{the inquisitive kitten}
-In order that a human toy should succeed, he must be taken early-
At a very young age, Tim Drake had to learn what it was to be alone. He never minded too much. He had books, and television, and video games, and a nanny that was only there to make sure he had food, but otherwise was half-invisible. He tried not to feel too lonely. In fact, the only time he felt truly alone was when his parents were home.
It had been Christmas. And Tim was alone.
He'd fallen asleep clutching a card from his parents, who were in Amsterdam for one reason or another. Tim had to tack off Amsterdam on the map in his room, standing on tip toes to reach it— yet another place he had to go that his parents had visited without him.
One day, he thought, staring upon his wall with big, wondering eyes. One day I'll see it all, and they'll be stuck at home with postcards and vague reminders that I love them. Tim loved his parents so much it hurt. It hurt, because he wasn't sure if they loved him too. And he was bitter, so bitter that he never answered their letters, and sometimes he'd let the phone ring when he knew it was them calling.
Christmas, and he'd been asleep on the couch. Mrs. Mac had helped him buy the tree, but he'd been the one to decorate it. The ornaments were things he'd bought by himself, bulbs of red and gold, a few Mickey Mouses and a Sherlock Holmes and an obscure pokemon that he couldn't even recall the name of, but it was so cool, he'd just gotten it for the fun of it.
Tim was a light sleeper. So when he heard shuffling across the carpet of his living room, he cracked an eye open. The room was dimly lit except the fire, which was still alive and crackling. It was an electric fireplace. The Christmas tree twinkled brightly, and he smiled a little at the sight of it. He had made his own Christmas cookies, and Mrs. Mac had supervised that too. She'd even eaten one, and complimented his baking! Tim had left out a plate of them, and a glass of milk for her, but he knew she wouldn't eat them. She was careful to keep her distance from Tim, and he wasn't sure why.
He looked at the table, and saw the plate was empty, and the glass was a good quarter of the way filled, almost completely drained. He blinked sleepily, confusion settling into his mind as he realized someone else was in the room. He sat up groggily, his mouth falling open at the sight of a slender figure leaning over the fireplace, reaching upward. The portrait that usually sat there was sitting on the ground beside her, and Tim could see her fingers flying against the lock of the safe.
A thief, he realized, straightening in surprise. Fear pricked him, a short sting before giddiness settled in his chest. She's trying to steal from us. It was the most exciting thing to happen to him all year. He stared at her, watching her shoulders hunch, clad in a tight black suit that hugged her every curve. It was cowled, a two little points at the top of her head making her look like… well…
He slipped off the couch as quietly as he could. She seemed to be too focused on the safe to notice. And he stepped closer to her, cocking his head curiously. He knew what was in the safe. A necklace of his mother's, an antique pocket watch of his great grandfather's, made of gold, and maybe some cash, but Tim wasn't really certain how much.
It's not like his parents checked the safe, though.
"The code is zero-six-one-nine-nine-five," Tim said, watching her body go rigid, and whirl around to face him. She had goggles on her forehead, but he could see her face, shadowy as it was. She looked young, with a pretty, oval shaped face. Her eyes were wide and green, and her mouth parted. She looked like someone who had just been caught stealing.
She blinked at him, and glanced back at the safe. She gave him a short, curious look, and turned around, her gloved fingers flashing fast against the numbers. The safe gave a soft click, and opened. Tim couldn't even find it in himself to feel guilty. After all, who would know? It would be a year, maybe more, before anyone actually thought to check the safe. And he would plead ignorance to any sort of crime. Because he was bitter, and it was Christmas, and at least one person in the room would get what they wanted.
"Huh," said the woman, reaching into the safe and withdrawing the pretty jeweled necklace. It was beaded with very tiny freshwater pearls, crochet lace framing its intricate pattern, silver gleaming through around the emerald pendant. It was some sort of heirloom. Tim didn't really care. He'd never seen his mother even touch it before. The woman looked back at him, and she gave him a soft, genuine smile. "Thanks, kitten. You always help the jewel thieves that wander in?"
