"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.
"There ain't much to say, toots. We were, uh, on a roof of a building. Dogs and aroma of gunpowder." The clown grinned, remembering everything. "I got Batsy underneath me. In a very scandalous pose. He used his little tools to get me off. Threw me off of the building. Caught me with his spiderman rope. Brough to cops. En-d. Oh, and I tried to blow something u-p. Didn't happen." His relaxed expression was fixed on Clara, gauging her reaction. "Didn't have a schemer nearby to plan everything throughout. Fucked something u-p."
"I would agree, except I don't know what really happened. Since you're not exactly the most trustworthy information provider, I won't jump to conclusions." The surgeon wiggled a little, making herself more comfortable. "I get numb sitting in one place for too long." She explained when Joker gave her a questioning look.
"Since we are having a, uh, heart-to-heart conversation, when did tha-t happen?" He asked, staring at the empty sleeve. The phantom limb that Clara could swear she started to feel was just... There. It was not an unpleasant experience, although it was not comfortable either. It seemed as if she could grab things with the non-existent hand, but she couldn't. Clara tried to touch herself, her legs, her stomach, but nothing happened. Yet, the attachment on her limb failed to disappear completely. Now, under Joker's heavy gaze, it sprang to life once again, and the surgeon had to keep herself collected and calm to not freak the clown out.
"When the other car crashed into Mustang, my left side was crushed. Major fractures in multiple places, punctured muscle, shards of bone everywhere. Would take too much time and resources to dig in and save the arm." Bitterness laced her tone thinking about the potential - happy - ending of this incident. If only the surgeons that operated her had had enough experience in the first place to dig out every tiny shard, or enough courage to chop off chunks of muscles, just to keep the limb itself. If only she had been conscious to instruct them what to do, her left shoulder wouldn't be bare now. When Clara was the war doctor, sometimes the injuries were far greater than the one of her own, and she still managed to keep the soldiers intact. So how much of professionals were these excuses of a surgeon?
"Don-t explode on my bed, toots. Your pretty boy would have to clean that u-p." Her rage still simmered down in her body making it go rigid. Breathing helped. It always did. "Atta girl." She threw Joker a calmed down look.
"Pretty boy, huh? Are you changing sides?"
"For your frien-d? I would." The mood in the tiny room brightened a little. "I haven't seen him around. Seeing pretty people are no-t something of a constant experience here."
"I'm positive you wouldn't pass your English test with such sentence structures, Joker. They're unusually intricate for you." The assassin commented, trying to win some time to choose her next words. "When it comes to my 'pretty boy', he's probably something of a VIP escort. A guard reserved only for the most important patients." Clara shook her head. "I don't know. He simply showed up when I was brought here, and nobody questioned his existence. Ashwood himself stated he's been around for a few years."
"Righ-t."
"Right?" She lifted her eyebrow again. "You sound as if you didn't believe him."
"Well, I don't. I have a nose for liars, Ira. A nose and eyes."
"I would know that." She nodded once, curling her body in a seated fetus position and putting her chin on her knees. "He's been out of the army for a few years now. The time... He's been free this whole time. It very well might be Ashwood is not lying, and it's just you who suffers from the lack of observation. Not that you've been in Arkham Asylum for that long, after all."
Before Joker could respond, a low knock echoed in the room. The said man opened the door, taking in Clara's comfortable position on Joker's bed, and the clown, who was sending him murderous look. Not saying anything, Ashwood responded by simply raising his eyebrows in mock question. His youth gave him confidence when it came to standing up for himself in front of a seasoned man. "We should go, Clara." He addressed the woman. "The funeral ended a few minuted ago, everyone's heading back."
"Good." The woman stood up, stumbling only a little bit when blood rushed into her head. Clara threw Joker one last glance, steely eyes holding something unsaid in them. The clown didn't meet her gaze, choosing to keep his black orbs on the other man. With that, not saying anything, she exited his room, Ashwood locking it immediately.
"Come." He urged her to move before they could be caught in the crime scene. "Did you finally create your masterplan of escaping? Should I reduce the amount of sleep I have, and instead focus more on keeping you out of trouble?" Clara laughed a little at that.
"You'd be surprised there is no plan. Don't sabotage your sleep over someone as irrelevant as me." The man grunted in response. "Ashwood?"
