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In this house we love & support
Arthur Fleck.
Here you'll find a collection of my writings about Arthur
& some things that inspire me.
Writing Requests Closed.
True love will find you in the end. Masterlist.
oh to just be able to touch arthur & to help him know what love feels like. to show him that not every hand will harm him, that some touches are soft and slow rather than hard and fast. that touch can be done with the fingers but also with lips on a bruise or with words that wrap invisible embraces around the heart. to demonstrate that wounds both old and new can be healed with the help of another who will help tend to them willingly. to reassure him that there are hands that want to hold and caress and soothe, that want to cup his face gently on both the good days and the bad, and there are arms that want to hug him tight and never want to let him go. to help him see that there is love to be felt in the world, ready and aching to give him a little bit of warmth.
Summary: After a Christmas party reminds Y/N of an earlier boast, Arthur imagines the perfect date.
Words: 3,359
Warnings: None
A/N: The idea for this story sprouted in November, while I was taking notes for a yet-to-come piece. Writing it was a tough process, but I'm happy to be able to post it now. Please enjoy this late Christmas story! 🎅🏼 And, as always, thank you for reading! 💜
If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!
Terry ripped at the pretty paper with the glee reserved for children and the drunk. "Ha, whaddya know! Mine stopped getting hot this morning!"
He flipped the Conair hairdryer box, opened the top flap. Hand crunching its way to the bottom, a glower replaced his glee. He pulled out a World's Finest Chocolate bar, another and another still. Sixteen in all, a collection courtesy of his son's sports fundraisers. "These..." One slid off his lap and clunked to his feet. "These are terrible."
Snorting, Y/N crossed to him and snagged a Krunch Krisp. "Now that the secret's out, you'll have to go back to selling popcorn and pies."
The Sorry, We're Closed sign had been turned two hours early for Dube & Ellis's annual Christmas party. Cushioned swivel chairs sat in a circle in the conference room, and pushed up against the wall was a long, oak table, right under a bank of windows. Mystery gifts filled one end, Phil's end-of-the-year appreciation of catered cocktail foods swamped the other. A purple aluminum tree stood proudly in the middle, its full two feet dolled up with white lights, silver birds, and plastic starbursts. Baubles out of the atomic age.
Before joining this firm, Y/N hadn't heard of a White Elephant gift swap; Secret Santas and cards from the boss had been the routine. Her first year, she'd missed the joke by bringing a leather planner, a present someone - everyone - actually wanted. A tipsy tiff broke out between Dorothy and Wanda. During each and every turn, someone stole the leather planner, and during each and every turn, Y/N slid further down in her seat.
Today, the gifts ranged from hoot to weird. A dusty bottle of Old Grand-Dad whiskey, which Dorothy opened post-haste and served in Dixie cups. Ham and egg salad finger sandwiches helped soak up the booze. A set of records featuring soothing ocean waves and sounds of the forest, a prescription from Phil's doctor to counter high blood pressure that never worked. Multicolor Christmas lights, functional but tangled into a ball of yarn. And then there was the Decomold toilet seat, thankfully new and sealed. No one admitted to bringing it, no one admitted to wanting it. It'd be kept in the supply closet in case of emergency.
Phil poured himself another, rolled his shoulders backwards and forwards. "There's one gift left."
Wanda grabbed the pine green envelope, stuck her gold lacquered nail under the flap. She shot a narrowed glare at Terry. "This has you written all over it." He raised his hands in a You Got Me gesture. Another chocolate bar thudded to the carpet.
She thrust the envelope at the Elvis display plates stacked on Y/N's lap. "Those'll go well with my Liberaces."
After downing her second Dixie cup and handing them over, Y/N read the envelope's contents twice to ensure the bourbon hadn't blurred her brain.