Tim shrugged, feeling a little nervous to speak to her. He didn't want her to think he was stupid. He understood well what he was doing, letting her steal from the safe. I just don't care, he thought. "You're the only one so far," he admitted to her. "And, besides, I'm not going to stop you by myself. I'm just a kid." He smiled up at her sweetly, and she looked surprised.
"Well," she purred, pocketing the necklace. "Aren't you the sweetest thing?"
He shrugged, glancing at the plate on the table. "Did you like the cookies?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
She smiled even wider, her green eyes twinkling brighter than the emerald she had stolen. "They were delicious," she said, wiping a few crumbs from the corner of her lips. "Just as sweet as you, I think. Just melted right in my mouth." Tim knew she was amused by him. He didn't care about that either. He actually felt a lot of pride, a rush of warmth to know that someone approved, that someone cared, and he smiled back at her.
"I made them," he said.
Her eyebrows rose. "Well," she said, "aren't you a talented little thing?"
"You can have the rest, if you want," Tim said. "I'm not a big cookie person, and there's no one else around to eat them."
The woman blinked. She glanced around, and her smile fell a little. "Do…" She looked a little troubled, and she pressed her red lips together firmly as she studied him. "Do you live alone, kitten?"
He shrugged again. "My parents travel a lot," he said nonchalantly. "So, yeah, I guess. They're not supposed to come back for another month, and then they're leaving again for Sydney… and then Amsterdam again, I think, and then Brazil, and then St. Petersburg— well, you get the picture." Tim had memorized their flight plans for the next year. He was certain they didn't even recall that they were going on so many trips. "No one is going to miss that stuff, least of all me. Seriously, you should take the cookies, because I don't want to throw them away, and if Mrs. Mac finds out I went to Crime Alley just to hand out stuff at the homeless shelter again, I think she might kill me."
Her eyes were soft now, no longer quite so amused. She glanced at the safe, and plucked out the watch and a wad of cash, stashing it, and then closing the safe. "Why the hell not," she said, smirking down at him. She carefully put the painting back before he led her to the kitchen.
"So," she said, munching on a sugar cookie in the shape of a bat. He noticed she liked those, despite the fact that he'd used the Halloween cookie cutters when he'd ran out of Christmas ones. "What's your name, kitten?"
"Tim," he said, leaning over the countertop with his chin in his hands. "What's yours?"
"Shh." She pressed her hands to her lips. "It's a secret."
"I'll find out," he said, leaning back in his seat. She looked a little surprised, and she popped the rest of the cookie in her mouth, smirking.
She swallowed, and laughed. "You sound pretty confident," she said, tapping her chin with the silver claw of attached to her gloves. "Why are you so sure?"
You're not as inconspicuous as you think you are, Tim thought, smiling as he shrugged. And I can catch you.
"I just think I will," he said honestly. "Why are you so sure I won't?"
"Oh," she said, hopping off the chair. "I'm not. In fact, I'm looking forward to it." She winked, and snagged another cookie from the plate, waving it at him. "Maybe you can bake for me."
"It's like, the only thing I can bake," Tim said. "But okay then."
The woman smiled, and reached over, mussing his hair gently. He blinked, his eyes widening a little. He felt warm, incredibly warm, and unbearably startled by the affection. She stepped back, wandering toward the window. "See you, kiddo," she said, popping the cookie in her mouth.
"Merry Christmas," Tim replied faintly, waving at her. That made her pause, halfway out of the window, and she looked at him as if she'd forgotten the day. Her eyes flashed, and she quickly slipped out the window, disappearing into the night.
It took Tim three months to track her down. He spent the majority of his nights sneaking out, trying to catch a glimpse of Catwoman, whose name began to surface in the newspapers. He took pictures discreetly, but he always managed to lose her before she went home. He just wanted her name, he didn't care about anything else. Even when Tim saw her kissing Batman, he found that he wasn't that surprised. He just wanted her name, and he was determined to figure it out.
Selina Kyle. She was a woman no one would expect to be a master thief, living in a sort of ratty apartment building, and she had cats always coming in and out of her perpetually open window. After knowing her name, Tim realized he had no idea what else to do. He'd done it. He knew where Catwoman lived, and he knew her name. Now what?
