Chapter Text
Some things are meant to happen when others are not. Some things you can find the reason behind, other things – you find it's a lot harder to diagnose as ‘reasonable’ when presented with all other options. This, as unorthodox as it sounds, can quickly be related to marketing. You would like to sell something, but you must be just as willing to adjust as you are willing to step foot into a shoppers-market in the first place. Options are everything, options create what we can come to agree as being the fundamentals of what keeps humans sane. Everyone craves the option to be able to stand up or sit down, whether they articulate that idea themselves or just naturally uprise with the instincts of wanting as much. It’s not even up for debate that humans desire the rights to do what they believe they should be able to do. The possession of such rights does not mean anything, however, if another decides to blatantly ignore those rights in favor of their selfish wants.
Wants, as selfish as they seem to be, are just as strong, if not stronger than needs. You can do much with a need, but the idea that you require something is much less innovative than the idea of having a more flexible option; a want. Exponentially, people will be much more persuaded by their own wants rather than another's needs. It’s simply human nature. It’s disruptive, but the most you can do is set rules that specifically prohibit the act of doing so.
These rules -better known as laws- are still a choice to those of us who don’t care enough about the consequences to abide by them. How intimidating a thought it is, as well. The idea that one day, someone lacking the moral composure to stop themself could act against your humanistic rights to live in tranquility all because their want was too strong to ignore. Though it wasn’t a new tactic, it never made it any easier to deal with.
Meanly, the example a certain boy faces as of now.
His small, thin legs are planted on the rough material of the expensive couch. His pale skin is a stark contrast to the dark brown leather that the sofa is made of. With no blankets in sight, only two pillows relaxing on either end of the long furniture piece, he is left to shiver in the cold room. Not even wearing something warm, just the navy blue shorts and the white, short-sleeved polo shirt he had been handed to wear that day, his trembling isn’t so uncalled for. The TV is left on, though he doesn’t pay attention to it. It’s a simple news report – though it’s his only way of learning how things in the outside world are going, but he doesn’t care right now. It’s only the weather channel, anyway.
Plus, he’s too busy trying to figure out what tools he would need to break the chain attached to his cuffed wrist. It’s not an enigma he hasn’t already found an answer to, but it’s better to constantly think about rather than feeling utterly useless and just sitting there as he awaits his captor’s return home. Besides, it keeps his mind active, which is something he’s realized is useful in a dangerous domain such as the one he’s forced to reside in now. To keep one's mind active is the best way to keep oneself safe enough to continue on in the first place, otherwise translating to: don’t stop noticing everything or you’ll miss something that could get you killed. He wasn’t exactly taught much different throughout the last couple years. Well, to be fair, he wasn’t really taught any valuable life lessons aside from ‘don’t trust anyone because they might decide they like money more than you one day’ and that was, for now, enough life knowledge.
He swings his feet as he works, his toes barely scraping against the hard-wood floor boards. He’s always been shorter than the other children his age, below-average his mind would chastise - as if it were his fault and not his genes doing. He remembers, before he was taken, that it really bothered him. He can’t seem to find a reason to be annoyed by it now, especially considering it doesn’t affect him in any way anymore. There is nobody here to point it out, nobody around him with the qualms to mention it because, most importantly, there was nobody around him to begin with.
He had gone through the grievances that came with such a loss — he had understood that despite his struggles and pain, he could never truly feel nor grasp the feeling of another human being because the mere idea of it was so far away, why would it ever actually happen? It wouldn’t, and Tim had thought he could accept that. There was no use in fighting something that gave no leeway. That’s because of just that, as well, there is no leeway, so there is no way he could possibly leverage himself against someone and actually win. Because the only someone he had to truly fight was his singular captor, which he, quite frankly, could not do. Not just was it a mental battle of will, but also a physical one. In regard to his physical presence… let’s just say it wasn’t the most prominent of his traits.
The familiar sound of keys jingling knock him right out of his stupor. She’s home.
