Water drips around them, through the broken floorboards above, pooling in dark corners already made dank from years of neglect and damage.
Not the worst hideout he's had, all considered.
She is perched on an uneven stool, containers of greasepaint laid out like palettes on soggy cardboard – her face is her own canvas, tonight.
She paints in white swirls and light dots, tracing intricate patterns , card suits mostly; hearts, spades, clubs, and diamonds; but also spirals, aimless swirls in chalky white before she smoothes her fingers over her cheekbones, peach giving away to wisps of white light freckles and spider web scars becoming bleached and covered.
They have no mirror, so she must make do with him, 'did I miss some?'s and 'how does this look?'s spilling from her mouth, followed by squeals and apologies (gleeful and bashful both) for ever having been so imprecise, as if he cares.
She prattles still, threads of thoughts sometimes ending in a manic giggle, but away from her beloved "Mistah J" she is more lucid, almost – and almost bearable.
Her fingers dip, dance, and slowly she paints the masterpiece of herself in store-bought pigments.
When she is finished – when she feels she is finished, that is, though her face has been one-toned through several minutes more of painting – she hums, almost tuneless, and clasps her hands.
"Thanks, Jonny. You're a real sweetheart."
She leans closer, pressing an indelicate kiss to the side of his face, the scent of costume make-up still heavy around her.
It's going to be difficult to get that lipstick out of the burlap, later.
So… yes. Not much to say about this one.
I've been trying to come up with a ship name for this with a friend, just so it's easier to find fics of. Harlecrow? Scarely? Scarly? It's so hard to pick one. Thoughts?