Tim was too shy to actually bother her, so he went home, and stopped stalking the thief. It did occur to him that he should turn her in, and he might have. If she hadn't been so nice to him, he would have. But Tim was desperate for some semblance of affection, and she'd given it to him. How could he repay that with jail?
Thoughts of Catwoman were behind Tim, and instead he focused on Batman. He kept up his nightly endeavors, but less often now that he didn't have a goal. Batman was really, really cool, but way more slippery than Catwoman had been. Tim had trouble catching him in the act of being out, let alone actually snap a photo of him. Tim had been nine when his sidekick showed up, and that had been so exciting, he'd stayed out all night trying to catch sight of the Boy Wonder.
And he did! But, like, by accident. Totally by accident. It was actually super embarrassing.
He'd been crouching on a fire escape, his peering through the bars down below as Batman and Blue Jay fought a bunch of thugs, so fluid and strong, never faltering. Catwoman was like that too, but she never really used force. She knew how to, she just didn't. Tim admired that.
It had been stupid on his part, he had to admit it, but a thug had gotten away from them, and Blue Jay had gone after him. Tim had just wanted a closer look. So he'd clambered across the fire escape, sliding himself through the bars of a balcony, and he peered through the rusty bars, gripping them tightly. He gave an involuntary squeak as they gave way, shuddering and twisting. He shrieked, his body weight sending the bars tipping forward as they budged free, and he felt his stomach lurch as he fell with them twisting and gasping in midair, the rusty bars biting into his palms as he gripped them tightly. He held on so tight, he could feel is hands begin to bleed, and his arms were aching from the shock of the entirety of his weight hanging from them. He kicked blindly, his breathing heavy and rasping and panicked. Oh god, he thought, eyes wide. Oh. Oh this is it.
He screamed as the bar snapped completely, and he went tumbling down, his body sailing through the air. For the slightest moment, it was almost fun. But only for a moment, and then he felt pure terror rush back, and he squeezed his eyes shut in the anticipation of impact.
He did hit something. A little softer than expected but not much.
"Oof!" the Boy Wonder grunted, his body splayed against the asphalt. Tim had skinned his knees and hands, but otherwise the boy had broken his fall. He flushed in embarrassment, and he gasped as the boy sat up and shoved him hard. Tim rolled off his stomach, feeling awful and stupid.
"Shit!" swore the boy. Tim's eyes widened. "He got away!"
Tim opened his mouth to choke out an apology, watching the boy jump to his feet, looking around wildly with his masked eyes. Blue Jay was a lot taller than Tim, and way better built. He wore a sleeveless, deep sapphire jerkin that buttoned all the way up to his neck, and a cape was clasped at his shoulders. When he spun around, Tim saw that the cape split at his back into two long streams of melting silver and onyx, and stitched into the back of his jerkin, over his shoulder blades were bronze wings, embroidered skillfully into the thick fabric.
"Damn it," Blue Jay muttered, running blue accented gloves through his hair. He glanced at Tim, and he sighed, stepping toward him. In panic, Tim scrambled back, eyes wide and shocked.
"Hey," the Boy Wonder said, throwing his hands into the air. "I ain't gonna hurt you. You okay?"
Tim opened his mouth, but he couldn't find his voice. Instead he nodded vigorously, his cheeks aflame. The late spring night made him feel hot and sticky, and he needed to get home to wash his cuts out before the nanny saw and actually did something about his nightly habits.
"Kay," said Blue Jay, looking toward where the thug had run off. "Good." He sounded distant, and he waved his hand at the building, not looking at Tim. "This your apartment?"
Tim stared at him, eyes growing so wide they began to hurt. He looked up, and squeaked out, "Y-yes!"
Blue Jay gave him a thumbs up, and moved forward, never giving him a second glance. "Okay, cool, get inside! It's dangerous out here!"
Tim watched his back as he left, the image of the bronze wings emblazoned on the boy's back burning into his mind.
Later that year, Commissioner Gordon came to his door. Tim had answered, blinking up at the man in surprise. He invited him in, feeling confused and nervous. What had he done? Oh no, what if he knows about Catwoman? But that was stupid. How could he? Tim had never spoken to anyone about her.
"Um," Tim said awkwardly, leading Gordon to the living room. He bit his lip, and looked up at the man. "You can sit if you want. I… I can make um, coffee, or…?" Tim wasn't even sure if the house had coffee. "Or tea." He knew there was tea somewhere.
