Awkward IntimaciesAN: Or, I refer to them collectively as The Murder Dorks for a reason. Fucking idiots. I don't know how they've lived this long. Nobody knows.
Happy Valentine's Day from our…happy…family!
In their defense, it had seemed like a good idea at the time.
In the sweats' defense, they had been a little drunk at the time.
They'd found them, you understand, crammed into a drawer and, after a brief wonderment of where they'd come from and who they belonged to (the final verdict was that they must've come with the apartment?), the thought had occurred to them that maybe…well…the sweats were very big. Big-big. Circus-tent-big. And they…are not.
They don't remember whose idea it was. At this point, it doesn't matter. All that does matter is that somebody had the bright idea to say, 'I wonder if we could both fit in these?' and the other somebody was stupid enough to laugh and say, 'let's see'.
And.
Well.
They do. They fit.
But.
At what cost.
"Well, this is fun."
"Mm."
Jonathan tilts his head back to study a stain on the wall. Kitty pokes the back of the couch. This is a new, previously unexplored area. It's not a pleasant place to be.
They fell, you see, and in the attempt to not go down the couch had been shoved forward, leaving them, bound in their fabric prison, to fall behind it.
And be unable to get up.
They're going to die here.
"How long do you think it'll take someone to notice we're missing?"
"It's Gotham. They won't care."
"Mm."
"There's worse people to starve to death with." she says, reaching back and patting his face. "I mean, if I have to."
"I'm flattered, Kitty."
She pokes the couch again. It doesn't move. Jonathan scrubs a finger against the questionable stain, makes no progress whatsoever, and ends up dropping his hand onto her hip instead.
"Well," he says, and she tips her head back against his chest, "we do, in fact, fit."
"True."
Good god, the back of the couch is ugly. What a horrible view to die with.
THE END