The Schemer

Around the World

"Ira."

"Clown?"

Dark, tired eyes in a bare, slightly pale face met steely, cool grey. A half-dressed, or more like half-nude man approached a dark-haired, tall woman, sitting on top of a bar outside the house, in a private garden, which seemingly had no purpose except for just being there. He took in a view of Clara, who probably woke up hours before him and already reached the middle of her morning exercise. Just as if the previous evening, cracked ribs and the need to be dragged around like a rag doll didn't even exist. The ex-commando was resilient as a cat, springing back to her optimal functioning immediately post-trauma. 

A different story could be told about the Joker. Before continuing on with the pull-ups, Clara took in the state that Jack was in this morning. Blinded by her own discomfort late at night, now, when the man stood in front of her only halfway covered, the surgeon was able to see blueish marks, turning green and yellow. The Joker took his beatings together with her. Although the bruises didn't look dangerous, some of them seemed particularly painful, marking otherwise perfectly segmented, slender torso. The man grinned seeing her stare.

"So who's the good doc now, huh? I nursed ya back to health in one day, toots. When was the las-t time when your patient got better in a week?" 

The woman lost her interest in Joker's torso, sliding off of the bar and continuing with her exercise. Completing another five or six reps, she released her grip, falling down with a grace of a predator. "I feel better than I thought. But I doubt the same could be said about you."

"Why's that? Feelin' amazing, little assassin." Joker watched Clara throw an examining look his way, distantly inspecting the damage. She didn't stop next to the man though, passing him, heading towards the house. 

"Sunnyside up? Over easy? Poached? Hard-boiled?" The questions reached Joker, making his head jerk towards the sound.

"Huh?"

"Eggs. How do you want your eggs?" 

"Who are ya, stranger?" A low chuckle tore from the man's throat, celebrating the newly-founded, tender side of the weird woman. "Feelin' like a kiddo again, being called to the, uh, kitchen minutes after waking u-p and jerking off in the shower."

Silence met the Joker, stretching for much longer than necessary. His body was turned towards the door, through which one could reach the kitchen. Therefore, the man immediately noticed Clara nearing them, leaning onto the frame and staring at him with that penetrating, piercing look of hers. A cup of something steaming was held in one hand, a loose t-shirt - his t-shirt - hanging on her wide shoulders. "Don't confuse me with someone I'm not, J."

"Good. Then who are you, so I could, uh, call ya according to your real label? Huh?" He watched Clara move her head from one side to another, cracking her neck. Hollow sounds died immediately, without any echo, still leaving a suspiciously bitter taste in Joker's mouth. It was like bones breaking, crushed underneath a hefty weight. Yet, he didn't say anything.

The Joker noticed a few patterns of Clara's behaviour that emerged mindlessly and effortlessly, a long time ago. The cracking of joints was one of them. Often, it occurred accidentally. She was like a walking dry branch, constantly producing dry, hollow sounds. But Clara also used to crack her knuckles and neck by herself, annoying the man without even noticing his reaction. Like now, simply standing in the doorway, deep in her thought.

"You gave me a question of the year. I'm not sure about the answer. Personal maid, perhaps?" Her response dripped with sarcasm, but the Joker saw the real impact, actual pondering inside the surgeon's troubled mind. "So how should I make your eggs? If you want to do something stupid today, you need the help of good food." Change of topic, huh? That rarely happened before.