I’ve updated this today and I’m planning to release a bunch of my works in the future with a bunch of new characters. I’m releasing a fic today in the next few minutes! I’ll also be remastering a bunch of my old fics so you may see them pop up every once and a while when I do! I hope you guys enjoy! :)
summary: late at night, arthur needs a little bit of warmth. not knowing exactly what to say, you offer him solace in a way that he inspires.
warnings: angst.
word count: 2497
notes: hi there! it’s been a minute. i’m still here. still writing. still loving arthur. this is my first piece in quite some time. i’m a little (a lot!) rusty i know, but i hope to begin posting more frequently now that life has calmed down a little. thanks for reading & i hope it comforts you to read as much as it did me to write it ♡
The time on the clock didn’t surprise you when you raised your head and squinted your eyes at it. It was late; even for a city that never rested, most Gothamites had turned their lights out long ago, and its raucous bustle had reached a drowsy lull.
You had been searching for sleep for several hours, but you couldn’t quite find it while also trying to ignore the fact that Arthur’s side of the bed was still empty. You missed the feeling of his weight next to you and the warmth of his body, the unique, soft cadence of his breath. You’d grown accustomed to sharing this sacred time with him, reveling in the sheer joy that the simplicity of just being able to be with him provided. Whether sleep came for either of you or not was always beside the point when nighttime fell; more important was that it was time when you and him could be together alone.
But concern had been growing within you for Arthur. While you knew that what he sometimes needed was just some time to himself to think or write or to simply be, alone was what he seemed to prefer to be most of the time lately. Tonight, you couldn’t push that rising concern away any longer. It carried you out of bed and pushed you out the bedroom door.
Your heart felt heavy when you found a pitch black living room – a barren couch, no shadow seated at the dining table or low drones coming from the TV speakers. Instead, the space was desolate, accompanied only by the sound of running water from the kitchen sink which didn’t quite muffle the unmistakable sound of sniffling. You moved towards the kitchen with quiet, reserved steps and peered around the corner.
He was there, bracing himself at the sink. You watched him. His jaw clenched as he mindlessly resumed scrubbing away at the coffee rings on the inside of a mug. Tension coated his every movement. His nostril twitched, his eyes squeezed shut as his hands worked. You knew what he was resisting and decided not to wait to step in and try to break his spell.
“Arthur,” you whispered as you came up behind him, your voice serving as a warning that you were there, and a reminder that he wasn’t alone. You placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, held your breath. You held back the tears that instantly sprung when he flinched at your touch. Slowly your hands circled around his front to cup his shoulders in a tight embrace. Your cheek rested against his back as you felt him trying to control his shallow breathing.
“I’m here,” you offered simply, planting a kiss to the ridge of the uniquely pronounced joint on his shoulder blade.
His movements stalled until he was hardly moving a muscle. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t know if what you were doing was the answer. Maybe it was a complete mistake, coming out here rather than letting him navigate this on his own. Maybe it was a wavelength that only he could ride, a storm only he could weather. But your instincts continued to compel you on. You leaned around him and turned the water off.
You tried to ignore the slight resistance in him as you guided him to turn around and face you.
“C’mere,” you pleaded. You reached for his hands and took the dish and rag from him, setting them on the counter before bringing his palms to your waist and looping your arms around his neck. You searched for his eyes, but they stayed shut. Tears dripped down his cheeks despite his best efforts to stop them, and his lips trembled from how tightly he held them together.
“Arthur, it’s okay,” you sighed, guiding his head towards yours and pressing your foreheads together. You raked your fingers through his hair and massaged his neck with your fingertips. “It’s okay,” you repeated. “You’re okay, sweetheart.”
Suddenly, his grip on your sides tightened and he was pulling you as close as possible to him as sobs overtook his body. Tears soaked through your shirt as his hands traversed your back and played with the frayed ends of your hair. His hands wandered all around you, as if he was afraid you weren’t really there. As if he was afraid you might slip from his grasp if he dared let go.
“I’ve got you,” you assured, your own hold on him tightening to bring yourself closer.
You didn’t want to pretend to know what to say – because really, what was there that could be? Sometimes there are no answers for certain mysteries, no remedy for particular ailments. For now, all you knew to do was hold on to him.
Sparse bursts of pained laughter broke through between the sobs. Part of you couldn’t help but feel grateful that he finally was able to let go, to let everything he felt out. It was too much to bear inside and to bear alone. You hoped, if he ever had any doubt, that he knew you’d never dream of leaving his side as long as you let him be there.
You pulled away from him only to blindly tear pieces of paper towel from the nearby roll, wadding it up to dab under his eyes and wipe at his nose. You tossed the tarnished sheets towards the trash can and cupped his face gently in your hands, placing just as gentle kisses to the spots where the tears had now been dried. He grew quieter, controlled yet still on the verge of inconsolable. When more tears started to fall after mere moments, you wrapped your arms around him and shifted your weight, and that’s when the idea struck you like a match.
Arthur never hesitated to pull you into a dance.
No matter how many times you laughed shyly and playfully pushed him away, insisting that you were no good and it would just be embarrassing, he always persuaded you to take his hand and let him lead you. He’d sashay towards you in a way that was somehow both silly and sexy, dip you low, spin you around with relative ease, making you laugh all the while. Your reservations were forgotten rather than dwelled on.
Arthur had a way about him. And that way was one you wanted to follow forever.
Tonight though, you were happy to lead.
You shifted back to your other foot, slowly rocking back and forth. His body was rigid against your own, barely leaning into your movements and certainly not registering what it was that you were trying to do. You pulled away just enough to be able to look at him as you started to make your movements more deliberate. You relaxed your hold around his neck, pulling back slightly as you began to sway your hips. You stepped back, pulling him away from the counter and into a semblance of a dance.
He followed you with unexpected ease and, to your surprise, little hesitation. Finally his tired eyes opened back up to really look at you. You met them in an instant. Sadness welled there still, exhaustion rendered them able to open only barely, but the corners of his lips turned upwards ever so slightly into a sorrow-coated smile. You smiled back. Yes, that’s better, you thought. His grip on you softened in tandem with yours on his as he loosened up and started to move in step with you.
You didn’t know which step came next. You didn’t know how to turn your bodies with the same panache he managed to always possess when leading you along. But he let himself be led, the movements and your presence relaxing him as you continued to try and find the way for both of you.
Try as you might, there was no way you’d be able to emulate his seemingly effortlessly suave nature when he was leading you in a dance. Something always took over in him, as if his soul was guiding him. You felt him falling into that even now; he couldn’t help himself. In that moment there was no doubt for you that you would dance with him through every high and every low.
Tonight, there could be no more perfect dance floor than the linoleum kitchen tiles for the pair of you. The fluorescent light above the sink was a perfectly rigged spotlight.
But a distance stretched, invisible yet still able to be felt, as his mind wandered again. You tenderly guided his head to your shoulder and wracked your brain for a tune that would do.
You began to hum a soft, sweet melody, the one of a song that had played on the radio one particularly perfect Sunday afternoon not long ago. Nothing extravagant or exceptional happened that day. But you were together, and that had been enough. He hiccuped as genuine laughter slipped past his lips.
In a spontaneous flourish, you raised your arm above your head in an attempt to spin him. Your limbs collided awkwardly, but Arthur still somehow managed to make it look halfway graceful, helping you complete the circle. When he returned to face you, his hands found their usual familiar position, one on your waist and the other holding your hand.
You danced together in the deep blue night, in the safety of your home and sanctuary of each other’s arms. It was all you could offer him. You hoped it was enough. For now, you had to believe it was.
When your steps slowed to a stop, you kept your hold on each other. You still didn’t have the words or surely any answers. But you continued to try.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you assured him. “Take these,” you continued, reaching to grab his pack of cigarettes and lighter where they rested on the countertop. “Let me make you something.”
He let go of you reluctantly. His head hung low as he listened and went, pulling a cigarette out and plucking it between his lips. He was used to taking care of others, to putting an effort into making others laugh no matter what burdened him. But you were glad that for now, he was letting someone else take care of him, even if he was just too tired to accept anything else. You never wanted that to be up to him alone ever again.
You filled the tea kettle and clicked the gas on the stove before grabbing a mug and setting it alongside the one he had just washed. Just like washing the dishes, tending to each other’s wounds, inside and out, would always be a cycle. But it was one you were grateful to share because you shared it with him.
