The Schemer

Let's Talk About L.

"Here." Ashwood stood in front of a one-sided mirror door, a weird expression showing on his beautiful face. He waited for Clara to come closer before he dug inside his pocket and took out a handful of keys with various numbers. Searching for one specific, he made enough noise to announce Jack about their whereabouts.

Finally, the key was inserted. He heaved a sigh, opened the door, and took a long glimpse at whatever was inside. Not looking at Clara, Ashwood muttered. "You have half an hour." He spun around, allowing the woman to pass without eye contact. 

The sight in front was not what she expected. The assassin's eyes momentary widened until the mask of indifference covered her face. "Hello, J." 

"Ira." The same nasal, yet possessing a great depth voice reached Clara's ears, giving her thinning arm goosebumps. Her throat dried out all of a sudden, and not a trace of previous anger could be summoned. It was not Jack's fault.

"They let you keep your paint." She observed the hunched man in front of her, the very same man she wanted both to embrace with her one remaining arm, and murder in cold blood just minutes ago. These mixed feelings were making Clara anxious. Borderline uncomfortable. When anger alone ruled her thoughts, it was acceptable. She did not want to feel sympathetic for the clown. The clown, who would abandon her without a second thought.

She physically felt his gaze rake through her, caressing the empty sleeve of her white shirt, taking in her much thinner physique, her pale skin and purple bags underneath her sharp, unforgiving eyes. Finally, his bottomless orbs met her frosty glare, lingering there for a long moment. "Why are ya here, toots?" The woman closed her eyes, a bitter smirk playing on her lips. That familiar emphasis of certain words, making his speech a strange cacophony of sounds, it was all so painfully familiar and fresh, raw, as if clawing at yesterday's wound. 

"Can't I pay an old friend a visit, huh?" She glanced at his restrained form once more, before taking slow steps towards the window. Sure thing, the graveyard - and a crowd of people - could be seen from here. "Especially when that old friend had been living under the same roof for a week." A note of accusation made its way into Clara's voice, and from her peripheral vision, she saw Joker raising his head a bit, wiggling in his restraint shirt.

"I, uh, threatened to bite the guard's finger off. If they didn't give me some Haloween make-up." Joker answered her previous question after a moment, ending it with a low chuckle.

"Sounds just like you." Clara nodded to the window, not taking her eyes off the funeral.

"Who's the pretty boy?" There was a hint of something in that nasal voice of his, but Clara could not pinpoint the specific emotion. She glimpsed at him, unconsciously furrowing her eyebrows a bit.

"My ex-comrade, who had found the meaning of life among the crazy ones." The assassin finally turned around, meeting Joker's dark eyes, acknowledging the uncomfortable-looking shirt that he was restrained with, his hunched position, greenish hair falling in his face, a badly applied layer of paint, rubbing off in a few places. "You don't look too well, Jack." He flinched slightly when hearing his name.

"An-d look who this statement is comin' from." The clown grinned, his white teeth contrasting harshly against crimson lips. "It makes the two of us, huh?"

"I guess." Joker didn't lower his eyes, following Clara nearing him step after step until she sat on the other side of the bed that he was positioned on. "How did they manage to capture you?" 

"Curious little thing, are ya, Ira?" She lifted one eyebrow, waiting for his answer. "Batsy got me."

"That is a very comprehensive story, J." Sarcasm was clear in Clara's voice, colouring her husky tone with a darker colour.