He turns quickly to stare at the grandfather clock sitting in the corner of the room. It’s just a minute after six PM. Getting distracted never worked out for him, he’s noticed, it literally only seems to cause him more injury, more mental distress. He’s, of course, thought about this, too. He’s also ideated a couple (wayyy more than a couple) plans on how to stop his brain from doing this, but it doesn’t actually do anything to simply think about these things. Especially if he doesn’t actually act on the thought to do it. As someone at some time said, easier said than done. And that really was true. The ideas he actually came up with weren’t necessarily the most possible things to even try. Starting with just not thinking about anything. To simply not think would be both very helpful (In the vaguest of ways) and very counterproductive, so that knocks that idea right out of the answer choices. Well, not only would it rush to secure an easy screw up -just the mere idea that he may, one day, slip up and say something out of character was enough to make him shiver- but it would also just make his captor more angry. He could foresee that much.
Scrambling to sit up with better posture, to lean against the back of the terribly expensive couch, and to put his arms at his sides, he switches the channel to something a child his age would probably enjoy, and he sits perfectly still, staring at the TV with perfectly acted out enjoyment. He’s gotten awfully good at acting since he’s been here.
“Hey, honey, I’m home!!” she calls to him, like he needs to be warned of his suffering before it actually happens (never mind the fact that he does know, he’s completely aware, painfully aware.)
The woman of his purest nightmares walks into the living room, seeming to scan the surroundings with her eyes – those terrible, terrible eyes. If he ever had the advantage over her, those would be what he got rid of first. He’s already fantasized, hypothesized, and planned out many ways to act on this evil ideation brewing beneath his skin. He hated those eyes more than anything. They were dark, as dark as he imagines hell itself to be. They were a dark brown shade with the ability to pull you in and hurt you over and over again. They were inescapable.
He still remembers when he was younger, when those eyes felt magnetic, and he was the metal that had the misfortune to be sucked in. He still remembers every moment when his own eyes would meet hers, like a game he didn’t want any part of. He was trapped here, and those watchful and degrading eyes were the bars that kept him imprisoned. Of course, he could only hope that one day he would find the key.
His fists clenched at his sides as he watched her warily, crescent-shaped imprints pulling at the skin of his palm with how hard he squeezed. If his nails weren’t so short, his skin would’ve broken, he’s sure of it. Perhaps his unhealthy habit of biting his nails really was useful, because she would hate for his blood to stain her precious furniture.
Her hair is let loose in a neat lob, the dark brown (yet somehow always lighter than those terrifying eyes) waves cascading just slightly below her shoulder-length. It’s well-groomed, and never unkempt. Or, at least, it’s never unkempt anymore, not after she finally got him.
She smiles, as if she were truly a friend and not a foe in this harmful situation, her eyes crinkling up at the corners. She looks insane, she always does. Perhaps it was that crazed look that enveloped him, but not him, that forced him to never look at her the way one would someone sane. Or perhaps it was because she was so discombobulating due to her consistency in disbelieving his true identity. He’s long since learned, after all, that he is not Tim Drake to her. No, he is someone else entirely, another being who he can never seem to comprehend enough to save him from her wrath.
“Hello, Chris,” she says with that calm smile, a pretender she was, and a pretender she wanted him to be. She walks over fluidly, bouncing in each step, her excitement to see him is palpable, as it always is. She sits down beside him and makes herself at home in the space he has long since lost entitlement to, wrapping an arm around his back, her long nails digging into his shoulder opposite from her.
He pushes down the familiar urge to push her away, to dirty his hands with her blood, to enact the revenge he craves so much, as he greets her back with enough bite in his voice that he feels eternally gleeful, but not enough to actually cause a problem.
“Hello, mother.”
. . .
The sky is rigid and the air is cold. The sun is sinking into the ocean from a distance, always unreachable in its ornate eccentricity. The yellow reflects off of the surface of the dark blue. The waves of the sea do their job as the yellow slowly disappears. To most it’s a new start, a new time, a second chance. To the moon, it’s an idea that’s unattainable.
. . .
Four and a half years prior:
His parents thanked him profusely as they roughly manhandled him together. At least his parents were finally working together, even if this is not how he would’ve preferred the context to go. He is confused, and terribly scared. It’s been a long while since he last felt this cold dread wash over him, and he wishes with all of his tiny heart that it had stayed that way. His parents –yes, the same ones who are supposed to love and protect their child– use rugged ropes to tie his wrists behind his back. They use a lot of the material, too, as if afraid that their ten year old child would somehow possess the skill to escape it if they used even a little less than the insane amount they were using now.