Mug of tea with a touch of honey to soothe his throat in tow, you joined him on the couch on the opposite end with a mug of your own. You blew the steam away and shared quiet sips while you reached underneath the leg of his pajamas and caressed his outstretched calf. It seemed more obvious now that sometimes words weren’t needed. This was still enough.
The minutes ticked by and when the sky started to lighten, sleep approached and beckoned to you both. He brought the empty mugs to the sink and came back to lay down, pulling you against him on the much-too-tiny couch. But you settled against him happily. This was what you had been missing. Even if it wouldn’t be much, sleep would come easier now; you hoped it would for him too. You leaned up to whisper in his ear.
“I’m here for you, baby. No matter what.”
He tightened his hold around you.
“It’s still hard to believe sometimes.”
“I know.” You snuggled closer. “I know it doesn’t fix everything, but I love you.”
“It helps,” he whispered back, the lump in his throat audible. “I love you too.”
You held each other tight and closed your eyes.
* * * * *
It was the clock radio blasting from the bedroom that awoke you a short while later. A jaunty orchestral tune sang out, jovial voices perfectly happy to rouse one awake. The two of you groaned, stretched your bodies and nestled closer to each other. You heard Arthur’s voice before your eyes opened.
“Time to put on a happy face.”
You angled yourself to rest on his chest and nuzzled at the 5 o’clock shadow that had started to sprout on his cheek, kissed the corner of his mouth, tousled his hair. He looked down at you. You traced the curve of his cheekbone with your thumb as you searched his eyes once again, watching seas of emotions pass through them. Discernable in a way you hoped to fully understand one day. But it didn’t have to be today.
As if to answer or maybe silent your whirling thoughts, he leaned in and your lips met. It was impossible to get closer, and yet somewhere deep down you were. Last night had shown you both that.
You pulled yourselves up, stretched even more, and made your way to the bedroom to begin getting ready for the day ahead. Rather than shut the radio off, you turned it up louder, dancing your way out of your pajamas and into your work clothes. Arthur watched you with a restored twinkle in his eye as he pulled the corners of the bedsheets on your side up and straightened them out.
He shaved while you started the coffee and washed your mugs from the night before. When he joined you, you handed him his mug with a smile.
“How are you feeling?”
“A little bit better.”
Silence followed, one full of unspoken near-understanding. You reached for his hand and took it, holding it between both of your own.
“I know it can be hard to believe…it is for me too. But I’ll do everything I can to help you remember what I told you last night.”
You brought his hand to your heart. He pressed his palm flat, processed each precious beat. Even if he couldn’t always believe it, he was starting to understand that he never needed to doubt his belief in you.
You shut off the coffee pot, each grabbed your bags, checked you had your keys and metro cards, and started out to face the world again – together.
Arthur had his demons; you didn’t quite know that your heart would ever be unbroken after he started to tell you more and more about them over time. You knew that no matter how long you stayed with him, no matter how much love you showed him, you could never change the past.
But you were committed to making sure the future was as bright as possible for him. To making sure that there was always more laughter than tears.
summary: your late night commute takes an interesting turn when someone special comes to your rescue.
warnings: smut.
word count: 5445
notes: i owed @iartsometimes BIG TIME for being so wonderful & generous, so i recruited her help to come up with the idea for this piece! thank you for the idea & for the brainstorming and for…well, everything. you are awesome!!❣️ a big thank you as well to @fleckcmscott for beta-reading
It was late at night, and as to be expected, the subway was following suit.
You rocked on your feet, trying to relieve the dull throbbing rooted in them. You were ready to be home and, more than that, anxious to be out of this dingy station. You listened to the heavy scurrying of rats around nearby trashcans and the frustrating rumble of trains arriving at platforms above and below your own. You leaned forward and peered down the track for the hundredth time or so, saying a silent prayer that the train’s headlights would finally be in sight – but no luck.
You groaned and checked your watch. You had been waiting for over 20 minutes. The temptation to just head back above ground and hail a cab was mounting. Or maybe… give him a call. But you knew the moment you made that decision, the train would arrive. It would be silly. So you made your mind drop it. You remained acutely alert, keeping your head on a swivel. It was so quiet around that it was unnerving. Even for late at night, it wasn’t common in a place like Gotham to feel alone.
The seconds ticked on. You started to grow more weary by the minute, reduced to counting the drips from the pipes overhead to distract yourself.
And then, there was a shift. You heard them before you saw them.
Laughter echoed above and rang in your ears. You rolled your eyes and clocked the rowdy group of men struggling to make their way down the stairwell nearest to you. Just what I needed, you thought to yourself as you wasted no time in starting down the platform, putting a safer distance between them and yourself. Shirts untucked, ties loosened, deflated coiffed hair served as sure signs that they’d been having a fun night; and from the sounds of it, their fun wasn’t about to die down anytime soon.
It was a rare miracle when at last you felt the ground vibrating beneath you and heard the unmistakable blare of a train horn reverberating off the tile walls, obscuring the laughter as you continued moving forward. You looked over your shoulder and confirmed your ears weren’t betraying you. You darted your eyes and stepped back behind a crumbling column, hoping that you had gone unnoticed.
The train pulled into the station and hissed to a halt. You stepped inside and were happy to see that the car was nearly empty, save for a lonely soul at the opposite end who was hunched over, fast asleep. You plopped down on the bench and let your head fall back, thankful for the relief of finally getting to rest your feet.
As the doors closed, your relief slowly radiated. The boisterous group had gotten on in another car, the train would be moving soon, you were finally on your way home. The relief filled you up and let your eyes float shut.
But the relief was fleeting, as it usually was in Gotham.
The door between cars opposite from where you sat slammed open, prompting the snoozer to peep his eyes open before turning in on himself with a grunt while a familiar group made their way into the car, their voices ringing even louder in the confined space, their laughter piercing.
Your eyes couldn’t help but open, but you kept them on the floor, making sure to not give them a chance to catch them. It’d be too much to ask to get a seat on the train and have a quiet car. You started to contemplate what you’d make for a midnight snack when you got home when the sneaking suspicion that the space between you and them was growing smaller pricked at the hairs on the back of your neck.
You looked to the side discreetly, eyes still glued to the ground, to find their feet. Sure enough, a pair of overshined penny loafers were pointed towards you, a chorus of amused, hushed chuckles coming from their direction as they took a step closer. And then another. The burning sensation of a stare bore into you. Before the temptation to do something stupid won out, you were standing and starting towards the door at your end of the car.
Your heart felt like it was going to beat out of your chest as you passed through into the next car, letting it slam shut behind you. Relief was replaced by adrenaline as you moved with a quickened pace. You bypassed car after car, the flickering lights and high speed that you were traveling at making you feel less than steady.
As you made your way towards the doorway of another car, nearing the back of the train now, the lights flickered again and stayed off, surrounding you in inky blackness. You were between cars, the next door barely opened when your balance gave way completely as the train lurched into the next station, causing you to fall backwards.
You reached out in desperate search of anything to grab onto when something found your grasp. Or rather, someone. You squinted as the beige station light started to pool through the windows and breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the familiar hand in yours, at the end of a lanky arm covered in vermillion fabric.
“Whoa there. Did I knock you off your feet?”
A disbelieving laugh left you as you held back onto him tighter. It was another rare miracle, though you weren’t totally convinced that this one was a coincidence.
He helped pull you forward into the safety of the car and searched your face, seeing immediately that something wasn’t quite right. You clung to him as you tried to rediscover your center of gravity.
“What are you doing here? You shouldn’t be…”
The words tumbled out as you looked over his shoulder and your own, this way and that, worry that someone else might take notice of his surprise appearance taking over. The stranger must have given up on his pursuit, if he had been following you at all, because there was no sign of him.
Joker cocked his head to the side and offered a curious smile, adoring your bemusement and your concern. He pulled you closer into him, helping you straighten up. “It’s okay, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”
You nodded, believing him. You grasped both of his arms as his hands found the dips in your waist with gentle strength. He guided you in a way that let you know you didn’t have to worry about what you came from, about what came next, that you didn’t have to worry about a thing.
“Come on,” he coaxed, leading you to a bench. He sat down and propped his arm up along the back of the seat, creating a nook for you to settle into. You joined him, resting against his chest with a deep exhale as his arm looped around your shoulders.
