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[A/N: In this continuity, Tim’s parents never came home for Thanksgiving dinner, but Jack also didn’t call because they’re not in Gotham— they extended their trip at the last minute. Tim didn’t know this, so he waited up for them until like 11pm, then finally accepted that they weren’t coming, packed the food up, and went to bed]
It’s Tim’s fault, really.
If only he hadn’t been so blinded by what he’d wanted to hear that night, so willing to ignore the strangeness of his parents’ two a.m. arrival for the simple fact it meant they were home at all, he might have noticed just how heavy their footsteps sounded against the hardwood floor below. He might not have mistaken the sounds of furniture and boxes being dragged across the floor for the standard procession of cargo being wheeled inside, or the agitated voices floating up the stairs for his parents’ usual jetlagged squabbles.
Most of all, if he’d taken the half-second to grab his phone from the charging port beside his bed before he’d rushed out to greet them, he might have seen his dad’s email on the lock screen informing him of the last minute change of plans that meant they’d be embarking on a dig in Markovia, meaning their stop at home was no longer necessary.
But Tim hadn’t noticed any of these things.
Maybe it was grogginess, or naivety, or just the very last scraps of hope itself, but when Tim opened his bedroom door that night, the only thought running through his mind was, thank god they’re finally home.
Unfortunately for Tim, unlike the man in the dark hoodie frozen mid-step on the upper landing of the grand staircase across from him, his parents have never been the type to wear ski masks indoors.
Or to carry assault rifles, for that matter.
“Oh fuck,” the man—the robber, Tim’s brain supplies belatedly—breathes out. His eyes are wide and locked on the thirteen-year-old like a deer in the headlights. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you.” The words slip out of Tim’s mouth before he can stop them. He should probably be freaking out more with a gun aimed in his direction at point blank range, but all he’s feeling at the moment is dazed.
And also kind of betrayed.
But not by the robber.
“Fuck,” the man says again with an awkward, wet little chuckle. His gloved hands are trembling a little as he holds the gun. He looks scared. “Fuck, I really wish you weren’t here, kid.”
Tim’s starting to wish he wasn’t here either.
“Jesse?” another voice—older, gruffer—hollers from somewhere downstairs. There’s the sound of boxes being scooted across the floor, ceramic objects clinking against each other. “You say something?”
Even through the ski mask, Tim can see the first robber wince at the sound of his name, and that’s all it takes for the pieces to fall into place.
This is Jesse Russo—the ‘son’ part of ‘Russo & Sons Glass Repair.’ He’s one of the half-dozen or so contractors Tim’s parents had been ushering in and out of the mansion last month. Multiple times Tim had overheard Jack and Janet stressing to the workers the time crunch they were under and the need to get the repairs completed before their next trip abroad. He probably figured the house would be empty.
(Pretty ironic he picked the day they were supposed to come home.)
Without taking his eyes off Tim, Jesse lowers one hand from the gun to press against his lips, his glare communicating that if Tim makes a sound, he’s dead.
Tim takes the hint. He doesn’t move.
“Nah, not you. Some fucking cat ran by,” Jesse calls loudly back over his shoulder. “Scared the shit out of me.”
“Well if you see it again, shoot it,” the gruff voice grumbles. “Damn things always make me sneeze…”
The gun is still trained on Tim. Even with the way Jesse’s hands are shaking, it would be almost impossible for him to miss from this distance. He’s stuck.
“Turn around, slowly, and go back in the room,” Jesse orders in a whisper, inclining his head back in the direction of Tim’s bedroom. “No sudden movements, and no noise, or you’re dead. Got it?”
Tim isn’t entirely sure why Jesse is concealing him from the man Tim can only assume is the elder Russo, but he’s not about to question it. He follows Jesse’s orders.
Jesse closes the distance between them, pressing the barrel of his gun to the back of Tim’s neck. Tim’s stomach lurches at the feeling of cold metal against his spine.
“Walk,” Jesse growls.
What choice does Tim have with a gun held to his back? He walks.
The second they’ve both crossed the room’s threshold, Jesse shuts the door behind them.
“Alright, listen up,” he says in a hushed tone, and his voice cracks just a bit. He’s young, Tim thinks—late teens, or early twenties maybe. He isn’t sure if that makes this better or worse. “You listening, kid?”
“Yes,” Tim whispers tightly. He can see his phone sitting plugged in on the nightstand, but it might as well be miles away.
“Look, I’m not here to kill kids, alright? But that guy downstairs?” He pauses, his breath hitching. “Let’s just say he’s a little unpredictable. Especially if you catch him off guard. But I got a plan, so I need you to work with me here. You’re gonna work with me, yeah?”
Tim doesn’t really like the sound of this, but he nods anyway.
“Good.” There’s a relieved little exhale. “And for what it’s worth? I’m sorry, kid.”
Before Tim can work out exactly what that means, there’s a resounding thwack as something solid and metal slams into the back of Tim’s skull.
The next thing Tim knows, he’s being dragged across the floor by his ankles.
