Summary:Arthur married Y/N a year and a half ago. Now it’s time to meet her family in Missouri. Believing that building a life in Gotham had excised the pain of the past, Y/N accepts Mabel’s invitation to visit, unaware her little sister has hurdles of her own. What starts as a wish to connect becomes an exercise in old wounds. Y/N must choose to face them with Arthur - or alone.
Chapter warning: None
Words:2,252
A/N:Heartfelt thanks to @jokerownsmysoul and @iartsometimes for beta-reading and providing helpful feedback! There’s one more chapter to go! Stay tuned and enjoy!
Ed stood in the bedroom doorway, Ashley slung diagonally over his shoulder. “Honey, don’t worry about that now.”
“This’ll just be a minute.”
Mabel covered the maroon tie with a lightweight undershirt and pressed the iron along the blade. Cautious lines followed blue and white stripes, the frost tip attacked a particularly stubborn crease with a careful zeal. To avoid damaging the delicate silk, she channeled her excess excitement into curling her lip. It was the same tie Ed had worn nine years ago, the day he’d been promoted to bank manager. Wearing it his first afternoon as Account Officer would offer good luck and a morsel of resistance.
Y/N would be proud.
Sniffing, he pinched the bottom of the baby’s diaper. “She’s still dry!” He hoisted her over his head, a sort of high-five with altitude. “Think that’s a new record?”
“Sure is!” She draped the fabric over the end of the ironing board, bestowed a fond pat. “Did they say goodbye?”
“I think Y/N’s still sponging the drool off.”
Cheeks puffed with restrained laughter, Mabel put Ashley in the crib by the window opposite Ed’s side of the bed, laid her flat on her tummy beside her yellow elephant plush. “Sleep tight.” Then, as she did every morning, she jogged downstairs to get the rest of the household ready for the day. Usual routines were bound to soften the coming farewell, make parting more sweet than sorrow.
She cut the crusts off Ruthie’s peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, added a thin layer of mayonnaise to Brian’s ham and cheese, wrapped both in wax paper. Chocolate pudding cups and apple juice boxes found their way into paper sacks. She grabbed the magnetic notepad off the fridge to write two tardy notes. Ruthie had had the idea to skip class to see Uncle Arthur off. (And Aunt Y/N, certainly.) Unwilling to miss batting practice, Jason had already caught the bus. He’d bid adieu the night before with perfunctory teenage hugs and a list of his favorite comic books.
Ruthie sat staring into her bowl of marshmallow crispies instead of eating them. The untouched cereal crackled and popped. “You feeling okay?” Mabel asked. An unconvincing nod joined pouting lips. “The oranges are looking pretty good right now. I’ll peel one for you.” A curt shake of the head this time. Crouched at the knee, she smoothed the girl’s hair behind her ear. “I’ll miss them, too, Ruthie.” She searched for a temporary comfort, one that’d tide her over until a new fixation took hold. The English teacher Mrs. Webster claimed toys from home could be a distraction. But what harm could a doll on her daughter’s lap do? “How about you take Polly with you today, hm? I bet she’d love to ride the swings again."
The child flew from the kitchen chair and darted upstairs, jelly flip-flops slapping the wooden floor.
Buried in a fresh title from the school library, Reptiles Do the Strangest Things, Brian swung his legs back and forth at the table, blew bubbles in his Ovaltine. "Mom, did you know snakes swallow their prey whole?”
Mabel couldn’t quite hide her grimace. “Studying for your showcase already? Is your poster all done?”
“Uh-huh. Jason helped me last night.”
“That was nice of him.” And unexpected enough to warrant an extra hour of driving practice this weekend.
“He took my last slice of pizza.”
The extra hour was immediately withdrawn.
Suitcases in tow, Arthur and Ed came from the foyer, chatting about Arthur’s upcoming gigs and the weather. The heat could be just as stifling in Gotham, according to him, what with all the concrete and lack of fresh air. Some days the overcrowded city was an oven. But when Ed asked if he could ever see himself living in Boonville, Arthur demured. “Well, it’s nice here, the trees and free space. People notice when you’re in line or walking down the street. But there aren’t any comedy clubs. I wouldn’t be able to do my act.”
“I’d hire you for every birthday,” Mabel interjected. “We know enough people to keep you busy, comedian or clown.” After she’d poured them tall glasses of orange juice, she double-checked the folded cotton rectangle tucked into her waistband, tightened her belt by one notch, and made her way to the guest room.
The mattress had already been stripped, the pillows prematurely made bare, the linens bunched up in a neat pile at the foot of the bed a smidge too soon. The room suddenly felt hollow, as if a shout would echo off its wallpaper forever. She gulped the bowling ball from her chest and called towards the open bath. “Gonna be a straight shot back?”
Y/N rubbed at a front tooth in the mirror. “We’ll make a pitstop in Pennsylvania and drive the rest of the way tomorrow. I’ll send a postcard.”
Her overnight bag lay open on the bureau; the impulse to peek grabbed Mabel’s ankles. Show Me Liquid Smoke, a local barbeque sauce she’d never tried, lay on top of overnight cream and perfume, along with Cherry Mash candy bars. Grabbing one, she snorted. “I thought you hated these.”
“They’re for Patricia,” Y/N said, walking out and to the tote. Ah. That name rang familiar. The former colleague turned best friend turned the sister she deserved. “She’s a miracle worker in the kitchen - almost as good as mom - and loves cherry flavored everything.” She stuffed three prescription bottles in the side pocket.
As far as Mabel knew, Y/N only had a prescription for an IUD (something she’d been looking into since Ashley). That meant the medications must belong to Arthur. Guilt pooled in her, flexed her toes. The flash of burnt orange plastic shouldn’t have felt like a warning. Yet, caregiving had affected Y/N far more than Mabel had allowed herself to admit. She had to ask. Not out of fear of Arthur - she’d come to love the playful, gentlemanly oddball - but from a newfound need to look out for her. “I have a confession to make.”
“We’ve had enough of those. Tell me about it in a month.”
“I saw Arthur on Murray Franklin. I didn’t recognize him at first, but…” That Y/N didn’t recoil, scald her with an Are You Serious glare bolstered Mabel enough to coax the rest from the tip of her tongue. “Do you have a plan for if he gets sick again?”
“There are a lot of specialists in Gotham. Clinics, hospitals. It’s not like trying to find help for dad a state or two away. But I was worried at first. I even talked to Patricia about whether I could handle what might happen.” A laugh stuck in her throat. “She told me how silly I would be to let fear ruin what Arthur and I have. And promised I wouldn’t be alone.”
“I’ll be there, too,” Mabel said, a little desperately, taking a step towards her. “I’m a long ways away, I know. But call me. Day or night. I’ll do whatever you need, whatever I can.”
A smile crossed Y/N’s face, brightened by acceptance and appreciation rather than the joy of upcoming escape. The smile of the girl who’d played hide and seek, the woman who’d given her blessing to Ed to go ahead and propose. It made the room a tad less empty. “I’ll take you up on that.”
~~~~~
“Good luck this weekend,” Y/N said, locking Brian in squeeze, as if a bear hug alone could win him the first-place trophy for nature exhibits. “And stop growing so fast. Pretty soon you’ll be ten feet tall.” The boy rushed out a Bye, Aunt Y/N and returned to checking his pencil case, a behavior Mabel had noticed whenever he seemed glum but couldn’t say it.
Before a foot landed on the porch steps, Ruthie let out a wail to wake the dead. Stuttering, gibbering, her tears darkening her aqua blouse. Mabel moved to scoop her up, give her a piggyback ride, ask if she wanted to stay home today.
But Arthur beat her to it, kneeling next to the girl. “We’ll see each other soon.” He plucked a magic coin from his pocket and pressed it into her palm. “Give this back to me then, okay?” He pushed at a tomato red dimple until she grinned.
Ed and Arthur were mid-handshake when the baby monitor squealed and squawked through the screen door. Ed gave Y/N a final embrace. “Be good. I don’t wanna hear you’ve gotten into trouble with your Perry Mason act.” She made no promises.
Once Arthur had plunked Y/N’s bag on the station wagon’s vinyl seat, he turned to Mabel and stuck out his hand. She was having none of it. “You’re not getting away from me that easily,” she said. She yanked him into her arms.
A bashful laugh bubbled up, almost a giggle. He gave in without delay. “I’m not trying to.”
“Take care of yourself. And her. I couldn’t be happier she has you.”
“Thanks. Me neither.”
Settled on the rear of the car, he puffed on a last cigarette, having promised to smoke only at rest stops on the way home. Mabel and Y/N lounged by the hood, exchanged basic well wishes and vows to write. A flicker of uncertainty coursed through Mabel, the cotton hidden in her belt a hot coal burning her spine. After the Rusty Spur’s revelry, retrieving the momento from the basement had seemed a good idea. Still was, she supposed, and now was as good a time as any. Better than thinking herself out of it and regretting it later.
Gingerly, she brought out the keepsake from behind her back. “Mom was making this for when you bought your own home.” Taking the homemade apron, Y/N unfolded the top third. Embroidery lined the bib’s borders, lavender petals broken by streaks of green, empty spots of plain beige where their mother hadn’t had the chance to finish the stems. “She never doubted you, that you’d find where you belong.”
“It’s beautiful.” After a few seconds, Y/N wove the fabric around each knuckle. “When you go to Sunset Hills, would you say hi for me? Tell them… I’m sorry. And when I’m in town again, I’ll try.” Mabel was about to ask what on earth she had to apologize for, when Y/N slipped the apron through the car’s open window and reached into her purse.