“What happened? Did a super rat board the train with you again?”
He never failed to make you crack a smile. His teasing alleviated you enough to catch the breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. “I just felt like someone was following me. I know it was probably nothing, but –”
“ – But you can never be too careful in Gotham.” This was something he had learned long ago. You knew he knew that better than anyone, in more ways than one.
You couldn’t help your eyes drifting back to the door at the far end, your anxiety still bubbling lightly. Your body trembled in his hold as you fought to quell it.
“Hey.”
You heard him, his voice clear as a siren’s call in your ear, but still you couldn’t quite tear your attention away from the door.
“Hey,” he whispered, bringing his fingertips to your jaw, tilting it gently towards him.
You let your concentration shift to him with his tender guidance, your head pivoting until you were face-to-face. He brushed his nose against yours, tucked a lock of hair behind your ear. Your eyes met, and then he had you. His eyes revealed a depth that still managed to make your breath catch in your throat. You were sure you’d never get used to the feeling of him simply looking at you, how he could make you feel so seen.
“That’s better,” he said with a soft pat to your cheek. He crossed his legs and angled himself towards you more.
Your eyes flicked down to his lips, the ruby red standing out against stark white. You eyed the signature faded patch in the middle of his mouth, a sign you learned was indicative that he’d smoked a cigarette or two before he found you. You watched the way they curved upward and how his tongue poked between them before he spoke.
“How about a joke?”
“Um.” You shrugged and gave him a knowing smile. “Sure.”
The apples of his cheeks rose and his eyes flicked upwards.
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to derail the evening.”
A groan at the pun, followed by laughter that couldn’t be helped. You brought your hand up to his cheek. It was warm and soft, dimples prominent even as his smile relaxed.
“I’ll always be happy to hear your jokes,” you whispered.
“Yeah?” He raised an eyebrow, cocked his chin.
“You know I will.”
You rested your head on his shoulder and nestled closer to him, wrapping an arm around his waist. You couldn’t help but wish that you were snuggled up together at your place or his, anywhere other than the hard plastic of the train bench. “I was freaked out for a second there,” you admitted. “Now I just feel silly.”
“I understand. But you’re safe with me. I promise.”
“I know.” And you did. You looked up at him, staring at the little details of his features you always tried to take in when had the privilege of being this close. When he looked back at you, you arched up to plant your lips on his, pressing into the dryness of the crimson that coated them, relishing in the taste of their pliant warmth. You poked your tongue out, teasing them against his lips that opened effortlessly to let it slide between them. But you withdrew and settled for one more quick peck.
“Sorry,” you apologized as you ducked your head back under his chin. A little quieter, you admitted, “I can’t resist you.”
He pulled back to bring his hands up and cup your cheeks. “You don’t have to,” he offered. Even his gaze felt like an embrace. It made your heart race all over again, but for a much different reason now.
You closed your eyes, leaning back in to kiss him again; he kissed you back with equal ardor, hands falling from your cheeks as his arms wrapped around you in a way that made you feel like you were protected from everything that had threatened to fill you with fear. The protection he provided only made you want to be closer to him, as troubles were forgotten, to give him everything and receive whatever he was willing to give you back.
Slowly, he started to ease you down to lay on the bench. As he hovered over you, you watched as the flickering lights cast shadows on his vibrant façade, certain swatches of the light catching the prominence of his cheekbones and the sharp line of his jaw. Your admiration blossomed as his hands slowly pushed your shirt upward. They were calloused but soft, the feeling of him on your bare skin making resistance nearly unbearable now.
You smiled with hesitant confusion as he leaned down. You felt his warm breath cascading over your skin before the zig-zagging sensation of the tip of his tongue up your tummy. You giggled at the mischievously light path he treaded, and sighed when he reached your sternum. He laid his tongue flat and continued up the space between your breasts. You shivered as he continued higher, tongue withdrawing as wet kisses were planted along your jaw. Your smile dissolved as your need for him grew when he licked the shell of your ear. He nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, pressing his body closer to yours with a moan to meet the way you were silently begging for more of him.
Your lifted his head up only to drag him back down with you, the hunger of your starved hearts only able to be satiated by the nearness of each other. Gentle bites of the lip and drags across each other’s tongues prompted needy pleas barely covered by the chugging of the train. Your longing for each other was almost enough to block out the conductor’s announcement overhead when it pulled into the next station. Hardly aware that you had even come to a stop, your chests rose up and down against each other’s as you strained to listen over your blood rushing.
“Attention, passengers: this train will be running express to Dyer Avenue.Running express to Dyer Avenue, the end of the line. The next and last stop on this train will be Dyer Avenue.”
Your drifting eyes found each other’s again. It was a lot of stops between this one and that one. Well past your own stop. You started to lift yourself up instinctually, but he gently pressed back, holding your shoulder down.
“Stand clear of the closing doors.”
Your breath caught in your throat, but you followed his lead. The trust you had in him washed over you, a special kind of reassurance. The chime accompanying the closing doors pinged above your heads as the dilation of his pupils expanded, his smile growing wide once again, making butterflies flutter to life in your belly. Slowly you heard the familiar vamp of the train revving up, felt it jutting forward once more, its momentum sliding your bodies against each other and creating a barely-there satisfying friction.
The lights flickered again above, allowing you to see the way his smile evolved only in flashes. As the train reentered the tunnel and was submerged back into darkness, you felt his lips back on yours, the dampness of his tongue tantalizing when it found your lips parting with a sigh.
His fingers came up to scan your neck before trailing down the center of your chest until they reached your waist. His fingers toyed with the button on your pants. You could feel his smirk against your lips as your breath stalled when his fingers nimbly worked it open. He was about to go further until the sound of the door behind you sliding open caused your eyes to fly open. He shifted his hand up to clasp your hip, his thumb rubbed soothing patterns. He shifted his arm on the outer edge of the bench to block you from their sight.
“Trust me,” he mouthed down at you with a wink of his eye.
“What the —" the stranger’s voice mumbled.
“I think you’re going to want to turn around, and walk the other way,” Joker called out in response. You bit your lip, a surprising smile threatening to break out. You loved the high timber of his voice, the command it convincingly carried when he wanted it to. The contrast it had to when he spoke to you.
You peaked around his forearm at the unsuspecting person who was frozen in his tracks. When he didn’t seem to register what he’d heard, Joker turned to him, delicately withdrawing his hand from you and pulling your shirt back down. He stood and before he could take a step towards the dubious intruder, the hint was taken. He turned around in a near blur, heading back in the direction he came from.
After a beat, he turned back to you with a satisfied grin on his face. You both giggled, more amused by it than sorry you’d gotten caught. He crossed back to you with a casual shrug of the shoulder.
“Now, where were we?”
He straddled you once again, one foot on the ground as his other knee came to rest on the inner side of the bench. He leaned down and began peppering kisses from your mouth to your jaw down your neck, humming as his lips pressed against your warm skin. As he kissed you, his thumb and forefinger reached your zipper and pulled down, granting him broader access to your aching center.
You whimpered as you felt the initial pressure of his palm slipping over your panties, the gentle press of his fingertips as they dipped down ever so slightly then drew back up. You tried to bite back the moans threatening to breach your lips, but when at last his fingers lifted back up and slipped beneath the thin fabric, you couldn’t help yourself any longer. You didn’t want to.
“Oh,” you gasped, eyes falling shut as his fingers skimmed your slick skin. You were more than ready, longing for whatever he was willing to give you. Slowly they traveled until they brushed your entrance. You held your breath, praying they’d keep going, but he withdrew them in a way that was cruelly taunting. You groaned, exasperated with his teasing. You opened your eyes and silently pleaded to him.
“You want me to keep going, darling?”
You arched into his touch in response as your hands slipped underneath his blazer to clasp at his shoulder blades. Your fingers clung at the familiar feeling of his shirt, dragged up and down his back and tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. He let his hand fall lower again, his palm caressing you. As you met his touch eagerly, his thumb reached upwards, running along your folds before dancing around your clit. He used your deepening sighs as his cue to keep going. When he finally started to circle it with a gentle, easy pace, you cried out in relief.
The train engine roared in your ears as the train continued to pick up speed. Half the train lights were out now, leaving you awash in an otherworldly glow of pale light and shadow. You watched with heavy-lidded eyes as he withdrew and brought his fore and middle fingers to his mouth, lubricating them before sliding them back between your legs and entering you fully now, sliding in and out of you easily.
