#arthur fleck x ofc

[fleckcmscott]

Frills and Thrills

Summary: A typical night becomes anything but typical.

Words: 1,398

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: This piece was inspired by the below behind-the-scenes photo; the cinematography of One From the Heart (thanks, Lawrence Sher!); and this very 80s song. No, I am still not looking forward to the sequel - but I will take a hot Arthur Fleck anytime. 😎 Please enjoy! Special thanks to @sweet-nothings04 for her help and support! A very tardy Christmas piece is on the way!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

"That'll be $43.67."

Arthur counted out the bills in his wallet. Before transferring his three prescriptions to Groves Pharmacy - a brisk nine-minute walk from his Burnley address - he'd called for the beige and blue tablets' prices. With his lack of Gothamcare, he'd hoped they'd be cheaper than at Helms. "Disappointed but not surprised" was that night's journal entry.

He'd try the new insomnia pills first, get a fourteen-day supply of the other two whenever he could. See if a good night's sleep in the bed he was almost used to would encourage positive thoughts, lighten black moods to grey. After all, they'd improved since Y/N. Still there, still a teeter on the edge of an abyss. But with a guide rope in the shape of a woman's hand.

Leaving $2.41 in his pocket, he surrendered exact change. Took the white paper bag with blue lettering. Offered a quiet thanks and sidestepped from the pharmacist's counter.

Y/N waited in the cosmetics section, purse on her shoulder, a passive expression on her face. He recognized the creams on the top shelf, a flicker from when he'd shopped for Penny. The silhouette logo, the black label, the rounded corners of the jar. Anti-wrinkle Oil of Olay, then, when money was too tight, the knock-off poured into her Oil of Olay jar. His subtle subterfuge had gone undetected. Wrinkles continued to form in the usual fashion. He'd continued to save a quarter and make the swap.

As Y/N picked up a pink compact, Arthur slinked behind her to speak in her ear. "You're already pretty."

Giggling, she hung the rouge in its spot between concealer and cream foundation. "You make me blush enough already. Did you get what you needed?"

A crooked half-smile. "I think so." He entwined their fingers and started towards the exit, an attempt to halt any further questions that might lead to med and money talk.

Aisle three's endcap had an Easter display, a thousand plastic wrappers crying out for attention. Jolly Jack chocolate bunnies and Cadbury mini-eggs, pastel baskets and cellophane grass. The plush baby chicks were awfully cute, perfect the kids at the children's clinic. He'd jot a reminder to come back after the holiday, grab some plastic eggs and props at half price.

"My parents used to dress us up and take us to our grandparents for a picnic and Easter egg hunt," Y/N said, crouching to browse a set of die cut decorations. "Do you want to do anything for Easter?"

In spite of his mother watching a televised mass and sharing a bag of jellybeans, the day hadn't ever been personal. The Fleck household was anathema to miracles. Even with the miracle he was currently living, he had no desire to celebrate a victory he didn't believe in. "No. Why?"

"You've got a heavy eye on the Peeps - my little sister likes to put them in cocoa. And I thought you were Catholic. Or at least raised Catholic, with all the prayer candles and icons in your apartment."

The answer came firmer than intended. "Those were Penny's."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have assumed. You wouldn't have hung a Madonna over the bed. I bet you weren't responsible for that ugly cat candle, either."

Snorting, he rolled his eyes, recalling all he times he'd dusted his mother's knickknacks. The sculpted candles were the worst. They'd developed a weird film sticker than nicotine stains, and grime stuck in every crevice. On bad days he'd been tempted to throw them out. On good days he'd care for them, because Penny loved them so. Inklings of whimsy in a life of indifference.

The never indifferent woman at his side rose to walk with him. Grove's automatic doors opened and they spilled onto the busy sidewalk.

Two blocks up, a light sprinkling began, lent the pavement a velveteen sheen. With each step that sprinkling grew heavier. From a drizzle to a patter to an outright shower. Puddles formed beneath their feet, threatening shoe seams with leaks. Arthur crumpled his paper bag, shoved it in his tan jacket's pocket, and jerked his hood over his head.

The toe of Y/N's kitten heel skidded past a pool as she hopped to the right. "The weather report didn't mention rain!" she cried, ambles escalating to a jog.

A fierce gust sent sheets of water sideways, whipped the hem of her pleated skirt to flash her thighs. Arthur looped his arm through hers, pulled her into an alley to take refuge under the canary, corner awning of Mott's Spirits. Cigarette smoke drifted from the crowd gathered along the storefront. Her wrinkled nose kept him from lighting up himself.

She gathered the collar of her wool coat. "Well, I'd like us to do something small, if that's all right. It's been years since I've celebrated anything, really. I want to put all that behind me again, like last Christmas. Easter Parade's playing at the Majestic this week. I haven't seen it but the summary sounded like you. A song-and-dance romantic classic."

How could he argue with the sweetness of her reasoning? That he was the reason she wanted to celebrate? He gave a little nod. "I think Tuesdays are half price."

Just then, a bell rang out, crisp and clear despite the downpour. A bicycle messenger sped their way, a dozen plastic bags hanging from the ten-speed's handles. Arthur darted in front of Y/N, sought to protect her from the incoming splash. She yanked him tighter, out of the menace's path.

But it was no use. Muddled water pelted the back of his trousers, liquid ice soaked through white socks. He jolted to his tiptoes, teeth clenched against the stinging cold.

Y/N bent to survey the damage. A groan left her, which quickly became a laugh. "What an asshole," she said, then laughed all the harder. The warmth of it loosened his stance, and he found he had no choice but to join in. She settled back against the shop's window, stuck out her lower lip to blow a damp lock of hair from her forehead. The lock remained in place. "If only I'd had my umbrella."

Neon light from a Gotham Lottery sign spilled across her face. "Winners aren't born. They're made!" was the lotto's slogan, and Arthur had finally found a winning ticket. Orange accentuated the tawny flecks of her irises, rounded the curves of her cheeks. A perfect frame even an imagination as vivid as his couldn't improve.

A drop trickled down his scalp, skimmed the side of his neck, sneaked beneath his collar. He'd caught Easter Parade on television years ago. Studied Astaire's steps, how he'd slipped a diamond ring on the leading lady's finger. What would Y/N look like, Arthur wondered, in a lace bonnet, its ribbons tied under her chin? A hat he could loosen while they kissed, hold as a shield against prying eyes?

A couple of swells like them would make a beautiful pair, better than any Vanderbilt or Wayne.

When his thumb traced her jaw, her full lips parted, as if about to ask for a dance. Dark brows raised, her pupils dilated, full of unquenchable life. The affection in them, the openness. The caring curiosity and eager readiness to accept all of him made him tremble. Her love felt like rain on his skin, and for once he understood why someone might sing in it.

He leaned closer, until her breath brushed his lips. "Kiss me."

Her arms wound about him in an instant, a sudden, welcome pressure on his ribs. He cupped her face. Guiding, following, bracing. Their mouths a messy collision of desire and devotion and dreams. Her frame vibrated against his, the pulse under his fingertips beating to the rhythm of his heart.

At last, a wave of giggles broke them apart. Arthur pushed himself to stretch beyond his shy nature towards the forward, confident instinct he was learning to polish. His eyes flitted between hers, a demure smile adorning his cheeks. "I'd like to make love, if you wouldn't mind."

The blush he caused so easily crept across her face anew. "Last one home is on top," she said, and pressed the tip of her nose to his. "Give me a head start."

With that, Y/N held her purse horizontally above her head and sprinted into the deluge.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​​​​​ @ithinkimaperson​​​​​ @sweet-nothings04​​​​​ @stephieraptorr​​​​ @rommies​​​​​ @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​​​​​ @jokerownsmysoul​​​​​ @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics​​​​​ @iartsometimes​​​​​ @fleckficgirl

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x female reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[montimer]

"I'll come running to save you"

Arthur x spider-!reader

(In that universe reader is spider/man/women/other)

= means time skip

Ur clothes are not mentioned

Warning:none ig

A lot of people knew you. Since you started saving people from others. In Gotham there were a lot of crime makers. And since you got ur powers,and the police wasn't a big help, you decided to help the city.

========================

You heard laughing and yelling from the streets. So you immediately run to were the sound came from.

When you got there, a group of teenegers were beating up a man dressed as a clown. You were a bit confused,but you did what you had to do.

But when they saw you they ran away. You were relieved you didn't have to hurt those kids.

You looked down at the man.

"Hey, you good there?"

He opened his eyes, he looked hurt. "Y-yeah,thank you"

"No problem! Thats what i do"

You helped him up.

"Should i take ya home? Its easyer than walking"

"My boss would get angry if i wont show up at work. I already broke the sign.." he pointed at a broken sign. You looked back at him.

"Don't worry. You're hurt, he will understand. For now,let me take ya home" he smiled at that and nodded.

You hugged one of ur arm around him. "Hold onto me,i wont let ya fall" he akwardly hugged you.

"Ready?" "Um,i guess- whoa"

You shoot ur web at a building and fly up there. You put him down.

"I forgot, tell me where do you live?"

========================

You put him down at the doorstep.

"Well here we are. Did ya liked the flight?"

"Yeah!...i mean,it was nice. Thank you again."

"Of course. What is ur name?"

"Arthur..Arthur Fleck"

"Well then, see you around Art!"

He waved as you fly away.

'See you around' did you mean you will come back? He was so happy and exited,he has to write this down on his journal.

Bonus hc's!

Aaand yes,you did come back to meet him

Sometimes you guys are just talking while walking on the streets

You keep an eye on him. Making sure he wont get hurt again

He feels so honored, you from all of people decided to be around him

You also hear him out and comfort him

He blushes when you hug him

He asked you akwardly if you want to see him at the comedian club, and ofc you said yes. He was so happy

You randomly bring him food. And you say you will be offended if he doesn't accept it.

He's very upset if you get injuried. He want to patch you up, and if you let him,he will keep on doing it.

You will show him around the city,flying w/ ur webs. Thats the excuse. But both of you want to be close to each other. He loves to get held by you

His heart beats faster when you put an arm around his shoulder and defend him

When you laugh at his jokes,comfort him,save,love and care for him,he can't help but to fall for you

He tells his mom ab you. And if she doesn't believe it. You will come over (thats ur excuse)

Or when his mom is sleeping you come knocking at his window to let you in. He will make ya coffee or tea. And if you let him,he'll like to dance w/ you

He is also jealous, all those people try to get to you. Little does he know,you have fallen for him too ;))

Here's my idea

Should i make part 2?

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck x reader #joker arthur fleck #arthur fleck x you #arthur fleck x y/n #joker x reader #arthur fleck joker #arthur fleck angst #arthur fleck x male reader #arthur fleck x gn reader #spiderman #spidersona

[glitchyrealities]

Masterlist

DC

Rorschach Voyeurism // Carrey!Edward Nygma x OFC

Playlist

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Epilogue

Time // Edward Nygma x Reader

Ace Ventura

Puppy Problems // Ace Ventura x Reader

Fan Playlists

DC

Jonathan Crane

Edward Nygma x Selina Kyle

Pamela Isley

Edward Nygma

Oswald Cobblepot

Arthur Fleck

Diana Prince

Greys Anatomy

April Kepner

Teddy Altman

Game of Thrones universe

Daemon x Rhaenyra

Sherlock (2010-2017)

Mycroft Holmes

Silence of the Lambs

Hannibal x Clarice

Little Women

Amy March

Twilight

Alice Cullen

Pride and Prejudice

Jane Bennet

Yellowstone

Beth Dutton

Lara Croft (2001-2003)

Lara Croft

Die Hard

Hans Gruber

A Team

HM Murdock

Universes (playlists to make you feel like you're there)

Peaky Blinders

Narnia

Supernatural

Ghost World (2001)

Charlie's Angels (2000-2003)

Nothing but Vibes

That Girl

Model Off Duty

Southern Belle

Slightly Trashier Southern Belle

The Trashiest Southern Belle

Stuck in a 90's RomCom

Stuck in a 2000s RomCom

Sexy Y2K Vampire with a dash of brooding

I am literally a majestic ass nymph

Music for backroading

60's Housewife Music

But what if you were a sugar baby in the 60's

music for pathetic kings with mommy issues and their murderous wives (macbeth vibes?)

#fanfiction #fanfiction requests #playlist #spotify

[daincrediblegg]

Can you please feed us some GORGEOUS Gen x Arthur hc's ????? Because we love you and we love Arthur and we stan our OTP. Please and thanks xp [I got'chu, boo

Genevieve x Arthur Fleck Headcanons

lmao LMAO LMAO ok so... idk what this is??? this is just how we are irl. ain’t no real scenario around it, but it still serves as a basic breakdown of our relationship as it’s unfolded the last 7 months or so. Thank you for giving me a platform to share this lmao. Sorry if it’s cringey and personal as hell, but hey, that’s life, and y’all know I don’t give a fuck by now.

We met in October. I’d snuck into a showing of Joker with my dad after the premier of Zombieland 2, and watched his story unfold. I couldn’t get him out of my head the whole night. I saw him again a little less than a week later, and I’d realized I’d wanted more. We’d agreed to meet for coffee the next day.

The next couple of weeks was just pure fascination with each other. I poured my heart into learning everything about him, and he seemed so genuinely interested in learning all he could about me too. 

Even though I was going through what’s easily been one of the most harrowing mental health crises that I’ve ever experienced… he fell quick for me, and hard. And I did too. He… he made me feel like I wasn’t alone. We were leading very similar lives (minus, y’know, murder- on my end), and knowing that he felt my pain when it seemed like not a whole lot of people really did… it made me feel seen. And it didn’t take long for things to get really heated. We’ve been together ever since.

He’s the one that got me to start taking my medication. I’d never been on antidepressants, and I was a little scared of the side-affects since the only other ones I’d tried made me dizzy and out of breath (and I’m a massive hypochondriac on top of all the other shit I’ve got going on in my head). But he convinced me that I was worth living for, and that was the little push I needed. I knew I wanted to get better, but he’d convinced me that I could. 

I drew him a lot those first few months we were together. His physicality still entrances me to this day. His elegance, yet this almost distinctly cartoonish poise and his innocence… he inspired me a lot. More than I had been in months. He’s shy about being the subject of a lot of my drawings… but he lets me anyway because he’s amazed at how it shows how I see him (which is fucking beautiful, like a disney prince thank you very much). 

We spent a lot of those first few months just lying in bed after a long day of writing and drawing, holding each other close and talking. About everything. It all felt so freeing to me that I could say just about anything to him and have him actually listen without judgement. And sure, he has his opinions, but he doesn’t dismiss mine.  

We did so much together too. We used to go to movies (not just his lmao), we got hot chocolates together and walked around town during christmas time.

For Christmas he gave me a beautiful necklace- a pretty blue/green pendant on a gold chain (that y’all might’ve seen in some of my selfies- and I wear it DAILY) and a silver bracelet with little red roses and garnets on it. They’re some of the best presents I’ve ever gotten. 

I gave him a scarf (that I’d worn out to work for weeks so that it’d smell like me at his request) and some chocolate.

I was also dealing with quite a few health problems those first few months, so he’s well versed in all my medical bullshit lmao.

I’ve got a weird bladder that just constantly feels infected (even though it’s actually not most of the time), which means that we can’t have penetrative sex sometimes (but we’re just as happy to touch each other in different ways even when I can’t stand to go all the way).

I was still having some panic attacks when I was on a higher dosage of my medication, and he’s very good at bringing me down from them. He holds me close and tells me to breathe slowly and deeply with him until I calm down and start to feel okay- even when I get super fidget-y from it. I can’t begin to thank him enough for helping me through it all as he has.

We don’t argue much. We see eye-to-eye where it counts, so we hardly ever get into moral disputes. But when we do it’s usually when I’m in a depressive rut and I’ve gone distant. He’s never raised his voice at me when it happens, but some heated conversations have spawned from it. And I’ll admit I’m not the most eloquent with these things sometimes. And I’ve said things that I didn’t mean to hurt him but just to say with honesty. He knows I have doubts sometimes. He does too, but we’ve been able to work through them well enough-better than most I imagine.

We uh… we have a lot of sex. No surprise.

We’re virgins (well, technically. At least with the opposite sex). We’re horny. We’ve got high sex drives and we’re not afraid to take it out on each other.

I’ve had a lot of body anxiety in the past, but with Arthur it feels even more non-existent than it’s ever been. He really loves my body. Not in a fetish-y way like a lot of guys have hinted at in the past. When I’m with him I really feel like his desire for me comes from love, that my body isn’t just a thing to get him off, but rather that he desires me for who and what I am, and I haven’t really ever felt that even with any of the other FICTIONAL guys I’ve been with before.

And he knows that I love him just the same. Body and soul. It’s a total two-way street. And we never feel the need to change for each other one bit. For that I’m so grateful god I could fucking cry.

And it’s made me do a lot of things that I kinda didn’t want or thought were inaccessible to me before I met him. I fucking wear lacy bras and matching panties (for the first time in my life!!!) on the reg because Arthur said that I deserved to have them if I wanted them (not to mention that I look beautiful in them to him), and now I’m coming around to the idea of putting on a little makeup ‘cause it makes me feel really pretty and Arthur agrees???? Like this MAN has really made me flourish for the better tbh I love him so fucking much. 

Before the pandemic he used to meet me at my regular haunt to watch me work after his gig for the day. He’d sit across from me and watch me fumble around with all my outlines and notes, sometimes taking out his own journal himself while he steals some of my coffee, taking my hand and running a thumb over it idly.

He really enjoys my screenwriting. My writing is very exciting, he says. He’s really supportive of my career choice, even though it’s still a long ways off from being anything tangible or serious. And he’s very supportive of the things I’ve written about him too. He doesn’t mind as long as some things get to stay just between us (and by and large he says I’ve done a pretty good job of that lmao). 

I sing for him a lot. We dance together too. I’ve always been a singer for as long as I can remember but being so depressed so long I didn’t really as much as I’d have liked. But for him I sing just about every day. Lotta swing-jazz numbers like from Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby and Caro Emerald. Some classic rock like Elton John and Billy Joel and Jethro Tull. He says he likes the way I sing their songs the best. Idk if I agree with him, but I believe him. 

He says we’re a dynamic duo in a way. Like since he dances and I sing, we’re a complete show. It’s the cutest fucking shit he’s ever said to me 

We kind of agreed to get married once the lockdown’s over. Neither of us really proposed to the other, exactly. We had been thinking about it for months (we’ve been talking about it since Christmas lmao- he’s said he wants to marry me so many times), but the first few weeks of this lockdown thing were really hard on me. It all felt very harrowing with everything changing all at once. 

And it was really touch-and-go for us. It was harder for me to feel him. And sure it had been hard before but it was… not quite as bad as this was. I almost thought we were done. 

But he stuck around, and helped me through it as much as he could despite how numb I was feeling. And he was still there when the dust settled, even stronger than before. So I told him one morning that I wanted to get married when all of this was over, and he agreed. 

So once the shelter in place order is lifted, we’re gonna go to the same jewlery shop he got me my favorite necklace, and pick out some rings. I for one am very excited.

And until then we’re perfectly content to enjoy this break from our normal everyday lives with each other. Even though it’s been harder for me to write we’re pulling through this whole thing just fine. 

#personal #my writing #arthur fleck x egg #joker x egg #FOR REAL THO OTP???? YOU GONNA MAKE ME CRY FAM #lmao feel free to ask about us more especially with some specifics (within reason ofc) #thank you for being supportive of me doing this hun omg I could crie

[lfd072936]

Harlequin - Chapter 1

So here is the first chapter of the fanfic I posted about previously. It features a original female character I intend to be “Harley Quinn” later on, although this story is completely different from the traditional comic book one. This chapter barely has Arthur in it, but he will be featured a lot later (obviously).

Word count: 1788

Summary: a young woman named Lola Page starts working at a new wing in Arkham Asylum.

Warnings: none, except that this chapter has criminally little Arthur in it, but I had write a little bit of backstory/building.

@tiredwritersworld asked to be tagged (<3)

Chapter 2 link

Chapter 3 link

1.       Fresh Meat

She had been working at Arkham for little over a year now. She liked it although with most things she could make peace and be content no matter what cards she was handed. Of course this wasn’t what she wanted to do originally, she wanted to be a dancer, which she practically was up until a misfortunate misunderstanding (as her mother called it) put her in prison.

- What do you want to do after you get out? – her probation officer asked one week before her release.

- What do you mean? I’m a dancer, I dance… that’s what I’m gonna do.

- Lola, you know you cannot go back to your old company after what happened.

- So? This is a big city, there’s plenty of fish in the sea.

- Look… word’s got around. No sane person would hire you as a dancer. You have to come up with something more… realistic.

- So then what do you suggest? I am not trained in anything other than dancing, I have no skills. Should I sweep the filthy streets of Gotham so that you can check it off of a to-do-list, while telling me how much cleaning up other people’s shit is helping me to get back on my feet?

- Come on, there surely must be something that you would like to do.

The probation officer was too persistent to shrug off so after a few suggestions she agreed to try this job. The hospital was on such a staff shortage that it only took a 10-day training for an ex-convict who was sentenced for assault to start working there. Of course she was not allowed to do anything medical or touch any drugs, but she did help out with anything else she could from feeding to making the beds and mostly interacting with patients. She was placed in the eastern wing due to her past where the lighter patients resided, those who generally did not pose a threat to anyone other than themselves. Lola proved herself to be an excellent employee over the months, despite her criminal record no incidents occurred and she was adored by the patients she took care of and the feeling was seemingly mutual. She surprisingly had immense patience and gentleness towards them.

That day however she was called into her supervisor’s office out of the blue. She knocked on her door at around noon and stepped in confidently.

- Hey, Josie!

- Hey, Angel! Have a seat… - she sat down opposite of her supervisor, a sweet old lady with immaculate style. Lola always adored the intricate braids she could put into her greying hair. – How are things going?

- Amazing as always… you know me – she said with a wide smile.

- Yeah, yeah I do. So – she usually cut straight to the point – you’ve been with us for over a year now… - Lola heard the hesitation in her voice. Something was wrong.

- Are you letting me go, Josie? – her voice wasn’t worrying more confused.

- No, God no… listen the thing is… there was a situation over at west and I need to switch you up with someone.

- Sure, no problem.

- Yeah? – Josie raised an eyebrow.

- Absolutely. It’s even closer to my stop.

- But you know that the west is one of the more, well… problematic wings. And you will get an all new supervisor, new colleagues…

- That’s alright. I think I can handle it.

- Okay – she said with a slight surprised tone. – Thank you for being so understanding.

- No… - Lola leaned forward a bit – Thank you for giving me a chance for change.

The next week she started her shift at the notorious western wing. She was greeted by one of the nurses who was assigned to show her around, although it did not seem like she volunteered for it. Oh, how wildly different this part of the hospital was. Almost all rooms were for one person, the doors were made from metal and heavy latches protected the outside from anyone that was on the inside. Guards were patrolling the floors and almost all patients outside of their cell were at least handcuffed if not forced into a straightjacket.

The nurse led Lola up on one of the lesser used back stairs.

- This is the staff area – she continued her never-ending tale of dos and don’ts. – A little bit onward there is a kitchen and a room with some beds, although I heard that you’re not allowed to take any night shifts – Lola frowned. No she wasn’t, but why did everyone have to be aware of that? Why was her past such common knowledge even on a wing she never even entered before? – But sometime we do like to take naps. A little further back are the women’s restrooms and next to them the showers. Why they put them so far from the beds still baffles me… but make sure to always lock the shower with your keys especially if you’re inside, because we have some incidents from time to time.

- Wait… what kind of incidents?

- Those patients who manage to wander off are especially drawn to this place to give a little surprise visit.

- Oh… we never had anything like that. On my previous wing incident meant someone spilt their OJ – the nurse gave a mocking laugh.

