An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Hey. Y’all. Chapter 2 is up. :D
Chapters: 2/?
Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke (Dragon Age)
Characters: Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mage Rebellion, Anders Positive, Guns, Canon Typical Violence, Mrs. and Dr. Hawke, Post DA2, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Misc. Illegal Activity, outlaw au, (is that really AU though), Explicit Sex, Soft Relationship Vibes, Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, adoration, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Theft, Threats, Estranged parent
Summary:
Flames line the night sky. Among the charred rubble of a city in ruin, the air is filled with a litany of prayers falling from the lips of the desperate faithful.
Pleas for protection. Fervent and tearful petitions for deliverance.
Hawke hasn’t believed in any of those things for a very long time. All Kirkwall has ever done for her was take, and life on the run is beginning to exact a heavy toll on what’s left of the man she loves.
He’s a dead man walking. She’s determined to keep him alive.
Inspired by the album Feel.Love.Thinking.Of by Faunts.
For my dear friend @becauseanders, because, well. Anders. ❤️️
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Doctor Who (2005)
Rating: General Audiences
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler (John Smith x Jane Smith)
Characters: Tenth Doctor, Rose Tyler
Additional Tags: john smith x jane smith, Human Nature, UST Lite, perhaps pre-UST, or subconcious UST, not angst, Fluff, Just Fine, is a title for you to interpret, are either of them just fine?, or feeling very fine?, or not fine at all, because they want more?
Series: Part 4 of FoundVerse, Part 5 of Whoville's Follower Milestone Celebration
Summary:
Everything is just fine. That's an understatement. Missing scenes early on in Found & Forgotten.
Written for @toppbanana who won the “John & Jane” ficlet from my Whoville Follower Milestone celebration. She wanted flirtatious banter or UST.
Note: I went back and read after I posted it, and really didn’t like it. It felt like something was missing -- that it was devoid of any emotion. Why is Jane so flustered by John? Why does she blush so fiercely around him? What is goes through her mind when she sees him?
So I re-worked it quite a bit. I like this more than the original. I hope you do too. If you have a chance, listen to the Frank Sinatra song that John whistles and then mindlessly sings. (He doesn’t recognize any significance, even though it’s there ever so slightly.)
Jane Smith looked up at the clock — 8:03 am, and John Smith was right on time. She could hear him talking to the much-prettier-than-her (but very nice) receptionist. Male and female laughter mingled. Jane sighed at that, but just in passing.
Instead, she imagined herself the object of his flirtatious attentions. She’d laugh prettily and bat her eyelashes. “Oh Mr. Smith, you’re just too much,” she’d reply, and then he’d wink at her. Maybe he’d go on to ask her out to dinner and a film and he’d hold her hand in the dark and —
“Good morning, Miss Smith.”
Jane startled.
“Off with the fairies, Miss Smith?” John asked.
She nodded and smiled shyly.
“So how are you this lovely, sunny, Monday morning? Did you have a pleasant weekend?” John smiled down at her, and she became very interested in a pencil.
“Yes. My weekend was fine, thank you,” Jane answered politely, gaining courage to look back up. But then again, she couldn’t help but look. He was too handsome to ignore. His well-tailored suit, the crisp white shirt, that silver tie… And then there was the little bit of hair that wouldn’t stay in place, hanging down onto his forehead.
“Good. I’m glad it was fine. Have a good morning, Miss Smith.”
“You too,” she almost whispered.
John strode down the corridor to his office, and closed the door.
Jane could hear the flirtatious laughter of Priscilla Bootkins from twenty feet away through the thin walls. She balled her fists, and then shoved a piece of typing paper behind the roller, unsuccessfully trying to straighten it against the paper guide.
“What’s got you all in a tizzy, Janie?” asked Betty Anderson.
“Nothing. I’m fine. I just can’t get this ridiculous piece of paper to go in straight is all.” It was wrinkled and just wouldn’t do. The gears whirred as she yanked it out, balled it up, and dropped into the bin under her desk.
oOo
“Quick, Miss Smith!” John planted his hands on her desk, and leaned into her until they were almost nose to nose. “I need the name of a device that takes over someone’s mind and controls their actions!”
His breath smelled of peppermint candy. His after-shave was a blend of heady, exotic spices. She imagined herself on a veranda overlooking the azure blue, Mediterranean Sea, the sun low in the sky, his arm pulling her into his warm side. She would rest her head on his shoulder and then he’d turn his head and look down at her lips and then he’d dip his head and —
“I can see those gears whirring in your head.”
Jane almost squeaked after he rolled the R’s. Why did he have to be Scottish, too? she thought.
