Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stepping onto the bus after work, you sat across the aisle from a man in an awkwardly scrunched position. His thin frame hunched over, temple pressed against the window. Brown, unkempt hair obstructed his face, indicative of exhaustion. You shook your head, ashamed of your snap judgment, and averted your gaze.

Minutes later, you looked at him again, his demeanor changing on a dime. He noticed the small child sitting before him, mirroring his solemness, so he started making funny faces. The child's laughter filled the bus amidst the engine's hum, and you couldn't help but smile. Tender interactions weren't seen in Gotham often, or at all, for that matter. However, it was brought to an abrupt end when the woman accompanying the child turned around, her voice laced with annoyance.

"Can you stop bothering my kid?"

The man recoiled, his voice weary.

"Sorry."

She placed her hand on her child's back, forcing them to turn around, a disgusted look on her face. Your heart sank. All he did was try to make the kid laugh; you didn't see the harm.

"I wasn't bothering anyone."

"Just stop!"

He burst out laughing. Flinching from the suddenness of it, you tried to focus your attention elsewhere, but it proved impossible.

"You think this is funny?"

"No, I-"

He couldn't get the words out, choking while grabbing at his throat and covering his mouth out of panic. Frantically digging in his pocket, he pulled out a small, white, laminated card. He handed it to her while in the midst of his laughing fit. She hesitantly took it while you squinted to try and make out what it said:

"Forgive my laughter: I have a condition."

She handed it back to him, her repulsion unwavering. You weren't usually one to confront people, especially when it didn't involve you. Still, you couldn't stand by and watch her make him feel abashed.

When he stopped laughing, you moved to the empty seat in front of you, your frustration blinding you. Tapping her arm, she turned towards you, and you whispered, given the cramped space.

"It's something he can't control. The least you can do is have some decency."

"How about you mind your own damn business?"

You leaned in to ensure she was hearing you.

"All I'm saying is you could show him a little compassion."

The only response you got was an eye roll. With nothing left to say, you return to your original seat, leaning back and sighing.

When the woman eventually exited the bus, you felt a light tap on your shoulder. You turned to see that the man had shifted to face you. The insensibility of your actions hit you like a slap in the face. Why did you assume he needed someone to defend him? Just as you were about to apologize, he spoke.

"Thank you. For what you said."

Your eyes widened at his gratitude, stalling before speaking.

"I hope I didn't make you uncomfortable."

"No, no. You… didn't."

Your words start to become unfiltered.

"People are assholes. Don't let them beat you down."

Your uninhibited adage makes him smile, a soft exhale leaving his nose, prompting the same from you. The conversation was cut short when your stop was announced. You pulled the wire above the window and stood as the bus stopped.

"Take care, okay?"

He nodded, looking up at you.

"You too."

You walked off the bus, catching a glimpse of him through the window before walking the rest of the way home.

Chapter Text

Gray storm clouds covered Gotham like a blanket, similar to the one draped over you as you tried to wake up. Between the gloomy weather and your fatigue, spending your rarely allotted day off in bed was tempting. However, the allure of taking your time to savor even the most mundane of tasks was enough to get up.

Your morning was filled with cleaning and preparing meals, while the afternoon was spent listening to music and reading. Some would find it monotonous, but it was time well spent for you. When evening rolled around, you had the rare desire to leave the cozy confines of your apartment. Sprawled out on the couch, book in hand, you thought about where to go. A place eventually came to mind, Pogo's. You've seen it advertised on flyers around the city. Though you aren't usually into comedy clubs, it piqued your interest. You enjoyed a few comedians, but had a particular sense of humor you probably wouldn't find at Pogo's. Regardless, you decided to give it a chance. So bad it's funny-type jokes with a couple of drinks sounded more appealing than you wanted to admit. You closed your book, got off the couch, and started to get ready.

Once you got an outfit together, did your makeup, and styled your hair in a way that made you feel comfortable and confident, you returned to the couch. When you lean over to put your shoes on, you feel an all-too-familiar tightening in your chest. Thinking it was about how you're situated, you sit up and put your hands on your chest, taking a deep breath. It does nothing to soothe your discomfort, and the culprit quickly appears. You lull your head back on the cushion, closing your eyes and pinching the bridge of your nose, trying to relax. Unexpected waves of anxiety would often hit you when getting ready to go out. While you've tried to cope with it as best you could, it was parasitic, something persistent and destructive. Trying to open up your body to breathe was useless. You were already too far gone, and as you rapidly fell apart, you let it drag you under. This time around, the sensation alone was enough for you to spiral. If you told yourself to fight it, you'd begin to catastrophize. Knowing better, you let your emotions run rampant. You started hyperventilating, covering your mouth, paranoid that someone would hear through the thin walls.

A pounding headache began to form. Your mind was screaming to stay home, take an aspirin, and go to bed, but whatever was left of your rationality was telling you otherwise. To get yourself together, go out and try to enjoy the night. Surprisingly, you decided to listen to the latter, not letting anxiety win like it had countless times before.

You took a slow, shaky breath, the intense burst of emotional turmoil leaving as quickly as it appeared. Against your better judgment, you stand too quickly, making everything around you spin. Stumbling to the bathroom, you wince at the sight of your makeup-smudged face in the mirror. Streaked trails of mascara and smeared lipstick were all you could fixate on.

In disgust, you use your hands to wipe the lipstick in opposite directions. Doing so caused a small, defeated scoff to escape as you studied the mess on your face. You rubbed the back of your neck, trying to recover from the mental strain. Opening the medicine cabinet, you pull out a package of makeup wipes. Blame it on the fact that you couldn't be bothered to reapply or forced optimism, but you found something refreshing about a bare face.

Despite only halfheartedly believing things were okay, you knew they had to be. The possibility of anything else was terrifying.

Fixing your hair and grabbing your purse left on the couch, you hurry out the door, not giving yourself another option.

Chapter Text

The ambiance of Pogo's eased your doubt. It was dim, comfortably warm, small enough not to be overwhelming, but spacious enough to breathe.

You sat at a table close to the stage, sinking into your seat. Thinking about ordering a drink, you ultimately decide against it, your headache choosing for you.

As you finished settling in, you turned your attention towards the act on stage. First impressions made you believe he was doing well, but that changed as he continued. Comedy was subjective, but comparing sex to parking a car was far from groundbreaking. You threw in a few laughs and were respectful, hoping his time on stage would end sooner rather than later. Luckily, it did. After saying his goodbyes and thank yous, he left the stage.

The announcer began introducing the next act. You hoped they'd be better than the previous one.

"Alright, this next comic describes himself as a lifelong Gotham resident who, from a young age, was always told that his purpose in life was to bring laughter and joy into this cold, dark world."

The crowd erupted into laughter, confusing you. Sure, it was a little cliche, but there was some truth to it! The world truly is a cold and dark place, especially Gotham.

"Please help me welcome Arthur Fleck, y'all!"

Stepping out from behind the curtain, he stumbled over his own two feet as he made his way to the microphone. His nervousness emanated throughout the club. Resting your hand on your cheek, you squinted, trying to figure out why he looked so familiar.

He looks out into the crowd, takes a shaky breath, and laughs. His distinct facial structure, messy brown hair, and slender stature did nothing to cue you to who he was, but it was his laugh that triggered your memory. It was the man you met on the bus weeks prior. He started to cough. The hope he had quickly morphed into a silent plea for help, but it went unanswered. The glint in his otherwise fearful eyes showed he was passionate about comedy. Doing something as a sign of encouragement almost overtook you, but with the bright spotlights and his laughing fit, you were sure he wouldn't see.

"Hello, it's good to be here."

While it was a complete sentence, it was difficult to understand through the laughter. You couldn't help but feel bad. He only wanted to make people laugh, but his own held him back.

He turns his back to the audience and hunches over, trying to cover his mouth to muffle the sound, but it doesn't do any good. You hoped he would try to power through, and fortunately, he did. When the episode inevitably passed, his condition prompted a few laughs between jokes, but he was coherent.

"I hated school as a kid. My mother would say you should enjoy it; one day, you'll have to work for a living."

"No, I won't, ma, I'm gonna be a comedian!"

Flipping through his notebook, he gained momentum, revealing this was his element. He got increasingly comfortable, his laughter soon ceasing entirely. People were cheering him on, encouraging him.

You clapped and whistled once he said his farewells. That's when he noticed you, his eyes locking onto yours with a look of disbelief.

Chapter Text

As he descends from the stage, you can't help but find his surprise endearing. Your previous exchange was so fleeting that you didn't think he would recognize you. Not only that, but the chances you'd cross paths again were slim to none, given how vast Gotham is. He makes his way to your table, his voice faint as the announcer introduces the next act.

"Would you want to…"

His words trail off, and he gestures to the lounge area. Your eyes follow his hand as it moves with understated grace. Something about him intrigued you, and so you took him up on the offer.

The two of you enter the room and sit across from each other, the act on stage partly drowned out by the sound of the TV nearby. As soon as you get situated, you extend your hand to him.

"I'm Y/N. Arthur, right?"

He hesitates before returning the gesture. His handshake was limp, like he was afraid of hurting you.

"Mh hm. Nice to meet you. Properly, I mean."

"You too."

You smile, letting go and leaning back in the chair. He does the same, and there's a short pause before he speaks again.

"Do you come here often?"

The question could've come off as trite, but with his faltering tone, it was anything but.

"My first time, actually! Thought I'd check it out."

He nods while shifting in his seat. Fishing out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his pants pocket, he offers you one, but you decline. He places it between his lips while talking. His voice is slightly obstructed but still intelligible.

"Was I alright up there?"

What he was asking was simple enough, but looking closely, you could tell it was a diversion from his shaking hands, causing the lighter flame to waver. Your eyes flicker down to look at them, but you correct yourself, your gaze meeting his.

"You were great! You clearly have a knack for it."

He got the lighter to catch, used it, and then put it back in his pocket. Taking a drag, he tilted his head and exhaled; his shaking lessened but was still noticeable. Your compliment takes a moment to set in. He looks leery, as if he's not used to hearing them.

"Did you have a favorite joke?"

He's guarded, almost as if he suspects your kindness to be a trick. Not having trouble picking one, you recited it like he did on stage to ease tension and show your intentions.

"Why are poor people always confused? Because they don't make any cents!"

He appears to relax, though not entirely. Taking another puff and smiling at your reenactment, the smoke cascades into the air.

"That ones from personal experience. Comedy doesn't pay the bills as much as I'd like."

His statement was disguised as a joke, but you sensed a hint of truth. Everyone in the city knew, whether they wanted to admit it or not, that wealth inequality was rampant. No one was allowed to prosper, save for elites and those involved in a life of crime.

His candidness fascinated you. You could attribute it to his sense of humor or nerves. Still, you enjoyed the conversation, albeit somewhat awkward.

"What do you do for work?"

Your career path kept you on your toes, while also lacking income, a parallel between the two of you that you appreciated.

"I was studying to become a psychologist at Gotham University. Had this research apprenticeship, a position lined up, the whole nine yards. Long story short, I couldn't afford tuition anymore, so I had to drop out. I'm a secretary over at Gotham General now, and I'm also a..."

You force yourself to divulge what else you do, grimacing as if bracing for impact.

"I'm a nightclub singer."

You ramble, your words quick like bullets.

"I'm not a professional or anything, but I guess good enough to get gigs! If I somehow save up enough money years and years from now, I'd like to go back to school."

Downplaying your talents and justifying your career choices, you worried about being judged. A studying psychologist turned singer wasn't exactly common, and disapproval from those around you was something you were all too accustomed to.

"A singer, that's...incredible."

You're astounded by the awe in his voice, having to get your bearings before responding.

"Don't get me wrong, things aren't perfect, and I'm still working on...everything, but the music helps."

"How did you get into all that?"

You take the time to reflect on how you ended up in such a position. Understanding the irony of someone as anxious as you being a singer helped you to see that nothing mattered when you were on stage—not racing thoughts, stifling student loans, or drab city circumstances. It was just you and the music, conveying a message when words don't suffice.

"I figured I might as well do something that I loved, especially when everything was falling apart. It still is, but you know. I put together portfolios, went to every bar in the city, and sold myself as best I could until it...somehow paid off."

He hung on every word. Not used to such attentiveness, you started overthinking your candor.

"That's...beautiful."

His reflective, melancholy tone brought you back to the present, your fingers fidgeting.

"What kind of music do you do?"

Your expression brightens at the mention of music, more than happy to indulge.

"Jazz is what I do most often! It's my favorite, nothing comes close."

There's a glimmer of excitement in his eyes, but an unexpected apology eclipses it.

"I would've never offered if I knew you sang, I'm sorry."

It takes a moment to realize he's talking about the cigarettes. When it clicks, you find his concern for your vocal health charming as you wave it off.

"How could you have known? No harm done."

After searching your face for insincerity and finding none, he nods in response, taking another drag, ensuring the smoke doesn't cloud you, the courtesy not going unnoticed. Feeling like you've talked about yourself for too long, you wanted to know more about him.

"I meant it when I said you were great up there. You blew the act before you got out of the water! How'd you get into standup?"

His maintained (although at times wavering) eye contact and focus tell you he hears you. Still, he looks preoccupied as if searching for an answer. He takes another puff.

"No one's ever asked me something like that; I…I don't know."

His admission took you off guard, but you didn't let it show. You found his admission hard to believe, but who were you to say?

"I'll be here when you have an answer."

Despite his need for time, it was apparent that your passion for singing emulated his love for comedy. For the first time in a long time, you felt like your eccentricities were a blessing, not a curse.

Your conversation was interrupted by the sound of the TV getting louder. Noticing the bartender turning it up, you were about to say something, but you stopped as you realized it was the news. The headline caught your attention instantly:

"Killer Clowns on the Loose, Latest News on The Murders"

Out of your peripheral, you could see Arthur mirroring the mouth-agape expression of the clown on screen. It was peculiar, but you wrote it off as nothing. As you continue to watch, another headline and graphic pop up. This time, it was about the three Wall Street men who were shot on the subway:

"Clown Vigilante?"  

The title on screen piqued your interest, as it showed just how divided the city was on the situation. Some referred to the perpetrator as a criminal, others a vigilante, and a select few a hero. Because of the current political climate, you knew how risky it was to voice your opinion publicly, let alone to someone you were just getting to know. Bracing yourself for the possibility of an adverse reaction, you focus on the broadcast, avoiding eye contact.

"You believe that shit? Fuck 'em. The guy who did it is a hero."

Your brief but ardent declaration made him exhale sharply through his nose. Seeing that he didn't blatantly disagree emboldened you, allowing more of your genuine thoughts to surface.

"Three less pricks in Gotham City. Only a million more to go."

You look at each other in mutual understanding. Whether or not the murders were indicative of something significant, you couldn't be sure, but one thing was certain:

The city wouldn't forget it anytime soon.

Chapter Text

It wasn't your intention to spend the entirety of your evening at Pogo's, planning to have a brief chat with Arthur, watch some of the newscast, and then go home. But the topic of conversation and moments of comfortable silence in between anchored you in your seat. That feeling only intensified when Live! With Murray Franklin started, both of you found yourselves on the couch in front of the TV as if in a living room.

"From NCB Studios in Gotham City, it's live with Murray Franklin!"

Even though the black and white, static-ridden TV, the lights, the show name on the marquee, and the studio set dazzled you in all its glory. Like many Gothamites, you aspired to make it big. To say it wasn't partially because of the money would be disingenuous. Nevertheless, you also wanted to inspire people and bring them hope. It was undeniably sentimental, but in a city plagued with high crime rates and corrupt politicians, people needed hope now more than ever.

"Tonight, Murray welcomes musical guest Sandra Winger and comedian Skip Byron!"

The opening credits began while you and Arthur talked about memories you had with the show. Your developing headache was a thing of the past, and liquid courage allowed you to divulge about watch sessions with your father, your early admiration of the jazz orchestra, and pretending to be a guest on the show. Your honesty seemed to ignite bravery in Arthur as he talked about watching the show with his mother, dancing during music breaks, and emulating Murray, all of which you found heartwarming.

When Murray finished his opening skit, he brought out Skip Byron. You didn't pay any mind to the interview, but Arthur's laughter caught your attention. It wasn't the crippling kind you heard on the bus, or when he was on stage, it was genuine. Distinctive and contagious, the type that could be picked out of a crowd. Once Skip was done performing, Arthur was visibly wonderstruck. You stay quiet, not wanting to permeate his awe, allowing him to take it in. Hunched over and doe-eyed with a soft smile, it was apparent that seeing someone with the same enthusiasm he had for comedy moved him.

Soon, Sandra Winger emerges from behind the curtain, waves to the adoring crowd, and sits across from Murray for her interview. Her Starpower is all-encompassing, and you're helpless to stop it. You're at the mercy of your greatest desire, pulled in by the allure of glitz and glamor.

"Once again, please welcome Y/N L/N!"

After the interview of a lifetime, you take center stage. Hot spotlights shine on you while Murray leaves the stage, and faceless figures appraise you. Your trembling hands adjust the microphone and nod for the band to cue you in.

The various brass instruments' swing and the drums' steady beat greet you like a familiar friend. Your focus shifts from the audience's perception to your own. You give this performance everything you've got. Your voice was resonant, smooth, and articulate. A carefully crafted gift through years of practice, passion, and tenacity. Every syllable, every word strung together to paint a vivid picture of hope, perseverance, and strength.

"When skies are cloudy and gray, they're only gray for a day. So, wrap your troubles in dreams and dream your troubles away!"

Your body becomes an extension of your voice. Masterfully balancing grandiosity for the in-studio crowd and subtlety for the ones at home through lively gestures and expressions. You remind yourself to breathe, worried the adrenaline will cause your heart to stop, but the feeling keeps you on your toes. Who's tuned in to watch you? What will come of this? How did you get here? These questions, amongst countless others, flash through your mind. Still, you conceal it, thankful to even have an opportunity like this. This is what you were born to do, savoring every second as if you'd never perform again.

During the musical break, you direct your attention to Murray's band, motioning for the camera operator to do the same. You smile and sway to the music, your head turned towards the ensemble, allowing you to take in everything further. Not allowing yourself to get too carried away, the camera pans back to you, and you don't miss a beat. The song is coming to a close; this is your last chance to make an impression.

"Just remember that sunshine always follows the rain. So, wrap your troubles in dreams and dream your troubles away!"

