You 4.6 "Best of Friends" 4.7 "Good Man, Cruel World" 4.8 "Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?" 4.9 "She's Not There" 4.10 "The Death of Jonathan Moore"
warnings: spoilers through season one of ‘you’. adult language. mentions of death, stalking and sexual content. mature themes explored by and mentioned in ‘you’. JOE IS NOT A GOOD GUY, HE’S JUST HOT.
notes: i have no idea what this is. word vomit. joe’s point of view because i’m dumb and edgy like that. why do i like this character so much whyyyyyyyyyy
summary: you just have to make it through the week, because come sunday you have the whole day off to spend relaxing with your boyfriend. at least, that’s what you have planned.
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MONDAY.
You are incredibly smart. That goes without saying. I watch you read books, devour them from front to cover before other people would even decide to begin them. You’re willing to try new things because the first two times you came into Mooney’s you wandered for close to an hour. You came in not knowing what you wanted but left with anything you could possibly be interested in.
That was two months ago.
You’re a regular visitor now because we’re an item. Dating. In a relationship. I never know what to say, but neither do you since I’ve heard them all in descriptions of your friends. It doesn’t even matter, anyway, because you smile to your friends no matter what you call us. I never know if I’m doing this right Y/N, but with you I’m positive. You’re happier than I’ve ever seen you.
You’re here at Mooney’s now, talking to me as we eat lunch together. We’re both sitting behind the counter on stools, the flow of people slow for now. It’s always like this around this time of day, and we’re both plenty familiar with that by now. Every so often some asshole comes in looking for a Tolstoy they can stare at for years or some autobiography they’ll only skim through, but besides that, it’s just us.
“Okay, okay,” You’re laughing and waving your hand about the answer you just gave. We’ve been doing this a lot, asking each other pointless questions like this to simply know the answers. For you, plenty of these questions lead to these marvelous stories. It’s as if you want me to know everything about you so easily. “Okay, you see a pothole in the road ahead, do you swerve or straddle?”
I’m not sure about my answer, but that doesn’t matter anymore. I can tell what you want me to say. “Straddle,” My voice comes out a little above a whisper.
“Oh really?” You respond back in a voice that’s even quieter, biting your lip without even realizing it. “Me too. Crazy.”
“Crazy,” I repeat, and my mouth is already pulling into a smile. You lean forward and kiss me once -- eagerly -- then pull back to look at me before we kiss again, slower this time. I want you here, and I know you want me too, but we also have some normal human decency and know when the bell rings to stop kissing quickly. The man who wandered in didn’t seem to notice the two of us at first, too absorbed in his fucking phone.
“Hello!” He speaks up when he notices us. “Can you point me to where Marcus Zuzak would be?”
You smile. “Over there, under fiction. Near the end, because it’s by last name.” You lean over the counter ever so slightly to point him in the correct direction. He’s lucky you volunteered to help him because I doubt I would have been so polite.
“Oh, of course. Thank you, dear.” The elderly man nods and moves in the direction of your pointed finger. You smile at him for a moment longer before you turn back around, grinning.
“Wow, I might just take your job.” You joke, moving back up to sit on your stool. I had secretly hoped you would return to kissing me, but I knew deep down that wasn’t a likely possibility.
“Yeah, do you want the apron?” I pull at the apron. “You can have the apron.”
“Yeah, apron and nametag. I’m changing my name to Joe now.” You continued, before softly laughing and transitioning the conversation into silence. You look at me again, but it’s a much different look than last time. It’s not the heavily passionate look that I got over questions and sandwiches, this is a much more caring look. A loving look. “Hey, it’s been a while since we had a date night.”
I want to return the look you give me, and I hope I am. I hope you understand I love you as much as you love me, Y/N. “Yeah, you’re right. Hey, we should plan one.”
“Okay,” You nodded once, slowly as you plunged through your invisible mental calendar. “Are you free Sunday?”
For you, Y/N, I’m free any day. “Yeah, I think Sunday should work out. Seven?”
You nod once more, kicking your legs. “Okay, seven on Sunday it is.”
I want to reply, but the man returns with a book that is certainly not Zuzak, but I’m not one to say anything.
“Ready to check out?” I ask him, but you hop up before I can move forward.
“Here, I can help you. My name is Joe,” You joke, and the poor old man nods his head. “Looks like a good book.”
TUESDAY.
I’m not supposed to be at your apartment, which I suppose is part of the reason my heart rate spikes when the doorbell rings. I have been trying to get away from this, from the pointless apartment lurking, but I couldn’t resist today. I missed you, Y/N.
For a second, I think the doorbell might be you come to pick up something you’ve forgotten, but then I realize you wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell. It buzzes again and is now followed by a series of pounding knocks. “Hey, Y/N, are you in there?” A man’s voice comes through into the apartment. “C’mon, it’s Arthur. Let me in.”
Arthur.
He sounds vaguely desperate, his voice tinged with a whine. How could you ever have loved this man, Y/N? He’s like some distressed puppy dog who found his way home after being left on the side of the road. He says some word pleas, but I’m already turning over possible ways this could go down in my head.
“Listen, I know that you probably hate me,” Arthur speaks again. You’re right; I’m sure you do. “But I just want to talk to you. I need to apologize. I’m sorry.” He sounds genuine.
I open the door, and Arthur looks stunned. “Shit, is this the wrong apartment? Sorry, I’m looking for Y-”
“Y/N. I know.” I put on a fake smile. This is polite Joe, boyfriend Joe. This is the Joe that you know, Y/N. “She’s not home right now, actually.”