You hands clasped his neck, gripping tightly. You were overwhelmed well past the point of caring how brash your gasps were, how desperate-sounding the whines coating your breath were. You let him hear how good it felt to have his fingers fucking you, how well they knew you. His hips shifted as he repositioned himself, leaning into you. You moaned at the feeling of the blunt prominence of his erection rubbing against your leg and braced one hand on the top of bench as you angled yourself to meet him, urging him to go faster.
“That’s it,” he purred in your ear, curving his fingers ever so slightly inside you. “That’s my girl.”
Your hips rolled up to drive him deeper inside you, working in tandem with him to match the rhythm you needed. He watched you with glossy eyes as he worked with you, watching the way your jaw dropped with a gasp and how your eyebrows stitched together when he added one more finger inside you. He slowed at first, letting you get used to the feeling, loving the sight of your back arching as your hips lifted. And then he picked up the pace, keeping it steady – not too fast. Enraptured at the sight and feeling of you, he barely made out your muffled, breathy “I’m close, baby, I’m close,” as your pleasure peaked suddenly, and then your walls began to flutter around his fingers.
He watched you attentively, following your lead in slowing the pace with the pulses around his fingers. Your hand found his wrist and lazily guided him until your orgasm waned. He stopped with you, breath throaty and nearly as heavy as your own. When your hand dropped, he carefully withdrew himself and helped rezip and button you up, making sure you were as covered as the circumstances allowed while you caught your breath. When you did, he kissed your face with fervency, and you basked in the tenderness bookending this perfectly hazy bliss.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he pulled away to be able to look at you.
“Never better,” you answered honestly, with the little breath you could muster. You mimicked his earlier action, tucking his hair behind his ears as you looked up at him, caressing his face. “Are you?”
He nodded, his earnestness expressed in that way he looked back at you.
Suddenly you burst out into a fit of laughter, hands dropping to grasp the lapels of his jacket. You gripped them, eyes squeezing shut.
“What is it?” he whispered, amused grin rising on his cheeks.
You brought a hand to your face, hoping to hide your blushing cheeks, as if it mattered now.
“I can’t believe we just did that.”
The hitch of his laugh rang in your ears and made your heart soar. This thrill ride was ludicrous. Something only he could ever provide for you. Your arms loosened around him as he guided you to sit back up and rest against him, sitting back to enjoy the rest of the ride.
The train rumbled on. It ran up and down in the mechanical labyrinth, skipping deserted platforms, eventually rolling its way up on tracks that rose above the city streets. You watched it go by, the dim lighting in the car allowing the building’s windows to twinkle like stars. You rode on until you reached the outer skirts of the city.
When the train rolled into the last stop at the end of the line, his arm fell from your shoulder to take hold of your hand. You waited for the initial wave of stragglers to exit before getting off the train yourselves and making your way down to street level. You ducked behind the pillar holding up the tracks until the coast was clear.
“I’ll have to make a quick call…” he explained, reaching into his inner jacket pocket for his cigarettes and lighter, plucking one between his lips before continuing. “To get us where we want to be. I think there’s a phone around here somewhere.”
It was an hour so late in the night that a relatively serene quiet fell over Gotham. Cobalt clouds hung above you, broken street lamps making them stand out against the rich navy sky.
“Why do you always take the train home this late at night, anyway? You know you don’t have to,” he questioned as he exhaled a cloud of smoke into the air.
“So you can come to my rescue.”
Eventually you started off on your search. The sidewalks were dark and deserted. You meandered through abandoned side streets until you came to a phone booth, it’s overhead light barely illuminating your path to it. He let go of your hand as you approached the door, assuring you it would only take a moment to hail your ride. But you had another idea.
Instead of waiting outside, you entered the booth as his fingers punched in the number. He looked over his shoulder at you with raised eyebrows, the painted ones raising comically high on his forehead as you closed the door. “What are you up to?”
You leaned in, clasping your hands around his neck again and trailing your tongue up his neck. I love you, you thought to yourself, before you answered.
“Just finishing what we started.”
You slunk down and started to unzip his pants. He had already started to stiffen as you untucked him from his underwear and gave him a few slow strokes. You licked your lips and brought them closer. His cock twitched against the tease of your breath as your mouth got closer to him. Right as they were about to close around him, you looked up with a smile, noting the higher decibel that he greeted the person who evidently had finally answered his call.
You waited patiently, batting your eyes at him as he watched you with curious eyes that seemed to sparkle in the dull light. You listened to him talk, resting your cheek on his thigh and running your thumb along the underside of his cock in a barely-there tease.
He got confirmation that the car was on the way and hung up without a word, slamming the receiver down to bring his full attention back to you. He shook his head, jaw dropping as you licked up his length, catching the drop that had formed at the tip on your tongue. You laved at it, eager for more from the smallest taste of him. He moaned and shifted, leaning his upper body against the glass as he bent his pelvis towards you to guide his cock further into your mouth.
You obliged, taking him in fully and beginning to bob your head. You looked up and moved your head from side to side slowly as you did, allowing him to slide in and out, around the surface of your tongue. Your mouth instinctually watered at the sight of him raking a shaky hand through his hair. His adam’s apple bobbed as he gasped, his head falling back with a harsh thud against the glass wall of the booth.
When you took his length fully back into your mouth and hollowed your cheeks around him, his fingers dropped from his own head to caress the crown of yours He grunted with each sloppy drag of your lips around his cock, hardly stifling his approval. You pulled back and let the weight of him rest on your tongue before toying with the head with playful licks. He thrust forward, a desperate “please,” passing through gritted teeth.
But you let him go, stood back up and kissed him deeply, desperation tied up with your devotion to him.
“You’ve got to be quieter, Mister,” you whispered against his lips. “We wouldn’t want to get caught.”
“We wouldn’t?” he asked, giving you a self-satisfied grin that faltered into a moan as your hand slunk between your bodies and took hold of him, dragging upwards between you, the wet sound of your hand pumping up and down mixing with the soft brush of it against the fabric of his pants. His hands flew to the glass on the side of the booth, boxing you in on either side while using the walls to support his faltering demeanor. His forehead fell to meet yours and rocked as he groaned and thrust forward, thoroughly enjoying every steady stroke you gave him.
You dropped back down to your knees slowly when you felt him starting to tremor, his thrusts coming quicker, his gasps falling out lighter and quicker. You looked up at him, the way the light cast shadows across the mask he wore. But you felt like you couldn’t ever see him more clearly than you did like this.
You joined him to your lips once again. Your hand helped your mouth, with your palm wrapping securely around the base before your wrist began to twist while he thrust into your mouth at a quickened, stuttering pace. When your hand dipped lower, he gasped. Your tongue caught the warm, milky white liquid that spilled out of him and you smiled as it slid down your throat. You tightened your lips and held him delicately, letting him control the pace as he came.
You swallowed it to the last drop and licked your lips before planting sweet kisses to his softening shaft and delicately tucking it back in his pants. His knees knocked together as he took a shuttering breath, his forearms resting on the glass the only thing keeping him standing. You helped support him when you rose and hugged him tight around the middle. You kissed the shoulder of his blazer, pressing your nose into the fabric and inhaling the faint smell of smoke and cologne as an arm wrapped back around you loosely.
Finally he caught his breath with one last sigh. He brought his fingers to his collar and straightened it, hiked up his pants, and cupped your face before kissing you silly. Between delighted giggles and lovesick sighs, you heard the sound of a motor, breaks squeaking signaling that your ride had arrived. You pulled away slightly despite his lips straining forward still.
“He might see us,” you whispered against lips that weren’t nearly ready to break apart from his. His palms pressed into the small of your back.
“I hope he does,” he muttered before his tongue snaked between your lips.
You took notice that your breath had steamed up the glass of the booth, the frosty barrier blurring your figures from sight. Before pushing the door open, he paused to draw a scraggily smiley face in the fog, causing you both to burst out laughing as you stepped out into the cool air of approaching dawn.
Pushing the booth door open with one hand, he let you step out first then led the way to the car.
A few words of confirmation with the driver preceded him sliding in and offering a hand.
