"FUCK!"
It was that time of the month. The waxing day. Despite being a part of a bank robbery earlier that day, Clara was still a person of plans, and she followed her routine whenever she could. Being stabbed was definitely not a reason to change her day. Therefore, when evening came, the woman took her torturous tools and began removing every tiny hair on her body, skipping head and face, but attacking everything bellow. Wax was something that ensured a comfortable existence for a relatively long time, thus in Clara's eyes worth the pain that it delivered. Besides, the woman saw such experience as a weird challenge that tested her ability to endure high-pressure situations. In reality, when it came to waxing, it was not really the ripping - physical - part that was scary. It was the mental battle between your logical and instinctual sides, one reasoning to just do it, another encouraging you to run. 'To rip, or not to rip?', a question that had the same weight as Hamlet's philosophism in the tragedy, when he debated with himself whether to fight the injustice or commit suicide and end the sorrow of his heart. During moments like this, global questions decrease to the size of an average person's problems, and those problems become more important than wars and the fate of thousands.
Nevertheless, Clara still felt a relief when the last stripe was gone. "One more session is done, only around seven hundred left to do." If only she happened to live another sixty years. Relaxed, she took a long shower, cleaning any possible remaining of the sticky substance. The woman hissed as the hot water hit newly bared, sensitive areas, and immediately lowered the heat. "No need for another emergency."
Stepping out and drying herself, only a black robe on her shoulders, Clara wandered towards the darkened living room, the only source of light being a lit fireplace. She preferred it this way - the less artificial light, the higher melatonin production occurs. Sleep was definitely something of great use for her now, so it was a tactical move to stimulate the release of sleep hormone. Due to the lack of light, Clara could clearly see Batman sign in the night sky. "Someone's having some serious trouble, huh?"
When it came to the topic of Batman, she was not particularly intrigued by this stupidly heroic man. The woman wondered how well-pronounced Narcissistic Personality Disorder was inside this creature, one and only. Living in Gotham, it was impossible to ignore what was happening inside. Copycats were something that the Batman despised as much as criminals, apparently. The only force that could control those thugs, mobsters and thieves, had to be him. And it was fine with Clara, as long as it didn't involve her. Men could run around dressed in bat suits, Halloween costumes, hidden behind clown's makeup.
The night matured, but for some reasons Clara's inner clock decided to protest against sleep, mind too focused on analyzing Gotham's Dark Knight's potential personality crisis, and then another man's behaviour. Yes, the clown, Joker, was still on her mind, permanently implemented there together with her throbbing wound. Like a teenage girl, she lost her sleep over a man with warpaint and a disfigured face. Except, instead of drooling over the mental picture of him, her brains vigorously painted various scenarios of him being carved up.
In fact, Clara was rather familiar with the Glasgow smile. She was not Scottish, from where the wound originated, but still, the surgeon had to stitch up a fair amount of them. In her opinion, the Glasgow smile was one of the most macabre ways of hurting someone. Gangs would often use it on others as a warning not to mess with them, and the smile typically was made with cut-throat razors, utility-knifes, glass or bottles. Something dull enough to prolong the torture. The victim would often open the wound even further while screaming, tearing his own cheek in half. Later, English street gangs followed Glasgow's street crooks' example, and the vile torture technique spread outside Scottland. This was especially popular among the Chelsea Headhunters, a London-based hooligan firm, therefore such a smile in England got a name of 'Chelsea Grin'.
If the man had even a trace of an accent, Clara would consider him being a victim of a Brittish gang. Unfortunately, things wouldn't go exactly into correct places. He could have travelled and gotten into an accident. Or, he might have inflicted the wounds himself, perhaps. The man didn't seem to have much self-preservation, based on the fact of how he fell to the floor with her weight on top, risking to break his ribs or crush vital organs. Or... A number of possibilities could be considered, neither one of them confirmed or based on facts.
It didn't take too long for sunrise to come, as it was the middle of summer, nights short and vivid with life. Clara was no stranger to sleepless periods, and just like a seasoned warrior, despite not being in the battlefield for a long time, would still know how to survive in the eye of the storm, the woman knew how to endure lack of sleep, even when her now comfortable environment ensured the potential fulfilment of her desires. She was... Ready to jump, and run, and fight, and only the sky was her limit. The re-introduced stress was something of great usage, if not abused too much.
