"He looks like he has a pretty nasty case of pneumonia," Al told her friends once Jonathan finally slipped into a light doze. Why it mattered that he should be asleep while they talked, she didn't know. Maybe she just wanted to avoid putting any more stress on the poor thing. He was going to have a rough enough time of it already.
"How did you come by that diagnosis, doctor?"
Al sighed in mild exasperation.
"Look, when you're an EMT's kid and you major in biology, you tend to learn a little something about the human immune system. Besides, he looks exactly like I felt when I had pneumonia. Couldn't turn my head without throwing up, couldn't take a deep breath, barely knew my name most of the time. The only part of those two weeks I can actually remember is when I convinced my mom not to make me skip the Garth Brooks concert. And I only had a touch of it."
"Are you saying we should take him to a hospital?" the Captain asked. Al cast a worried glance at the Scarecrow. If they took him to a hospital, there was no way to disguise his identity, and he would be sure to end up in Arkham. Between the three of them, they might be able to take care of him. Then again, they might not. Their medical skills tended more towards first aid than actual medicine, and Al wasn't nearly arrogant enough to think that they would be as good as the real thing.
People died from pneumonia. It would be far easier to break him out of Arkham than to go through the whole lengthy ritual of raising the dead.
But would they take care of him at Arkham? When he got well enough to fight back, would a nurse be willing to sit on his chest to pour soup down his throat? Would anyone bother to make him any more comfortable than the absolute minimum required to keep him alive?
"I feel like we shouldn't let him out of our sight. Maybe…maybe we could keep him here for a couple of days, and then if he doesn't get any better, we can call for reinforcements."
"Okay. But the second he takes a turn for the worse…"
"We get him some real help. For now, tea, soup, and hugs. And maybe some penicillin."
"Do we have any?"
"There might be some in the lab. If not, I'll go out and get some."
They all looked back at Jonathan, thinking thoughts that could have led to their immediate doom if they had voiced them when he was awake to hear. He looked so young sleeping there without that perpetually suspicious look that was as much a part of him as the glasses and toxin. He really wasn't all that much older than they were, even if, awake, he seemed like he'd been forty since birth.
He was either going to love them or hate them when he woke up.
And, God, Al hoped he would wake up soon.