Out came a striped, green check from Gotham Savings Bank, Arthur and Y/N’s names and address printed boldly in the top left. It was dated today, $1,000 filled the amount box, Y/N’s cheerful signature was fresh off the press. The payee line had been left blank. An order slip accompanied it, complete except for Mabel’s authorization number. “Y/N, what the hell-”
“That’s a valid order. As one of Beauty Boutique’s top saleswomen, you have to take it. If I read the commission chart correctly, you’ll get 54% of the sale.”
Mabel scanned the mile-long list. Thirty-six eyeshadow palettes, twenty bottles of foundation in shades Y/N would never use, anti-aging creams, fancy conditioners, every fragrance of feminine powder… “What’ll you do with all this?”
“Ship it to me and we’ll see. Or you could skip burdening me with merchandise I don’t want and write your own damn name on the check.”
“You’re not very good at listening, huh?”
“Oh, I heard you.” Y/N inched closer, nudged her in the ribs. “It’s just that being stubborn got me to where I belong.”
Pictures formed in Mabel’s mind’s eye, images of six sleeping bags strewn across the living room of a one-bedroom apartment, arguments over the bathroom and what sights to see. A frazzled older sister and cheerful if overtired Arthur showing them urban ropes. She stuck the check in her pocket, grasped Y/N’s hands, entwined their fingers until her pointer ached. “It’s going straight into a vacation club account,” she announced. “I wanna see the city you love so much. What all the fuss is about.” A leap for someone who’d rarely been further than a hundred miles from home.
“You’re always welcome.” Chin on her shoulder, Y/N squeezed her about the middle, so tightly she could barely breathe. “I love you, Able Mabel.” Then she pecked her cheek and called for Arthur, turning towards the driver side door before the whites of her eyes could turn pink.
Standing at the end of the driveway, Mabel watched them drive off until the taillights faded from sight, listened until the vroom, vroom of the eight-cylinder engine ebbed in the balmy breeze. Sorrow threatened to chase the sweet. Though plenty of thorns remained on the path between them, the way through it was clearer, for they’d begun weeding it. She couldn’t wait to take the pruning shears to it, too. She rubbed her upper arms, bent one foot behind the other.
“Kids are packed in the car,” Ed said, coming up behind her. He slung his arm over her shoulders to pull her into his side. “You know, I like Arthur. I don’t understand him. But I like him.”
Her tension burst into a fit of chuckles. She swatted his hand. “That’s all that matters. Say, did your vacation time change with the merger?”
“Nope.” He sucked his teeth. “Only my pay.”
“Good.” She pulled back to study his profile, egged on by the arch of his brow. “How would you feel about going north next summer?”
Summary:Arthur married Y/N a year and a half ago. Now it’s time to meet her family in Missouri. Believing that building a life in Gotham had excised the pain of the past, Y/N accepts Mabel’s invitation to visit, unaware her little sister has hurdles of her own. What starts as a wish to connect becomes an exercise in old wounds. Y/N must choose to face them with Arthur - or alone.
Chapter warning: Swearing
Words:3,421
A/N: Lots of hugs and gratitude to @jokerownsmysouland@iartsometimes for beta reading! And a shoutout to @sweet-nothings04 for the brainstorming session that helped crack the structure of this chapter!
One item was on Y/N’s agenda this morning: aspirin.
Sprawled on her stomach, a flapjack of fatigue, she reached out from under the covers to feel around the nightstand. Fingertips met the familiar curve of a lamp, but the usual glass of water was missing. She hooked her pointer through the drawer pull, tugged once, twice, only to be denied. A grunt rumbled through her chest, reverberated through her throbbing skull. She flung the blanket to her waist, snailed across Arthur’s side of the bed, and blinked at the clock.
2:17 PM
Oh, fuck.
A jolt went through her, sent her straight to her feet. She hadn’t slumbered that late since Jeff had passed the bar, the aftermath of a blowout foisted on him by past friends and future clients. She yanked on a pair of shorts, tucked in her nightie, threw on the cardigan Arthur had worn to bed. Smoky pine paused her, the scent hidden in the hollows of his neck, the creases above his underarms, evoking the stairway and his almost unbearable tenderness. Plucking at the imitation horn buttons, she opened the door.
The TV murmured oldies from Country Music Television Network. (First in the nation with full time western swing - in stereo!) Across from the entertainment center, Arthur studied his shoes. Mabel rocked Ashley to and fro from her perch on the coffee table. She pointed at the floor with her elbow. “Put your weight on the ball of your - no, don’t put your feet together.”
He pivoted a quarter turn in Y/N’s direction, then stopped in his tracks, a light smile at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, hey.”
“Finally decided to rise and shine, sleepyhead?” Mabel laughed the laugh of a person who longed for everything to be a-okay and plunked the baby in the corner playpen. “Arthur gave strict instructions to let you hibernate. He wouldn’t even let me slip you a cup of coffee. You want one now? I’ll head to the kitchen and make a new pot. It’s seven hours cold.”
“Just microwave it,” Y/N called after her, lukewarm on her heels.
Arthur snuck a toe in her path. His hands appeared to be the verge of wringing, “How are you?”
She wasn’t sure, to be honest. The heightened senses of dawn conceded to the harshness of daylight, brought reality to bear. Though she believed - no, knew - that spilling her deepest secrets was the right call, it didn’t make her wrongs any easier to live with. At least she could quit failing to pretend. Keep letting him in. “A little hungover and a lot tired. Did you get any rest?”
“No, but it’s fine.”
Given that Arthur had had to fend off Mabel and her caffeine offerings, Y/N had to assume her disclosure had been a hot topic. A questioning gaze narrowed her eyes. How much had Mabel managed to prod out of him?
As if reading Y/N’s mind, Arthur put her speculation to rest. “She asked if being here made you sad and I said yes. Because of your mom and dad. That’s all.” He pecked her brow, the bridge of her nose, and excused himself for a shower.
She sighed. Pulling his sweater tighter around herself, she put a foot forward.
~~~~~
Mabel flipped through the contents of her closet like she was on a mission from God.
Blurs of candy apple red, ludicrous lemon, and a god-awful siren of fuchsia whipped by. Legs crossed at the knee, Y/N sat on the bed and rubbed at her aching temple. Whatever The Choice was, it’d better not lend the air of too cheap and too desperate. Resembling a dollar store mannequin she could handle; a doll from a five-and-dime she could not. “I can’t believe you brought up the bar - and now I have to fit into one of your blouses.” Mabel was a solid B cup; Y/N was a floppy C.
“We may be terrible at holding our liquor, but we might as well look good,” Mabel said. Her first reference to the prior evening.
“You sure you want to repeat it all tonight?”
“Absolutely. Arthur’s been practicing since I put the kids on the school bus.” Hangers screeched along the steel closet rod. “Here we are!” Like a model on It Could Be Yours, she presented her find with a graceful curtsy.
It was an acrylic camisole, cream in color, its scalloped edges adorned with gold trim. Metallic threads weaved wavy stripes across the middle. The shoulder straps masquerading as sleeves widened Y/N’s glare. “I’ll spill out of this.”
“Ed’s got double-sided tape in the garage.” Mabel threw the camisole and a matching skirt on the mattress. “I should have a pair of stilettos in here. You still an eight?”
“Seven and a half.”
“Suppose you can squeeze into some sevens?”
“My sandal’s’ll be fine.”
Mabel stretched to her tiptoes. “Let me just check the top shelf.” She pushed another box to the left, revealing her Beauty Boutique sales kit, glamor in a hot pink briefcase.
A plan formed between Y/N’s ears, crystallized as clearly as her caper to sneak into NCB studios. “Actually, could I take another peek at your makeup samples?”
Her sister caught herself on the doorframe. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. And if you have a curling iron, I’ll do my hair.”
On that remark, Mabel tossed the attaché Y/N’s way and darted out the bedroom door. “I’ll plug it in!”
Ears aimed towards the bathroom down the hall, Y/N popped the briefcase’s latches. Pawed through sample palates. Chose gold tone eyeshadow and butter rum lipstick to keep her cover. Stuck her hand in the file pocket, rummaged until her fingers closed around a booklet. She scanned the Beauty Boutique Consultant’s Handbook and paged through to the order slips and charts of commission rates. Her nail followed the row for bulk sales…
Footsteps jogged nearer. Y/N shoved the booklet in her bra, winced when the corner stabbed her left nipple.
Mabel reappeared, determination dazzling her stare. “We’ll be better than mortal man deserves.”
~~~~~
When Y/N had first passed beneath the neon cowboy boot - the size of a Volkswagen and humming like a bug zapper - she’d been twenty-six and fresh off moving into a nine-by-twelve room rented out by the Widow Brown, a kindly old woman who’d made Mayberry’s Aunt Bea look like a party animal.
Ms. Brown frowned on late nights out, kept a dry house, and forbade gentleman callers under any circumstances. Her free time (of which there was too much) was spent in her rocking chair cross-stitching, gospel records warbling in the background on her old Victrola. Crosses covered in primrose and indigo petals, blessings and pleas for protection overflowed from her hoops and frames.
She’d taken Y/N’s liberation as a hard luck story and reduced the rent by twenty-five percent. But the pity settled in Ms. Brown’s wrinkles, her implorations for Y/N to give everything up to the lord, because a lovely girl like her surely wouldn’t be alone for very long, had driven her to call Mabel and beg for a break. After all, who could say anything against a woman finding consolation in the company of her dear sister? Even if they got home well after dark? That call had begun a tradition that reflected like a kaleidoscope, full of the confetti of new possibilities.