He pulled you in to settle next to him once again. You reached into your bag and pulled out a secret. Something you had snagged when he wasn’t looking, something that you hoped he hadn’t been missing too much. You brought the teal pocket square with the circle pattern that was a perfect match to his shirt to his brow and wiped away the sweat that had started to bead along it. You were afraid for a moment he might stop you, splotches of white staining the fabric when you pulled it away. But he didn’t.
“How long have you had that?” he asked quietly after a few minutes.
You shrugged, giving him back the same satisfied grin he loved to give you and continued to pat at his hairline.
“You always have it on hand?”
“Of course. For such an emergency.”
When he was in better shape, you balled your fist around the cloth, resisting the urge to wipe away every stroke of paint. Before you could withdraw your hand, he took it in his own. You wondered if he’d ask for it back. But he pressed a prolonged kiss to your closed fist instead, a silent thank you for wiping away only what was necessary.
You tucked the square back into your bag and leaned your head on his shoulder. Comfortable, shared sleepy silence settled between you as you brought his hand to your lap, toying with his fingers and the teal sleeve that poked past his blazer. Absentmindedly, you undid the buttons on the cuff and opened it up so you could run your fingers up and down the prominent tendons in his wrist.
A highway exit and several left turns later, the driver dropped you off without a word. You ducked inside together and headed for the elevator that would lift you to sanctuary, somewhere where hiding wouldn’t be necessary anymore.
The building was taller than all the others around it, its floors abandoned except for his inhabitance at the top. As he unlocked the door and led you inside, it was the pink on the horizon streaming through the windows that you noticed first.
“Can we watch the sun rise?”
You sat close together on the fire escape, sharing a cigarette, watching Gotham come alive. You looked over at him looking at the sun rising over a city that was hardly beautiful. But as he showed you —there was beauty in it.
You reached over and dipped your fingers through the rich wave of his ivy curls, watching them catch the golden light of daybreak. You couldn’t help but marvel at the magic and mayhem of him. You knew from the moment you met him that there was something special about him. Every time you were with him, you were reminded of that. He never failed to prove you right. You didn’t know how he could fill your life with such adventure and such calm. How he could thrill you and fill you with wonder, and by the same token calm your mind and make you feel so safe.
Maybe someday you’d figure it all out.
For now, though, you told yourself to sit back and enjoy the journey.
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!”
Hi y’all. I been out here for weeks trying to plot out a longer fic and maybe some holiday themed one-shots but, but thanks to you degenerates, all I have are horny thoughts. So since it’s the holidays (and also to get me in the mood to get back to my poetic prose/noir-ass writing self), I figured I’d give y’all a little gift as kinda a thanks/payback. The fic writing community for this movie is, on the whole, really fuckin talented (especially in the smutty literature department), and I been around the block more than a few times, so that’s saying something. Y’all inspire me daily to try and get back on the ol’ fic-writing horse with how incredible you guys’s stuff has been. So this is for y’all just as much as it is for me to just… get my jimmies out.
Happy Clown-fucking, and Merry Christmas, you filthy animals ;)
A = Aftercare (What they’re like after sex) Aftercare kinda varies for Artie. Yeah there’s a part of him in the back of his head that says “I should take care of them. Clean them up. Run a bath for them. Get them a glass of water. Whatever they need”, but on the other hand he can’t bear to let you go. All he wants is to keep you close. To feel you. So close in fact that he’ll stay inside you long after he’s softened- as long as he can before his own intrusive thoughts tell him he’s being weird about it, forcing him to pull out. But he hopes, secretly, even if he isn’t so battered from the day that he has the energy to do all he can after sharing such incredible bliss with you, that at the end of it all you’ll simply reach for him, pulling him into you, and lie down with him. Because it’s not so often he ever truly feels content in his life- but whenever you reach out for him, wanting him with you as deeply as he wants to just be with you? This is when he feels truly alive.
B = Body part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) He’s always had a thing for thighs. Both his and other people’s. He feels he’s not much to look at… sinew-y limbs, sunken face and all, but of all the intimate, romantic gestures he’s felt from you, none is more exhilarating, nor less open to interpretation than the gentle caress of a hand on a thigh. No one touches him there. He’s never felt touched there. And he never feels more empowered to really be a man for you - your man - than placing your hand on his knee, dancing your fingertips slowly up and inward.
That being said, to him, nothing beats the intimacy of his hands on your cheeks. Maybe it’s the old-fashioned romantic in him, but to feel your soft face in his hands grounds him, keeps him focused on you- only you. World out of your embrace be damned.And to feel- really feel your smile in his hands as he holds you and kisses you is the most loved he’s ever felt in his entire fucking life.
A Place in your Home; A Place in your Heart | Arthur Fleck x reader
// original request: Hi! I love your writings and I shyly wanted to request something. ^^ I wonder if you could write about Reader that has a difficult situation and has to find a new place to live, but doesnt have enough money? Arthur wants to help her and offers her that she can live with him. They’ve not dated for long but it’s serious and the’re much in love. She wants to move in with him, but she’s afraid it wouldn not work out for many reasons, but eventually she agrees and Arthur is immensely happy. ^^
// A/N: This originally was going to be a longer fic, but I’ve been struggling with writing yet again, so I figured breaking it down into headcanons was easier than taking eons longer to write something more detailed.
It had been nearly three weeks since you were given the news, the words barely making their way over the fuzzy phone lines, voice as uncaring as ever.
Due to a better suited tenant making an offer, your lease was not going to be renewed, and you needed to be out by the end of the month - no if, ands, or buts about it.
Your lifestyle was a hand to mouth one; paycheck to paycheck, your weekly earnings were just enough to cover rent and basic necessities with little left over to save, splurges on luxuries being an occasional, very rare treat.
With your rainy day savings, your actualsavings,andthe total accumulation of the profit you made from selling various items that you could, you barely had enough to cover even a depositon any of the nearby apartments - let alone deposit, andthe first month’s rent.
In short, you were screwed.
You were screwed, and it was eating at you. Day and night, the thought loomed over you like the piles of trash that littered the city, threatening to topple over on passersby at any moment.
Had you been given a much more reasonably timed heads up, it wouldn’t have been even half an issue, yet you were left to do nothing but lay in bed, eyes burning as you stared at the television, seeing but not really watching the program on it. You’d been pulled from your restless sleep by the sound of a glass bottle dropping and shattering somewhere outside, and given that it was nearly four in the morning, you were about to give up on sleep.
Even in your sleepy haze, did the weight of the situation hit you like a truck, your stomach tightening with anxiety, the churning twist of panic, worry, and hopelessnessmaking your eyes blur with tears as you shifted your gaze to the ceiling.
You couldn’t help but almost pitifully chuckle at that - soon, there wouldn’t even bea ceiling for you to cry over.
December was nearly on its last legs with Christmas just around the corner; the days of autumn bleeding into those of winter as you found yourself growing more and more grateful each day that your boyfriend’s apartment was one of the few that had a functioning heating system. Temperatures dipped below freezing more often than not, and you often had to take a moment to brace yourself before you stepped outside as the air’s freeze physically hurtsometimes - your eyes, nose, and fingers on the days you forgot your gloves stinging from the wind, while any exposed skin reddened from the nip of the wind.
It was thoughts of days like those that made you brief a sigh of relief and sink back into the couch of Arthur’s living room, one of his softest blankets fluffed and draped around your body as you curled your legs under yourself, warm and safe from the harsh weather outside, and the even harsher population of the city.
It was also thoughts of days like those that reminded you that this wasn’t going to last.
“Love, what’s on your mind?”
As in tune with your emotions as ever, Arthur noticed that you were particularly quiet that evening, lost in your thoughts as you didn’t even pay any mind to the television - set to the weekly airing of The Murray Franklin Show.
You hadn’t even told Arthur what was going on, the fear of stressing your already overworked boyfriend out keeping you from opening your mouth.
“Huh? Oh - nothing,” You blinked, turning your attention from the carpet to the television. “I’m just tired.” You spoke, fingertips picking at the frayed hem of the blanket currently wrapped around your body.
Another hint for Arthur: no Art, no Artietacked on the end to your reply. From the corner of your eye could you see him through the passthrough, eyeing you from his spot at the kitchen counter where he was taking the utmost care to not spill the mug of hot chocolate he was making you as he stirred it.
Even though your relationship was hardly out of its infancy, you both knew each other well enough to tell when something was wrong. Arthur was already so very in tune with your emotions, so you knew he wasn’t just going to let your morose mood go without a question or two, and you knew yourselfenough to know that something about Arthur’s concern hit a soft spot in your heart, rendering you unable to keep much from him once he managed to get into your head.
