Lena happily scrambled over the shotgun.
"Careful, fluffball," Heath absently said, taking the kitty in his arms and away from the arms. His eyes silently counted the numerous weaponry in the boxes, once hanging in Heinrich's gun shop. Heath has no idea why he stole them — probably an paranoid sense of insurance. Heath snatched a shotgun. His fingers fiddled in his pocket, until resting out a couple of bullets on the table. The round, metal cylinders rolled over the wooden surface. Heath sat down on the table next to them and slowly began loading the magazine, aimlessly whistling as he did so. Mark. The six of hearts. A player since forever, he had the entire fifth grade female population on their knees. Riley. Ten of diamonds. Goofy chess maniac. Sammy. Jack of Clubs. A sweet pie whose only criminality consisted in his sale of narcotics. Charlotte. Dear Lottie, the Queen of Hearts. She charmed not with more with her beauty but rather with her steadfast, unique individuality which she wouldn't trade for high heels. Billy, Ace of Spades. The strongest man after the joker. The whistling faded away. Unknowingly, beads of sweat emerged on his forehead. He killed them. How could he have killed them? Shut up, Heath harshly ordered to his brain, but the latter angrily rose up against him. Images of the five days flickered in front of his eyes like a haze. They were a haze. A haze of raw emotion, blood, anger, and obsession, obsession that Falcone will get them first, that he will kill them, that he will rip out their bones, bleed their fingernails, and pull on the skin….
The magazine clicked back into the gun. Heath tossed the gun from hand to hand, trying to crush the thoughts with motion, before abruptly shooting it into the wall. The bullet pierced the center of the poorly drawn bull's eye.
"Nice shot," someone said behind him. Heath glanced over his shoulder. Hands in pockets, Spockey was standing in the doorway, his thin, prickled lips stretched in a broad grin.
"Hey," Heath flatly saluted and turned back around. Don't think about anything. Don't think about anything. Spockey lowly chuckled and slowly walked over to Heath. To distract oneself, that one aimed and shot again. The second bullet landed next to the first one.
"Calavera's holding a meeting," Spockey noted, eyes traveling around the room. He twisted his neck to get a better view on the shelves, before turning around walking over to them.
"Really?" Heath snorted, squinting as he took another shot.
"Yeah." Spockey turned the letter over, eyes scanning the words. "Wants to go over the details of today's crusade. Is she alive?"
"Who?" Heath frowned, opening the magazine and replacing the bullets with the ones in his pocket.
"Freddie."
Heath glanced over his shoulder, the gun sweating under his grip.
"She's alive. Why did you ask?"
Spockey smirked, putting the letter back on the shelf.
"You write to her as if she's dead. Are you going?" He wants to kill the idiot. God, how he wants to kill him. Shut up.
Heath wordlessly jumped off the table and pulled on his turn coat. They walked out of the garage in silence, Spockey mumbling something under his breath while Heath was lost in his thoughts. What if Freddie was really dead? Immediately, her pale face and numb eyes appeared in front of him. Sharp pain pierced Heath's chest. The face was a face of a corpse; that was her face when she asked why did he kill them. Them. Her included?
"Ah, you made it," Calavera snorted once Heath and Spockey entered the old trailer. Lena sat on the kitchen top, picking her teeth with a toothpick. Carrotlocks, Gerry if you will, was lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling. Some other unfamiliar thugs were part of the unnerving interior, but Heath didn't really bother with them. Heath's eyes darted back and forth. He held back a sigh and sat down on the stool next to a piano. Calavera rested his knuckles on the table, eyes jumping from person to person.
"Dirk?"
"Aye?" A black man sitting on the floor and monotonously clicking his safety back and forth glanced up.
"Who was it this week?"
"Lena," Dirk nodded over to the woman. Calavera shifted his gaze over to Lena.
"Lena?" The woman silently answered his stare. For a moment, Calavera wordlessly scrutinized her, thoughts rippling across his forehead.
"Chloe Wagner, 27 years old, former Richie's bounty hunter, worked here for three months before slipping it to the cops," he suddenly spoke. "Caught five months later, placed in Crane's loony bin for being mentally unstable and potentially dangerous. Did you do what I asked you to do?"
"Sí señor," Lena cupped her hands and flicked the lighter. "Offered her her favorite cigarettes. They were with cyanide."
"Great." Calavera turned away. "So, folks. Time to test our newcomers."
Gerry abruptly lifted up from the couch. Calavera snorted and continued.