He can tell his father is doing the bindings because he can feel the way his mothers thinner fingers dig into his shoulder blades to keep him still. He wouldn’t have fought back much anyways, seeing as he didn’t have a clue as to what was going on. Why fight something you couldn’t understand, anyway? So, while he doesn’t know why this is happening, the fact that he is being held still due to the fact that he could fight back was enough to let him know it was nothing good.
The ropes are tied tightly, painfully digging into his sensitive skin. He can easily grasp that this is the first time his parents ever tied somebody up with how messily the job is done, each movement earning a sting as the rope pulls against his skin. Ropeburn marks will be plenty visible the moment this rope comes off, he already knows this as fact. He hears the unmistakable sound of duct-tape being tugged off of the roll, then the rip as it is torn from the roll. He unconsciously shakes his head, knowing what’s going to happen but unable to stop it. His father roughly places the tape over his mouth.
The sudden feeling of intense claustrophobia is enough to leave him reeling. He suddenly feels like he can’t breathe even though he never uses his mouth to breathe anyways. With his hands restrained behind his back, it makes him feel so closed off that he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Then a rag is pulled out of his fathers pocket and wrapped around his skull, covering his vision. The sense-deprivation is dizzying in a terrifying way he’d prefer to never experience again. He grits his teeth and strains his weaker muscles against the ropes as if anything would give out. He knew it to be an impossible request, an ignored plea before he even did it, but it didn’t stop the mediocre struggle from erupting out of his tiny body.
Nothing happens except his mothers nails dig into his shoulders more painfully and his father hisses a quick, “stay still,” under his breath. And despite everything in his body, every cell, every atom in his body telling him to not listen, he stops any form of movement aside from anything miniscule. He still breathes heavily, as if it’ll save him from this. His heart still beats rambunctiously in his chest cavity, and he unfortunately still feels the burning pain of this manhandling being etched deeply into his muscles. He’s trembling, and something about that feels like a dangerous move, like something that will only cause more tension and misfortune. Not that he could stop it, but that doesn’t lower any effort he puts into that struggle. He is honestly so focused on not angering his parents anymore, that he loses track of what’s happening around him.
Something about this was odd in a way he couldn’t really find a title to, it just was. He knew the reasonings, but not how to describe the feeling. Perhaps this was his moment to realize, in a vague sense. He had more typically been witness to other crimes, never the victim. He spent the grand majority of his time rushing around the most terrible, blood-ridden streets of Gotham with one goal in mind; to stalk who must be his favorite people in the world. Otherwise identified as Robin and Batman, with the occasional Nightwing sighting when he wasn’t guarding Bludhaven. He had photos among photos of them, and by some regard, he’d managed to do it all without getting caught.
It’s played in his head over and over again how ironic it was for the detectives, usually in his position, to be so unaware as he stood in plain sight with a camera that even flashed as each photo was taken. It was funny to witness such an ironic and odd thing happen. But not now.
While it wasn’t ironic, it was something that contributed to his growing understanding of how terrible the world he lived in was, it was something painfully placed between cruelty and mocking, how now, after all his years of watching others solve crimes and save lives, his own was being put in what he could only assume as peril. He was smart enough to conclude that wherever he was being taken, he probably wouldn’t be killed, however. Why would his parents even waste the time and recourse if they were just going to kill him off? No, if they were bringing him somewhere to end his life, they would’ve been smarter, hopefully more tactical than this. He would not have known in that case, and he would’ve therefore gotten in the car himself, without the ‘assistance’ he was getting now.
Therefore, he probably wasn’t being killed, but brought to a secondary location. Presumably one where they’d be meeting someone, so they wouldn’t have time to tie him up there. Either way, he could conclude with near certainty that his situation was bad, but not as terrible as it could’ve been.
When his parents finally toss him in the trunk of the car, he’s oddly calm about it. Of course that calmness doesn’t retrain any of the tears that inevitably strain his cheeks, this is still a frightening situation to be unfortunate enough to be in. However, he does spend his time thinking. Wondering.
He dislikes the way he keeps questioning one thing, like it can’t leave his mind, ‘children can’t get kidnapped by their own parents, can they?’ Something about the question leaves a disgusting taste in his mouth. And he has nothing left to do than ponder that question while sizzling in this unresolved fear and feeling that he had been ultimately betrayed. His parents had always told him to call for help when something like this happened with a stranger, so what was he to do when something was happening to him at their hands? When they, not a newcomer, were at fault? When his own parents, whose sole jobs when it came to him were to care, were doing just the opposite?