Commissioner Gordon looked down at him, his eyes looking heavy. He took a deep breath, and he took off his glasses, wiping them on his long brown coat. "I think it might be best if you sit," Gordon said quietly. Tim swallowed, his heart sinking.
He sat quickly, looking up at the man with wide eyes. Gordon looked around, and he put his glasses back on. "Timothy—"
"Tim," he corrected.
"Tim," Gordon said, his voice very quiet. "Is there… anyone who looks after you? While your parents are away?"
Tim shifted nervously in his seat. "Uh," he said. "There's Mrs. Mac. My nanny. "
"Your nanny," Gordon said. "And where is she?"
Tim pursed his lips, and shrugged. Gordon looked down at Tim, and his face was sad and disappointed and ashamed. He sighed, and sat down across from him, pulling the chair so he was just close enough to Tim, but not to make him uncomfortable. Maybe she got in trouble, Tim thought. He wouldn't be surprised. He didn't really know Mrs. Mac that well.
"Tim," Gordon said, bowing his head. His mustache twitched a little as he opened his mouth and closed it. "Do you know where your parents are right now?"
Tim's heart sank further into his chest. "They're… supposed to be in Brazil right now. They're coming home in a week." Just missing Tim's birthday, which was in two days.
Gordon studied Tim with sad eyes, and anxiety stung at him, a horrible thought occurring to him. "Tim," Gordon said, taking his hand. "They left Brazil twelve hours ago. We were only just notified, but there was… there was a storm. The plane went down." Gordon squeezed Tim's hand, but Tim didn't feel it. He felt numb. His words sounded like white noise in his head. "They… their bodies were recovered, and are on their way here. I… I know it means nothing to you right now, son, but I'm sorry."
"Oh," Tim said. He felt dizzy. "Thank you."
And then he drew back, shaking the man's hand away. He stared up at Gordon, and his shoulders began to tremble. He clamped his hands over his mouth, muffling a sob, and turning his face away from the man. When he reached for Tim, he jumped to his feet, slipping his grasp and bolting from the room. He felt shameful and guilty, and most of all, he felt empty. He didn't even know why he was crying. All he knew was that he couldn't stop, and he couldn't breathe, and what did this mean now? What was he supposed to do? Would it be so different from before with his parents gone? He didn't know.
It ended up being much, much worse than he could have ever imagined.
His nanny wasn't an adequate guardian. And his parents, smart as they were, had neglected to put into their will what to do if Tim didn't have anyone after their deaths. Sure, he could have his inheritance. In eight years. Until then, he was stuck. And Gotham's legal system did not favor children who were stuck.
The first foster home was okay. But there were too many kids, too many mouths to feed, and so he had to be let go. The second was absolute torture. Tim was picked on relentlessly, judged for how quiet he was, how weak he looked, how rich his parents had been. Tim locked himself away inside himself, and he wished he could go home, wished and wished and wished, but there was an emptiness inside of him that grew and grew each day. He was a walking, talking machine, and when the other kids beat on him, he just turned himself off.
Until it wasn't the kids beating on him anymore.
Tim hadn't been doing anything wrong. He had just been the first one in sight. And Mr. Rheyne, well he'd been a little too drunk, and Tim had tried to tell him that the broken window had been a kid on the street, not one of them, but— well?
It hurt worse than any beating he had ever gotten. And truth be told, that wasn't many. He had never really been bullied in school, just sort of ignored. The kids here beat him, but that was small. Bloody lips, skinned knees, scratches, bite marks, bruises. Tim had learned his share, and by the time Mr. Rheyne had grabbed him by his hair and yanked him into the basement, none of the kids picked on him too much anymore. Tim had gotten stronger, and fought back. And then they left him alone. They even sort of liked him now, calling him by his name instead of prissy boy, or skinny. One of the younger girls had taken to calling him kitty, and when he'd asked why, she'd said it was because he was so quiet and smart, he was like a big kitten. It made him sad.
"Please!" Tim gasped, stumbling away from the man as he turned on the light. The basement was small, and there was a lot of junk gathered in boxes. The ground was concrete, and Tim looked around, but there were no windows, only another door. It was small, child sized. A crawlspace, maybe. "I haven't done anything!"