- Welcome to the wild west, Page – Lola did not laugh though, if anything she wondered how can some patients just walk into a staff shower with all these safety precautions.

Their tour continued pretty smoothly, they walked and she talked on end. She finally halted in front of the entrance of the communal room.

- Now about some of our patients. The worst are Flynt, 7-foot guy, pure muscle. He is restrained at all times, but he sure likes to bite and if he spontaneously faints close to you, don’t try to catch him. Then there’s Marigold… she hates everyone younger than her, so more and more people every year, I would just avoid her all together. And last but not least, there’s Fleck. He is currently stable on his meds, but he has some authority over the other patients. If I were you I would put my sunshine and rainbows approach that might have worked back at your old wing aside and be little more tough or else this place will crush you, but… I would try to stay on Fleck’s good side.

- But why do the other patients respect him so much?

- How old even are you? – the nurse laughed again. She was rude, but Lola decided to just swallow it for now. – He is Arthur Fleck… the guy who killed Murray Franklin a while back. Ring a bell?

Lola’s face lit up. She never would have admitted it to anyone, but she adored that clown. She thought he was an icon, the face of the protests she desperately wanted to attend, but her mother forced her to stay in their spotless suburban house, that the garbage strike could not reach. Oh, and that television broadcast that she had the privilege to see live… brilliant. She did not condone murder, but he executed it so theatrical and with much flare. Honestly she wouldn’t mind someone killing her either, if it happened in such a stylish way.

- Wait up… you mean to tell me that you have the Joker in this wing? – she couldn’t hide her excitement.

- Yes, but why are you so happy about it?

- You never met a celebrity, huh? – Lola laughed. Now it was her turn to make the nurse uncomfortable and looked down upon.

- Stop laughing! – she hissed. – He’s not a celebrity, and trust me… you will be disappointed when you see him. Now get in, and do your job!

She forced a serious look on her face as they walked in. The room was more bleak and depressing than the one at her old wing, this one clearly had more insanity in the air. She could feel almost every patient looking at her, those at least who were aware of their surroundings, and it made her uneasy. She completed the tasks upon tasks given to her wondering which one could the Joker be, but she just couldn’t tell. Finally, she approached one of her colleague who’s face seemed familiar.

- Hey, which one is Fleck?

- Don’t look right away, but it’s the one who didn’t stop staring at you ever since you arrived – she said with a grimace on her face. – I mean the one by the window. – she had to correct herself, because most patients were still staring at Lola.

- I surely am interesting.

- Well, you know how it is… you’re fresh meat. – she returned the smile, because the worker had no wrong intentions, but being called fresh meat was not something Lola thrived on.

As promised she did not look at the window’s direction, but rather went back to doing her job, feeding patients, getting them blankets etc., but after a while she couldn’t help herself. Masking it as a simple glance to the clock on the wall above the man, she could finally look at him. The man was alone with nothing but a notebook in front of him, but at the moment he wasn’t focused on that. He was smoking and looking at her. He blew out some smoke as their eyes locked and took another drag. The nurse did not exaggerate; he really was a lot different than she expected. He was thin and frail, his face wrinkly, but that look… oh that was something to die for. He was practically piercing her with his gaze and she could feel blood rush into her cheeks. She quickly looked down unable to do anything else, but from the corner of her eyes she could see him smile with satisfaction. Bastard. It was so amusingly annoying she had to smile, but made sure to turn away, so he didn’t see it.

She went on with her tasks, being sent here and there around the floor. So far she wasn’t too impressed by this wing, how somber and grey everything was, despite the walls being painted to a pretty yellow color somehow the air was grey. But there was one positive thing: Arthur. She was desperate to talk to him, even though he surely was nothing like she expected, but it only made her more curious. How much did he change, how much did the meds tone him down, was that whole persona just for television? It was impossible to tell as of yet.

#joker fanfiction #joker x ofc #joker x harley #sortof #barely any joker sorry #arthur fleck #sort of oc

[fleckcmscott]

Rain or Shine

Summary: Y/N cherishes the joys Arthur has returned to her life - and traverses echoes of the past.  

Words: 1,898

Warnings: None

A/N: My husband (😘) thinks this oneshot's summary should be, "A little story I wrote in two weeks." 😂 Please enjoy another look at Arthur and Y/N's early days! Special thanks to @jokerownsmysoul for beta-ing! More is on the way, including a late Halloween tale. My pen is simply scrawling slowly these days. 🖋️ Thanks for reading!

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

It was 5:32 AM and Arthur Fleck was in her bed.

Y/N's alarm was set to six, but Arthur spending the night tended to stir her early. A change she chalked up to the newness of him. The excitement of him. Sure, work would be fuzzy between cups of caffeine, but that didn't matter. The family cases Matt had shoved her way were easy, even if they weren't easy to read. Divorces and custody battles, the odd child protective filing. She could draft them in her sleep.

She wrung out her hair, slid open the shower's glass door. Towel cinched at her hips, she flipped her Conair hair dryer to the highest setting. In the chapel silence of her apartment, it was as loud as a Gotham Air Jet coming in for a bumpy landing.

Toes wiggled on navy blue tile. If the walls were thin enough for the neighbor to have overhead her and Arthur's intimacies, they were likely thin enough for the Conair's whirring to permeate the bedroom. Given how little he slept, that wouldn't do.

Y/N waved the nozzle at the underside of her goosepimpled breasts (his hands would've done a better job of warming her) and flicked it off. Her mop could forgo proper hair care until they had a chance to test it.

Tangles detangled and combed back, thin layer of moisturizer on her face, she donned a robe and padded through the darkened living room to the kitchen.

The latest volume of Loving Some With... lay on the dinette table. She grabbed it, stuck it in her canvas bag to return to the library on her lunch hour. Even after all her reading, his diagnosis remained a mystery. Puzzling out possible illnesses hadn't worked; his symptoms were listed in every title. And she hadn't figured out a way to pry without it coming across as a What on Earth is Wrong with You.

He'd disclose it to her one day. She was confident of that. He'd tell her all about that part of himself. Eventually.

She filled the Coffeematic with four cups of water. Put two mugs on the counter, along with a teaspoon and diner style sugar dispenser she'd found at Donahue's, the kind with the flap. Smiling, she flipped it open and shut. If it hadn't been for Arthur, she wouldn't have bought it. Did he realize the ways he'd already changed her life? As mundane as kitchenware, as significant as a softened heart?

Harsh times had callused it over. Forced each chamber to thicken, harden into iron gates. Moving to Gotham had unlocked them. Making friends who were strangers to her past had pushed them ajar. Falling in love had flung them open.

Last evening, they'd had wine and conversation in bed, a lovely distraction after the news's distinct lack of Renew Corp. coverage. Arthur seemed to be developing a taste for Merlot; she'd stuck to two glasses.

He'd laughed as he explained that getting used to rolling over without falling off the couch or hitting the back cushions was weird. He'd laughed at her when she'd told him the hardest thing to get used to after she'd moved was standing in the subway. ("The drivers must have a pool as to who can brake the hardest.")

And she hadn't stopped putting her hands on him. Running awed palms up his chest, across his broad back. She hadn't realized how much she'd missed the skin to skin. Touching someone for more than a diaper change or washing or feeding. For more than a funhouse mirror of survival. For more than the mechanical.

The baggage she tried to keep hidden must've shown on her face, because he'd propped himself on an elbow, worry written on his dark brow. "Is something wrong?"

Her fingertips flitted from freckle to freckle. "I was just thinking about how much I love touching you," she'd half-truthed. "How much I love you," she'd full-truthed. "How much I like you."

Unease had given way to a shy smile, tight lips and closed eyes. He'd reached over her to turn out the nightstand lamp, pulled the floral comforter to their chins. A bony foot burrowed between her calves, cold toes caressed her instep. His strong arms had enveloped her, warm and soft and safe. "I like you a lot, too."

Cooking for someone who could enjoy it was another rediscovered pleasure. She took out two frying pans, filled one with OreIda golden home fries and deli honey ham. Brown eyes narrowed at a carton of eggs. How did Arthur like them fried? Sunny side up? Well done? How many would he want? When she'd asked if he'd been eating enough, he'd shrugged, said he guessed so. A perfect non-answer. She reached into the carton and grabbed four.

As she salted the potatoes, the TV sparked on, a commercial for the GBS Wednesday Night Presentation: a special on changes in the workplace in the eighties. Then Wake Up Gotham's muted trumpet bounced through the apartment, a triumphant start to a bright new day. She pressed the brew button on the coffee maker.

When Arthur rounded the corner, he'd already put on brown trousers, but his chest remained bare. The smell of nicotine and bitter cold rolled off him. "Your hair's wet." He wound a clump of damp strands around his thumb and forefinger.

"You slept so soundly. I didn't want to wake you." She cupped his chin, drew him in for a peck. "I wish you wouldn't go out in the cold like that. You better have some coffee to warm up."

He reached for the pot but stopped, paused mid-motion. An almost imperceptible twitch in his bicep. "What's this for?" he asked, low and graveled.

"It's for you, silly. Now you can pour exactly how much you want."

He traced the sugar dispenser's rimmed lid, followed its seams to the ribbed glass. "Can I pour you?"

A groaned chuckle, a shake of her head. She cracked eggs into the second frying pan. "This'll be ready in a few minutes. Put our mugs on the coffee table and I'll be right over."

Plates in hand, they sat on the sofa. Paper towels covered her lap and, by extension, the couch - getting grease out of cream color upholstery would be a nightmare. Feet tucked beneath her bottom, she cut egg white with the side of her fork. "What have you got planned for today?"

"I have to call the nursing home. Find out what I need to send over. There's too much stuff at the apartment. The paperwork's all done, but they want something else. I think it's the living will you explained to me? At the hospital?" Huffing, he leaned forward, elbows on his thighs. "But I dunno what she wants."

"The doctors there should be able to help you figure out what's best. I didn't know what my father wanted. I had to do what I thought was right and hope that it was." She blew ripples in her coffee. "You'll know what to do. It may take a while, but you'll get there."

The weatherman predicted an afternoon of clear sunny skies, and freezing rain expected around seven. The lead anchor started in on the latest headlines. After the latest round of failed negotiations, the garbage strike was expected to last through the end of the year. Severe storms had knocked out power to millions in Texas and Nebraska. Reagan had promised to ''not retreat one inch'' from his social spending cuts for the poor and tax cuts for the rich, a story that felt too close to home.

Arthur poked at a home fry, brought it to his mouth. Dragged it from the tine with front teeth. He chewed at the pace of a cow on its third round of cud. He pushed the egg around his plate. The white flipped and wrinkled, mixing with ketchup. When his fork pierced the yolk, yellow streaks spilled streams all over. Soaked the potatoes, smothered the honey ham. Sickly veins across the ceramic.

"They're too runny, I'm sorry." Holding her robe to her breast, she aimed to stand. "I'll make some toast to sop that up."

The plate clunked to the table. "No, it's fine." Both hands pressed flat on the wooden surface. The tendons of his neck stood out like jagged fences.

At the next commercial break, she swallowed. "Arth-"

"I'm not upset," he said. Chuckling, snuffling. A scratch of laughter in his throat, nearly an animal cry. He armed his nose, leaving a long, wet streak. "I just- I don't know what to do with what's going on in my head. I'm happy- I'm happy with you, but... I don't know where you came from. I don't know why you're here now." The fingers of his left hand coiled like snakes. "I don't know why you weren't here before!" His fist pounded the table on the final word. Cutlery clattered to the carpet.

Silence tautened the air. Y/N stared at his hand, which trembled, loosened. Four seconds and he winced, murmuring sorry, I'm sorry with the shame of a sinner. He reached for her, entwined their knuckles until hers ached. She didn't stop his apologies.

He'd been hot and cold since Murray, since running out of medication and treatment. Last night hot, this morning cold. And the anger she'd just glimpsed was too close to what she'd seen on the monitors backstage, when she'd longed to go to him and had to wait for a commercial break. It was tough to witness. Brought back unwelcome feelings of Unknown.

Meeting him earlier would have been wonderful. She often thought about it, pondered what they might have had. But she wasn't sure it would've worked. Though painful, experience had matured her, provided insight not only into Arthur, but also into herself. Without it, she may well have repeated a version of the mistakes she'd made with her father. Driven down the same dark roads with headlights out.

She wouldn't allow that to happen again.

She sipped her coffee quietly. Thoughtful, not meek. "Have you called the doctor?"

"No."

"I think you need to."

He stroked up her forearm, under her loose sleeve. The hurt hiding under frustration turning into the tenderness that'd caught and kept her. "It's hard."

"I'm glad you're happy with me; I'm happy with you, too. But I want you to be happy with yourself."

At that, Arthur scooted up the sofa, turned to lay his head on her shoulder. The arms that'd protected her before now clung to her middle. Fingers burrowed, determined to sneak between her back and the cushions. Eyelashes tickled her neck, his nose nuzzled her clavicle. Rich shades of twilight shone through the windows, the blue hour before dawn.

Y/N stretched to put her mug on the coffee table. "You wonder why I wasn't here earlier," she said, stroking the silken curls at the nape of his neck. "I was busy becoming the woman who knows how to love you."

A rush of hot air caressed her skin. "Maybe I was busy becoming the man who's learning how to love you."

The gates of her heart fell off their hinges. "You're already doing a pretty good job, Mr. Fleck." Smiling, she rubbed her cheek against the crown of his head. "Let's teach each other as long as we can."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​​​​​ @ithinkimaperson​​​​​ @sweet-nothings04​​​​​ @stephieraptorr​​​​ @rommies​​​​​ @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1​​​​​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​​​​​ @jokerownsmysoul​​​​​ @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics​​​​​ @iartsometimes​​​​​ @fleckficgirl

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x female reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

Silver Dollar

Summary: An outage in Gotham provides the perfect opportunity for a special night.

Words: 4,629

Warnings: Smut

A/N: This story was prompted by a request from @iartsometimes! 💜 It's probably a little tamer than intended. 🤭 Thank you for the request! Also, much appreciation to @sweet-nothings04 for low-lighting visibility tips. 😂 🌃

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The graffiti plastered bathroom plunged into darkness.

Arthur stiffened where he stood, blinked into the blackness. His vision did not become clearer. Grumbling, he tucked himself into his pants and stepped back from the urinal. The handle took two tugs to flush. He fumbled for the sink, gave his palms a rinse shorter than the Gotham Department of Health recommended. Paper pharmacy bag in hand, he opened the exit's steel door and headed northwest. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the glaring, August sun.

Gotham had gone crazy in record time.

People spilled out of luncheonettes, crowds crammed shop doorways. Traffic lights refused to light and pedestrian signals refused to signal. Horns blared in the building pandemonium. A passenger yelled out of a taxicab and flipped the bird, while the driver pounded the steering wheel. Chaos repeated block after block. The Stutton Cowboy on the center billboard ("Price is good. Flavor is everything.") no longer waved. His cigarette hand hovered over his mouth in shock.

Arthur was prepared. Whether due to bad writing or an unpaid bill, he'd spent his share of evenings smoking in the dark. This was something he was good at, an event he could take the lead in.

Bumping a fleeing college kid who had a bottle of vodka hidden under his arm, Arthur shouldered his way into the nearest grocery. Squeezed by a couple of oh lords, maneuvered through murmurs and gripes, and ran through a mental inventory of the drawers in 4A. The day dimmed as he neared the rear aisles. When he arrived at the Home Needs section, he crouched between an abandoned cart and a baby stroller.

He squinted at the battery rack. AAs for the radio, Ds for the flashlight. Maybe some candles, just in case...

An ever-expanding line of shoppers accelerated the beads of sweat on the young cashier's forehead. Handwritten receipts and totals by calculator took twice as long. Arthur sidled to the next line, overseen by a matronly woman wearing a paisley wrap dress who did all the math in her head.

"I'm gonna need a drink after today," she said as he approached the counter.

It took a moment for him to realize she was looking for a kindred spirit. A rapid blink, a subtle nod. "Yeah. Me, too." He eyed a row of bottles on the shelf behind her. That'd make his reply believable.

She followed his stare, stretched to grab a green bottle with an art nouveau label, and put it on the counter.

Vermouth. He wasn't familiar with that word. It sounded exotic, like a fine imported thing. It was a screw top instead of a cork, which he tended to frown on. Uncorking a bottle together was romantic, whereas this was akin to opening a liter of seltzer. He was about to decline it when the price tag froze him. At $14.99, it was more expensive than any wine he'd ever had.

Maybe it really was a fine, imported thing.

"Is it good?" he asked. He picked it up, studied the back as if a connoisseur.

"One of our best sellers."

He gave the matron a one shoulder shrug, half-commitment about to go full. "I'll take it."

~~~~~

Y/N strode the hallowed halls of Gotham City District Court. On the corner of Badger Boulevard and Olsen, the granite behemoth belied the civil servants who were paid far too little to deal with far too much.

Adjusting the bag on her shoulder, she ambled down the checkerboard floor towards the clerk's window. Rita, her favorite, was working today. Rita returned every call, always helped with a combination of sarcasm and cheer.

"And what did you bring me today? she asked when Y/N plopped her canvas bag on the counter. Rita stopped watering her shaggy spider plant and walked to the window.

"A motion to continue the Caruso case and a dozen new filings. You can send the invoice for the filing fees to my office." Y/N split the stack of folders into three slim piles and pushed them through the gap under the glass. "How did your bowling league do last night?"

"We're one game away from regionals! I'm trying to convince my husband to-"

A loud pop echoed down the corridor, bounced along the linoleum, ricocheted off horsehair plaster. The air conditioner's hum devolved to a grinding whir. Bright fluorescents gave way to dingey emergency beams, crisscrossing through dusty, recycled air.

Hand on hip, Y/N looked up. "Did you misplace the electric bill?"

"Great. Judge Harkness is in the middle of a jury trial on the fourth floor. He hates taking the stairs." The clerk covered her face, glanced at Y/N's folders through parted fingers. "I'm not sure when I'll get these processed."

"That's all right. I just wanted them off my desk. I haven't seen the surface in six months." She retrieved a business card from her purse, pushed it to join the files, a gesture repeated every visit to Rita, a reminder to reach out. "Don't forget to update me on your tournament. And don't let His Honor forget who actually runs this place."

When she arrived at Dube & Ellis after a fifty-two-minute walk - all subways stations were cordoned off - she was sweltering. Polyester didn't breathe and it comprised seventy-two percent of her wardrobe. That Terry had done exactly the wrong thing by drawing back the vertical blinds on each and every window was typical. "There's not enough light in here! The whole city's out!"

She unbuttoned her collar and dropped in her chair. Normally her Sanyo desk fan would rattle and grate. Now she'd give her whole paycheck for a hint of its cool breeze.

Power outages had been a feature of many seasons in Missouri. Tornado season and sticky season, window season and squirrel on the transformer season. One night a drunk driver had slammed his Studebaker into a utility pole three houses down. It'd crushed Mr. Walter's front porch and left the road without electricity for two days.

Her mother had instructed them not to open the refrigerator unless they knew what they wanted. Shut the doors to the hottest rooms and placed rolled towels at the bottom to keep air from seeping in. Though she'd loved how the sun filtered through her lace curtains, she'd kept the drapes shut. They'd lit candles at night. She'd done needlepoint in her favorite chair and watched her husband play cards with their daughters until bed. A real family affair.

Daubing beads from his brow with a handkerchief, Phil stood in the center of the room. His expression said keeping them there any longer would be an OSHA violation. He wasn't wrong. The office had become the least relaxing sauna on the east coast.

"You've all put in a lot of work today." He spoke in the voice of a grandfather and daubed again. "I know it wasn't easy. I guess there's no sense in us staying any longer. If the power's not back tomorrow-" A gulp here, as if he couldn't believe what he was about to say. "Enjoy a long weekend. My wife'll be glad to have me home. I think."

Y/N stole a glance at her watch: 4:42 PM. A whole eighteen minutes early. Though it wasn't a lot, she got how hard it was for a workaholic like Phil to give them five. Offering a soft smile, she went to him and stuck out her hand. The corner of his mouth twisted wryly before he accepted.

She gave his arm a collegial pat. "We're as caught up as we can be, so feel free to stop sweating."

~~~~~

The next morning's breakfast: cornflakes and blueberries. Y/N gave the milk a good sniff before pouring. With the microwave, toaster, and stove out of commission, oatmeal, toast, and eggs were off the menu. (Not that Arthur complained about the latter.)

They'd discussed how to use what was left in the fridge and freezer before it all went bad, but salads wouldn't work for every meal, and they were only two people. The Caswells across the hall, the neighbors who'd gotten their mail while they were in Missouri, had a grill. Y/N gave them a package of ground beef and a bag of frozen vegetables.

Arthur let his spoon clatter in the kitchen sink and rinsed his bowl. (It was a good and joyful thing that the water - and therefore the toilet - still worked.) "You know, I should go the children's clinic."

"Do you have a gig?" She sipped her orange juice.

"No. But it's boring hanging around all day without the TV. They hire me a lot. I'll go for free."

She rose, rubbed the small of his back. "That's so sweet, Arthur. And very kind."

"You could come with me." He paused, pressed his lips together. She'd seen him on street corners but hadn't witnessed the entirety of his performance. Even with her unending support, he suspected an all-out clown show would be the one place she'd feel out of place. He dared a glance her way.

And found a wide-eyed expression of approval. She cupped his hips, planted a wet kiss to his cheek. "You couldn't keep me away."

In the cab downtown, excitement bloomed in him, unfurling in a great wave of nervous joy. Knuckles intertwined, he hugged the prop bag on his lap, thighs jiggling. "Do you think they'll mind me just showing up?"

"No." She shook her head, placed a soothing palm on his knee. "They'll be happy to get a break in the monotony. It's a medical facility, they'll have generators, but the staff are going home to no power. They could use a laugh. The kids definitely could, too."

The Philomena Children's Clinic was squat for Gotham. Five stories of alternating beige concrete and polycarbonate windows, shaped into a squared-off U. Moss hung from the side of the porte-cochere, green clumps littered the pavement. Cartoon animals played on the entrance doors, giraffes and bears in happy acrylics.

When he checked in unannounced, Gertel the receptionist had a snotty face, but he'd learned not to take it personally. She liked order, worked eight to eight, even on holidays, and her only hobbies were the anagram puzzles in the newspaper and Harlequin romances. She was a tough egg to crack. The most he'd gotten was a pinched smile, a thin line of conceit.

Once he'd procured visitor badges for Y/N and himself, he went to the staff room to change. White base, blue triangles at the eyes, exaggerated red grin, bald wig with green curls, patched brown pants. He'd skipped his checkered suit jacket for a white lab coat, a long ago find from the secondhand store.

Rather than congregating in the common area, the kids remained in their rooms. The change put a limitation on his usual song and dance. Without those trappings, he wasn't quite sure what to do. He hesitated in the doorway of 201, thumbed a flat balloon in his pocket. When the little girl watching Sesame Street gave a small wave, he wiggled the worry from his shoulders and stepped forward.

Stephanie showed him a picture she'd drawn, all crayon streaks and misshapen house. In turn he crafted a balloon hat, put it on her head and told her to get well soon. A youngster next door, no more than five, told Arthur all about Misty, his golden retriever, and how much he missed her.

When Kevin, swallowed by an oversized robe, IV drip drip dripping, started to cry, Arthur's chest hollowed out. The boy hadn't seen his mom in two days. Being alone in a hospital was hard, a fact Arthur had lived. He plucked a prop handkerchief from his breast pocket, pressed it into the boy's tiny hands, pushed the corner of his mouth up with his thumb. "You'll see her soon," he said, words carrying a conviction he hoped was right.

Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Y/N chatting with an RN at the nurse's station. He went into the corridor to eavesdrop, knelt beside a girl in a wheelchair smothered with pink and purple stickers, Heather plastered across the side panel.