The biggest difference between 1968’s Rusty Spur and 1984’s was the folding sign at the entrance: “Singles only mingle! $5.00 Koul-Brau pitchers, $2.00 margaritas.” Specials that would no doubt lead to bad conversation and worse sex. Left hand strategically hidden in her pocket, she dropped the dollar cover charge in the collection jar and eschewed the nametag proffered by the hostess. Inched her way through the small crowd gathered inside the wooden doors.
Smoke clouded the air, twitched Y/N’s nostrils, combined with the low lighting to create a dreamy haze the place hadn’t quite earned. The rear wall was painted in the crisscross patterns of a barn door. Bales of hay decorated a small stage, where a cover band played bass and an acoustic guitar that was slightly out of tune, the leading lady’s mezzo voice rising to the heights of rockets in flight and afternoon delights. Billiard balls clacked in the corner, where cowboys tried to impress cowgirls, and cowgirls feigned interest until their second pitcher. The bar stretched to the right, booths ran along the left, tables covered by the red and white tablecloths of cheap college dates.
A tap, tap, tap to her shoulder spun her on her kitten heel. For a split second, she prayed she hadn’t been recognized again. That none of the high school acquaintances who’d asked how she could lose a catch like Jeff would now assume her move to Gotham hadn’t worked out.
Arthur, wedding ring on his right ring finger and “Howdy, my name is” sticker stuck to his boyish polo shirt, shoved a name tag at her. The letters had been traced and retraced into a bold affirmation: “Y/N Itsflecknow.” Snorting, she peeled away the label sheet and pressed the sticker to her left breast.
Mabel waved at them from the booth nearest the concrete dance floor. Once settled on the opposite bench, she made recommendations without browsing the menu. The shrimp cocktail was a gamble, a loss to the house being a night spent in the restroom. The onion rings were the best this side of the Mississippi, and the zucchini sticks with marinara sounded cosmopolitan enough for a city guy like Arthur. He picked corn on the cob with butter and a side of chicken fingers. It was the spread of a twelve-year old’s palate. Salty, greasy, sure to be enjoyed by all.
“So let me get this straight.” Mabel double-dipped a chicken finger in a mound of tangy barbeque sauce. “Arthur was in your way in the grocery store. And instead of asking him to move, you decided to ask him out.”
Y/N chuckled. “Well, there were a few steps in between. But then I asked him to move in. He left me no choice after our first date, helping me into my coat and bragging about dancing.”
“Where’d you learn to dance, anyway?”
“Um,” Arthur said. “My mom always had the Lawrence Welk show on. I watched a lot of musicals.”
“It was a substitute for phys ed here,” Mabel continued. “Something light and easy for girls who had their monthly, which I had every other week to get out of gym class. I bet you were one of those kids who was too cool for school, smoking up against the wall, wearing sunglasses when it rained.”
Shrugging, Arthur grinned into his ice water. “Something like that.”
“Look at you, marrying a square like Y/N.”
“I’m more of a cube, thank you,” Y/N said. “And who’d have thought you’d marry a college boy after your crush on that dairy farmer’s son. What was his name again? Seth?”
“I’ll have you know Seth studied animal husbandry. He was a true gentleman. Never asked me to milk his cow or sweep the stalls.” A sharp laugh escaped Arthur, a tad exaggerated. The kind that meant he’d detected innuendo but hadn’t quite deciphered the naughty bits. Mabel directed a smile his way and tapped Y/N’s calf with her toe. “It’s too bad you didn’t marry Arthur the first time. We could have made a real country boy out of him.”
Y/N spoke between crunches. “We’d have to have met a decade later. He was twelve when I got married.”
He nabbed a napkin to sweep away crumbs, rub at a sticky spot he’d gotten his elbow in. “Well, I would’ve liked knowing you. Maybe I could have helped. With what you told me earlier.”
A frown set Y/N’s features, a subtle downward turn of her mouth. It would have been a mere three years before Arthur took up the mantle of head of household, caring for his mother after the blackhole of her lobotomy. That he would suggest adopting that role earlier was a reminder that responsibility had been thrust on him at way too young an age. And an echo of his innate goodness.
“That would have been good for her,” Mabel said, her expression a balloon that had had all the air let out of it.
“Yeah.” Dimples deepened, Arthur cleaned his greasy fingers, slid out of the booth, and asked Y/N to join him. “I practiced to this song earlier.”
“Go on ahead,” she said. “I’ll join you soon.”
A light nod and he was off. The band continued to honky tonk in the background. Y/N prodded the untouched zucchini sticks, watched them go limp as they cooled.
Mabel brought the plastic pitcher of sour ale to the lip of her glass. “I’ll just polish this off.”
There it was again: her pattern of narrating action. When she hadn’t been kidding around, she’d detailed her intentions all afternoon. An I’m going to change AshleyorI’ll finish writing out bills, even an I’ll make you a late lunch, an offer Y/N had declined. It was a pattern she recognized from their mother, in how Agnes had presented tea after she and Jeff had announced their plans to separate. A way to sidestep when matters of the heart were too heavy to bear.
Y/N sipped at her margarita. For all the love, admiration, adoration she had for her parents, it struck her that their family hadn’t ever really acknowledged the hard times. The Harrises groused for ten seconds and got on with it, a peck to the cheek and words of encouragement at their heels. It was the story of their generation, who’d missed out on feminism and popular psychology. Who’d lived and lost through a world war.
“For your next visit,” Mabel started, grabbing a straw to swirl in her beer. “We’ll get you a room at Four Acre.”
“Gotham has plenty of bed bugs. We don’t need any souvenirs.
"It’s been remodeled. New owners and everything.” Bubbles climbed the striped plastic. “If there is a next visit.”
“Mabel-”
“Please. If I want to sleep tonight, I need to say this.” She put both palms flat on the table. “Letting you down, leaving you to do it all was stupid. I was wrong. If visiting is too much, too hard, I’ll understand if you can’t again.”
A wave of affection overcame Y/N, powerful enough to propel her upward. She squished into the seat beside Mabel, hugged her about the shoulder. Mascara had blotted under her left eye, prompting Y/N to lick her thumb and try to wipe it away. She took her chin, guided her to meet her gaze. “I forgave you for all that a long time ago.”
Mabel’s face broke wide open, all teeth and pink gums. Wiping her nose, she leaned her forehead to Y/N’s temple. “You always were the wiser one. Any tips on forgiving myself?”
“That’ll come,” Y/N whispered, a wish upon the neon star above the bar.
Three minutes later, eyes dry and stomachs growling, Mabel grabbed the last onion ring. Smoothed her hair and raised her hand to summon a waitress. But she stopped mid-wave, a target over Y/N’s shoulder catching her eye. “Wow, look at him go.”
One leg crossing behind the other, Arthur grapevined to the right, grapevined to the left, threw in a clap as he changed directions. Movements a mix of grace and erraticism, he rocked forward a little further, leaned back a little extra, guffawed with a toss of his head. It was as though music resided in him, possessed his body, fought his insecurities to burst forth. With the gladness animating his joints, he stood out from the jostling crowd like a robin against a dreary winter sky.
A robin that was all hers.
Two women at the bar gestured at him, giggling and gossiping, Who is this Guy grins on their faces. A fantasy he’d disclosed over late-night chamomile dawn on Y/N, a flight of fancy that’d made him flush like a schoolboy in health class.
This was singles night, right? They were supposed to be strangers. She’d gone undercover before. This was a role she could play.
Adjusting the elastic waistband of her borrowed skirt, she stepped nearer, positioned herself in front of the pretty young things. She cupped her palm to the side of her mouth to compete with the beat. “Hey, what’s your name?”
Surprise made him momentarily motionless, but then he flashed a playful smile. “Arthur.”
“Hi, Arthur. You’re a wonderful dancer.”
“I know.”
She slipped into the empty spot beside him. Here in the second line, she was far enough out of sight to not embarrass herself. She flipped through the mental filing cabinet of steps she remembered. A stomp and a kick, a triple to the rear. Though her shuffle began as more of a drag of her feet, observing the row in front of her for cues, she quickly picked up steam. Sure, she was half a second behind everyone else, but she could feign having a complete pair of feet instead of two left for a change.
Before long, the musicians took a break and the song wound down into a heartbreaker. A scratchy LP playback of drums and pedal steel guitar, melancholy twang in the key of D.
Arthur drew closer and offered Y/N his arm. “You are pretty good at line dancing. How are you always stepping on my toes at home?”
“I count the seconds between steps and keep an eye on the people in front of me.” Her hand went to his shoulder. “There’s only so much I can screw up in a two-by-two square.”
Laughter wrinkled the bridge of his nose. Splaying his fingers on the small of her back, he guided her a gentle sway. “I like this better.”
A woman’s voice enveloped them, pining for her sweet Funny Face. Lyrics of apology flamed Y/N’s cheeks. She knew she’d gone bright pink, which made her blush all the more. Arms encircling his neck, she scooted nearer, her foot between his. “I’m sorry.”
“I yelled, too.”
“That doesn’t mean being an asshole was all right. Or that-”
“Just dance with me.” His fingertips whispered along the strap of her camisole.
“But you didn’t deserve-”
“Y/N…” He cupped her face, held her like a bauble of blown glass, thumbs skimming a line to the apples of her cheeks. Her pulse quivered in her neck, raced until she could have sworn it had stopped. A curl brushed her forehead, gentle breath caressed her face. Though sweat flattened his hair, and the polyester of his shirt served as memory foam for stale body odor, he’d never been so beautiful. Clear green irises locked upon hers. “I wouldn’t love you more if you were perfect.” Then he caught her in a supple kiss.