Without thinking, your hands fly to your mouth in astonishment, your eyes brimming with tears of joy. You stand proud and tall, welcoming the world with open arms. Murray walks to you while clapping, places a hand on your back, and leans in to whisper.

"You made it, kid." 

Arthur calling to you broke the trance. You felt derealized, unsure if it was because of the alcohol, resurfacing anxiety, or the remnants of your daydream.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, yeah! I'm alright. Just thinking."

"Thanks for watching. Goodnight, and always remember, that's life!"

The band playing interrupted your exchange, enrapturing you both like children. Focused on the music and rolling credits, the words died on your tongues, but the ambition in the air spoke for itself. No matter the cost, life would imitate art.

Chapter Text

The haunting feeling of floating above your own body, long gone from reality, was something you've never entirely been without. Therapy, medication, grounding techniques- nothing seemed to help. You were at the mercy of your mind, subservient and powerless.

Your ability to overthink was catastrophic, but you couldn't stop. Aside from your absentmindedness, things with Arthur went well, yet you searched for things to criticize. Did you say something wrong? Were you too vulnerable? Was your behavior odd? You shake your head to clear it, trying to concentrate on the scribble of your pen, the eeriness of the hospital, and the chill that seldom leaves the air, but it's useless. The only thing you can do is push through and hope for the best.

The footsteps approaching the desk did little to stabilize you, but you knew you had to push your troubles aside. You pretend to be occupied to avoid looking at the incoming person; your kind, hushed voice is a facade.

"How can I help you?"

No response. Thinking they didn't hear you, you were about to repeat yourself before looking up, your eyes meeting theirs. The last person you expected to be there was Arthur. Getting your bearings, you clear your throat and draw circles on your thighs.

"Hi."

He perks up in the wake of your greeting, but his tired eyes betray his true feelings. He tilts his head to the side and rubs the back of his neck as if trying to remember why he's there.

"Hi, sorry. Just uh...visiting."

You nod amid your haze, pointing to the clipboard on the desk and filling out a visitor sticker for him.

"It's my mother. The doctor said she had a stroke."

Not expecting him to be so casual about something devastating, a beat passes before you respond.

"I'm so sorry. How is she holding up?"

"Stable enough for now." 

"And you?"

He puts the pen down, sighs, and runs his fingers through his hair. It takes him longer to answer.

"I'm hangin' in there."

You peel the visitor sticker and hand it to him, fingers brushing against each other. In an attempt to lighten the somber atmosphere, another question arises.

"Want me to grab you a coffee?"

The offer would be trivial to many, but his inconspicuous smile told you it meant a lot.

"I'd love one."

"Fair warning, it tastes like dishwater, but it'll take the edge off."

His smile grew, spurring one of your own. Regardless of how you were feeling, it felt good to be able to help him.

"I'll bring it to the room."

"That'd be great."

Crossing the threshold of Arthur's mother's room, you made sure not to disturb the calm, save for the sound of monitors and TV beeping. You glanced at the bed with the privacy curtain around it, inwardly reprimanding yourself. Standing in front of Arthur, you handed one of the coffees to him while keeping the other for yourself. You took the first sip together, scowls crossing both of your faces, faint laughs and whispers following.

"I told you! Tastes horrible."

"It's worse than I thought!"

Looking down at the cup, he reluctantly takes another sip, his lips clicking as they part.

"Thank you for...this."

"Don't mention it."

It seemed like he had more to say, but didn't. You knew you had to cut your time with him begrudgingly short anyway, your responsibilities at the front desk looming over you like a shadow. Shifting your weight, you huff as you brush your hair out of your face.

"I should head back. If you need anything, you know where to find me, yeah?"

Arthur gazes up at you, searching your face as he puts the cup on the table in front of him and nods.

"Of course. I'll find you."

You exchange timid goodbyes and make your way to the door. As you're about to step out into the hallway, he calls after you. Not anticipating him needing something immediately, you look over your shoulder.

"I..."

His hesitation, the pleading look in his eyes, and his desperate tone, shown through a single word, gave you pause. The pain of being alone during such a difficult time is something no one should have to endure. When you walk back into the room with little hesitation, Arthur is stunned into silence, and given the circumstances, you don't think anything of it.

With the TV on, the opening of Live! With Murray, Franklin sought to draw you in like a moth to flame once more. This time, you avert your eyes, knowing that if you looked, you'd run the risk of being at the whim of your dissociative state tenfold. You resisted the temptation to watch for a while, but that changed at the end of Murray's opening monologue.

  "In a world where everyone thinks they could do my job, we got this videotape from Pogo's Comedy Club in Gotham. Here's a guy who thinks if you keep laughing, it'll make you funny. Check out this joker."

"I hated school as a kid. But my mother would always say, You should enjoy it. One day, you'll have to work for a living."

"No, I won't, Ma, I'm gonna be a comedian!"

You and Arthur got up from your chairs simultaneously, unable to believe what you were seeing. The comedian in question was him. Now, in front of the TV, you stand next to each other in shock, eyes wide and mouths agape.

"You should've listened to your mother."

Murray's insult made your stomach churn, not knowing if Arthur picked up on it amid his bewilderment.

"Let's see one more. I love this guy."

"It's funny when I was a little boy and told people I was gonna be a comedian, everyone laughed at me. Well, no one's laughing now!" 

"You can say that again, pal."

Murray's smug look and the audience's laughter only amplified your disgust. Glancing at Arthur, his apathy showed just how deeply Murray's words cut. His face was devoid of expression and color, and his intense eyes and clenched jaw were unmistakable. After what felt like an eternity of stillness, he failed to regard you as he left the room, leaving you behind with the weight of witnessing his broken dream.

"The anger and resentment building in the city for weeks seem nearly exploding. Protesters, many dressed as clowns, took to the streets today in one of several planned demonstrations taking on the city's elite, including a massive rally outside tomorrow's benefit at Wayne Hall."

You were experiencing a whirlwind of emotions. Fear, hurt, and revulsion created a cacophony that radiated through you. Draped across your bed after your unorthodox shift at the hospital, you were exhausted and disillusioned. The news played in the background to drown out your thoughts.

"Fuck the rich, Fuck Thomas Wayne. That's what this whole fucking thing is about. Fuck the whole system!"

The passionate declaration from a protester captured your attention, forcing you to sit upright and look at the screen.

"Wayne, who recently announced he's running for mayor, will attend the benefit. You might remember that Thomas Wayne first referred to many of Gotham's residents as "clowns." Today, he offered little in the way of an apology."

You shuffle on your knees to the foot of your bed in anticipation. Seeing Thomas Wayne only heightened your disgust. Like any other politician in Gotham, he was corrupt, facetious, and inept not only in policy but to his very core. Many living in Gotham were vulnerable, and it was no secret that he took pleasure in exploiting them. You reluctantly listen to what he has to say.

"There's something wrong with those people. I'm here to help them. I'm going to lift them out of poverty and help improve their lives. That's why I'm running. They may not realize it, but I'm their only hope."

You roll your eyes, scoff, and turn off the TV, no longer wanting to deal with his stupidity. If his statement showed anything, it was that he was the clown. Like many, you saw through him. A carefully curated image of concern and nothing more. He was serpentine, words filled with venom, ready to strike any moment. 

The newscast continued to linger in the back of your mind as you got ready to turn in for the night. You think about what the protester said about Wayne. While it was easy to view what the mayor-elect said as idiocy, you knew it had bigger implications. Just because Gotham had a history of upholding crooked public officials didn't mean it had to continue on that path. The demonstration stuck with you in a way you hadn't expected, and you decided to run with it.

Returning to bed, you spent the next few hours tossing and turning. You knew you wanted to play a role in this rapidly unfolding revolution, but how? Being a part of the demonstrations was a viable option, but you wanted to do something more, something different.

It was only a matter of time before an idea came to mind that could cost you your livelihood, though it was a risk you were willing to take. Being on the right side of history was never easy, but you weren't one to take the easy way out.

Chapter Text

Growing tension between the elite and "commonplace" citizens has polarized Gotham's already fractured nightlife scene. Some had inflated self-importance and money to burn, and others were in the throes of addiction, drinking to forget. There were establishments catering to the former and others the latter, differentiating the city's drab clubs from its extravagant lounges.

There was irony in executing your plan in a lounge filled with wealthy, privileged elites, though it was by design. They were the ones who needed to hear your message. Putting it out there was risky, but you were so passionate. You never felt so alive, so free. Wanting to hold onto those feelings for as long as possible, you knew this had to be done for the greater good.

Stepping onto the stage felt like home, and you basked in it, tethered to reality amid colored lights and silk curtains. Surveying the crowd, their lecherous looks told you everything you needed to know. You were something to gawk at, a spectacle. Trying to put the daunting feeling aside, you go into your set. You've performed enough for it to become routine, even in discomfort. From the songs you sang to how you moved on stage, you found solace in not worrying about a misstep.

Scattered applause only fueled the frustration you've been experiencing all night. Not a single person was truly acknowledging you. Being the epitome of elegance and glamour, they were initially enraptured. Nevertheless, all they seemed to care about now was obnoxious conversation and getting drunk. Is this what your blossoming career was becoming? Performing for a bunch of entitled, wealthy, sloppy aristocrats?

Disgruntled, you reach the piano, microphone in hand. Doing so was normal, as you always ended your performances at the piano. Yet, it wouldn't be the song the lounge proprietor expected. 

The sound of the crowd intensifies as you adjust the microphone stand and situate yourself on the bench, softly playing a melody. You lose yourself in the music despite no one paying you any mind. You glance down at the keys while you play, the tune momentarily soothing your soul. Soon, the stochastic melody becomes an overture for your last song. After taking a deep, controlled breath, you start to sing.

"Isn't it rich? Are we a pair? Me here at last on the ground and you in mid-air. Send in the clowns."

Emphasizing the word "clowns," you briefly close your eyes and feel the music moving through you. The lyrics were an act of rebellion, the piano your arsenal. If one listened closely, the meaning behind each chord and lyric would be unmistakable.

"Isn't it bliss? Don't you approve? One who keeps tearing around and can't move, but where are the clowns? Send in the clowns."

The crowd's ongoing pomposity was like a slap in the face. Stopping yourself from glaring, you sing a little louder.

"Just when I stopped opening doors, finally finding the one that I wanted was yours. Making my entrance again with my usual flair. Sure of my lines, nobody's there."

Your emotions threaten to overtake you, and despite your attempts to hide them, you start to play faster.

"Don't you love a farce? My fault, I fear. I thought that you'd want what I want, sorry, my dear."

Laughter amongst patrons provokes you to slam your hands onto the piano keys several times and stop. The shallow conversations, affluent laughter, and clinking of drinks halt instantly. Looking out with a deadpan expression, reactions were a mix of confusion, shock, and fear. You take the opportunity to pause and breathe through your agitation before singing the following line without the piano.

"But where are the clowns? Send in the clowns. Don't bother, they're here."

Your gaze was unflinching as you picked up where you left off. Reverting to the song's original tempo, the lounge's tension remained, and your words' anger was unmissable as you spoke.

"Seems like everyone needs it fed to them on a silver platter. This is for all you assholes. Thomas Wayne included. Fuck the—"

Before you could finish, security had you in a hold. The piano abruptly stopped once more as you were yanked away. You put up a fight you didn't know you had, ruggedly extending your neck to ensure your voice could somehow reach the microphone.

"Isn't it rich? Isn't it queer? Losing my timing this late in my career."

Your words were straining, and your strength wavered. While being frantically escorted off stage, you yelled the final lyric out into the audience, serving as a warning.

"SEND IN THE CLOWNS!"

Chapter Text

Your weakened voice, bruised arms, and lingering adrenaline served as a poignant reminder of what you had done. Playing the caricature of a hysterical woman, you made a frenzied case for your right to speak freely and assured you weren't a danger. Receiving nothing more than a verbal reprimand, you took full advantage of Gotham's dysfunctional system and reveled in it.

The phone rings as you're about to scrounge something in the kitchen. You walk over to pick it up, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you lean against the counter.

"Hello?"

The sound of throat clearing is the first thing you hear.

“Y/N?”

With a voice that could only be described as uncertain and sheepish, you knew exactly who it was.

"Arthur?"

A breathless chuckle greets you. It's as if he didn't expect you to answer, let alone recognize his voice. You gave him your number that night at Pogo's, not thinking anything of it, but found it pleasantly surprising that he called. Despite him leaving you to your own devices at the hospital, you understood and looked past it. He sniffles, and you assume he's been crying. Did it have to do with his mother? Murray's unabashed mockery? Something else entirely?

"I'm sorry. I…"

Ever quick to apologize, you admonished him.

"Hey, it's okay. What's going on?"

He pauses, his breath briefly hitting the receiver before he finds his words.

"Could you stop by? Something happened, and I...could use someone."

His explanation was vague, but you weren't in a position to pry. It sounded like a cry for help, and you had no desire to deny him. You speak while looking for something to write with.

"Where are you?"

Your agreeability forces him to falter again, but the click of your pen brings him back. He gives you his address and apartment number. You scribble it down, putting the slip of paper in your pocket.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

You studied the intricate markings inside Arthur's apartment elevator, trying to distract yourself from the rickety ride up. Tracing them with your fingers helped somewhat, but it didn't stop your breath from hitching at the sudden car jerking or flickering lights above.

The door opening was more relieving than you wanted to admit. Quickly stepping into the hall, you pull the paper from your pocket and glance at the number you wrote. Eventually, you find it and lift your fist to knock on the door, but stop. Arthur's uncontrollable laughter emanates behind it. You press your ear up to it, curious about what else you can hear, and steady yourself with both hands against the door.

Sniffling, suffocating laughter, and the frantic rustling of papers were all you could discern. You back away and lean against the wall, deciding to wait before knocking, not wanting to overwhelm him more than he already was.

It felt like an eternity, though you were patient. Whatever was going on had to be devastating. Once his laughter died down, you stepped in front of the door again and knocked, loud enough so it could be heard but not that it would startle him. You stepped back, hands interlocked in front of you as you waited.

Soon, Arthur shuffles towards the door, the dim light radiating underneath partially obstructed. When he opens it, the first thing that hits you is the smell of aftershave and cigarette smoke. It seemed he had showered. From his wet, slicked-back hair to the comfortable clothes he donned, you couldn't help but admire the effort, no stranger to how difficult the simplest of tasks were amidst emotional turmoil.

The tear tracks on his face, sullen eyes, and hunched posture suggest his current state. He also looked dazed, observing you as if you were an apparition. Your movements were slow and cautious, like you were approaching a frightened animal. When he doesn't speak, you take it upon yourself to do so.

"Can I come in?"

He subtly shakes his head, realizing his inaction.

"Of course."

Walking into his apartment, you notice a brown folder on the coffee table stuffed with papers. It was seemingly insignificant, but given what you heard through the door, it drew your attention.

He followed closely behind after shutting the door. Feeling his presence and catching yourself looking at the folder for too long, you focus elsewhere. You go to the couch, remove your shoes, and put them aside. You comfortably position your legs next to you and look up at him. It's obvious he's not used to company. His fingers twitch at his sides, and it feels like he's looking through you, not at you.

"Can I get you something? There's not much, but…"

"No, thank you. I'm alright."

He nods as he sits on the opposite end of the couch, keeping a respectful distance. He's facing forward, running a hand through his hair while you turn towards him, resting your head in your hand. It takes a conscious effort for you not to take a clinical approach to such a casual situation, and your past as a practicing psychologist is threatening to turn this into something it wasn't. You take a breath, offering up a simple question.

"What's happened?"

No movement, no sound, no response. It wasn't until Arthur turned his head in the opposite direction that laughter began to escape him again. This wasn't happening in public, on a stage, or through the door; you were in the midst of it, just you and him. You found yourself unsure of what to do. Do you reassure him through words? Touch? Would that only make it worse? You were caught up in your thoughts, his laughter muffled by his hand while gasping for air. You try to stay calm, knowing that reacting differently would worsen things.

He stands abruptly, inducing you to do the same. Keeping space between you, you walk in front of him, watching as he hunches over. The laughter wracks through him as he tries to fight it. You want to reach out but worry you'll hurt instead of help. You can tell he's trying to croak something out.

"Don't speak, don't speak."

His beseeching eyes flicker up to yours, a look of understanding passing through them as he concentrates on controlling the laughter. Despite the situation's intensity, you try to keep your officious tendencies at bay, making the difficult choice not to intervene.

The laughter doesn't subside; if anything, it gets worse as time passes. You knew you couldn't be passive any longer, getting closer to Arthur. You extend your arms as if you're offering the world. Already being so close, it takes no time for him to find himself in your midst. You can tell he's unsure where to put his hands, but he ultimately mirrors your movement, putting them on your upper back. He holds you but doesn't squeeze. His chin rests on your shoulder, his laughter almost reverberating through you. You notice he's abnormally cold and thin, and you can feel his spine. You rub small, soothing circles on his back while whispering reassurances and encouraging him not to stifle the laughter.

It felt like you stayed in this position for hours, but it was only a matter of minutes. Soon enough, the laughter settled, and you shared a sigh of relief, your chests pressing against each other, rising and falling. When you pulled away ever so slightly, your hands remained on his shoulders while he warily rested on your side, your voice subdued as you searched his face.

"Are you okay?"

His eyes follow yours, watching you intently before responding.

"I am now."

Chapter Text

You're surrounded by yellow—yellow curtains, yellow duvet, yellow wallpaper—smoldering and unclean, amplified by the soft glow from the yellow lampshade.

Circling the bed, you hand a glass of water to Arthur. There wasn't much of an exchange after what happened, nor did he talk about what was wrong. He takes the cup from you, sipping it before setting it on the nightstand.

As you walk back to the other side, your eyes dart to the TV, applause and big band swings filling the space. It didn't take you long to recognize it was Shall We Dance. You sit on the foot of the bed, Arthur lying on the other side, a distance away. There was something strangely domestic about it all, but the fleeting thought left you as quickly as it came.

The leading lady, Ginger Rogers, stands from the table, smiling. Walking across the room, she shakes the conductor's hand and sings. The triumphant song is too short for your liking, and you lose interest when it's over, focusing on something else entirely.

"You never told me how you got into standup."

Your eyes drift up to Arthur, his feigned nonchalance unmissable.

"I'm sure you get the picture. It doesn't matter now."