Did they even care anymore? Is that the reasoning behind this suddenness? If so, why? What did he do wrong? What caused this to fall too grandly?
He had so many questions to ask and so little answers to go around to each of them. So he can only really lay on his side, the rough material of the carpeted flooring rubbing against his unclothed arm and cheek, as he ponders what is to come of him all the way to how this could’ve possibly begun.
. . .
The trip was long, and if not for the problematic fear gnawing at his bones, he would’ve been taken over by the overwhelming boredom that threatened his mindful prowess. It would be very cynical of him to succumb to such childish feelings while his childhood was actively being ripped from him like this. It was nearly poetic in a way that his parents, meant and sworn to keep him protected, were the ones actively straining against his robustness.
Well, anyhow, he was quite inept in staying calm in these types of situations – he is the son of two very wealthy people. It would be ignorant if he was brought up with the belief that nobody would try their luck on the good old ransom-kidnapping. It only really happened a couple times, and nothing terrible or traumatic (aside from the situation itself) really happened, so he got off pretty lucky. After all, there were others in his situation who didn’t get so lucky.
So it wasn’t like he was necessarily new to these kinds of things happening, though not entirely indifferent either, he just hoped that he would end up being lucky again.
There was still the off-chance that his parents felt an ounce of love for him to spare him anything terrible! That was the mild hope he helplessly clung to. The feeling only got more strong when he shifted backwards abruptly after the car had come to a stop. They had reached the mystery location he had been praying wasn’t going to be where he was buried.
He hears the front doors slam shut. Having never even heard them open, he flinches. The whole car seemed to shake, though that may have just been more noticeable since he can’t really focus on any other sense as of now aside from his hearing and feeling. It’s better than nothing, he supposes.
He has a grace period of about thirty seconds before the trunk is opened with an out of place click that feels too soft for the situation he’s in. The cool night air seems to rush in abruptly, and he’s sure he has goosebumps. Why does it have to be so cold in Gotham? This really isn’t the best timing, either. He just had to wear a loose short-sleeved shirt today, huh. His shorts don’t help rid him of the freezing feeling much, either.
His fathers thicker fingers grab him by the scruff of his shirt, and he barely conceals another flinch. This is all so sudden, so strange, he has such a little grasp on his emotions; and each injury, no matter how miniature, is causing tears to prickle at his closed eyes. Or at least, he hopes it’s the pain and not the emotions that were swaying his reaction. (His parents always seemed pretty adamant that emotions were weak, iIf their reactions were anything to go by.)
Hey, at least nobody could see the tears if the rag covering his eyes was absorbing the liquid!
Small victories were still victories. He could focus on those to get his mind off of how terrible his situation truly was.
And a good distraction it was! Until it wasn’t anymore.
He’s ripped out of the trunk, and while he didn’t find it necessarily comfortable in there, he wishes he were still curled up inside the little space as it was much better than this. His fathers large palms rest easily but tightly around his outer-shoulders as he stumbles a bit when placed on his feet.
“Yeesh,” he hears what a middle-aged man from the deepest slums in Gotham says, sounding almost amused by the situation. At least someone was enjoying this moment.
“He looks rough. Did’ja toss ‘im on a bull and send ‘im out for a ride?” His accent is pitched in certain places, but ignores entire letters in some others. It’s a mess of sounds that comes off in a way that reminds him painfully of how Ja- the second robin speaks. What’s gratifyingly worse is how much he seems both exasperated and near-laughter at the idea. Tim wishes he could laugh at this, too, but it seems this joke will have to stay one-sided.
“How much can a ten year old struggle, anyway? I’ve wrangled ‘couple of the gremlins b‘fore, never been too hard.” Well if that isn’t terrible to hear for this position, Tim doesn’t know what could be worse. The fact that other people – children – have been in this situation is sickening in itself. He’s never wish this on anyone - not even his worst enemy. Combined with the fear factor, the pain factor, and everything else helplessly negative about this situation, it created a soup of hell he’d prefer nobody ever have to experience.
His father does him the favor of ignoring the rhetoric in favor of asking his own question, one that answers more questions Tim had than he would’ve liked, “You’re certain this will get us enough money?”
