Sketch1997-Have you ever been thrown against a wall? It hurts! One minute you're hanging off his cape and the next minute you're on the ground with a bruised back and a split head. And then, because he's paranoid, he grabs you round the throat and shakes you a little, which doesn't help the whole 'my head is bleeding everywhere' situation. Walls are evil. And so is Batman. He should be more careful with me.
Christineoftheopera-I don't know, but I'll think twice before attacking him with one again. Oww... I told you. I told you, 'Kitty, you're tiny and weak.' But noo, you insist he won't hit a girl. So now look where you are-in medical, with haphazard stitches and ugly get-well cards to look at. Screw. You. And the doctor said no physical activity for six weeks. Sorry. You suck. I've been told worse, actually.
Sometimes Jonathan wondered if it would be worth it to complain about police brutality.
Of course, he only ever wondered that while in a haze of pain (with no ibuprofen anywhere in sight). He always came to his senses later.
Right now he wasn't thinking about the police. He was thinking about Batman, and blaming him for not being able to sleep. He was the one who had thrown the Batrang, which had sliced them both (what were the odds?), and had made it impossible to sleep normally, which resulted in not sleeping at all.
Never mind that they had been busy borrowing some chemicals at the time. It was easier to blame the Batman. It was always easier to blame the Batman. Insomnia? Batman. Couldn't find decent help? Batman. Lousy Arkham therapist? Batman.
Kitty wasn't having trouble sleeping. Must be nice. Although she had gotten a bad scare-nearly fell off the roof. The comedown from that probably would have put her out if she had a broken leg.
God, he was tired. Why did those things have to be so sharp? He hated sleeping with a gauze wrap.
Kitty mumbled something about spoilers and inched back against him. He could feel the wrap around her chest brush against his fingertips. They were both lucky, really. They could be in Arkham. Or worse.
Gauze aside, she had a handful of scars within feeling range. There was one that he knew nothing about (probably sneaking out or something), one that was from a bad fall, and one…where had she gotten…oh.
He remembered this one. There had been a mishap involving a knife, and he hadn't given stitches before. She hadn't been in any shape to talk him through it, either. (She'd had a cold to begin with.)
"Jon'th'n?" She moved a bit. "You all righ'?"
"Go back to sleep."
"Mm-hm."
She rolled over and didn't say anything else.
What time was it? Had to be after three in the morning. Damn Batman. Couldn't even make a dishonest living in this town…
His chest hurt. And he was hungry. Of all the times to be hungry! Hopefully they had something in the fridge. Like an apple.
He withdrew his arm and slid off the bed, waited a second to make sure she wasn't waking up, and slunk into the kitchen.
Ow. Ow. Ow.
He wasn't going to sleep tonight, he could just tell.
They did have an apple-a nice, tart, green one. He scrubbed it off before biting into it.
Well, since he was up, he may as well-yawn-see about those notes…maybe start that next batch…
Or maybe finish the apple and go back to bed. It was cold down here.
Did they really not have any ibuprofen…no. No, there had been a mishap with one of the subjects. Dammit. Shame the man was dead, or he could have taken his frustration out on him.
He made his way back upstairs and got under the covers again. It must have been colder downstairs than he thought-surely the bed hadn't been this warm when he left it.
Oh, never mind. Comfortable.
Well, as comfortable as possible, given the circumstances.
He closed his eyes and wondered again if he should complain about police brutality.
Probably…
If anything would ever get done…
Sleep.
THE END