He seemed almost sad as he now stood in the entrance to the living room, his lips settled into a thin line as he kept his eyes trained on you. You felt yourself shrink under his gaze, the guilt from keeping something so major from him eating at you, but the uncertainty and apprehension of not only howyou’d bring it up with Arthur, but how he’d react.
One of your worst fears was Arthur jumping on the opportunity to have you live with him. Not because you didn’t wantto, not because you didn’t trust him or anything of the sort - but Arthur had a habit of putting the needs of others, especially your own, miles above his own. Money was muchtighter for him than it was for you, and hell you had no idea if even combining incomes would be much help. No doubt that it would be some, but whether it would be enough, especially given the uncertain job climate of Gotham, left you scratching your head.
Arthur took a seat next to you, the drink he brought you placed on the coffee table, and with a deep breath, you let it spill out faster than you really meant for it to.
Your lease was ending in just over a week. Your landlord had no intent of renewing it because someone else was moving in, and you had no money to move elsewhere yet, even after your best efforts at earning enough. You had no where to go, nothing to do, no way to remedy the situation - and time was running out.
Hell, you had no idea if at this point you even could do anything beyond accepting the inevitable.
“Why… don’t you stay here?”
Arthur’s meek, yet hopeful voice raising such a suggestion made your ears perk up. You hadn’t even thought about that - but immediately did you know that it wouldn’t work. At least not yet.
“Art - I can’t do that, you know I can’t.” You couldn’t look at him as you spoke, the thought of being able to live in with him making your heart skip a beat, but the knowledge that it almost most definitely was not realistic at the moment making it hard to swallow.
“Why can’t you?”
“It won’t work - it’s not going to work.”
Though instantly you regret speaking those words, wincing once you realized what they implied. You knew Arthur and his anxieties well enough to know that it wasn’t improbable that he took “it won’t work” as meaning, you didn’t have enough faith in your relationship for it to work.
“ - Notlikethat,”You were quick to correct yourself, hoping to save the situation before it became more angst ridden. “I mean, living together. At least right now. Money is already tight for you, isn’t it? And I mean, it’s not like my own job is the most stable right now.”
“Y/N, do you really think that matters?”Arthur looked almost angry as he spoke, as if the fact that you were concerned about finances was ridiculous in such a situation. You knew Arthur enough to know he wasn’t actually mad, at least not at you, but still on edge at the threat of your loss of shelter. “You’ll be homeless, and - and who knows what could happen to you out there -” The hitch in Arthur’s breath as he spoke, coupled with the way his left hand gripped at the fabric of his trousers clued you in that this was something extremelydistressing for him.
You could feel tears welling up in your eyes, yet you refused to let them fall as you blinked them away. “Arthur -”
“Please,”Arthur’s hand shot out for your own, his warm from holding the hot drink previously as he held your hand tight in his own. “Y/N, please.. Don’t worry about money, we’ll figure it out - but it’s dangerous, it’s awful out there and I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you -”
Had you not stopped him midsentence with a gentle “Hey -”, you’d no doubt Arthur would’ve either succumbed to a fit of laughter, tears, or both.
“ - Arthur, hey,” Your free hand that wasn’t kept in his own reached for his shoulder, tugging gently on the fabric of that brown cardigan you so loved, pulling him closer to you. His forehead came to rest on your shoulder, his breath just barely noticeable against the fabric of your chest. “I dont… I don’t know what I’d do, either - Arthur I just don’t want to add more to your plate, you’re already so overworked, I shouldn’t have even mentioned it.”
You could feel Arthur shake his head at your words, but he didn’t speak - not that you blamed him.
With your lips now pressed to the top of his head, you took a deep breath, breathing in his scent. That comforting scent you’ve come to love and seek out within the few months you’ve been with him - the scent you, really, wouldn’t mind being surrounded by all of the time.
“We’ll try,” You said finally, not missing how Arthur seemed to tense up at your words. “Arthur I… would love to stay here - I would, love to live with you. It’s going to take some time to adjust - never mind actually making the move - but… I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You could’ve laughed at how Arthur shot up at this, his eyes wide as he seemed full of disbelief for a moment before your own reassuring smile sparked a growing grin on his face. “Do you really mean it, Y/N?”
“Waking up with, going to bed next to, coming home to you doesn’t sound all too bad, the more I think about it,” You whispered, your body finding its way to Arthur’s as his arms pulled you close.
Kinda unsure if anyone really reads my stuff anymore, but for those that do/those that will once I begin posting again;
Do you prefer oneshots, or do you like mutli-part pieces? I have a few ideas for some multi-part pieces (the continuation(s) for Smile are included), but I’m not entirely sure how… much attention they’ll get and I don’t want to bore readers with content they don’t care too much for.
AN: we’re just gonna. pretend hoyt keeps a mini fridge in his office. for the sake of simplicity. thanks. Originally a list of headcanons but I kinda drew ‘em out and turned them into a scenario. Thank you for your patience.
Summary:You love Arthur, and Arthur loves you - and neither of you could stand to see the other hurt. Arthur always so adamantly defended you and stood up for you when you failed to do so for yourself, but you began to feel as if maybe - maybe- you weren’t doing yourjob of defending him like you should’ve been.
Luckily, one day in Arthur’s haze of exhaustion does he forget something at home on his way to work one morning, and you decide to bring it to him - giving you the perfectopportunity to give those who handle him roughly a small piece of your mind.
Words:4041
Neither you nor Arthur were very assertive.
Though both of you could be when the time came for it, very quickly was it learned that more often than not, it was best to just let things go, in Gotham; everyone knew that it was best to just avoid the fight that would inevitably come with confrontation - avoid the problems, the anger, and the violence that seemed to be lurking around every corner. No one in the city liked to accept responsibility for their shitty behavior, and any sort of criticism - whether warranted or not - only led to more anger and violence, and neither you nor Arthur had the energy to deal with it on most days.
The passive attitude the two of you had long since adopted was both a blessing and a curse for the two of you; a blessing as you could so easily let things go and not letting them fester and bother you for days to come - but also a curse, as that passiveness was often taken as weakness- and being perceived as weakonly tempted others to try and take advantage of you. They’d think that they could just push, and push, and push- that they could just walk all over whomever they pleased, and that the one who was weakwould just sit there and take it without any form of argument, push back, or resistance.
In a way, it was almost comical. Where the two of you lacked in standing up for yourselves individually, did the other one come in. You both knew what it was like to be hurt and abused, and from your love for each other came the desire to protectthe other and keep them safe in the streets of the city. You wouldn’t stand to see your other half get hurt and exploited - and so you’d readily and happilystep in to stand up for them if they were having a hard time doing so for themselves. Perhaps a bit of an unhealthy dynamic, but one that worked for the both of you and usually kept either of you from getting hurt.
In your time together, Arthur had stood up for you time and time again; at the market, when a woman roughly shoved you aside without any hesitation or apology so she could cut in front of you in line, then again on the street minutes later when you’d had insults and slurs thrown at you by total strangers just because they felt like it, and then that time on the subway when someone decided that they didn’t like how you glanced at them for a fraction of a second and tried to start a fight. Arthur hated far little else as much as he hated seeing you get hurt and disrespected, and so out of what seemed like nowhere would he become bursting with a type of energy and confidence that you rarely ever saw, sticking up for you without even a hintof that same insecurity and hesitance that typically kept him from helping himself in similar situations.
It was sweet of him, but how angryyou’d get at yourself for not being able to do the same for him nearly as much as he did for you. Arthur never came right out and saidthat anyone was tormenting him or anything, but judging by the way he spoke about his days at work with the occasional mention of a name or two, you had a feeling that he wasn’t exactly very well respected at Haha’s - or, really, anywhere he went, for that matter.
Just from his stories alone did you know how much of a domineering bullyhis coworker Randall could be, and how he always passed it off as just him havin’ a laugh with his boy and that of courseArtie knew he was just playin’; how much Hoyt overworked Arthur, using any excuse he could to underpay and berate him for things completely unrelated to him, and how Penny - Arthur’s own mother- would often totally ignore Arthur’s own needs and wants, so self focused on herself that she apparently failed to see any problem in dismissing and belittling her own son’s dreams and goals, completely undermining how hardworking and deserving he truly was.