"It was nice of him to come," Linda said. "A lot of their parents can't afford the cab fare to get out here, with the subway out and all. And if they're not working, they aren't getting paid. He's always excellent with the children - sometimes he's just like them. Do you have any at home?"

Heather leaned in, prodded his shoulder. "Who's that lady?" she asked, pointing at Y/N.

"That lady?" He grinned from ear to ear. "That's Mrs. Carnival."

The girl gaped in astonishment. "She's not a clown?"

~~~~~

Stolen sheets hung from the railing at both ends of the fire escape. A forest green acrylic blanket obscured the front. A floral comforter, retrieved on tiptoe from the bedroom closet, covered the wrought iron platform. Two wine glasses and vermouth stood on the steps. All that was left was to tune the radio to easy listening, which Arthur did, treading lightly to avoid a stubbed toe.

Nodding, he smiled at his handwork. Well, at the blurred shapes he could detect in the dimness. He looked skyward. With the sun below the horizon and the usual light pollution gone, the night was sparkling.

Candlestick in hand, he eased the bedroom door ajar and sidled through. Gold flickered through the dark, a softening glow. Y/N was an unmoving lump on the mattress. Leg dangling out from the sheet, her half-slip a line on her thigh. Though sleep now came easier, her ability to nap stoked an ember of envy. Midday snoozes happened only after a bit of afternoon delight. She'd tired early, around quarter past six. If he let her doze any longer, she'd be locked in a daze brewing coffee at 2:00 AM.

Hot wax stung the web between his thumb and forefinger. He hissed, shook his hand, shoved the candle on the nightstand. The edge of the mattress sunk under his weight. He grasped the cotton sheet. Dragged it from her shoulder. Revealed the lace trim of her ivory chemise. A brief mumble fell from her mouth, a wet sucking sound. Her fingers curled into the pillow. He pulled the sheet down further. It puddled to the floor.

Stretching one arm, she rolled back to wince at the candle, then at him. "What time is it?"

"Nine-thirty."

That jolted her awake. "I slept too long."

"Mabel called earlier."

"What did she want?"

"She said the blackouts were on the news. I let her know we're all right."

A tender caress to her calf, which felt like silk in his palm. Images of the romantic evening he was about to have with his wife played in his head, a loop that made his stomach all aflutter.

Y/N boosted herself on her elbows. "You have that look."

"What look?"

"The look that means you're up to something," she said, brow arched to her hairline.

Part chuckle, part scoff, he laughed. She read him too well. While it made surprises harder to hide, it pleased more than it annoyed. He stood, offered his hand. "Come here," he said. She accepted, pausing long enough to blow out the flame. He led her to the fire escape and sat on the comforter.

Halfway behind the glass door, she clutched her arms over her chest. "Arthur, I can't go out like this."

"No one'll see you." He gestured at the impromptu walls. Besides, he was six feet away and her form was barely more than a shadow. "And without all the lights, you might be able to see the stars. The way you did back home. Like you told me in the park."

A beam bloomed across her face, what he imagined might be a faint blush. Bent at the waist, she slipped into the half moon's light. One hand on the doorknob, a lifeline in case she reconsidered. Her fingertips relented one by one. First the pinky, last the middle. She settled to his left, knee pulled to her chest, the other leg folded under.

Arthur shuffled closer so they were hip to hip, reached behind her for the wine glasses and bottle with the art nouveau label.

Y/N snagged it from him, squinted at it. "Vermouth?" She held the bottle while he twisted the cap. "My mother used to drink this before bed in the summer. And she rubbed it on Mabel's gums when she was teething. Whiskey, too."

When he brought the goblet of garnet colored liquid to his lips, his nose wrinkled. The liquor smelled like an overgrown garden. He dared a small sip, anyway - and bitterness coated his tongue. He winced, sputtering. "This taste weird. This was supposed to be wine."

"It is, just a different type." She drank long and deep then drank again. "This one's not bad. Strong on the cloves but it'll get the job done."

A news bulletin interrupted the animated notes of Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass. "In what authorities are calling a historic event, Gotham's five boroughs remain dark tonight - including McKean Island. We're assured safety measures are in place and the maximum-security wing remains in lockdown. Though the extent of the damage is unknown, we're happy to report that crews from Pennsylvania and New York are on their way to our fair city to lend a hand. Police Chief Miles O'Hara and Mayor Thomas Wayne are urging calm and-"

"That's enough of that." Y/N flipped the off switch. "You know the best part of all this? Wayne Tower is just as dark as everywhere else."

Unable to stop a chuckle, Arthur shook his head. She wasn't one for holding grudges, but the ones she did carry lived in the lines of her palms, plain enough for any flimflam psychic to read.

But he didn't want her to talk about that, not now. And he knew of a guaranteed method to distract her, to bring her back to where he wanted. He refilled her drink and clinked their glasses.

Second helping swallowed, she inched her bottom forward to lay on her back, arm tucked beneath her head. "It was wonderful to see you work today. Thank you for inviting me. I'm sorry it took so long."

"Well, you come to my standup shows." Only a month ago, she'd recorded his performance and given him tips over Thai. He stretched out next to her, set his still full glass on the steps. "The girl in the wheelchair asked who you were. She was surprised Mrs. Carnival isn't a clown."

"As surprised as everybody was that I married one?"

A hitched laugh. He fiddled with his trousers' belt loops. "I guess."

"There's a magic wand." She pointed at the skies. "By the moon, to the right."

Arthur hummed a contented hum, let his eyelids flutter shut. The street was peaceful, as still as he'd ever heard it. With most shops and restaurants shut down, the list of leisure options fit on a postage stamp. It was a moment to capture, preserve, like swirls in a vase.

A breeze rustled the sheets, blew across them, carried Y/N's natural scent straight to his nostrils. Warm and spicy, like roasted vanilla edged with musk. He breathed deeply, needing to fill his lungs with her anew. Sighing happily, he turned to her.

Silver gleams turned her skin to gossamer, dusk smudged her features. Feathered brown locks merged with the vines on the bedspread's pattern. Her breast threatened to fall out of the armhole of her lingerie.

Christ. They were outside. He hadn't planned on getting aroused. But the longer he looked at her, the harder he got.

Y/N sipped, balanced her stemware on her sternum. "Thank you for tonight, too. You're always so thoughtful." A simple sentiment but exactly what he longed to hear. An affirmation, a pledge to love him further.

But before he could respond in kind, the glass between her breasts began to tip...

He caught it, a splash hitting his wrist, crimson droplets landing on her collarbone. He set it on the step, bent to seize her lips. An unpleasant earthiness covered them. He licked it away, coaxed back her sweetness.

Gigging, she broke away. "Was this your plan? To get me out here and ply me with drink?" The hand on his shoulder dragged to his cheek. The breathy voice she adopted shot straight down his spine. "To take advantage of me?"

It wasn't but he didn't have to tell her that. He nudged closer, his erection grazing her thigh. "Maybe."

A slow smile of pleasure. "I like that plan."

Her palms snuck under his t-shirt, forced it upwards as she explored his body. Nails swirled at his abdomen. It grew taut, stuttered at the sensations, her tickles and temptations. When she reached his pecs she gave a firm pinch. At his displeased grunt, a wicked laugh left her, bawdy and amorous. A clear sign of what they were up to.

His thumb followed her chemise's ribbon strap. His hand fell to her side, skimmed her rounded hip, the delectable curve of her leg. Her half-slip had a daring slit. He slid through, drew lazy circles on her inner thigh.

She shivered. "You're not making it easy to be quiet."

Fingertips traced her panties' elastic leg. Heat emanated from her core, luring him nearer and nearer. Her swallowed whimper rushed him there. Slick and wet, the nylon gusset clung to her vulva.

He'd grown deft at touching her, even in the dark. He trailed a careful stripe along her labia. Inner lips were a prominent line through the fabric, her clitoral hood a plump ridge. Light and rapid he flicked his nail across it. Her pelvis snapped up, held. Millimeter ruts chasing his scrapes, fingers digging his back.

A shudder racked him. His forehead pressed to hers. "If we had more room, I'd taste you." She pressed her lips together, a squeal trapped behind them.

The same breeze that'd carried her scent could very well carry her hungry little whines around the block. So he captured her mouth with his. It started off tender and shallow but was soon all encompassing. She raked through his hair, tugged and tugged again. His tongue sought hers, caressed, collided. Teeth bumped with a muted click.

Sharp gasps. Her neck, her breasts, her entire being arching into him. Desperate push-pulls. He pressed on, strokes licks of fire on her clit. Mewling built in the back of her throat. He heard it in her shallow pants, felt it in how she gripped his bicep. Her thighs trembled, vulva throbbing in his hand.

"Ah!" She squeaked, a strangled, undignified sound.

Snorting, he shoved her sweaty face into the crook of his neck, caught the cries she couldn't stop. (Long ago, she'd offered to visit his apartment on her lunch break - with the explicit promise she could be quiet. He hadn't taken her up on it. Phew!) Her grip on his shirt tightened. One leg went straight, the other knee brushed his cock. Stillness punctuated by tremors. He kissed her temple, slowed his caress to a languid pace.

Legs akimbo, she blinked at him. Signaled silence with a finger to her lips. She balanced on her knees, shed her panties, patted the spot where she'd lain. He scooted over immediately. When he tried to sit, she pushed him to lie on his back. Moving to straddle him, she unbuttoned and unzipped his fly. He made no move to stop her.

Y/N braced herself on his chest, reached between them to press him to her entrance. She began to ease herself onto him, ease him inside her. But he told her to stop.

A strap fell down her upper arm, loosened her camisole to accentuate her cleavage and reveal a breast. Her nipple poked out, its dusky brown a tantalizing contrast to her white skin. Moonlight sculpted the apple of her cheek in whirls of silver. The stars shone about her head, caught in her tresses like sequins on an evening gown.

A pleasant fuzziness swept through him. Nearly three years and he was still drawn to her like a magnet. He'd bet his life that'd be the same case in twenty.

She cocked her head. "What is it?"

He brushed her hair behind her shoulder. Lowered the other strap. "Perfect," he said, smiling as his heart swelled. "You look perfect."

Teeth pressed her lower lip in a shy smile. When she bent to kiss him, her nipples dragged up his chest, prickled his flesh. She shifted the angle of her pelvis forward, the angle that rubbed her clit on his public bone. The one that left his black curls a matted, wet mess.

A sensuous thrust, her hips rolled in a seductive circle. "I want you to come," she whispered, and licked his bottom lip.

One foot braced on the grate beneath him, which bit even through the comforter. He bucked into her, into that heady stretch of her slippery heat. As if testing their connection, she raised up until he nearly flopped out, until only the glans remained. Then her walls encompassed him once more. Clutching, grasping. A steady rhythm. Relentless motion that bewitched and bewildered.

He cleared his throat to keep from crying out, channeled the urge to groan into grabbing the baluster behind his head. Her pinky brushed the strong sinew of his neck, her tongue followed his collarbone. Tightness in his loins spread to his abdomen, crawled through his limbs.

A burst of light, white and pulsing, formed behind his eyelids. Fire rippled through his veins, a scarlet flush of satisfaction. He bit the inside of his cheek, permitted one weak whimper to escape. She held herself in place while he finished, in the way she knew he liked. Stroked the tension from his dimples until they melted into a smile.

Slack and sated, his arm dropped to the ground. He puffed out his chest and cheeks and huffed. On a swift peck, she began to push herself up.

Just then, the Caswells' glass door creaked. Sluggish steps, like a hiker stuck in the mud. Y/N ducked on top of Arthur, held her breath. A hurdy gurdy voice called from inside. "...should have added it to the list last week. Where are you going? Louie L'Amour's about to start on GPR!" The rattle of a far-off rotary phone. "Oh, I bet that's your mother. She's called every hour!"

"I never said you have to answer it!" A resigned sigh, the click of a lighter. Arthur could almost hear the man deflate.

"The heat must be getting to them," Y/N said. "I think he'll be out here awhile."

Arthur murmured into her hair. "If you weren't so sweet, we wouldn't be in this jam." A playful swat to her bottom.

Laughter tickled his neck. She lifted herself a couple inches, pulled up the straps of her camisole. Careful to remain discreet, she grabbed her panties, clambered off him, and duck walked towards the living room. One foot beyond the threshold and she scampered out of sight.

He zipped his trousers, straightened his shirt, stretched as he stood, stuck a hand in his pocket to appear nonchalant. He grabbed the radio and headed inside. The rest he'd retrieve ten minutes later, when the neighbor would be forced to answer to his mother.

As he entered, Y/N emerged from the bathroom. His feet stumbled to a stop, his brain blanked. She'd shed her clothing and now stood nude before him. His stomach again went all aflutter.

"Let's repeat all that as soon as we can.” She curled her fingers around his wrist, not giving him a moment to resist. “By candlelight. In our bed."

~~~~~

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#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck smut #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #arthur fleck x female reader #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

Hearth and Home

Summary: During Christmas in Missouri, Arthur learns - and Y/N relearns - how to celebrate with family.

Words: 6,525

Warnings: None

A/N: This little piece is based on a request from @jokerownsmysoul, as well as a continuation of Haunted Heart. Please enjoy this very tardy holiday story! 😂 Thank you to @jokerownsmysoulfor not only making the request, but also beta-ing the first draft. Much appreciation to @sweet-nothings04and @forever-fleck for helping with the intro pic! 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Christmastide hadn't yet crept into Gobler Mall, but it'd slid halfway through the door and propped it open.

A cardboard sleigh advertised Santa's imminent arrival. Kiosks selling Dead Sea Salt body scrubs and smoked cheeses were buried in unopened boxes of merchandise. A man in a green janitor's uniform hung honeycomb snowflakes from the center atrium, his ladder buttressed against the second story's balcony wall. 

The anchor store in the east wing had outraced its competitors to win the gold. A twenty-foot tree stood in the center of Hecht's Fineries, plastic branches reaching out to entice customers past cosmetics to a world of sporting goods, toys, and electronics.

Y/N pushed a shopping cart through Today's Woman, the fashion department situated between cookware and shoes. Right on her heels, Arthur browsed with the exuberance of a boy who knew exactly what to write on his Christmas list. Adorable, yes. Contagious and delightful? Certainly. The magic of the season permeated the air whenever he was near.

But if he didn't lose her trail soon, surprising him would be impossible.

They'd brought a small selection of gifts from Gotham. Curry pastes from Siam Market and a Glob's Gourmet Pickles sampler (which had, thankfully, remained intact during their flight). But with limited luggage space, they'd settled on buying most here. A quilted jewelry box appeared a good fit for Ruthie, and with Jason pretending he'd grown out of comic books, they'd chosen a leather baseball glove for him. That left a Mr. Wizard Ecology Kit for Brian and a set of Read-A-Long books on tape for Ashley.

Now they had to settle on what to get Mabel and Ed. And each other.

"I dunno what she likes," Arthur told Y/N, flipping through a circular rack of blouses. Hangers squealed along a metal rod, an atonal chorus. "She dresses more casually than you, but she still looks nice." A one shoulder shrug concluded the observation.

Y/N leaned onto the cart's handle. "A good rule to go by is, if I'd hate it, she'd love it. Wait, that might work." She raised her hand to stop the search. He held out a horizontally striped pullover, black and confident pink illuminated by metallic threads.

A sharp nod answered his knotted brow. "It's definitely her."

As they made their way to the register, a row of mannequin busts caught his gaze. Decked out in festive finery, they wore sweaters thick enough to warm the skinniest soul. He strolled the length of the display, hands clasped at the small of his back, mocha curls brushing his shoulders. He stopped at a crewneck two-thirds of the way down.

Flocked plus signs spanned the shoulders and chest, like a blanket of light snow. Alternating patterns of stars and deer came next, followed by a swathe of rich maroon, the same color as his suit. An odd design, to be sure, but fashionable. The trendiest thing ever to have a chance at moving into Arthur's closet.

When his thin lips pursed, she sidled next to him. Shopping for others didn't mean he couldn't consider himself. "You'd look gorgeous in that," she said.

A smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Really?"

"Really." She reached for it with a seductive slowness. "Should we get it now or wait for Santa?"

On a hitched laugh, he stole it from her fingertips and got in line.

~~~~~

Carrying a tray of Morrison's Cafeteria broiled chicken, yellow rice, and two diet cokes, Mabel zigzagged through grey tables to a four-top on the periphery of the food court, where Y/N guarded Radio Shack and Sears bags with the promise not to peek. Though not much of a splurger, she was surprisingly fun to shop with. Admiring window displays, suggesting gifts for Ed and Arthur. Mabel had needed that quality time, another chance to be Big and Little Sis. 

Ever a rocket about to lift off, Ashley bounced on a stack chair beside Y/N. The other three children were in school, busy learning their ABCs. Sun cascaded through skylights, brought out honey blonde streaks in the toddler's hair. Y/N took a blue crayon from a RoseArt three-pack and pointed to a spot on a paper placement, an instruction to make the first move in a tic-tac-toe game. In a fit of giggles, the girl clapped and drew an X over the entire grid. 

A mix of joy and pensiveness twisted Mabel's heart.

Fed by losing her mom at twenty-four, she braced against the possibility of not being there. New milestones brought happiness - but they also reminded her she'd be fifty when her youngest was a freshman in high school. Nights of four-hour naps and days filled with play and homework took a lot more out of her than motherhood had a decade ago. There were moments exhaustion seeped so deeply into her bones she could've slept standing up.

Once Ashley was sent to a coin-operated carousel ride a couple yards away, Mabel confided to Y/N. "Don't get me wrong. I'd do anything for them. I just thought they'd all be in school by now." She rolled straw paper between thumb and forefinger. "Mom never seemed to get tired. But chasing Ashley around, I feel like I'm ready for the retirement home."

"She has parents who are older and wiser. Who know when they were too strict with the others and not strict enough. Isn't that a good thing?" Y/N tore a final piece of chicken off the bone and touched her toes to Mabel's. "You want to be mom. But you can't be. No one could. Just be yourself. You've always been more than enough, Able Mabel."

Blinking moisture from her eyes, Mabel dipped her chin. Was it middle-aged that'd mellowed Y/N, made her better at comfort rather than immediate investigation? Or had Arthur nurtured her heart by giving it a place to rest? Whatever the cause, it was a welcome change.

With the success of her second marriage, however, maybe she could solve a little, too. 

Mabel pushed abandoned grains of rice with her spoon. "I had been looking forward to having more time with Ed."

"Has he gone back to working around the clock?"

"No, no. He's home for dinner every night. But with school projects and potty training and story hour and baseball practice and scouting... Sometimes I forget what it's like to be a wife." A sip of coke as she checked on Ashley. The girl continued to ride in circles. "You love being a wife," Mabel continued. "What's the longest you and Arthur have gone without...you know."

Y/N dabbed at her mouth with the corner of her napkin. After a moment, she gave a small shrug. "A month or two?"

Mabel's jaw hung open. "That's it?" It'd been nearly six for she and Ed. Their last attempt had been cut short by Ruthie's knock on their bedroom door to ask for water - just as her underwire had been unhooked. They'd left a glass on her nightstand every night thereafter. But the spark continued to elude.

"Our lives are quieter," Y/N said, waving the unspoken comparison away. "And you've been married, what, eighteen years? That's much longer than four. Have you talked about this at all with Ed?"

A resigned sigh heaved out of Mabel. "Whenever I start, something comes up."

"It doesn't have to be a long, drawn-out trial. Maybe you can suggest listening to Dr. Sally. Have you heard of her? She's from Gotham and Arthur swears by her. He says she taught him everything he knows. Well, everything he knew before we..." Crimson colored her cheeks, her lips pressed together in a pensive grin. "I don't know if I should tell you, but- Can you keep a secret?"

Mabel grasped the bottom of her chair and hopped it forward. "I love secrets."

"When he and I met, he hadn't been with a woman before. Not like that, anyway."

Nose wrinkled, Mabel tilted her head, her entire face squinting. No, Arthur wasn't her type. But she knew a good man when she met one. And a good looking man when she saw one. "How is that possible?"

Y/N snorted, loud enough to muffle it with the back of her hand. "That was my reaction. It was a lot of pressure; I don't think Arthur realizes that. But I wanted him and loved him and that won out.

"I asked him once if he felt like he'd missed out on anything, having only been with me. He said no, because he's comfortable with me and knows I care about him. Anyway, he gave Dr. Sally full credit for being wonderful. I'm sure the show is syndicated down here."

The twinkle of romance and true love in her sister's eye left Mabel fully convinced. She picked up a crayon and folded the placemat in half. "I'll call the local radio stations."

~~~~~

Meanwhile, Ed and Arthur rode the escalator to the mall's second story. For Ed, it was the only escalator in the county. For Arthur, it was simply a way to get upstairs. 

He trailed his brother-in-law past a soap and scented candle shop, an avalanche of perfume pouring out of the place. A silver engraving shop stood to their left, hawking the likes of picture frames, wedding cake serving sets, and doorknobs. They dodged a group of teenagers who should've been in school to arrive at a glass storefront tucked into the corner.

City Drawers' cursive sign was a thrill in pink neon. Muzak masquerading as jazz sounded through the open entrance. Two mannequins stood in the shop's windows, illuminated by spotlights at their feet. One wore a lace bra and panty set, the other a diaphanous camisole with a cowl neck. A hanging sign announced a sale on Maidenform: Buy one, Get one half off.

Arthur chewed his thumbnail.

Donahue's and L. Ballinger carried styles both he and Y/N liked, without intimidating buckles or oddly placed straps. Specialty shops were expensive. Though he'd happily picture her in every display, going to a boutique bordering on Adults Only made shopping an event he had the wrong ticket to, purchased for a week-old show. 

With a casualness Arthur envied, Ed crossed the black tile threshold, stealing Arthur's chance to back away and backtrack to Hecht's.

Forcing out a breath, he shoved his hands in his pockets. Made the decision to get over himself and stepped into the welcoming peach interior.

Low lighting gave the shop an air of intrigue, flattered the stitching, the promised silhouette of each item. A woman and high school student discussed the finer points of choosing a first bra. ("You don't want it to stick out too much under your sweaters." "Mom!") Cheeks on fire, he turned away from the conversation meant for mothers and daughters to see a husband and wife modeling satin robes. A cashier dressed like a consummate professional, as if she belonged in Y/N's office, told a woman in a puffy coat that underwear was returnable only if unopened.

Ed closed in on a Christmas display to the left, where a scantily clad mannequin wore a Mrs. Claus mob hat. He grabbed a Santa red negligee and gave it a once over. "Think Mabel'd like this?" he asked, thrusting it towards Arthur.

One glance at the faux fur trimmed neckline and it was clear Y/N would hate it. "She'd love it."

Relief palpable in his easy smile, Ed nodded his thanks and headed to the Famous Fragrances cabinet at the rear of the shop.

Arthur slinked along the wall, passing feather boas and garter belts. (The black one with pale pink roses on the hips was an omen to follow when they returned to Gotham City.) A man on the hunt for a gift that wouldn't be embarrassing to give his wife in front of her family. In front of her nephews and nieces.

Forgotten on a bottom shelf under dust and elbow length gloves, he found his trophy.

Knee high wool socks, lilac and knit in a pointelle pattern akin to lace. He took the pair in his grasp, ran his fingertips from cuff to toe. Every past piece of thrift store wool had been a scouring pad on his skin. These were smooth, buttery. He could imagine her calves wrapped up in these subtle cousins to stockings, a long-awaited present under the tree.

A lyric came to mind, an old song he'd gone too long without hearing. Humming a few bars, he sang in his head. You're the starch in my collar, you're the lace in my shoe...

Arthur hurried to the register, but turned back at the last second and stuck the garter belt under his arm.