“Do you have something brilliant for me?” He raised his eyebrows.
Roused out of her daydream, her head snapped back to him. “The idea of someone controlling your mind is a bit terrifying, Mr. Smith.” She bit her lip.
“Of course. It wouldn’t be an adventure without a bit of a scare now, would it?” He leaned even more closely.
Jane looked up at the ceiling. “Mind… Mind… Mindthief. Mindrobber. Thought-Thief.” She paused and shook her head. “No. The name shouldn’t sound like a machine. It’s more frightening that that.” She opened her eyes and looked up at him. “The victim’s mind is controlled by a Puppeteer.”
“A Puppeteer,” he whispered, furrowing his brows, his dark eyes unwavering from hers. “Fine job, Miss Smith. Fine, fine job.”
She nodded quickly, and then turned her attention back to her typewriter, the memory of peppermint candy and bay rum lingering.
oOo
“Good afternoon, Miss Smith. How is your day coming along?” John asked Jane.
Jane quickly swallowed a bite of the snack she’d been eating and cleared her throat of the crumbs. “It’s fine.” She held the half-eaten piece of shortbread so tightly that it was about to crumble.
“Do you like shortbread, Miss Smith?”
“Yes. It’s fine, Mr. Smith.” She smiled shyly.
“What a coincidence! I like shortbread, too! We’re full of coincidences, aren’t we? First John David Smith and Jane Donna Smith. And now we both like shortbread!” He nabbed a piece, and pushed the whole thing into his mouth. “But then again,” he said, mouth full, “I think it’s a rule that I like shortbread. I’m Scottish. I have to like it, don’t I?” He took a second piece, and a third. “Oh, this is very good. Very good. First chance I’ve had to try it. I brought it in this morning. There’s a fantastic little bakery near my flat. They make the most delicious banana nut loaf, too…”
His voice drifted off as she imagined herself seated across from John at one of those little tables for two on a streetcorner café in Paris. The sun would be rising, and the air would be pink and crisp and off in the distance someone would be playing La Vie en Rose on an accordion. He’d take her hand, which he was already holding across the table, and kiss her knuckles, and then whisper—
“I have a brilliant idea!” he exclaimed.
Jane was knocked out of her rose-coloured reverie.
“I’ll have to bring banana nut loaf in next time. Make sure you take a piece or two of the shortbread before it’s all gone, Miss Smith.” He winked. He turned on his heel as he shoved another piece into his mouth.
Jane’s cheeks turned a delightful shade of pink as she watched him leave the room. She checked for onlookers before she daintily picked up a second wedge to savour later.
You’ve gotten yourself into a fine mess, Jane Smith. You are not fine. Not fine at all.
oOo
Jane’s attention was captured as John ambled down the hallway at a slower pace than was usual for him. His suitcoat was draped over his shoulder held casually with his pointer finger. His kissable lips were pursed as he whistled a Sinatra tune. If he weren’t whistling, he would have been smiling. She could see happiness in the crinkles around his eyes. A bit of late afternoon stubble graced his jawline, but his hair was still perfectly in place — except, of course, for that one delicious piece of his fringe that framed his brown eyes.
Jane’s eyes glazed over as she paused her typing for a moment. She imagined those lips not whistling, but kissing. They would be so soft as he gently, ever so gently, pressed his against hers. It would be under the moonlight, and he’d be a complete gentleman. Holding her close, but not too close. And his arms would be warm and strong.
She let the thought drift away as he ambled on by her desk.
The whistling stopped.
Jane’s stomach lurched as out of the corner of her eye she could see the handsome man returning. She fought to focus her attention on the keyboard, but her fingers slipped, and she misspelled miss as kiss. Her desk lurched as her foot slipped, kicking the desk leg.
“Everything all right, Miss Smith?” Mr. Smith asked kindly.
“Fine. Everything’s fine,” she stuttered. The top button of his shirt was undone, and his tie, loose.
“It’s two minutes until five o’clock on a Friday. I think it would be all right if you left two minutes early, don’t you?”
She shook her head and bit her lip. “I couldn’t do that, Mr. Smith. I—“
“I give you permission. That is my manuscript you’re working on after all. I recognize my own scrawl on those notes.” He looked at his watch, and tapped it. “And now it’s one minute until five. Time to go home for the weekend.”
“Well, I suppose I could tidy up now.” Jane picked up the stack of unused paper and tapped it so it was perfectly square. She placed her pencil in front of her typewriter, and then straightened her inbox.
“So what were you working on so diligently before I interrupted you?” Mr. Smith reached in front of Jane, flipped the paper release, and pulled the paper out.
