neat – and went back downstairs. After a dozen steps, he froze on the last one.
There was a trail with food next to the living room door. The plate was still steaming hot. And the door was closed.
"No", Tim moaned. "No, no…"
He had triggered the alarm. The Joker knew he had tried to leave. And he was punishing him by leaving him there. Alone.
"No!" Tim shrieked.
He punched the living room door, not caring about hurting himself. He drummed against it, begging.
"No, please, come back! I'll be nice! Please, please!"
He didn't care he was being weak, he didn't care he had proven to be incompetent. He just couldn't stay there alone!
"Please", he sobbed, sliding against the door to the ground, on his knees. "I'll be good. I promise."
No one answered.
sososo
The clock's seconds didn't beat on rhythm, Tim noticed for the first time. It never entirely missed one, nor did it tick on exactly a half-beat. It was just that close to be on rhythm but wasn't.
It was absolutely maddening.
Tim stayed put anyway. It was almost lunch time. The Joker didn't seem to want him to starve since he had given him food, real one even, not just candies. So he was going to come to give him lunch. There hadn't been dinner the previous night; Tim had spent it at the door, pleading and drumming on it. He only had gone back upstairs at five, exhausted. But when he had woken up, breakfast had been waiting for him.
He concluded the Joker would be there for lunch. Wouldn't he? He would. He surely would. There were only five minutes, seventeen seconds left. Which meant three hundred seventeen seconds. Only three hundred and nine, now. Three hundred and eight.
That damn clock had been out of rhythm again! Twice! Tim took a deep breath. It was only a clock. He only had to ignore it. While counting the seconds, but he could do this. He had trained with Bruce, had learnt meditating techniques. He could do this.
Two hundred and ninety-six.
He was almost there. One full day of waiting. That must be enough. Wasn't it? He had even tried to clean his dishes in the bathroom's sink. The water had been greenish and had stung, but he had. Wasn't he being nice?
Two hundred and ninety-two. Two hundred and ninety-one.
He couldn't just keep counting. But what else could he do to occupy himself? He had tried to read in the morning but hadn't managed to concentrate on the pages. He knew them by heart, having read them all once or even twice – an eidetic memory wasn't being the best gift right now. Moreover, he kept his ears open, looking for any sound announcing the Joker's return.
How pathetic was that? Waiting for his jailor. He was shaming Robin's title. No. It was perfectly normal. Humans were gregarious creatures. He needed to see someone. The Joker was playing with this need. Tim had to fight it.
Two hundred and seventy-four.
Tim took a deep breath. Again. He went back upstairs, counting the steps – thirteen – then checked the Joker's bedroom. Then his. The bathroom. The toilet. He opened all the drawers of his desk, one my one, meticulously. Nothing had been moved, of course. But it killed time. He went back to the Joker's room, at the other end of the corridor. It took nine steps – it was a short corridor.
One hundred forty-seven, and this wasn't working. He didn't manage to keep his mind away from the time.
What if he was miscounting? Tim suddenly realized. He rushed downstairs, all thought about distracting himself forgotten. But the trail still only presented the clean plate he had put back there. Good. If he had missed him…
He sat down and kept counting. The two last minutes felt like hours. Then, of course, when he reached zero, nothing happened. This wasn't like the New Year; it didn't happen on an exact schedule. Maybe it should. No; of course not. A meal could be given at a specific time but never to the second or people would go mad.
Was he becoming mad? Tim's heart rate increased. He probably was, a bit. Which was entirely normal, under the circumstances. He just had to be aware of it, not to let it spiral out of control. He had been there for four months and two days, which was about… a hundred and twenty-four days, or seven thousand, four hundred forty hours, or… No. He wasn't going to translated that into minutes or seconds. Especially not seconds.
(Two minutes, fifty-six seconds late, his traitorous mind whispered.)
Stop. No need to count nor to listen to the damn clock which kept being out of rhythm irregularly! He had to breathe. Calm down. Meditate. And wait. Food was coming and with it, someone.
So he waited.
And waited.
One hour later, he was close to tears. No one had come. He was sitting there alone on the stairs. He couldn't take this. He just – couldn't.
He sobbed, just one, little sob. Then he just started crying. If he was in the Joker's place, he would be watching his cameras' recordings, to see his prisoner cry. The Joker would love it. He would laugh and applaud and ask for encore! Encore!
Tim didn't know if he wanted him to be happy or if he wanted him not to like seeing him like this. He was too tired, physically and emotionally, to care. So he just kept crying. He rolled on a ball, to gather warmth. Maybe he would need a blanket. He was going to take one from his bed and to come back there to wait.
He gathered his strength to get up and climb the stairs. When he arrived to his bed, he couldn't find it in him to go back down though so he just laid there. One hour, seven minutes, thirty-seven seconds after the meal should have been served, he fell asleep.
sososo
He woke up to find out dinner had been served. It was already cold but still waiting for him. Tim was starting to understand: he was to be fed, but not to see anyone. Since someone had to bring the food, he wouldn't get any if he kept waiting at the door.
Which meant he had six hours to try to open the damn door.
He put himself to work, determined not to stop until half an hour before breakfast. Then he would go back upstairs and wait for it to be served, eat, and keep working. There was no way this lock could resist him for long!
sososo
He had gone to bed an hours before breakfast and had fallen asleep again. Then he had overslept, of course, after having been awake for a whole night. A cold breakfast had been waiting for him nonetheless, as expected. He ate then started working on the lock again.
The water had been green in the shower so he hadn't clean. Who cared anyway?
He had two hours left before lunch and work to do.
sososo
He went upstairs for half an hour, ate lunch, then worked on the lock.
sososo
Dinner, working on the lock.
sososo
Breakfast, the same.
sososo
He probably had broken the lock. Though it kept opening for the trail to give food. So maybe it wasn't broken.
It still wasn't opening.
sososo
This was the fourth day. He wasn't good enough. The lock wasn't opening.
Tim fought back the despair and kept trying.
sososo
Five days.
sososo
Six.
sososo
The trail had still been empty in the seventh morning. The door was never going to open again.
sososo sososo
Ending notes:
The tale "Velkooký, Velkoústý" comes from the Manga "Monster". I totally recommand the manga in its whole; this tale particularly stroke me.