"I think y'all remember Mister Gefoltert." Actually, Heath had no idea. He looked from under his forehead on the hunters. Their languid features seemed to instantly animate, sharp hunger emerging from their features.
"Geffy's Falcone's man," Lena lowly growled. With catlike movements, she slid off the kitchen top and walked over to Calavera.
"Why the hell would you need him?"
"Exactly because he's Roman's, my dear Lena," Calavera smirked. "I want to know what Carmine is planning. He's unusually active right now."
"And what about those two?" Spockey nodded, cracking a paper clip. Calavera clicked his tongue in irritation. Heath lowered his head, hiding his smile.
"Those two will lead the operations. The first one will be led by Gerry. He will get Geffy into our van. As for Sir Joker, he will carry out the inquisition."
Heath sharply lifted his head up, his hand falling on the keys. The piano wailed in a high pitch. There was a short silence.
"Beg your pardon?" Calavera sarcastically snorted. Heath slowly stood up. Lena cautiously watched him, a dangerous grin flocking around her lips.
"Am I to use any...interrogation techniques I want?" Heath finally inquired, looking straight at Calavera. The mafiosi crookedly smirked.
"Go ahead. Just be creative. Hate trite killers. Meeting's over."
"Just be creative! God, I bet that son of a bitch won't be able to hold a knife properly!" Heath angrily lashed, almost knocking over his glass. Johnathan rolled his eyes.
"I don't get it, are you so mad because you have to cut up a man or because you're hired?" He sharply retorted.
"Because I'm hired," Heath growled, slouching his shoulders. "Thank god I never finished college. No job will hire me without a degree, and I won't have to listen to those idiots try to tell me what to do."
"You can't always stay unemployed," Johnathan sarcastically pointed out. "That's impossible. Unless you rob a bank, of course. But even that money will end."
"Then you just rob it again," Heath grumbled, but it was visible that he calmed down. For a while, he watched a group of girls order their drinks at the bar stand.
"Where do you live again?"
"On the island."
Heath gave Johnathan a slanted glance.
"Gee, you don't have a lot of money, don't you?"
Johnathan twirled his glass, watching the beer splash around.
"At least I have work I enjoy."
"Yeah, well, work without prospective co
"Did you contact Freddie recently?" He asked, eyes fixed on the ladies. Johnathan unknowingly began tapping his glass, evaluating his answers.
"I did," he finally obliged. Heath's eyes darted back on Johnathan.
"How is she?"
"Like a deeply wounded and betrayed person."
Heath looked away. "Don't defend her."
"And don't attack her," Johnathan coldly parried. "What's wrong with you? You never played offense with her."
Heath's scars twisted in a bitter, crooked smile.
"No," he tilted his head, as if observing the situation. "No, I didn't." His voice suddenly became merry, like a laughing child's.
"That's quite a change, isn't it?"
"A negative one. To be honest, Winnifred seemed more dead than alive because of you."
Heath's smile suddenly dropped. His eyes darkened, and he looked away.
"Protection is more important than the survival of others," he said after a long silence, eyes still wandering somewhere beyond the bar.
"When protection equivalates to murder?" Johnathan shook his head. "Damn, Heath, your logic can start a new branch of psychology."
Heath grimly smirked, looking away. After a moment, he looked back. The horrible illumination in the bar hid some of his features, revealing only a crude mask on top of dark, agonized eyes.
"God damn it, Johnathan, I don't want to lose her."
"And if you do?" Johnathan calmly raised his eyebrows, sensing his collar dampening from sweat. Heath shot him a strange look.
"Thank god I don't think that far," he awkwardly chuckled. Johnathan sighed and leaned back on his chair, eyes wandering around the room.
"Let's just face it, the guilt is destroying you." Along with Winnifred. "But just think of it as an accident, all right? You lost your hold, it happens—"
"Not everything is an accident, Johnny," Heath quietly said. Johnathan turned to him, eyes carefully examining the sullen, sunk-in face.
"Do you know the difference between an accident and an intention?"
Heath took a large sip of the beer, ignoring Johnathan's gaze.
"You're the psychologist, not I."
"You can't repeat an accident," Johnathan patiently answered. "You can repeat an intention."
A waiter's customer check list flashed in Heath's mind. Mitchell, table one? Served. That Gotham locals table in the corner for six? Served. Next table? The allegory was unexpectedly funny, and Heath snorted into his glass. Johnathan sighed and stood up.