He placed the socks on the counter, indicated them with his chin. "Can you put those in a box? With a ribbon on it?" He slid the garter across the surface and leaned forward. "And could you please wrap this separately?"

~~~~~

Snug in the tub, Y/N's eyelids fell shut as she massaged almond shampoo into her scalp. The circling slowed as she exhaled contentment. After cramming two major holidays and the preparations for a third into a mere nine days, she'd savor this second to relax. 

The notion twisted the corner of her mouth, a crescent of irony. 

That she'd be able to relax here at all would've been laughable before, when shadows had lurked in every corner and out in the open to confront her with what she'd lost. Arthur's compassion and Mabel's letting the subject of their parents alone now allowed Y/N to cope on her own terms. 

The adjoining guestroom wasn't simply her father's former office, where she'd been forced to accept the gravity of Henry's diagnosis. It was also a bedroom where she could rest at the end of the day. The bathroom was more than an old examination room, forest green and warm, where her father had crowned his four-year-old daughter with a head mirror and tested her reflexes. It was a place unwind. To cleanse her skin and her heart. Twin threads of past and present that entwined themselves into a semblance of peace.

Locks rinsed and detangled, she swiped her hair back and reached for her wet-dry electric razor.

A light tap tap rapped at the door.

She'd recognize her husband's Excuse Me knock anywhere. But with a full house, doublechecking was safer. "Who is it?"

"It's Arthur."

At her instant invitation, he slid through the door. He'd donned his maroon sweater - as he had every day since she'd told him he'd look gorgeous in it.

She'd been right.

He tucked a stray curl behind his ear and turned towards the toilet. "Sorry, the other bathroom's busy. I'll be quick." He lifted the cover and seat and unzipped his trousers. 

Razor perpendicular to her shin, she started to drag it in a straight line to her knee. 

It sputtered like an old engine, gaining and losing speed in an attempt to complete its mission. She hit the bottom with the heel of her hand. Flipped the switch off and back on. A pathetic whirr, which slowed to a worrying grind. Then a final, sad stop.

With a huff, she set it on the tub's corner shelf. "I should've charged this before we left."

He shook himself off, cocked his head her way. "Maybe Mabel has one? I can go check."

"You don't have to bother."

Arthur waved her off, insisted it wasn't one at all. He rinsed his hands and stepped out. Grin tight enough to pinch, she scrubbed at her armpits and breasts. Noted a hair by her aerola she'd have to pluck later. The washcloth slid across her stomach, the feminine swell of her abdomen. A quick dip between her legs.

The door swung ajar. Extending his palm with a flourish, Arthur beamed down at her.

Eyes wide, the entirety of her attention shot to the Pink Daisy Gillette.

She hadn't used a wet razor for five years, had banished them from the apartment as soon as he'd agreed to move in. Since he'd asked her to keep them away from him. Sure, if a matter was important, she was a risk taker. Being stubble free for one extra day didn't make the cut.

Y/N reached to take it from him. A bit too fast. "Thank you."

"Actually, I-" He held the forbidden object in front of his chest, twirled it between anxious fingers. "I'd like to do it."

She drew her feet inward. Concern felt silly, an unwelcome heckler. A true intrusion on their intimacy. But given Arthur's history, it made sense. And Dr. Ludlow had agreed keeping razor blades out of the apartment was a good idea.

As if able to read her thoughts, he winced at the floor, a move that felt too close to shame. He spoke with the wounded dignity of the earnest yet disbelieved. "I've been okay for a long time now."

An ache pressed her sternum, for she did indeed believe him. He'd trusted her two years ago, had taken the good with the very, very bad. Shouldn't she be able to trust him? Refrain from making a normal activity - a loving gesture he'd asked for - a crossroads to crisis? 

She pushed the worries from her throat with an ahem. "You're right. I'm sorry."

His handsome visage instantly brightened. 

Loosening her legs, she wrung out her washcloth. "You're going to get all wet."

"I'll dry."

"What about your pants?"

"They come off."

It was said without guile, but she chuckled, anyway. She retrieved the soap. Worked up a good lather. Smoothed suds down her left leg.

His teeth pressed his lower lip in an eager grin. Perching on the rim of the tub, he pushed his sleeves to his elbows. Bent to pluck her towel from the floor and cover his lap. A secure hold on her heel as he pulled her into position.

Gently, he laid the blade a centimeter below her knee and drew it towards him. A glance of a touch.

"A little harder," she said. "Leg hair is stubborn."

"I don't wanna hurt you."

"You won't." She lay in the curved end of the tub. "How old were you when you started to shave?"

"Fourteen, I think." A soft, closed-mouth laugh. "One night, when Penny and her boyfriend were gone? I stole his razor and shaving cream. I must've used half the can." Short scrapes at the front of Y/N's ankle. "I pressed so hard to get through all the foam, I got a burn. It hurt so bad. My mother asked what was wrong with my face. I told her I'd been out in the sun too long - in February."

Giggling, Y/N tossed her head back. "I'm sure you were very convincing. Speaking of which: I have to convince Mabel to tone it down for Christmas."

"Isn't that why she invited us down here?"

"Yes, but she's going to cook herself to death." At Thanksgiving, Y/N hadn't been able to see the table for all the food. What with their household being too small for a full spread, she and Arthur stuck to a chicken or a couple of turkey breasts. "She likes to make a big dinner for Christmas Eve and a breakfast buffet in the morning."

The tip of his tongue darted out to wet his lips. "We could make dinner and breakfast."

Y/N gulped against unbidden images floating to the surface. She hadn't cooked a holiday meal here for eight years, and the last had been an exercise in heartbreak. Mashed up food, saliva on cotton, fear pretending to be revulsion on the faces of her family. Benji's Very Own Christmas Story on TV to tide keep her father calm and an entire bottle of Sanatogen to calm herself. 

Yet, the idea was lovely, a reflection of her husband's generosity and kindness. Putting her baggage on him would be ungenerous and unkind. And, just maybe, it could be an opportunity she wouldn't have taken on her own.

She studied the ripples in the water. Concentrated on the pressure of his fingertips on her skin. Glides of metal and aloe. "Stroganoff?"

"That's special for us." Arthur squeezed the subtle half-moon of her calf.

Fuzzy fluttering fleeted through her, at the squeeze and the us. They decided on glazed ham, a dish her mother had made every year. Y/N made a mental note to peruse the oldBetter Homes & Gardens cookbook, the checkered one with the side pocket. "We can make garlic mashed potatoes, too. If we double the recipe, it'll be enough for eight." Broccoli and cheese casserole would serve as a second side, of which Arthur would claim all the crispy corners. Stuffing out of three boxes. All that was left was dessert.

He shook the razor in the bathwater. "Gingerbread's good."

"I'll add a can of whipped cream to the grocery list."

Pecking the arch of her foot, he scooted along the tub's rim. Angled her leg so that her thigh rested on his. The razor whispered a line within an inch of her groin. Puffs of her breath skimmed her flesh. Her tendons tightened. Her knee jerked against his touch.

He knelt beside the tub to gather water in his hands. Slipped them down her legs. He rinsed her again, his expression melting into satisfaction. "You're beautiful," he said, palm sliding to her hip. His green gaze dropped to her mouth, his caress now a firm grip.

Then his lips seized hers.

A startled gasp jolted her. 

What Arthur had just done was romantic. Wonderful. An act out of a shared fantasy. If they'd been anywhere else, a delicious weight would've warmed her belly. But that old forest green seeped in at the edges of her mind's eye, pulled the thread of past askew. Now that weight felt like a bowling ball.

She broke off the kiss. Embarrassed whispers between bottled breaths. "Arthur, I-" Her fingers curled, a loose fist by his cheek. "I can't. Not here."

Drops fell from his wrist to her sternum. Charted paths to the notch at the base of her throat. Silence weighed down on her, a whole league's worth of bowling balls.

Swallowing, she raised her eyes to meet his. 

When they did, understanding softened his brow. His voice was low, soft. A comfort as powerful as present thread. "It's okay." He retreated to sit on his heels and dry his hands, chestnut waves falling to frame his sculpted cheeks. He stood and bent to peck the top of her head. "You better do that other leg yourself." With that, he turned to leave.

She scrambled to sit up. "Arthur?"

Hand on the doorknob, he looked back at her.

"I love you," she said.

Dimples deepening, he bestowed a shy, radiant smile. "I know."

~~~~~

Mabel placed the Santa mug with the candy cane handle on the windowsill to finish trimming the tree. It was situated by the front window, about a yard from the guestroom. Ed and Jason had disappeared to the basement to search for decorations. One of Ruthie's favorite records played, John Denver and the Muppets' A Christmas Together. 

Arthur knelt beside Mabel. On the opposite side of the living room, Y/N and the three youngest children worked on paper snowflakes in the play corner. Few words had passed between them, but the quiet was the kind that belonged to old marrieds who were confident in their choice of each other. Irritated, in love, invested. There'd be no running to the watering hole today.

Nevertheless, Mabel sought to gladden the place. Trimming the tree was one of her favorite rituals, right up there with reading The Night Before Christmas and stuffing stockings. There was no way she'd allow grumpiness to gel into gloom.

Digging through a popcorn tin overflowing with ornaments, each wrapped carefully in a sandwich bag, she said, "Don't be surprised if the munchkins are knocking on your door at five tomorrow." 

"That's okay. I don't let Y/N sleep in on Christmas." He hung a stained-glass rocking horse on a middle branch of the artificial tree. "You know, she still has the cookie you made her when you were kids. In the toy oven."

"Does she really?" 

"She hangs it up every year."

Mabel retrieved another satin bauble, this one from the Keepsake series of ornaments. "Holidays are happy when friends are together" it declared. The phrase brought a pleasant smile to her face and a quickening to her heart. 

Y/N's offer to give her a break by preparing Christmas dinner had been a surprise, a true act of affection Mabel had to accept. But when Y/N had said she was going to prepare everything herself, Arthur's brow furrowed into one thick caterpillar. It was an obvious deviation from how this conversation was supposed to go. 

Familiar with how hard it was on him to feel shut out, Mabel rescued Arthur from his skepticism with an invitation to make dessert. Dessert wasn't technically a part of dinner and therefore fair game. Though she'd planned on chocolate and pecan pinwheels, they settled on gingerbread cookies and spent the morning rolling dough and downing coffee. 

During their third round of cookie cutting, she'd said, "These are perfect. Have you made them before?" 

"Penny had a gingerbread recipe on the wall in the kitchen," he'd said. Another drummer boy emerged from the brown dough. "I can't remember making it, but I know I dropped a bag of flour. She smeared it on our faces and told me, 'Every real cook has flour on his cheeks.'"

Mabel's laugh had dissolved into a wistful sigh. From what Y/N had shared, discussions about his childhood were rare and memories that made him smile even rarer. With a sprinkle of flour on both their noses, they'd put the cookie sheet on the middle oven rack and set the timer.

Miss Piggy's shrill plea for five golden rings cut through the recollection. Eyelid twitching, Mabel straightened the hanger of a Baby's First Christmas ceramic bootie and called to her sister. "Remember when we were kids, and we'd sing along to the radio?"

With a nod, Y/N folded white construction paper into a triangle. "And at the Silver Spur." She sang softly, a relief from the record's caterwauling. "Country road, take me home to the place I belong-"

"Gotham City," Mabel joined in. "Jersey highway."

The twitch teasing Arthur's chin defied the set of his jaw.

"When you put it like that, you almost make it sound romantic," Y/N said. 

Just then, Ed thudded into the room, lugging a box of plastic garland. Haphazard leaves and berries sprouted from the cardboard box. Nose buried in an LCD hockey game, Jason followed close behind. Ed asked, "Hey, do you do any Christmas standup shows?"

"One or two at the usual clubs." Arthur stood to toss handfuls of Brite Star tinsel at the tree. "How did the wife get her husband to go to the office party?"

"Jason, put that away and help me with this." Ed plunked the box to the carpet with a groan. "I don't know. How?"

"By telling him, 'yule love it.'" An elongated u for pun's sake.

Stifling a giggle, Mabel shook her head. His jokes hadn't gotten much better, but his ability to make her smile won her over. 

"And it always works."Y/N extricated herself from scraps of paper, then checked her watch. "I better start dinner," she said, and excused herself from the room.

In her peripheral vision, Mabel caught Arthur's rapid blink. His posture threatened to deflate like an old tire. "I thought she was doing better this time," he mumbled.

"She is, Arthur. She is." In the manner of a mother assigning a sullen son the most important task - as her own mother had done for her after Y/N had moved out - Mabel patted his shoulder. "If you could find the tree topper, that'd be a big help."

~~~~~

Arms folded across his chest, Arthur braced himself on the doorframe, careful to keep his toes on the foyer side of the floor's transition strip and off the kitchen linoleum.

The side of Y/N's hand smoothed a crimson tablecloth over the oblong dining table. She laid a plastic wreath in the middle, completed the centerpiece with three ivory candles inside the ring. She retrieved eight quilted placemats featuring Christmas geese from the drawer to the left of the stove and pulled cloth napkins from the cupboard to the right. She knew where everything was without asking. As if she'd left here yesterday.

When he'd suggested making dinner, bumming around while Y/N roleplayed 1978 wasn't what he'd had in mind. Standing by like an extra as she measured brown sugar and honey. Loitering while she shoved broccoli in Corning Ware and sprinkled it with cheese.

Given that it didn't quite fit her bustline, the velveteen, emerald halter dress she wore must've been borrowed from Mabel. Y/N's hair was feathered in the usual manner, but with extra body that meant she'd used mousse and a curling iron. Earth tone makeup highlighted her natural prettiness, save for the red stain on her lips. Poinsettias dangled from her ears, a Beauty Boutique original. 

She opened a panel cabinet over the sink, then grabbed a stepstool to peek inside. Kitten-heeled foot extended behind her, she retrieved a stack of plates. Her shoe threatened to fall to the floor. When she teetered, he offered to steady her. But she declined. Descended backwards step by step. Put the plates on the counter with a soft but unwavering "I've got it."

His cheek ached from gnawing. Out of respect for her, he hadn't argued in front of her sister. But doing this as a couple - as a family - had been what he'd craved.

So he slid across the linoleum to inspect the plates. Trace his thumb over the cheery holly motif along the edges.

She whisked the dishes away. "I'll light the candles when the food is done," she said, a hitch in her voice she failed to hide.

He half-turned to her. Noted the upward draw of her shoulders, elbows tight at her sides. She set matching tumblers at the two o'clock positions by each plate. He longed to fold the cloth napkins. He longed to take out the cutlery.

He longed to pry.

Lips pressed to a sore line, he recalled their fight when he'd cornered her in the shower, one of the worst arguments they'd ever had. He was loathe to follow that road again. Instead, he grabbed a cooking spoon, stirred the mashed potatoes, and searched for compromise. 

Before he could err, she crossed to stand two feet from him. Leaning back against the counter, she gripped the Formica edge with both hands. Her fingers went white.

"When I lived here," she started. "I did all the Christmas decorating and cooking. I loved it. It was a day I could pretend my life was normal, just for an hour or two. Mabel and Ed would bring the kids. We'd drink cocoa and open gifts and have a little fun. Except that last year."

Arthur's stirring slowed, every fiber waiting with want for all of it. All of her.

"I wanted to keep my spirit up or touch my dad in some way." A familiar, familial word she never used. It was always father. "But the harder I tried, the worse it was. He wouldn't eat and wouldn't stop crying. When I washed him, he tried to push me away, but he was too weak - his arms were matchsticks. He must've been scared - he wasn't really with it by then. And he scared Mabel and the kids and..."

Lashing fluttering, she sucked her teeth. "The man who'd nurtured me, who'd loved me, wasn't there anymore. He was possessed by a stranger I didn't want to know. And being here - having to stay in this house - was like trying to live inside a ghost."

In spite of the watery tenor of her voice, she offered Arthur a tremulous smile. "Tonight it doesn't feel so haunted." 

An anxious dam gave way, crumbling to flood love through his frame. He understood, then. Doing all this by herself standing here alone, was a ritual to exorcise her past. He reached for her wrist, pulled her to his side with one arm. When she put her head on his shoulder, he dropped the cooking spoon into the goopy mass. 

Her palms pressed his back. "I'm happy to be able to share this part of me now." 

"Me, too. I mean, I'm happy you shared it with me, too." He buried his face in her hair, let out a huff equal parts support and relief. "I want you to share everything."

Seconds of silence before her lips made a smacking sound on her teeth, and he knew she was grinning.

Ever the woman to push down her feelings a tad too quickly (except for love; thank whatever was listening there was always love), she stepped out his arms, wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand. The crockpot let out an air raid warning of a beep.

She took a box of matches from the corner of the windowsill above the sink and pressed it into his palm. Offered a luminous look and invited him into her past. "You light the candles and I'll serve."

~~~~~

Blue wrapping paper with silver bells and holly. Little bears wishing little ones Merry Christmas on pine green. Gold and red foil interweaving in an intricate scroll. The four-by-four space under the tree contained enough color and excitement to fill a North Pole workshop.

Hair tugged into a haphazard ponytail and replete in fuzzy slippers, Mabel dropped onto a chair next to Ed and attempted to squint away her dull headache. The adults had stayed up until 1:00 AM last night, wrapping boxes, drinking cocoa, and carrying on. After dinner, Arthur had nibbled at the gingerbread cookies until he'd had to take two Tums - then surprised everyone by claiming the last slice of Thanksgiving's pumpkin pie.

Clad in their lazy morning best, Arthur and Y/N sat hip to hip in front of the tree. She'd yanked on the lavender socks with the enthusiasm of having found a long-lost treasure. He munched on the macadamia nuts Mabel had thought would make a lame gift, but Y/N had insisted he'd love. The cowhide wallet she'd given him lay open on his lap, the card slot's gold leaf letters reading "A + S" followed by a heart on display. Cheesy. Seemingly out of character for Big Sis. But she glowed whenever she talked about him. She'd gotten starry eyed about Jeff but never glowed. 

Once she'd unwrapped Mabel's present to her, she held it in both hands but hesitated to open it. The photo album risked melancholy, but Mabel hoped Y/N would be able to find joy, too. 

"Those are photos of us," Mabel assured her. At that, Y/N lifted the front cover. The first was a black and white featuring four year old Y/N cross-legged on the floor, the new baby in her arms, a big grin on her face. "I took the best pictures from all of mom and dad's photo albums. They start from when we were little and go until our visit last year. And there are blank pages for more." 

Hugging the album to her chest, Y/N made a promise. "There'll be more. A lot more."

Ruthie helped Ashley put one of her Wuzzles reading cassettes in her Fisher Price tape player, while Ashley patted Ruthie's jewelry box's quilted surface as if it were a cat. Jason let Brian try out his new baseball mitt, and Brian put his feet on the coffee table and flipped through his Experiments in Ecology book. 

Ed's morning breath stank of garlic from gourmet pickles. Already wearing his new Casio calculator watch, he flipped through the manual of the AT&T cordless phone, a gift Mabel hoped meant Y/N wanted more phone calls. The Thai script on the curry pastes was something Mabel had never seen before, but Y/N promised that if she could cook with them, anyone could figure it out. ("Just add vegetables and chicken and you're good.")

When Mabel unwrapped the present from her hubby, she recognized the logo as soon as she glimpsed the outline of a petal. She'd kept the box shut. Warmth enveloped her. He'd made her feel beautiful again, in that special way she'd reminisced. In the way that belonged to them. 

No matter what she'd confided in the mall, the moments she struggled were worth it. Still there, still hard. But she'd do her best to follow her sister's advice. Make sure to enjoy herself as a mother, a wife, and herself. 

And Dr. Sally would remain on-call.

Mabel called Ruthie to her side and spoke in her ear. Loud enough for all to hear but quiet enough to make the girl feel special. "Can you and your brothers set the table?" 

Ruthie nodded and skipped her way to the foyer. When the boys remained glued to the sofa, Ed rose with a Come On, Sons gesture. Arthur plucked a candy cane from tree, then plucked Ashley from the carpet and carried her to the kitchen.

Mabel grabbed a purple bow from the carpet, winced as she straightened, a barbel rolling from her forehead to her neck. "The next time you suggest spiking a drink, remind me to say no."

Anchoring herself on the coffee table, Y/N moved to stand. "I'll put on an extra pot of coffee." She gathered strewn wrapping paper and ribbon and crumpled them into a ball. "Make sure you take it easy when Thanksgiving and Christmas roll around."

"Ed's parents are hosting," Mabel said, and waved off her concern. With his sister stuck in Michigan this year, it'd be a smaller gathering. With his big brother around, Ed would regress to being the youngest as soon as he smelled a pie in the oven.

Arms overflowing, they padded towards the kitchen. But they lingered halfway there to bask in the magic of Not Quite Christmas. 

Ed worked around the kids, handing them plates, directing where to put them. Arthur retrieved a mixing bowl and frying pan in preparation for cinnamon French Toast, a tradition he'd brought from the Fleck household. While Ed searched the cupboards, Arthur crouched beside Ashley, who laughed at her uncle between rounds of peek-a-boo.

"You made this visit beautiful, Mabel. Mom would be proud of you." Y/N freed up an arm and hugged her at the waist. Spoke the words Mabel had longed to hear for the better part of a decade. The words that made the wheels of self-forgiveness run ten times faster. "After all these years, I think we both found what we've been looking for."

Elated, Mabel dropped the paper to the floor. "I know I have." She seized Y/N about the middle, hard enough to lift her to her toes. "I know we have."

~~~~~

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#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x female reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

Every Day

Summary: After their first New Year's celebration, Arthur and Y/N ponder how to proceed.

Words: 3,731

Warnings: None

A/N: Familiar ground is covered in this story, but with my last few pieces being set later in Arthur and Y/N's relationship, I wanted to revisit the blooms at the beginning. I hope you all like it! Many thanks to @jokerownsmysoul​ for beta-ing! 😃

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

December 31st, 1981.

One week ago. Seven days. One hundred and forty-seven hours - not that she kept count. The night Y/N had screwed up her courage and told Arthur she wanted them to live together. Spilling that in Gotham Square, amidst sparkling fireworks and noisemakers, glittering confetti and flowing champagne, had been what she truly desired. Not a mere reflection of the city's dreams and hopes for new beginnings.

So why had neither of them brought it up again? A hush hushness that felt like a tacit endorsement of the status quo.

Not that their status quo was bad. It was pretty great, actually. Delightful, even. Her very own New Year's wish come true. He made her see and experience things in a different light. Stirred parts of her she'd forgotten, neglected. A maroon toothbrush camped in a plastic cup on her bathroom shelf, a box of Kotex had made its way to his. It was good and joyful, what they had.

The question prodded anew. Why the hell were they carrying on as if nothing had happened?

Typewriters clacking, she and Patricia chatted over the hammering of keys. "Does he want to move in with you?" Patricia asked, focus fixed on fluttering paper. "Is he that kind of guy?"

"Well." A bell announced the end of Y/N's typing line. She grabbed the wite-out to correct a p to an o. "He didn't say yes or no. He didn't say anything, really. But judging from how he kissed me, I can safely say he wouldn't mind."

"That good, huh?"

"I can still feel it in my toes."

Matt called from the office behind her. "Hearing that you have a personal life is going to be an adjustment."

Y/N rolled, swiveled to peek past the doorframe. "You're welcome to shut your door," she teased.

Her boss had a point, though. While she'd related her professional background, chatted about television shows and local news, the personal was a hand she kept close to her chest. Only recently had she disclosed to Patricia - a woman she considered her best friend - the surface of what she'd gone through with her father back in Missouri.

There wasn't much to discuss, anyway. Life was simple. She worked and got a bite to eat. Read the paper and stopped at magazine stands. Walked city parks and browsed the shops once or twice a week. A lovely, mundane life made whole by finally being where and who she was meant to be.

And now she had someone in that life whom she ached to be with every day. Who made her want to stretch into new interests, who asked her to share her own, unexpected treasures at her age. How on earth could she keep all that inside?

Crossing the room to sit on Patricia's desk, Y/N described the rarities. "Take comedy," she began. "I like the late shows as much as anyone else, or a funny movie once in a while. Beyond that?" A dismissive wave. "But I love Arthur's passion for it, learning from him, hearing his jokes. It's like when he puts on music I haven't listened to before."

"What's he like?" Patricia sipped her coffee, reclined in her leather chair.

"The classics."

"The Supremes? Elvis?"

"More like Frank Sinatra and Fred Astaire."

Patricia squinted. "How old did you say he was?"

"He's younger than all of us but his heart's antique."

"You really are in love."

Tucking her bottom lip, Y/N grinned until her cheeks smarted. "Yeah. Yeah, I am."

"Y/N, take my advice," Matt said, now in the doorway. "Men aren't like women."

Hand on hip, she caught Patricia's Here We Go gaze, then angled her own on Matt. "Is that so?"

"Women tend to talk too much. Men don't need all those discussions. We want to just...do." The man lumbered closer - the same man who groveled to his ex-wife every other week. He brought his palms together as if delivering a final argument, trying to convince a jury to render a guilty plea. "Let him do. What comes comes. You're a bright woman. It'll work out."

As poorly expressed as Matt's thesis was (and the behind the scenes it explained), her gut told her he'd gotten that last sentence right. After a moment, Y/N bobbed her chin in appreciation. He gave a dumb, pleased little wave and retreated to his office.

Patricia's unforgiving elbow jabbed her thigh. "Get back to your desk before he opens his mouth again."