Jane squeaked as she watched Mr. Smith scan the page. His eyes stopped on the last line. “Hmm. I don’t remember this sentence going this way.” He cleared his throat. “Iris looked up at the Professor with longing. ‘I’ll kiss you, Professor. I’ll never stop.’” A slow smile appeared.
“I’m sorry for the error, Mr. Smith. I was about to correct it when you happened by. My fingers slipped, and—“
“It’s fine, Miss Smith.” He leaned closer. “But there isn’t kissing just yet.”
“Oh… I…”
“You’re fine!” He lowered his voice, and nearly whispering said, “You’ll get to type that word soon enough. Where’s the fun in rushing things?” He winked at her.
Jane pushed her glasses up her nose and blinked once.
“Miss Smith, have I ever told you that you do fine work? Of all of the typists, you are the finest.” He grinned. “Well would you look at that. It’s officially five o’clock. Off you go! Have a good weekend, Miss Smith.”
John resumed his musical exit, but this time he sang. “A fine romance, with no kisses. A fine romance, my friend this is…”
Jane’s belly flipped and she dropped her face into her hands. You’re going to be fine, Jane Smith. Just fine.
oOo
Bess slipped on a stylish black coat and tugged on a pair of red kid driving gloves. “What are you going to do on this dreary Saturday, darling?”
“Nothing special.” Jane looked out the window and took a sip of tea. Rain pelted the pane.
“I’m afraid I won’t be back until later this evening, darling. Luncheon with Mother always turns into dinner. I hope you won’t be terribly lonely.”
“I’m never lonely when I have a something to read. I’ll be fine.”
As soon as the door closed behind Bess, Jane rushed into her bedroom and pulled out her favourite book. She ran her hand over the cover, tracing the face of the Professor. She closed her eyes as she clutched it to her chest and sighed in anticipation. “A whole day with the Professor and Iris,” she said to herself. “A whole day with John Smith.”
She didn’t daydream this time — reading John’s book would draw her inside of a daydream.
Oh yes, just for today, she was going to be just fine.
oOo
John paced the length of his flat. He’d been wearing a hole in the hardwood for at least fifteen minutes now. He groaned. This arrangement with Priscilla wasn’t working. At all. He was not fine. He’d lost his ability to write. He was constantly in need of help. Thank heaven for Jane Smith — his very own Muse. Without Jane, he wouldn’t have been able to get anything on paper.
He thought back to yesterday afternoon. He laughed at Jane’s typo and the terrified look that had been on the shy girl’s face. “Kiss instead of miss. That’s really quite funny.”
Iris looked up at the Professor with longing. ‘I’ll kiss you, Professor, and I’ll never stop.’
“No kissing. Not yet.” He ran a hand through his hair and dropped onto the black leather sofa. But he couldn’t seem to shake that sentence from his thoughts. “But it does feel right — the Professor kissing Iris. I’ll make it happen. Soon.”
As clear as a memory, he let the future scene play out in his head. His beloved Iris would be locked in a passionate embrace with the Professor. He’d cradle her head and dip her — but only just slightly. She’d have one hand in his hair, and the other low on his back. And the world would fade away as they whispered the truth of their hearts into each others lips.
“It’s going to be fine, Smith. It’s going be fine.” If he repeated it enough, maybe he’d actually believe it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 3/?
Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke (Dragon Age)
Characters: Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mage Rebellion, Anders Positive, Guns, Canon Typical Violence, Mrs. and Dr. Hawke, Post DA2, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Misc. Illegal Activity, outlaw au, (is that really AU though), Explicit Sex, Soft Relationship Vibes, Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, adoration, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Theft, Threats, supportive spouse, Absent Parent, Married Couple, Married Sex, Templars (Dragon Age), Silence, Major Character Injury, Angst and Hurt/Comfort
Summary:
Flames line the night sky. Among the charred rubble of a city in ruin, the air is filled with a litany of prayers falling from the lips of the desperate faithful.
Pleas for protection. Fervent and tearful petitions for deliverance.
Hawke hasn’t believed in any of those things for a very long time. All Kirkwall has ever done for her was take, and life on the run is beginning to exact a heavy toll on what’s left of the man she loves.
He’s a dead man walking. She’s determined to keep him alive.
Inspired by the album Feel.Love.Thinking.Of by Faunts.
For my dear friend @becauseanders, because, well. Anders. ❤️️
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age - All Media Types
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Anders/Female Hawke (Dragon Age)
Characters: Female Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders (Dragon Age), Varric Tethras
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Mage Rebellion, Anders Positive, Guns, Canon Typical Violence, Mrs. and Dr. Hawke, Post DA2, Mage Hawke - Freeform, Misc. Illegal Activity, outlaw au, (is that really AU though), Explicit Sex, Soft Relationship Vibes, Comfort Sex, Cunnilingus, Vaginal Sex, adoration, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Summary:
Flames line the night sky. Among the charred rubble of a city in ruin, the air is filled with a litany of prayers falling from the lips of the desperate faithful.