"You're useless. C'mon, let's go"
The friends walked out of the packed building, the cold air recultantly greeting them. Johnathan was anxious, both from work and Heath, while the latter was actually in better spirits from the joke than he was in the morning. To make the wasted day even better, it began to snow.
"Oh look, it's snow!" Heath exclaimed, arching his head back and watching the white fluffs raining from the sky.
"I'm afraid I'm not much of a snow liker," Johnathan sighed back, walking a few feet in front of Heath. That one glanced at him mischievously, decreasing his pace. A second later, cold snow crashed right below Johnathan's neck. The doctor swiveled around.
"God damn it…." Heath was kneeling down, laughing hysterically and hugging his stomach. Another second later, a snowball landed right into his mouth. Heath choked, spatting out the snow out of his mouth with laughter, some of it melting on his tongue, before noticing out of the corner of his eye that Johnathan was aiming another snowball. Heath dodged in the last second, falling into the heap of snow next to a trash can. Quickly, he grabbed a handful of snow and threw it at Johnathan. That distraction didn't really bother Johnathan, and the third and final snowball complete destroyed Heath.
"There," Johnathan satisfactorily said, looking at his snow-cloaked friend from above.
"For trying to drag me into winter games."
"Totally worth it though," Heath laughed, shaking his head to get the snow out of his hair. Johnathan chuckled and offered his hand. Heath readily took it and stood up. Johnathan couldn't contain his smile; Heath's clothes were complete soaked with snow, little flakes tangled in his hair. His scars were redder than usual from the cold, but a relaxed, genuine smile was, well, totally worth it.
There was a loud knock on the door.
"Open it," Winnifred quietly said. Mrs. Haggards looked at her in horror.
"Young miss…."
"God damn it, just open the BLOODY DOOR!"
Mrs. Haggards frightenly hurried out of the room. Winnifred fell on the couch's handle, covering her face with her hands. She should've run. No, shouldn't have. She should. Stop this right now. Winnifred dropped her hands from her face, as if they were burned, and dully listened at the noises in the hallway. A police officer with a few flanked behind entered the room. Winnifred held her features from twitching in tense relief; it was Lieutenant James Gordon, one of the few uncorrupted cops that were left in Gotham City.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant," Winnifred politely greeted him, the skirt soaking in the sweat from her palm.
"Good afternoon, Miss Lewly," Gordon answered her after a quick pause. His eyes quickly scanned her head to foot.
"Do you know why we're here?"
"I'm afraid so," Winnifred tensely replied, eyes darting at Missus Haggard, worrriedly standing behind one of the officers. Barely noticeable pity glimmered through Gordon's sigh.
"Then I'm afraid you'll have to go with us."
"No!" The abrupt remark rolled off Winnifred's lips before she could control herself. Immediately, she jumped off the couch's handle and stumbled behind it, back crashing into the window frame. The police officers jerked forward, but Gordon alarmingly raises his hand. Winnifred stared at him wide-eyed in fear, chest heavily rising up in down as she tried to subdue the painful pace her heart rattled against her rib cage.
"No?" Gordon lifted his eyebrows, taking a step forward.
"No," Winnifred hoarsely repeated. "I am not going anywhere." You're an idiot, you just told everyone that you murdered six people…."
"Why not?"
The heart pace transferred into the brain. Winnifred could feel the blood splashing against her skull's walls, pressing to be let out. She clutched the wall behind her, fingernails scratching the wallpaper in an attempt to grasp something.
"I didn't kill them."
"Really? Do you know who did then?" A young woman stepped out behind the cops. Winnifred recognized her also. Rachel Dawes, the enthusiastic new District Attorney about whom Johnathan was complaining the other day.
"No, Miss Dawes, I did not kill them," Winnifred quietly repeated, sensing the blood trickle down the walls of her nostrils.
"Yes, but who then?" Rachel impatiently stepped towards her. Winnifred slowly slid along the wall, the windowsill running across the tips of her palms.
"I...I can't say," Winnifred whispered. Gordon quietly snorted. Rachel sarcastically tilted her head.
"Really? Why not?"
Winnifred dug her fingernails to keep the blood from dripping any farther.
"Because he'll kill me too." There was a long silence. Winnifred defiantly stared at the people in her room, the blood sliding down from her nose and rolling over her upper lip. Liar. Liar. Liar.
A/N: A bit of light and dark in this chapter, folks! Anyway, I hoped you enjoyed the read!