~~~~~

Arthur itched to talk about it. Truly. Cross his heart, hope to die, needle in the eye and all that.

At the grocery store the other night, he'd felt brave enough. Strolling the aisles, filling their respective baskets, holding hands between picking products. Seltzer and marked down Christmas TV dinners for him, a popular brand of tea and World Tour Swanson's for her.

He'd repeated the opening in his head a hundred times, scrawled it in his journal a thousand more. In the shadow of a grand, football shaped display of potato chips, he'd watched her. (Was the amount of time he watched her when they were together creepy? He didn't want to be creepy. He wanted to be a man in love.) She'd studied a bag. He'd gripped his basket tighter.

"I wanted to ask you..." Arthur's breath ran out.

Y/N put the bag in her basket, next to a carton of eggs. "Yes?"

"Um." The bravery he'd been so confident of threatened to run out, too. He'd shrugged, forced himself to smile, his tongue in armed revolt against his brain. "How your pretzels were?"

She'd stared at him as if he'd lost his mind. Which of course he had. "How my pretzels were?"

"Yeah." He'd slid closer to hide his screw up, body language smoother than spoken. Act casual. "The ones you bought for New Year’s." He'd managed to name the day, a split hair's breadth from success! "The mustard kind?"

One slow blink. "Honey mustard. They were good. Did you want some?" She'd reached towards the display.

"No," he'd said, a bit too fast.

"All right."

Five weird seconds that stretched like five hours. Arthur prayed he'd turn invisible so he could flee. A hiccup, a conscious effort to constrict his throat, hold his breath against a laugh.

An easy arm had curled around the crook of his elbow, led them to the checkout. "I have some left. You're welcome to them," she'd said. His diaphragm had calmed to a quiet cough.

Perhaps he could broach the subject tonight. That was the plan, anyway, as he jaunted down the concrete stairs. In his hurry to get to Y/N, he'd forgotten his hat and mittens, an oversight sure to perturb her. The wintry mix of snow and rain turned the light waves of his hair to curls, his lips frigid as a Frigidaire. Shivering, he pulled his tan hood over his head, yanked the strings tight.

He could do this. He just had to put his mind to it. After all, if they hadn't exchanged keys it was still a hypothetical, which meant it was still safe.

Not that she wasn't a safe haven. She was the one who'd taught him what safe haven meant. But there was a lot to consider beyond eternal bliss.

She'd bought movie tickets last Tuesday, insisted on paying for dinner Thursday, offered an evening casserole and wine after she'd seen the receipt for his new insomnia medication. He'd cursed himself for leaving it on the counter and declined. Poverty was the usual and he was used to it. Now it pricked like a bushel of thorns.

A couple days ago, he'd met Dr. Ludlow, an appointment made after Christmas, after a long talk with Y/N. (Though she'd made no such hints, he suspected that committing to treatment was necessary for her to fully commit to him.) The introductory session had consisted of rehashing every diagnosis, histories he'd rather forget. Dr. Ludlow was nice and all, made him comfortable, appeared willing to listen. No hard candies but he could smoke to his heart's content. When he'd wanted to schedule another appointment, he'd pushed out a bashful request for some type of payment plan.

"The first few sessions are taken care of." She'd smiled at him like she was delivering good news. "That should take you through March, then we can go from there."

Hovering at the doctor's desk, he'd found himself unable to move. That act of generosity was an island's leap from free chicken parmesan. He was at once deeply moved - and deeply unsettled.

Was it possible to be both the Man of the House and a financial burden at once?

Maybe. Maybe not. Probably maybe not.

Probably maybe he should slam the brakes on this train of thought. Shaking those notions off, he knocked on Y/N's door.

"Where is your hat?" Wifely exasperation right on cue. Chilled cheeks burned crimson at the association. He kissed her full lips but she retreated, wincing. "You're freezing. We need to warm you up. You should take a-"

"Bath. I will." He'd showered that morning, but he wouldn't argue. It'd be hard to enjoy himself as a popsicle. Unzipping, unbuttoning, he started towards the bathroom, dripping across the carpet.

~~~~~

Laundry folded and put away, Arthur's clothes draped over the radiator (his socks and briefs had somehow stayed dry), Y/N busied herself with the Gotham Journal. Thomas Wayne's mayoral bid continued to stomp across the front page, another article reported Brezhnev's latest threats. An ad for canned diced tomatoes featured a recipe for Mediterranean stuffed peppers. She dog-eared that page for later.

At a quarter to eight, she folded the paper on her lap and looked towards the bathroom door. Light spilled beneath it, the sound of a couple soft splashes. There was no sign it would open soon, and she was growing eager. Ready to reclaim last week's courage, she set off to retrieve her bathrobe.

Just as she was about to knock, a muffled hum halted her hand. Low, baritone, a caress to the ear. She pressed her frame closer to the wood. Rasped syllables between bars, a pitch that stuck to the back of the throat at higher notes. Though the song was unknown to her, she guessed it was the kind of old romantic tune that'd made her gush to Patricia.

It was adorable, her boyfriend serenading himself in the tub, and she adored him for it. Her younger self had assumed passion would lose its wonder as she grayed and wrinkled. Yet, she found she wasn't much different from that girl back in Boonville. The love she had for Arthur felt as fresh as new beginnings.

When he spent the night, he usually let her sleep until her alarm. But there were times she'd wake to his face buried in the nape of her neck, his stubble rough between her shoulders. Arm tight at her waist, fingers splayed on her abdomen. On those mornings she couldn't bear to move. Perfect moments she wanted to live in forever.

A glow sparked within her, propelled her forward. She knocked but didn't wait for a reply. "You can use this, if you'd like," she said, indicating the robe, cutting through the muggy air. "It shouldn't be too snug. I bought a couple sizes too big." She laid it on the closed toilet and turned to face him.

A navy blue washcloth drifted through the water, a bar of Ivory soap floated on the surface. Arthur sat straight as a fence, penis and hands tucked firmly between his thighs, which flexed in an uneven rhythm.

She floundered for a moment. Had his mother walked in on him like this? In the middle of getting dressed or washing up, a grown man without privacy? Had she just been as inconsiderate as Penny?

Y/N's nose wrinkled. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt. I'll go put the kettle on."

A shake of the head told her not to worry. "No, it's all right." His pale green glance was earnest, flashed with a shimmer that might have been hope. A muscle twitched along his jaw, the corners of his lips folded inward. Brown waves tumbled forward, knotted from the wet cold.

She ventured a pace towards him. "Would you like me to wash your hair?" Not long ago, he'd mentioned he always cut it himself, hadn't ever had the salon experience.

Dark brows lifted as he processed the request. "You don't have to."

"I'd love to," she said, perching on the tub's rim. "It's my favorite part of getting my hair done. Nothing washes away a trying day quite like it."

Whenever she suggested touching him in a new way, it didn't take much convincing. Tonight was no different. He dunked under the water immediately. Rivulets sculpted cutting cheekbones, drops fell from the rounded tip of his nose.

Sleeves rolled to her elbows and a dollop of shampoo in her palm, she laced her fingers through not yet silky locks. A stubborn tangle caught her left thumbnail. She stood for better leverage, working through his chestnut mop, now dark as velvet winter skies. The lather thickened with each stroke.

"Does that feel good?" she asked.

Not unlike his earlier singing, he hummed. "Mmm."

Sleet pinged the nearby window. She raked her nails along his scalp. "When we took a bath at your place, you said you were thinking about the future." A safe a way to breach the conversation, a lovely memory for them both. The night he'd confessed he loved her.

"Yeah. One with you." He rested in the curved end of the tub. "I've been thinking about what you said. About living together."

Her pulse skipped into next week. "Does that mean you want to?"

"No. I mean- I dunno. I like the idea, but I- I don't have a lot of money. My apartment's expensive, Penny's stuff is everywhere, and...I haven't lived anywhere else. Your apartment's newer. And I know you hate the cigarette smell at mine."

That was a fact she couldn't deny. She hadn't complained, having no desire to hurt him. But given that she didn't allow smoking anywhere besides the fire escape, it wasn't hard to deduce. Kneading slowed to a languid massage. She cleared relief from her throat, relief their relationship wasn't the cause of his hesitation. "This one's about the same age, just remodeled. And your place is spacious compared to some of the apartments I've seen." Her mind flashed to Mrs. McPhee's, the kitchen, living, and dining rooms combined into one ten by ten coop.

The pad of her thumb followed his strong brow. "I've been meaning to ask you something." Her hand snuck past his shoulder, traced droplets on his pectoral, dipped beneath the water's surface. "Were you always this thin?"

He frowned, tensed beneath her touch. "I thought you liked it."

"I do, I do. It's just that you have a bit of a love handle. Righhht...here." A pinch to his squishy flank, tickles to his ribs.

Sudden giggles, laughter that sounded ten years younger. He splashed her with a flick of the wrist, streaks of lilac sweater darkening to violet. "I lost weight when I started my medication. My mother used to say-" he raised his voice an octave here "'-You need to eat. Look at how skinny you are.'" A roll of the eyes, his whole head. "I guess that doesn't matter anymore."

"It doesn't have to," Y/N said. Then she scoffed at herself, at the hypocrisy of confirming he could let go of the past when hers continued to bleed at the edges. Before he could assume the scoff was at him, she added, "Maybe living here would help with that." He made no response.

Bending closer, she gathered his hair at the nape of his neck, wrung out lather. Suds slipped down her forearms. Automatically, he relaxed into her, curls clinging to her fingertips. Conversation ceased. She was unaware of the nearness of her breasts to his face.

A whispered trail on the seam of her sweater. Along her abdomen, across her stomach, up, up, up. He cupped her breast, cradled her as if she was a mirage. Wetness seeped through the acrylic. Her motions halted. The humidity of the room thickened to a pleasant fog.

Arthur's Adam's apple bobbed, his gaze darted to hers. "I don't want sex."

Careful to keep shampoo out of his eyes, she smoothed stray strands from his forehead. "You can touch me whenever you want, wherever you want. With or without sex." She nudged the tip of his nose with hers. "I want you to touch me every day. That's how you'll get used to it."

Reservation melted into an easy smile, tinged with a bashful pride. Akin to a suitor recalling how well he'd done on a date. Moving to catch her chin, he admired the handprint on her shirt and stole a kiss.

Her toes curled anew. And in the corner of her eye, so did his.

~~~~~

After handing him a fresh towel, Y/N left to change. An oversized sweatshirt would do, a faded sage green. With its hem at her hips, she decided to forego pants in favor of pale pink middle-aged panties. A choice for candid familiarity.

As she poured honey mustard pretzels in a wooden bowl, filled the tea kettle with water, Arthur shuffled through the living room. He flipped through her meager record collection, about ten LPs in total. The console stereo remained shut.

"There's nothing romantic in here," he said.

"I have a feeling Al Green would disagree." She'd played Let's Stay Together often as of late, a soundtrack to dusting and dishes, lines and lyrics bringing Arthur to mind.

The radio sprang to life, the GCR nightly news hour. Buzzing, static, the squeal of an out of key jingle. Finally, he reached his goal. Warm strings, a plaintive timbre.

"What station is this?" she asked. Bumping into Sinatra the evening he'd come for dinner had been pure luck.

"GPR. They play oldies Tuesday and Thursday nights and Sunday mornings." He sidled up beside her, robe cinched tight at the waist, chest peeking out from the white terrycloth. Soft notes continued while they waited for the water to boil. Quiet, lovely companionship in this basic task.

When she filled the mugs, the collar of her sweatshirt fell down her shoulder. A moment, two, and he put his arm about her. His thumb ventured to her collarbone. Tapping, settling into a comfortable caress. She jutted her hip against him.

He gave her a squeeze. "When you were a little girl, what did you dream about? What future did you want?"

Both hands cupping her mug, she put her elbows on the counter. In truth, that was hard to conjure. Married at seventeen, college four months later, degree at twenty-two. Childhood dreams had remained distant since - well, since she was a little girl. Not that she regretted that history. It'd simply resulted in practicality instead of preoccupation.

And the prior decade of distress had done a pretty thorough job of grinding down whatever parts of her could still imagine in that way. Even with the medication she'd taken towards the end. She'd lived moment to moment, survived hour to hour for so long. Thinking of it reminded her of all she'd lost, when it should've reminded her of all she'd gained. It irked her, how small it made her feel, small enough to rival a camel going through the eye of a needle.

But Arthur wasn't aware of the rusty gears and cranks of her past. He deserved an answer.

"I wanted to grow up, but I wanted life to stay the same. Does that make sense?" She blew ripples across chamomile. "I had a good childhood. I was lucky. My parents were supportive and proud. My sister was my best friend, even when she annoyed the hell out of me. I wanted to keep those things, like a photograph that wouldn't fade. But I also wished for a career, to make a home with the man I loved. I didn't understand what that kind of love was, not yet. But I saw what my parents had and wanted my own happily ever after." A soreness threatened her vocal cords, for theirs had been cut short. She sipped it away. "What about you?"

The answer came quickly, as if he'd been waiting to be asked his whole life. "Meeting my dad." He dunked his cinnamon teabag, his strong brow weakening. "I always wondered what I did to make him leave."

Heat enveloped her neck. "You didn't do anything, Arthur. You didn't do anything. He's the one who missed out, not you." A rash response, one that wouldn't heal his wounds. But a salve she hoped would soothe - and what she believed.

He wound the teabag's string through the mug's handle. The corner of his mouth curved, a subtle nod of the head. The hand on her shoulder drew a line down her arm to entwine their fingers. Turning her towards him, he grasped her hip.

From the tender light in his eyes, it was plain where this was headed. And she hadn't had any wine to help her get over herself. Her palm pressed his sternum in a halfhearted attempt to save her dignity. "We've done this once."

Their clasped hands were now at shoulder height. "Not enough," he said.

"You haven't had a chance to see how bad I am at this."

"We just have to practice."

"But I can't hear when to step," she said, and shifted foot to foot.

"Didn't you enjoy it the first time?"

She weakened in his arms, her protestations dissolving in her throat. "I loved it."

"Then let me lead. You don't have to all the time." The warmth of his blinding smile echoed in his gentle instruction. Touch firm but tender, his fingers splayed on the small of her back. "If we live together, I'll want you to dance with me every day. That’s how you'll get used to it."

She chuckled, laid her head on his shoulder. The fresh scent of soap rolled off him. She nestled deeper for another whiff. On a sigh, she pressed a lingering kiss to his neck. "Make sure to hold me to that.”

~~~~~

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#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #arthur fleck x female reader #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

Haunted Heart

Summary: Mabel invites the Flecks to visit for the holidays. On Halloween, more than trick or treats await them.

Words: 5,606

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: In this oneshot (twoshot? 🤫), I wanted to revisit Y/N's family in Missouri, catch up on how Mabel and Ed are doing, and give Arthur a new way to celebrate the holidays. This Halloween story is a tad late, but I hope you all still enjoy it. 😊 Much gratitude to @jokerownsmysoul for beta-ing and @sweet-nothings04 for her kind support and encouragement. 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The notion had sprung from Mabel's gut, not her head. Flown out of her mouth like one of Jason's fastballs flying past home plate.

"Why don't you and Arthur come down for the holidays?"

The plea disguised as a question hung, waited. Tick-tocked in the air and her heart. A sitcom's muffled dialogue came from the other end of the phone line, canned laughter directed squarely at her. The tap of Y/N's fingernails on Bakelite. Once. Twice.

Silence pushed Mabel to continue the sales pitch of the year. "Two weeks would be enough time to do Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. We'd be happy to have you stay here, if you're ready to try that again. Not that before was your fault, I mean- That's not what I mean." Shut up, shut up, shut up!

The airy idea had taken on the sudden heaviness of urgency, paired with an awareness of how much she craved this, how much she had to make up for. Yeah, Y/N had forgiven her. But the wheels of self-forgiveness spun at two miles at hour. And though her sister wasn't one for drawn out heart to hearts, Mabel felt an acute need for amends.

It manifested at the oddest times. When Ashley had taken her first steps, and Mabel realized Y/N had witnessed their dad's last. Or when Jason had gone to the prom, and his date's baby blue dress had reminded Mabel that she'd missed Y/N's wedding. The Widow Brown shuffling through the produce section with her walker; catching Murray Franklin with Ed; card games on family nights, new since Ed's demotion. They induced the pang of not being there. Of not having been there.

The last two years they'd made real process. Weekly calls and surprise cards and quite a few I love yous. They continued to work their way back to each other.

Last summer, Mabel had downed a mint mojito in the airport bar, clung to Ed and the kids, and boarded a plane to the Great Wilds of Gotham, where Y/N and Arthur let them further into their lives. Shown them Dube & Ellis's office building, the city's zoo and botanical gardens, and Amusement Mile. They'd even made reservations at a fancy Italian joint called Bamonte's and caught a show at Pogo's.

At Gotham Beach, Y/N had taught Brian how to skip stones, and Ruthie had returned her magic coin to Arthur. Running down the shore, Ed held Ashley above him like an airplane, zoom zooming all the way. For the first time, Mabel had seen the ocean. Standing on the rocky beach, toes digging into broken shells and jagged pebbles, the water was endless. So vast it could have swallowed her up.

Starting, she'd stumbled back, feeling foolish for never being the type of girl to leave home.

She folded deeper into the den's easy chair, squished herself into the worn leather. "We just love you and would love to see you again."

A click of the tongue across the miles. "I don't see why not. It's one of Arthur's busier seasons, but he doesn't take enough time off, anyway. I'll talk with him. We'd love to see you, too."

Mabel rushed out a breath she definitely knew she was holding. "Really?"

"Yes!" Bright laughter that dimmed to an ahem. "I...can't make any promises about our parents or going to Sunset Hills. Please don't ask me to visit. If I can, I'll tell you. All right?"

Mabel's chest tightened. At least getting this out of the way would result in fewer eggshells. The curly phone cord wound between her knuckles. "All right. I hope to make the bed for you soon."

~~~~~

Arthur couldn't have agreed faster than if Y/N had asked him to marry her (which he would do again and again and again.) Spending the holidays in the countryside? With his nephews and nieces and in-laws? Even without snow, the celebration would be worthy of an Irving Berlin song, a postcard to paste in his journal.

And, after the tidal wave of their last visit, he'd get to see how Y/N would do.

When she'd mentioned the trip, there'd been none of the pursed lips, the fleeting fear, the cryptic conversation that'd made him wonder what she was hiding. Just a simple matter-of-factness that her family was worth having to make small talk with perfectly nice people she never wanted to see again. A weird notion, yeah, but within her realm of weird, the same realm that made her love Gotham and him.

On the flight down, he turned to a fresh page and jotted a title in the top margin: "Our Trip to Missorie."

Welcoming and warm, Mabel and Ed were as kind as Arthur remembered, an imprint on his heart. Before they had a chance to drop their suitcases, Ruthie and Brian rushed them for hugs, while Jason held back in the way happening teenagers do. Sitting on the play rug in the corner of the living room, Ashley waved and smiled. "Hi! Who you guys?" Hard to believe they'd fed and rocked her a blink of an eye ago.

With Halloween only two days away, they got right to work.

Having an entire porch to decorate, an honest-to-goodness front yard, tickled Arthur's mind, made it whir with creative flair. Not that he didn't love the small touches Y/N put together back home. Die-cut cardboard cutouts on the windows, a jack-o-lantern he lit and set outside the door. How her cat costume cradled her curves and that teasing tail.

Their celebrations were sweet and understated, wholeheartedly them. But compared to an apartment, the possibilities here were endless.

On the way to the supermarket, they'd stopped at a clapboard farmhouse that took the holiday as seriously as evening news. Spooky sounds echoed, an audio effects cassette on infinite loop, howls and screams that prompted a shiver even in the day. Plywoods gravestones - at least a dozen - loomed over coffins, from which rubber masked ghouls climbed. A hooded creature lurked behind a crooked tree, a scythe in its skeletal hand. A guestbook lay open on a music stand by a makeshift crypt.

Arthur declined to sign. Instead, he chose a friendly competition.

"Miller's has cornstalks for sale," Mabel said. She and Arthur were in the basement, digging through box after box of goodies. "We can get some this afternoon. Hay, too. But we'll want to decorate tomorrow - the squirrels'll tear it up, otherwise." She knelt by a plastic milk crate of props and lifted a rubber rat by its tail. "This'll look good on the stairs."

He blew dust from the ears of a blow mold horned owl. "I don't understand how you can love Halloween but Y/N doesn't."

A pause, a gulp loud enough to make him turn. "The kids help," Mabel began. "The first year Jason was supposed to go trick-or-treating, he had a fever of a hundred and two. The poor thing wore his Daffy Duck costume and watched cartoons. Arthur, look at this."

Scooting beside her, he studied the object in her hands. A pumpkin shaped doily, vines winding into curlicues at the edges. It'd ridden in directly from the fifties, akin to Y/N's needlepoint apron, the one her mother hadn't gotten to finish. Mabel's fingers curled as though holding a fragile treasure, stained-glass that'd been cloaked in dirt for too long.

When his gaze met hers, there was melancholy mixed with merry. "Do you wanna use it?" he asked, indicating it with his chin.

"Yeah." Thumbs caressed the seams once more. "Mom would hang it on the door after we carved pumpkins. Did Y/N tell you about that?"

"She doesn't talk a lot about the holidays." A grimace twisted the corner of Mabel's mouth. Leaning into one of the earliest lessons he'd learned, he sought to cheer her, raised a palm in a Hold On gesture. "She tells me more than she used to - about you and your mom and dad. But I think it's still hard. Please. Don't be upset with her."

"I'm not, not at all." Mabel said with an emphatic shake of her head. But she didn't meet his gaze. "What did you do last year?"

The tastes and sounds and sensations of that evening roared through his head and heart. He sought to keep his cheeks from turning crimson through sheer will. "Um. Worked on one of her cases and baked a cake." He cleared his throat twice. "She does like to catch B-Movies on TV in October."

Mabel chuckled. "That's an old tradition. One night she took me to see The Blob at the drive-in. She was always so refined and smart - I had no idea she had such bad taste."

"I don't like them, either. But I watch with her, try to plan something special, you know? Make it about us? There's a Grand Halloween Ball every year. At Wayne Hall. I'd love to take her there someday."

"But she'd have to get better at dancing."

A snort wrinkled his nose, shoulders raised in an agreeable shrug. "Well, loving her makes her easy to dance with. It's just it’s the one thing she's shy about."

