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5 flavors, 13 gummies, but 7 strawberry
7 strawberry, 3 orange, 2 raspberry, and 1 grape
Where are the peaches?
Where is Tim?
With a deep breath out, the boy eats the grape gummy.
Strawberry, Raspberry, Orange
He's fine, the boy thinks to himself. He's safe
He's locked in the bathroom as another package of food slides out from under the door.
Fruit leather, it reads.
He doesn't remember ever having one of these, but it's apple-flavored. It's probably alright.
The boy runs his nails across the plastic, checking for slips or tears, and finds nothing of note. He stuffs it in his coat pocket for later and shoves the rest of the fruit snacks in his mouth.
He's safe, he thinks as the sugar sticks to his teeth. Kass is safe and outside the door.
The boy has locked himself in the bathroom, but Poison Ivy is locked out.
With another steadying breath, he stands up and moves. The boy avoids the mirror, not wanting to see how he looks. The beanie is scratchy and old. If he didn't think about the dark wool, however, it could be mistaken for hair. If he doesn't look, it could be alright.
The boy feels like a puzzle right now. A theory without a hint of proof. Schrodinger's hostage situation, if you will. His hair is neither black nor green; his skin neither healthy nor bleached; his name neither Tim nor…
The boy sits on the edge of the tub, facing the doorknob, taking a bit of a break. He's setting boundaries. That's good, and Harley said so. Kass said so too, so he's safe.
He wishes he didn't have to think about it so much, but the boy's a natural detective. He's also anxious. It's a whole thing, and it's only gotten worse.
He needed time to cool down. Ivy won't hurt him. She doesn't hurt children, so she doesn't hurt Robin. Not much. She won't hurt him.
Kass waits till he's ready, probably wondering if she should grab more food to shove under the door. It's alright. The boy's ready. He won't be going to the living room; he's not brave enough for that. He'll go for a walk instead. That's healthy, right?
Still chewing on the mouthful of gummies, the boy yanks on the sides of his scratchy old hat and walks to the lock on the knob. A deep breath of air. Harley and Ivy are friends, and Harley promised it would be alright. It will be fine. The boy will be fine.
Flicking the lock, he opens the door. Kass glances up at him, offering a small smile and a mock salute as a greeting. Even though they already had dinner, she's eating fruit snacks too, a small pile of raspberry gummies in hand. The boy wonders why food is her answer to anxiety. Then he remembers it's none of his business. He's going to go for a walk.
"It's a trauma thing," Harley had said when the boy wanted to sleep on the fire escape that first night. "I'll grab some blankets so we can set up the couch too, but picking where you sleep and what you eat is important, 'kay?"
That's what this was, right? He chose to be in the bathroom, so that's a trauma thing. He decided to go on a walk, so that's a trauma thing. Staying here was a trauma thing. It doesn't matter if he fired that gun. It doesn't matter if he's never Tim again.
The boy walks down the hall toward the bedrooms, curling his fingers together as his stomach twists in worry.
It's a trauma thing, he's sure of it, but that doesn't stop the questions. They bounce around and clash together, and he doesn't know what he wants to be answered. He doesn't know what to do.
2 eyes, 1 nose, 1 mouth
Green hair, bleached skin, perfect teeth
What is he?
What's in the box?
- - - - -
The fire escape barely squeaked as the boy stepped out onto it, but just that single second of noise had him wincing. Harley was busy with their house guest, but if Kass saw him with a scarf over his mouth and gloves on his hands, the jig would be up five times over. Sending another glance into the apartment, the kid slid the window shut and trusted it to be unlocked when he returned.
It was rather silly, the boy thought to himself, to put his fate in the hands of a window lock. If the window did happen to be locked, he would be free. If it wasn't, he would go back inside and get back to the routine. That's what always happened when Papa was home; Junior never made mistakes so long as he followed the rules, and there was no rule against where Junior could and could not sleep. If Junior chose to sleep across town, Mama wouldn't stop him. If the boy decided to leave, Harley didn't have the right. Tim spent plenty of time traversing the cityscape as a kid, so a little late-night exploration is just par for the course. Whatever happened upon his return would be best left in the future, he decided, pulling the scarf snugly against his face and beginning to climb down.
The wool fibers brushed against the boy's mouth as he climbed, each step against the rain-dampened metal causing a smile to grow. The few lights around cast a halogen glow upon the streets, gleaming across puddles and twinkling in broken glass. It was beautiful. JJ's foot slipped across the metal as he made his way down, shoe squeaking and dropping from under him, but with both hands still grasping the wrought iron railings, he barely moved an inch.
It felt… great. Something exciting bubbles in the boy's very blood as he slides down the rain-slicked fire ladder. It was adrenaline, euphoria, and magic, so familiar and so him. He landed in one of Gotham's many grimy puddles with a great splash!
In his sudden bout of courage, the boy giggled and tittered and trotted down the alleyway. His face tucked in that bright red scarf, hands shaking with anticipation, it all felt strangely natural. This was exactly what he needed to clear his head. Sure, he was missing the mask or the camera or the silly little tie. He was comfortable, though. Without the idea of Tim, Junior, or even Robin to direct his actions, the boy realized something he hadn't on the few other nights he'd done this.
This was him, broken down to his purest traits. Curious, audacious, clever, and maybe just a little bit childish, but it's all him. No masks, no hiding, and no lying. Not even to himself. What was that thing from the home videos? The "greatest hits" ones. Oh, right!
"The only sensible way to live in this world," the boy repeats to himself in a funny voice, "is without rules." The words feel funny on his tongue as the boy laughs to himself. As if that monster lived without rules. He made so many himself it could make a congressman's head spin!
Who did that clown think he was, running around without a hint of respect for his own ideals? Everyone has rules! Don't track mud on the carpet, Timothy; No junk food before dinner; Stop being such a baby; Don't talk to Jason; Don't talk about Jason; Batman doesn't kill.
Rules keep you alive. They tell you what to do; they tell you when to do it. They make you who you are when everything else fails.
Tim never liked math class, Junior never liked punishments, but it was never the rules that made him miserable. It was the people who made them. It was the people who rigged the bomb or pulled the lever or insisted on "just one more week, Sweetie, and then we'll be home." It was the rules meant to control him to make him complaisant in a world where he never even mattered.
Boxes and numbers and cages and rules. One bad day? It's a joke. A really sick one. An excuse to do whatever you want, as though it's "just what happens sometimes?" That clown bastard was no genius. There was no real meaning to any of it, no masterful payoff . The Joker was a fucking dunce who died at the hands of his own half-assed plan.
That's what the boy's problem with the Joker is. There was no substance to him; nothing but a two-bit wackjob lost in his own little game of Jekyll and Hyde. No shame, no remorse, and no character.
It'd be funny if it weren't so pathetic.
...
Oh, what the heck, he'll laugh anyway!
The boy shrieked with delight, his mirthful cackles echoing clearly through the haunted streets, carrying to hearth and hollow alike as the city began to stir.
- - - - -
Deep in Gotham's industrial district, our detective feels that stir reverberating within him. It had been over a month since his sidekick, his neighbor, his son, had gone missing. He followed every lead, worked through every puzzle, scoured the entire state of New Jersey for any sign of Timothy Drake. He was getting anxious, fearful. What would he find once he followed this trail to its end?
He was about to find out. He couldn't stand it. He wouldn't be able to stand it if this happened again.
A runaway boy, a warehouse, and Bruce Wayne. Stupid, helpless, idiotic Bruce Wayne. The Batman, whose greatest enemy was a warehouse door and a possibility. The chance to be ignorant, the choice to run, and the sound of a box coming open.