His lips parted in a way that made her want to drink from them forever. When his tongue swept the corner of her mouth, she stood on her toes and pressed into his body, a column of inviting comfort. Now that he’d seen her, all of her, it felt like they were meeting for the first time. And with hiding no longer possible, perhaps the seed of grace he’d planted would one day blossom, allow her to heal. Heart in her throat, her grip went to his forearms, begged him to never let her go. To brighten blue rainbows and push her up hills. To find her again and again and again.
She led them to their booth, murmuring appreciation into his skin. He looked slightly puzzled, as if he’d simply done what a husband was supposed to do and therefore didn’t need it. Before he could ask her to elaborate, she bent to him and stole another smooch.
But their dishes had been bussed, crumbled napkins were gone, the ketchup bottle claimed by the group seated next to them. There were no signs of Mabel, not even her purse. Just as Y/N was about to check their tab, Mabel emerged from a short hallway with bathrooms and a row of payphones, a fresh spring her step.
She clipped her coin purse shut. “I couldn’t stand it anymore,” she said, holding up four fingers to their waitress. The waitress nodded and headed to the bar. “I called Ed. He’s gonna order a pizza and give Jason twenty bucks to watch the kids. It’s our turn to make you two jealous.”
Summary:Arthur married Y/N a year and a half ago. Now it’s time to meet her family in Missouri. Believing that building a life in Gotham had excised the pain of the past, Y/N accepts Mabel’s invitation to visit, unaware her little sister has hurdles of her own. What starts as a wish to connect becomes an exercise in old wounds. Y/N must choose to face them with Arthur - or alone.
The black ballpoint pen shot across the cheap lined paper in a slanted, scurrying scrawl.
“What the hell am I suposed to do, wait forever? Y/N’s acting like I dont exist. How hard would it be to say, ‘Hey, Im leeving be back later?’ I alwaystell her when I’ll be home because its nice!”
Hunched and cross-legged, Arthur sat on the bed. Its fluffy comforter offered no comfort. When his eyelids had become anvils forty minutes into Smokey and the Bandit, he’d donned his pajama bottoms, brushed his teeth, lain himself down to sleep like a good little boy. But slumber denied him. Mabel’s concoction did nothing but give him gas. Rain continued to tap the windows. Y/N continued to be gone.
From missing his father to missing his sanity, Arthur’s whole life had been complicated. Fitting that love would turn out to be more complicated than a song.
What with Y/N’s claims that she was happy to have him (she didn’t mean them), the closeness they’d shared since sharing an umbrella (that was one-sided), he thought he’d figured marriage out. Spouses confided in each other, they didn’t skedaddle and pretend. Masks were unnecessary. She should be there if he needed her, and he was to be there if she needed him. She was supposed to need him. To be the one to mend his hand, wash and kiss it. The way she’d kiss his knuckles if she spotted a bruise or bag ice for his knee when it throbbed.
He’d vowed those acts of devotion - they both had. And now her vow of silence stymied them all.
Every day she’d slipped further away from him. Touching less, looking askance, barely offering him a syllable. She’d erected a concrete fortress, forged of cold instead of warmth, constructed of the opposite of everything they had ever been.
Arthur scraped through his hair, pulled at the curls at the crown of his head. The sting distracted him from the sting of panic in his eye sockets but not from his stomach. It churned harder and harder. Breathing from the diaphragm served to wind him tighter. A fish on a line, a fish about to lose the ocean that was his wife.
He flipped back twenty-three pages to the list of reframing phrases Dr. Ludlow had helped him write, a homework assignment squeezed amongst funny thoughts and screaming sketches. Perhaps reading them aloud would lend them greater power. Might as well try. “It’s difficult but that will change. Tomorrow is not today. I’m doing the best and I can and that’s okay. I’m-” He stumbled. “Not alone in my problems.” The last cut worse than broken glass.
A soft click signaled from the doorknob. It rotated with the deliberate slowness of the about-to-be-spotted. Wedging herself through the quarter-open door, Y/N sidled in. Soaked clothing was vacuumed to her thighs and ass, her nipples poked through layers of pullover and bra. Greeting the floor with a low hi, she tucked rain slicked tendrils behind her ear. She ambled towards the bathroom and shut the door.
That was it? After the guesswork, the strain she’d subjected him to, that was it? He crinkled the page of therapeutic language. That dictionary had never seemed so remote from the real world.
Patience fled without so much as a wave goodbye and best wishes. The mysteries of her existence B.G., Before Gotham, had to be unraveled. Her occasional breadcrumbs, dropped and disregarded while he gave her time, had turned to moldy specks of vexation. Yes, she’d disclosed the origin of the scar on her foot. But so what? He didn’t care about that. He cared about the scars on her heart.
He paced at the end of the bed. Fists remained coiled, not ready to strike but ready to protect himself. Cover his head and ribs, the squishy part of him that ached for the tenderness of trust. A slow dance would have calmed him, a classic waltz, left foot forward, right to the side. Devoid of a partner that was impossible.
The footprints she’d left on the carpet resembled question marks. He followed them. Streams beat fiberglass, muffled by the wooden barrier standing in his way. The choice of either knocking or ripping the door off its hinges was a skirmish his better angels lost.
Steam hit Arthur like the exhaust of a Gotham Transit Authority bus that was a decade past inspection. Fog covered the mirror, her clothes were a sopping pile on the tile floor. There was no radiator to drape them over, so he left them, edged around their mess. His white socks stayed dry. Y/N’s form moved across the translucent shower curtain, limbs intersecting white buttercups on tan vinyl. He wanted to grab her arms, hold her to him and tell her off all at once. He pulled back the curtain, just a few inches, just enough to survey her.
Lather fell from her long hair. “You’re letting a draft in,” she said on a half-smile.
That he merely clutched the curtain was a source of pride. “Where were you?”
“Out for a walk.”
“In the rain?”
“A little rain won’t kill me.”
“You could catch a cold, get sick.”
“Not in the summer.”
She took the bar of soap from the corner caddy and scrubbed her armpits. The gingery scent was sharper than the vanilla used at home. She washed under each breast, the top, the bottom, did her odd ritual of giving them a squeeze, like she had to make sure they were in place. Her washcloth went to the apex of her thighs, an act startling in its privacy no matter how often he’d witnessed it. Startling in its intimacy now that he felt five miles from her.
Tonight that candor didn’t lure him in. “It’s one-thirty,” he said.
“Well, go to sleep. I’m fine.”
Judging by her overly regulated delivery, clipped and curt, he didn’t believe her. “Why do you keep saying that?”
“Saying what?” After shutting off the water, she wrung out her mop. Stepped out and onto the fuzzy, nylon rug.
Anger returned like a long forgotten friend, that ancient habit of twisting hurt into rage. “You used to tell me you’d say what happened to you here-”
“God, not this again…”
“-But this whole trip you’ve either run from me or lied to me.”
“I haven’t lied. I’ve never lied.” She braced herself on the sink to towel her toes.
“Mabel must know, Ed knows. Jeff knows. Why can’t I know?”
“Is that what this is about? That Jeff knows and you don’t?” The terrycloth rubbed her stomach too quickly, whipped about her waist. “No wonder you haven’t left me alone since we ran into him.”
Arthur huffed the huff of a bull in a pen, drew himself up to his full five feet, eight inches. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Not everything is about you, Arthur.”
“Why won’t you just let me be your husband?”
She stiffened, gaping at him. It was the deeply pained stare worn by women on the domestic violence brochures that littered the lobby of the Gotham Department of Health. The association forced his retreat towards the bed. The towel pooled at her ankles. Nude and dripping, she marched two paces out of the bathroom. Flung an accusing finger towards his notebook. “When you tell me your journal is private, I respect that. No matter how much I want to read it. For fuck’s sake, I bought you a desk - with locks!”
“But you know my journal exists!”
“I have a right to my past.” She thumped her chest twice as if trying to convince herself. Her expression crumpled into a series of crinkles and loss. “Just let me get through his god damn trip and go home.” With that, she turned on her heel and slammed the bathroom door.
Nails bit his palms, tiny screws sinking into his flesh. Get out of there. He had to get out of there before he lost control. Started slamming drawers and punching the radio, kicking his suitcase and smashing a lamp. He snatched a cardigan from his bag, jerked it on. Stole a pillow and blanket, left her the top sheet and enough aloneness for her to get over herself.
He flopped on the living room sofa. His notebook landed on the coffee table, his pen rolled to the floor. It was a return of 8J with nicer wallpaper. Resentment ripped through him, an intoxicating poison treatment had once weaned him from. One he had in no circumstances experienced in relation to Y/N. Bathed in the light of the VCR’s blinking 12:00, Arthur stared at the ceiling and counted the ticks of the spinning pendulum clock.
~~~~~
Feet padded past him. Bare or in fuzzy slippers, Arthur couldn’t tell. What he could discern was that his hip ached almost as much as the crick in his neck. Having gotten used to the luxury of an honest to god bed, his body revolted against the return to bad habits, a man relegated to the couch.
Propped on his forearm, he rubbed snoozing from his face, scratched the stubble at his jawline. The house was silent, so silent he suspected he’d dreamed up the disturbance. In the near blackness, he peered at the cover of his journal, recalled the unkind joke he’d written about Y/N (“I maybe crazy but she needs annoying wife therapy”), her unkinder denials. The accusations they’d both hurled, however true his might have been. The look Y/N had shot at him tore his insides, a look he couldn’t bear to see again. Dozing hadn’t provided rest, but his cyclone of frustration had reduced to a funnel, made frail by a desire to cup the curves of her cheeks.