Pleas for protection. Fervent and tearful petitions for deliverance.
Hawke hasn’t believed in any of those things for a very long time. All Kirkwall has ever done for her was take, and life on the run is beginning to exact a heavy toll on what’s left of the man she loves.
He’s a dead man walking. She’s determined to keep him alive.
Inspired by the album Feel.Love.Thinking.Of by Faunts.
For my dear friend @becauseanders, because, well. Anders. ❤️️
Bruce would come to get him. It was inevitable; the sun would rise, the Earth would spin, and Bruce would come for Tim. Tim just had to wait. He could wait.
So this is something I've been working on for a very long time and I put it aside because I lost motivation for it. I recently refound the motivation to write and started working on this again. I'm hoping I can keep it for a while this time. Any feed back would be great because I love this AU so very very much.
It has a companion piece here that has a few major spoilers to the series.
-----
Tim spent almost two hours running his hands over the concrete walls, looking for any structural weakness. He found none. There was not a single crack anywhere; no hint of a screw or a nail he could pry out. The room was perfectly circular, so there was no way he could use a corner to shimmy his way up to the ceiling, which held the only hope of any sort of exit. Twenty feet or so above him was a vent, and Tim knew it had to lead him somewhere other than this hopeless prison. Tim wasn't even sure how he had gotten placed inside the room, because there was no door. The best he could tell, there might be a hatch on the ceiling, but the dim light that came through the vent cast too many shadows for him to see things properly.
The only kink in the smooth walls trapping him was a small horizontal slit, about three feet up from the floor. It was about a foot long and half an inch high, and when Tim had peered through it, all he could see was metal on the other side. He had tried to reach through it, but his hand had not fit. There was a dingy futon with an equally beat up blanket on it that smelled of mold across the room from the slit in the hole. Perpendicular to that, a squat toilet with a faucet coming from the wall just behind it. There was a button on the side of the faucet that made it spew dirty light brown water for ten seconds. There was nothing he could rip apart and use as a weapon, if need be.
Tim crouched down in the center of the room and looked around him to try and comprehend what was going on. He had gone to bed after patrol the night before in his apartment, and he had woken up here. There was absolutely nothing in the night's events to suggest he was going to be the target of a kidnapping. He must have been drugged at some point, because he was now wearing black fleece pants and a black t-shirt, which he had not been doing when he had collapsed into his bed. He would have woken up the moment someone touched him, otherwise.
Tim stood, walked a few steps, and plopped himself down on the futon. He was stuck until someone let him out. Bruce or Dick would be along quickly enough, Tim supposed. Red Robin and Nightwing were meant to meet up for a bust sometime in the next few hours, and Tim had never missed one without proper warning before. If anything else, he could call for Kon and his friend could follow his voice and get him out of this hell hole.
All Tim had to do was wait. He sighed and stretched out on the futon. It was lumpy and stunk, but he had slept in worse places. He just hoped when whoever came to get him pried open the ceiling, they would not be mad at him for sleeping. It would be extremely ironic, given everyone was usually annoyed by the fact he hardly ever slept.
He was still on the futon when he drifted back into consciousness. He was slightly disappointed, but the rational part of his mind told him he had only been gone for maybe ten hours at the most. It might not even be dark in Gotham, yet. Realizing Tim was missing and finding him would take time, and Tim just had to be patient.
They would find him. He just had to wait, was all.
He could do that; he could wait.
Tim sat up and looked around, trying to determine what he could do to pass the time. He could only sleep so much. He decided on exercising, because he knew roughly how long it took him to do a basic routine. It would be a way to keep track of the time, at least, and counting out sets would keep his mind occupied. He stretched to warm up his muscles, surprised to find a lack of soreness from the night before, then kneeled to the ground to do push ups.
He had completed three hundred when there was a creak of metal. Tim launched himself from the floor to the slit in the wall in time to witness a grey tray shoved into the small space. The metal on the other side quickly reappeared before he could see anything past the tray. Tim slammed his hand on the wall next to the slit three times.
“Hey! Hey! Who are you?!” He hit the wall again when there was no response. “Who are you?! Let me out of here!” Tim sat back on his heels and listened, trying to hear movement from the other side of the walls, but there was nothing. There was complete silence; no groan of pipes or even a buzz from the light in the vent. There was absolutely no noise. It was disturbing.
