The noise of pipes sputtering to life startles him awake.
It takes him a moment to gather his bearing – a dilapidated house for a sanctuary, not llong-abandoned, but far too worn for official residents – and from there it is no great task to ascertain why the noise is so out of place.
There should not be someone to turn on the pipes.
He slips on the mask as by instinct now. He does not possess the all-too-common defense against home intruders – never mind this not being his home – but he has something that can be much more unforgiving in his hands. After all, a gun can only inflict wounds on the physical form.
Dust has stopped up otherwise-creaky floorboards, and he possesses no great weight; he creeps quietly along the hallway. A woman stands there in the kitchen, back to him, and for a moment, he thinks someone has managed to break the lock and slip inside.
But no; now, one of the hyenas of them nudges against her trustingly, and she threads her fingers absently through its thick, matted hair.
How interesting.
He rubs at his temples and remembers, remembers how the harlequin had burst in on his note taking, costume torn at the side and blood-soaked, turning the red there to rust and looking for a temporary hideout, dragging those two mangy mutts behind her – "won't be here for long, professah, don't you worry! You won't even know we're here!" – and subsequently cleaning out the already-sparse cupboards and generally making a ruckus.
There is no bounce to her step now, as she shuts off the sink to set down the bowl of water, no cheer as she rubs the sleep from her eyes.
She is still clad in diamond red and black – he does not imagine she has any surplus of wardrobe – now with crude stitching pulling together at her waist.
Her hair is unkempt and tangled, some strands lying thick with crusted blood; her make-up is only half off around the edges, looking as if were swiped off by clumsy fingers.
Kneeling, she murmurs to her "babies," pulling them close.
He cannot catch the words, but the voice…
Lower, and rougher. Little traces of the artificial sweetness she normally coats her speech with.
She looks tired, and worn, and not at all fit to be the shrieking accomplice of the mad clown.
Quietly, he turns away, resolved to catch a moment more of sleep in this rare moment of quiet.
When he wakes next, she is gone. A crudely scrawled note of gratitude and a smear of white paint is the only trace of her.
[A/N: I thought about going for the obvious "well doy, he's the Master of Fear, why wouldn't he be able to startle her" approach, but I think I'll save that for a later day. This was… surprisingly difficult to write. Gotta add in more characters soon, I think.
Mistress of Fear – I'm glad you enjoyed it, despite it not being your preferred pairing! I must confess to having read very little of Becky Albright, sadly.
Next word: Product.]