Mr. Rheyne was not a bad man. In fact, sometimes he could be very nice. Once he'd taken all the kids out for dinner after getting a big bonus at work, and on Christmas he'd made sure they'd all gotten presents, and that they'd all liked them. Mrs. Rheyne was a bit more pleasant, and she'd cooked for them, and for once none of the other kids complained about being hungry, and beat each other up, and it had been really, really nice, like having a real family.
A fist connected with his cheek, and he gasped, crashing into a pile of boxes. His cheek throbbed, and his head was spinning. He'd never been hit that hard before. He could feel the bruise forming already when the man picked him up by his collar, and throttled him.
"Ya think it's funny?" the man snarled, spittle hitting Tim's face, running down his cheek. The man's breath reeked of alcohol, and he smelled like smoke and beer and sweat. Tim's eyes stung with tears. "Breaking shit? Do you know…" The man's breath caught, and he slurred. "Do you know how much it costs to fix a window?"
"I… I didn't—!" Tim cried, shrieking as he was thrown to the ground, his forehead smacking against the concrete. The pain split through his skull, and he choked on a sob, blinded momentarily by tears and the throbbing of his head. "P-please, I—"
The blows came faster then. Tim spat blood, twisting and kicking. That only got him angrier. Tim gasped, sinking into himself as a fist crashed down, and he was blind to it all, vainly trying to curl up, curl away, curl into himself and make the pain go away. Again and again and again, he felt the impact, and he felt his nose crunch felt his lip burst open, felt his right eye begin to swell. The world was growing hazy, and he could no longer plead.
He stopped only to prop Tim up against a box. He slapped him, and grabbed his chin, forcing him to stare up at the man. "You broke the window," the man breathed. "Did you? Did you break it? Did you?"
"No," Tim mumbled, his fat lip preventing him for speaking properly. He could barely manage to shake his head, it felt so heavy and it all hurt, everything hurt, and he just wanted to go up to his bed and sleep and never wake up. "No… not me— not— no…"
"Who?" Mr. Rheyne's eyes were lazy, dazed, and glassy. He was so drunk, Tim was sure he didn't know what he was doing. "What… little bastard—" he wheezed, and slurred some more, his voice low and breathy. "Who did it?"
Tim's eyes grew wide, and that hurt. "I…" His mouth dropped open. "I don't…" Blood filled his mouth, and he couldn't speak. It was all gurgles and strangled mewling.
The man's eyes flashed with anger. His nostrils flared, and he unbuckled his belt, pulling at it. Tim stared, breathing heavily. Oh no, he thought numbly. The man jerked a shaky finger at him, standing unsteadily. "Shirt," he snapped, his voice low and muffled. Tim stared at him some more, not budging a muscle. Maybe if he froze, the man would forget he was there. Fall asleep. Please, please, stop, please. "Take off your goddamn shirt!"
He did. He felt chilly, the nippy winter air leaking into the poorly insulated basement. It bit at his naked skin, and he hugged his shirt to his chest, blood dripping onto it, staining it dark. Mr. Rheyne tore it from his fingers and tossed it aside. Tim couldn't help but give a slight, pitiful whimper as he was grabbed by the arm, and thrown to his hands and knees, his bony back bare to the man.
The first lash was a sharp sting of pain. The second was searing. And by the third, he cried out, pain and despair causing him to buckle. By the tenth lash, the sharp crack of the belt tore open his skin, and Tim screamed loud enough to wake the dead, collapsing. He didn't even have the energy to sob. He was silent as tears trailed down his bruised, bloody cheeks, and he was too weak to cry out when he was yanked roughly up by the arms.
He felt himself being dragged across the floor, his back leaving bloody streaks behind him. He regained some semblance of lucidity as Mr. Rheyne yanked open the door to the crawlspace. Tim let out a faint shriek, and he pulled at his arms weakly, gasping and twisting despite the shudder of agony.
