AN: Related to 'Revenge'. Somewhat. Lyle Bolton is still employed at Arkham at this time.
You know something is wrong with you when I think you need therapy.
You know, he has a point.
SwordStitcher-Accidents happen. But I did get a new idea out of it. One lab rat lasted six days before finally banging his head against the wall enough times to do irreversible damage. He left a stain, though...
Jasmine Scarthing-Many of my toxins react with my body in the same way as a fever does, effectively silencing Scarecrow. I still don't know why, unfortunately.
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-As I said, accidents happen. Ah, the risks I take in the name of science...and nobody appreciates it. Barbarians.
Out. Safe. For the time being, anyway.
They undress in silence by the light of a single, flickering lamp. Never mind the bruises, never mind the fact that their ribs are far too visible, even for fresh out of Arkham. Never mind everything.
They'll have to go back eventually-ring around the roses, isn't that how it goes?-but not tonight. God, hopefully it won't be tonight.
"Let me look you over."
Five little words that shouldn't have to be said right now. But that's their lot in life, for better or for worse. Although this is a bit more than they're used to.
They sit on the bed-they need a new one, big surprise-and he pulls the shade off the lamp.
She could be worse. Bruises, yes, and a couple of cuts on her face, but nothing life-threatening. He's more worried about her emaciated appearance, but there isn't much that he can say about that.
He makes her tilt her head back to get a look at the bruises around her neck. They're fading, but they'll be there for another week or two at least.
His turn. Her fingers ghost over the bruises on his stomach. He's fine-sore and hungry, but fine. He really could do with a Big Mac, of all things, but he doesn't want to go back to Arkham tonight. It can wait.
Her fingers have left his stomach and moved instead to his face, smoothing a few strands of hair away from his eyes. Her fingers are warm against his skin.
"You're warm."
"So are you."
It's likely a common cold-they're in no shape to fight it off. They'll probably be worse off tomorrow, once the adrenaline wears off. Maybe they should risk a McDonald's run, before they're too sick to move.
No. Not tonight. Tomorrow morning, when they serve orange juice.
He replaces the shade and falls back on the mattress. The light stays on tonight-they've spent too much time in solitary, in the dark, to turn it off.
"Something has to be done." Her voice is hoarse. "The man's a menace."
That strikes him as hilarious, but laughing hurts and it makes him cough.
"Oh, the irony." He closes his eyes, relishing the comforting glow of the lamp. "The guard is worse than the inmates."
She takes his hand and leans up to kiss him. He should pull back-he is contagious, after all-but she's sick too and it doesn't really matter.
"Night, love."
"Night."
The light stays on. Outside, police sirens speed down Fourth. It begins to rain.
He sleeps the sleep of the dead tonight.
THE END