The next morning, after the clock went off, or rather together with the clock, Clara woke up in a bed that was just too warm. Turning to her left side, with the eyes of a scientist, she examined the back of a murderer, a criminal, just a man. He had a rather muscular, symmetrical backside, she noted. Joker's musculature was well-developed, keeping up with his lifestyle of destruction and chaos. With the mindset of both a doctor and an athlete, the woman admired a nicely-built physique when she saw one. But unlike bodybuilders, the man didn't have individual fibres protruding through the skin, which meant that the little fat which the Joker was carrying on him kept his hormones, particularly testosterone, in check. Explained a lot, huh?
Turning back, Clara slowly crept out of bed, trying not to crack any of her joints. Sneaking out of her own bedroom, she took her workout clothes with herself. Throwing one last look towards the metaphorical lover in her bed, still sleeping soundly, the woman exited, making her way towards the kitchen. Chugging a glass of water first, Clara changed her sleeping shirt into a sports bra and a loose t-shirt, putting on a pair of sweatpants, too. Taking a bottle of cold green tea from the fridge, she manoeuvred towards the garage where her home gym was equipped. A punching bag, that's what occupied her whole attention this morning. And whilst the poor thing suffered, the woman's mind was racing.
The Joker was a neat eater, she noticed that yesterday. Today, Clara had to remind herself that they came home at two A.M., which meant that the surgeon had three hours of sleep. And that's at most, as she had no idea when exactly did she fall asleep, sensing a warm body behind.
The man was also a neat sleeper. The whole time he kept to himself, an immobile wall of bones and muscles laying on his side, just like herself. Punch. The covers that normally would lay unused, were occupied by Jack, but that's it. Kick. Not even an inch of her own was taken. Clara stopped for a moment, making her way towards where the bottle of green tea was placed, and taking a huge gulp.
His behaviour confused her. Completely and utterly. For someone as destructive, as chaotic, as unpredictable as the man, she wouldn't be surprised for him to be a complete maniac while eating. Throwing food everywhere and making as much mess as he physically could. As calamitous in bed as a hurricane. None of that came. Apparently, his tendencies for annihilation were reserved for the outer world. But that was not what concerned Clara the most. The devil always hides in the details. Joker's behaviour was somewhat mindless, effortless as if he was used to such manners from a young age. It was a paradox, a discrepancy. The woman had enough therapy talks with Crane to call herself somewhat an amateur in psychology. She knew that, unless one had a bipolar disorder, the patterns of his character carries through both his personal and impersonal life. Let's say, the Joker decided, consciously chose to be, well, bad. That means that he would be evil throughout the day and night, not eliminating any possible situations when he could destroy something because it was a mindful choice.
Clara herself had a rather hard time following the line of thought now. It was like a fish underneath the water. If the man was mentally ill, the behaviour may alter depending on his mood, environment, but he didn't seem delusional enough to be considered a psycho. The Joker could be ill indeed, and those table and bed manners simply remained after being taught a long time ago. Habits that were strong enough to fight the river of madness. To break through the cage of insanity. Or... He could be just... Jack.
With a sigh, Clara went back and continued torturing the leather bag full of sand for half an hour more, before deciding it was enough. The man, not even being near, managed to give Clara a headache. A headache and sore knuckles. Even those long-time-hardened areas of skin couldn't take that much of constant pounding. Patches of red and purple started forming, some of them transforming into light scratches that bled a little. That happened every time Clara omitted gloves and lashed out on the rough material barehanded.
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The Schemer
FanfictionEvery reputable city needs its supplies of teachers, firefighters, policemen and lawyers. Gotham was hardly a reputable city. Nevertheless, it still needed its surgeons. Clara Moore, a former war doctor, had her own rules and morals. Schemes that k...