"Yeah?"
"Nothing." He let out an annoyed groan, lowering that attractive voice of his an octave. "Clara, stop playing games. Spit it out."
"There is nothing to spit out. I thought better than to ask you uncomfortable questions."
"Sure, whatever that means. I am positive I could take a low blow from you."
"Are you? Why do I have a feeling you would blush like a virgin girl if I did that? Gave you a low blow?" Ashwood rubbed his shoulder in an uncomfortable manner.
"If it is that kind of question..."
"Have you been lying to me?" As soon as Clara's question escaped her lips, the man stumbled, losing his footing, and for a moment she anticipated him to fall in a heap of hard muscle and long limbs on the ground. Thanks to the man's gracefulness, he caught himself, cursing lowly. Ashwood never cursed. "Are you okay?"
"What bullshit did that clown feed you?" It made the surgeon lift her eyebrow, staring at the man on her right side. "He said something, didn't he?"
"That's up to you to decide what he could have told me. Care to share your conclusions?"
"No. There is nothing to hide on my behalf." An angry flame brightened his blue-green eyes and made his hollowed cheeks flush with colour.
"Even the story behind you being here?"
"You don't believe me being a guard?"
"Don't answer my question with a question." Clara snapped, snarling at Ashwood. He threw her a dirty look, equally annoyed. The man's hands tightened into fists, and she could swear he would break something pretty soon.
"Then stop asking stupid questions. I am not a liar, Clara, which could not be said about that clown of yours." Like two furious animals, they stared each other down, searching for a weak spot to bite into, looking for a way to reach their opponent's throats.
Loud footsteps echoed in the background, people rushing towards them. Before Clara could do anything, Ashwood gripped her good shoulder in a vice grip and dragged her down the corridor, towards where her room was. They had to stop a few times, trying to avoid unnecessary interactions and questions. Those times, hiding behind various corners, she was pressed tightly to his side, feeling the man's body heat radiating off of him. He was still angry, Clara could tell, from the way Ashwood's chiselled jaw was clenched, making the fibres of the jaw muscle visible, and the way his chest rose and fell with rapid breaths. "You're not drowning, pretty boy." She whispered, feeling his heart beat fast and strong, trying to get out from his chest. Ashwood gave her a questioning look, slight astonishment showing in his lake-coloured eyes as if only now noticing the surgeon pressed to his front. "You're gulping the air down like a drowning man, Ash. Relax. You're hard as a rock, not very comfortable to be pressed into like that."
And then, she smiled. Smirked, to be more specific, mirth radiating off of Clara at the same time as waves of embarrassment radiated off of Ashwood, his chest underneath the grey shirt turning rosy. "This is... Not what you should have said, Clara." The anger, it evaporated from his voice as if never been there.
"I am stating the fact. Your chest is so bloody flexed and clenched that it feels like a wall of fucking rock. A mountain, if you want." The man let out a breath of relief, and that very same moment Clara felt the said muscles relax, body morphing back to flesh from stone.
"Your sense of humour is truly non-existent, Captain." He peeked from around the corner, and lessen his grip on the assassin. "Let's go, before you embarrass me any further." His hand slid down her arm, until reaching and taking her palm in his. Tugging gently, Ashwood wordlessly encouraged Clara to move.
"It's not my fault you have the shyness level of a five-year-old, Ash." To that, he mumbled something incoherent, squeezing the woman's hand in response. They were already in the safe zone, where the chance of bumping into a doctor or a nurse decreased greatly, therefore their pace decreased, too. From a frantic half-running, it went back to a relaxed stroll. Put a few trees here and there, a couple of bushes and one could think it was a couple wandering around in a park.
"I was not lying to you... Completely." It was said quietly, almost to the point where Clara didn't catch it. She gave him a narrowed-eye look, questioning, demanding an explanation. "I am a guard here. But I haven't been one for that long. A white lie, call it that."
"What's the point of that? The duration, let it be a year or a week, does not matter that much..." And then, she stopped, making the man do the same. "Wait a moment." Her eyes narrowed once again, and Clara took an examining look at Ashwood. "How long exactly have you been here?"
"As you've said, the duration is not of great importance." Ashwood took a defensive stance, his shoulders tensing once more. He was a man who wore his heart, his emotions, his feelings on his sleeve. Everything on full display. Clara, as much as she wanted to, couldn't ignore the obvious.