His answer wasn't cold as much as it was pragmatic, referring to the announcer from Pogo's and Murray's ridicule, spelling out his history with comedy, but your curiosity wasn't satisfied.

"I'd still like to know."

He doesn't say a word; instead, he taps his fingers in time to the music on the screen. His defeated disposition sparks something within you, and you exclaim without thinking.

"Don't let people make a fool out of you!"

You didn't intend to be harsh, but your words insinuated that he chose to be mocked. You looked away, embarrassed.

"I know what you meant. It's okay."

Despite his understanding, the feeling persists. You glance at the headboard, wanting to look anywhere but him now. Given his emotional fragility, you tread lightly, regretting your bluntness. Your question was murmured amid your guilt.

"Can I sit next to you?"

Asking permission for something so simple was your way of giving him control, hoping to soothe his nerves. After taking another drink, he nods. You don't expect him to agree after your outburst, but you situate yourself next to him, still maintaining space.

With your head on the headboard and back against the pillows, you stare at the water-damaged spots on the ceiling. Lost in trying to figure out what they resemble, you're brought back by the blanket moving. Arthur is now partially sitting up, his head resting in his hand, his back towards you. His neck is ever so slightly craned, and you had a hunch about what he's looking at and craving. You noticed them on the nightstand, and considering everything that's happened, you were sure they were calling to him.

"Won't do any harm if that's what you're worried about. This city is polluted to high hell, anyway, shocked it hasn't ruined my voice as is."

He smiles halfheartedly, looking over his shoulder.

"You're sure?"

"Go for it."

Your confirmation was all he needed. He reached for the pack and put a cigarette between his teeth. Opening the top drawer, he took out a lighter and lit it, his position now reflecting yours.

Watching him smoke was captivating. His contemplative expression, effortlessness, and vice-like grip created a beautifully haunting image.

"Wanna try?"

Snapping out of the daze he caught you in, you shake your head and reply with a mm-mm, shifting your attention away.

The TV, the hum of traffic, and the crackling of Arthur's cigarette lulled you into a trance-like state, not looking at anything in particular. Exhaustion was settling in, sleep all too tempting. His voice permeating the quiet became your saving grace.

"When I got upset as a kid, my mother used to tell me my purpose was to bring joy. She would always call me Happy."

He took another drag and blew the smoke in the opposite direction, reminiscing. His vulnerability wasn't lost on you, but what stood out most was how he said Happy. It clarified that it wasn't to describe the emotion but rather a cherished nickname.

"Watching cartoons, movies, all the greats. That's all I ever knew."

He turns towards you, compelling you to do the same. You can tell he's unsure, not used to being so open, but you're absorbing what he's saying, truly listening.

"Later on, I started going to shows, watching people on stage. Seeing that changed everything for me. I knew I wanted to make people laugh, help them forget their burdens."

Twisting his body, he extinguishes the cigarette in the makeshift ashtray on the nightstand.

"You can't let people rob you of your passion. Not some sorry excuse of an announcer or shitty audience. Not even Murray."

He dismisses what you say, laughing bitterly. You can't tell if you're disheartened or frustrated.

"I'm serious! If I gave up on singing because of assholes like them, I wouldn't be where I am now. Granted, shit out of luck to a nightclub singer isn't exactly an incredible feat, but I like to think I'm getting somewhere."

You may be belittling your accomplishments, but Arthur does anything but. Instead, he lies back down on his side, resting his head on the pillow. He looked up at you like you were a beacon of light, wide-eyed and impressionable. You follow suit and lie down, placing one of your hands under your head. There was a stretch of silence, your words lingering like the smoke. Wanting to emphasize what you were saying, you hover your free hand over his shoulder. You don't say anything, the action speaks for itself. He doesn't object, and you lower it. He flinches inconspicuously, and you're inclined to pull away, but he places his hand over yours before you can. He closes his eyes, and you recognize it as a need to ground himself. You trace circles on his shoulder with your thumb in an attempt to help. When he eventually opens them again, he asks you something unexpected.

"Can you sing for me?"

It was a tedious request, but his earnest eyes, quiet voice, and hesitant touch broke your defenses. The circumstance was unusual, but you didn't let that deter you from following through. You mentally go through your repertoire of songs before deciding on one. Your voice was sweet but soft, sometimes wavering from how hushed it was. Nevertheless, Arthur admired you as if you were a miracle.

He starts drifting off quickly, though he tries to fight it. You shush him, reassurance leaving you without a second thought.

"It's okay, you're okay."

As his hand gradually falls from yours and he no longer opens his eyes, your voice tapers into a whisper. Seeing how peaceful he looked struck you, a stark contrast from before, as his features relaxed, and his breathing was steady. You take a piece of hair falling in front of his face and tuck it behind his ear, your fingers brushing against his cheek. Knowing you should leave, yet not making an effort to do so, was mystifying. Still, you attribute it to your fatigue. Before further questioning things, sleep takes over, and your mind stills.

Chapter Text

You're roused from sleep, the TV still on. It was morning, a rare instance of sunlight streaming through the distinct Gotham overcast. Sitting up, you look at the other side of the bed. Empty. You stand and stretch, crossing the threshold into the main area.

"Arthur?"

Nothing. You think about what to do, trying to make sense of everything. The time spent together felt too intimate to ignore. Do you leave? Call when you're home? Leave a note? You go to the coffee table, something white clashing with the mahogany. It was a piece of paper; a note had been left for you.

"Be back soon."

It was short and cryptic. Did he want you to stay? You tilt your head in thought, sighing and sitting on the couch. Your gaze shifts to the folder you saw yesterday, yellowing pages peeking out. You run your fingers across the exposed edge, your curiosity bubbling. Giving in, you open it, the papers spilling onto the table, and what you read makes your stomach drop.

"Gotham Department of Health: Permission to Screen for Reports of Abuse and Neglect."

Your eyes flutter in disbelief, frantically scanning the other pages.

"House of Terror for Mother and Her Son."

"Mother of Adopted Child Allowed Her Son's Abuse."

When you see a picture of a little boy with a battered face, you gasp, not overlooking the caption. Shoving the papers back into the folder, you quickly shut it. You look away as tears begin to form. Everything stills apart from your racing thoughts and quivering breath.

The locks on the door start to click, and you panic. You wipe your tears and rest your hands on your lap. Your guilt was ever present, like a child caught in the act.

The door opens, and Arthur walks in, his steps muffled by the carpet. When he rounds the corner, your eyes meet, and while it's only a matter of seconds, it speaks volumes.

"You're still here..."

He's talking to himself, astonished, with a low voice. You nod and look away, not trusting yourself to speak. The atmosphere was stifling, charged with an indescribable tension. He walks towards you, making your anxiety spike. Hands folded, you pick at your nails. You knew you had to say something, not to seem suspicious.

"Where'd you go?"

You correct yourself.

"If you want to say. I don't mean to pry."

"The hospital. My mother…died."

You weren't expecting anything so grim or how he said it, but considering what you saw, you understood his apathy. For that reason, you still don't utter a word. You don't offer condolences or revel in what you deem as a deserved death. You merely regard him. You look down at the folder, and he copies your movement. While his expression was unreadable, something tells you that he noticed it had been moved, making you want to crawl out of your skin. Tears returned, and you couldn't discern if it were because you were caught, how explicit the picture was, or both. You stand up without thinking, wanting to run and hide, but he puts his hands on your shoulders before you can.

"Whoa, hey."

You hated having such a visceral reaction; his response only made you feel worse. Spiraling rapidly, you convinced yourself that you were selfish, invasive, and malicious. The familiar feeling of a panic attack began to grip you, and you were at its mercy. You clutched at your chest, heat rising to your face as you struggled to collect yourself. There was nowhere for you to go, the walls closing in. You were trapped.

His hands slide from your shoulders to your forearms, coaxing you to sit back down. Paralyzed with shame, you allow him to take control.

"Careful. Nice and easy."

You sit back down, looking anywhere but him, knowing you'd lose it entirely if you did. He crouches down as if he could read your racing thoughts, hands drifting towards your face. Seeing them rise through your peripheral vision made you recoil, shrinking into yourself further. They stopped in their tracks, his intent evident, but knowing it didn't make things any easier. Your heart was pounding in your ears, your body going numb. Everything in you was telling you not to let him touch you. At the same time, in such a vulnerable state, your pleading eyes met his, spurring him to continue. 

His gaze was a stark contrast to yours, soft, steady. It made you feel safe, even if just for a moment. With no indication of you wanting him to pull away, he rested his palms on your cheeks. Despite seeing it coming, you flinch and close your eyes. He doesn't make you open them, doesn't reprimand you. Instead, he strokes your cheeks with his thumbs, wiping your tears as they fall. You could feel your muscles twitch with each pass, a pitiful laugh escaping you.

"I'm sorry, sometimes…"

"I know, it's okay."

Not having to justify made you feel more understood than ever. Finding solace in such a fact helps you stabilize yourself to some extent. Neither of you speaks. The only sounds that can be heard are the bustling city through the open window, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and Arthur's intermittent breathing. It was intentional and unhurried, and although challenging, you tried to emulate it.

"Keep breathing, just like that."

His encouragement went straight to your afflicted heart, giving you something else to focus on other than the chaos unfolding within and around you. You can't see him, but you feel his eyes on you. One of his hands moves to brush your hair behind your ear, the other staying to caress your flushed cheek. The initial pass makes you recoil, but as he repeats the pattern, it affects you less and less. If anything, it heightens that feeling of peace. He touched you like you were fragile, hand running through your disheveled hair, appraising your face with freshly fallen tears, and looking past your trepidation. Your tears and breathing finally slowed, the two of you sharing one last deep breath for good measure while continuing to savor the silence.

When his hand finds its way back to your cheek, you slowly open your eyes, slivers of sun highlighting the look of admiration in his eyes. It struck you like nothing else ever has. How was he looking at you like this when you were falling apart right in front of him? He glances down at your trembling lips, desires plain to see. Trying to anticipate his next move proved impossible when his thumb traces your bottom lip. The action was overwhelmingly tender, and your senses heightened amid your emotional turmoil. You lower your head, eyes never leaving his while kissing his thumb. His stunted gasp only made you want to give him more, so much more, and before you could stop yourself, you slowly raised your head again, moving in closer. His hand returned to where it's been all along while both of yours found purchase on his shoulders, drawing faint shapes with your thumbs. From forehead to forehead, knee to knee, you look down at the floor and shake your head in remorse.

"I should've never…"

He moves in, gently pressing his lips to yours, interrupting the beginning of your anxious ramble. You wanted to see it through, to apologize for getting involved in things you shouldn't, but you can't bring yourself to pull away. You don't want to.

The kiss is tentative and delicate, but it's how he never ceases cupping your cheeks that you couldn't ignore. It's almost as if you would slip through his fingers if he moved his hands away, his desperation making your head buzz, and a wave of warmth washes over you. Your hands pressed into his shoulders to show him that you were truly here, that this was real, and you weren't going anywhere. He hums in satisfaction, and it only encourages you to wrap your arms around his neck and hold him impossibly closer. The two of you were one, lost in each other's embrace.

Chapter Text

The phone ringing interrupted the moment's repose, but neither of you stopped, the kiss becoming exploratory and eager. Your heart was hammering, your lungs clenching, both a result of your emotions running high and the need for more of him. The answering machine beeps, another disruption:

"This message is for Arthur Fleck. My name is Shirley Woods, I work on the Murray Franklin Show…"

Arthur slowly pulls away, and while disappointed, you don't let it show.

"I don't know if you're aware, but Murray played a clip of your stand-up on the show recently, and we've gotten an amazing response from our viewers…"

He stands from his crouched position, takes his hands off your cheeks, and makes his way to the phone. Though left in a haze, you quickly come to your senses and follow him into the other room.

"Murray asked me to call you and see if you're…"

He picks up the phone and braces himself against the counter.

"Who is this?"

His voice was dripping with suspicion, and although you couldn't hear the whole conversation, you weren't left in the dark for long.

"Murray Franklin wants me on The Murray Franklin Show?"

Concealing your skepticism, he turns to you as if he were asking you instead of seeking confirmation from the woman on the other line. Doubtful and bewildered, he waits a few beats before responding.

"Yeah, that sounds great."

After a bit of back and forth, he hangs up. Trying to process what happened, he looks off into the distance while speaking.

"That was the showrunner for Murray. I'm gonna be on the show next Thursday."

You feign a mild, pleasant expression when he confirms what you heard. It was as if he had forgotten what you discussed, how Murray had made a spectacle out of him. His ignorance of such a thing irked you, and myriad questions began to fester like an open wound. Was it a genuine offer? Was this just to belittle him? Why did he accept it?

Why wasn't it you?

Despite the maelstrom of conflicting emotions and invasive thoughts, you knelt in front of the TV, fast-forwarding a tape of Murray's show. No matter how difficult, you bite your tongue in helping Arthur prepare for a night that would change his life forever.

When you press play, he hurries behind a flowered linen he hung to act as a curtain. You anticipate his entrance, eyeing his silhouette.

"He's an outstanding actor and has a new movie called American Playboy opening this week across the country. Please welcome a good friend of the show, Mr. Ethan Chase!"

He emerges and emulates the actor on screen, undoubtedly having practiced long before today. From his walk to his wave to his mannerisms, he was nothing short of a perfect imitation. You stay on the floor, your gaze never leaving him. He looks at the empty armchair beside him, running his hand through his hair.

"Hey, Murray, thanks so much for having…"

He stops abruptly and sighs.

"Hey Murray, thank you so much for having me on the show. It's been a lifelong dream of mine."

Frustrated, he puts his head in his hands.

"Hey Murray, I've been on…"

He shakes his legs, crossing and uncrossing them. You shift, wanting to help, but stop yourself when he continues.

"I'm sorry, what's that? Oh, that's very funny, Murray. You know, I'm also a comedian. Would you like to hear a joke? Knock, knock…"

Before you could comprehend what he was reaching for, Arthur pulled a handgun from his waistband, putting it under his chin. Adrenaline hits you, and you spring to your feet, trying to keep your composure. You scramble to sit next to him, your hands shaking. While tempted to take the gun, you decide against it, instead putting a hand on his forearm. You knew it was just as risky, but you threw caution to the wind and took the chance. It entices him to look at you, though the position of the gun is unmoving. Your hand creeps to his wrist, grasping it, your eyes wide and breath-catching. Even without having to blink them away, tears brimmed and spilled over. Your body tenses, fear crashing over you like a tidal wave. You didn't get the chance to dissuade him before he pulled the trigger, instinctively squeezing your eyes shut as a shuddering gasp escapes you.

When you hear a click and nothing more, you reluctantly open them to see him lounging back and looking at you. Pulling the trigger once more, the same sound emanated from the gun, and he pretended it went off, dramatic flair and all. Realizing it was unloaded alongside his enactment made you burst into an unexpected fit of laughter, tears unrelenting. Whether it stemmed from anxiety, relief, or something else entirely, you couldn't be certain. Nonetheless, you don't hold back, letting it overtake you. You rest your head on the couch, returning his gaze and bringing your hand to your temple. You make the shape of a gun and "pull the trigger," imitating it, going off just as he had, only intensifying the laughter amongst you.

Short-winded, you wipe your tears and look up at the ceiling, unable to help but notice how the sunlight dancing across it is reminiscent of a spotlight shining down on you. Closing your eyes, you bask in it, an unbefitting sense of tranquility flowing through you.

Chapter Text

With your shifts at Gotham General fueling a feeling of monotony and opportunities playing lounges going by the wayside, it felt like the world was crumbling at your feet. Unsurprisingly, owners of such "upscale" establishments wanted nothing to do with a brazen entertainer, but luckily, club proprietors didn't seem to mind, and they still allowed you to perform. It was a life preserver in a turbulent sea.

The crowd was the kind you needed tonight. One that was uncharacteristically quiet, noses in their drinks, seeking to drown out the distress from their nine-to-fives. You attempt to compartmentalize, trying to focus on your passion for performing. The songs you chose were always intentional, crafting a narrative reliant on your creative impulse. Regardless of the music not being your own, you hoped to leave the audience with something.

You were the epitome of glamour on stage, treating every gig as if it were one of a lifetime. Hair was done up, makeup flawlessly applied, and dress one for the ages, but it did nothing to mask the ugliness you felt inside, like a beast clawing to get out. While merely an amalgamation of your emotions, your decision to distance yourself from Arthur only amplified the intensity of it all.

The warble of the guitar caused some to look over the rim of their glasses. There was something to be said about such recognizable songs and their ability to bring people together. Yet, you suppress the urge to speak, hoping the song will do it for you.

"I was five, and he was six; we rode on horses made of sticks. He wore black, and I wore white; he would always win the fight. Bang bang, he shot me down, bang bang I hit the ground, bang bang, that awful sound, bang bang, my baby shot me down."

Your effort at reframing your thoughts proved futile. Clutching at the microphone stand, you began to feel anxious, similar to when you first started singing in front of watchful eyes. However, as a "professional," you intended to push through.

"Seasons came and changed the time; when I grew up, I called him mine. He would laugh and say remember when we used to play. Bang bang, I shot you down, bang bang you hit the ground, bang bang, that awful sound, bang bang, I used to shoot you down."

Your hands start to tremble, dread bubbling up within you. Could everyone tell? Was the rest of you shaking? Could it be heard in your voice? Thankful for a break in the song, you take the opportunity to try and subdue it, taking the microphone out of the stand to give your hands something to do.

"Music played, and people sang; just for me, the church bells rang."

You tried envisioning the lyrics in your mind's eye, hoping it would soothe you.

Warm, golden sunlight. A church with stained glass windows. A group of people gathered in the foreground while you're off in the distance. Bells ring out, and the sound weaves through everyone, going straight to you like an otherworldly force.

"Now he's gone. I don't know why, and to this day, sometimes I cry. He didn't even say goodbye or take the time to lie. Bang bang, he shot me down, bang bang I hit the ground, bang bang, that awful sound, bang bang, my baby shot me down."

The guitar's sound fades while your voice lingers, like the toll of an imaginary bell, clear and impenetrable —an expression of your stifled, internal storm.

The implications of ordering at the bar where you had just performed were immaterial; the need for a pick-me-up outweighed all else.