Two tickets to Tuba Christmas, December 23rd at 7:00 PM. Four hundred tuba students from across the Eastern seaboard, belching and blatting Christmas classics at Gotham Park's Pinckney amphitheater. An event certain to draw a raucous crowd of parents and grandparents primed to dote, the makings of a true-blue hit. Each ticket holder was entitled to free entry at the adjacent ice skating rink, skate and locker rental not included.
Given the city's eccentricities, that four hundred tuba players would gather in it shouldn't have surprised her. But she associated the instrument with polka, the opposite of jingling sleigh bells and festive horns. Arthur wasn't picky when it came to live music, however.
And the skating rink...
She tapped the tickets to her fingertips. Though she was no Dorothy Hamill, she'd bragged she was a pretty good ice skater. This would give her the chance to prove it, strut her stuff until the ice melted under her feet. Wear an outfit that took her back in time to when she was fresh-faced and learning what falling in love meant.
Her brain was definitely blurred now, edging towards a full on smudge.
Already debating between her fleece forest leggings and burgundy stirrup pants, she shrugged. "The oom-pah-pahs won't get in the way of a date, right?"
~~~~~
After an afternoon gone well and an evening about to go even better, Arthur stood in the rear of the subway car, grinning like a fool. Today he'd wrapped up a gig at Amusement Mile's Frost Fest, a special two-week wonderland featuring renamed rides and visits to Santa's workshop.
He'd eschewed working at the Jingle Bell Toss, choosing to sweat at the laundry instead. Between loads of elf costumes and velveteen red hats, he'd wander the grounds for a breath of fresh air, take in the joy of the crowds, a sprinkle of Christmas magic right before the holiday. Absorb the off-key yuletide tunes played by the Peppermint Twist (the former Tilt-A-Whirl), peruse the seasonal menu of Dasher's Delights (f.k.a. Silvio's Sweets). The Nutcracker caught his eye, a cocoa with caramel syrup.
And yesterday, he'd made a secret trip to L. Ballinger's to finish his Yuletide shopping. Red holly berry drop earrings replete with malachite leaves, a gemstone he wasn't familiar with but was pretty and affordable. The clerk at the jewelry department offered complimentary gift wrapping. He'd picked the paper with a green, marbled background and prancing silver reindeer, and paid an extra dollar for a gift tag in Palmer calligraphy. ("To my wife, my favorite Christmas gift.") He'd locked it in the top left drawer of his desk, under his current journal and legal pad for gigs.
He let loose a giggle. Assignment Perfect Present complete, he'd be living on easy street straight through New Year's. Being damned good at holidays was a point of pride, almost equal to the triumph he felt at being a good husband. It was as if he'd stored every disappointment, every forgotten Christmas, every ignored birthday to turn them around and spend them all now. Knowing those efforts would be returned made it easy, a give and take that was guaranteed but never taken for granted.
Tonight would be no exception. The closest he'd ever gotten to skating of any kind was a scene in Shall We Dance - and Fred and Ginger had mostly sat on a bench for that! With a bold brass soundtrack, he and Y/N would start with drinks. She'd suggest hot chocolate, and he'd suggest cocoa. He'd ask for a shot of caramel syrup, she'd say a shot of carmel schnapps. Hot chocolate, cocoa. Caramel, carmel.
But their romance wouldn't go flat. They'd spin closer and closer, mouths inches then centimeters apart. A thorough kiss would spark kindling under Gotham's snowy skies. His eyes fell shut at the thought. The tip of his tongue darted to wet his lips.
Fluorescents flickered through the thin membranes of his eyelids. The brakes' metal on metal screech pierced his ears. He grabbed a stanchion, almost tumbling forward as the train jolted to a stop. The emergency lights sputtered to life. A grumble coursed through the crowd.
All that Christmas magic started to fizzle and flop.
The conductor garbled through the train's speakers. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Due to a signal malfunction, there's traffic ahead of us, but we should be up and running in a few minutes. Please do not block the doors." A click ended the transmission.