While just being aware that it happened hurt you, it didn’t pain you nearlyas much as it did to know Arthur seemed to just let that stuff happen - but deep down, you knew that wasn’t really the case. You knew what would happen if he stood up for himself; it would just open him up to more ridicule, more bullying, more harassment - none which anything that Arthur needed to deal with more. It was much less of him just lettingit happen, and more of him being powerlessin the face of it, the more you thought about it. Powerless and vulnerable - two things you hated to think of him as.
In a way, you were angry at the city itself and those around him who you had no doubt saw the mistreatment as it happened - but did nothing to help. As guilty as the perpetrators were they, in your eyes.
But Arthur’s struggle to stand up for himself and the voyeur-esque attitudes of those around him didn’t mean that youhad to just sit there and let it happen, too.
Ever since the two of you had begun dating, you’d both been on top of making sure that the other took care of themselves properly, and that included making sure they were eating well. You knew how Arthur rarely had time at work to stop in anywhere and eat, and how he had even less pocket money than he did time, so you picked up on making small, easy lunches that he could grab on the way out the door to take with him. They were always simple things; sandwiches, leftovers from the previous night packed securely in Tupperware, occasionally you’d bake some cookies and send a few of those - just random, small, easy things that you could afford, and Arthur appreciated them more than he could even begin to express. He almost broke down into tears the first time you presented him with a lunch you’d packed for him; a brown paper lunch bag, the top of it rolled in securely, with your bubbly handwriting reading Artiewith a big heart across both sides.
This became a routine for you, and most nights a week you’d take an extra few minutes to prepare something for him. He’d always ask if he could help, feeling ever soguilty that you were going out of your way to care for him, but you always brushed it off with a shrug, telling him you were doing it because you lovedhim - as well as tossing in a playful comment here and there about how what you were making him was a top secret surprise so he was temporarily banned from the kitchen while you did so.
He was always so good about remembering to grab what you made him, but one morning after a night of actually managing to sleepand subsequently oversleeping, so exhausted was he that on the way out the door he forgot to grab what you’d put together for him. By the time you opened the fridge realized he’d left it behind he was already long gone, but given the fact that his workplace was only a five minute walk and a 15 minute bus ride away and you had the day off you figured the least you could do was bring it to him, and so you slipped on your shoes and jacket and set out.
The commute was uneventful, but the closer you actually got to Haha’s, the more did a sinking feeling settle into the pit of your stomach; a nagging, gnawing, almost warningpang of anxiety that seemed to be telling you to brace yourself for whatever you were going to have to put up with once you arrived. It was the feeling you typically had when you were about to pass by a rough looking group on the street, the same feeling you got when you knew you were about to run into trouble - and you knew that the trouble your subconscious was trying to warn you of was most likely Arthur’s coworkers.
And once you actually arrived at Haha’s did you wish you’d listened to it and braced yourself better.
For starters, there was no response when you rang the bell. The sign taped on the door felt like it was almost taunting you; HaHa’s Talent Booking Agency, Please Ring Bell, with a crudely drawn arrow pointing to the doorbell that was either so quiet no one heard it, or totally out of service and thus, useless.
It was frustrating - it was nearly nine at that point and you knew that Arthur had a gig early that morning, so the chances of him still being there were incredibly slim and you didn’t want to leave his things with anyone but him. It took a good minute of debate, but you mustered up every bit of courage you had and with a deep breath pulled the door open. You wanted to go in, find a safe place to leave his lunch, and leave. Nothing more, nothing less.
Immediately did the air of the interior slam you in the face; it was warmer than the air outside was, and thick and heavy with the hazy scent of cigarette smoke and mildew slamming you in the face. An unpleasant greeting, and you held your breath on the way up the stairs and through the hallway until you ended up in what you figured was the main room.
The room itself wasn’t what was bad, considering it was Gotham city and most buildings needed a good bit of repair, but the atmosphere itselfwas what made you feel more sick to your stomach than the air that was thick with scent of cigarette smoke and sweat did.
Most conversation came to a halt, voices trailing off and words cut short as everyone’s attention turned to you once the creak of the floor under your footsteps was heard. Men in their thirties, forties, and probably even fiftiesturned to look at you; some of them looking amused, some annoyed, and some undeniably hungry.
You smiled, albeit incredibly awkwardly, at them, hoping that a friendly disposition would be enough to stave off any sort of crude comments any of them may make, and as you were about to speak up and ask where Arthur was, two words into your question were you interrupted by a particularly large man on the other side of the room.
“Oh, well, well, who d’we got here?” He thumbed at the suspenders that held up his oversized red trousers as he sauntered over to you, a lazy, lopsided, poor attempt at a friendly grin spread on his face. “You lost, sweetheart?”
It took most of your self restraint to not roll your eyes at the name, and instead you kept up your smile. “Oh - no, actually. I’m here for someone, but I don’t see him -”
“Yeah? Who around here could you possiblywant anything to do with?”
Yet again did he interrupt you - but in that second did you realize who heactually was. You knew that this was Randall, and he fit the exact image you’d had in your head of him: tall, sleazy, and obnoxious - but you weren’t about to let him have his way with you like he so often did others.
Straightening up, you looked him in the eye as any trace of geniality that was once present vanished from your face. “Arthur. I’m his girlfriend, and I need to see him for something.”
A handful of the men scattered around the room choked back laughs. A quick look around showed that a good chunk of them found your comment funny enough to scoff at, most uncaring that you’d caught them smirking at the apparent utter absurdity that Arthur Fleck had a girlfriend. They couldn’t believe it, and Randall especially seemed to get a kick out of how unlikely it was.
“Aw, c’mon,” He reached forward to nudge your shoulder with his hand, a poor attempt at being playful. “Artie’s not here right now, but I’m surehe wouldn’t mind sharin’ with us. Why don’t you come sit with us? We’d love to meet you.”
You stepped backwards. “No, thank you, really. I’m just here for Arthur, and I have somewhere else I need to be. Is there someplace I can leave this so he’ll get it?” You held the bag up for a second long enough so he could get a look, but you absolutely did nottrust any of them enough to leave Arthur’s belongings anywhere near them. Considering how often they teased Arthur, you figured it wasn’t too far fetched to assume that they’d have no issue fucking with his stuff, and the suspicion of it alone was enough to make you immediately distrust the lot of them.
Not even taking the hint, Randall continued on. “C’mon, don’t be such a stick in the mud, sweetheart. You can leave it with us, yeah? I’m dying to know what you brought our Arthur.”
TheirArthur. It was a comment you had to once again stop yourself from rolling your eyes at, but by that point you’d had well more than enough. You’d made it clear you didn’t want to leave it with them or stay there with them, yet he just kept pushing. One thing you hated was someone who couldn’t - who wouldn’t- take no for an answer.
“You know,” You stepped up to him, ignoring the fact that you couldn’t properly square him up considering he had at least half a foot on you in height. “I know I don’t reallyknow you that well, but from just this interaction I can already tell that Arthur is more of a man than you could ever even dream of being. At least he can take no for an answer - something you should work on, sweetheart.”
You spoke sweetheartwith a spat of venom; enunciating it condescendingly enough to get the point across. This was the first time you’d even met the guy, but just from his presence alone could you tell that even if it weren’t for already knowing what he put Arthur through that you stillwouldn’t like him. He wasn’t an ass in a blunt, high-school bully type of way; rather it was a subtle, almost passive aggressive, domineering form of teasing that seemed to put those around him into some strange position of submission so he was left free to poke fun at them however he pleased - modeled perfectly so any retaliation could be shrugged off with an excuse of “C’mon, I was just kidding around.”
“Is there anywhere I can leave this?” Your impatience was evident at this point; your foot tapping, and you were hesitant to make any eye contact with the men as you looked about the room. At this point you just wanted to get out of there - you hadn’t intended for any of this to happen today, and while you were almost mad at yourself for being so rude with Randall and causing such a stir, you weren’t in the mood to put up with this situation orhim, and to say he deserved it would’ve been an understatement.
Of all the men in the room, while most of them were large in stature, it was ironically enough the smallest of them that seemed to be able to find it in him to respond to your question. A small, balding man of about four feet tall who stood at his locker, quietly watching the exchange before he reached a hand out, pointing towards the hallway behind you. “Hoyt keeps a spot in his office, you could leave it with him. I’ll let Arthur know when I see him.”