When you get your drink, you first notice the garnish—a thin, curled orange rind in a sea of red. If you stared long enough, there would be something evocative about it, but you were more interested in indulging. Liquor and citrus fill your senses when you sip, but someone beside you shatters the sweet, fragrant reprieve. Looking out of your peripheral vision, you assumed it was a man based on their silhouette and the smell of cheap cologne. Your frustration flared as you chastised yourself for a lapse in judgment and being in a potentially vulnerable position, anticipating the worst. Resting your chin in your hand with an indifferent expression, your gaze drifts towards him, hoping to ward off any unsavory intentions.

Having left things off in a tumultuous spot, you were stunned when you realized it was Arthur. You move your hand away from your face and try brightening your features. Seeing him forced you to confront your volatility, an affliction you couldn't stand. Though how he was looking at you softened the blow. Admiration without a trace of objectification. A rarity for any performer.

"You were...incredible up there."

Accepting compliments outright was never your strong suit, compelling you to look down at your drink.

"Better than anyone I've heard."

You chuckle, not expecting him to be so fervent.

"I mean it. It was beautiful, you're beautiful ."

The latter part of his statement was muttered. Not having it in you to ask him to repeat, you turn towards him, and an arbitrary question lingers.

"You like Sinatra?"

The way he brushed his hands against his pants while asking wasn't overlooked. Taking a swig of your drink to recover from the segue, you give yourself time to think. Enthusiasm finds its way to you, even if only temporarily.

"I do, a lot. My dad introduced me to his music when I was a kid, and we listened to it constantly. Got to a point where it felt like he was part of our family!"

A shared, genuine laugh fills the space, but it quickly subsides, his eyes searching your face.

"Can we talk in private?"

Anxiety reemerges, and you look over your shoulder, conflicted. Part of you scoured an out while the other entertained being alone with him. Facing him again, you swipe your drink off the bar top and force it down, trying to come to a decision. You close your eyes, finishing it in record time. Defeated, you make up your mind.

Hidden from prying eyes, you enter the green room, Arthur not far behind. The walls, covered with posters of jazz legends in a haphazard attempt to conceal imperfections, were aptly painted emerald green, with not a window in sight. You turn on the light; the only source is a single pendant lamp from above and bulbs adorning the vanity frame.

You rummage through the drawer underneath and pull out some makeup wipes. Arthur sits on the couch nearby, your eyes flicking up to him in the reflection as he watches you, your movements like a choreographed dance. You clean your face before standing and stretching, the vanity lights illuminating your figure. Sitting on the opposite end of the couch, you wait to hear what he has to say. Yet, his anxious disposition already spoke volumes. He ran his fingers through his hair and crossed his legs, becoming increasingly fidgety.

"I'll only be able to say this once."

He was pleading, imploring you to take him seriously. You nod, urging him to continue despite not knowing what you'd hear. He rubbed his forehead, unable to look at you directly as he continued.

"You have to know I'm telling the truth."

He doesn't give you time to respond, moving his hand just as quickly as he put it there, regarding you earnestly. His voice was low but intelligible through his emphasis on the word he needed you to hear most.

"Those men on the Subway? I... killed them. "

You think he skipped to the punchline of a tactless joke, laughing despite his preface and oblivious to his bubbling frustration. Any humor you find in the situation dissipates when his deadpan expression, clenched jaw, and searing gaze come to the surface, the shift almost instantaneous. You were no longer looking into the eyes of a broken man but a killer. Panic hits you, and a burst of adrenaline surges through your body. You try to create distance between you, but he grabs your wrist before you can move any further.

"You can't leave, please. You can't."

His grip tightened in a desperate attempt to keep you there, making you freeze like a deer in headlights. His hand moves from your wrist to your forearm like a gentle caress, making his confession much more difficult to believe. There wasn't a single word exchanged; the two of you simply looked at each other. Breaking the stifling silence, your words come out as a trembling whisper.

"Why would you…"

"They were awful. Taunted me, mocked me, beat me to the ground. I just snapped. When I pulled the trigger, I became an entirely different person."

"You became a murderer!"

He's taken aback by your blatant observation, treating it like an insult.

"I thought you, of all people, would understand! You said the guy who did it is a hero, right? Well, he's sitting right in front of you!"

"Saying that about a stranger is one thing, but knowing it's you is crazy !"

"You think I'm crazy?"

You pause, backtracking.

"The situation is crazy."

He moved his hand up to your shoulder and leaned in closer as if to emphasize his point, the manic glint in his eyes shining bright.

"The riots in the streets? The protests at City Hall? I've felt invisible for years, but not now, not anymore. People are finally beginning to notice."

The weight of his explanation was suffocating you, but beneath it was a trace of empathy. You knew what it was like to feel unseen, unheard. The craving for recognition, the yearning to matter. His actions were immoral, but what he said resonated with a dark, uncovered truth within you. You've sought that same spark of recognition, of being someone. Thinking about it chilled you to the bone, not just out of fear but of a strange, unsettling kinship. Like you, he was lost, creating a terrifying understanding of what he'd done.

You lean into him before fear can solidify and reason can reclaim its hold. Giving in to a silent surrender to your emerging malevolence, you relish in a familiarity amidst a world that failed you both.

Chapter Text

You could tell he was waiting for a reply, but you planned to give him so much more. His gaze flitters from your eyes to your lips, enticing you to move in even closer, your face mere inches from his. You feel his hand tighten on your shoulder, inadvertently drawing you in.

Impulsivity overtakes you, and your lips crash into his, desperate and hungry. It was as if you were trying to devour him, to consume the shared shadow of recognition that bound you together. He gasped, your hands tangling in his hair. The outside world faded while the unspoken truth gripped you like a vice.

You pulled back just enough to speak, murmuring in his ear like a secret.

"It's just us now."

Slowly easing him onto your body, he melts into you. The heat between you was all-consuming, a raging flame. Your hands moved down from his shoulders to his chest, assertive and insistent, fingers moving to fumble with the buttons of his shirt. He tenses, the shame on his face unmissable.

"You won't like what you see."

"Let me be the judge of that."

He doesn't persist, prompting you to unbutton and discard his shirt. What you're greeted with makes your heart sink, signs of maltreatment littered across his body. Gaunt, cold to the touch, and bruises both new and faded, you felt a strange, overwhelming urge to protect him. Your lips claimed his once more as he started to seek comfort. You reveled in it; the unexpected warmth of surrender starkly contrasted with the cold reality of his confession.

Your voice falters with emotion.

"No one will ever hurt you again."

Your promise hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and yet it was one you intended to keep. He let out a ragged breath in response, his hands trembling as he found the courage to rest them on your hips. You allow him to take you in, your softness, your scent, everything that made you, you. Hands sprawled out on his bare back, your fingertips follow the curvature of his spine. It elicits a slight, subdued sound from him, and you hum in satisfaction, your lips grazing the top of his head. Mind going a mile a minute, your body acts on its own accord, bending your legs on either side of him, your dress rides up and exposes your thighs. He's undoubtedly mesmerized but still hesitant to initiate, finding purchase on your hips already a challenge. You put your hand on top of his, moving it from your hip to your outer thigh, the other staying on his back to soothe him. Your joined hands roamed your thigh, exploring every inch. His touch was gentle and worshipful, but there was an undercurrent of desperation as if he was worried you'd disappear.

He looks up at you, his eyes filled with something you couldn't name, but you knew your guidance and assurance were affecting him.

"You're perfect. You know that? Perfect ."

His words struck a chord deep within you, uncovering something buried long ago. You spent your life chasing validation, and here it was, staring you in the face. He took you in, making you feel simultaneously vulnerable and cherishable.

Further opening your legs, you led his hand to your inner thigh. Moving it higher and higher, his fingers inevitably skimmed over your underwear, his touch feather-light and unsure, even with your help. It could easily be passed off as an accident when that's the last thing you want. Looking at the wet patch through the light fabric, his expression told you he couldn't believe he was the cause of it. You press his hand against it, helping to trace circles where you need him most. He swore under his breath, unable to find proper words. You smile, your other hand trailing down his chest, feeling it rise and fall.

"Can I show you how I really feel?"

He nodded frantically, his insecurities seemingly overshadowed by desire. You undo his belt with practiced ease, your fingers brushing his concealed erection. His hips buck instinctively, and you press a kiss to the corner of his mouth while tugging his pants down.

"Easy, I've got you."

Taking them off entirely, you make haste and free him from the confines of his boxers. He was hard, painfully so, the sight all too enticing. You wrap your hand around his length, able to feel the way it thrums under your hand. He let out a strangled moan, head falling forward as his hips moved again, seeking more of your touch.

If circumstances were different, you would've continued to tease him, but the possibility of someone catching you two was too great. Unwilling to risk what would happen to your already hindered career, you stand before him and guide him to the edge of the couch. You turn and lift your hair, revealing the zipper of your dress. He puts one hand on your shoulder, the other moving to undress you after stalling for a few moments. He pulls the zipper down despite the shakiness of his hands, and you step out, not missing the opportunity to make a show out of it. Turning to face him, the air is cool on your skin, but the heat in his stare makes you burn. His eyes lingered on the curve of your hips, the swell of your breasts, the way your panties clung to you, damp with your arousal. You peel them away, and he looks like a lost puppy. Clouded by lust, you get ready to straddle him before he stops you.

"I've never…"

He's unable to get the words out, too ashamed, too embarrassed. His apprehension snaps you out of your daze, and you assume what he's hinting at, your hands resting on the couch, your body bent towards him.

"I'll take good care of you, hm?"

Another promise, but this one causes him to have a visceral reaction, his length twitching in anticipation. With his receptiveness, you start to straddle him fully, your knees sinking into the couch cushions as you position yourself above him. He was unsure what to do with his hands as they hovered above your body. Putting them on your hips, you utter a simple request.

"Hold onto me, nice and tight."

His eyes never left yours as you felt him pressing against you, his member seeking entrance. Lining him up with your slit, you slowly lower yourself onto him. The stretch took your breath away, almost too much to bear. He groaned, his hands tightening on your hips as you instructed. Once you adjusted to him, you started to grind, rolling your hips experimentally. The needy sounds that escaped him sent a thrill through you. You savored the way he felt inside you, the way his hands gripped you, the way his breath shook.

"You're taking me so well. Feels so good."

The praise leaves you without a second thought, and he whimpers. Never having been with a man so unabashedly needy, you feel yourself getting even more aroused. Wanting to rid yourself of your bra, you reach around to unfasten the clasps and throw it to the side, now entirely bare on top of him.

Just when you think he couldn't be more enthralled, he gawked at your breasts like they were a gift from God. Bouncing from your movements, you fondle them, showing him everything you can offer. Your nipples start to harden as you pinch and prod them, seeing how much he wants to feel them. You can't stop cooing at him while wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Take what you need, whatever you want."

He blinked rapidly as if coming to his senses, trying to function amidst the intense pleasure. Instead of touching you with his hand like you expected, he nuzzles his face against your breast. The act was overwhelmingly sweet compared to what's happened thus far, and you cradle his head to encourage more.

"All for you."

Soon, your unhurried, intentional motions weren't enough. You needed him deeper, harder, faster. You rose, lifting yourself almost completely off him before slamming back down, the force of it making both of you cry out, burying his face in the side of your neck in an attempt to muffle his sounds. Your nails dig into his shoulders as you set a punishing pace. The sound of skin on skin, the noises he made reverberating through you, and the way you breathlessly encouraged him were beginning to be too much. Tension started to build in your core, the coil tightening with each bounce, each unintelligible plea from him. You knew neither of you would last long, but you needed more. Kissing his temple, you pry him away from your neck, watching intently as you bring his fingers to your mouth. You suck on them; the act was just as provocative as it was erotic. Moving them down your body, they're quickly where you crave them.

"Feel that? Touch me just like before."

Eager to please, he uses his glistening fingers to trace faint, subtle circles on your swollen clit. Your body shudders as you feel yourself pulse around him, and he drinks in every reaction. You bring his head towards your breast again, and for the first time, his instinct drives him forward. He latches onto your nipple, looking up at you with that wide, doe-eyed expression you adored so much. You feel him twitch inside of you, knowing what was about to happen.

"Let go for me."

With permission given, his eyes squeeze shut as he chants your name like a prayer. Holding him close, he spills inside of you, trembling as he comes undone. The sensation brings you closer to the edge but doesn't tip you over the edge. Blinded by pleasure, your movements become erratic as you chase your release. Tears quickly formed in his eyes as his pleasure began to ebb, reminding you of his inexperience and sensitivity. You come to a halt, but before you can ask if he's okay, he shakes his head, his mouth abandoning your nipple.

"Don't stop, please…"

"I don't wanna hurt you…"

He holds you close with his free hand, the other still toying with your clit as his mouth goes to your other breast. His desires were clear:

He wanted you to use him.

That alone excited you in a way you never thought possible. The fact that you reduced a man, a killer, to tears beneath you was pushing you to the pinnacle of pleasure. Your maternalism and megalomania were at war, but you continued to move, holding his face in your hands and wiping his tears.

"That's it, breathe through it. Gonna make me cum like that..."

He doubles down on his efforts, adding extra pressure to your clit and nipple as your orgasm washes over you.

Riding out the wave, you collapse onto him, shaking, breathless, and utterly spent. Your head rests on his shoulder as you both try to catch your breath. With his arms wrapped around you, you could feel his heart racing. Your fingers trace lazy patterns on his arm while in a haze of sensation. The weight of his confession and what you shared settled like dust after a storm. Admiring his peaceful expression in the aftermath, you couldn't bring yourself to regret it. Your hand wanders to his wrist, the nurturing side of you prevailing.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Chapter Text

You were on cloud nine with sunlight illuminating your work, music on the radio, and Arthur humming along. Both of you clad in your undergarments, you stood in front of the mirror over the sink. Running your fingers through his hair as green dye drips from his scalp like rain. He unexpectedly turns around and holds you close, shaking his head. Putting your hands up as the only means to shield yourself from the droplets, he spins you around and sways in time with the music. You were invincible.

Situated on the bed, you watch him put on face paint, brush in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Through long, languid strokes, his face was soon covered in white. There was a theatricality to it, something you wanted to be a part of, so you pulled up a chair next to him, waiting.

He grins in the mirror, more than happy to satiate your curiosity. Facing you, he places a hand on your shoulder to adjust your position, then sweeps the brush into the paint. Even with your eyes shut, you could feel his intense stare, studying you like an artist would a canvas. The bristles of the brush tickle your face, but you do your best to stay still, not wanting to hinder the process. For a while, the scent of smoke and the sound of his soft breathing were the only things that filled the room, but you broke the silence with a question.

"How'd you get all this?"

Referencing the dye, paints, and multicolored suit on the foot of the bed, he hums in response to your genuine interest.

"I used to work as a clown over at Ha Ha's."

You were familiar with the place, having hired magicians and strippers for friends' bachelorette parties. It was strange to think he worked there, having possibly crossed paths sooner if you needed a clown.

"Used to?"

He took a drag of his cigarette and stroked the brush in the paint again, applying a second layer.

"I brought a gun to the children's hospital. It fell during my routine."

His indifference makes you smile beneath the makeup, forming creases on your face. You can't stop yourself from cracking a joke.

"Was there any warning before they fired you, or did they just pop your contract?"

"Oh, yeah. They said I was shooting for the wrong audience."

Laughter erupts amongst you, an infectious sound you'd never tire of. He pulls away, finishing the base and setting the brush aside. Your eyes flutter open, and you look in the mirror, feeling bare with just white, but excited by the possibility that shines through. You look down, scanning the other paints as you speak.

"Did you have some kind of an alter ego, a name?"

He leans back in his chair, taking another puff and watching you.

"Carnival."

You glance his way and repeat the name, circling your hand and extending it out for dramatic effect.

"Carnival. I like it. It's very…you."

He chuckles, extinguishing the cigarette in the ashtray, and moves closer to you in the shared mirror.

Everything became a distant murmur. Left behind was the drone of the radio and the sound of paint jars being moved against the vanity. The chosen colors lay out before you were at your disposal, and the gleam of the rich red and bold black was calling to you. Dipping the brushes into them, the fine, billowy tip glided effortlessly onto the paint and your skin.

Getting ready flooded you with a sense of calm, contrary to how you usually felt when getting ready for a gig. There wasn't any judgment, pressure, or expectation from those around you, just the freedom to do as you wish. You got caught up in it, creating a piece of yourself you hadn't fully known yet.

Red and black accents quickly began to take shape across your features, every detail allowing you to dance between who you were and who you wanted to be. The look you were crafting was admittedly imperfect, but therein lay its beauty. There was no such thing as wrong when it was yours to decide. Pausing at the thought, you admire your reflection. The mirror reflected the chaos, making your heart race, and a feeling of euphoria started to bubble up within you. It was an energy, a spark, crackling just beneath the surface.

And it was gearing up to take the city by storm.

Chapter Text

The cool evening breeze kisses your face as you peer down the stairwell. Rushing in front of you, Arthur holds out his hand for you to take. When you do, he starts to dance. It kicked off with a slow, exaggerated step, him leaning forward and you pulling back. Your painted faces take on giddy expressions, stumbling about and laughing.

You eased into it, your hands flying out as you twirled, feeling like you were floating. He follows, bringing you back with another smooth, dramatic spin. Swaying in and out of a self-set rhythm, your steps grew more fluid, striking a balance between elegant and garish. The stairs felt like a stage as you both journeyed down in a shared madness at a moment's whim. Everything was becoming blurry as you moved, leaving reality behind. Your steps began synchronizing as though your bodies knew what the other would do next.

He guided you into a slow dip, your head thrown back in joy, his smile wide and wild.

"Hey, Arthur, we need to talk!"

You and Arthur crane your necks toward the top of the stairs to see two policemen. He yanks you up, head swimming, but you aren't given the chance to recover as he holds onto your hand for dear life. He starts to run, and you have no choice but to follow.

"Hey, stop!"

He drags you along, your feet barely touching the ground. Why were they looking for him? Did they know what he had done? Did running make you an accomplice? You shake the questions out of your mind as the wind whips past you. The sheer will to not let them catch you drives you forward, not daring to look back.

"Now departing, O-Train, downtown."

Scampering up the stairs and into the subway station, you and Arthur race onto a train just as the doors start to close, pushing past the hordes of people. Frantically looking around, you realize everyone is wearing clown masks, the uncanniness of it making your mind run all the more.

"Hold it! Hold that train!"

You watch through the window as they shove their way in, forcing you to scramble into a different car.

"Next stop, Bedford Park."

Hearing the crowd's commotion pushed you to keep going, hoping it would hold the cops off.