Tim pulled the tray from the hole and stared down at its content. He determined it was meant to be some sort of food, in the vaguest possible sense of the word; it was a brown-grey blob of mush. Probably a type of porridge; or ground up wet cardboard, Tim couldn't really tell. It was warm to the touch, but that is far as Tim was examining what had been given to him; there was no way in hell he would put that in his mouth. He hadn't been given anything to eat it with, anyways. Tim returned the tray to the slot and resumed his work out.
The two and a half hours it took Tim to complete his work out crawled by. He forced himself to not stop and listen for any sort of sound, knowing if he did that he would just work himself up. Anxiety would not help in a situation like this, he had to keep calm. His family would come for him. Tim used his shirt to wipe away the sweat gathered on his face and sat himself back onto the futon.
He started to imagine what his family's reactions would be to discovering he was missing. As Robin, he had gotten kidnapped more than a few times, but he had thought he had gotten past that phase of his life. Apparently not. He tried to picture Bruce being concerned, but depending on the evidence or lack there of, would not jump into action right away. Tim was an adult and did not need to tell his father every time he left the city. Dick would know something was not right thirty minutes after Tim did not meet their rendezvous time. He would investigate, hopefully after handling the bust they were meant to do together, and it would not take Dick very long to go into what Tim mentally referred to as 'Older Brother Mode'. He would annoy Bruce until the man admitted Tim was missing, which, depending on how Bruce's day had gone, could take from hours to a few seconds. Damian would not be aware Tim was even gone because it would be beneath his radar.
Tim was not really the best at keeping up constant contact with his friends outside of missions. He and Stephanie talked often, but it would not be uncommon to go days without talking, and it was the same with Kon. Hopefully they would not even realize he was missing. It wasn't like had disappeared into the Time Stream like a certain someone he knew; he was just in a hole. Possibly. He could also be in some sort of warehouse or garage, but with no visible exit, he felt like he was in a hole.
At least Tim could take comfort in the fact that whoever had taken him wanted him alive. He tried to not dwell on the fact that he could have been killed in his sleep as easily as he had been put inside this cell. He had food, water, and a bed; that was a positive sign. As far as he could tell, he was not injured, which was an even better sign. Everything pointed to Tim being hostage as part of a barter for something. If something had occurred to cause Dick to not go to their rendezvous, a ransom demand would alert his family that he was indeed missing.
He sort of pitied whoever had to make that phone call if the target was Bruce or Dick. He couldn't see anyone trying to contact the Titans for a ransom, if they were smart. His team was far too emotional to handle something like a ransom demand, and Tim meant that with all the love in the world.
So, all Tim had to do was wait for either Dick to start being the protective and slightly obsessive older brother he was or a ransom call that was sure to turn out horrible. Tim smiled a little and hoped that Barbara would let him view the footage of either of those events happening. He almost hoped it was the ransom call because it would be the more amusing option.
Tim just wasn't exactly sure he should be doing in the meantime. Working out passed the time, but he could only work out so much and he feared continuous activity without the ability to properly refuel his body would leave him exhausted, and that was not an option. He needed to be ready to leave at a moments notice, not be sore and feeling weak. Sleeping was also not a real option, because he had already slept and it had the same drawbacks of not being fully alert when someone finally came for him. He could go back to trying to find a way out, though Tim was positive he had not missed anything. It could not hurt to double check, so Tim slowly stood and began his reexamination of the room.
He spent longer than he could keep track of pulling at the drain of the squat toilet. He was sure he could pry it up and fish a screw out or figure out a way to use it to his advantage, but all Tim managed to do was rip his nails. He finally gave up when one nail broke too far and his finger tips started to ache. Tim leaned back and looked up at the vent. There was no way he could get to it, even if he folded up the futon and stood on it. The futon didn't even have any springs or metal on or in it, so Tim could not create some sort of hook. If he could make a hook, he could rip up the futon and his shirt to make a rope and try to climb up, or at least pull the grate off the vent.
So, Tim was still exactly where he was when he woke up; stuck in this cell with no way out, but now he was worse off because he was thirsty and starting to become hungry. Tim leaned over to press the button on the faucet and glared at the dirty water that it spewed. There was no way in hell he was drinking it. It not only looked disgusting, but it just smelled wrong. Water should not have a smell. He would just have to wait to drink something when Bruce came for him. Whatever transportation Bruce used always had a stock of survival supplies, including bottled water and ready to eat meals. Tim made a face at the idea of eating something from the survival packs. No, he would wait to eat the greasiest burger he could find; with sauteed mushrooms and onions and double bacon. That is exactly what Tim wanted and the thought of it made his stomach growl, loudly.
