AN: Nine times out of ten, I hate McDonald's, although gassing the play area amused me. But today…today was a McDonald's day. It was quick, and their orange juice is the least horrible of the lot. Sort of a continuation of 'Check-Up'. They don't care. I have to put it in.
Jasmine Scarthing-I got mine at Walgreens. I was going to get normal ones, but...I couldn't help myself. Meanie. It was for your own good. You make Scarecrow sad. Sorry, Scarecrow.
Voodoo-Mutant-Child-He hasn't cut himself on glass again. And now we have a big box of Batman Band-Aids. Be careful down there and you won't need them. I suppose it's only fair that I date a sadist. That would be Jill, actually.
SwordStitcher-My precious... That's actually fairly creepy to have echoing around in my head. Our head. My...th...THE HEAD! Hehehe. Why did we let you watch those movies? Because Kitty wanted to drool over Faramir. Yeah.
Just-Me-and-My-Brain-Oh, they're still there. I haven't needed them since. We got a few fresh tubes of superglue. It was necessary. Very necessary. I could have gotten you Hello Kitty Band-Aids. You wouldn't dare.
They're tired, feverish, and starving. Nevermind walking scarecrows-they look like walking skeletons.
Hence the McDonald's. Yes, it's vile. Yes, it always makes them sick. But they serve drinkable orange juice.
They can't draw attention to themselves, not yet. They'll have to do this the legal way.
Damn.
"Welcome to McDonald's."
"Two egg McMuffins, four hash browns, and two orange juices. To go."
The apathetic clerk doesn't notice the bloodstained quarter. Probably for the best. They may be paying for this, but they got the money from some poor sap that they found in the alley next door. For once, they didn't do it-he was dead when they found him.
"Thanks."
Once they're safe in their little hidey-hole, he falls back on the bed, his throat feeling like nails have been driven through it. Orange juice. Food.
"How are you feeling?"
Ugh, she sounds like death. Probably feels like it, if her pale face is any indication.
"Not very good." He looks at her. The bruises on her throat seem darker now. "You?"
"Terrible."
He forces down a bite of the McGreasy and rubs the bridge of his nose. He can feel the fever coursing through his body and he just wants to go back to sleep.
The food doesn't last long and soon enough they're back in bed, shivering and hacking and generally miserable.
"Blegh."
"It was necessary."
He sighs and closes his eyes.
"We can't go back to Arkham."
"I know." She snuggles up against his side. "Worry about it later, all right? We're tired and sick."
He nods and rests his head against the top of hers. Sleepy.
He yawns and feels her take his hand. He'll sleep again, and maybe later they'll go out and find more food. Food and maybe some cold medicine.
He comes to with dry lips and a raging headache. She's still asleep next to him, clinging to his hand. He fumbles for his now-warm, watered-down orange juice and downs it. Blegh. It doesn't help anything and he closes his eyes again, exhausted and feverish.
"Jonathan?"
Not asleep, then. She sounds as bad as he feels.
"Kitty." She moves and sits up a bit. He looks at her. She's blurry. "How are you feeling?"
She shakes her head.
"You?"
"Mm."
He coughs and wishes she'd lie back down. It doesn't really matter now, though-he's fully awake.
She settles back down and he closes his eyes again. He needs a drink. And maybe something else to eat…is there any Chinese nearby? Let's see…they're on Fourth…factoring in illness and malnutrition, they can maybe make it…yes.
"How does Panda Express sound?"
"Do they have Sprite?"
He doesn't remember.
"Maybe."
"Good enough. Come on."
Oh, oww. He's gotten stiff since this morning. Never mind-Panda. Orange Chicken.
They're on the television. The pictures are awful. The pictures are always awful.
"Now what?"
"I don't know."
He takes a long drink of his soda and turns the TV off. They can't stay here for too much longer, not when everyone's still looking for them. There's another lair, across town, that might be safe. Tomorrow. They're safe here for another night. Besides, he's tired again. Making his way all the way over there is too much work.
"It's inevitable."
"Mm?"
"Going back." She sounds more than a little 'out of it'. "Isn't that it always goes? The Bat kicks down the door and drags us back with broken ribs?"
"Not this time." Soda. "Not until he's been dealt with."
"When will that be?"
"I don't know."
His eyes ache. He needs a shower, a really hot one. Does this one still work? Only one way to find out.
Eh, it only sort of works. It could be hotter. And the water pressure is horrible. And there's a black patch of something in the upper right-hand corner. And the shower mat is gone.
Whaa.
Bed. It feels grimy now that he's clean, but it's still soft and warm.
He really should consider finding more food, but he's tired. He doesn't want to get dressed again, either. It took too much work to put on sweats, thank you very much.
At some point-minutes, hours?-the shower goes on again. Too much noise. Head hurts.
She's right-their return is inevitable. Whether he likes it or not, they'll end up back in there very soon. And Bolton will not be happy to see them.
They could leave Gotham, he supposes. He doesn't know how far they'd get, or what they'd do, but…no. It really isn't an option, is it.
"Jonathan?"
"Yes?"
"Will you come see what this is?"
That doesn't bode well.
All the same, he gets up and shuffles into the bathroom to see what's going on.
"You rang, Madam?"
"I think it's a bruise. Between my shoulder blades?"
He looks. Ouch. Looks like a door hinge.
"Yes."
"Lovely." She pulls on a tank top-when did she get that? He likes that-and promptly starts to cough. "You look terrible."
"So do you."
He makes his way back to bed and nestles under the blankets.
Bed time. Maybe he'll feel better when he wakes up in the morning.
THE END