Something that doesn’t surprise Tim in any way is how this is about money. Of course it is. He prefers his suffering not be for money, but he wouldn’t be too shocked if that was the whole reason he was conceived in the first place, either. What a night this was turning out to be. His parents were the most money-thirsty hounds he thinks he’ll ever meet, and he is forced to go to the galas full of rich people all the time, so that really says something. Something he hates. He wishes quietly, with sincerity and desperation that he could one day meet a rich person that doesn’t make money their entire persona. It seems rare, though, so hoping is just hoping.
Hoping never really does much for him anyways, either. Just look at his locus right now, it was painfully obvious hope didn’t give him much power. It was effectively useless against adults that were so much stronger (not to mention meaner) than his feeble hope.
He doesn’t like the man's answer one bit, either, “Yeah, the lowes’ someone c’n actually bet is in the hundred thousands. An’ from what I c’n see, he’s a pretty one. Y’know what people ‘round here say ‘bout pretty boys?”
His mother sniffles (which actually flabbergasts him for a split second because he kind of figured he was alone in his suffering as of now) and his father’s fingers dig into his shoulders. If he wasn’t blindfolded, maybe he’d see his father standing just as tense as Tim is.
“They sell for a pretty penny!” The man laughs at his own joke, snorting like a pig. His laugh grates against Tim’s ears in an unwelcomed way. His words don’t do much to attenuate his anxiety about this a whole lot, either. Not that he’s under the faux impression that something so kind is the thugs goal, but it’d be nice if the man grew a heart that beat blood and not people then decided to be kinder to his psyche. Again, a useless hope he should give up on.
He can tell his parents don’t like the joke just as much as himself if the way his father grunts and his mother lets out a quiet sound of sadness are anything to go by. It’s not like they rush (or even slowly pace their way there) to defend his dignity, though, either.
“Listen, I’m putting a lot on the line here, so if you can’t give me a definitive-”
“You rich people are all the same,” the man says. Tim honestly wouldn’t have the capacity to agree more if he didn’t know rich people could, in fact, have good souls. He didn’t stalk Batman and his birdlings for no reason, after all.
“But yeah, don't worry ‘bout it one bit, I can hook ‘im up with some regulars that’ll hand over millions for this little guy,” Tim can practically hear the smirk in his voice, “They’re real freaks though, into the smaller gents.” If his skin wasn’t crawling before, then it most certainly is now.
Why is this man so into the idea of him being forced into something so repulsive?
His fathers fingers are painfully digging into his shoulders again, and he hears him breathe in deeply and sigh.
“If… If that’s what it takes, I’m certain he can handle it.”
Time freezes for Tim, but apparently nobody else.
“Atta boy! I see you’re really gettin’ into the mindset of a true businessman!”
“I am the owner of a company, I’m well aware of what I’m doing,” Jack swiftly says, a little bit too defensively.
The rest of their conversation fades out of his mind, going through one ear and out the other. There is really no point in listening anyways, as the rest is them hashing out the details about his imposing future. He’ll find out how things work from here on out anyways, seeing as he’ll be forced to.
He’s more stuck on the fact that he, a human being, (a child) is so disposable to his own parents that the fact that he could literally be forced into certain forms of assault is just a price to pay to get a couple extra bucks. Sure, he’s always been kind of self-conscious about his worth, but that hit harder than any physical blow ever could. Or maybe it’s not even the words, but the fact that they are talking about him instead of to him – as if he isn’t even worthy of being told directly of his own potential fate. And oh, what a potential life that would be, to be so worthless that he is subjected to something like that. It’s unfathomable, the fact that at a time, he trusted his parents to actually keep him safe, and that trust was so easily dashed between the span of ten seconds and the foreseeable future.
It was laughable, really. He made the mistake of trusting them to do their literal jobs, and that only ever led him to suffer more. Apparently his trust was being given out too freely, as well. This was certainly not the first time his parents let him down, it was just the worst time. If he had a nickel for every time his parents failed to be even decent, he’d have started his own business and had a good income, too.
But hey, at least he’d be set, right?
His mind is buzzing though, as he can come to one easy conclusion in this situation; his parents were selling him.
