Sitting in front of a vanity with his legs spread carelessly was Arthur—or, soon to be known as ‘Joker.’

Whether or not his stand-up comedy was good was none of your concern. You were just there to do his makeup all nice and cleanly. As much as it ticked you off when he asked you to do certain things—which usually resulted in unevenness—you let it slide.

“Stop there,” he murmurs, watching you draw a blue streak down his cheek. He always kept one longer than the other, and you couldn’t be bothered to ask why anymore.

He lifts his fingers to his lips, slotting his cigarette between them and taking a drag. He glanced up at you with those bright green eyes of his, letting the smoke hit your face.

Arthur’s face looked awfully smug under all that face paint.