The silence was disturbed by her phone, vibrating somewhere in the background. Narrowing her eyes, surprised by an early caller, Clara slowly wandered towards the device. An unknown number was written on the screen. "Yes?"
"Clara?" A moment passed by, the woman's brains analyzing this slightly muffled voice in an attempt to recognize its owner. A few seconds later, her rigid posture relaxed. She knew who the mysterious caller was.
"Jonathan."
Silence followed the said-aloud name. When the man spoke next, slight amusement laced his velvety tone. "Don't sleep much?"
"It's already bright outside."
"You're right. But I suspected you'd still be asleep for a few hours more."
"It's already four A.M., Jonathan. I wake up at five, so I'm not too far ahead of my schedule. Besides, why would you call if you knew I was asleep?"
"I had my hopes." She could detect mirth in his voice. The man was probably smirking, that characteristic tight-lipped smile on his face. After so many years, Clara developed an ability to guess Jonathan's mood just from the way he constructed his sentences.
"Of what use can I be to you, Scarecrow?" As much as she enjoyed intellectually stimulating conversations with the other doctor, Clara knew that people usually don't call at four in the morning without a serious reason.
"Stitches. I need you to stitch me up."
This was probably the main reason why these two people could be on such good terms with each other. They both knew when to cut the pleasantries short, or when to fall silent so to not provoke the other. Certain disadvantages and awkwardness that came with extremely high intellect and introverted nature could be avoided when both-sided understanding occurred. In this case, two doctors definitely shared a weird bond.
"Mhm. I suppose it's me who has to come?"
"I'd like you to. Preferably sooner than later. I'd rather not lose my arm, after all the trouble I endured hacking into the system just to get your number." Here, the mirth again. After a while, once you get a grip on one's subtle humour, you can't undo the newly-found insight. "Actually, I was rather surprised you didn't announce about your whereabouts earlier. Slightly offended, even, to hear about my long-lost friend from a secondary source."
"I was busy. Send me your location, Jonathan, and I will try my best to reach you. Hopefully, your new apartment is nothing like the previous one?"
Chuckling lightly, he ensured that his house is so much better than before. And Clara believed him, mainly because it would be hard to imagine anything worse than the hole that he previously lived in. A tunnel, maze-like corridors, with crows and ravens, and street cats lurking around. The apartment itself was not bad, but first, to admire its comfortableness, you had to reach it.
Not wasting any time, the woman searched for her medical tool bag, much more improved than the typical first-aid kit. It contained far too little to actually ensure one's safety. That, and the fact that people tend to misuse its contents. Even in Israel, first-aid kits were far more abundant. Here, in a world of comfort, those little bags became something align to a joke.
Her phone vibrated once more, indicating a green light for her. Looking at the address that Scarecrow sent, Clara groaned. "Seriously? You live on the other side of Gotham?" It will take her almost an hour to reach him, and Clara hoped that his wounds were not that severe. On the other hand, the woman started doubting how real this whole thing was. Jonathan was not stupid to risk his life and call someone from that far away. Which means, the actual reason for his call is probably something else, and the wound, even if it actually existed, became a secondary reason. "He probably created some kind of drug and wants to test it on me." She could still remember the fear gas that he insistently offered her to try, and which, Clara had to admit, helped a lot in the army. It was hard to feel the actual terror of war when you have already faced your personal horrors. Where men had their naturally occurring testosterone-fueled aggression and brainless bravery, she had the experience of facing her fears and knowledge of how to deal with them. When you're able to logically think in high-pressure situations, there's very little left that could still disturb the calm flow of one's mind.
After a while, she got immune to the infamous fear gas. Clara presumed that Crane knew that, although they never discussed it. One day, he just stopped giving her the toxic substance. But that was not the end. They both tried LSD, psilocybin mushrooms, fresh cannabis that he used to grow on a windowsill, tested how these psychedelics may contribute to his patients' conditions. They both were scientists, after all, both-sided agreement bonded these two intellectuals, encouraging to try new, sometimes illegal, but none the less effective things.