"I love her, too." Mabel folded the doily into quarters, grabbed a steel support post, and pushed herself to her feet. "This should be enough to knock the neighbors dead. Help me lug all this upstairs."

~~~~~

"Mom, mom, mom, mom, mom!"

Brian rounded the bottom of the stairs. Careened into the kitchen. Skidded to a stop at the oval dining table, where Mabel, Y/N, and Arthur stood sorting candy. A plastic turtle shell, a repurposed sandbox cover, clattered to the floor. Frantic huffs and puffs that left Mabel wondering if she should grab a paper lunch bag and hold it to his mouth.

The boy pressed an orange strip of terrycloth to his forehead. "I can't tie it!" He pulled the ends past his ears for emphasis.

"Honey, slow down." It was just after breakfast, but the kids were determined to wear their costumes all day. She handed a quarter-filled paper treat bag to Arthur. Turned the boy around by the shoulders. "Where's dad?"

"In the bathroom. Ashley missed again."

Mabel rolled her neck from side to side. Though she adored the stork's little surprise, she'd assumed potty training would be behind her at forty. She'd double-wrap Ashley before sticking her in her pumpkin costume. "Put your dirty clothes in the hamper and I'll start the laundry." Mabel tied the terrycloth into a knot. "Did you find your pillowc-"

"Mommy!" Ruthie's plaintive cry from the downstairs bathroom. "I can't find my makeup!" An unsurprising development, given the last-minute switch from Strawberry Shortcake to Circus Ballerina.

Ensuring the headband wouldn't cut off circulation, Mabel stuck two fingers between it and the crown of Brian's head. "All set! Now get your clothes, then go help your sister."

"But my shell isn't on yet!" He pointed at the forlorn accessory.

"Brian, take a deep breath and count to five." Y/N crossed the linoleum to kneel next to the boy. She retrieved the fallen armor, instructed him to hold up both arms. Held his hands one by one to keep his elbows straight and slip it over his green sweatshirt. Once the shell was in place, she tightened the straps on his shoulders, tightened his belt to keep his plastic nunchaku in place.

"There you go," Y/N said, ruffling his caramel hair. "Now let's go find that makeup."

"I don't have green."

"Mommy!" Ruthie wobbled on the tightrope of excitement and panic.

A much-needed referee, Arthur stepped from behind the table. "I do. I have enough for Ruthie, too." He offered his hand to Brian, wiggled his fingers. When he took it, Arthur gave the quarter-filled bag to Y/N. "Save a treat for me," he said, flashing a grin as he was tugged out of the room.

Smiling softly, she studied the crinkly paper, where a scarecrow waved, clad in a top hat, plaid suit coat, and patched pants. "This looks like Arthur's Carnival costume."

On their vacation north, they'd gotten to meet the professional clown courtesy of a special street performance. Mabel opened a box of taffy. "Is that what he wears for Halloween?"

Y/N answered with a nod. "He works most of the day, usually one or two gigs." She dropped a few loose candy corns into the bag. "That reminds me. I've got to dig my cat costume out of my suitcase."

"Not this year, you don't." A skeptical glare shot Mabel's way. She cackled. "All will be revealed. Your hubby shared a smidge of what you two get up to. I'm glad you're making your own history."

"This is for him, mostly This is the one holiday he insisted on." Lower lip stuck between her teeth, Y/N looked in the direction Arthur had gone, gaze flitting back and forth. Then she leaned forward. "You heard what he said on Murray. I don't think he had many traditions growing up."

It was a truth Mabel had locked in her psyche, one that turned her throat to cotton.

"He likes looking through my photo album," Y/N continued. "We've gone through it probably six times. He asks about every single picture. What I got for Christmas that year, or what game we were playing, or what we had a picnic - he refuses to try egg salad sandwiches." Giggles dissolved to a tender hush. "Sometimes I think he wishes he was there. I don't blame him. His father wasn't around, Penny couldn't take care of or protect him.

"There's a file he took from Arkham - that's the state hospital in Gotham - about his mother and what happened to him. He doesn't know this, but I read everything in it, all of it. Part of me wishes I hadn't, but I had to know. What he went through, I-"

One long inhale, the rapid flutter of her lashes. "I know how hard it is to want to look back at happy times and not find them - even when they're there. We've put a lot behind us. It's nice to be able to appreciate Halloween again, to celebrate with someone who can enjoy it." Wincing, she shook her head. "I didn't mean how that sounded."

Lips pinched, Mabel put a bag in the white wicker treat basket. "You did and that's all right."

"I did love taking you house to house. Remember when you drove your bike into a pothole and scraped your knee?"

That hadn't hurt as badly as the scraping of Mabel's heart. After a moment, she pushed the weight of what she couldn't change off her back and went to her side. "You gave me a Clark bar while dad patched me up."

Y/N folded down the end of the treat bag to seal it shut. "Where are we taking the kids, anyway? The mall?"

"Absolutely not. It was a zoo last year." Stumbling through what must've been a thousand people, all for hard candies a grandmother would be ashamed to have in a lead glass dish on her coffee table. "The elementary school's having a fall carnival for the town. Jeff might be there. Would Arthur mind?"

"They met before and got along well enough to gossip about me." Y/N nestled her bag next to Mabel's, fingertips lingering at the seam.

"How have you been sleeping?" Mabel asked. It'd been a relief when Y/N had forgone a reservation at Four Acres, decided to give the old brick house another try. And while she still took morning walks, they were shorter and came only after a decent breakfast.

"Better. It's not easy to sleep in a new place - or an old place. But I'm getting there. This-" She gestured at the festive mess "- is helping me get there."

Mabel blinked back enough remorse to sling an arm about her shoulders and squeeze. "Good. I want this place to feel like home."

~~~~~

Clad as Carnival, Arthur waited on the living room sofa, pen in hand and notebook on his lap. "I think Y/N's halfing a good visit. She wants to talk with me more now and that's a relief. She isn't tossing and turning in bed - so I can get some sleep! Ruthie and Brian let me paint there faces, like I do at work sometimes. But it was nicer because their my neece and nephew (f?) and-"

"Ready or not, here we come!"

In the dining room doorway to the left, Mabel stood with Y/N, their arms firmly linked. Identical outfits forced a doubletake. Claw clips held back cinnamon hair, siren blue headbands sat snug above their ears. They wore Lycra leotards, capsleeve and V-neck, a fuchsia bright enough to blind. Spandex belts flattered rounded hips, what he figured was a family trait, and blue tights hugged their legs. Fuchsia leg warmers and white Saucony Jazz sneakers completed the ensembles.

Rising, Arthur rolled up his journal and stuck it in his waistband, flummoxed but eager gaze darting back and forth between them. "Who're you supposed to be?"

"The Doublemint Twins!" Mabel said, beaming with pride.

Y/N offered the half-smile of the Playing Along.

"Double the pleasure, double the fun! Look, I even have gum." Mabel retrieved a pack from her belt and doled out a stick each, which had gone soft from her body heat. Arthur hated mint gum; it tasted like trying to quit smoking. But, being in the spirit of things, he accepted, anyway. "Ed and I usually do couple's outfits, but he agreed to make an exception this year. No football player and cheerleader."

Y/N asked, "What's he doing, then?"

A guffaw boomed beyond the woman's shoulders. Slicked back salt and paper hair came into view, a face bathed in blotchy baby powder like a 1940s B-movie extra. A faded white short sleeve button-up was tucked into gray trousers, and a plastic cape was tied loosely at the neck. The cape came to his waist, as if he'd borrowed it from one of the kids.

Fingers curled into claws, he lurched forward and slurred through cheap plastic fangs. "I vant to suck your blood!" He grabbed Mabel by the bicep and bent to her neck.

Giggling, she swatted him away. "Now, now, not in front of the guests."

He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "I can't find Ashley's tights."

"They're in the bathroom." Mabel rubbed his hairline with her thumb, then grabbed his hand. "You need a widow's peak."

Once they were out of earshot, Y/N crossed her arms over her chest. "I think she forgot we're not actually twins. This is too tight for a school party."

When an outfit accentuated her breasts, she tended to avoid it. As Arthur saw it, though, she had nothing to be bashful about. She was lovely and his. Rouge highlighted the apples of her cheeks, violet eyeshadow flattered her brown eyes. Stepping forward, he pried her hand from her armpit.

A timid laugh bubbled up. She tucked her chin. "You're looking at me like you want to eat me up, but I feel more silly than sexy."

"You're always sexy. Especially when you're silly." He pressed a chalky kiss to her wrist, lingered until he felt her pulse. "What is it they say on GMC? When your bad movies are on? Something wicked is coming this way?"

"Not too wicked, I hope," she said, stealing beneath his plaid suitcoat to cup his sides. "At least, not yet." She bounced to her toes, plush, plum painted lips puckered towards his...

"Bye mom, bye dad!" Jason bellowed from the kitchen.

Mabel did not miss a beat. "Hold on a minute, young man!"

Arthur's mouth bumped Y/N's temple as she turned towards the commotion, then started off with an arched brow.

Ashley shoved under her arm like a sack of flour, Mabel marched out of the bathroom. "Where do you think you're going with that?" She pointed at the VCR sticking out from Jason's windbreaker.

"Mike's mom said she'd rent movies if I brought it over."

Felt pumpkin outfit at the ready, Ed jogged to Mabel's side. The toddler's stubby legs kicked wildly. Mabel passed Ashley to her husband and the interrogation continued, questions whipped off a well-memorized list. "Is this a party?"

"No."

"How many people will be there?"

"It's just some friends from school!"

"Will Mike's parents be home?"

"Yes. No. I dunno."

"Your curfew is ten-thirty."

Wincing, Jason leaned his head against the door. "But we won't even get through one movie by then!" He'd reached that age where being cool was of the utmost importance. While getting his driver's license had added a notch to the cool belt, he currently sounded much younger and uncooler than his sixteen years.

Hands on hips, Mabel let out a huff. "Eleven-thirty and not one minute later." Once the boy nodded, she pecked his cheek and opened the door. "I love you. No speeding."

Though agitation lurked in the air, Arthur couldn't help but find the scene heartwarming, akin to a family disagreement he'd seen on one of his old sitcoms. Something he wished he'd had. Maybe a compliment would soothe the situation.

"You're good at that," he said. "Being a mom, I mean."

Mabel shrugged. "He's growing up so fast - sixteen going on thirty. Let me grab this basket here-" she heaved the basket of treats from the table "-and we can be off."

~~~~~

Boonville Elementary and Sumner Middle shared a quad with Thomas Hart Benton High, with the high and middle schools on a hill on Cooper Street, and the elementary on the parallel Locust Road. Victory Field, a football field surrounded by bleachers and a quarter mile track, delineated where the big and little kids played. A baseball diamond was to the left and a playground sat to the right, which had a merry-go-round, a jungle gym, a metal slide that'd scald you when the sun was out, rickety seesaws, and two sets of swings.

The high school's gym bustled, as if the whole town had joined in celebration. Booths and tables lined the walls, manned by teachers, students, and volunteers from the community. A cakewalk with desserts and other small prizes stood in the center. A sign in an urgent font advertised a bake sale, featuring Ms. Chippy's Blue Ribbon popcorn balls.

Brian and Ruthie steered Ed and Mabel through the throng, to a haunted house hosted in the kindergarten classroom. Mabel shifted Ashley from one arm to the other, calling for them to wait up.

Y/N's face was a mask of unwelcome discomfort. Her hands folded firmly together, her Ready for Inane Conversation stance. It was foreign on her, ill-fitting. Arthur cocked his head, wondered allowed what was wrong.

Skeptical glances scanned the room. "The last time I was here was my high school reunion ten years ago. And I hated every minute of it." Before he could ask for more details, she took hold of his collar, rubbed the worn cotton between thumb and forefinger. The corner of her lips quirked, her crow's feet softened. "But with you here, it'll be worlds better. Should we bob for apples or play bean bag toss first?"

Delighted, he pressed his nose to hers, marked her with a faint streak of white.

They ambled along, Arthur adjusting his wig and tiny hat. Local dentist. Dr. Young manned a completely abandoned station; the red delicious apples and toothbrushes on offer belied why. A tween girl wrapped in swirled, turquoise scarfs and gaudy rings on her fingers, ran Madame Trudy's Palm Reading. Arthur dropped a dollar in the donation jar and held out his left hand.

"You're married," Madame Trudy said with the enthusiasm of the voluntold. A cheap trick, give his wedding ring and the woman at his side. But she was just a kid, and her next prediction made it all right. "You'll be married a long time."

A wizened old crone in a witch's hat and warted rubber nose waved them over. To his surprise, Y/N wore a warm look behind her makeup, the most genuinely welcoming he'd seen when meeting a stranger from her past.

"This girl was one of my best students," Mrs. Spencer said, patting Y/N's hand. Mrs. Spencer was a forty-year veteran of the English department and prided herself on never forgetting a face. "She sometimes got her is and es mixed up, but she always asked the right questions."

Arthur palmed the small of Y/N's back. "That makes sense. She's my best wife."

"I thought I was your only wife," she said, elbow nudging his ribs.

"Come around here," Mrs. Spencer instructed. The pat of Y/N's hand became a firm grasp as the teacher guided her former student to her side of the table. "Tell me all about what you've been doing and the big, wide world you moved to."

~~~~~

Sipping spiced cider by the snack table, Mabel and Ed made pleasant chit chat with Brian's teacher, Mr. Webb. The boy had a knack for natural sciences, and Mr. Webb had a plan for leaf graphing to help him earn his Nature merit badge. Mabel was grateful the boy had a mentor, if not a pal.

In some ways, Brian was younger than his years. Smart and good at school, but he tended to struggle with his peers, miss the social cues that'd turn classmates into friends. Luckily, he'd been enrolled in special classes in the resource room twice a week and good progress was on its way.

Just then, a woman in a sock hop costume came to the table, a woman that Mabel had the misfortune of recognizing. Replete in poodle skirt and saddle shoes, she poured herself an orange drink from a large, yellow cooler.

The prim and proper nurse was a longtimer at the hospital, had won local recognition for excellent patient care. But her method of handling family members should've resulted in a rusty iron medal.

Whenever their dad had been admitted to the hospital, the nurse had admonished Y/N with accusations. That he'd had pneumonia because she'd fed him too quickly. Or that she hadn't turned him enough in bed. Or that he wouldn't have had a UTI, if she'd washed her hands before changing his catheter. How could she not know the basics when her father was a doctor? All as if Y/N were a reckless child, with no acknowledgment of the dreams she'd abandoned to care for him. A realization Mabel had been too immature to recognize.

Though seven years had passed, the disapproval the nurse had displayed - and Mabel's own inaction against it - made her blood slow to sludge. She crumpled her paper cup, steeled herself against recollections that barged in like wanted guests.

"Mom, look!" Ruthie ran to Mabel's side, ballet flats smack, smack, smacking the linoleum floor. "I won it in the cakewalk!" she said, shoving a book at her.

Mabel took the slim paperback, studied the cover of vibrant purple and velvet black, where two tiny ghosts stood before a crumbling castle. The full moon shone through jagged clouds, illuminating a path to a splintered door. Bats and spiders snickered, waiting to greet them with screeches and snares. With a soft sound, she flipped the book to read the synopsis.

Searching for the best treats, sisters Anne and Amelia stumble into a haunted castle. Through phantom wails and creaky hallways, only by facing their fears together will they be able to break free!

Water stung her eyes, lips parted then pursed. She was stricken. Once again the silly girl at the edge of the ocean, taken aback and barely able to breathe. Sisters who were freed by facing their fears together...

"Uncle Arthur can read it to me tonight!" Ruthie said, oblivious to her mother's sudden turmoil.

Mabel wouldn't have had it any other way. Bending to return the book, she offered a tight smile. "That's my girl." She reached into her bra, dug out a five-dollar bill. "I'll be back in just a little bit. Go get something for you and Brian at the bake sale." The girl ran off, darting towards dreams of sweets.

~~~~~

Sodium vapor lights cast shadows across the playground, long, spindly fingers bent at unnatural angles. Leaves rustled in the light breeze, warm but with a nip at the back end. Through hopscotch and four square courts, Mabel hurried across the pavement, steps quickening towards the swings tucked into the furthest corner.

She sat on a worn rubber seat, knees pulled in tight, hands rubbing her upper arms. The earthy smell of wood chips, normally a familiar comfort, failed to reassure. No moon shone tonight. A new moon. If only that wasn't the only thing that was new.

This town was supposed to be familiar and friendly and safe. But while she'd gotten all the safe, it seemed as though Y/N had gotten all the thorns. Even when her divorce had been behind her, the inquires about it hadn't. She'd mentioned it more than once over beers at the Silver Spur. Innuendo in the guise of polite curiosity. The way friends they'd made as a married couple had fallen away.

And when their dad had gotten sick, there'd been enough questions put to Y/N to fill the entire room. How their father was doing, what he needed, but not how she was doing or what she needed. - something Mabel herself had been guilty of far too often. Y/N's eyes glassing over as she tucked her hair behind her ear, always answering the same.

For her, Boonville had been a blackhole. Cold and dark and lonelier than ever.

A silhouette slid into Mabel's peripheral vision, stood a few yards away. Before whoever it was could get closer, she swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand.

The shadow stepped forward. Teased hair, spandexed hips, headband that nearly glowed in the dark...

"Shit." Mabel cleared her throat, consciously eased her voice like the best Beauty Boutique sales representative. "I'll only be a minute, Y/N." She swiped a stray tear from her cheek. "Are the kids all right?"

"Ed's getting Ashley a snack. Arthur's taking the others classroom to classroom to trick-or-treat. I don't think I've ever seen him smile so wide," Y/N said, sitting on the swing beside her. "When I told him I didn't want children, him being fine with it was a relief. But I love seeing him be an uncle. He wouldn't have had that chance - I wouldn't have had that chance - without you."

Mabel winced against her gratitude, the last thing she wanted.

Y/N pulled a long blade of grass from the A-frame's post. Rubbed away the wispy seeds. "You and I haven't talked about the hard stuff. Not yet. It's easier with Arthur because he wasn't there."

"I wasn't either," Mabel said. With all her missing in action, she should've been a regular confidant.

"You're here now and that's what's important to me."

A soft sniffle forced itself out of Mabel's nose. She'd invited Y/N here to atone, to recapture the holiday magic they'd loved as little girls and lost for too long. And here she was being comforted instead. God, how it irked her. She didn't want to burden Y/N, didn't want to wallow. She'd work it out with Ed, her silo of support.

Mabel decided to share a simple truth. "You know, after you got married and moved out, mom let me light the jack-o-lantern. But I'd rather have had you."

Sidling her swing closer, Y/N put her hand on her knee. "There've been enough ghosts between us, Mabel."

A wave of protectiveness swept through Mabel, the same she'd felt when given Jason the third degree. "Let's face them together," she said, ready to start right away. She kissed Y/N's cheek and sprung from the swing. "Now hold on tight."

~~~~~

"Watch your step," said Arthur, a kid on each hand. While Ed and Ashley napped in the school nurse's office, Arthur navigated the downward slope to Victory Field. In clown shoes, that was a feat.

Ruthie and Brian had gotten a haul to be proud of, their pillowcases filled to the brim. Arthur's own pockets were bursting with his favorite butterscotch candies and Palmer chocolate flavored crispy wavers. Y/N insisted the latter were terrible, and he had to admit the chocolates she'd introduced him to were less sickly sweet. But Palmer's distinct plastic taste was tied to the warmth of a kind schoolteacher who'd taken a boy without a costume under her wing.

Girlish laughter rang out in the distance. He blinked in the semi-darkness, guided the kids towards the cheerful sound.

Halfway down the hill, he halted. Unbridled joy stretched his lips, a smile to rival Carnival's.

Crouching behind Y/N, Mabel pushed her on the swing, letting loose an exaggerated groan. Heavy duty chains squeaked in their pendulums with each back and forth. Y/N's legs pumped harder and harder, toes reaching for the stars as if she was ready to fly. "Higher!" she cried, then laughed again. "Higher!"

Brian dumped his sack on the ground, spread out the booty in a big circle. He knelt to arrange the candy into neat rows, sorted by least favorite to most. Offering to trade three rolls of smarties for a Jolly Jack bar, Ruthie flopped down in her tutu and dug into a peanut butter cup.

Half-listening, Arthur sat cross-legged on the lawn, an eager audience to the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​​​​​ @ithinkimaperson​​​​​ @sweet-nothings04​​​​​ @stephieraptorr​​​​ @rommies​​​​​ @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​​​​​ @jokerownsmysoul​​​​​ @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics​​​​​ @iartsometimes​​​​​ @fleckficgirl

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x female reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

As a little Christmas gift 🎄 for myself, I commissioned @tally-kiza to draw the following scene from Ch. 4 of Stepping Stones:

One evening there was a live music program scheduled to air on WGCR, Slam Bradley’s farewell concert at the Gotham City Opera House. Bradley sang in that swanky style Arthur was fond of, the kind that encouraged heavy smoking and heavier necking. She snuck in her pocket radio and headphones, then failed at reading the Gotham Journal, distracted by his serene countenance as he lay his head in her lap, nodding to a tune only he could hear.

From their greying hair to deeper wrinkles, this is a wonderful glimpse into Arthur and Sarah's life seven years later! 💜 You made their visits in Arkham beautiful. Their faces carry the peace of certainty that love will lead them through difficult times.

The worn patches of his lost-and-found sweater are a great touch, as are the music notes by his ear. Her dress suit is perfect, a nod to how she must be racing from the office straight to the hospital. 🏃🏻‍♀️

The bench is perfect, exactly as described! The lively blooms and bushes behind them lend the drawing a vivid sense of hope.

As always, Cal did a great job. Your pen strokes perfectly capture the tenderness in this paragraph, the vulnerability that weaves its way through the whole story. I'll be forever grateful for this work. 🥰

#arthur fleck #joker 2019 #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 fanart #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

Making Motions

Summary: Months ago, Y/N shared an unexpected flight of fancy. Arthur decides to take it to heart.

Words: 3,652

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: @sweet-nothings04​ requested to see Arthur enact the fantasy mentioned in Ch. 3 of Stepping Stones. 👓 This is the result! Hope you all enjoy this story! Thanks for your support! 😊

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Three sandwiches in a row. Three lunches gobbled in a meeting. Three breaks skipped to pace the length of an oak conference table. But going up against NCB required more than a will to find a way, so Y/N took another bite of pastrami on wheat and settled on the windowsill.

Popular wisdom held that harassment was a worry solely for women. That they were never, ever perpetrators. Having come of age before she could get a loan on her own, experienced an era in which an employer had sought her ex-husband's permission to hire her, it'd been a hiccup for Y/N to get past that assumption.

But power had a way of begetting bad behavior, which in turn begat ever more power. And when Aaron Williams had stumbled into her office, embarrassment trembling his squared off fingers, she'd believed him.

Lana Miller, Gotham's Golden Girl, charmed the city on the six o'clock news. Bringing You the Truth! as the slogan went. Bleached teeth smile, gleaming grey gaze, a confident cadence that demanded trust.

She'd set her eyes on Mr. Williams a month after he'd signed his contract. Blocking his way as he'd try to exit the production control room, suggestive comments that'd escalated to the outright lewd. An offer to put in a good word with management if he'd visit after a broadcast. ("I hold a lot of sway with the boys upstairs.")

When a meeting had devolved into her nude on his desk, that grey gaze had turned steely. He'd kicked her out and filed a complaint.

A cardboard box shoved at his chest, an order to leave the premises by noon. That a handful of others had reported bullying hadn't mattered to The Top. Ratings were too high, too critical to hassle the on-air talent. A behind the scenes guy was expendable, a money saver even. Big deal if he blabbed about it over beer with buddies. That kind of tale had been blabbed before. Bye, bye trouble, hello to the next desperado trying to break into showbiz.

Wage theft, safety violations, employee misclassifications. Those were matters Dube, Ellis, & Flat handled on a regular basis. Filing a motion in court often got the Mom and Pops to behave. Publicized cases, though? Speculation aired on tabloid television? The firm wasn't used to that.