Louder than intended, Arthur scoffed through his nose. Gripped the stanchion hard enough to make it squeak under his fingers. Five, seven, twelve minutes later and the train was rigid as a curse. No millimeter of movement, no new announcement, no hint of anything beyond the press of humanity in a tin can.
He tugged at his collar, desperate for a draft. None came. His Thinsulate boots scuffed the slush-stained floor, his knee bounced like a mallet. He stared at the rail card map above the door, willing the train to lurch forward, forward.
Beads of sweat ran along his scalp under his knit cap. He tore it off, shoved it in his coat pocket.
A man stared at him from the seat to the right. Mid-fifties, tan execute trenchcoat buttoned to his Adam's apple, smokestack Panama hat perched above a round, bespectacled face. Wide eyes asked What do We Have Here? Leather clad hands clutched the carpet bag on his lap a tad tighter.
Shaking his head, Arthur said, "Sorry, I'm sorry." Carpet bag's gaze eased enough for him to ask a follow-up. "Do you know what time it is?"
The man glanced at his chunky, gold tone watch, answered in a Salvadoran accent. "6:52."
An anvil dropped to Arthur's stomach. He could've stamped his timecard twenty minutes early and slipped out the North's Pole's back igloo. Nobody would've given a damn on the last day. He should've skipped the stop home to splash on cologne and primp and preen. His winter hat flattened his curls, anyway.
"You all right, sir?" Carpet bag squeezed between the choulda, woulda, shouldas.
"Yeah, I'm just-" Arthur forced out a breath. "I'm gonna be late for my date."
The corner of Carpet Bag's mouth turned up and inward. "First date?"
"She's my wife."
"Bah. Mine's happy for an extra five minutes before I blow in." He scooched over a few inches, crossed his legs, and nicked his head towards the empty space. "It's Christmas. She gonna kick you out?"
Though skinny as a string, Arthur would've had to sit on his lap to take a seat, and this guy was no Mr. Claus. And given what he'd just heard, he wasn't certain Carpet Bag was the best person to give relationship advice. But Arthur chuckled and consciously eased his posture.
The train whirred back to life, the engine rattled the car. He relaxed against the stanchion and smiled. Whether five, seven, or twelve minutes later, he and Y/N would never part. "She likes me on time. But she won't call the whole thing off."
~~~~~
Meanwhile, Y/N applied another coat of Chapstick and surveyed the ice. Halide lamps illuminated the rink, sprays of ice glittered in sodium vapor yellow. Couples old and young swept by at speeds leisurely and unwise. A group of middle schoolers huddled to gossip until the ice marshal moved them along, and a lone boy in coke bottle glasses and thrift store coat did perfect figure eights. A woman in pink snowpants clutched the wall, inching forward in the wrong direction in an imitation of a snail.
Y/N giggled. She'd been that woman once. Before she'd learn how to fly.
The frosty air nipped at her nose and thighs. Clad in leggings, a periwinkle ski jacket that felt more like a windbreaker, and earmuffs, she hadn't dressed for the cold but for flirtation. And the man she'd waited all day to flirt with was yet to appear.
As the final notes of the concert's third song came to a close, she waited in the red party tent that housed skate rentals and concessions. Tapped her toe pick on the concrete floor. Checked her watch and frowned at the minute hand. Seventeen minutes late was out of character for Arthur, especially for a date.
Two teenagers manned the snack bar, where a radio on the counter played pop hits, rivaling the brass band for dominance. She was about to ask if they'd seen a lanky man with a tan coat, when a news bulletin intruded on “All Through the Night."
"Hey folks, sorry to interrupt Miss Lauper, but we just got a late transit alert. The GTA reports that the Red and Green lines have been delayed, because of a small trash fire between the Fort Hamilton and New Utrecht Ave stations. Now, the fire has been extinguished. But if that wasn't enough, the Blue line stalled out on Jefferson Street. Man-oh-man. I hope none of you are planning on heading downtown tonight! Just in case, remember: no drinking allowed on the train!"