"You came here with a reason, didn't you?" The assassin leaned on the wall, observing the way his breathing got harsher and harsher again. Her comrade's eyes were pleading, asking her not to step into that territory. "And the reasoning is tied with your timing. Am I correct?" He remained unresponding, and Clara barked. "Ashwood!"
"It's none of your business, Clara." He said through clenched teeth. The vulnerability was quickly dissipating into thin air, giving place for the fury and irritation."There were times when you could command me to do anything, and I would fulfil your demands. Those times are far gone. I have my reasons, and they're only mine. Leave it be." Clara stared at him, thoroughly examining Ashwood's behaviour through the past week, the way he talked, the way he reacted to various situations, the way his throaty voice rose and fell, and the wheels in her head kept turning and turning, searching for individual pieces to put and analyze the bigger picture. Something was missing, something important that connected every single part, and Clara could not pinpoint that specific detail.
Before she could reach the conclusion, Ashwood grabbed her around the waist and backed them both into a tiny room used by the cleaning staff, brooms and washcloths piled to the ceiling. A sound of protest was silenced with the man's hand on Clara's mouth, her back pressed to his front. "Hush, Captain."
"Remind me why are we doing this?" The assassin tore his hand off her mouth, whispering with a note of annoyance.
"We had strict orders to not allow patients to wander around during the funeral. Not healthy for their frail psychological stability. And you," Ashwood's lips nearly touched Clara's earlobe. She could feel his breath on her face. "remember, you're one of the patients, while I am just an employee."
"I might have gotten hungry, and you escorted me to the canteen. Or anywhere else. There was no need to push me - us - into this disgusting place. You might just want to admit that you secretly like having me pressed to you, Ash. I wouldn't be mad." She was waiting for an answer, for Ashwood to deny her every word. Hoping for him to laugh silently, and dismiss her words as an attempt to embarrass him.
The answer was non-verbal, in a form of his increased heartbeat, the organ hammering its way out of the man's chest. Ashwood's grip on her waist tightened, warmth penetrating through her thin white shirt. The surgeon tightened her single fist, cursing lowly. "Fuck." With that, the man's breathing stabilized, and slowly, oh so slowly, with a deep sigh, Ashwood's hands dropped to his sides.
"Yeah. Fuck." He whispered lowly. Clara was staring at the closed door right in front of her face, not actually seeing it in the dark.
"I was starting to think you came here to hide from... Some kind of gang. Or that you've gotten involved with the mafia. Or..." To that, he chuckled.
"Me? Involved with the mafia? Seriously?" She could feel his chest vibrating with laughter.
"Why not? You've changed. But I was not expecting... This." She swallowed, visibly shaken and out of her comfort zone. Her comrade, someone she knew from his early adulthood, the man she expected to fall for her the last... Clara wanted to be in denial, unfortunately, her personality was too down-to-earth, too observing, too... Logical. Too willing to accept the fact when she acknowledged one right in front of her.
"Clara." A low rumble that was his voice right next to her face forced her attention to him. Ashwood was not touching her, the man only leaned forward to murmur into her ear. "I do not expect... Anything. Ever. You should not have known about this. And if not the clown, it would have stayed that way."
"You're confusing me. What has Joker do with this... Situation?"
"We... Talked. Just before you've been brought here."
"About what?"
"You."
"Well, obviously." Clara rolled her eyes, finally recovering from the initial shock. "I hope only good things?"
"Of course. We drew the line."
"Do I want to know what that means?"
"No. Look," Ashwood breathed slowly, calming himself down. "I wanted to protect you. I did not know what to expect from you being in Arkham Asylum. That's it. Call it a voice of panic. I can't control my body and its reactions, but I can control my conscious behaviour. When I'm in my right mind, I will never do anything that might put you in an uncomfortable state."
"I would strangle you if I could, Ash." Clara felt him stiffen. "Because, as much as I denied it, you were one of the few people I never intended to hurt. You just had to ruin this, didn't you?" A humourless laugh escaped her mouth, sounding forced even in her own ears. The man stayed silent for a heartbeat until he brought his hands back around her waist, squeezing the thinning torso gently.
"It's okay, Captain. I'm used to being hurt."
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Song of the chapter: Radiohead - House of Cards