"Police! Masks off, signs down!"

In the heat of the moment, you watch as Arthur snatches a mask off a passenger.

"What the fuck?"

The man shoves him, forcing Arthur to fall into someone else. Moving out of the way, a fight breaks out. He puts the mask on, pressing you into his chest and moving further from the ruckus. Two men attacking each other turn into the entire car of people brawling, getting caught up in the frenzy.

"Stop fighting! Police! Get down!"

The sea of people shifts amidst the mayhem for a split second, and there's a clear shot of the officer from where you're standing. He draws his gun and points it at Arthur. In a fit of rage, one of the passengers wrestles him for the gun, reaching a boiling point. The gun goes off, the shot ringing off the car walls. The man fighting for the gun falls to the ground with a loud thud :

All hell breaks loose.

Everyone pushes the officers out of the stopped train onto the platform. You feel Arthur's laugh reverberate against you, waiting for the crowd to surge out of the train before leaving with you, keeping you close.

The uproar echoes into the open night. Arthur cradles your head to him as you both watch the officers get beaten to the ground. After taking it in, you both depart from the unrest. Arthur removes the mask with his free hand and walks out of the station with you.

A swarm of officers rushed past, none the wiser as you both left the scene unscathed.

Chapter Text

"Two officers on the train were violently confronted by the crowd, and tonight are in serious but stable condition at Gotham Metropolitan. "

Creating a commemorative in the dressing room of your dreams, you press your lips against the cold glass of the mirror, immortalizing your message inscribed in lipstick:

Put On a Happy Face 💋

Arthur was ogling you from his seated position, encouraging you to look down and marvel at him. From his green, swept-back hair to the blue surrounding his eyes, the red accentuating his lips and brows, and his particolored attire, he never looked better. Carding your fingers through his locks, you wondered what would happen if you…

Your thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. Opening without warning, Arthur hurriedly stands when he realizes who it is, making you stumble back and return to reality.

"Murray…"

Turning around to face the entryway, time stopped. You knew you should've been angry about how he treated Arthur, but you weren't. You were starstruck. The incarnation of your hopes and aspirations stood right in front of you; wrongdoings be damned.

He shakes Arthur's hand before assessing you, slightly perplexed by your presence.

"And who do we have here?"

"Y/N, Mr Franklin. It's an honor! I'm just here for…moral support."

"Please, call me Murray. Mr Franklin is my father!"

He speaks, flashing a thousand-watt smile and shaking your hand with a warm, firm grip. You think about how many stars have had a similar exchange. Skip Byron, Sandra Winger, Ethan Chase, Yeldon & Chantel. The notion alone was enough to leave you dazed, but you pushed through, tuning back into the conversation.

"A performer is only as good as those in their corner. That's very admirable of you."

His words make you feel like a starry-eyed child, though you play it off to save face.

"It's the least I can do."

Murray chuckles at your humility, doing little to lessen your awe. Arthur chimes back in, Murray's attention shifting off you and onto him.

"I feel like I know you. I've been watching you forever."

"Thank you. What's with your faces? I mean, are you both part of the protest?'

You shake your head, about to speak, before Arthur interrupts you.

"No, I don't believe in any of that. I don't believe in anything. I just thought it'd be good for my act."

Murray absorbs what's said, sucking air between his teeth, thinking.

"You know what? It's gonna work. We're gonna go with it."

You watch as Arthur smiles at Murray, relieved.

"Thank you, Murray."

"A couple of rules, though, no cursing, no off-color material. We do a clean show. Someone will come and get you, okay? Good luck."

He's about to leave the room, but Arthur stops him.

"Murray, one small thing."

"Yeah?"

"When you bring me out, can you introduce me as Joker?"

You're taken aback, not used to him being so forward.

"What's wrong with your real name?"

"That's what you called me on the show, a joker. Do you remember?"

"Well, if you say so, Joker, it is. It's good."

Murray flares one last smile before patting Arthur on the arm and waving to you. He leaves the room and closes the door behind him. The sound of his footsteps fades into the distance despite his presence lingering in the room.

You were happy for Arthur, even proud. However, a twinge of jealousy, sharp and uninvited, grew. His transformation threatened to suffocate you, your colorful past shrouded by the shadow of his upcoming stardom. The entire city would know his name, while you were nothing more than a mere harlequin, a mockery for the masses as he danced in the spotlight.

Chapter Text

Meandering backstage, you reach Arthur, standing shoulder to shoulder while watching the monitor. Another segment of Murray's was coming to a close, and you started to fidget, cigarette smoke drawing your attention to Arthur indulging. You figured he'd been smoking for quite some time, but you only just noticed the need to soothe your nerves becoming obsessive.

"Can I have a drag?"

He looks at you, quirking a brow.

"You're sure?"

You nod, and he appeases you, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear like it is the most natural thing in the world. The act would've been tender if you weren't somewhat resentful. Helping you to position your hand comfortably temporarily weakened your defenses, and the warmth of his touch and affectionate gaze amplified your guilt.

Taking a small puff, the smoke curls into your lungs and tickles the back of your throat. You stifle a cough with a soft laugh, embarrassed while fanning it away. He touched your back, rubbing comforting circles while coaxing you.

"Try again, slower this time."

You heeded his advice, being more careful by inhaling gradually. It felt slightly less abrasive, not as suffocating, but it wasn't something you saw yourself getting used to. He studies you when you exhale, eventually taking the cigarette back and having another puff.

With the smoke captive, he cups your face and leans in. Your breath hitches as his lips capture yours, the taste of hot, acrid smoke filling your senses. His actions were possessive, jarring you in the best possible way.

He pulls back, a haze swirling between your faces. His eyes are dark and intense, desire pooling in their depths. The taste dwells on your lips, a reminder of what you just shared, though you can't savor it for long. Murray's voice brings you back to the present, with Arthur's performance at the forefront again.

"You've probably seen a clip of our next guest, a local, aspiring comedian, here on the show."

Both of you watched the clip of his routine from Pogo's. The disgust you felt towards Murray for showing it initially morphed into envy of the opportunity it gave Arthur.

You look over at him, his silhouette half-lit by the glow of the light shining through the curtains. Unbeknownst to you, the mirror behind you held your reflections like a split-screen. He was focused, trying to get into the right frame of mind while your thoughts consumed you. You didn't regret being there for support, but it did little to curb your craving for notoriety.

He began to sway, his movements slow and graceful like a swan.

"Now, before he comes out, I just want to say that we're all heartbroken about what's happening in the city tonight."

Turning to you, he takes your hand, holding you close to his chest. You could hear his frantic, excited heartbeat, almost as if it were mocking you.

"But this is how he wanted to come out, and honestly, we could all use a good laugh."

Spinning you away, he lets go and waits for his cue.

"So, please welcome Joker!"

The stagehand moves the curtain back, and the spotlight comes into view. Engulfed by the crowd's applause, you're left to watch everything through the screen.

Arthur throws the cigarette over his shoulder and twirls onto the stage. In time with the music, he shakes Murray's hand and saunters over to his seat, sitting down. Staring out into the crowd, he takes everything in as Murray looks at him concernedly. The audience begins to laugh.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, this is exactly how I imagined it."

"That makes one of us!"

Everyone claps at Murray's jab, prompting uncertainty amidst your disbelief that Arthur was on the show.

"Can you tell us about this look? Earlier, you mentioned that it's not a political statement. Is that right?"

Arthur hangs on to Murray's every word, the sight eating away at you.

"That's right, Murray. I'm not political. I'm just trying to make people laugh."

"How's that going?"

The crowd bursts out in laughter again, but instead of Arthur recoiling like one would expect, he laughs with them, shrill and protracted. Anyone could see it was the farthest thing from genuine, though it seems you were the only one who did.

"I know you're a comedian. Have you been working on any new material? You wanna tell us a joke?"

"Yeah? Okay."

This was the moment Arthur had been dreaming about his entire life, but your jealousy made it difficult for you to be entirely happy.

He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a small notebook. You knew he had it but weren't allowed to read it, making you curious about what was inside. You watched as Murray donned a shit-eating grin.

"He's got a book. A book of jokes."

Arthur ignores him this time, flipping through the book. His face is expressionless as his eyes flitter across the page.

"Take your time! We've got all night."

It was becoming increasingly clear what this was, leaving you to wonder if Arthur could see it too or if he was blinded by the pageantry of it all.

"Here's one. Knock, knock."

"You had to look that up?"

Laughter erupted again from both the audience and Murray. You shift your weight and bring your hand to your mouth, anticipating the worst.

"I wanna get it right. Knock, knock."

"Who's there?"

"It's the police, ma'am. Your son's been hit by a drunk driver. He's dead!"

Arthur laughs at his joke. Little does he know that you are, too, stifling it behind your hand.

"That's not funny, Arthur. That's not the kind of humor we do on this show."

You roll your eyes and scoff, finding Murray's reaction melodramatic.

"I'm…yeah. I'm sorry. It's just that it's been a tough few weeks. Ever since I…killed those three Wall Street guys."

Your breath shudders, panic hitting you like a physical blow. Your eyes flicker from the curtain and back to the screen, in utter shock at what was unfolding.

"I'm waiting for the punchline."

"It's not a joke."

The crowd murmurs amongst themselves. The impulse to run onto the stage and save Arthur from himself almost overpowers you, but you stop yourself, knowing that's the last thing he'd want. Murray leans forward, now hanging onto Arthur's every word.

"You're serious, aren't you? You're telling us you killed those three young men on the subway?"

"Mh hm."

"Why should we believe you?"

"I've got nothing left to lose. Nothing can hurt me anymore. My life is nothing but a comedy."

Tears start to form in your eyes, a mix of frustration and sorrow threatening to tear you apart. Did you mean nothing to him? You were at a loss, worriedly tracing your lips with your fingers.

"Let me get this straight. Do you think that killing those guys is funny?"

"I do, and I'm tired of pretending it's not. Comedy is subjective. Isn't that what they say? All of you, the system that knows so much, you decide what's right or wrong. The same way that you decide what's funny or not!"

"I might understand. You did this to start a movement? To become a symbol?"

"Do I look like the kind of clown that could start a movement? I killed those guys because they were awful. Everybody is awful these days. It's enough to make anyone crazy."

You stepped closer to the monitor, momentarily forgetting this was happening beyond the curtain.

"That's it? You're crazy? That's your defense for killing three young men?"

"Oh, why is everybody so upset about these guys? If it were me dying on the sidewalk, you'd walk right over me! I pass you every day, and you don't notice me. But these guys, what? Because Thomas Wayne cried about them on TV?"

Tears spilled over, everything in sight becoming just as blurry as it was in your mind.

"You have a problem with Thomas Wayne, too?"

"Yes, I do. Have you seen what it's like out there? Do you ever actually leave the studio? Everybody yells and screams at each other. Nobody's civil anymore! Nobody thinks about what it's like to be the other guy. Do you think men like Thomas Wayne ever think about what it's like to be someone like me? To be somebody but themselves? They don't. They think that we'll sit there and take it! That we won't go wild!"

"You finished? I mean, it's so much self-pity. You sound like you're making excuses for killing these young men. Not everybody, and I'll tell you this, not everyone is awful."

"You're awful, Murray."

Arthur's blatant observation brought you a sick sense of satisfaction, now knowing he saw exactly what you did. Amidst everything you felt, pride began to well up in your chest, and you smiled at the screen.

"Me? I'm awful? Oh, yeah? How am I awful?"

"Playing my video, inviting me on the show. You just wanted to make fun of me. You're just like the rest of them."

"You don't know the first thing about me, pal. Look what happened because of what you did and what it led to. There are riots! Two policemen are in critical condition, and you're laughing? Someone was killed today because of what you did."

You blink rapidly, and everything around you becomes crystal clear. Keeping your hands up, you fold them in front of your mouth, your breath coming out in short, quiet puffs.

"I know! How about another joke, Murray?"

"No, I think we've had enough of your jokes."

"What do you get…"

"I don't think so!"

"...when you cross a mentally ill loner with a society that abandons him and treats him like trash?!"

"Someone call the police!"

"I'll tell you what you get! You get what you fucking deserve!"

Before you can even process what happened, Arthur pulls out a gun and shoots Murray in the head. The chaos of the crowd, blood splatter on the bright, white sign for the show, and Arthur's laugh in the immediate aftermath were nothing short of life imitating art. Needing to experience it for yourself, you strut onto the stage. While not much of an audience is left, you acted as if there was, soaking in the sound of their screams, the sight of Murray's lifeless body, and making the most out of the adrenaline coursing through you.

You're in front of Arthur in an instant, admiring the blood on his face before going in for a quick kiss and taking the gun. Pivoting, you channel your anguish into a single shot, firing it into Murray's chest.

More screams erupt, feeding your need to make a continued spectacle. You throw the gun onto Murray's table as you take Arthur's hand, strolling to the camera just a few feet before you. With both of you in the frame, you hold it steady and leave Gotham with words you only ever dreamt of saying.

"Goodnight, and always remember, that's life!"

Chapter Text

The city was in flames. Looters and wrecked cars stretched on for miles while store alarms rang like carnival bells. Gotham was falling apart at the seams, a view you'd never forget. Sitting in the back of a squad car, you could revel in this moment with Arthur, his laughter like music to your ears.

"Stop laughing, you freak. This isn't funny. The whole fucking city's on fire because of what you both did."

The officer's voice cut through the radio, only adding to the strife. Arthur presses his face up against the partition, smiling ear to ear.

"I know. Isn't it beautiful?"

Before you can revere him as the face of Gotham's new beginning, a sudden white light blinds you, and everything comes to a screeching halt.

You wake up in a daze atop a pile of metal and shattered glass that was once a car. Your eyes flutter open to the view of the night sky, obstructed by thick smoke. Realizing you don't know what happened, you're filled with dread. Ignoring your pounding head, the sharp pain under your ribs, and labored breathing, you roll onto your side. Startled by seeing Arthur in shambles, you assume the worst. Your trembling hand goes up to his cheek, tapping it rapidly.

He doesn't react; his eyes are shut, and his body is still. The gash on his head made you all the more fearful. You put your head against his chest, trying to hear his heartbeat, a string of pleas falling from your lips. The disorderly crowd strikes anger within you, and just as you're about to cry out to quiet them, Arthur wakes up.

He coughs ferociously, blood spewing from his mouth. You let out a quivering breath, silently thanking whatever force was out there for not taking him. Lulling his head to the side, he looks up at you. You caress his cheek to soothe him, leaning closer to shield him from further harm. A grunt of pain bubbles up in your throat, and he tries to speak, knowing he was trying to tell you not to move, but the words don't come. Shushing him, he clutches your arm, begging you to stay. With his makeup long gone, you're able to see his face. Taken by the humanity you never lost sight of, everything around you stills. The sound of the crowd, car alarms, and sirens becomes a distant echo as the space between you gradually disappears, your foreheads pressed together. Neglecting your injuries, your breath mingles with his, shaky and shallow. Noses brushing together and lips only inches apart, they're about to meet when the mob exclaims again.

"Come on, get up!"

The spell shatters, and you both jerk apart. At the mercy of everyone around you, you watch as Arthur tries to stand, sitting up a difficult feat in itself. You grab his hand, imploring him to stay down. He holds onto you but persists, his eyes darting from you to the crowd. You're stunned, though you don't actively stop him, your grip only now serving as a crutch. The mob roars in approval, a sea of fists and miscellaneous objects being thrown up into the air. With Arthur's attention entirely on them, you're left to fend for yourself despite your hands being joined. Sitting up on the car's hood, you also look out into the crowd, something catching your eye. A woman stands out amidst the horde of men, her gaze through the face paint making you feel less vulnerable, less exposed.

You let go of Arthur's hand, positioning yourself on your hands and knees as if you had something to prove. Trying to stand, you stagger back down, the pain getting the best of you. Your shaking arms refuse to cooperate as you attempt to get your bearings.

As you brace yourself again, you feel a hand on your opposite side. You flinch at first, on edge, but then you hear her.

"They need to see you, too."

Lifting your head, you catch a glimpse of her through the haze. Red copper hair spilling out of her hood was one of the few definable features you could make out. Black, white, and red face paint conceal her identity, but a spark in her eyes burns hotter than the wreckage surrounding you.

You glance up at Arthur again, watching as he drinks in the chaos of his own doing. He's completely consumed by it. You realize no one fully acknowledges you except for her.

With her help, you push up, rising to your feet. The mob catches on, their cheers becoming a raging and thunderous roar. Everything was electric in a way you could've never expected.

The woman squeezes your hand before letting go, fading into the crowd as quickly as she appeared.

Your body sways with exhaustion before Arthur pulls you to him, supporting your weight. Even with your torn clothes and festering wounds, you've never felt more alive. Amid the ruin, there's clarity, a mutual understanding of the start of something beautiful.

Feeling yourself succumbing to your ailments, blood drips from your nose. You look up at Arthur, and his eyes meet yours, a mix of pride and awe dancing in them. He's looking at you as if seeing you for the first time.

He catches the blood with his fingertips, admiring it in the light of the flame before slowly smearing it across your mouth. You suppress a gasp, not wanting to taste it. His touch was tender and reverent as if he were crafting something divine.

Bringing his bloodstained fingers to his lips, he spreads what's left across them. It was deliberate, almost methodical, painting the same grin he had worn. The act had a flawed elegance, and his intent was clear. Voices of the mob lift like hymns as if they're witnessing a coronation. Queen of carnage, muse to his madness, whatever they saw you as, one thing was for sure:

Only after trouble can one see just how little sympathy there is in the world.

Chapter Text

I have a lover who cast me forth on the world and wrecked my brain.

Chapter Text

Patients stand and gaze longingly toward the city they, in all likelihood, will never enter again. It means liberty and life; it seems so near, and yet…

Your manic stream of consciousness is interrupted by a familiar tune. Whistles floating down the hall, guards shouting demands, and cell doors being jarred open. It's been two years since you've been put away, Arkham long infiltrating you like a poison.

Your door is swiftly unlocked and pulled open, the same arbitrary question coming from the guard without hesitation.

"Got any pretty songs for me today?"

Hiding away your crumpled paper and stub of a pencil, you watch her with expectant eyes.

"Don't act like that. I've been good to you during your time here, no?"

She was anything but good to you, challenging you to say otherwise. You nod, your gaze fixed straight ahead, creeping out into the threshold of your cell. Absorbing the usual chaos in the hall, she pushes you out into the haphazard line, thankful to endure it on your own for now.