A glance proved the bedroom door was closed. Before he could linger on the idea to sneak in there, a sudden pressure hit his abdomen, shrieked at him to get up now, now, now. He buttoned his cardigan to his sternum, checked the waistband of his pajamas, ensured he was decent in case he bumped into Mabel or one of the children. He hightailed it to the bathroom off the foyer. Once he’d flushed, washed his hands, he went to the kitchen for a drink. Only an ounce or two, enough to wet his parched mouth, coat the roughness of smoker’s throat. The fluorescent light above the sink buzzed awake.
When he reached for the cabinet to his left, the open basement caught his eye. He frowned at it. Mabel had often reminded Ed to latch it shut so a kid wouldn’t take a tumble or adventure below and make a mess. After so many cocktails, he must’ve missed it. Arthur strolled over and grasped the jamb.
Y/N sat halfway down, six stairs below, clad in her flimsy nightgown.
Her abrupt appearance startled him into stillness. Was this a moment like the one she’d admonished him for, one where she needed space - to be away from him? With a tilt of the head, he let his gaze roam her form, a tender study. Fingers dug into her upper arms, her body pulled inward. From her position, he assumed she was staring forward, at what he couldn’t be certain. She seemed as fragile as an apparition. Small and delicate. He found he couldn’t leave her even if she ordered him to.
The order wasn’t given. “I’m supposed to love it here,” she said. “I should love it here. But I don’t have it in me.”
The brittle tenor of her voice wove around his legs, his arms, permeated his skin and suffused every cell. In the way he’d approach a frightened, fluttering bird, he inched nearer. He sat two steps behind her, feet spread and at her hips. “I’m here,” he rasped.
“It’s bad.”
His toenail scraped the rayon of her nightdress. “I can handle bad.”
Natural curiosity begged to be satisfied, doubts to be laid to rest. Yet, most of all, he wanted to care for her. Prove to her and himself that he could take all she had to give. The world halted as he waited. No relatives slept upstairs, no bad late-night programming ran. The ticking of clocks stopped.
At last, she broke through the dark. “I thought I’d never get out of here. There was nowhere to send my father. We’d used up our savings on treatments that didn’t do any good. Jeff knew I was going crazy He’d drop off files for me to work on a couple hours a day - civil cases, some probate, he kept it light. I’d dress up and work in the dining room. It was the best escape I had. But my father was always there. I was so angry at him for wrecking my life. I knew how wrong that was, but I couldn’t stop it, and that made me all the angrier. I forgot how to be feel anything else for a long time.”
Arthur laced through the feathery layers of her hair, dragged his thumb in a line down the side of her neck, urging and protective.
“When he’d get out of the hospital - he had a few bouts of pneumonia, a mini-stroke - everyone acted like it was a miracle, an answer to prayer. Mabel brought him flowers and balloons, the nurses said he was lucky to have me.” A bitter laugh choked out of her. “I was just upset he hadn’t died. There were days I’d make the cruelest comments. Like when I’d wash him and he’d kick at me. Not hard - he was scared and didn’t recognize me. He’d been so kind growing up, the best person I’ve ever known. And he became a man he would have hated. A man Ihated.
"That’s all I can remember here. Becoming his parent when all I wanted was to be his daughter. What I’ve lost, how terrible I could be.” Her voice went higher, hitched and distant. “It’s like…I have blisters on my soul. And they’ll never, ever heal.”
Her thumb followed the seam of her nightgown. “That’s why I left after Murray Franklin, why I had to sort stuff out. I’ve always felt so safe with you. I needed to be sure you’d be safe with me.”
Arthur was stunned into holding his breath. He hadn’t thought about that night for ages, had done his best to put it behind him. What he’d assumed had been an act to protect herself had in actuality been an attempt at protecting him. What he wasn’t very good at, what his own mother hadn’t done.
When Penny had had her stroke, he’d felt the same disappointment, the despondency of having her around to haunt him. And the Arkham file had amplified that into an outright urge to do her in. If he hadn’t stumbled to Y/N’s apartment, if she hadn’t welcomed him into her home and heart, he might well have done it. Talk about blisters of the soul. But before he could spill that in an effort to connect, he thought better of it. It wouldn’t be fair to turn this conversation into one about himself.
Her clavicle dropped under his touch, her posture weakened by the weight of her regrets. He had to help her carry them. Bend a knee and provide a step to the pedestal she despised but belonged on. Affirm that “cruelty” and “Y/N” didn’t belong in the same sentence, in the same paragraph, in the same book.
His palms trailed to her shoulders. Goosebumps covered them in spite of the basement’s warm air. “Do you know when I first loved you?” He eased her back between his legs. “It was on the subway. When you returned my card. And you wanted to walk with me, anyway.”
A single sob broke from her lips, one and only one. “Oh, Arthur.” She lowered her head to his thigh and hugged his knee.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“It’s hard to disappoint the people you love.” She wiped her nose with the side of her hand, which came away wet with mucus. She smeared it on her nightgown.
He took Y/N’s formerly snotty hand and kissed it. Then he pressed a kiss to her ear, wrapped his arm around her and clasped her tight. “I’m not disappointed.”
She nuzzled the underside of his jaw. “Look at us. This is supposed to be our vacation.”
“We can go, if you want.”
“I don’t want to hurt Mabel more than I already have. Or you. Arthur, if life gets hard - if you have to go back to Arkham - I- I won’t make those mistakes again.”
“I know, sweetheart,” he whispered, eyelids falling shut at that promise, a fantasy from his journal made real. “I know.”
“Please keep letting me in.” Lashes tickled his neck. “I’ll try to let you in, too.”
When morning’s first sunbeams peeked through the basement windows, he guided her to stand. Dark circles dwelled under her eyes, a contrast to his own puffiness, a sure sign of her need for rest. “It’s time to go to bed.” He opened his top button.
She halted his movements with a graze to the wrist. “This late?” She argued even as she yawned. “It’d make more sense to put on coffee.”
Tutting his disapproval, he tucked her under his arm. She yielded without another word. A tingling heat worked through his veins, a sort of peace. She’d given him all she had and he’d handled it. Begun to restore his faith in her and, most vitally, in them. Nudged them towards each other. Nudged them both home.
The rest of it was nothing a little dancing couldn’t fix.
Summary:Arthur married Y/N a year and a half ago. Now it’s time to meet her family in Missouri. Believing that building a life in Gotham had excised the pain of the past, Y/N accepts Mabel’s invitation to visit, unaware her little sister has hurdles of her own. What starts as a wish to connect becomes an exercise in old wounds. Y/N must choose to face them with Arthur - or alone.
Chapter warning: Swearing, Angst
Words:2,584
A/N: This story wouldn’t be here without the help of my wonderful betas @jokerownsmysoul and @iartsometimes. Many thanks!
“Let her go.”
Arthur whirled on Mabel, a pillar of perturbed panic that would’ve frozen her solid, turned her into a popsicle if not for the booze buzzing through her blood. He descended another step. Again called Y/N’s name. The syllables were elongated to her ears, stretched into an almost unrecognizable tongue. How Mabel imagined French sounded when yawned.
She stood on shaky feet to lean on the porch’s post. A thirty-pound dumbbell stuck atop her neck, her head felt heavy and red, like the hot flashes she’d had during the second trimester of every pregnancy. Had it really been over a year since her last drink? Excess saliva poured into her mouth. She swished and gulped.
She grabbed his shoulder, which was boney, pointy under her hand. “She won’t go far, not this late.”
Tongue stuck between lower lip and teeth, he glared, a shadow of the special guest on Murray Franklin. The man who could no longer tolerate being the butt of a joke. (He’d mentioned being abused, right? Jesus Christ, she’d forgotten about that.) But poignancy lurked behind his lashes, akin to Ed’s sullen discontent after he’d opened that envelope. Been demoted by a form letter.
In the way mothers ignore their own pain while trying to comfort their children, she collected herself. “It’s just one of her walks. She’s been going to the watering hole to blow off steam since she could tie her own shoes. She’ll be back.”
“When?”
Her fingers slid to his taut bicep, curled around it, gave a gentle tug. “Soon.”
Once they’d gathered the remaining tableware, Arthur tread on her heels to the kitchen. The crackers were put in red Tupperware, the pitcher and the rest of its migraine inducer chilled in the fridge. During Ed’s college days, when they’d shacked up in their first apartment, he’d spent post-kegger evenings either eating over the bathroom sink or cleaning it. Now hot water ran into the kitchen sink, threatened to overflow, drip bubbles all over the suede loafers he’d neglected to kick off at the door.
“Y/N slink off to bed when I was on the can?” he asked.
Mabel hurried over, reached across to turn off the faucet. “Never mind her.” She shoved the dishrag at him, folded the cuff of his sleeves. A dull glint sparked his eyes, one that sharpened with every deft touch. But her gaze met his and held, a request he follow her lead - and a promise to talk later. He offered a crooked twist of his mouth for a smile.
He plunged his hands beneath the suds. “Arthur, you’re a comedian, right? You haven’t told one joke since you got down here!”
Arthur’s every gesture, from his dismissive wave to the jiggle of his knee, proclaimed he wasn’t in the mood to perform. Like a consummate professional, he got on with it regardless. His hip rested on the counter. “Knock knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Cash.”
“Cash who?” Mabel asked, drying a plate and passing it to him.