"No," he pleaded, blood spilling from his mouth. The tears weren't stopping, and he choked, weeping freely. "Please, you… no, please, you can't, you—!" Tim's tiny body was shoved into the dark little space, and his forehead slammed against a support beam. Dust fell into his eyes, and the tears blinded him. The ground was soft and mushy beneath him. His vision cleared only slightly, and he sat on his hands and knees, Mr. Rheyne only a silhouette in the dim light. He looked up, his eyes big and gleaming and terrified. "Please!" he begged one last time.
The door slammed shut, and he was stuck in total darkness.
He'd passed out from the pain soon after, but not without trying to find a way out first. His fingers had gotten tangled in spider webs, and he was pretty sure he'd gotten bitten by a few. He shuddered, feeling things crawling across him, legs skittering across his bare skin in the dark. He awoke, and they were still there tickling his cheeks, spinning webs in his hair. Hours and hours and hours passed, and it was growing harder to breathe, and his stomach was growling, and he slammed his palm against the door, or maybe it wasn't the door, maybe it was something else, and it was so dark, so dark, he didn't know anymore.
He felt his leg snag once, and he thought someone was in there with him. He thought he saw a face in the darkness, a great white face with a big, snarling grin, and he shrieked and thrashed, feeling himself being yanked back, but he wasn't. Hours passed. He passed out again. He awoke, and the spiders skittered across his body, fast legs against his skin. His muscles were cramping. His wounds were aflame. And his stomach was aching so badly, he plucked a spider from his arm, feeling for it blindly, squished it between his fingers, and swallowed it whole. It tasted sticky and bitter, like blood and sour paste.
The silence was deafening. He couldn't stand it. He heard things that weren't there, he made things up, and he was so terrified, so lost and confused, he couldn't even move around to bang on the door anymore. He heard scratching in the dark. He was laying on his stomach, everything in him throbbing with pain. The scratching turned to a soft crying noise. It wasn't Tim. Tim had no tears left. His voice had left him long ago. And he stared into the darkness.
A pair of sharp green eyes stared back.
Tim screamed. He rolled onto his side, trying to kick away from the awful eyes that glowed, but he couldn't. He was stuck, and he gasped, not much air left for him, and he closed his eyes. Why is this happening? I don't understand, what did I do wrong? Do I deserve this? I have to deserve this, somehow, I have to, it just… it's not fair, I want to live, I want to live!
The beast mewed. It mewed. And Tim's breath caught as he felt soft, warm fur rub up against his stomach. He heard purring, and felt a paw on his leg. A cat, he thought, his heartbeat slowing to normal. Just a cat, oh god.
And then another thought struck him. How did it get in here? It was his ticket out. His eyes widened, and he felt a spark of hope. He struggled onto his knees, and he felt along the walls, his fingers getting caught between boards. He felt the cat beside him, pawing at his pants. He didn't know how he was struggling on his knees, but he was. He felt lightheaded, dizziness and nausea creeping at him, and his head was pounding, but he kept searching. He felt a gap between boards. He bent down, and he stuck his hand through. His fingertips dragged across something long and thick and gnarled, like dewy hair. Grass, he thought, feeling giddy with shock and adrenaline. The crawlspace was at an incline, and he'd crawled up. He could feel it now.
He took a deep breath. He braced his back against the boards behind him. What he was going to do next could potentially kill him. But he found he didn't care. If it caved, it wasn't like anyone was coming for him anyway. He was as good as dead already. He took a deep breath, feeling a little sick from the spider he'd eaten. He ignored it, and he kicked. He kicked hard, and he kicked again, and again, and he felt the wood give. He kicked with everything in him, every ounce of strength he had. And it broke.
He slid forward, his body wriggling through the gap faster than he thought possible, and he grasped the support beam to fling himself into the frigid Gotham night. His back fell against the grasp, and he heaved, gasping and rasping, breathing in the cool fresh air. Everything was still black. Did I go blind, he thought frantically. He was still heaving, tears coming to his eyes again. He hurt all over, and he was crying, and he still felt as though there were spiders all over him. But he laughed. He was laughing, tears running down his cheeks, and he blinked dazedly as he listened to the crawlspace cave in behind him. His heart hammered in his chest, and he laughed some more.
