The Schemer

Commando

Laying in the clown's bed, staring at the ceiling. Tucked safely underneath the covers, hearing the man silently breathing into her shoulder. He was on Clara's left, therefore Joker fell asleep with the Flying Dutchman's tattoo staring back at him. He was a weird man, indeed. His sleeping habits were bizarre, but nighttime routine completely reasonable. He projected normality in various fields, and that's what always confused Clara. After all, shouldn't the most notorious Gotham's criminal be sleeping in a coffin, or at least have a bath of blood in the evening? Something highly unusual? Instead, he was not just a neat eater, but also a neat human-being in general. His house was spotless, the bed free of any traces of substances that shouldn't be there, the bathroom, too, didn't have anything unusual in there. When compared to Clara's home, the Joker's house might have been confused with a politician's, who could allow himself to have a daily cleaning by a maid.

The weirdness of the man emerged only when he was asleep. Clara remembered noticing something out-of-place before when they were sleeping at her's, but the surgeon didn't care to analyze that at the time. Now, on the other hand, the time was her friend, and she had the whole night for the medical examination. 

The Joker didn't lay on the pillow like a normal human. Instead, his head was placed way below it, only the tops of the greenish hair touching the soft material. Therefore the man was able to keep the eye-to-shoulder contact. Blowing gentle gusts of air into it, he forced tiny goosebumps to appear on the woman's skin.

With a deep sigh from her own lungs, Clara relaxed. She was used to the exasperating thoughts emerging out of nowhere, at random times. Disgusting thoughts, various stories and experiences, staying in her head for longer than she would have liked. Or simple, ordinary worries, undemanding ideas. Various wonders, refusing to leave the woman's head, during the most inconvenient times. If she was operating and something like this happened, Clara would sing a song inside her head. Following the lines of a poem of some sorts was helpful too. And now, the surgeon would have started to do exactly that if not a nasal voice interrupting the quietness of the bedroom.

"Sto-p thinkin'." Clara stayed unresponsive, just staring upwards. "I know you're not sleeping, little assassin." A slow smirk stretched the woman's lips, transforming the shadowed face into something less gloomy. Into something more humane.

"Have you considered the option that I was indeed sleeping, and you've just woken me up?"

"You were no-t."

"I wasn't." 

"Why's tha-t?"

"I don't know. A different environment perhaps?"

"Hmm-mm." The man t=rolled onto his back, stretching the long body, tutting silently. "We-e-ell," Joker put his hands behind his head. "then you can take the guilt of forcing me ou-t of sleep too, little assassin."

"I'm not forcing you to stay awake, clown. It's your own choice."

"It's no-t, as I don't feel safe being awake with an assassin breathing down my neck. It's your fault for being awake, toots."

"Your logic is flawed."

"Your, uh, perception is narrow."

"Right." She received a low chuckle from the body besides. 

"Righ-t, huh? Are ya agreein' with little old me?"

"I am."

"You never do tha-t, toots. Did Batsy squish your brains a little, uh, too har-d?" The chuckle transformed into dog-like barking, drowning the dark room into a humourless laugh. The woman turned her head, not saying anything. She simply stared at Jack with her eyebrows raised a little. His mocking died down, and the man turned to her once more. "No-o-o, huh? Runnin' out of ideas here, little assassin. Help a little." Not receiving an answer, he sighed. "Right. If not talking about ya, then tell me a story." This melted Clara's rigid exterior slightly. Story-telling was a safe zone.