More forceful than expected, he took it. “I hadn’t heard you were a nut.”
Ed’s groan hastened to a begrudging chuckle. “You always tailor your set to your audience?”
Arthur opened the wall cabinet behind him, scanned the contents, tried the next one. Gone was the easy panache from their card game, that playful side that’d infected the whole table. “The business is all about fine-tuning.”
“Do the jokes always land?”
“If they’re any good.”
Bowls and a cast-iron skillet thudded in the dishrack. Thoughts drifting to Y/N, the ancient nickname she’d unearthed, Mabel’s movements slowed to what could charitably be called lazy wiping.
Nightmares had afflicted her as a little girl, dreams where she’d start off exhilarated and flying alongside a bluebird the size of a car. Just when she’d reach the highest point and laugh herself silly, joy would turn into a free fall, a plummet into a vast nothingness. Jolted awake, she’d bolt to the bathroom. Y/N would catch her there sometimes, watch her climb her footstool, drink lukewarm tap water from a paper Dixie cup. Get the horsehair brush with the wooden handle and untangle the snarled ends of Mabel’s hair.
“Dreams can’t hurt you, Able Mabel,” Y/N would say, leading her back to bed to tuck her in snug as a bug. She’d leave the door ajar and, violating the rules of the house, leave the hall light on the rest of the night. A sliver of soothing yellow that’d kept Mabel company through her second round of sleep.
A great sucking sound broke her out of her reverie as Ed yanked the metal stopper from the drain. Water gushed down the pipes, a whirlpool forming in the center, spinning round and round. “I’m gonna go catch the first inning of the game I taped.” He invited Arthur to join him, baiting him with a bag for pretzels, but Arthur declined with a polite but firm no. Sports weren’t really his thing, never had been. Finishing here wouldn’t take long. A thanks, a chin bob, a kiss to Mabel’s forehead and Ed was off, scratching his scalp and loosening his belt.
Regarding his retreat, she bent at the waist until she saw him round the corner at the stairs. Grabbed a juice glass, waited for the thud of his den’s door. She studied the glass’s decal wheat patterns, pupils tracing pale yellow wisps twirling into gold. “I turned down the money. It’s very generous of you, but… We can’t accept it. I can’t accept it.”
Arthur lifted the dishtowel from her forearm, took the glass. Soap slid down its sides, thanks to insufficient rinsing. “Do you and Ed keep secrets? From each other?”
Blinking, she pushed her head back, went through her brain’s rolodex. There’d been the raspberry dress with leafy appliques on the padded shoulders, and the matching leather pumps that’d doubled the price. She’d kept that extra forty-five dollars under her hat. “A purchase here and there. How much it annoys me when he picks his nails with a paperclip when we’re in bed.”
The towel squeaked along the glass, Arthur’s scrubbing growing rougher by the second. His pinky finger lost its grip on one side. As easily as Ed’s bad news had slipped from her mouth, it fell to the floor between them. Fragments flew under the table, slivers bounced against the lower cabinet, chunks settled at her heel. A burst of sobriety across the linoleum.
Before she could stop him, he crouched and picked up the shard closest to her toes. Sharp and short, he hissed, dropped it anew. Blood streaked his palm, crimson threads that escalated to ribbons. With the instinct of a woman who’d bandaged a thousand nicks and bruises, she rushed forward to wrap a dishtowel around his hand, guided him upright. “Here, hold tight,” she said, bringing his clenched fist above his heart.
He pulled his wrist away from her, closer to his chest. “But Ed knows everything about you. What you’re feeling, what you’ve done.”
She released him and went to the corner closet for a broom and dustpan. “After twenty years? I’m pretty sure he’s figured me all out. Or at least he believes he has and I’m happy with that. Besides, I don’t have the energy for secrets.” That’d been proven twice this week.
Making quick work of cleaning, she swept the glass into a neat pile, dumped it in the trash can. She scooted up to Arthur’s side, started the cold water. Before taking his hand, she asked permission. Though he gave it, he stiffened against her caress, against her care. She continued, anyway. She unwrapped his palm and shoved it under the faucet, wiped the dried coppery flecks away with the corner of the dishrag.
“Look at that,” she murmured, almost done. “All that blood and it’s such a tiny cut.”
His fingers trapped hers, his lips pressed together until they were white, waxy. “Tell me what’s wrong with Y/N. Please.”
“She’s an occasional pain in the ass. All the Harris women are. It’s a family tradition. Just ask Ed.”
“I have so many questions and- and she won’t answer any of them.”
Mabel’s chest hurt for Arthur, which was a nice change from it hurting for herself. But how was she supposed to respond when Y/N had been just as hush-hush with her? All Mabel possessed were conjecture and a nagging conscience. The worst game of Cloak and Dagger. “There’s stuff she hasn’t even told me. You understand her better than I do, Arthur.” She sucked in a breath, the admission a squeeze to her throat. “You know her life.”
“Well, she’s stopped letting me into it.”
“But she needs you now, to brush her hair and tuck her in. Even if she can’t explain.” She covered the nick with a band-aid, pressed the edges into his warm, weathered skin. “Nudge her back to herself because she needs it. And I need it, too.”
~~~~~
“You told her?”
“Of course I told her.”
Mabel shut the door of the den. She’d left Arthur with a mug of warm milk with a squeeze of honey and dash of nutmeg, an old recipe her mother had kept for restless nights. She’d helped him with the satellite dish’s remote control, found a channel with classic movies for late night programming. And put a stop to that damn jiggling knee with a firm grip. When he’d dismissed her with a quiet it’s okay, you can go, his stone-faced glare had changed into a smile she didn’t quite believe.
“What did you expect me to do, lie to her?” she continued. “She knew something was up. Arthur must’ve let it slip.”
“Wait a minute - you told Arthur?”
“Only that you’d be around more. That’s not terrible, Ed. Workaholics are going out of style - there’s a long article about it in Women’s Weekly.” Ed reclined his easy chair so it was at the perfect angle for TV viewing. A look of distinctly masculine deflation perturbed his face. “Don’t scowl. I hate it when you scowl.” She dropped herself in the nearby recliner, tucked her feet under her bottom. “Y/N’s the main breadwinner in their house, and Arthur doesn’t think anything of it.”
“Is she back yet?”
“Apart from a few blips, she hasn’t been here this whole visit.” She picked at her cuticle, the nail polish on her left pointer finger. “She doesn’t believe in me. She’s right not to, after all that.”
“Where’s this coming from?” He muted the ball game, where the Cardinals battled the Knights for the pennant.
The scraping left white marks she’d later paint over with Beauty Boutique’s Caravan Sands. “I was wrong. I’ve gotten pretty good at being wrong.”
It was a conversation that would happen with increasing frequency over the years. The platitudes would become grooves in her heart, memorized like a good line. “Mabel, you tried.”
Had she though?
Halloween of 1978 was a prime example. Replete with plastic dog mask and vinyl smock, Jason had disguised himself in his annual Scooby-Doo outfit. She’d made an astronaut’s helmet with Brian out of cardboard and tin foil. Brand new and cute as a JHB Button, Ruthie had been a wobbly Raggedy Ann, red yarn for hair and freckles dotted on her cheeks.
Y/N had called a couple nights prior, requested they not ring the doorbell. “Dad’ll think someone’s trying to break in.” Nevertheless, she’d invited them over, said she’d love to see the kids’ costumes. She’d even made a special treat for them, her attempt at brownies with assistance from Universal Foods.
But Brian had been too young, too excited by the magic of the holiday to follow directions. He’d run to that doorbell as if free candy was his lifeforce. Rung the bell over and over and over and over, only stopped by Y/N shuffling onto the porch. A great cheerlessness had consumed her body, a giving up of sorts. She’d bestowed stuffed sandwich bags to her nephews, trudged towards the car.
“I’m sorry,” Mabel had said. “He was too fast.”
“He doesn’t know any better.” Y/N could’ve meant the child or the child that now inhabited their dad’s body. She’d held Ruthie, pressed kisses to her wig, bounced her on her arm. Through the screen door, Henry yelled, a slur akin to Arthur’s French yawning with added shits and fucks. “I have to go inside before he hurts himself.” Her words had taken on a brittle quality, one Mabel hadn’t heard even during the breakdown of Y/N’s marriage. It had scared the shit out of her, frightened her more than any childhood dream of flying and falling.
“Rub some whiskey on his gums, like mom did to us.” The lame attempt at humor fell flat, the sole result a wry grin. Faster than she could say trick-or-treat, she’d piled the kids in the car to get something good to eat.
While her own parents hadn’t let her and Y/N forget they’d lived through the Depression, Henry and Agnes had carved out a perfect little life. And Mabel had been determined to recreate the idealistic family she’d blossomed in, to spare her children the pain of misfortune. But by refusing to bear witness to the horror of Henry’s illness, she’d protected them, protected herself from too much. Instead of speaking honestly about his diagnosis, explaining their grandfather would love them if he could, she’d relegated Henry to the status of phantom. A man in a photograph they’d never meet.
“Don’t be easy on me,” she told her husband.
“You took care of our home, the kids. You took care of me. You were the best mother wife I could’ve asked for.” He reached across, extended his hand in his usual manner when he wanted her to take it.
She declined. “But not the best sister. I wasn’t even in the running.”
“Y/N’s not exactly known for not speaking her mind. Wouldn’t she have asked if she wanted help?”
“She shouldn’t have had to."
That Halloween night, Mabel could have offered more than retreat. She could have offered to watch dad, let Y/N take the kids downtown for milkshakes and milk duds. Brought treats, an extra casserole to bake, a week’s worth of groceries. Mostly, she should have stopped using her children as a shield.