"I'll keep your scribblings a secret as long as you keep behaving, songbird."

Her whispered promise and nickname for you loom heavy, though you don't let it suffocate you as you once did.

 Your mind rarely has the time to wander, but when it does, you often think about when you first arrived. Terrified, malleable, and coerced into submission, you quickly learned what that gets you in a place like this. You found solace in silence now, opting for the written word and speaking only when necessary.

Heavy footsteps, threats, and unanswered cries bring you back to the present. You shudder at the thought of an inmate being so bold as to beg.

Slippers shuffling against tile, the rattling of cuffs for those deemed too wild to walk untethered. Through one barred door and then another, the tiled walls sweat with mildew, bleach barely masking the sour stench of stagnant water and grime. A tub waits — steel and stained, its rusting rim flaking like diseased skin. Two attendants stand by, aproned and gloved, the sight of their instruments on the metal tray unmistakable. Brushes, razors, and a coarse rag that was once white.

"Strip."

The demand was automatic, one you've heard time and time again, but you hesitate.

"I said strip ."

With no room for argument without punishment, your fingers shake as you disrobe, the chill in the air burrowing under your skin. Your clothes hit the floor, and the world narrows — patients across the room are already drenched and dazed. One rocks back and forth in a tub too small for her, muttering to something unseen on the ceiling.

You're pushed forward, bare feet slapping against the wet tile. Your hip hits the edge of the tub hard enough to bruise, and you're forcefully lowered into the freezing water. The shock is immediate, stabbing your lungs and seizing your throat. You try to suppress a gasp, but it escapes. The attendants take great pleasure in your suffering, jeering down at you.

"Thought you were one for dramatics."

You don't respond; too busy trying to think of a song. Reciting lyrics in your head helps. It's a distraction, something predictable.

"I think silence earns her the stiff brush. Gotta scrape the sins outta her."

Unable to process what was said, the brush rasps against your skin, drawing raw heat to the surface. You close your eyes, your mind shifting from lyrics to felt-tip pens. Of paper. Of cities beyond Gotham. A scream from another inmate rises at the far end of the room. It ricochets inside your skull, and you flinch. One of the attendants forces your head back as she speaks.

"You're quieter than most. Makes me wonder how crazy you really are."

Your voice doesn't come. Instead, your head is thrown forward, the scummy water splashing all around you.

"Dry her."

You're yanked out, a scratchy towel thrown over your shoulders that absorbs nothing. Shivering and exposed, you're wrapped in the illusion of decency, your body feeling as if it doesn't belong to you. You wanted to laugh at the horror of it all, but you knew nothing would come out. Nothing ever did.

Once you were dressed and had taken your medication, you were escorted to B ward to see the doctor. The jaunt through the gated walkway was a gift. Not only were you able to spend a few extra moments outside, but it was also your favorite weather. Without an umbrella, you were soaked, but unlike bathing, you didn't mind. It reminded you of the outside world, that there was more than just Arkham.

When you walk through the door, the guards waste no time taunting you.

"Look around, Y/N, this is how the other half lives. Could've been yours if you hadn't shot an already dead man on live TV."

They laugh, but any humor you find in your situation ebbs and flows. And right now? It was nowhere to be seen.

As you continued on your way to the doctor, you heard the sound of a piano and choir. You assumed it was an echo of your past, but when you turned the corner, it was very much real. The room emitted a yellow glow, like a godly light shining upon you.

"What the fuck is this shit?"

The snide comment made by one of the guards fell on deaf ears as you listened intently to the song. When you're feet away, you try to stop and take it in, but you're shoved along.

Sitting across from Dr Beatty, you felt you were in capable hands. She was soft-spoken, had a gentle disposition, and cared, or at least appeared to. It was something you so desperately craved in your ward that you took it at face value.

"I'll be asking you a few questions today, Y/N. They're things we've discussed before, but I'd like to see if you remember anything different or if certain details have become clearer. I'm just here to help guide you through the process. Okay?"

You nod, still unused to speaking.

"I want you to remember that I'm here for you, but for me to do my job, I need you to be candid with me. Does that make sense?"

"Yes…"

Your voice croaks out unexpectedly, triggering a coughing fit. Dr Beatty moves to get you a glass of water, concern gracing her features. You take the glass, having a few sips, before trying again.

"Yes, ma'am."

When she sees you're able to respond with less of an issue, she sits back down and continues.

"In your own time, what, if anything, do you remember about that night?"

You take a deep breath and close your eyes, trying to transport yourself back into that time. Your answer was brief but truthful.

"The music coming through the curtain…"

"That's good, that's very good."

Her encouragement feeds directly into your need, coaxing more out of you.

"I really liked his band. My dad and I used to…watch the show together."

She hummed in response.

"He liked Murray Franklin, too?"

You nod, smiling to yourself as you remember your father.

"He told me I'd be a big star one day. That I'd be on the show, take Gotham by storm ."

"If he could see you now, how do you think he'd feel?"

Opening your eyes and tilting your head, you look off into the distance.

"I think he'd be…real proud of me."

Chapter Text

Out in the yard, the guards yell to you. Not having any choice, you walk towards them, treading lightly.

"You know that music class we saw? With all the singing?"

You nod, coming to a stop.

"I got you in. We're going tomorrow."

You're leery amongst the group, not letting anything show. One of them scoffs before laughing, clearly thinking the proposition was absurd.

"Bullshit. The fuck you do that for?"

"No, no! I put in a good word, said you've been good. You deserve it."

There's a spark of excitement within you at the mere possibility of it being true, something you haven't felt since you've been put away.

"You must've known she could get some good press for it, riding off the coattails of her boyfriend's fame."

You ignore the biting remark, focusing on the topic at hand. Speaking easier than usual, thanks to the time spent with Dr. Beatty, you use your voice.

"Are you being serious?"

"I am, on the bible! It wasn't hard, either. You have quite the reputation now."

Dare you to let a smile show? You felt lighter. The group picked up on it as they sang for you. You weren't sure if it was due to your nerves, their uncharacteristic behavior, or the gift they'd just given you, but the spirit you thought you'd lost for good shone through.

The rest of the day felt like a breeze. From taking your nightly medication to spending time in the dining hall and getting ready for bed, it wasn't quite as daunting; the promise of music carried you through. 

The morning was a repeat of many prior. You hadn't slept a wink. Wide-eyed and trembling with excitement, your door is unlocked, and the guard who got you into the class smiles down at you.

"Look at you! Shot out of a cannon this morning. Hope they'll let me sing!"

Before you can muster up a response, she bursts out into song as she walks behind you. Feeling like an embarrassed child with their mother, you shake your head and smile, something you never thought you'd do in such a place.

Eventually escorted back into B ward, you saunter down the familiar hallway with newfound life. Instead of being mocked with what you could've had or prepping to see the doctor, you were getting the opportunity to do something your heart has yearned to do for years.

You walked into the room you'd been shoved past before. The sound of the piano and people singing enveloped you. Not saying a word, you take it all in, unable to believe you were actually there.

The guard accompanying you clears her throat, snapping you out of your disbelief and drawing the teacher's attention.

"Hold it, hold it, hold it…"

Everyone quiets down at his instruction, making you feel abashed.

"Group, I want you to welcome Y/N. Now, I know it's odd to have an inmate from E ward in here, but I have been assured she's been a model patient without any incidents."

You stand calmly and proudly without effort; you're genuinely happy to be there.

"I know this is strange, Ms L/N, a new environment. You see, we use music in this class to make us whole, to balance the conflicting forces, the…fractures within ourselves. All I ask is that you sing if and when you're ready to sing."

He starts to play again while you're ushered into a spot. To your surprise, the guard unhands you and steps away, leaving you to your own devices. Surrounded by a small group, you wordlessly introduce yourself as they sing. No one's antagonistic. If anything, they're curious.

Turning your attention to the music, the teacher's fingers drift across the piano keys, playing a low, lilting tune—familiar and soft. It was a jazz standard, stripped of its polish but still full of soul. The melody seeps into your bones. Your chest aches with the memory of singing on lowly lit stages with watchful eyes, wearing perfume and clothes that made you feel beautiful. It felt like the life of a stranger.

You part your lips in an attempt to sing, but only a dry rasp escapes. The piano doesn't stop, and no one turns to look at you, but you're left betrayed by your own voice. Pressing your hands against your thighs, your fingers twitch with the urge to do something, anything.

The others carry on, voices rising, weaving around each other in imperfect harmony. You swallow hard, gaze fixed on the piano. The teacher doesn't skip a beat, talking while playing.

"Let the music move through you. Even if you don't make a sound, let it reach you."

And so you stand there. Breathing, listening, letting yourself feel the ache. The chords drift around you like fog over a quiet city street—dim, sultry, and slow. You feel a stirring inside you, and you close your eyes for just a moment, getting swept away.

The lights are soft and golden, spilling over a velvet curtain and smoky haze. A warm hum of conversation alongside clinking glasses and low laughter surrounds you. The microphone in your hand feels natural, feels right. With a strength you didn't know you possessed, you start to sing.

At first, it's a whisper—raspy and unsure, as if you've been asleep for years. But the melody catches in your throat and pulls you forward, breath by breath, word by word. You remember not only how to sing but how to savor. Your voice blossoms, aching and tender. You look out into the audience, expecting shadows and phantoms, but they're anything but. They're people, real ones at that. They're listening, truly listening. No one sees your troubled past, wrongdoings, or the darker truths within you. They see you. The real you.

Just behind them, standing under the exit sign, is a version of your father you barely recognize. Happy and unburdened, he leans against the wall with a crooked smile. He doesn't say anything, simply waiting to see if you'll keep going.

The music crescendos, lights flicker, and the music becomes weightless, and with it, so do you.

Chapter Text

By the time you reach the commons area in E ward, the murmurs amongst everyone are nothing but static. The normality of it all was crushing. A game of cards in the corner, someone dozing off beside the barred window, a line for medication. You hover in the doorway, trying to get your bearings. One of the patients notices, calling you over.

"Your boyfriend's on the news!"

It takes a moment for you to realize who they're talking about, but when it clicks, you push yourself forward. Your hurried steps are clumsy and disjointed as you come to a stop in front of the TV. Your eyes flicker across the screen, trying to absorb it.

"Not guilty by reason of insanity makes no sense in this case. He murdered five innocent people."

The words were coming straight from the assistant district attorney, Harvey Dent. Given your state, you've been kept in the dark about Arthur and his pending case. This was the first time you had heard about him in two years. 

"His depraved acts of violence are admired by his followers. Not only in our city but all over the country. Vandalism, arson…"

Your thoughts drifted to that night, the heat of the flames, the raging crowd, Arthur holding you close…

"They're still willing to commit acts of violence in his name."

"The judge said he's competent to stand trial. I fucking knew it!"

The exclamation from someone around you leaves you unflinching, too preoccupied with watching.

"These people believe Arthur Fleck to be some kind of…martyr. He's not. He's a monster who knew exactly what he was doing."

Anger starts to simmer. No one understood him like you did. How could they call him a monster after everything he's been through?

"Our office will be seeking the death penalty."

"You hear that? The death penalty!"

"They're gonna fry him!"

You don't hear anyone, pulled under by Harvey's words. The death penalty? It was a possibility you never considered, not even given a chance to think about him in the first place. Overcome with grief, the feeling settles in the pit of your stomach. You take a step back, trembling. 

Everything was crumbling beneath you while an amalgamation of whistles, laughs, and whispers swirled around you. How could they find any amusement in this? Arthur could die; the prosecution was adamant in seeing it through, yet your reaction is nothing more than entertainment. You want to yell, but you don't dare to actually do it.

Your voice breaks as you try to speak, not talking to anyone in particular.

"He's not…you don't know him."

More laughter erupts. The word "martyr " is parodied like a punchline. You squeeze your eyes shut. Your nails dig into the flesh of your palm, forming a fist.

Doing what you can to keep your voice hushed, you start to barely hit the side of your thigh.

"He's not a monster."

You repeat it, this time striking yourself with a bit more force, yet trying to be discreet.

"He's not a monster."

You hit your thigh again and again, harder this time. The momentary flashes of pain helped to cut through the fog, starting to creep into your mind. A sudden, involuntary sound leaves you, a mix between a sob and a broken plea. That's when the ward really starts to notice. They all perk up like something interesting is happening, staring as if you're a lost cause. You stop the movement of your hand, your eyes snapping open as you turn to look at them.

"You think this is funny, huh? Think him dying is some kind of entertainment?"

The more skittish inmates flinch. Others simply stare, and some just smirk. Your jaw clenches, then unclenches, your words spilling over.

"They never showed the rest of it, did they? Just the headlines, the blood. Not what they did to him. Not what they made him into."

You can feel your voice breaking, but you don't stop.

"They want to kill him because they failed him. Because he showed everyone the truth, and no one could stomach it. They called him crazy, called me crazy."

Your fist that was once against the side of your thigh moves up to your chest.

"Shoved pills down my throat, told me I was sick when all I did was love him. I loved him when no one else did!"

The guards exchange looks. You know what's coming, but you don't stop.

Your voice starts to lift, sharp and loud, as you push its limits.

"You all think I'm unstable? Locking me up for years and dropping this fucking bomb on me like I'm not supposed to react? Like I'm just supposed to take it?"

You laugh, chest heaving and tears burning behind your eyes. That's when you hear it: the rustle of fabric, the snap of a glove, the movement of the tray. Your sight narrows in on the nurses preparing to sedate you.

You stumble backward, knocking over a chair.

"Don't touch me, don't you dare ."

The guards move to restrain you before you can take another step, only escalating things further. You start to beg, for what you aren't sure, but to no avail. A flurry of hands are all over you, holding you as you twist and struggle. You hear the laughter again, faint and cruel. Everyone eyes you like a circus act.

You barely feel the needle, only the contrast of the cold of the drug and the heat of your humiliation. Both start to radiate throughout your body, your veins turning to sludge.

You whimper, your words barely audible.

"I'm not sick…"

One of the guards shushes you, smiling.

"Just let it take you now, songbird."

Your strength starts to gradually dissipate as you slump forward into waiting arms. The TV screen above you glows impassively, almost mocking you for what you just witnessed.

Navy blue skies serve as the backdrop for the moonlight shining down on your white, satin gown. With buildings as far as the eye can see, you wait patiently on the terrace when he turns the corner, dressed to the nines in a cashmere suit. He's the epitome of composure, a stark contrast to you falling apart. 

He takes your hands that were pressed against your face and holds them, one staying interlocked with his and the other being moved to his shoulder. You look up at him adoringly, though stunted by uncertainty. There were a million things you wanted to say, but none of them came.

Instead, he starts to dance with you, holding you in his arms. It had been years since you danced; the very last time was with him atop the stairs. And so, you let him take the lead. Not a single word is exchanged, making room for graceful movements, longing gazes, and the promise of better days.

Chapter Text

You stirred awake, your mind foggy from the sedatives. Everything felt distant, unsure of where you were. Sunlight peeking through the singular window cast a glow over the small, concrete cell, forcing your eyes to adjust.​​ That's when you saw him kneeling on the ground beside you. His hair messy, face shadowed with stubble, and eyes fixed on you. He placed a hand on your cheek, your heart fluttering at the feather-light touch. Two years. It had been two years since you'd last seen Arthur in the flesh—two years of silence, of longing, of wondering if he was even alive.

"Are you really here?"

He nodded, smiling wearily.

"One of the guards let me in."

You tried to sit up despite your disbelief, your body feeling sluggish. His expression morphed into concern as he watched you struggle. He reached out to you, hands trembling. Pulling you into him and lifting you to your feet was an unexpected strength you didn't remember him having. You lose your breath as he moves you to the windowsill and helps you sit. Resting your hands on his shoulders, you're overcome with awe.

"I can't believe it."

You hold him, reminiscent of times past. He was frail, almost ice-cold, and just as thin, if not more so. It sparked that familiar need within you to care for him.

Eventually, pulling away, you brush his hair off his face, admiring him in the light. He wasn't looking at you, his gaze shifting between your wrist and the ground like he didn't trust himself to meet your eyes.

"You haven't forgotten about me?"

The notion that you could do such a thing after what you've been through was laughable. You look at him earnestly, regardless of his wandering eyes.

"I never stopped thinking about you. I couldn't. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't." 

He looked at you then. Really looked. His eyes wide and impressionable.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. Don't you know that?" 

The silence that followed was tight and humming, narrowing your sight to him and only him.

You leaned in just enough to feel his breath against your lips. His eyes searched yours, your heart hammering in your chest like it was the first time you'd been this close. You tilted your head slightly, seeking confirmation.

"You know that, don't you?"

His lips parted, but no words came. Your fingers came up to ghost over his jaw to try and coax them out. With your efforts in vain, your lips meet his. The kiss was unbearably soft, but it carried the weight of every unspoken word, every moment shared. Your hands moved where they pleased—sliding down his neck, across the gaunt lines of his shoulders. You yearned to reacquaint yourself with his body.

Being ever hesitant despite his own need, you take Arthur's hand and slide it down your side, leaving it to rest on your hip. You break apart to speak, foreheads pressed together.

"Touch me."

His hand, which you had left shaky and unsure, slowly moved under the hem of your shirt. He caresses the side of your stomach, relishing in your soft skin. Taking his time, he gradually moves to the front, feeling you breathe.

Soon, his hand splays and travels up towards your breasts. Him touching you under your shirt wasn't enough. At the mercy of your impatience, you give him another push.

"We don't need this in the way, hm?"

He shakes his head in a daze, going back to the hem of your shirt, tugging it up and over your head. Proud of him for taking the initiative, he tosses it aside as his eyes drop to your chest. The cool air hitting your skin makes your nipples pebble beneath the sorry excuse of a bra Arkham provided. You could see the thinly veiled hunger in his eyes, making such trivial insecurity vanish within seconds.

His hands follow the curve of your body once more before cupping your breasts through the thin fabric. He stills for a moment before squeezing gently. His thumbs brush over your nipples, your eyes closing. Clutching at his wrists, you pull them tighter, anchoring them where you ached for pressure. You wanted to be grabbed like he was afraid you'd slip through his fingers. Like all of this could disappear.

Your hands move to the clasp of your bra, unhooking it with ease. The fabric fell away, leaving you exposed. His breath hitched in response. Knowing he loved what he saw, you encouraged him.