His train of thought is abruptly cut off, and his growing, seethful anger dissipates fast, back into the placant fear he dealt with previously as the thug grabs him by the waist and throws him over his shoulder. He couldn’t tell which was worse, either, the fear or the anger that this situation brought out in him. He doesn’t have a whole lot of time to ponder, though, so that's a thought that’ll have to move to the back of his mind until he finds the time to actually care enough to think about it. He’s bent uncomfortably at the waist over the man's shoulder. It’s painful with how sharply the man's shoulder jabs into his stomach, but at least he’s not being made to walk to his own demise.
The only thing stopping him from falling over and careening face-first into the floor is how the man loosely holds onto both of his ankles with one hand. He can tell easier from this position that the thug is broad-shouldered and insanely muscular. At least that works out better for his safety, seeing as he probably won’t be dropped.
Or, as insane as it sounds, he could’ve been asleep (he would not have been sleeping, but that’s besides the point), at his house, and that’d be perfectly safe, too.
He’d gotten stuck in his own thoughts again, he concludes as he reaches a new destination. It’s warmer where he is now, but that’s most certainly not for his comfort, but for the people working there. Because, yes, of course, people actually decide to find an occupation in kidnapping and selling people. Wait, was this considered kidnapping if his parents did it? He was tied up and brought here against his will, so that must make it kidnapping, even if it’s his own parents doing it. Well, guess he can sign being kidnapped off of his bucket list now, this experience is so fulfilling!
Mr Thug has yet to set him down, but he can’t bring himself to care all that much; it’s not his primary focus at the moment. He’s always been a bigger thinker, never focusing on just one aspect of a problem – It’s how he figured out the bat’s identities in the first place– so he’s more focused on the fact that there are other children, if he had to assume ages, here. That’s a disgusting thought. It’s quaint, but he feels a slightly gnawing sense in the back of his mind that sounds oddly like something he once heard Jason Todd (Robin II) say, would it really be such a loss if they were to lose their lives? They made a living by destroying lives. They didn’t donate anything positive or even neutral into society, just negativity.
Thinking about this more intently, they were not only ruining other’s lives, but his own. These people –if they could still be called people – were not only managing to drown society in suffering and loss, but doing it without consequence. The amount of people here who have probably torn families apart just for their own selfish gain leaves something resembling disgust and anger to simmer deep in his gut.
He must consequently have a physical reaction, because Mr Thug runs his free hands index finger over his calf, “cold?”
He shivers, “oh-ho, freezing little thing, aren’t you?”
Was that really his conclusion to his reaction? He wishes his mouth wasn’t taped shut so desperately just to insult this man's intelligence, but that would be a stupid decision, so perhaps the tape was a good idea. Did his parents put it there to keep him quiet for their sake or his own? It’s really seeming like a mutually beneficial decision right about now. He felt so rancorous towards this poor excuse of a man.
Apparently the man doesn’t like silence too much, because he slaps Tim's thigh hard enough he thinks it’ll bruise. He yelps and jumps in surprise more than pain, and any guilt he felt in resenting this man is quickly fading. This situation was just getting more and more indelible, wasn't it?
The man holds on tightly to the place where he just hit and Tim squirms just slightly. He’s verging on both being in pain and soaking in all the pure anger he feels towards him. He’s thinking less openly, even though his brain seems wired to think that way, this man manages to solo in being the cause of his deepest pits of rage. Or maybe it’s a mix of the fact that his parents literally just sold him, this man treating him like less than human, and the fact that the best part of this day is the fact that he’s apparently worth a lot of money. So he has a right to be angry about how his life is turning out right now.
“Cut it out, boy,” the words are spoken so coldly he actually freezes. In fear? In actual surprise? He doesn’t even know himself. Is this man stupid or does he honestly, genuinely not understand that it’s difficult to not only respond to someone with words when your mouth is taped shut but also difficult to stay still when in pain?
Perhaps Tim is in the wrong for assuming that this knowledge was common sense.
“Fine, don’t answer,” he literally couldn’t, what was he supposed to do, making aimless noises? This was humiliating enough as it was, is that really necessary.
The man mutters something about lack of respect and all but throws Tim off from over his shoulder and forces him onto his knees. He holds his wrists together tightly as a jagged blade recklessly shoots through the ropes. They were flimsy things, but so overly wrapped he had no chance of getting out. The knife lazily but sharply tugs against a couple of the stands that refuse to give out, so the man applies more pressure. He can feel how bad the idea is before he registers it when the knife finally pulls though the last couple strands and nicks him right on the forearm.