Williams v. National Center for Broadcasting had spent the past year collecting dust in the corner filing cabinet, waiting for its turn on the docket. NCB had stalled every way it could. Frivolous Motions to Dismiss, fillings for discovery every month as if a past due bill. A flurry of due process that felt like old money showing off. Then, low and behold, another case settled, and their matter was set for a two-week trial.

The delay had allowed Y/N plenty of investigation hours. He saids, She saids were hard to prove, and anything she could find to put a dent in the network's excuses was worth the effort.

She'd snuck into NCB studios as part of a tour group, just to refamiliarize herself with the place. When a copy editor discovered her in the stairwell, pretending to be a new employee had been the easiest solution. ("Oh, you must be Brenda's replacement! Personnel is one floor up.")

Mrs. Cunningham was a barrel of woman, a cigarette held perpetually in her left hand. Y/N asked about Spencer Fox, a counterfeit sounding name that kept appearing in NCB's filings. "He's an old friend," she'd claimed. "I wouldn't mind getting back in touch."

The older woman shook her head. "He moved to California nine months ago, pilots and renewals. Damned if I know when he'll be back."

At that dismissive declaration, Y/N had to shove her hands under her thighs to hide her excitement. Fox had sent in an affidavit, stating he'd witnessed no harassment during the period in question. Now she could testify that was meaningless. Mistreatment is easy to miss from three thousand miles away.

Turning to sift through manila folders, Mrs. Cunningham tapped ash into a pink ashtray, florals printed in the glass. "What did you say your name was? Treble? Your paperwork isn't here." She'd offered a pained expression. "You look more fun than Brenda. God, I hope you are. She had bitch stitched in her seams."

Y/N wished circumstances would have allowed her to get to know this woman better. As a thank you for her trouble, she'd sprung for two vending machine coffees, shaken her hand, and slipped through the nearest emergency exit.

"I'm not even that good looking," Mr. Williams said, fingers trembling again. He flexed his knuckles, left knee bouncing like a snare drum. Mannerisms that held a touch of Arthur. "I don't know why she picked me."

Placing her sandwich on a napkin, she took a coffee carafe from the center of the table to refill his cup. "Her actions have nothing to do with you and everything to do with a lack of consequences. But we're going to change that, aren't we?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "I guess so."

"Good. Now let's review court etiquette and your testimony again."

She covered the basics. Stand when the judge enters and leaves, always address him as Your Honor, don't chew gum during the proceeding. When on the stand, pause before answering. Make sure you understand the question being asked. Be clear and concise.

"Don't guess, either," she continued. "It's fine not to recall everything, even expected. Remember you're under oath. An 'I don't know' is better than speculation." She'd seen too many people twist themselves into Slinkys trying to say the right thing, to justify themselves. "And don't volunteer information. If you get nervous, focus on our team. We're here for you." She popped the last bit of crust between her lips, wiped her fingers, and grabbed her binder.

The lines between her brows deepened. Fingers paged through the documents faster and faster. She regarded Mr. Williams over the top of the binder. "Let's take five minutes." Then she rose and jogged to her office. The file had to be there...

Just as she strode in, her phone rang. One hand sorting already sorted stacks, she set it to speaker. "Dube, Ellis, & Flat, this is Y/N."

"Hey, it's Arthur." Her heart leapt. She grabbed the receiver to listen closer. "I was wondering if we could meet for lunch? I'm kinda in the mood for a Reuben. They're on special today." Patricia had gotten him hooked on the combo of sauerkraut and corned beef.

Y/N's heart sank back to her ribs, a pang starting below her left breast. A glance through half-glass walls. Her colleagues were gathering materials for this afternoon's meeting with expert witnesses. She'd be expected post-haste.

"I'd love to but we're so busy here," she said. Then added, a tad defensively, "You've seen the news coverage."

"Oh." The solitary syllable came out low and slow.

She closed her eyes. She hated disappointing him. As of late, she'd found herself doing so too often. "I promise to be home on time tonight. I'll make it up to you-"

"There's nothing to make up."

"-when all this bullshit is over. Tell you what. I'll save you my coleslaw."

"No, you need to eat."

"Y/N!" Her name bellowed across the room like an air horn. Not scolding but sure to get her attention.

A pause. "You better go," Arthur said.

She raised her hand in a One Minute gesture. She wasn't about to cut this goodbye short. "Thank you for understanding. I don't take it for granted."

"Yeah. See you tonight."

"You will," she affirmed. "You will."

~~~~~

The cordless handset clicked in the cradle. A lean hip hutted against the counter, a cutting line against bone. Arthur pressed his head to the light blue cabinet door. He drew in one long breath.

He'd meant what he'd said. There was nothing to apologize for, there was nothing to forgive. He'd read the headlines, heard the lowlights on GCR, skimmed editorials in the paper. NCB was continuing its age-old tradition of shitting on the little guy.

And he knew what was at stake for Y/N. Challenging those who abused their advantage was important to her, had been since they'd met. Christ, it was how they'd met. He couldn't be prouder of her for believing in something, for having convictions strong enough to take it on. Yet, tendrils of dissatisfaction spread across his chest, a vise he couldn't loosen no matter how much he longed to. An annoyance as much as it was truth.

She'd helped him. Plenty. Taking messages from clients, ensuring his gigs were on the kitchen calendar so they could plan around them. On evenings he was home late, dinner was ready and on the table. She rubbed his lower back if it ached, massaged the stubborn knots that tended to swell by his misshapen shoulder. (He was over forty now; his body liked to remind him.) She listened when needed, left him alone when requested.

A couple Tuesdays ago, he'd dropped in his chair, palms flat on his desk. A sinking slowness had snuck into his schedule, leaving him bereft, feeling unwanted. As if he should do more but with no clear vision of what. He'd worried the seam of his legal pad, curled torn strips of yellow paper with his thumb. "I don't know how much longer I can do this."

Clad in mauve tunic and black leggings, Y/N had knelt beside him. Offered a tender look with love as its foundation, gentle debate twinkling her pupils. "Do it until it stops making you happy," she'd said, ruffling his oily hair. He'd leaned into that touch like she was water and his ruminations flames to be doused. "But even then," she'd continued. "Don't quit. Think of it as taking a break. That way you can make sure you want to live without it."

He'd taken her advice, kept his calendar clear. A choice rather than circumstance. So far, it'd been a good decision, one that allowed him to write more jokes, make more observations, work on his timing, work on himself. Already, the itch to return to Carnival had started in his inner wrist, traversed his lanky arm. Led to an impromptu dance in the living room, when he hadn't moved to a beat in days.

She was a resilient woman, wore an exterior as tough as bull hide. But he saw through all that. Deepened wrinkles framed her mouth, flattened cheeks, eyelids that drooped well before bedtime.

Y/N had restarted his pulse. There had to be a way for him to do the same.

Heaving a sigh, he tapped a Stutton into his palm. Grabbed his lighter from the counter and headed for the fire escape.

Just as he was about to light up (a few seconds too early, he'd crack the window, she'd never know), a folder on the coffee table forced a doubletake. Egg timer set, limiting herself to half an hour, she'd worked on a binder last night. He'd brought her a coffee, kissed the top of her head, skimmed the top notes in her loopy script.

Arthur's lips pinched. From the beginning of their courtship, she'd stressed that she'd tell him what she could, but privacy laws and her own code of ethics prevented her from sharing a whole hell of a lot. But this was their coffee table in their living room in their apartment. Obviously, the folder had been forgotten. If he were to steal a peek, who would know? Maybe it held the key to giving her a hand.

That convenient line of thought drove him to pluck it from the table and flip it open.

Green bar printer sheets, two columns of questions in dot matrix font. LIKELY and HYPOTHETICALS in all caps. Squinting, he held the pages a foot away. How many incidents were there? Did you report them to anyone? Can you describe your relationship with...

A sudden image came to him, a spark of awareness. A flight of fancy imparted in a hospital garden, sitting side by side on a concrete bench. Cool breeze on raw, goosepimpled skin. Whiffs of strawberries and musk.

Yes. Yes, that would work!

He raced to the bedroom closet, nearly stumbling in his haste. A suitable shirt, striped tie, brown trousers, freshly polished Oxfords. Only a couple more props were necessary. A bit of research at the video store, the jotting of his own questions.

From interviews on the highest rated shows to dating the prettiest girl in the world, fantasy was one of Arthur's longstanding habits. Although the weaves of his dreams had changed - less dire, more aspire - his mind still titled towards the land of make believe. He had no doubt he could pull this off.

Eager as a gumshoe, he patted his wallet, tossed on his jacket, and flew out the door.

~~~~~

Though the temperature hovered around fifty, patches of sweat darkened the armpits of Y/N's bow tie blouse. The breakneck pace of the day had overheated her, ponderings of all tomorrow would bring. And where the hell that file could have disappeared to.

Due to electrical work, she had to exit the subway at Ditmas Avenue. Five stops early. She skipped the offered buses to walk the rest of the way to 4A. That always helped her sort her thoughts, decompress. Put her mind in Pay Attention to Home mode rather than lingering on a missed comma in an affidavit.

Besides, she adored her adopted hometown, the aura of the city, the souls of its people. The street musician blasting a trumpet on the corner, the homeless woman wrapped in a blanket who asked for the time, the guy in a beanie selling bootleg VHS tapes, laid out on a ragged blanket. Y/N loved them all. And, if she was lucky, walks led to unexpected joys. Like the stroll from Burnley that'd led to a certain greasy donut shop in Otisburg.

A sort of silliness accompanied her, the kind only fatigue can bring. Silly as best experienced with Arthur. She'd stopped at Ed's Grocery for a surprise dinner of breaded pollack fillets with white rice and ketchup - a take on a fish stick dish he'd often made as a teenager - and a lone flower, the apology he'd said wasn't needed.

Coat hung on its hook, kitten heels kicked off, court bag dropped to the floor, she moved to put the fish in the fridge. Brown Eyed Susan in hand, she aimed for the living room to find her husband, seize the kiss she'd craved since his call.

She stood stockstill in the entrance. Fingers curled about the stem. Her lips gaped.

Buttressed on the wall to her right, under the windows, sat the television and coffee table. To her left, the cream couch was now six inches in front of their console stereo in a parallel line. A yard from the bedroom door stood a lone dining chair, the remaining three had been arranged in random spots about the room. A sort of imitation of an audience. Or a gallery...

Was this what she thought it was?

Pulling at his belt loops, Arthur entered from the bathroom. With the sheer will of a gallon of hair gel, deep mocha locks had been forced into a side part. He wore a violet and gold striped tie, fixed neatly at his neck in a half Windsor knot. The pale yellow button-up was a shirt he donned far too rarely, his medium brown trousers the perfect fit for his narrow waist. Black suspenders gave him a look more 1940s than modern. A classic, classy man. It was a style that worked, one she loved on him and only him.

He nodded at her, mischief curving his lips. "I'd like to call Y/N Fleck to the stand?"

"Arthur..." Chuckling, she shook her head, crossing the carpet. She reached to embrace him, petals brushing his bicep. "What in the world?"

He caught her hands. His were warm and firm on her skin. "I wanna help. I rented 'Adam's Rib.'"

"Isn't that about a murder trial?"

"Yeah, the husband and wife are lawyers. Anyway, I think I got the hang of it. I know you sometimes get nervous when you testify. I thought it'd be good to practice, like what I do for my shows."

Wetness stung the corners of her eyes. She blinked it away in haste. That he'd recall the fantasy she'd shared at Arkham, a goofy trifle she'd disclosed during his toughest of times, moved her deeply. He was a wave upon the sand of her soul.

Clearing her throat, she slipped the flower in his breast pocket and patted it twice. He angled his head to admire it, gave her hand another squeeze. "I better hurry before the court holds me in contempt," she said, and passed him to sit on the setoff dining chair, the presumed witness stand.

A piece of paper emerged from his sleeve, a magician's move. He unfurled it with a flick of the wrist. Her brows shot up and held. "Where did you find that?" she asked, incredulous. She'd recognize that dusty printer paper anywhere, the list she'd spent a better part of the afternoon scouring for.

"The coffee table." He plucked a pair of reading glasses from his trouser pocket. Espresso browline, rounded wire bottoms, a pair that looked as if it'd been selected from the display stand at Groves. When he put them on, the temple tip momentarily caught in his hair. 

She felt her insides melt. It was a glimpse of the future she longed for.

His gaze rose from the paper. "Raise your hand."

"Which one?" As innocent as an intern on her first day.

"Uh, the right," he said, indicating with his chin. He straightened his posture, feet squared with his shoulders. "Do you swear to tell the truth?"

"I swear to tell you anything."

A laugh caught behind his teeth, green eyes sparkling. "What's your name?"

"Y/N Fleck." She spelled it for good measure. A third of court transcribers left off the h.

"And what's your job? Have you had it for long?"

"I'm a senior paralegal at Dube, Ellis, & Flat. I've held that position for just under a year. I started there as a paralegal in 1982 - before the Flat. Prior to that, I worked in firms both in Gotham and Missouri."

"I see. Do you think you're a good boss, Ms. Fleck?"

"Misses, actually." At the correction, pleased pink stained his cheekbones. She crossed her legs at the knee. "And I'm no one's boss, but I am good at what I do."

"What did your client say happened?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to object to that question." She tapped her chin in mock suspicion. "It's dangerously close to hearsay."

"What does that mean?"

"That you'll have to ask the complainant directly, not me."

"Okay, well..." Eyes narrowing, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "How did you prepare for trial?"

Flirty and fun was what she wanted to be, but reciting it all, even the compact version she offered, exhausted her all over again. "I reviewed the filings submitted by both parties. I assisted in preparing the complainant and expert witnesses to testify. I snuck into NCB Studios - an old habit I developed awhile back. And I put on many, many pots of coffee."

"That sounds like a lot. Gotham is lucky to have you." A tender look that said and so am I.

"It has been. A little too much." She let out a weary sigh, everything at risk an abrupt weight on her shoulders. All she'd wanted tonight was escape and laughter and him, but now... She folded her hands together in her lap to maintain her composure.

Lowering the list, he ventured a step closer. Earnestness softened the lines of his face. His head dipped down and towards her. "How are you feeling about next week?"

Suddenly, she was the case he'd decided to investigate. She shifted in her seat. "That depends. Are you retained by the plaintiff or the defendant?"

"I'm on your side," he said, kind as a pat on the back.

Fresh perspiration stained her blouse. Five seconds of pondering before she dropped the brave face. "A little scared, to be honest. I'm glad the judge decided to keep the proceedings private - we don't need a circus in there - but I'm still going to angle for the back door. NCB has so much money, and so much of the public is behind Lana Miller. I just want our client to get what he deserves. And for NCB to pay for protecting the wrong people.” She smoothed the pleats of her skirt, bottom lip planted firmly between teeth. “I've worked hard on this. We all have. I need it to be worth it."

"It will be." He knelt on one knee before her, his breath warm on her chin. He plucked the flower from his pocket, took her fidgeting fingers, and placed the bloom in her palm. "Is there anything else you wanna tell the court?"

A gulp cleared the breath locked in her throat. "Just two items. You're an ace lawyer, Attorney Fleck. If you're ever looking, you should apply to my firm."

"And what's the other?"

On a grin, Y/N cupped his cheeks. "You forgot to ask if you could approach the witness." Then she kissed him. "I love you."

He caught her by the collar. "Kiss me again."

She did. Sweet but sure, the testimony of her whole heart. Her forehead bumped his glasses, his nose collided with hers. When they broke apart for air, she stood and took his hand. "I'd like to submit a Motion to Dismiss. It's time for us."

Arthur's thumb traced hers, his feet already guiding them to the kitchen. "No objection, Mrs. Fleck."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​​​​​​ @ithinkimaperson​​​​​​ @sweet-nothings04​​​​​​ @stephieraptorr​​​​ @rommies​​​​​​ @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1​​​​​​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​​​​​​ @jokerownsmysoul​​​​​​ @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics​​​​​​ @iartsometimes​​​​​​ @fleckficgirl​

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #arthur fleck x female reader #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

For my upcoming birthday 👵🏻, I asked @tally-kiza​ if they'd be willing to accept a commission, with them picking the scene. Cal accepted the request and this is the beautiful result!

They chose this paragraph from Ch. 18 of Watch What Happens: 'He embraced her tightly, bringing her against his chest, and she closed her eyes. “Good,” he breathed next to her ear. She nuzzled at his shoulder when he pressed a soft kiss to her hairline, then laid his cheek against her head. “Good.”’

The hint of sunrise painting the sky is great, the shades of yellow and purple the perfect blend. And I love cameos of the "balcony." 😂 There's a serenity in Arthur's and Sarah's expressions, a subtle happiness that's new and hopeful. The shadows slanted across his eyes, his crow's feet illustrate all he's gone through to get to this moment. Sarah looks wonderful, too, from her hair to her bathrobe, her soft smile. You always get the details right! 😍

Cal's style is warm and invites the viewer into the atmosphere their magic creates. They are also incredibly kind and a pleasure to work with. I'd recommend their commissions to anyone. Here's a link to their commissions page!

Thank you again! 💜

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck x ofc #joker 2019 #joker 2019 fanart #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

This comic by Cal is super sweet and oh so nice! 😍 @tally-kiza was kind enough to take a commission of this scene from Ch. 11 of Watch What Happens:

He rested on top her, laying his head on the pillow next to hers, facing her cheek. For one moment, everything was perfect and he was able to forget how broken he was. He brought his forehead to her temple and nuzzled at her face. The hand stroking up and down his back, the fingers combing through his hair, reminded him this wasn’t one of his fantasies. He smiled. Absentmindedly, he caressed her hip and closed his eyes.

Romanticism resides in each pen stroke, a gentle warmth flows through every panel. There's a lovely sense of motion in Arthur and Sarah's hands. I love how content they look, and how - with Arthur's wide-eyed gaze in the fifth panel - that contentment becomes a whisper of vulnerability. 💜

But her dialogue puts a stop to that! 😂 She breaks the tension, prompts a laugh that confirms he's safe. The last panel makes my heart fuzzy. Though it's only their first night together, their smiles say they'll love each other for the rest of their lives. 🥰

This project was more involved than expected, and I'm very grateful to Cal for taking the time to get it right. I absolutely love their style. They are also wonderful to work with. If you are interested in a possible commission, here's a link to their info page! 😃

#arthur fleck #joker 2019 #joker 2019 fanart #arthur fleck x ofc #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

Tiny Sparks

Summary: On a beautiful night in Gotham, Arthur and Y/N enjoy a long awaited date.

Words: 3,441

Warnings: Swearing

A/N: @sweet-nothings04 requested a story that covered the date night mentioned in Ch. 5 of Way Back Home. Never had I thought that writing something relatively simple would be such a challenge! 😂 Thank you so much for the request! I hope you all enjoy. 😊 Much appreciation to @forever-fleck​ for allowing me to use one of her lovely edits for the intro-pic.

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

The refrigerator's glow beckoned like a distant star.

A salad packed for Y/N's lunch tomorrow. One inch of Five Alive orange juice in a plastic pitcher. An open can of Heinz baked beans sealed with plastic wrap. No, no, no. He scanned the door. Universal Foods ketchup, poppy seed dressing, mustard that dated back to 1982...

"Ah ha." Arthur ripped the jar of green olives from the shelf, twisted the lid with the urgency of a man opening a bottle of nitroglycerin. He shoved a spoon into the jar, shoved it in his mouth. The night out would delay dinner by three hours. By quarter past seven, his stomach had gotten loud enough to be picked up by a microphone.

Tummy tided over, he went to the bedroom to finish getting dressed. Though summer, a cold front had rolled in, settled over the city since Tuesday, a refreshing sixty-two degrees. He slid a short-sleeve dress shirt up his arms. Slipped a navy sweater off a wooden hanger, the cardigan with red, yellow, and pink stripes along the placket. A sheer knit out of one of Mabel's catalogs, perfect for layering, according to his sister-in-law. And the splashes of color fit the image he wanted to present tonight.

This would be his first performance since Y/N's and his return from Missouri. He'd written and rewritten, practiced his stance and body language, studied his facial expressions and showbiz grin. Done everything he could to make his material work. Whether it was confidence that spiraled upward or the urgent need to get onstage, he couldn't tell. But he had an inkling it'd all go swimmingly. Would've bet his last dollar on it.

As he folded back the sweater's cuffs, Y/N breezed through the doorway. She swooped to snag a pair of sandals from the closet floor and sat in the corner chair.

"Don't forget to tuck in your shirt," she said. Ankle crossed over knee, she secured a beige strap around her heel.

His movements slowed while he observed her. Since coming home, their emotional connection had deepened to a depth that rivaled the Mariana Trench. She'd seemed to strike an accord, both with him and herself. Revealed an openness she'd hidden behind a disarming smile whenever dodging the rare inquiry about her former life.

Now when she shared recollections, her face brightened more than it darkened. They browsed her photo album a couple times a week, getting through a few pages here and there. Some days only one. There were moments she'd cut herself off, maintain the border she'd built within her heart to banish the bad.

"Old habits are hard to break," she'd say, front teeth shoved into bottom lip, the pressure turning it waxy. But more and more, she pushed forward. Gave space and voice to her experiences. Interlinked their pasts and paths, the roads crisscrossing between them.

In therapy, he'd talked about their trip, what Y/N had told him. Disclosed what was sufficient for Dr. Ludlow to get the drift. "It's hard for Y/N," he said. "I wanna be there for her. I don't want her to be sad anymore." Fourteen years of sadness had been enough.

"I think it's wonderful you want to help her. That many years of caregiving takes a toll. But she loved her father deeply, and sadness is a typical reaction to those types experiences. Let me ask you: if something happened to Y/N, what would your response be?"

His heart became a cannonball that plummeted to his stomach. "I'd die."

"No," Dr. Ludlow said, uncrossing her legs. "You would not die. You'd come to my office, and we'd work through it together. My point - we come back to this a lot - is that no emotion is negative. It's what you do with your feelings that matters. Sadness isn't a bad feeling. Unpleasant, yes, but necessary. It's a wave we all ride, just like happiness or anger. Let her ride those waves and be her lifejacket when she needs it. You'll know. Trust yourself to know."

He'd followed that guidance to the letter. The other night, they'd gone to bed at the usual hour, lain in the mottled blackness of their room. Soft snoring was the usual lullaby that sung him to sleep, but her repeated sighs continued well past midnight. He'd turned to find her on stomach, forearms shoved beneath her pillow. He'd pressed a kiss to the velvety valley between her shoulders. Placed a protective palm on her side.

She'd rolled onto her back. Spoke with a smile and wet eyes. "You give me a lot of strength by letting me be weak."

The inclination to argue had twisted his tongue. He'd gnawed the tip to stop himself. There was no way he'd say what he wanted at half-past lights out, anyway. Plus, he understood what she meant. Weakness was a hard-won refuge, third nature and allowed only with him. Still. During the decades they'd spend together, her characterization would be one they'd never agree on. It went right on the list alongside the greatness of Gotham and the entertainment value of Milton Berle.

Adjusting her champagne dress's petal sleeves, she swished past him to pluck gold earrings from her jewelry box and stepped to the vanity on the opposite side of the bed. She stuck a post through her left earlobe and screwed on the backing. "Mabel wants a tape of your set."

His great inkling suddenly shrunk to a pinpoint. "Why?" Recordings and he had a sordid history.

"She's dying to hear your material. That's a direct quote."

"Well... Would she accept a picture? I can write a joke on the back."

"How about this. I'll bring my recorder, and if you're happy with your performance, we'll send a copy. A lot of comedians record their sets."

"Oh yeah? A lot of comedians who? How do you know?"

"I've been to a show or two by now." She lined her eyes in the usual sable. "It might be good to hear the audience's reactions without the pressure of being on stage. What worked and what didn't."