Her gut reaction to recognizing Arthur filtered to the forefront, her bafflement at Y/N putting herself in the position where she might be a caregiver again. What a dreadfully unfair flash of judgment, an embarrassment she regretted. Her lack of imagination had forced the concern, her chosen inexperience.
Fear had compared him to their father.
"I believe in you,” Ed said, unmuting the television. “Always have and always will.”
Rising, she dug her bare toes into the carpet. Another batter crossed home plate. “Your opinion means the world to me. But when it comes to this, hers matters more. Get to bed, dear. I’ll be up in a minute.”
She left the cozy comfort of the den, went to the sideboard by the front door. Found her keys and stepped out into the dark. It was cloudy and raining, closer to a cats and dogs situation than the predicted drizzle. She opened the driver’s side door of their ‘83 Chevrolet Caprice and turned on the headlamps. Ed would’ve told her to save the battery but whatever. What mattered now was lighting Y/N’s way back to her. What mattered now was lighting Y/N’s way back home.
Summary: Arthur married Y/N a year and a half ago. Now it’s time to meet her family in Missouri. Believing that building a life in Gotham had excised the pain of the past, Y/N accepts Mabel’s invitation to visit, unaware her little sister has hurdles of her own. What starts as a wish to connect becomes an exercise in old wounds. Y/N must choose to face them with Arthur - or alone.
“What’s this one’s name?” Y/N grabbed the green Glo Worm from the floral quilt folded at the foot of the bed.
Twice upon a time, at three and thirty-three, this bedroom had been Y/N’s. The room now wore the pale pinks of innocence, a change from her beloved baby blue and lavender. A plastic fingernail moon held the mantle of bedside lamp, its one wide eye a promise to protect, to keep watch. Her old school desk had been replaced by one with a top that opened and closed. But the toy box was in the same corner, the twin bed squatted by the same window. Its canopy made it adventurous, much more appealing than her bed, the one that’d prompted her to treat herself to a queen after a decade of her feet dangling over the edge.
Give it a rest, you idiot. Ruthie wants you to meet her toys.
“Polly.” Ruthie hopped from vowel to vowel on the garish alphabet carpet, a toe teetering between T for Tiger and U for Umbrella. She beamed at Arthur, swung her Funshine Bear back and forth. “She says likes you.”
Arthur answered with an enthusiasm he saved for favorite gigs. “She does?”
“Yep. She thinks you’re nice. Will you read to me now?”
“Okay. But your aunt might be better at that.” He flicked his gaze to Y/N, gave her elbow a tender squeeze. He’d adopted the lingo of family so quickly, as though he’d waited to learn it forever.
“But Flat Stanley’s a boy and you’re a boy.”
Y/N set the worm in Arthur’s already full lap. “Of course he’ll read to you,” she said, bending to peck the top of Ruthie’s head, ruffle her fine brown hair. “Sleep tight. Don’t let the bed bugs bite.” Leaving the door ajar, she escaped into the hallway. There was a window at the end of the short corridor. She reached it at an impressive pace, flung it open, sat on the cushioned sill that doubled as a bench to breathe in the not-cool-enough night air.
Apart from the terrible sex on the beach, she thought she’d done a serviceable job of holding herself together. Despite her urge to give the bank hell, she’d stopped herself from prying into Ed’s business. She hadn’t told Mabel to fuck off at her rebuke, her accusation of neglect when she’d rejected the idea of visiting their parents. (A euphemism that made her skin crawl like super rats on the subway.) She’d tried, really tried, to enjoy her and Arthur’s dates, make new memories that could dissolve the pains of old. Success had been a hair’s breadth away.
But he’d gotten odd. Arthur had never checked up on her, made the impression he was the jealous type. Albeit love-struck, filled with amorous flirtations, phone calls were short. Though many of her colleagues were men, he didn’t doubt her late nights at the office. And when she went out with Patricia, he told her to have fun rather than make adolescent attempts to keep her home with him.
He’d handled running into Jeff with aplomb, been his own sweet self just as she’d advised. But since that kiss in front of her ex’s office, Arthur had stuck to her like glue. Looking back, it felt possessive, out of character, like when he’d kept kissing her on the subway after his appearance on Murray. It was as if meeting the man she’d fallen out of love with had convinced Arthur he wasn’t enough. That he had to prove himself all over again in spite of the rings on their fingers.
He’d knocked on the bathroom door when she’d taken four minutes longer than usual, wiping wet cheeks and wiping herself with the same squares of Fern Green toilet paper. He’d started tagging along on her morning walks, which required an embarrassing amount of effort to smile through. And tonight, even though Ruthie had invited Uncle Arthur to tour her room, he’d dragged Y/N along with him.
A pleasure she’d normally cherish, fold into the deepest recesses of her heart, his constant presence was getting on her already frayed nerves. She didn’t have the energy for that. His old insecurities made it all the harder for her to act as though nothing was amiss, to shield him from the frustration knotted in her stomach. She needed room to gulp down her bullshit.
She needed Arthur to care a little less.
She focused on his unhurried narration, that raspy baritone that should have been a balm to her soul. Judging by Ruthie’s snickers, the book was a clear favorite. Every so often Arthur would stumble over a word, mistake does for dose or who for how, and she’d teehee, correct him like it was a game. It might take a few seconds to find his place, but he’d always start again, continue the tale of the boy who was mailed around the world.
If only Y/N could be squished flat, disguised as a postcard, and mailed back to Gotham.
Being away from here had allowed ninety-two percent of her to believe she’d gotten over it all. The rapid decline of her mother’s health when she needed her most. The years spent grounding her father. The agony of watching the man who’d been her rock when she’d scrapped her knee at five and divorced at twenty-seven deteriorate into a person she didn’t recognize.
Of turning into the worst version of herself. The version she never wanted Arthur to see.
What if he learned about her? Not of the meds she’d taken but what had led to them? Maybe he’d stop coming to her when he had a bad day, go back to hiding his challenges in the margins of his journal rather than telling her he felt heavy and needed to hold her hand. Exposing her powerlessness, the way she’d failed when she was needed, might lead him to think he’d been right all along. She wouldn’t blame him, with how much of a letdown the truth would be.
The hypocrisy of the notion shook her head. The night Penny had had her stroke, Arthur had completely shut Y/N out of his battles. It had irritated her to no end. After they’d moved in together, he’d taken months to confide his hallucinations, the extent of his depression and anxiousness. Every hospitalization. To learn he could get strength from her, because she would give him anything. They really were two canvases painted by the same brush.
But the fear that underlie it all - and not a little contrition - would keep her mouth sealed. If she could get him to cling, cling rather than cling, cling, cling, she’d be fine.
“Night, Ruthie,” Arthur said, one foot sticking out into the hallway, hand on the doorway. “Sweet dreams.” Gently, he shut the door, jiggled the knob to ensure it was secure. Contentment curved his lips as he ambled towards Y/N. “You sure you don’t want any?”
“Believe me, they’re not always like that. She just wants to be on her best behavior for her uncle. She’s developed quite a crush.”
He scoffed. “What, on me?”
“Every girl has at least one. I wanted to marry the mailman when I was seven. He brought the prettiest cards, rain or shine. There was Eddie Fisher, then my eighth grade history teacher. I can’t say I blame her. You’re kind and exotic-”
“I’m- exotic.”
“Well, you’re not from around here.” He gave a hitched laugh, sat next to her on the bench, leaned back through the open pane. A minute passed, then she broached the idea she’d been tossing around between bouts of ridiculousness. “I’d like to give Mabel some money - just to tide them over, until they see how Ed does. Maybe a thousand dollars. There aren’t enough people in this town for cosmetic sales to work, not long term.”
“Do you think that’s that why she invited us down here?”
“Definitely not.” Mabel had been a lot of things in the past: oblivious, carefree. and overly optimistic. But manipulative was off the list. “If she hadn’t let it slip to you, I wouldn’t have known to pester her.”
A hum she took as assent. She turned to watch him through the window. Smudges marred his handsome features in the moonlight, softened the cut of his cheekbone, diffused the black of his thick eyebrow. It made his expression impossible to read. Silence lingered, spreading like a blanket that promised warmth.
She tucked herself under it, uncrossed her legs and her reservations. “Thank you for telling me.”
Her fingers curled, nails scratching her cotton sleeves. “Why are you asking me that?”
“Jeff explained about your mom and dad. About Central City.”
“I’m glad you two got along so well.” Her eyes closed against the sharpness of her tone, the reproach that climbed her spine, formed a ball in the back of her throat.
“Why didn’t you ever mention it? Mention anything?” he asked.
“I said they were gone. That I knew what you were going through with Penny.”
“But I might be able to help.”
“Prattling on about it won’t change anything.”
Half on his side, Arthur ducked back through the window. Skepticism narrowed his gaze, a look of disbelief she’d last seen when she’d revealed his building’s involvement in her Big Wayne Case. When he’d questioned her motives.
The urgent need to escape this conversation swirled through her limbs, to escape his loving, damning perception. She pushed herself to stand. “You’ve told me not to worry about you since the subway. I wish you’d take your own advice.” Reaching the stairs, she tossed a weak smile over her shoulder. Her fingernails tapped the banister. “We should get downstairs. Mabel and Ed are liable to send a search party if we make them wait any longer.”
~~~~~
The porch was sticky with the oppressive humidity of southern summer nights, a sure sign of the showers the radio DJ had said were rolling in. Citronella candles perched on the handrails, the table, every available spot. The ambience would have been romantic if not for the oily citrus smell that accompanied it. Undeterred, mosquitoes buzzed by their ears at regular intervals, only stopping whenever Arthur decided to light up.