"Come on now, I'm all for you. You know that hasn't changed."

He couldn't resist your rousing, leaning down and taking one of your nipples into his mouth. Your hands tangled in his hair as he sucked and nibbled. The sensation sent jolts of pleasure through you, growing even more aroused. You can't help but praise him through quickened breath.

"There you are. There's my boy…"

It was like a dam had burst. All pent-up desire came rushing to the surface. His hands traveled to the waistband of your pants, sliding them down your legs. Instinctively kicking them away, the fire that had been smoldering within you for years roared to life. You seize the opportunity to rid him of his shirt, forcing him to abandon your nipple.

His chest was just as you remembered—narrow and sunken in, but what really stood out to you were the familiar marks of abuse. You had them littered across your own body now as well, a reality you wished the two of you never had to endure. Without giving it a second thought, you kiss each one within reach, echoing your promise from years ago:

"No one will ever hurt you again."

It was one you couldn't keep while being apart, but the sounds of his pleasure almost made up for that fact. He cradles your head against him, able to feel the faint tremble of his muscles beneath your lips. Your hands trailed down his stomach, wanting to rid him of his pants.

You slide them off in one swift motion, pooling around his ankles. He was too busy holding you close to take them off entirely. In nothing but his boxers, his arousal strained against the fabric. It only served to fuel your desire that much more.

Making haste, you're unable to wait any longer. Your hand trails up and into his underwear, wrapping around him entirely. He gasped at the contact, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. Feeling him without any barriers sent a shiver of anticipation through you. His hands gripped your shoulders to keep you close.

"That's it…"

Your words were murmured into his skin as he moaned in response. Continuing to toy with him, you circled his leaking tip with your thumb, your chin resting on his stomach as you looked up at him.

"I need you."

"You're… you're sure?"

You nod adamantly, prompting him to pull off the last barrier between you. Doing the same for him, both of you were entirely bare. 

Reaching out, you guide him closer and position him at your entrance. His breath catches in his throat as he starts to push inside. The stretch was slow and deliberate. You hissed softly, adjusting to it. He froze, clearly afraid of hurting you. But you wouldn't let him pull away—not now, not when you've waited for so long. Your hands slid up his arms, gripping his shoulders.

"Nice and slow."

At your request, his movements were careful and measured as he sank deeper into you. Hips pressed forward until he was fully sheathed inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist, unwilling to leave even an inch of space between you. The feeling was overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and relief that made your mind reel. You could feel every inch of him, every shift and press, your bodies becoming one after years apart. His breath came in shallow gasps, his forehead resting against yours again as he fought to keep his pace steady.

Each thrust remained unhurried, like he was savoring every second. His hand found yours, your fingers lacing together and grounding you both in the moment. His lips brushed against your neck as he begged for you. The way his voice broke made your heart stutter. It showed a raw, unconcealed longing that mirrored your own. The strain of your separation had melted away, leaving only this connection, this need.

The rhythm of your bodies was all-consuming—an intimate dance you never wanted to end. You arch into him, each pleasured sound bouncing off the concrete walls like a call and response.

His thrusts became more urgent, exuding a kind of desperation that made you want to fall apart. Your hold on him tightened as he pushed you closer. Teetering on the edge, you start to tighten around him as the pressure builds.

Hips snapping forward with renewed intensity, his pace was relentless now. You could feel the tension coiling in your core, his body trembling above you. Urging him on with whispered words of encouragement, you felt his body tense.

"Let go, I have you."

With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside you as he came undone. He shuddered against you, spilling into you. It was all too much to bear as you clung to him, nails digging into his back while your climax surged through you. White-hot ecstasy blinded you, leaving you trembling and gasping for air. Your body convulsed around him, milking every last drop of pleasure.

You rode out the aftershocks together, his head moving to rest against your shoulder. His hands tightened around yours as if he were afraid to let go. Your eyes welled up with tears. Whether it was because of the intensity of the moment or the fact that it was coming to an end, you couldn't be sure.

"Stay with me."

Your plea was barely more than a breath. You knew it was inconceivable, your circumstances keeping you apart.

Arthur may not have answered, but he didn't need to. He stayed still, head continuing to rest on your shoulder. His breath was calm — too calm. Detached. He had already started to disappear into his mind, somewhere he went when everything else got too loud.

And such a place felt impossible for you to follow.

Chapter Text

"What's he gonna ask me about besides…you know."

To say this was unorthodox was an understatement. Yet, here you were with Paddy Meyers, his camera crew, and Dr Beatty. Under her supervision, you were about to grace Gotham with your long-awaited resurgence.

"Hopefully, about your life in here, what the conditions are really like. He'll probably ask you about Arthur, too. Remember, this is a chance to reveal a different side of yourself. So the public can see who you truly are. Use this time to show them your humanity."

A knock on the glass separating you from Paddy interrupts your conversation.

"Paddy's ready!"

One of Paddy's crew waves you into the room. With Dr Beatty following closely behind, she takes the chair in the corner while you sit in front of Paddy. Eyeing you while smoking a cigarette, another one of his crew walks behind him, patting his shoulder.

"When you're ready, Paddy."

Paddy's eyes flicker between you and Dr Beatty.

"You have to leave. You can watch from behind the glass, but you can't..."

She raises her hand dismissively, cutting him off.

"It's in the best interest of you and the patient that I stay."

He raised his brows, clearly not used to being denied. Shuffling through the papers in his grasp, he pretends to be unaffected.

You look back at Dr Beatty, folding your hands in your lap. She gives you a soft smile, her voice hushed.

"You'll do great."

Before you can respond, the voice of the crew member shifts your focus again.

"Rolling in 3…2…."

"Alongside the infamous Arthur Fleck, the name Y/N L/N hit Gotham like a hurricane just two years ago." 

You had no choice but to adapt to the camera. Brushing your hair behind your ears, you look directly at it before your eyes dart to Paddy.

"An unassuming, part-time lounge singer and Gotham University dropout, L/N desecrated the corpse of beloved late-night talk show host Murray Franklin."

Referring to you as a dropout stung, but what really affected you was the way he spoke highly of Murray. It made your stomach churn; your palms rested on your thighs.

"Here she is now, sitting down for her first interview since that night. Y/N, welcome."

You clear your throat.

"Hi."

"Take me back to that night onstage with Murray. What was going through your mind when you shot him despite him already being…deceased?"

Your first inclination is to give a clinical answer, something digestible.

"I was going through a lot back then. I don't remember much from that night. It was as if I had blacked out and saw bright lights. I was having a hard time knowing the difference between what was real or not."

"Oh, please! You did it on live TV. It doesn't get any more real than that."

"All I remember is how furious I was at the way he treated Arthur like a laughing stock. He just kept pushing and pushing. I couldn't stand it."

"So he got what he deserved?"

Without being given the chance to defend what you said, Paddy continues, reading his transcripts.

"Arthur's last joke, if we can call it a joke, you get what you bleeping deserve. That's what was said. That's not fun, that's not funny."

You wince, deceptively offended.

"You're right. Maybe he should've told a better one."

"You're trying to be funny now?"

You suppress a smile.

"No, no."

He hums unamused, appraising you.

"A running theory is that you were envious of Arthur's time in the limelight. That you were desperate for your…15 minutes of fame."

Taking offense, you laugh and tilt your head.

"My 15 minutes of fame? I've performed all over the city, trying to make ends meet for years! Are you actually insinuating I'd resort to something like that? Like I'm some kind of fame junkie?"

Paddy shuffles through his papers before pulling one out for you to see.

"Care to explain this to those watching?"

Eyes flittering over the paper, it's a picture of you at the piano during one of your gigs. You look up at him, confused.

"It's me performing. What does this…"

"You performed at one of the most upscale lounges in Gotham during the height of the protests, attempting to incite some kind of an…uprising."

It all came back to you at once, the memory of that night returning in full force.

"Witnesses described you as unhinged and hostile. While performing, you're heard on tape saying it seems like everyone needs it fed to them on a silver platter. This is for all of you…bleeps, Thomas Wayne included."

You start to speak, but he interrupts you.

"It appears you echoed a similar sentiment Arthur shared, as we saw with his…own actions. The difference is that this tape of you was never seen by the light of day until recently. It was as if no one even…truly cared before that night on Murray's show. So tell me, was this really done from a place of fighting against political injustice, or were you just in search of your breakthrough…"

"Do you even care? You're just like Murray, just like everyone! You want sensationalism, an attention-grabbing headline. You wanna talk about my mistakes, the things I did in the past? What about who I am now? That's what we should be talking about!"

Effectively shut down, Paddy looks over at Dr. Beatty. Unbeknownst to you, she positioned herself to get up quickly if needed. Paddy turns his attention back to you.

"Okay, okay. So, tell us, what's changed?"

"I'll tell you what's changed. Everyone's watching."

Chapter Text

Patients stand and gaze longingly toward the city they, in all likelihood, will never enter again. It means liberty and life; it seems so near, and yet heaven is not further from hell.

Things have been relatively calm since your interview with Paddy, with one exception. Today was the start of Arthur's trial, though you weren't allowed to watch, the staff wanting to head off another meltdown.

You sit in your cell, writing, when you hear something slide against the floor. Looking toward the sound, you put down your pen and walk towards it. Kneeling, it was an envelope, a soft sage green. The name on the return address is oddly poetic.

Pamela Lillian Isley

You've never received mail in Arkham. For that reason, you treated it as if it were the most precious thing imaginable, opening it with the utmost care.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, lighter in shade than the envelope, hand-cut, edges slightly uneven. It smelled like flowers, so much so that you brought it to your nose. You closed your eyes, savoring the scent. Powdery sweet with an underlying earthiness, you couldn't remember the last time you indulged in such a thing. When you realize what you're doing, you shake your head and chuckle. You looked ridiculous and knew it, but you couldn't bring yourself to care. The spark of pleasure you felt was unmatched.

You unfold the letter, the source of the scent presenting itself to you. Pressed pansies, brittle yet intact, falling on your lap. They were partly faded from the journey but clearly chosen with care. You gently pick them up and place them into the envelope.

Your eyes flicker back to the letter, reading it slowly.

Y/N,

You don't know me — not really, anyway. My name is Pamela, and because of you, I believe in Gotham again.

I watched your interview with Paddy, and it moved me. You were unyielding to the story he wanted. Instead, you offered the truth and not the easy kind, either — the kind that cuts, that grows in darkness, yet finds a way to bloom.

Your time on Murray's show was history in the making, forcing everyone to stir in their discomfort. The city is better for it. You did what so many of us have only dreamed of, and for that, I admire you deeply.

For the time being, you may be locked away, caged like a sweet little bird, but remember that cages don't kill the truth. They just give it time to surface.

I hope you know that someone sees you, not as what these self-righteous fools make you out to be, but as someone who dared to act in a world that thrives on complacency.

Enjoy the flowers, a gift from me to you.

All the best,

Pamela

The instant you finished reading, you held the letter close to your chest. Standing up, you make your way to your bed. Lifting the barely there mattress, you rummage through the hoarded papers underneath.

Taking one in the best condition, you flatten it on the wall and start to write, words pouring out of you.

"From NCB studios in Gotham City. Ladies and gentlemen, it's the Joker and Y/N show!"

It's the dress rehearsal for you and Arthur's big night. The two of you walk out on stage, hand in hand. Performing without an audience felt strangely unnerving tonight, but you gave it your all as if they were there.

" It's such a pretty day today. Look at the sunshine. And every day's the same since I met you."

You squeeze Arthur's hand reassuringly as he starts to sing.

" It's such a pretty day today. Look at the sunshine. And happiness is being close to you."

Your eyes meet, making you smile up at him.

"And though the rain may fall, our skies will be all blue. If I look close enough, the sun will come shining through."

Letting go, you hold your mic with both hands as you take in the empty studio.

"It's such a pretty world today. Look at the sunshine. Today and every day since I met you."

"It's such a pretty world today. Look at the sunshine. And every day's the same since I…"

When the music stops, you look over at him, acting surprised, though it was scripted.

"What happened?"

"Well, you weren't even looking at me anymore. You were making it all about yourself, and the song is about loving me!"

You point at him with your thumb.

"Look who's making it all about themselves now…"

"So you're saying it's not about us?"

"It is! But we're singing for them."

You gesture to the invisible crowd before playfully whispering to him.

"That's why we're here."

"I got a sneaking suspicion that we're not giving the people what they want."

Leaning in close, you place a hand on his back.

"It's okay, you're right. Let's give them what they want. Music! Let's take it from the top."

When you go back to your mark, you turn around to see him pointing a gun. Something that wasn't part of the show. Your eyes widen, and your first instinct is to approach it with humor, thinking it was some kind of improv. You raise your hands.

"Is the honeymoon over?"

Before you can do anything else, he shoots you in the stomach. The sound of your microphone rolling across the stage echoes like a heartbeat while you cry out, shaking hands pressing against the wound. Your head jerked to the side in a desperate attempt to get help, and this time around, there was someone there. It was your father, sitting in the very first row.

"Dad?"

Your voice cracks, small and soft.

He walks towards the stage but doesn't join you. Stopping when he reaches the edge, it's as if he doesn't want to get too close. You can barely hold yourself up, though you see him clear as day. The pain in his eyes, worn down by the years of sacrifice, the deals he made with the wrong people just to put food on the table. You let out a shuddering breath, still clutching your stomach.

"I just wanted to…"

"Be somebody, I know."

Something flickers in his gaze—love. Or grief. Maybe both.

"I did everything I could to give you a chance, and you gave it away? To him?"

You look at Arthur. He's grinning ear to ear, the gun dangling from his fingers before your eyes meet your father's again.

"You don't understand. He makes me feel seen. Like I…"

"Always looking for someone to tell you you were good enough. You were always a star, sweetheart, but stars burn out."

"Don't say that!"

Your lip trembles, tears spilling down your face. Another shot rings out, hitting you square in the side. Your body folds, a loud sob tearing from your throat as you fall to the floor. Pain floods your limbs, hot and dizzying.

The stage seems to stretch. What was once only a few feet of distance becomes infinite. The more you want to reach for your father at the edge, the further away he is. You drag yourself like a wounded animal, struggling to move as you left a smear of red behind. Your breath comes out in what sounds like whimpers.

When you think you've reached him, you extend your hand, fingers outstretched and shaking. He reaches out just the same but stops short, his hand hovering just above yours. You could feel the warmth radiating off of him, and for a moment, it was as if he might touch you. Before he has the chance, you feel Arthur looming over you, unable to get yourself to look. He yanks your ankle, pulling you back toward the curtains. The spotlights flicker above you, casting long shadows over your body, your blood glistening like spilled ink.

Your fingers try to dig into the floor, putting up as much of a fight as you can, though it's no use. Your father vanishes from view, the curtains swallowing you whole.

Chapter Text

Such a horrifying nightmare left you shaken for days, but you'd be damned if you let it show. Out in the courtyard, you pretend to shoot at other inmates, the ones you didn't like anyway. Stretched out on the bleachers, you put your hand down and straighten up when a pair of guards walk towards you.

"Well, look at you! Had your big interview with Meyer's and now you think you own the joint."

"The fuck are you doing on our bleachers?"

Lashing out was tempting, but not worth the punishment. Instead, you look up at them, not saying a word.

"I know you heard me, up."

"You miss Arthur, don't you? I'm sure he misses you, too."

"Alright, enough. Get up."

"We came to get you, you got a visitor."

Your brows knit, wondering who it could be. Inclined to believe it's some kind of cruel joke, you don't entertain it.

"Red hair, green eyes. Ring a bell?"

You shake your head, not having a clue.

"Let's find out together, then. Up you go."

Standing up, you trail behind, no idea what you were in for.

The door buzzes, locking behind you. Walking to the visitor window, you sit, and who you're met with confuses you tenfold. Faded red hair messily tied back, curious grey-green eyes behind thick-framed glasses. Your body already taut with tension, the guard pats you harshly on the shoulder before leaving.

"Five minutes."

Alone with this mystery woman, you try to figure out who she was.

"How are you holding up in there?"

She had a distinct way of speaking, something that shone through even with her hushed voice. You couldn't stand being left in the dark about who she was any longer; something about her was oddly familiar.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to be callous, but I... don't recognize you."

She shakes her head and smiles, her eyes flickering up to yours.

"Don't be, I wouldn't expect you to. We haven't properly met. I'm sure the makeup didn't help either."

You found her to be sweet, possessing a kind of humility you haven't seen in years. A moment of silence passed between you as she shifted in her seat, fixing her hair. It was as if she didn't know where to start.

"I was there when you got into that accident. I had to help you, had to see you. Everyone needed to see you."

Her sentiment triggered your memory like nothing else could. Eyes rapidly scanning over her face, that's when it hit you. Her identity may have been entirely concealed, but you'd never forget those words. The way she uttered them amidst the chaos, the squeeze of her hand. You let out a scoff of disbelief and smile.

"I can't believe you'd come here after all this time!"

"I wish I had the courage to do it sooner."

"Courage? Do I scare you?"

Your demeanor was overtly playful, making her laugh.

"No, no! I just…look up to you. I watched that TV movie they made about you, like, 20 times."

You gasp, your eyes lighting up.

"Yeah? Was it good? They won't let me watch it."

"It was good, really good! I just wish you had a bigger role."

Exaggeratedly modest, you fan your hand in front of your face.

"I guess they didn't want me stealing the show."

Sharing a laugh, your tacit connection spoke volumes. You watch as her expression morphs into something you couldn't quite place.

"I wish you had more screen time."

Unsure of how to respond, she seems to pick up on it and clarify.

"I wanted to hear your story."

"People don't tend to take well to…complicated women. Makes their heads spin."

She huffs in agreement, what she truly wanted to say coming to the surface.

"They only ever talked about what Arthur did. Not just in the movie, but everywhere. The news, the papers. It was all about him, like everything came to a screeching halt because he…snapped."

 You were torn between flattery and being offended on Arthur's behalf. Regardless, you appreciated her brazenness.

"I guess you can't blame them for seeing what they want to see, making what they want out of it. It's not much of anything without him. Besides, a man with a gun is an easy idol for a lot of people, granted there's a lot more to him, but no one really seeks it out."

 "Still, it became his, even with you right next to him. I'll never forget when they dragged you out of that wreck, manhandling your body like you were a liability, only worth saving by association. I'll always regret not doing something about it."