Tim pushed himself up and went back to sitting on the futon. Thinking of food would just make things worse, he told himself. He laid back, stretching out as much as he could, and tried to focus his mind elsewhere. His mind drifted to the drug bust that he and Nightwing were supposed to be involved in. Was it going to be starting soon? Keeping track of time was becoming more and more difficult. He knew that giving him no sense of time passage as well as the lack of noise was meant to disorient him, but Tim refused to bow to that. He just had to keep waiting and focus his mind on other things besides waiting; like the details of the bust. Tim thought back to the very beginning of the case and worked his way through it, trying to remember everything that had happened. It wasn't a particularly interesting or complicated case, but it kept his mind occupied. Eventually, Tim found himself with his eyes closed and head lulled to one side, sluggishly trying to recall if he had prepared his back-up harness for the bust or not.
When Tim woke again, he was hungry and he was impatient. As soon as Tim got back to the Cave he was implanting himself with a tracker chip. He always joked with Dick about how that was Bruce's next step for keeping tabs on his Family, but at the moment, Tim thought it was a rather good idea. In their line of work, life would sometimes be a lot easier if they knew exactly where their allies were. It would save a lot of time in rescuing each other.
Tim rolled off the futon and clambered into standing. He stared up at the vent with narrowed eyes; his Family was taking their sweet time and Tim wanted to be out of this cell hour ago. It was a good thing Tim had a back up plan. He knew he didn't have to yell, but Tim took a deep breath anyways and shouted.
“Kon-el!”
The cry echoed throughout the cell and vent and it freaked Tim out for a moment. He realized he had not spoken a word since someone had left his the tray of food. Tim licked his lips and spoke in his normal voice. Kon would be able to hear that.
“Kon! It's Tim. Look, I've been kidnapped by some idiots and I need you to come get me, okay? I don't know where I am, so you'll just have to follow my voice. I'm in some sort of concrete cell. There's no entrance or anything, but there is a vent, which I am hoping leads up to the surface. I think I might be in a hole? It feels like a hole. A hell hole, really. Except it isn't hot, I am actually kind of cold. I am really hoping you can hear me right now and you aren't like, asleep, or listening to music, or something like that. It'd be really nice to know if you could hear me, actually. I've been trapped in here for way too long and would really like to get out now. So you'd better be on your way.”
Tim closed his eyes and listened. He was met with the same silence he had been surrounded by for hours.
“Come on, Kon, what kind of best friend are you if you can't even come break me out? I really do not want to have to take another nap to pass time. Do you know how boring that is? I have nothing to do in here except for sleep. It's impossible for me to get out on my own. I'm really asking for help, here.”
He licked his lips, waiting and listening. Tim shifted, trying to not become too anxious but failing. It had never taken Kon this long to get to him. Tim hardly ever called out for Kon like this and his friend always had arrived just a minute or so later. Maybe Tim was farther away from Gotham than he originally believed? That had to be why Kon was taking so long to fly here; why Bruce hadn't found him yet.
“Kon.” There was a slight whine to his voice that he could not ignore. Kon absolutely had to be coming. He was Tim's back up plan; Tim's fall back 'this will work without fail' plan. There was doubt creeping into his mind that maybe Kon could not hear him. Maybe the vent did not lead to the surface and Tim's voice was too muffled to understand? Tim called his friend's name again, as loud as he could. That had to work, right? Or, maybe, Kon was having trouble pin pointing where Tim was. That seemed very likely. Tim counted to thirty, called out Kon's name again, then repeated. He kept up the process until he had yelled for Kon almost forty times.
Tim had no idea what to do. All of his faith had been in Kon and there had been no response. He didn't understand why there was no response. Tim sunk down to the floor, tucking his legs under him as he did. If Kon could not hear Tim to come get him, then Tim would have to wait for Bruce to rescue him.
All he had to do was wait.
Bruce would not let him down....right?
~*~
Tim ran his fingers along his jaw, feeling the hair that had grown there. It was little more than scruff and it itched like hell, but he was glad for it. It had become a way for him to tell how much time had passed; it wasn't a clock, but he could figure out how many days it had been since he had last shaved. Due to a combination of his genetics and his age, Tim grew a beard very slowly, and by the amount of scruff on his face, it had been verging on four days since he had shaved. He had done so the morning of his abduction, so Tim calculated that he must have been in this hole for at least three days.
Three very long days.
Three days of waiting, of listening to silence, of sitting on the futon and staring up at the shadowed ceiling. Three days of feeling his stomach ache and complain from lack of food, of his throat scratching and his lips cracking from dehydration, of getting dizzy when he stood up because he was too damn stubborn to eat the mush that was provided or drink the water that looked rusted.