“–the fuck?” Jesse demands. He drops Tim, looking scandalized. “That was only like, ten seconds!”
Tim’s eyes go wide as Jesse swings the gun around again. “Wait don’t–”
He’s out with the second thwack.
Tim’s head is throbbing. He starts to let out a little groan, but the sound is muffled by some kind of cloth gag, and he snaps his eyes open in a panic.
He’s sitting on the floor of his bedroom closet. Jesse is kneeling in front of him, currently in the process of tying his hands and his feet together with what looks like the extension cord from Tim’s computer desk. He stares at Tim, clearly dumbfounded.
“Okay this is some bullshit,” Jesse declares. “Hollywood is lying, man. This whole knocking people out thing? It’s fucking difficult.”
Tim is tempted to retort that the knocking him out part seems to be working just fine, it’s only the keeping him out part that Jesse is struggling with.
(It’s probably for the best that Tim’s gagged at the moment.)
Jesse jerks his extension cord knot a little tighter, eliciting a muffled grunt from Tim. “Shh!” he hisses, slapping a hand over Tim’s gagged mouth. “Fucking hell, kid. Look, I don’t wanna keep whacking you ‘cus I’m pretty sure you’re gonna get brain damage after a while, and that kinda defeats the purpose of me saving your life, but if you keep making noise, you’re gonna get both our asses killed, you hear?”
Tim nods tightly. His head is swimming.
Jesse glances nervously over his shoulder, then back at Tim. “Alright, now I’m gonna barricade you in this closet and you’re not gonna make a fucking sound, got it? Once we’ve skipped town, I’ll contact your folks, leave ‘em an anonymous message to come find you. As long as you keep your trap shut, no harm, no foul.
“But I swear to god, kid, if you squeal, you’re gonna be sorry. We got connections, you hear me? All around this fucking city. And they’re not nearly as nice as me—I’m a fucking gentleman compared to some of these guys, alright?”
The stairs creak. “Jesse?” the gruff voice hollers, closer now.
Jesse’s eyes widen. “Fuck,” he hisses.
One more whack and Tim is out.
When Tim comes to, he doesn’t know where he is.
It’s dark, that’s for sure. Darker than his bedroom ever normally gets, what with all the various light-emitting electronic devices he has plugged in at any given moment. It’s also cramped—not even enough room to stretch his legs out fully before they touch the opposite wall. There are stacks of folded clothing surrounding him, and there’s a faint smell of lavender in the air from those sachet thingies Mrs. Mac always keeps in storage spaces.
My closet, Tim’s muddled brain finally deduces.
But why the heck is Tim in his closet?
Maybe he’s hiding from something? His closet was always his go-to spot whenever he’d play hide and seek with his parents when he was little. Well, more ‘hide’ and less ‘seek’—they were both terrible at finding him, even in the less than stellar spots he’d pick. He’d wait for hours sometimes.
Funny how his parents would always suggest that game on the days they were working from home...
God. It’d be much easier to think if only his head would stop hurting so much. He lifts a hand, intending to touch it to his temple, only to find that both his wrists have been tied together behind his back with some kind of cord. Now that’s just weird, why would he–
Break-in. Robbers. Gun.
Tim jolts upright with the sudden realization, then instantly regrets that when his head swims with white hot pain. Nausea hits him like a train and then his stomach is lurching up in his throat and that’s when the true panic sets in.
Because that’s the moment that Tim realizes he’s not just been bound.
He’s also been gagged.
The next minute or so is possibly the scariest of Tim’s life. He twists his body frantically, tugging at the cords as vomit shoots up the back of his throat with absolutely no where to go. He tries to swallow it back, but then he ends up sucking in a breath and then it’s game over. He’s choking, he can’t breathe, can’t cough, there’s no air, there’s no–
No. He’s not dying today. Not this way. He topples over onto his side, then kicks his legs frantically, using every inch of flexibility he has to thrust his back end and legs through his looped arms, bringing his hands in front. Tim’s lungs burn from lack of oxygen as he claws at the gag, ripping it from his mouth. It’s instantly followed by a coughing fit as Tim sucks in air and hacks up his dinner all over the floor.
He’s never been so grateful to throw up in his life.
By the time Tim’s gotten his breath back, dark spots are dancing in front of his eyes. The pressure in his skull has been ramped up at least five more notches and his ears are ringing. Everything is starting to feel really far away.
He starts to fade away again.
Time is a funny thing.
Tim knows that it’s passing. It has to be—that’s what time does, after all—but he has no way of confirming that fact. There’s no clock, no phone, no sun, no light... heck, there aren’t even meals to go by.
But there are the cracks in his lips. And the dry, sticky, swollen feeling in his tongue. And the ever increasing headache.
Godddd. The headache.
His parents have to be coming though, right? Their flight must’ve just gotten delayed or something, but they’ll get the next one. They always do.
He’ll be fine.
His parents should really be here by now, shouldn’t they?
...Where’s Tim again?