It was eight to eleven and the rounds of rummy had started almost two hours ago. When Mabel had suggested they play for old times sakes, times that hadn’t happened since the window between singledom and diagnoses, Y/N had accepted the challenge by shuffling the deck. Arthur fretted at her while their hosts threw together a pitcher of mojitos and platter of entertainment crackers with sharp cheddar cheese and pepperoni. “I only played war with mom or solitaire. I- I don’t know what I’m doing.”
The trepidation scrawled across his forehead led Y/N to suspect there was more, tales of trying and failing to be included. If her brain hadn’t been swimming, if she’d been in a better place, she would have followed-up on that lead. Instead, she’d suggested they pair up, play couple versus couple, a house rule he accepted as readily as her business card.
He turned out to be pretty good at spotting sequences, besting the rest of them as they downed cocktail after cocktail and he stuck with iced tea. He’d lay a card against the opposing couple’s spread, grab a slew from the discard pile when advised. An ace of hearts, a queen of diamonds, a ten of clubs. He carried most of their team’s weight by the start of her third drink, but that didn’t stop him from sharing their victories by kissing the back of her hand.
The night had been wonderful, her favorite since they’d crossed into Missouri. Alcohol lubricated her spine. Laughter and silly conversation kept her in the now, focused her on the present rather than drowning in a well of circular thinking about things she couldn’t change. Arthur no longer badgered. She touched her foot to his under the table, inched away from sights and sounds and stenches carved into the wrinkles of her gray matter, inched closer to the cling, cling, cling camp.
He snagged a pair Jacks from Y/N, added her last two cards to his to make three of a kind. He lay them on the white wicker stand. A smirk danced around his Stilton as he puffed away. But he said nothing, studying Ed and Mabel across the makeshift card table, a man waiting for congratulations, a grand acknowledgement of success. After a moment, Y/N realized Arthur had forgotten the magic words and bent to whisper in his ear. “Don’t celebrate too soon.”
“Oh. Yeah,” he said, leaning into his chair in clear satisfaction. “We’re out.”
Ed threw down his remaining cards, an entire handful that’d made defeat a forgone conclusion. “We give up.”
“We have no chance against you two newlyweds,” Mabel said. “But I want a rematch at your silver anniversary, double or nothing.” Ed excused himself to the restroom to obliterate the rest of the seal and she poured herself another. “You have any plans before you head back? Any sights to see?”
Arthur yawned a cloud of smoke, rubbed the heel of his palm to his right eye. “Not really.”
“The Rusty Spur’s still kicking.” Mabel flicked a mischievous gaze Y/N’s way.
Y/N slid down in her chair, disappointed she couldn’t slide into her shoes. The back of her short-sleeve sweater rode up to her bra. “Mabel, don’t do this to me.”
“What’s the Rusty Spur?” Arthur asked. “Is it squeaky?”
The younger woman snorted. “It’s a cowboy bar. Well, a country bar, but the clientele likes to play dress up on the weekend. Total shack. But there’s dancing.”
If he’d whipped to look at her any faster, Y/N would’ve heard his curls whoosh. “There’s dancing?”
God damnit. It was a foretold prophesy that she was going to wind up there. And it was the least she could do, after her clandestine avoidance and denials. She tried to get out of it, regardless. “She took me there every week the year Jeff and I separated. All they have is peanuts and bad beer. You don’t even like beer!”
“They have a fryolator now,” Mabel added.
Helpful, Y/N mouthed at her. “And line dancing isn’t really dancing, anyway. That’s the reason I’m okay at it.” A twinkle lit his eyes as he took a final drag off his cigarette. The ember lent a rosy glow to his cheeks, taught with mirth, and she realized she’d made precisely the wrong argument. She’d incriminated herself when she should have pleaded the fifth. Dejected, she left herself go limp. “Fine. We’ll go. But when you feel peanut shells crunch under your feet, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Arthur was mid fist pump when Ed called from the kitchen, clinging and clanging indicating tipsy trouble. Arms stretched over his head, Arthur stood and went inside, bringing glasses and the platter of snacks with him.
Rotating her wrist, Y/N swirled her mojito. “I’ve had a few of these in Gotham, but no one makes them like you.”
“It’s all the love I put in.”
“Psh. I think it’s the extra rum.” She pushed the cards together in a messy pile, turned the it on its side and used her right hand to rotate any cards that were askew. “You still a betting woman?”
“What’s the prize?” Mabel flipped her hair back, her words slow with extra rum. “You coming out to Sunset Hills with me?”
Was Mabel so inebriated she’d forgotten their spat in the basement? Visiting a slab of granite made as much sense as believing cold stone could provide the illusion of warmth. Heat rose in Y/N, a heat she sought to keep from entering her tone as she skirted the subject. She cut the deck and flipped the top card, a six of spades. “High or low?”
Straightening, Mabel analyzed the stack, anticipation stitching her brows. Like when they’d played games for penny candy, Satellite Wafers and Coconut Long Boys, Sugar Daddys and cherry flavored Mexican Hats. “Low.” Y/N turned the next card, and Mabel let loose a squeal of delight. “Deuce! What did I win?”
“Well, we were talking it over, and we decided to give you some cash.”
She recoiled as if Y/N were an asp. A mask of what might have been disgust shrouded her face. “You decided?”
“Just a small amount. Hell, consider it a loan if it makes you feel better.”
“You decided…” Mabel said to herself, voice drenched with admonishment. She shook her head, obstinance tightened the cords of her neck. “I can’t let you do that.”
“Making it on your own is a lot harder than you think.”
Mabel flinched. “Y/N, that’s not it.”
“Are you worried about us? Everyone is so fucking worried.” Rolling her eyes, Y/N put her elbows on the table. “Well, don’t be. We have more then enough.”
Gazing through the screen door, Mabel pulled one leg up so her foot rested in her chair, hugged her knee to her chest. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, looking back. About when dad was sick, dying. When Ed and I would leave whenever it was hard. I didn’t know what to do. Jason’s colic was so bad and it all happened so fast. All I wanted was to pick up the phone and call mom for help. Then dad disappeared and-”
Tonight’s glorious escape ebbed with each sentence, every syllable dug the well of the past that much deeper. Raking her nails over her scalp, Y/N stared at her lap, lips opening and closing but saying nothing.
Once, she’d driven her father two hours to a psychologist in Memphis for what would be another attempt at slowing the pestle of dementia in the mortar of his mind. With some cajoling, he’d tried to draw hands on a clock, connect the dots, name geometric shapes - and failed at all three.
She’d worn the same A-line skirt as usual, the hem just below her knee. The opposite of provocative, especially with her pantyhose covering her legs. But when the doctor had left to make a phone call to a colleague in St. Louis, her father had rounded his attention on her. “You’re wearing that to show off. Stop exposing yourself.” Then he’d returned to silence like it was nothing, as if a torpedo hadn’t been dropped on her. By the time they’d gotten home, he’d forgotten all about it. It had left her humiliated, embarrassed. With a powerlessness that made her feel small enough to fit on the head of a pin.
“It doesn’t matter now,” Y/N said, resolved to keep the past locked in the past. “Jesus, just take the fucking money.”
Mabel morphed into the little sister from her youth, eyes and cheeks as red as confession. “I don’t blame you for being mad at me. You were always the strong one. I took that for granted. No wonder you keep leaving.”
She had been mad at Mabel. Beyond a call to let her know she’d gotten to Gotham all right, to laugh about her apartment’s fake balcony and report she’d already sold her car, she’d taken a break from communicating. But with space and six months, she’d realized Mabel wasn’t the object of her scorn. No. It was someone else entirely.
“I love you so much,” Mabel said. “I can’t bear to lose you, too”
Y/N rose and blinked towards the backyard, the paths she’d walked in the fields and woods when hopelessness threatened her with surrender. Her voice stuck in her throat. “Able Mabel…” It was a childhood nickname, suddenly reborn. “You look at these walls and see all the wonderful things that happened in them. All I can see is what he- What I-” She reached back to grab her Collins glass and started off across the lawn.
“Where are you going?” Mabel hollered from behind her. “The mosquitoes are gonna eat you up!”
The screen door squeaked, followed by Arthur’s stricken call. “Y/N, wait!”
Summary:Y/N and Arthur share a delightful life, one that isn’t perfect but wholly theirs. When his struggles take a serious turn, she’s surprised by the toll it exacts. Though the steps they’ll have to take aren’t easy, walking them together makes all the difference.
Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Struggles with mental illness
Words:2,704
A/N: Thanks again to @sweet-nothings04 for beta-reading and sharing her thoughts and feedback! When you’re in the thick of a story, you can become blind to obvious solutions and she’s been so helpful. Thanks to my wonderful readers, too!
If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me anask! I’m still working on requests and Way Back Home!
The telephone rang at 9:47 PM. Y/N stuck her head out of the bedroom, pulled her nightgown past her shoulders. Calls this late were seldom, even with Mabel’s disregard of time zones. Odds were it was Patricia checking in under the guise of chewing the fat, which had already been nibbled twice today. Or Greater Gotham Cable peddling their latest “preferred customer deal” of twenty-eight stations for only $12.99 a month, plus a free trial of the Gentlemen’s Club, guaranteed to make even the most reserved viewer bust a button - an offer Y/N was sure to decline. She padded through the living room to the kitchen, lowering the window shades along the way, and answered the phone with a yawned hello.