Y/N rolled her eyes. Since Mayor Wayne had put his John Hancock on the latest GTA budget, funding had gone down twelve percent and fares had gone up fifteen cents. A twenty percent increase when the minimum wage had stayed flat for five years. The transit union was threatening another strike, an act that would bring Gotham to a standstill. Despite the potential losses, she found herself rooting for the GWU.
If only Wayne's fundraising galas were really for charity instead of cementing power.
Now she rolled her eyes at herself. Leave it alone, you idiot. Rubbing gloved hands together, she forced her attention to the present. Should she skate a loop to ensure she wouldn't embarrass herself, that she could still pull off what she'd bragged about? Or study the concession menu hanging overhead?
Just as she was about to succumb to the welcoming scent of treats, a shadow stumbled into her peripheral vision. There was Arthur, already in skates, pants rolled up to his ankles, right above the boots. His tan coat looked like he'd fluffed it in the dryer, a grey scarf hung loosely around his neck. Good albeit limp hair fell freely to his shoulders.
He gave a little wave. "Sorry." He anchored himself to one of the snack bar's white cocktail tables, grasped each table along the way. "The subway was late."
"I heard," she said, her chills dissipating as he drew closer. "You didn't miss much. How was closing day?"
"Good." The pom-pom of his blue and red hat hung out of his pocket. Pink tinged his cheeks, his breaths puff of vapor. A hearty dose of cologne hit her nostrils, musk and pepper, which meant he hadn't smoked on the ride over. "Do you want a cocoa?"
"Later." She plopped his hat on his head and pulled it past his ears. "I have a thing or two to teach you, first." He gave a blushy chuckle and clasped the dip of her waist.
She led him to the rink gate. He took a long step, as if he were trying to lead a ballroom dance. But his foot started to slip away from him, and his arm flailed out like a windmill.
"Careful!" Y/N caught his hand, clenched her core to keep them upright. "You want to keep your feet under you."
He propped himself against the entrance, not quite blocking it but reserving a safe spot. He bobbed his chin at her. "Show me."
She took her place about a bicycle's length ahead of him. Pushed off with the ease of familiarity, stroked forward at a modest pace. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, the blades whispered lines into the ice. Then she turned around, swizzled her feet apart and together in the silhouette of a lemon. The analogy brought back memories of when she'd learned to skate, and with them the words to explain the basics.
"Bend your knees slightly but keep your chest nice and tall. Push off with the middle of your foot, like you're marching." She pressed the inside of her blades into the ice until she stopped before him. "And try not to look down - it's easy to fall if you do. Got it?"
Uncertainty quirked an eyebrow. Nevertheless, he took tentative yet firm steps onto the ice. Kept his feet under him. "Uh, I think so."
"It's easy once you get a feel for it." She looped her arm loosely through his. "Remember, you're the one with all the grace."
Hand skimming the railing, he marched forward, left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. By the end of the second loop, Arthur's limbs were less stiff, his movements more fluid. Y/N stole a glance at his skates, noted pointed toes and steady ankles. "You're doing great."
"Where'd you learn to do this, anyway?"
"My aunt Edith got me roller skates for my birthday. I used to roll up and down the driveway." She lengthened her glides, her speed now a notch above novice. "When I was in high school, I joined the skating club."
He kept up with her gentle encouragement. "Like a roller derby?"
A short, sharp laugh. The frigid air nearly turned it into a cough. "There wasn't any hitting or slamming, no. It was a popular extracurricular for girls back home. Did you join any in school? Extracurriculars, I mean. Maybe wow them with the mashed potato in dance club?" Arthur pressed his lips together, shook his head.
She studied his profile, ignored her own advice and looked down. Out of everything he'd shared about his youth, and all she longed to learn, school remained one of the sorest subjects. From his missing diploma to his favorite class, it was a frayed thread he didn't like her to pull. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked. Not tonight, at least."
"It's okay. You wanna know because you love me."