"But that's why I have you," he said. When she smoothed a thin layer of silky rose shadow on her eyelids, he slinked up behind her. Traced a line down her bare arm and murmured in her ear. "You don't need all that."

"Uh huh. You don't say that when I'm wearing lace." The applicator dabbed his nose, leaving a pale circle in its wake.

Chuckling, he wiped the powder into his sleeve. "Okay. We can tape it. I think I'll be all right. I practiced a lot."

"You'll be more than all right." She spun to wrap her arms about his waist. "Just trust yourself."

A familiar directive, an encouraging echo. Her chin rested on his shoulder, warm breath on his neck. Tender hands followed the curve of her back, the zippered seam of her dress. His wedding ring gleamed in the mirror's reflection. "I will," he promised.

~~~~~

When Arthur had told her he'd signed up for an open mic at a new joint, Y/N had assumed it'd be the usual smoky nightclub, the kind frequented by couples who ordered one too many drinks. She was overdressed for a casual dining restaurant. And what were these kids doing here at this time of night? She would've tucked her nephews and nieces in by eight on the dot.

The microphone stood in the corner, a lone figure lit by the same recessed, sixty-five-watt bulbs as the tables. Behind it was a man in a faded purple t-shirt and rainbow suspenders, telling jokes about the shapes of jars. The ukulele he strummed was missing a fourth string. It struck Y/N that he was the perfect lead-in for Arthur's newest material. Family friendly and a little left footed.

No spotlight was in sight, so Y/N claimed the nearest two-top to be Arthur's spotlight. She retrieved her cassette recorder from her purse, set it in the center of the table, and scanned the crowd.

A man with lush, brunette hair picked his nose. Studied what he'd found while the woman next to him rolled her eyes and cried Oh, Harold. He stuck the golden nugget in a handkerchief. A grandmother wiped spaghetti sauce from her granddaughter's hands and asked for a doggy bag. One pair, in their fifties and looking as fish out of water as Y/N, shared a pitcher of cloudy beer.

Without a drink list on offer, Y/N had to forgo a Tequila Sunrise. She ordered plain seltzer for Arthur and a diet cola. After the show, they'd have Mai Tais at Traffic Light. Enact the plan they'd made surrounded by sunlight and strawberries.

Their vacation remained fresh in her mind, persistent as water flows shaping sandstone. What she'd assumed would be a search for reconnection and amends had turned into the mirror she'd avoided. The parts of herself she'd shielded Arthur from, the wounds she'd submerged in her marrow had flooded outward. A fountain of broken dreams and regrets, deep enough to drown in.

Her husband was a good, kind man. He'd been the first man she'd dated who'd lived her plight. The first chance to share what eight years of caregiving had done to her. Yet, she'd denied herself that comfort, convinced doing so would dismay him. And make her soul hurt all the worse.

And it had. Sometimes it still did. She'd spent too long trying to move on from it all. Yearning to forget. But the haven of Arthur's heart (and not a little prodding) allowed her to let go. Opening herself to him lightened her load, lessened her fear. The moments she felt small, protected by love and acceptance, brought an unexpected bliss. Turned the Shit She Refused to Talk About into the Shit She Could Talk About on Good Days.

Despite her relief, she'd had trouble sleeping when they'd returned. He'd made her chamomile, brought her along to the fire escape. Pulled her to his lap and guided head to his shoulder. Gently, he'd teased that it was nice to have company that late at night.

Puffing a cigarette, he'd shared past mistakes. A sampling of his notions after Penny had had her stroke, the ones that'd made him question if he was a bad person. If he had the capacity to love within him. He'd adopted the formal posture of a licensed therapist. "The doctor says we all them. Those thoughts. It's okay that you've had them, too."

Revealing his shadow self, the trust he granted her even after her confession, fertilized the seed of grace he'd planted at the cowboy bar. Vine by vine it grew, winding itself through each rib, weaving between her collarbones, wrapping around the facets of her neck. Every touch, every glance was an imprint of a promise. That no matter what had happened, no matter what would happen, he would love her.

He was helping her paste her dreams back together.

Rainbow Suspenders ducked out. Arthur emerged from the restroom alcove to the right. Diners seated along the wall offered a smattering of applause, breaking her out of her reverie and into a wide smile.

Nervous sweat shined his forehead, slender fingers played with one cuff. He began with a long breath and exaggerated bow. A trick he'd developed to hide that he was gauging his condition, the likelihood of ill-timed laughter. Once he'd straightened and caught her eye, he gave a little nod, more of a chin bob. She winked and pressed Record on the tape deck.

"Hello," he said, the start of his typical introduction. "I'm Arthur. It's good to be here. You know, growing up in Gotham was like staying in one place. There's a lot to do, but when you're a poor person it's hard to pay attention."

A cackle from the rear, a hearty guffaw to her left. The din of cutlery and conversation lowered. The press of everyone's attention turned to center stage.

With a flourish, Arthur took his journal from his pocket, presented it as a prop instead of an aid. He thumbed through its pages and leaned into the mic conspiratorially. "I've heard it's not nice to talk about someone behind their back. But what if you've talked to their front, and they want to walk all over you?"

~~~~~

Traffic Light was one of Gotham's best deals. Four dollars for an overflowing mound of Thai delicacies, one self-service plate stacked as high as GCR's Twin Towers. Available after nine o'clock Tuesdays and Thursdays. No sharing, please. Avoid waste and take plenty of napkins.

Just beyond the glass entryway, a praying Buddha statue greeted them, the tip of its ushnisha taller than a stupa. Golden elephants marched along sequined tapestries, plastic greenery hung from the ceiling, cradled in beige macrame. Behind the register, floral garlands topped royal family portraits. And facing the bar was a spirit house the size of a fax machine, where green tea and coconuts were offered for protection. Warm, woody incense merged with the pungent smell of curry to make Y/N's mouth water.

Arthur's long strides beat her to the buffet. He grabbed a scalloped plate, held it parallel to his chest. Drummed the bottom while he studied the unfamiliar cuisine. Grinning, she stepped forward to be his guide.

Chicken satay and steamed jasmine rice found an immediate home on his dish, peanut sauce cuddled up to dependable crispy wings. Scallion pancakes were deep friend, making him an instant fan. On her advice, he added a scoop of vegetable tempura, just to get a vitamin or two in his system. When he poked a squid's suckers, his expression was a mask of alarm. The seafood stir fry was a firm pass. Y/N ordered the yellow curry - two star spicy this time.

They settled on brown wicker bar chairs at the counter, which ran along the front window, facing the street. People hustling to work, to a relaxing night of dozing in an easy chair before the television, to fluttery first dates.

"So." Arthur dipped sliced carrot in her curry sauce, speaking and sipping his cocktail. "What did you think? I couldn't really hear the crowd. I was too nervous."

"No one could tell. You were a real professional out there." She nibbled the last vestiges of meat from a chicken bone. Wiped her fingers and pulled a folded tissue from her purse. "I just had a couple ideas."

"You took notes?"

"You can compare them to the tape later."

His set had started off strong and ended on a high note, bridging a lull that'd sagged the middle. He'd only been a beat off at times, a pause post-setup a split second too long. "The crowd got quiet about halfway through," she said.

"Maybe they were listening?" he asked. She didn't have to look to know he was somewhere between a squint and a grin. His tender tone held a challenge.

"It's possible. But I think they anticipated your shtick, the 'why' and 'what do you get' format of your jokes." Her fingertip followed the points on her paper. "Instead of asking, 'Why is marriage like fine wine?' you could deliver the whole joke as a sentence or two. What about, 'Marriage is like fine wine. The more it ages, the rarer it is.' And than make it personal by mentioning your favorite."

"Like, 'My wife and I are a fine Moscato?'"

"Merlot ages better."

Crossing his arms over his chest, he swiveled on his stool in mock offense. "Well, it is my joke." A truth and a tease.

She popped the last bite of spring roll between his lips, followed the gesture with a peck. He caught her jaw and brought her back for another. Head hazy, she dropped her lashes. Leaned into the warm palm cradling her cheek.

He wasn't the funniest comedian she'd ever heard. But he was the one she loved the most.

Just as he dug out his wallet, a couple halted on the sidewalk, breaking their stride directly in front of them. The man wore a pastel, plaid sportscoat, the woman a blue sweater embroidered with a white Scottish terrier. Y/N recognized them as the older pair from the restaurant, kindred guppies in need of a pond.

Plaid Jacket pointed through the window, waved the wave of the overexcited, and darted through the door.

He wiped his meaty hand on his trousers and extended it to Arthur. "Hey, weren't you that guy at Laughs Lots?" His breath stank of shitty casual dining beer.

"Yes," Arthur said, taking the offered hand. His smile started off disbelieving but then crinkled his entire face. "Yeah! That was me."

"Well, I'll be. Always wanted to do an open mic night, never had the guts, though. I play harmonica. I'm Bob."

The woman on his arm gave a swift nod. "Bob's real good, too. He's got 'The Entertainer' down pat."

That wasn't the first tune Y/N associated with a harmonica. But Arthur's style of jokes wasn't what she expected out of comedy, either.

"And that must be the little lady," Bob continued, nudging Arthur's arm. Then his eyes popped. "I've gotta take a leak." On that note, he jogged towards the back of the restaurant, fists at his side like he was running a race.

Y/N snorted and patted her handbag. She hushed her voice and leaned towards Arthur, upper arm brushing his bicep. "See? You can mail that tape tomorrow."

~~~~~

With the brisk night air and clear, velvet skies, they decided to skip the train and walk home. They threaded around trash bags, hopped over sidewalk cracks, ran the last block to Sheldon Park. It'd closed an hour after sunset, but the iron gate's chain remained unlatched, either as an oversight or because the lock was broken. Likely the latter.

Y/N glanced over both shoulders. Pushed the gate ajar and slipped through the opening. Squeezed Arthur's hand and pulled him to follow.

Camping tents were set off from main entrance, tucked behind a dirt trail. Four or five, a number likely to grow given Gotham's continued stagnation. Flames licked the edges of a metal barrel, where men in ragged jackets warmed their fingers. Along the main path, two teenagers sat with a boombox, blasting the latest Run D.M.C. hit Arthur hadn't heard. Their sunglasses must've been to protect their retinas from their sneakers. Their shoes were so white they glowed. The two clinked Tab bottles and swigged.

Cinching the belt of her spring coat, she continued towards the center of the park. For being smack dab in the middle of the urban landscape, it was surprisingly quiet. No horse hooves clacked, no skateboards whizzed past. Hip hop was out of earshot now. About a minute later, he recognized where they were headed.

Ducks busied themselves on the rear side of the pond, chit chatting and grooming one another. Others slept with beaks buried under their feathers. The nearby bench was a recent addition, grass hadn't yet sprouted around its legs. Y/N sped ahead of him and took a seat. Leaned against the backrest and looked up.

It was six seconds before she spoke. "See that?" she asked and pointed at the sky. "That's the North Star."

"It's the bright one, right?" He settled next to her on the edge of the bench.

"In the tail of the little dipper. My father taught me where it was in case I ever got lost." A light laugh left her. "He tried to show me other constellations, but I was terrible at finding them. But on clear nights, we made our own. The Kite. The Tablespoon. The Stethoscope - though I think that's Orion's club or something." She folded her hands together in her lap. "The stars are hard to see here, with all the skyscrapers and lights. They're the one thing I miss from back home."

Arthur studied her face, all the details he'd memorized. Her brows remained relaxed, her eyes dry, cheeks flushed a subtle pink. He laced his fingers through hers. "I'm sorry you can't see them here."

"Don't be." Her gaze locked with his, eased into a smile. "You're the brightest star of all."

Happy roiling whirled his stomach, his pulse skipped a beat. He felt a sudden, indefinable feeling of rightness. He brought her knuckles to his lips, kissed them and kissed her mouth. She tasted like curry and coconut milk.

Scooting away, adjusting as he went, he reclined to rest his head on her shoulder. Look towards the stars and dream.

"Which one's The Kite?"

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @ithinkimaperson @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @another-day-in-chuckletown @hhandley80 @jokerownsmysoul @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics @iartsometimes @fleckficgirl

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x female reader #joker 2019 #watchwhathappens

[fleckcmscott]

Before

Summary: Released from Arkham State Hospital, Arthur works towards returning to his normal life. With a big item checked off his to-do list, his romantic soul spends the evening dreaming of the future to come.

Words: 2,300

Warnings: None

A/N: This oneshot is the result of a collaboration with @sweet-nothings04​. 💜 After coming up with a few basic parameters, we went off to compose our own pieces. Our stories turned out to be similar in ways both big and small! @sweet-nothings04​, thanks for agreeing to this fun project! Here's a link to her story: Finding Rhythm. Hope you all enjoy our work! 😃

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Penny's thin voice rose behind him, a hair above her Grizzly Adams rerun. "Happy, did you mail my letter?"

Arthur shut the door, slid the chain lock into place. The deadbolt gave a confident click. Shrugging off his mustard jacket, he answered as he had a hundred times before. "Yeah. I dropped it in the mailbox on the corner."

"You should've put it in the lobby for the postman."

Mr. Wayne's not gonna answer any of them, anyway. Lips flattened, Arthur shoved his hand in his pocket. Jittery fingers plucked at a loose thread. Three long inhales later, he pushed aside the assumption by walking towards her armchair. The television's dull blue lent his mother an austere look, sharpening her cheekbones, bleaching the blush she wore. He switched on the floor lamp to the left.

"Sorry, mom. Here." He held out the trinket he'd found at Helm's pharmacy, a shop full of panicked men who'd forgotten today was The Big One.

A foggy blink at the offering, then at him. "What is it?"

"It's a present. For Valentine's. It's a-" He flipped over the pink, scalloped tin to squint at a label. "Pot-porey. It smells real nice. I thought you'd like it in the bathroom." The plastic air freshener on the toilet tank was one item he hadn't yet replaced. The list of chores to do after his release from Arkham a couple weeks back had been as long as a sermon he didn't want to hear.

"Oh, Happy. It's pronounced 'potpourri.'" She traced the lid's embossed doily, the tiny roses and pearls. When she popped it open, artificial florals floated. Strong enough to imprint on his smoker's nostrils. Penny smiled, soothing the smart of her correction, making him smile in turn. "What time is it? We don't want to miss Murray."

"Murray isn't on on Saturdays," he said. Her absence tended to worsen in the evenings, as though the simple act of sitting in a chair wore her out. He padded to the kitchen, flicked on the fluorescent above the sink, and spoke to her over the breakfast bar.  "And it's time for you to eat."

Two frozen dinners stared at him, four course meals in a sturdy teal box. A Mexican style entrée or meatloaf. Beans and rice were easy for Penny to chew, though the beef enchiladas risked a mess. Oh well. A pile of laundry already awaited in the bathroom. The addition of a slopped-on nightie wouldn't break his back. He popped the aluminum tray in the oven and made a note to get groceries tomorrow.

He cut the enchiladas into bite-sized morsels. The pepper and tomato fiesta sauce made his mouth water. A shock since he couldn't remember the last time eating had been more than survival. He snuck a sample, made a small sound of approval. Once he'd arranged the fork, knife, and paper napkin on the wooden lap tray, he brought it out to his mother.

"Tuck your napkin in your collar," he said, perching on the sofa. "Yesterday went really well, mom. If I get this job, I'll have my own locker." He'd told her this the night before, but with her lack of reaction, he wasn't sure if she'd heard him.

Slow, steady spoonfuls of beans. Focus lost to the TV, where a bearded man conversed with a bear. "That's nice."

Arthur grabbed Gotham Today from the coffee table and uncapped a ballpoint pen. Flipped past the front page and its perpetually dour headlines, sped by Global News, the Arts, Sports to reach the classifieds.

Life insurance salesman would be a real laugh, considering what'd led to his remandment. Commodities system analyst was a riddle he wasn't interested in solving. Typist and legal secretary? Those sounded like women's professions, and even if they weren't, he couldn't spell well enough to do either. And sitting at a desk for eight hours bordered on the never ever.

He circled a blurb for an assistant for a children's show at Gotham Public Broadcasting, and one for what was described as a "driven media consultant." Plans B and C. With any luck after his interview at HaHa's, they wouldn't come into play.

Hoyt Vaughn's office had had the aura of a disorganized closet. Jammed with circus posters, musical instruments, stacks ready to topple. A fifth of whiskey stood on his personal microwave. Aspirin bottles and paperwork littered the man's desk. A giant jack-in-the-box underneath grinned at Arthur's knees.

The interview had been quick as a flashbulb. What was his work history? (Clowning on and off, jobs that required overalls and staying out of sight.) The question of why he'd been out of work had caught him off guard. When Dr. Kane had said she'd assist him with gaining employment, he'd assumed that'd meant she'd explain. Arthur had tried to answer honestly, stated he'd been in the hospital - no, not that one, the other one. Whether Hoyt's laugh had meant derision or connection hadn't been clear, so Arthur had cackled along with him.

Performers had to supply their own costumes and props, and they were to be available any time, any day. Most clowns worked the day shift. Ladies entertainment filled the nights. (Hoyt had thrown him a withering look. "You're not stripper material, are ya?" "No. I wanna be a comedian.") Arthur wouldn't mind being an independent contractor. A job was a job, and it seemed like this was one he could love. Where he could fulfill his purpose while bringing money in. Money sorely needed.

When Penny had taken her last bite of rice, he wiped the spots around her mouth her napkin had neglected. Washed crumbs and splats from the lap tray. He went through the routine of soaping a washcloth to cleanse her face, putting toothpaste on her toothbrush. Once she was tucked beneath her purple, velvet quilt, he patted her cheek.

"Don't stay up too late," he said. "I'll be in the other room." Then he slipped out and sighed the sigh of the overburdened and underpaid.

He loved Penny with all his heart. And it often dawned on him that she was about all he had. She'd been the one to call the doctor, have him committed, ensure he received the treatment he'd need. There was no one else who cared to keep him around. But it could be a challenge, not have any space. Not having a break from responsibilities to tend to himself, to learn to tend to himself the way Dr. Kane had outlined.

He shut off the TV and headed to the kitchen. He prepared his hundredth tray of ready-made meatloaf, tater tots, peas, and dessert. He cut a one inch slit in the foil over each side and uncovered the brownie, a guaranteed path to a crunchy crust.

Eager to enjoy the evening's programming, he turned the windowsill radio to 1080 WGCR. But Sears Radio Theatre had been supplanted. A call-in show had stolen its throne, a show for people to request songs and dedicate them to their sweethearts. It made sense, given the day, but Arthur wasn't sure he liked it. A silly program would've entertained.

The DJ's voice dripped like honey. "Here's Stevie Wonder's 'Signed, Sealed, Delivered,' going out to Mark from Linda." The funky beat slithered into Arthur's white sock, wiggled his right big toe. Greg attempted to win back his ex with "Don't Make My Brown Eyes Blue." And then a recorded message, an earnest plea from starstruck lover Brian. "Donna, I hope you're listening. I love you. I can't imagine my life without you. Would you marry me?"

Arthur spun the dial to a middling frequency.

Umami sodium wafted through the kitchen, the familiar fragrance of food on clearance. Bracing himself on the counter with both hands, he allowed subconscious meanderings to filter to the surface. He thought he understood the nature of love. What would it be like to love someone enough to want to marry them? All of it was supposed to start with a date, right? Dinner and a movie? With his new job, maybe he'd get the chance to meet a pretty girl. A nice break from the pendulum that swung between the apartment and appointments. His eyelids fell shut at the chance at serendipity. The idea of preparing a homecooked meal for her.

A magic wand would fall from gloved hands, roll down the sidewalk to collide with pointy-toed high heels. "Of all the shoes in all the cities in all the world," he'd say, "it rolled into yours." A stolen line that masked earnest longings beneath a veneer of playfulness. She'd return the wand with a smile, sweet and as open as his own heart. He'd thank her. Be brave enough to inch forward. Enclose her palm in his.

Given the possible interactions with his medications, Arthur didn't keep alcohol in the house. Now he'd have to take that risk. Helm's had inexpensive bottles, the nice looking ones with gold foil on the cap. Not a red, though, or a white, but a vibrant pink to match the occasion.

When she'd knock on 8J's door, the peas wouldn't be done. He'd've misjudged the timing of the instant potatoes and the meatloaf. But she'd be too kind to hold it against him, for kindness would float all around her. Rather, she'd peck his cheek and follow him to the kitchen, where they'd roll up their sleeves and shell them together.

Women in movies always dressed up for dates, and this dream girl of his would be no different. Slacks that flattered her hips, hugged her slim waist, flaunted a dip perfectly shaped for cupping. A sweater, perhaps a fiery orange or sophisticated brown, ended at the belt line, teased a flash of her oval navel. She'd wear a gold charm around her neck, a sun to match her smile, which he'd replace with a scarf by the night's end. One of his future props, a memory of what'd brought them together. It knotted his insides, thinking how near he'd have to stand to tie it. And she'd wear perfume, a scent a thousand times lovelier than the potpourri tin.

Dinner would be at the breakfast bar, not the dining table. Sitting side by side would make it easier to bump his knee to hers. Butter melted over the peas, a dollop of sour cream and black pepper enlivened the potatoes. She'd take a bite, roll her eyes into the back of her head, tell him what a good idea it'd been to double the Worcestershire sauce in the main. When she asked for seconds he followed suit, even though he rarely wanted firsts.

Buzz! Buzz! Buzz!

Arthur cracked the oven door, welcomed heat into the room. The motion reminded him of a bow. He held the oven mitt as if it were Dream Girl's hand. "May I have this dance?" Nah, too formal. He wasn't approaching a stranger. He gestured with the glove again. "Would you like to dance with me?" That was better, closer to how a man would ask a friend. Straightening up, he smiled down at the face in his mind. "I'd love it if you danced with me. This is one of my favorite songs. Do you like it, too?"

Whether a waltz or cha cha, the steps themselves wouldn't matter. The simple nearness of her would suffice. He could almost sense the weight of her hand on his shoulder. The graze of her hair at his jaw. Fire in his cheeks forced him to pretend to study her feet while actually admiring her breasts. Giggling, she spun once on her heels and flew into his arms. The most beautiful sight he'd even seen. The most wonderful feeling he'd ever felt.

His fingers trembled at the small of her back. If he wasn't careful, she'd slip through them. Shrugging one shoulder, he shook his head. "Dancing with you seems like a dream."

Music wrapped around them, pressed them closer. No light passed between their forms.

Beam a billow of affection, she sighed and craned towards him. "Kiss me before we wake up."

Lips poised to capture hers, he bent to meet her, caress her silken-

"This is a song for all you lovers out there," the radio said. A pin prick breaking a spell, returning Arthur to a world of gold-flecked formica and solitude. "Whether you've found your special someone or are still searching, here's a cut for you tonight."

Ella Fitzgerald's mellifluous half soprano came to subdue the sting. He tore the foil from the tray, swaying and singing under his breath, hums replacing forgotten words. "...Shouldn't we fall in love...hearts are made of it...take a chance..." The song's opening made his mouth twitch. It encompassed all he desired, everything he'd just imagined. A trickle of what might be called hope quivered his belly. It couldn't be a coincidence.

Fork in hand, he settled on the stool at the breakfast bar. Pulled his journal across the counter and opened it. The negative thoughts he scrawled mornings, noons, and nights wouldn't knock him down. He grabbed his pen and scarfed a hunk of meatloaf. Grinned and nodded approval as he wrote.

"I met my new boss. I have big shoes to fill as a clown. I would love this job. I think a lot of peeple work there. It'll be eazier if I half money coming in - and I coud pay for a date! I'd like to meet my special someone. I wonder where she is a lot. Its so weerd but today everybody's thinking about it, so I'm just part of the crowd. I should write some jokes for her in case she works there, too."

~~~~~

Ella Fitzgerald - Let’s Fall in Love

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