“THIEF FOUND UNDER BED GOES TO PRISON,” Montreal Star. November 10, 1931. Page 3.
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Caught beneath a bed in the house of Archibald Woods at 5392 Duquette avenue on October 3 last, Armand Piche, also known to the police as Louis Cote, 1138 St. Hubert street, was this morning convicted by Judge Lacroix of having entered with intent to steal and was sentenced to three years' penal servitude. Woods had suspected on returning to his house, that there was a burglar there and on later searching the house with a policeman he had seen Piche in hiding.
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dear god i hope every violent man who terrorizes his family because they're the only people he has power over and his house is the only place he feels like a Big Man drops dead right this second. amen.
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Tim had always been a heavy sleeper. He could sleep anywhere, anytime, just peacefully nod off no matter where he was or who he was with or what was going on. Unfortunately, multiple irritating splints, bandages, and a consistent low-level headache had ruined this simple ability.
He didn’t know what had woken him up, whether it was a stray breeze or a heavy sigh or the creak of a floorboard, he just remembered sluggishly cracking open his eyes and spotting green dots. He blinked, seeing but not really registering, until the green dots shifted closer and the shadow around them resolved into a humanoid figure.
Green eyes, burning, like the gunshot wound, footsteps stalking closer as Tim tried to get away, tried to get up, “Had enough, Pretender?” a low, mocking croon.
Tim screamed.
Something immediately muffled him, tightening around his mouth, holding him down as he thrashed, panic waking him up like a bucket of cold water. He heard a door slam somewhere deeper in the Manor as he struggled to free his arms from the constricting blankets.
“Tim!” came a loud, frightened voice from the hallway.
The hand on his mouth pressed harder, forcing him against the bed, glowing green eyes right above him as the footsteps sprinted closer. There was a low, bitten-off curse, and the hand was gone, letting Tim draw a deep, gasping breath as he finally flailed free of the blankets.
Tim forced himself up as his door was thrown open and hissed when the lights abruptly switched on. It took several seconds to get acclimated, his heart racing as he took gasping breaths, and the bed dipped near him with a heavy weight.
“Tim,” Bruce said, quieter, waiting until Tim blinked teary eyes at him before he moved closer. “What happened? Are you okay?”
Tim stared at him, and then at the room. There was no sign that anything was amiss—his messy pile of papers was untouched, his closet door was open to his stacks of clothes, his laptop remained closed, his window and curtains were both firmly shut. In the bright light, the idea of an intruder seemed ridiculous.
“I’m fine,” Tim said, the words coming automatically. Bruce narrowed his eyes a fraction. “I—it was just a strange dream,” Tim said, lying easily. “Like when you kick your feet and feel like you’re falling? I was just startled.”
“Ah,” Bruce said, relaxing slightly. His face was still lined, as it had been since before Tim had left to Titans Tower for what was supposed to be a short stay to avoid the gang instability in Gotham. With everything that had happened since then, it was no wonder that Bruce was stressed. “Are you sure you’re okay? I can make some hot cocoa.”
There was no point worrying Bruce further. Tim plastered a smile on his face and demurred, “No, thank you, Bruce. I’m going to try and get some sleep.”
“Okay, kiddo,” Bruce leaned forward and ruffled his hair, but Tim didn’t miss the tightening of his eyes when his gaze skipped across Tim’s bandages. “Sleep tight. Call if you need something.”
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