He saw the moon. The sight of it made him cry some more. He was weak, but he was smart. If I stay here, I'll just get beaten again, he thought. I'll die if I stay. It was a struggle to get to his feet. But he did. He saw something bolt past him, and he saw that it was the cat. It paused to look up at him, green eyes glowing in the darkness. Tim stared at it, and he bit his bloody lip, watching it run away from him.
He stumbled forward, his legs nearly giving out beneath him. Saying the first step was the hardest was a lie. But after it, he felt the need to keep going. A little farther, he told himself, moving as fast as he possibly could. And then I'll rest. He didn't rest. He didn't stop. He kept walking, feeling like a zombie wandering through the streets. But he knew Gotham. And he found himself standing outside that stupid, ratty apartment building by the time dawn broke, drawing trickles of light across the smoggy Gotham skyline.
He didn't know what he was doing there. He could have gone to the police. He had enough proof on his person to suggest child abuse, and he could show the caved in crawlspace. But then, if he went to the police, who was to say he wouldn't be put into another foster home? And this one could be worse. He knew there were good foster homes, and he wished with all his heart that he could believe in them right now, but after what he'd just been through? He couldn't do it. He couldn't go back to that sort of hell.
Tim found Selina Kyle's name next to a pale button. He pressed it, and it buzzed. The sound was piercing to Tim, and he coughed, scratching at his skin until it began to peel. He felt as though there were something crawling under his skin. For all he knew, there could be. He bit his lip as he waited, winter air long numbing him. He felt sick. Cold. Dead, almost, but survival was in sight. He just needed a place to sleep. That's all, and she would have to let him, she owed him after all.
He knew it was a stupid, childish hope that a thief would shelter him. It was all he had left, though.
He pressed the buzzer again, and waited, wincing at the sound. This time, she answered, her voice groggy and sharp. "It's six in the morning," she snapped, and Tim squeaked, nearly spinning and running. He might have, if he hadn't been so weak. "Who the hell is ringing me?"
His voice seemed to have left him. He pressed his finger to the buzzer again, and he breathed heavily. He didn't know what to say. His mind was cloudy, and his head was throbbing, and he thought he might cry again. Tim looked up at the sun steadily rising, and he shook, eyes widening a little bit. He choked on his words, and all that came out was a soft mewing sound.
Selina paused for a moment, before she said in deadpan, "I'm going to sleep."
"No!" Tim gasped, lurching forward and pressing the buzzer again and again. "No, please, don't go!"
The pause was even longer this time, and it killed him. "Who is this?" she asked slowly.
He took big gulps of air as he tried to calm himself, but he was close to breaking down. He was close to passing out. "Tim," he breathed. "My name is Tim, please, I have nowhere else to go, and I p-promise I—" He choked on blood, and fumbled over his fat lip. "I won't bother you, I'll be gone before you know it, I just need a place to stay right now, a-and then you… you can send me away if you want, just please— my name is Tim Drake, and you… you stole from my house once, please, I gave you cookies, I— I just need…" He began to sob, and he dropped to his knees, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He curled up on the stoop, his breath unfurling in the freezing winter air.
The door whipped open, and Tim looked up, blinking profusely as he saw the woman stand there, her sharp green eyes drinking in the sight of him. The cat had green eyes too, he thought. Perhaps that had been what drove him to come to her. She looked disgruntled, her short black hair swirling around her forehead in wisps, and her clothes were only half on, her large tee shirt hanging off one shoulder, and he saw she wasn't wearing pants, just panties. He flushed, and through the pounding of his head he managed to feel guilty for troubling her so early.
"What…" Selina Kyle looked at him, and he could see she was horrified. "What happened to you?"
Tim stared up at her, and he felt ashamed. "My… I…" He began to cry again, and she dropped to her knees before him, hushing him softly.
"No, shh," she whispered, scooping him into her arms. He gasped, twisting away from her as her fingertips brushed the long, bloody whip marks on his back. "Hush, kitten, I remember you. It's going to be okay."
He was out cold before they even got through the entryway.
Note: Amazingly enough I wasn't even tempted to do a Joker Junior plotline for Tim. Which, you know, for me? I guess it's just less fun if Tim was never Robin to taint.
Keep in mind I don't write Selina often. Actually, this might have been the first I've ever written of her. Once again, credit to Victor Hugo for the quote.