With a smile and an appreciative nod of your head, you turned around and headed down the hallway, ignoring the chatter of the men as you left. Thankfully, the section of the building was small and apart from the descending stairs and a doorway right at the top labeled Restroom, there was only a short hallway with a door at the far end - the peeling, chipping letters spelling O fice stuck to it.
You knocked, and through the window of the door could you see that - whom you presumed to be Hoyt - either didn’t hear you, or couldn’t be bothered to respond. With the nature of the place it wasn’t too out there to assume it was most likely the latter, but not wanting to be rude you knocked again - only for him to shout an irritated “What?” from his desk, muffled through the door as he couldn’t be bothered to look up as you pushed the door open.
“Can I help you?” Finallydid he look up at you, taking his eyes from whatever he was writing and focusing on you.
“Oh, yeah, sorry - I was told there was a spot I could leave this, in here? It’s food, for Arthur.” You held the bag up, and Hoyt glanced between you and it, his eyebrow raised as he scrutinized you.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Arthur’s girlfriend.”
“Arthur.Girlfriend.” Hoyt laughed at that, shaking his head before he went back to writing, the cigarette that was smoking away in the ashtray stinking the room up. “Jesus, those are two words that don’t belong together.”
“How come everyone has such a hard time believing that Arthur could be in a relationship?” You knew you had to speak carefully; say the wrong thing, piss off his boss or one of his coworkers enough, and it wouldn’t be you in trouble - it would be Arthur who’d end up paying for it. “He’s great, he’s a hard worker and he’s really nice, unlike a lot of people nowadays. He’s taken for granted way too much.”
Hoyt only hummed in response, unamused. Sure.
“Imeanit, those guys out there are awful to him. You seriously don’t hear it?”
“Look, as long as they work and don’t get into trouble on company time, I stay out of it. They’re grown men and I ain’t their parent.”
“Hoyt, I know this is the first time I’ve been around here, but Arthur is one of the hardest workers you have here. He comes home exhaustedall the time, and rarely ever takes a day off. He hates causing problems, so the least you could do for him is tell the others to knock it off when they’re bothering him.”
You thought you could see the subtle bob of a nod from him, but you wouldn’t bet much on it. “You can put that in there,” He pointed with his pen towards the far corner of the room, where nestled between a stack of boxes and the window was a small, off-white, chipping mini fridge that probably needed to be replaced. “The others won’t mess with it if it’s in there.”
Once Arthur’s lunch was tucked safely between another brown paper bag and a Tupperware container with contents that you couldn’t discern, you offered little more than a hurried thank you to Hoyt as you left the room, turning left, hopping down the stairs and back out the door without looking back.
You never wanted to go back, but you hoped what you said had at least made some impact.
Whether Arthur was completely unaware of what you had done at Haha’s or he didn’t know how to bring it up you weren’t sure, but one thing you did know was how he seemed almost… lighter, that night. Usually, when he came home he was tired, dragging his feet as he was weighed down by both his fatigue and the stress that came just from living in the kind of city the two of you did, but Arthur seemed cheerful - almost giddy,that night. His shoulders weren’t slouched, and he wasn’t dragging his feet like he tended to from his exhaustion; instead, when he came through the apartment door, he greeted you at your spot at the sink where you were washing dishes by turning you from the counter, his right arm coming to wrap around your waist and his left hand to your face so he could kiss you in a deeper manner than he typically did when he came home from work, gracefully spinning the two of you so you were pressed between his body and the edge of the counters
Whatever was going on, you absolutely weren’tgoing to argue with it.
After checking in with each other did he excuse himself to the bathroom so he could wash off the remaining streaks of white greasepaint that clung to the sharp edges of his jaw, and you finished up the dishes, settling down on the couch, trying to think of options you could cook up for dinner as Arthur returned, taking a seat next to you.
“Thank you, again, sweetheart for bringing my lunch today,” Arthur said, his voice soft and his words grateful as he pressed a kiss to your cheek, taking a seat next to you on the couch. “I’m lucky to have you.”
“Oh,Happy,” Penny interjected before you could answer your boyfriend, her attention taken from the television by Arthur’s words and she looked towards the pair of you. “You forgot something again, and Y/N had to bring it to you?”
She had a certain look on her face - her eyes narrowed, her eyebrows raised as she scolded her son. You almost asked her what she meant by againas this was, as far as you could remember, the only time you had to bring Arthur something he forgot - but questioning didn’t matter. Not right now. You were already on a roll today, and you weren’t about to let Penny of all people now dig at Arthur, and tear down his good mood.
“Pen, Arthur is stressed, overworked, and exhausted. You can’t expect him to be on top of everything all the time,” You leaned back on the couch, eyes fixed on the TV as in your annoyance you couldn’t bother to look at her. “Besides, he deserves to have someone help him out. He’s always taking care of us and things here, and it’s only right that I look out for him, too. It’s unfair for him to have to do everything when he already works so hard.”
“Well, he always has been a hard worker. Maybe a little too hard, you don’t think I don’t see how tired you are all the time? Those sleeping pills of yours don’t seem to be working.” She said, redirecting her attention from you back to Arthur. “You’re lucky you have Y/N, she helps keep you in line.”
“I think it’s the other way around,” You laughed, though Penny was hardly amused. Arthur, as per usual, didn’t say anything about his mother’s critique of him. “I think Arthur’s taken for granted, way too often. He’s funny, and I have no doubt that he’s one of the best guys that a girl could ever ask for.”
You figured you should stop before your poor boyfriend at your side was reduced to nothing but a puddle on the floor, and you could tell how embarrassed he was from not only how adamantly you defended him, but how you spoke of his character as well, by how tightly his hand was holding your own, his face angled away from his mother and yourself.
You didn’t want to stop, though. If you could, you’d sing praises of him to the damn heavens themselvesif that’s what it took for your boyfriend to get the respect and recognition he deserved.
You turned to him, your hand cupping his face and pulling him to look at you as you brought your face close to his, whispering to him before you pressed a kiss to his lips -
“I mean it. I love you, Arthur. You’re one of the best, and one day everyone’s gonna realize it.”
I rewatched Joker the other night and it made me feel every way I hoped but also worried it would and fuck me I really miss writing for Arthur. Like, a lot.
feel free to send in some prompts if you want though I can’t promise I’ll do ALL of them (or, at least, it’ll take me awhile) because I also manage another writing blog + solo/standalone writing projects + working and studying and personal stuff and mental stuff is all leaving me pretty tired/stressed but I was looking back at my old work and want to start again
summary: late at night, arthur needs a little bit of warmth. not knowing exactly what to say, you offer him solace in a way that he inspires.
warnings: angst.
word count: 2497
notes: hi there! it’s been a minute. i’m still here. still writing. still loving arthur. this is my first piece in quite some time. i’m a little (a lot!) rusty i know, but i hope to begin posting more frequently now that life has calmed down a little. thanks for reading & i hope it comforts you to read as much as it did me to write it ♡
The time on the clock didn’t surprise you when you raised your head and squinted your eyes at it. It was late; even for a city that never rested, most Gothamites had turned their lights out long ago, and its raucous bustle had reached a drowsy lull.
You had been searching for sleep for several hours, but you couldn’t quite find it while also trying to ignore the fact that Arthur’s side of the bed was still empty. You missed the feeling of his weight next to you and the warmth of his body, the unique, soft cadence of his breath. You’d grown accustomed to sharing this sacred time with him, reveling in the sheer joy that the simplicity of just being able to be with him provided. Whether sleep came for either of you or not was always beside the point when nighttime fell; more important was that it was time when you and him could be together alone.
But concern had been growing within you for Arthur. While you knew that what he sometimes needed was just some time to himself to think or write or to simply be, alone was what he seemed to prefer to be most of the time lately. Tonight, you couldn’t push that rising concern away any longer. It carried you out of bed and pushed you out the bedroom door.
This was comfort for you to write, comfort for Arthur to experience, and comfort for me to read. I think many of us were feeling some need for comfort when you posted this and it hit just the right note (sorry for being so late with the review though).
Dancing is the perfect solution to console Arthur and I’ll never get tired of this image. You always incorporate music somehow into your stories and it is such a personal and appropriate Em touch! It is wonderful to see you writing again in your uniquely style, looking forward to more!!! ❤
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.