It took her only thirty minutes to reach Jonathan's home, far less than originally anticipated. The day was still young, barely any cars outside. Officially Clara was still sick, laying in her bed with tea and sore throat. With no work needed to go to, she had this whole day and weekend for herself. Herself and Scarecrow, keeping in mind that her car was parked right in front of a dark, but clean-looking building. Sighing, the woman stepped out, stretching her muscles, careful not to open the stab wound, which already started to close up. Perhaps the clown actually kept his knives clean, after all, as her skin haven't become infected.
Nearing the only door in sight, Clara knocked, patiently waiting for a response. And she received it, a few seconds later. A man with a tight smile opened the door, tilting his head to one side. "You made it." Humour could be heard in his velvety voice, amused blue eyes meeting cold, annoyed ones. "For a moment I really thought that you will reject my call of help."
"I should have. But I have a kind heart, Jonathan, couldn't allow you to bleed to death." Sarcasm laced her voice while she stepped inside, Scarecrow closing the door behind. Clara's bag hung on her shoulder, indicating the main reason for her visit. Taking the bag off of the woman's shoulder, Crane explained.
"Actually, there is an emergency. I was attacked, and quite severely." Motioning towards a large room, supposedly his living room, he put Clara's bag on a small coffee table. "I could have taken care of it myself, except I wasn't completely sure how to handle this kind of wound. Didn't want to mess anything up." Smiling rather painfully, the man took a seat, unbuttoning his shirt and putting it besides.
Clara had seen both shirtless and completely naked Jonathan before, and not just once. That, and also the fact that she was used to seeing nude body parts had a major effect for her not to stare at Crane's lean, but a rather muscular chest and torso. What held her attention was a weird wound, hardly a stab or a slash. "For God's sake, Jonathan, have you been experimenting with tigers?" Crunching in front of him, she took a good look at the huge bite wound, already turning greenish, but not touching it yet. She hadn't washed her hands and didn't want any impurities from her fingers to get into his blood system. "More like dogs." Murmuring for herself, Clara lifted her misty gaze, resting her eyes on the man's cerulean ones. "Jonathan?"
"I had an... Incident. With Batman and dogs." Clara raised her eyebrow, silently expressing her confusion. Not prying, she didn't say anything. The woman stood up, unzipped the back and put the tools that were needed on the table, first wiping it the construction with alcohol. Then, she washed her hands with antibacterial soap. Smirking, the woman noticed Jonathan wrinkling his nose when a strong smell of menthol hit him. "You, Brits, took too much liking into strong smells."
"I beg your pardon?" It was her who furrowed her eyebrows now, not getting the meaning behind the man's words.
"French royalty used to import expensive perfume into Great Britain for kings and queens. If you have ever smelled the French perfume, you should have noticed that they are typically very strong and long-lasting, like menthol. Such a versatile characteristic. You apply it once, and smell like a huge flower for the rest of the day."
Clara was speechless for a moment. Crouching in front of the man who seemed to stare straight through her, she once more started analyzing his wound, gently caressing the sides of it. "You know, I haven't been at home for more than ten years. I don't remember what the Queen smells like anymore." She started softly wiping, cleaning the bite, feeling Jonathan's muscles twitch underneath her hand. "Your 'Violent Dancing' didn't exactly work against dogs, did it?" Irony coloured her voice, no previous thoughtfulness in sign. Mentioning of his self-made martial art's name immediately annoyed the Scarecrow. "My proposition to teach you some real stuff is still valid." Apparently, it was a sensitive subject for Crane, his incomplete style of martial arts that he insisted on creating, but never actually perfecting to the point of flawlessness.
"What, will you introduce me to Jiu-Jitsu? Taekwondo? Or that funny Israeli Karate that you're such a big proponent of?" He spat these words, abruptly close to being angry, trying to rip his arm from Clara's fingers. It was a sensitive subject indeed.
"Calm down." Using that enormous strength of hers that was perfected through blood and sweat, the woman forced him back, gripping Crane's arm tightly. Dagger-like look was sent her way, and although his body went rigid, she could tell that the man was still furious. Steely gaze met the blue flames, fighting for dominance, without any intention to submit. After a few seconds, Clara picked up the needle and pierced Jonathan's skin without any mercy. Hissing in pain, the man showed his teeth, sending one more murderous glare towards the woman between his knees.
"I swear, one day I will end your pathetic life, Clara."