His kind understanding heartened her. "I'm glad you take my pestering so well."
The band blatted behind them, a full and round and slightly off-key version of "White Christmas." He let out a wistful sigh. "I wish it would snow."
"When I moved up here," she began, and this time Arthur sped up. "I saw all the snow and ice in those old Christmas movies you love. It snows sometimes back in Boonville, but it never sticks."
"What did you do? That first Christmas?"
"You wanna know because you love me?"
He hiccupped a laugh.
"Patricia invited me over for brunch. I'd never had brunch before. It was good but heavy on the cheese and hollandaise sauce. She had to give me a Bloody Mary to calm my stomach. Then I came here. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. I hadn't been alone with my thoughts for a long time and..." She sighed a peaceful sigh. "Happy. I was just happy." Her touch ran down his forearm to grasp his hand. "And the next Christmas, I got you." His blushy smile returned. He squeezed the tips of her fingers.
Gliding to the right, she steered him so that they held both hands, forming a small circle. His footwork tried to follow, his weight visibly shifting as he staggered his stance and gave it a good Gotham High try. But he only managed two rotations before his skates slipped and skidded. Half-leaning, half-falling into her, he grabbed her upper arm.
A giggle bubbled up. She pressed her nose to his. "We'll get to that next time."
An airhorn blasted. Two large doors opened on the other end of the rink to reveal a Zamboni revving its engine. Skaters flooded past them, towards the exit. He hovered a protective hand at her hip as she stepped out, even as he clung to the wall. After a short wait at the snack bar, he ordered two hot chocolates with caramel syrup. She arched a playful brow at his indulgence and asked for whipped cream.
They settled at a table near the perimeter, where the tubas claimed victory over the radio, and they could see the skies. A few sips in and a line of cream painted his upper lip, sparking an urge in her to kiss it off. Flurries began to fall, soft and light. "Hey," she said with a nod. "There's your snow."
He leaned out from under the tent, craning his neck to look up. Stray flakes caught on his nose and eyelashes. The corners of his eyes crinkled. "I really like this band. I haven't heard this song for a long time. I used to- Used to turn it off. Before you."
She made a soft sound and cocked her head, the notes' resonance as deep and rich as her drink. Despite her best efforts, she couldn't translate the tubas' tune into a holiday classic. "What is it?"
He put their paper cups on the table. Pressed her hands together between his, warmth seeping through her gloves. His gaze brimmed with the pedestal admiration she found hard to take but could never talk him out of. "Merry Christmas, Darling."
The love she had for him wrapped around her heart and made it three times bigger. "Merry Christmas," she said, and followed the urge to kiss the mustache from his mouth. "I'm glad I got you."
~~~~~
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The experience of Christmas changes with the companionship of a lover. When you and Arthur moved in together, taking that leap of committing to sharing a home and a life day in and day out, you wanted to make your first holidays together extra special; to make sure that his days were merry and bright, full of comfort and joy and lots of laughter - that was the very least he deserved, and if you were being honest, it’d been your mission ever since you met him.
warnings: slight intimacy, nothing explicit. excessively corny (what can i say this is what arthur does to me). mostly unedited.
word count: ~1100
The long way home was the route of choice for you and Arthur when snowflakes were descending upon Gotham, covering up the gray and the grunge and the drab with a fresh slate of pristine white. The snow fell all throughout the day, covering up the underbelly that had grown to permeate every corner of the city, and dampening the reverberating cry of sirens in the approaching night, creating a fresh, clean landscape to traverse.
Twilight was settling, and everyone was bustling about to make their way home and escape the storm. Flurries of people weaved through flurries of snow; and then there was the two of you, hand-in-hand, taking your time, contently conscious only of each other, making your way at your own easy pace.
I guess today is the right time to finally post this vid :) Six years since Joker's release, one year since Folie à deux, how time flies... First time I fell hard for Arthur, second time I fell even harder. I think he'll always have a special place in my heart.