A combination of pride and pain twists inside you. You started to feel like a shadow, not only in the public eye, but in the life you and Arthur shared. Talking to someone who saw you so clearly made you defensive.

"So you're here out of pity, is that it? Because if that's the case, I don't need…"

"Pity? God, no! You're..."

You take note of how she backtracks, choosing her words carefully in the face of your anger.

"You're the part of this that always made sense to me, even when the rest didn't. Women like us have to be palatable no matter what's thrown our way. The minute we aren't, the world wants nothing to do with us."

Her voice is laced with bitterness, the kind that comes from being tossed aside over and over again.

"They get to be tortured geniuses, revolutionaries. The chaos is part of their charm. But us? We're monstrous, dangerous. Not worthy of a damn thing, invisible until we implode."

You chuckle, though it's humorless.

"We're doomed to be obscure or scrutinized; there's no in between. That's what this city preys on. I've learned far too late that the choice will be made for us whether we like it or not. The pain that stems from it is…nothing more than a spectacle, but what we do with it when all eyes are on us? That's our decision."

She gradually rests her hand on the barrier between you, your agitation fizzling out. In its place is quiet, mutual understanding. You mirror her without thinking, basking in the first genuine human connection you've had in Arkham.

"That's why I came. Not out of pity, but because I wanted you to know I see you."

Before you could ask anything more, the buzzer blares. It's too loud, too soon, breaking the mystique surrounding your encounter. A guard calls out from the hallway as both of your hands fall from the glass.

"Times up!"

She stands reluctantly, gathering her belongings, but doesn't move toward the door yet. In a desperate attempt to have her stay for just a moment longer, you realize you haven't asked the most obvious question of all.

"What's your name?"

She smiles down at you, pushing her glasses up in the process.

"Pamela."

Chapter Text

"Shocking developments at the trial of Arthur Fleck downtown today. Fleck, the accused killer, also known as Joker, interrupted testimony and fired his lawyer in open court."

Huddled in the corner of your cell, you cradle the portable radio in your lap, your most prized possession. It hisses between words, but you don’t move to capture a better signal. Your hand is cupped against your nose and mouth, your breath coming out in short, soft pants. The broadcast is the only thing tethering you to the blips of reality you could still stomach.

You try not to cry, not wanting to give her more than what she already took from you. The memory of her breath in your ear as you tried to escape your own body would surely haunt you for the rest of your days.

"Such a beautiful girl, look at you."

She had combed her fingers through your hair, giving you a faux sense of security while she praised you.

“No one’s hurting anyone here, songbird. You enjoy this, I can feel it.”

Your body betrayed you, responding to her touch. You knew deep down it was a physiological response, but you couldn't help but question if you really did like it.

"Afterwards, Fleck was extensively questioned by Judge Rothwax. Rothwax reluctantly approved Fleck's request to represent himself, as long as he agreed to stand by counsel. It's a decision that both Fleck's now former attorney and Assistant DA, Harvey Dent, disagree with. "

You felt filthy, wishing you could part from your own limbs. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to forget where her hands had been, what you had to give up for this flimsy, indirect connection to Arthur. God only knew if it was "worth" it when you were so desperate for news about his case. It cost you more than anything you’ve ever owned. You grip the radio tightly at that fact, afraid it might vanish, taken from you like everything else.

"The Arthur Fleck trial will resume on Monday morning. In other news, Mayor Thorndike…"

You shakily turn it off, and the reality of what you traded your body for hits you was a slap in the face. Scrambling on your hands and knees to the toilet was something you never thought you'd experience outside of occasional illness. When you somehow make it, your hands grip the rusted, neglected bowl. Bile rises in your throat, bitter and burning. You gasp between retches as it claws its way out, folding in on yourself. It was as if your body was trying to purge itself of her—her voice, her hands, the smell of cheap soap and cigarettes.

Spit strings from your mouth as the final dry heave forces your ribs to seize. Suppressing your cries was a losing battle as you whimpered into the side of the bowl, your head resting on the rim. You're too tormented to recoil from the grime. The floor is cold beneath your knees, making you tremble all the more. You feel hollow, scraped clean from the inside out.

Your cries peter out as you use your last bit of energy to brace yourself against the wall. You card your fingers through your hair, trying to reclaim the act of comfort while your other arm snakes around you.

A helpless, shameful ache wraps itself around you like a blanket. It was one you miraculously fell asleep under, the turmoil you faced exhausting you.

Microphone in your grasp, you’re in the midst of the courtroom, an incongruous beacon of light illuminating your figure. You’re hunched forward, perched on a table as the music swoons to a crescendo.

“You only live twice, or so it seems.”

You look up to see the gallery staring back. Knowing they were watching, undoubtedly watching , lifted you off your feet.

“One life for yourself and one for your dreams.”

Sauntering around the table, you lock eyes with Harvey. You drag a stool behind you with your free hand, your gaze unwavering.

“You drift through the years, and life seems tame.”

He's entranced, such a sight making you smile. You crouch down in front of him, blowing a kiss as if he were someone truly special. Gradually straightening, you step back to gain momentum before swinging the chair. The crowd exclaims as you strike him in the head, and it only spurs you on. Eventually satisfied, you stop, throwing the stool behind you. After freeing the microphone from your hold and taking a moment to collect yourself, you spot Arthur. He looks proud, and despite that’s happened between you, a warm feeling blossoms in your chest. You rush over to him, extending your hand.

“Till one dream appears and love is its name.”

He takes it, standing from his seat. Guiding him around the partition, you pull him into your arms, holding him close and dancing with him. 

“And love is a stranger, who beckons you on.”

Pushing himself back onto the table, you stand between his legs and lean into him before he pulls out a gun. You pull back, putting your hands up, but instead of being fearful, you knew it was all part of the act. He smiles, handing it to you. You take it, still dancing with him. Soon pivoting away, you waltz over to the jury, becoming increasingly intense as you sing to them.

“Don’t think of the danger, or the stranger is gone!”

In a moment of heated passion, you point the gun at the cameraman and shoot. The jury cries out, fueling you further. Your eyes scan over them in a way that seemed you were singing to each one personally, soaking in their petrified expressions.

“This dream is for you, so pay the price!”

You turn, running up to the judge’s bench without skipping a beat. Taking in the sight of Arthur dancing on top of the table coaxed you to pick up Rothwax ’s gavel. You examine it curiously, turning it in your grasp. Looking down at him, you take in his bewilderment and chuckle. The music cuts, signaling your grand finale. Raising the gavel, you bash his skull in, each blow more forceful than the last. The cacophony of screams and unexpected laughter from the gallery was like music in itself. When you're pleased with your efforts, you realize how winded you are, moving your hand up to your chest to calm your racing heart. You run your fingers through your hair and tilt your head back, the music returning in full swing.

“Make one dream come true, you only live twice!”

Pulling the gun from your waistband, you press it against your temple and pull the trigger, going out with a bang.

Chapter Text

Pamela's second letter included pressed violets, the third cosmos, and the fourth jasmine. From details about Arthur's trial to that of her own life, your cell began to carry a faint, lingering sweetness. How she was able to preserve the scent for so long was mystifying; somehow able to smell it off of you through the glass when she came to visit. The best part was when she would compliment you as if she weren't the one supplying such luxuries.

As your trust in her grew, something inside you began to shift. You wanted to give her an insight into your life that no one else had.

At first, your writings were nothing more than scribbled fragments, but they soon transformed into a makeshift manifesto:

"Arkham's inner workings are hidden by bolts, bars, and white-capped nurses. They always tell us that while we live, we hope, but the moment we enter those iron-clad gates, we leave hope behind. Many weep and plead for release, but to no avail. The guards are our keepers, pressed under their thumbs with no escape in sight."

You wrote it all, as though it proved what you've endured wasn't in vain. Hiding papers under your mattress for safekeeping, you would later sneak them to Pamela during your visits.

Blurbs about Arthur quickly turned into entire pages. How you loved his laugh, the night he held you while the city burned, the way his name was besmirched by the public at any opportunity.

Then the memory of your father crept in, cold and unkind. At times, he was the first and only person to keep your dreams alive, telling you the stars were yours. Others, he was the shadowy figure who did nothing but squash them. He would strike you, shouting that you were nothing more than a petulant, immature child. You wrote about every instance, savoring the good while wanting to rid your mind of the bad.

Recounting your life became a compulsion. Waking in the middle of the night, you would scrawl in the dark, convinced your memories would vanish by morning. Words spilled until your hand cramped, your skin stained with ink. It gave you a perverse sense of control; each instance of brutality and suffering now belonged to the story you were telling. You no longer felt like you were merely surviving, possessing a newfound purpose.

Even Dr. Beatty began to notice the change within you. She remarked on how your responses in session were more comprehensive, how your voice carried further than it once had. She called it “progress," offering you what you've only dreamt of.

"Would you still like to attend Arthur's trial, Y/N? With what I've seen from you, I have a feeling I can pull a few strings and get you there."

Elation and dread battled for your thoughts. Arthur's deterioration you heard described on the radio, the way Gotham viewed him like a leper, hollowed you. Yet, it was gradually overshadowed by the chance to reunite, even if from a distance. You agree, having no idea what you were getting into.

When the day came, the guard who had destroyed you, body and soul, accompanied you. The cuffs on your wrists dug into your skin as she leaned into you, reminding you of the power she held. The walk through the courthouse hall felt longer than any you had taken in Arkham, your every step echoing off the dingy, brown walls.

"The fact they let you out today is a fucking miracle."

You didn't dare say a word to Dr Beatty about what was done to you, and you didn't say a thing in response to her muttered remark. Seeing you revert to your old self brought her a sick sense of satisfaction, and you knew it, but you also understood the importance of appeasing her while you were here. She brushed your hair back, making your stomach churn.

"Nothing comes free. You owe me.”

Her words carried the memory of that painful night, clearly trying to shake you. Continuing to look straight ahead, you force your breath to even out, trying to stay focused.

When you're pushed through the courtroom door, you're overwhelmed in an instant. Sunlight streaming through the windows, civilians congregating in the gallery, reporters preparing for their transcripts. That's when your gaze fell onto Arthur at the defense table, his back to you. His posture was as straight as an arrow, exuding remarkable composure. Hands folded in front of him, he was holding his own amidst the chaos. The sight was a far cry from what commentators had reported. Thrown for a loop, you could feel yourself reaching a breaking point. It was as if every page you had written, every word you had clung to in his absence, had led up to this very moment. You wanted to call out to him, but you couldn't find your voice. Instead, you lurch forward, your keeper quickly pulling you into her and forcefully spinning you around. Even in your panic, you wondered if Arthur had turned to look.

Shoved to the back of the room, you're pressed against her side. She leans down, her voice a rasping whisper against your ear.

"Step out of line again, and all this shit Dr. Beatty fussed over? Gone. Just like that. You understand?”

You squeeze your eyes shut and nod, knowing there wasn't anyone here who'd wean her off of you. Not only were they caught up in their own responsibilities, but your bound wrists told them everything they already knew: criminals, even ones found entertaining, were deserving of such a fate.

"All rise! This court is now in session. The Honorable Judge Herman Rothwax is now presiding."

The bailiff's voice demanded your attention, watching intently as Rothwax made his way to the bench.

"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, please be seated."

The sea of people sat, leaving you one of the few still standing. As if pulled in your direction, Arthur glanced over his shoulder, eyes wandering the gallery until they landed on you. They softened in disbelief, and for a blip in time, it was just the two of you. He froze, confusion amongst everyone spreading like wildfire.

"Are you alright, Mr Fleck?"

When they inevitably followed Arthur's eye line from Rothwax's question, all eyes were on you. Soft murmurs started to swirl. If it was from recognition, fear, or otherwise, you couldn't be sure, but as the moment between you and Arthur shattered, camera flashes, questions, and calls for your attention swarmed you. You raised your cuffed wrists in a pitiful attempt to shield yourself, but it was of no use. Your saving grace was the sound of Rothwax's gavel banging against the podium.

"Order, order in the court!"

The commotion dies down, and your arms slowly return to their original position. You blink harshly as your eyes readjust.

"I realize a lot is going on, but this is still a court of law. Any outbursts will not be tolerated, and that applies to everyone in this courtroom."

It was no secret Rothwax was referring to you specifically. Arthur takes you in once more before facing forward, his dazed expression telling you everything you needed to know.

"Mr Fleck, your closing statement…"

Chapter Text

Arthur stands tall, strolling over to the jury, microphone in hand. Rothwax stops him in his tracks.

"A word of caution, you're not on stage."

He exhales in annoyance, not bothering to look at him. Instead, he looks over at you, clearly giving him the extra push he needed to confront the court. This was the last chance he had to plead his case; how it would go was anyone's guess. He refocuses his attention ahead and starts to speak.

"I wanted to come out here as Joker. I was gonna go on this rant, blame everyone for…making me into what I am, but it wouldn't change anything now."

The introspection he showed was unmissable, but what mystified everyone else didn't have the same effect on you. To see him so self-assured, so confident, made you brazen in the face of fear.

"For the first time in my life, I feel like people are finally starting to listen."

He brings his hand up to his mouth as if to wipe away his joy. A smile of your own forms at the sight.

"I never wanted fame or attention from the press. I just wanted to matter. I tried to be good and work hard. Smile when I was told, did what I could to be kind. I thought if I kept trying, maybe the world would…"

He falters for a moment, his words trailing off before finding them again.

"Care."

Laughing in disbelief, he gestures to the cameras and spectators around him.

"And now it does, you do! I mean, look at this, you’re here for me. That means something, right?"

He looks around, expecting a response. A beat passes, then another, and another.

"Doesn't it?"

You watch as his deeply rooted despair rears its ugly head. He unexpectedly swallows it down, clearing his throat and folding his hands in front of him.

"You’re all so quiet. I know you’re supposed to be. I just thought..."

He doesn't finish, instead opting to switch gears entirely. Your nerves begin to flare.

"It’s funny. I used to imagine moments like this, people acknowledging me. Now that it’s happening, it doesn’t feel how I thought it would."

You wanted nothing more than to talk him off the ledge, to drape your arms around his shoulders and reassure him that you always cared, that you'll always care.

"Do you know what that does to someone, feeling invisible for so long? It makes you grateful for anything that proves you exist!"

Shaking his head, he scoffs.

"No one ever saw me. Just another face in the crowd. Someone you'd forget the second you looked away! None of you are even truly seeing me now, are you? You’re just staring!"

He points an accusatory finger. The combination of his raised voice and sudden movement made a few of those in front of him flinch. It was no secret he lacked impulse control, but to see him spiral so quickly instilled fear back into you. You were at a loss, witnessing the man you loved so dearly give those rooting against him exactly what they wanted.

"Beaten in the streets, made a mockery of, abandoned when I begged for help. I killed six people, and nobody knows. I killed my mother, put a pillow over her face, and smothered her to death. I just wanna…blow it all up and start a new life."

The chaos that stemmed from Arthur's closing statement overtook you. Camera flashes, clamoring voices, and calls for justice fade with every step you take until only the sound of your quivering breath remains. What happened didn’t feel real; his words hung heavy.

To say you were shocked your captor allowed you to see Arthur without you so much as asking would be an understatement. When you found the courage to question why, her response was something you'd soon not forget.

"I'm privy to the 'love' story of the century. Why throw that away?"

You're led down a narrow corridor, the yellowed, weakened fluorescent lights above humming in protest. The walls felt too close, the air too still. When you reach the gated door, you're guided through, and she frees your wrists from the cuffs. You hesitate, glancing up at her.

"Don't make me regret this."

You manage a quick nod of understanding before rushing to Arthur's holding cell. When he sees it's you, he hurries to his feet, the two of you clutching at the bars. The contrast of the cold metal between you and the warmth of him beyond reach was too much to bear.

"I had them. I really had them, didn't I?"

He was like a child seeking praise, and even with a heavy heart, you couldn't help but give it to him. Your eyes lift, meeting his. A smile finds its way to you, faint but genuine.

"You did so, so well."

“I tried to stay in control, show how I really felt, but...”

You interrupt his doubt, shaking your head.

"They don't understand, they never will."

"Knowing you were there somehow, someway, is the only thing that kept me going."

"I wish I could've been there from the start."

He tilted his head, his eyes softening.

"You were there when it mattered."

He dropped his gaze to your trembling hands, his thumb brushing your fingers. The tender act caused you to break, inevitably falling apart at the seams. He watches you crumble, wanting to protect you despite not being able to do so for himself. The assurance you gave him quickly turned into a frenzied exchange, one that felt like two separate conversations.

"It isn't over. Things could still go how we want them to."

"They could take everything from me, but not you, not how you made me feel."

"They're still deliberating…"

"I got to mean something to someone, to you. That's all I ever wanted."

"I'm still here!"

"I don't know what I'll do without you."

"Stop talking like that!"

Quiet fills the small space. His forehead rests against the barrier between you, yours following suit. The faintest pressure met your skin, an illusion of contact.

"Promise me you'll keep going. Don’t let them take you, too. You’re stronger than any of this, stronger than I ever was.”

"I can't leave you here, please…"

"Whatever happens, I'll always be with you."

His vow was comforting while simultaneously your undoing. Her voice shattered what was left of what easily could've been your last moment with Arthur. You knew she intended to make you hurt all the more, and it was working

"Let's go."

Arthur’s eyes were still intently focused on you as if she wasn't there. You gripped the bars tighter, as if you could fuse yourself to them. When her hand grabbed your arm, you flinched, jerking away.

"Give me a minute, just another minute!"

"You're always so fucking ungrateful."

Panic claws up your throat, spilling out in ragged sobs as her arms wrap around you, unyielding.

“Don't touch me!”

You try to twist free, doing everything you can to get her off of you. Your every muscle was burning with desperation.

“I can’t leave you!”

Arthur was as close as possible, his hands gripping the bars so tightly they rattled. She hauls you into her. You kicked and clawed at nothing, still reaching for him even as the distance between you widened. Moving as far as the cell would allow, he pressed against the bars like he could will himself through. Through the blur of your tears, you could see the tremor in his jaw, the sheen in his eyes; he was fighting to hide.

"This isn't the end for you, Y/N. Don't give them what they want!"

You were sobbing now, so hard you could barely breathe.

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can!”

She pulled you into her again to tighten her hold on you. Your head haphazardly lulled against her shoulder as she dragged you toward the exit. Your cries echoed down the hallway as you looked up at the ceiling, pleading with whatever otherworldly force may be above.