At least he was getting enough sleep for once in his life.
Tim knew his decisions to not eat or drink were foolish, but it was a matter of principle at this point. If he gave in, he would be accepting that his captures had planned on keeping him for more than a few hours, and Tim wasn't ready for that. The only thing that made sense was for the people who took him to use him as a negotiation tactic, as a hostage for a ransom. They needed him alive or they would have killed him.
Why else would they lock him in this horrible place and give him the bare minimum requirements to live? Maybe it was someone's sick idea of entertainment, watching him suffer like this. The only person he could think of who would do something like that was the Joker, but the man wouldn't be able to resist rubbing it in Tim's face.
So it had to be a ransom demand. It had to be. Tim just had to wait for Bruce to follow the leads, to find his way to Tim, and to get him out of this prison.
Tim just had to wait. He could wait.
But to be able to be rescued, Tim had to actually be alive. He knew if he didn't drink something soon, he'd slip into extreme dehydration and simple water would not be able to help him. He was already tettering dangerously too close to that ledge. Another day, possibly even a few hours, would ruin his chances of survival. Bruce would be retrieving a corpse instead of his son.
That thought had Tim pushing himself up off the futon. His limbs shook and his head spun, but he managed to cross the cell to the faucet. He jabbed his finger into the button and watched the disgusting water run for ten seconds. When it shut off, Tim leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for it to open up, for Bruce, Batman, to drop down and take him home. Minutes passes and nothing happened, so Tim looked back to the faucet and pressed the button again.
Tim tried to pretend the colour of the water reminded him of lemonade mixed with a little bit of iced tea and not muddy water. He cupped his hands and stuck them under the stream, gathering water until the faucet shut off, then brought his hands to his lips and drank before he could change his mind.
Tim's extensive training is the only reason he did not spit the liquid out. It tasted worse than it looked and smelled. It was bitter and metallic and stale and Tim was pretty sure the water had a texture. It coated his tongue and throat and made him want to gag, but Tim drank three more handfuls. A few sips of water were not going to magically cure dehydration. He'd have to drink slowly and steadily at even intervals for the next few hours to get his body away from turning on itself. Drinking too much at once would just make him sick.
Since he had given in and drank the water, Tim might as well eat the food he thought. He tried to justify it to himself that he would need the energy when Bruce finally came. Tim already needed to be rescued, he did not want to lose any more dignity by needing to be carried out. He knew Bruce would never say anything, but Tim highly doubted Bruce would be coming alone. Dick and probably Damian would end up tagging along and they would make comments. Tim didn't want to hear the comments, or that is what he lied to himself about. The truth was that he was just so hungry he would eat anything at this point; even the wet cardboard mush.
The mush was exactly where Tim had left it and looked just as unappetizing as the first time he saw it. He brought the tray with him over the futon and sat, trying to make himself at least a little bit comfortable. He took the same approach as he did with the water; he used two fingers as a spoon and scooped up some of the mush into his mouth before his mind reminded him how long he could go without food. He refused to think about how the mush felt like cold glue in his mouth and how he could taste chalky powder of some sort of medicine that was mixed in. He ate it all, licked his fingers clean, then got up to shove the tray far too roughly back into the slot in the wall. He didn't think about how the imitation porridge tasted like nothing until he flopped back down onto the futon and curled onto his side, back facing the rest of the cell.
He didn't want to chance losing any of the water he had consumed by making himself too dizzy from moving around, so Tim forced himself to go back to sleep.
When he woke again, he felt groggy and very weak. He rolled onto his back to look around his prison, no longer surprised to see absolutely nothing had changed. He had no idea how long he laid there, just staring at nothing, barely awake, when there was the sounds of metal, meaning his food had been replaced. He waited a few minutes, or a few hours, he couldn't tell, he was so out of it, before slowly rolling off of the futon. His head did not spin when he stood, so he counted it as a plus, and retrieved his food. It was still just as cold, mushy, and disgusting as before, and Tim tried to focus on the saltiness of his fingers as he ate. When he finished, he drank a few handfuls of rusted water, then laid back down.
It took four more meals for his body to finally start feeling not as weak. Whenever he woke between meals, he would force himself to go to the faucet and drink and he hated that he could never get used to the taste of the water.
Tim knew he couldn't spend all of his time sleeping, despite the fact that it seemed like the easiest thing to do to pass time as he waited for Bruce to come get him.
