AN: She tried to get me to take everything off. I refused. It was worth a try. You knew I'd say no. Yeah, but I had to ask.

Jasmine Scarthing-That's what I tell him all the time. It doesn't help. Because I'm usually being sensible, while you're playing 'hit the stop signs'. Heh.

Just-Me-and-My-Brain-It's the only way to travel. You got us pulled over for speeding and we went back to Arkham. He was faster than me, that's all.

Lasgalendil-Scary Scarecrows has done something with my backstory. I don't know what. Don't look at me. I get to be the fun one, so who cares?

darkwolf1121-See, Jonny? People love me. When you're not putting tarantulas in their mouths... You did it, too. I never said I didn't. Well...FINE.

He doesn't know how she did it. But somehow, someway, she talked him into stripping (well, taking his shirt off, anyway) and letting her draw him for her art class.

"Is this really necessary?"

"It was either you or one of the male models, and I hate drawing them."

"Why?"

"I don't know. You're easier to draw, anyway-lots of sharp angles."

"Thanks so much."

"I've tried to feed you up, don't blame me."

He sighs and wishes she'd let him read, at least. But no, he has to lie on the couch and not move a muscle.

He's so grateful he took art history instead.

After a while, the scratching of the pencil stops. Good. Can he move now? He has a cramp in his left shoulder.

"Done." Hallelujah. "Not bad. She won't fail me for it, anyway."

He holds his hand out for the pad. If he had to lay here for an hour, she can show him what it looks like. It's only fair, after all.

Not bad. She's good with the little details. It's a little creepy, really.

"Where'd you get this?" Her finger, warm and slightly gritty from the lead, traces a scar on his lower back. "Doesn't look like a claw mark."

"It isn't." He shivers a little. "I tripped over a coffee table and landed on a doorstop." A crane-shaped doorstop, but he'll keep that tidbit to himself. "Granny was angry with me."

Her hands are suddenly between his shoulders. What's she doing…god, right there.

"What about these?" One hand brushes across his left shoulder. "Birds?"

"Probably." Don't stop. "I don't remember."

"Roll over."

Why?

Oh, all right, if he must.

He rolls over and realizes how stiff he actually was. Oh, oww.

"Jesus, Jonathan."

"What?"

"Where'd you get all these?"

Birds, bullies, and Granny. And a few actual accidents.

He shrugs and closes his eyes. A second later she traces a small zig-zag scar on his ribs.

"This one?"

"Birds."

She brushes her finger across his throat. That tickles, what's she doing?

"What about this?"

What…oh. He'd forgotten about that one, actually. It's old. It didn't take him long to learn to curl into a ball when she locked him in.

"Birds again. It wasn't bad, but it got infected."

"God."

He shrugs again and feels her hands move across his chest and stomach. Sometimes she'll ask about one-the scar on his stomach, for instance. (Pocket knife. Could have been worse.)

"I worry about you sometimes, love."

Sometimes? Try all the time.

"Mm."

"Thanks for letting me draw you."

That gives him an idea.

"Since I did let you draw me-fairly reluctantly, really-it's only fair that you do something for me."

"Oh?"

He rolls over and makes himself comfortable.

"That massage was very nice."

She tousles his hair.

"Fair's fair."

Indeed.

THE END