He hisses under the tape and his muscles tense. Was this guy being reckless on purpose?
Mr Thug doesn’t seem to care about the injury, though, as stuff his knife back into his sheathe, hastily rewires Tim’s hands in front of him in a single movement, and tightens steel cuffs around his small wrists.
The man had clearly done this many times, to many people –victims– because he was way too good at it for this to be his first time. He had already assumed so earlier, but with every extra fact that helps prove just how terrible this man is, Tim feels extraordinary hatred towards him. It’s kind of an odd feeling - to hate somebody so much more personal. He had always despised the Joker, he had always hoped that Scarecrow would finally be put down, had always prayed that the Riddler would be forced out of the game. But those weren’t because he had to deal with them, it was because he knew others were and hated that with them. But now? He had a real life, terrible hatred towards this man.
How could somebody look at another human life form and be so needlessly cruel just for their own gain? It sickened TIm to the point that he couldn’t leave the boiling rage. Like a stove set on high, it just keeps on boiling, and he doesn’t have access to the control knob.
He grits his teeth as the man grabs his arm again to yank his body forward slightly.
The man leans forward, close enough to be uncomfortable but not concerning. His breath is hot and unwelcomingly close to Tim’s head. It’s over soon, luckily, when he finishes attaching a loose chain (likely attached to the floor) to the section between his wrists where the cuffs sag just slightly. He pulls away again, but doesn’t pull away enough.
“Really pretty one, aren't ya?” Tim wishes it was at least hot in here so the cold-sweat forming on his brow wasn’t too obvious due to his anxiety of the situation.
The man somehow manages to get more creepy every second, and it’s doing some intense shit to Tim’s psyche at the moment. He has to stop himself from reacting physically when the man’s hand comes up to his cheek. He cups his left cheek with an abnormal softness for the man doing it and then slowly reaches down, inching closer and closer towards his jawline.
It takes everything in Tim’s powers to not freak out or even pull away. This was going far beyond the odd words the man had been expressing throughout the night, and was getting painstakingly physical. When the man finally reaches his jawline, his thumb caresses the soft skin in a slow manner. It’s disconcerting to say the least.
When Mr Thug finally stops the gentle caressing, he moves his hands back, down his neck a bit, before shooting up again at a steady pace and taking the blindfold away from Tim’s eyes.
It was a strange and unwelcome way to do it, but Tim can’t help but be grateful that he can finally see again. Now he can finally see the man who has officially made it to his personal hate-list. The first thing he does before opening his eyes is adjust to the lights. They are bright and fluorescent, something he hasn’t noticed before - at the fault of certain objects blocking his line of sight. When he manages to get somewhat used to the bright lights through his eyelids, he opens up his left eye in a squint. Seeing as he doesn’t have to squeeze his eye shut immediately after, he decides to risk it for the biscuit and just open his eyes all the way.
The man isn’t necessarily, but Tim would never call him attractive, either. He’s sure his mother is the only woman alive to think he’s cute, most certainly. He can’t help the way his eyes crinkle in the corners, though.
“Judging me, are ya? That’s not very nice, bristol-boy,” the man comments, frowning. Bristol-boy is new, but not surprising, plenty of people at school make (made) comments about his wealth, so it wasn’t necessarily an odd thing to hear another say or call him. Still, the man had yet to actually make a jab at his wealth, so maybe that’s what caught him off-guard. Or it could be the frown. That most definitely felt out of the ordinary, after having not yet put a face to the voice, he can see his visible reactions.
Mr Thug didn’t actually look that much like what he would’ve expected him to look like. Though, that's not to say he had an expected look for him, he just wasn’t prepared for the man to look so well-kempt. Because he was and that was not the typical look of people living in the slums. Not to mention how the man was wearing a well-groomed suit. It was a navy blue with a matching tie, if not slightly ruffled from manhandling Tim. It was perfectly dimpled, nicely cinched, and he looked much more clean than his accent really portrayed him to be.
Okay so maybe Tim feels a slight guilt for assuming the man would look rugged or dirty, but he barely hangs out around Crime Alley – or, well, he barely hangs out around the people living there – aside from when he is stalking following the bats. And while that does happen quite a lot, he only really ever sees the homeless, dirty part of it, never the people who work there. Taking that into account, he silently reprimands himself for assuming something he had no relatively sound way of knowing until the truth was revealed.