Bruce would come to get him. It was inevitable; the sun would rise, the Earth would spin, and Bruce would come for Tim. Tim just had to wait. Because as important as Tim thought he was, he knew Gotham would come first. Bruce had to be putting his everything into finding Tim, but Gotham wouldn't just sit back and wait. Bruce still needed to patrol, to deal with other threats, all while trying to find Tim. Knowing Tim's luck, there was probably some sort of disaster that demanded Bruce's attention, which was why he was taking so long. Or was it long (It had been so long)? It was easy for Tim to lose track of time. He was pretty sure that his meals came once a day and he had tried to keep track of how often he ate, but the deafening silence and it so easy to forget when he had last eaten. Everything quickly began to merge together and the only way he could even mildly keep track of things was trying to remember what he had done before he had slept.
So, as he waited for Bruce to drop down from the ceiling and bring him home, Tim started to try to exercise again. It gave him something to do besides sleep and he forced his mind to focus on the task instead of wandering to the lonely place where he started to doubt he was ever getting out of his prison (He was going to die here).
He tried to ignore the fact he was slowly beginning to fall into a routine.
He would wake up, drink water, stretch out all of his limbs, drink water, walk a thousand laps around his cell, drink more water, go the bathroom, do sit ups and push in incriminates of twenty, drink more water, cool down, then nap. After his nap, there was food usually, and he drank and ate slowly, taking his time to not get himself sick. When he finished his meal, he'd walk until his legs were sore, drink, then sit and think about old cases, or mentally recite books, or anything he could do to distract himself until he fell back asleep and started everything over again.
He had a face full of beard and he knew he must have looked ridiculous. When Bruce came (he was coming, he was) , Tim would have to insist on shaving on the way back to Gotham. Dick would never cease to mock him for having a beard. Tim had such a baby face, his older brother always told him, that facial hair just made him look silly.
Tim scrubbed absently at his face as he knelt down by the faucet. The coarse hair was maybe half an inch long, and Tim knew that was a significant length but for the life of him could not remember why.
He found it happening more and more. Small facts or details he just could not recall and would sit for minutes (hours? Days?) trying to remember until he got so frustrated with himself he'd do push ups until he would collapse.
Tim shook his head and dragged his mind back to the present. He needed to focus (it was so hard); he was still weak, it felt like he had done nothing to fight his dehydration and he needed to drink his three hand fulls of water (three was a very good number, Tim liked doing things in threes he had found out.) He pushed the button, then started and fell back onto his rear when the pipes groaned quietly. It was the first time in so long he had heard something other than the clank of metal from the food slot or the noises he made himself. It felt so loud, hurt his ears (when was the last time he spoke?).
The faucet sputtered out water after a moment and Tim swallowed dryly. The water was always dirty, always looked like it had been filtered through some soil before it got to Tim, but now it had dark red tinge to it and Tim really did not want to put it in his mouth.
He knew that the water would have no ill effects on him if the water was simply tainted with rust, it was just an aesthetic, and probably taste, thing. However, if the water was red from another source, like the pipe had cracked and dirt had leaked in, that was a different story (Painful death. An escape from his prison).
But Tim knew he had no choice but to drink the water. There simply was no other option unless he wanted to become dehydrated (There were easier ways to die). He could, in theory, wait and see if the water cleared up, but what if it did not? What if his only water source continued to spew the disgusting red water?
Tim couldn't help but push the button on the faucet. The pipes hadn't cleared; nor had they cleared the next three times Tim ran the water. Tim closed his eyes tightly, then cupped his hands under the water so he could bring some to his lips. Despite the change in color, there was none to the disgusting taste. It set the slight fear in Tim's mind to rest; if the pipes had cracked, the water would have had particles in it, giving it a grainy texture and it would have tasted different.
After his three handfuls of water, Tim peeked into the slot for his food tray and frowned at seeing it empty. He sat back, slightly confused because his arms ached from the push ups he had done before his nap. There should have been food. He must not have slept long enough. His schedule was off.
He didn't want to think of the alternative.
Tim forced himself back to bed, curling onto his futon and pulling his shirt tight around him. His thoughts began to wander, to the things he tried to not remember and to remembering the things he tried to not forget.
He couldn't remember what type of soap he used. He always bought the same kind; he knew the bar was white, and it either came in a white and blue box or maybe it was green? He knew the packaging wasn't orange. It had a scent; Tim had issues with soaps that were unscented. They didn't make him feel clean; like he hadn't washed all the blood and grime off of himself. It was an aesthetic thing, like the water, but it was comforting (he was never going to shower again).
Tim racked his brain, laying curled up on his side for hours (days?) , trying to recall the brand of his soap, the colour of his washcloth, his towels, until he finally drifted back to sleep.