"Sure. But first I suggest learning some Krav Maga. Will keep you safe from animal attacks." For a few minutes, she worked in silence, without a word muttered. But then her mind drifted towards the previous day once more. "You know, I met your friend."
"My... Friend?"
"Mhm. The clown."
"You've met the Joker?" Nodding again, Clara finished stitching the man underneath her, with a light hand cleaning now closed wound.
"I need to give you a vaccine against rabies. A normal dog should not attack a larger opponent."
"There were three rottweilers."
"Then you should feel lucky enough to go away relatively untouched. Those dogs are bred to kill." Now she was cleaning the top of Scarecrow's arm, his skin above the deltoid muscle. "Don't move, Jonathan." Thriving a needle full of golden liquid inside, she slowly injected the substance. "I could easily give you liquid arsenic, and you wouldn't know until it was too late."
"Well, I trust you." Seeing Clara's smirk grow, he quickly added. "To some extent." Clearing his throat, Crane continued with their previous topic. "Be careful with the Joker. He is a mad dog, too. A place in Arkham is guaranteed for him without a doubt."
"Asylum? Shouldn't it be, well, jail? Or is every terrorist now a madman?"
"Oh, but he is mad, Clara. The man shows clear signs of psychopathic behaviour."
"How could you tell he's a psychopath? Not a perfectly sane person, or not even a sociopath?" Before Scarecrow could interfere, she continued, abruptly standing up. The used needle was placed on top of the table, already forgotten. "The Joker shows a great level of recklessness and lack of empathy, indeed, but he also plans. A crazy one would act on instinct. Arkham is hardly where the clown belongs." Pacing back and forth now, the woman could feel Jonathan's intense, clear eyes following her gracious movements. "During the robbery, that creature positioned himself just in the right place to avoid colliding with a bus. His friend wasn't so lucky, which was also planned. You know, saving Earth, saving bullets." Sarcasm coloured Clara's voice, British accent becoming continuously more pronounced. Amused, Crane noticed her ripping more and more 'r' from her words, 'l' softening as Clara's tongue was being placed closer to the back of her throat, ruining the false charade of her heritage, her roots. "Or just the basic game theory." Suddenly, the woman's eyes widened, she stopped in her track, slowly turning towards the seated man who moved a fraction, just to reach the syringe. "Jonathan." Ensuring that she had his unwavering attention now, Clara lowered herself in front of him, between Crane's legs - a spot that the woman seemingly liked, although Scarecrow knew quite well it was not for the reason that he might have enjoyed. It was a strategical spot, near his unprotected crotch and abdomen. "The Joker is using game theory. When you think about it, all of his goons were found dead. What did he do, run around shooting every each of them, all in different locations? No, the clown simply told them to kill their own partner, until only one was left, which, of course, was shot by the 'senior pirate' himself." Clara's grey eyes were lit by a weird fire, which Jonathan had noticed only a few times before. He could almost see metaphorical screws working their magic, forcing the analytical brain to use a few extra percent of their potential abilities.
"So he's not one of my patients, but an unacknowledged genius then?" Doctor Crane had to admit, he was impressed by another doctor's observation. The syringe was held in his hand, rolled and moved between gracious fingers.
"More like a psychotic, but brilliant circus artist." An honest grin tore through her lips, for the first time in months, probably, exposing a row of white, straight teeth with sharp rudiments of canines. Clara's hands were placed on top of Jonathan's knees, gently massaging the bony cap underneath, feeling it's hollowness on the sides. This was another habit of her that the man was quite familiar with. Clara was not exactly a creature which was fond of close contact, but when the woman had a mental battle with herself, or just thought about something intensely, and someone happened to be close enough, the surgeon would pick a part of his body and mindlessly analyze its anatomy. A few times Crane asked her about this almost tick-like habit, and not receiving a clear answer, he created his own conclusion.
"It's already nine o'clock." A husky voice stated, attracting the man's attention once more.
"So?"
"I came at five."
"It's hardly a secret that time goes by quicker when we're together." Light mirth could be felt in Jonathan's velvety voice. "Did you know that you saved Gambol's grandma?"
"Did I?"
"That's what I've heard. Liver damage, anything familiar?"
Remembering the surgery, still feeling the weight of heavy organ in her hands, Clara smirked slightly, only one corner lifting up. "Very."
--------------------
Song of the chapter: System Of A Down - Aerials