It’s not really just the suit that caught him off-guard though. The man looks rich, he looks like he has a stable job, hell, the man looks like he owns a whole business. He looks fresh and now that the thought is in Tim’s head, he also recognizes that he doesn’t actually smell bad either. His hair is brushed back in a way he recognizes from experience – the man most certainly had his hair gelled back before the inevitability of it wearing out came and went. It looks wet in a way that tells him the man ran his hands through it with water -most probably warm water- coating his hand. Was the man perhaps at a meeting before he went to his part-time job of selling children?
His eyes are a dark blue, like nothing he’s ever seen before. While typically people will think that in an admiring way, he can’t help but think the man is just creepy with those dark blue irises. The pupils are so thin, too. His eyes remind him of his fathers. Not that they are in any way the same shade nor even color, but it’s the way they’re shaped. The same almond shape that Tim only sort of has, but were never really round enough to be called as such. The man is caucasian, and clearly in the sun a lot. His skin is tanned so much more than Tim’s (not that that says much about anything if you consider the fact that he was born white enough to be mistaken for the Jokers kid) and his cheeks are slightly red. The sun really left its mark on this man.
(He pinches the palm of his other hand when he absentmindedly thinks he’d like the sun to also give the man skin-cancer so the world could move on without a parasite feeding on its valuable resources.)
His lips are in a thin line, and there are little wrinkles around his eyes and some light ones decorate his forehead. He’s probably in his mid-thirties, if Tim had to guess. His jawline is sharp but weakens when it gets closer to his neck.
He shakes his head and automatically makes a noise of denial towards the question of his supposed judgmental stare. He was, sure, but it’d be better for him if the man didn’t know that. The man simply raises an eyebrow. Then smirks. It’s such a mean smirk Tim doesn’t know what to do with himself, so he just turns his head away. The man uses his right hand to grab Tim’s face, engulfing the lower-half of his face and digging his fingers into his cheeks.
“No, don’t look away from me, sweetheart. Lemme see those eyes,” Tim makes a point to squeeze his eyes shut at that demand. The man doesn’t take nicely to the disobeying and squeezes his face so hard it hurts. He opens his eyes again just so it stops.
“Ah,” he loosens his hands tight grasp to something only moderately painful and looks way too pleased with himself, “Good boy. That wasn’t so hard, now was it?”
Seeing as he can’t respond, and the man’s question was most probably rhetorical anyways, he doesn’t respond. The man doesn’t care.
“You got some good genes, kid. See, I was mostly kiddin’ ‘round with ya earlier, givin’ ya a good scarin’, but seein’ those eyes – well, anybody’d be stupid not to want ya now.” Not the best thing to hear in this situation, but Tim supposes he always has seeked attention, just never the kind that’s implied now. His skin crawls. The man is so casual about it, too. It’s driving Tim to the brink of easy tears, and he rarely, if ever, actually cries.
“Awe, don’t go cryin’ on me now. Though I’m sure ur’e a pretty cryer, I got better things to do.” Tim sincerely doubts this man has anything to do aside from dealing with Tim right now.
But Tim does manage to clear the attempting tears from his eyes with a couple rapid blinks. The man shifts his shoulder a bit, as if it’s sore. Tim thinks back to how he was thrown over the man's shoulder earlier. Him being sore is just the payback he gets for manhandling him.
Then he lifts his left hand up, drawing his attention to the empty limb, and Tim notices something that answers two questions he didn’t even think he had.
One, the man is right-handed, like most people in the world. How does he know? Well, that brings him to the other thing; the wedding band wrapped around his middle finger of his left hand is what really gave it away.
Tim’s pupils constrict and his eyes must widen, because the man's eyes flicker down to his left hand, then back at Tim.
“Oh, you noticed this ol’ thing?” He holds up his left hand and wiggles his fingers, giving Tim a better view. “Does it surprise you that someone like me has a family back at home?” Yes, yes it does.
Tim can’t respond. Even if his mouth wasn’t covered, even if he wasn’t tied up and forced into proximity with this man, he wouldn’t know what to say in response to that. So, instead of making even a physical reaction, he just stares at the silver band, awestruck. And terrified. This man had a partner at home- no. He said family.
This man, who had just helped ruin Tim’s future, was raising children.