“Oh,” Arthur’s face turns red.
“I’m Joe,” I stick out my hand. “Y/N’s boyfriend.” I almost smile at the words.
He takes my hand and shakes it, although his mind is clearly elsewhere. “I’m Arthur. Bishop.”
Jesus, Arthur Bishop? What kind of a name is Arthur Bishop? “I heard.” I’m still smiling, although it’s uncomfortable now. He’s ignoring me, and I know his thoughts are on you. “Did you need me to pass along a message?” I push, trying to get answers. I need to know if Arthur is a threat to you, Y/N, a threat to us.
“Yeah, um, I haven’t seen Y/N in two years, actually. But we used to date-” I could see him remember who he was talking to. “It was a long time ago.” He added.
“Yeah, I think she’s mentioned you.” I lied. Do you wanna come in?”
When Arthur says yes, I really begin to doubt what you see in him. Is he stupid? Arthur has no idea who I really am, no proof that I’m your boyfriend or that I can be trusted. If he had been at least a little doubtful, I would have at least respected that. I almost feel bad for him, Y/N.
An ex-boyfriend. Here we are, two of the people who you have loved in your apartment without your knowledge. He makes himself at home very quickly; without even taking off his shoes. He’s jittery, unfocused. His legs bounce up and down as he sits on your couch, and I’m suddenly self-conscious for you, Y/N, because of all the clothes you had strewn around. I walk towards the kitchen and kick a bra under the couch.
“So, what did you say the deal was between you and Y/N?” I ask, moving towards the counter.
Arthur hesitates for a moment. Never a good sign. “Is there a bathroom I could use?”
No, dipshit, no bathrooms here. “Yeah, just down the hall. You okay?”
He nods, clearly lying. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be right back.” He moves quickly, but once I hear the bathroom door close I move twice as fast. The bathroom, Arthur? Do you think I’m dumb? On second thought, are you dumb?
I know where your medicine cabinet is, and I know where the prescription sleeping pills you keep are. My fingers grasp the small bottle and I shake a few out onto my palm -- not so many that you’ll notice they’re gone, but enough to take care of Arthur in the other room.
I move silently back to the kitchen, pulling one of your knives from the display. At least your counter is clean enough that I can put the pills down directly and crush them with the knife. One, two, three presses and I’ve deemed them powdered enough to brush into my hand and shake into a glass of water.
I hope you’re thirsty, Arthur.
WEDNESDAY.
The cage is no longer empty, which is always a strange feeling. And Arthur is so quiet I practically forget he’s down there.
I wonder a little if I overreacted with Arthur. If I should have just stayed put and pretended no one was home or let him come in and leave on his own time. But deep down, Y/N, I knew that he was a risk. I didn’t even have to know what this guy wanted and I could tell, from the way he spoke about you that he wanted to get in the way of us. And God, we’ve been so perfect together that I couldn’t fathom letting someone take you away from me.
He was out for a while, and I worried I maybe overcompensated with the sleeping pills and his insides were slowly shutting down. If I had known your shifty ex-boyfriend was going to show up I would have maybe done my research a little better, but things like this never seem to want to pencil in a date on the calendar.
The second time I check on him during the workday, he’s awake. Quiet and confused, but awake. He asks the usual -- where he was, why he was there, if you had something to do with it. And I’m at least polite, Y/N. I answer his questions to the best of my ability and all he does is swear and yell at me. After a while, I think he realized that I wouldn’t be telling him this stuff with the intent of letting him go, which quieted him down. Which is not to say I don’t want to let him out.
“Listen, I didn’t do anything wrong. Please. Man, if you want me gone I’ll leave. I’ll leave to where ever the fuck you want me to go. Just let me out.”
Even his pleading is in a soft voice. I wonder if he was a good boyfriend or the annoying, man bun and kale type you seem to have been interested in before. “You just need to wait a while, Arthur. Have patience, it’s a good quality.” But even my sound reasoning doesn’t persuade him.
He’s quiet the next few times I come down, but he takes the fast-food bag I pass him and he eats, which is good at least. I considered asking him about you, but I decided that if he was comfortable and quiet now, it was probably better to keep it that way. Besides, you sent me a text asking if I wanted to come over and watch ‘Friends’ with you. It wasn’t the show I was excited for at all, but the idea of you, and the idea that you thought of me when you were flipping through the channels.
I give Arthur his supper and then I’m off to you, Y/N. You open your door for me in sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt, and I swear you’ve never looked so beautiful. You smile at me and I come inside the apartment I know you cleaned especially for me and you direct me to the couch, where we settle down and you turn up the volume.
“I hope you weren’t busy or anything,” You mention offhandedly during the third episode. “I don’t know, I just know you don’t watch a lot of TV but Friends is classic and I thought you might want to-”
“No, no, no, you’re good. I love it. I love Friends.” I lie, gesturing to the screen.
You look at me and I know you’ve read right through my little lie. “Do you know?”
I pause. “No. But I love it now!”
“Sure, Joe,” You laugh before turning back to the screen and moving closer to me. We’re pressed together like we’ve known each other for years. And we may as well have, Y/N.
THURSDAY.
I wake up Thursday morning, and you’re already gone. A glance at the clock -- which reads 9:51 -- explains to me that you’re already at work. A note you left me on the table reflects this thought, and I know that neither of us expected me to stay the night. I’m happy to be welcome here in the morning, and I pocket the note before sitting back to breathe it in.
I love the way your apartment is decorated because it reminds me so much of you. It reflects your personality, from the way things are carefully placed to the way you so desperately want things to appear thrown into a particular spot. Even alone in your apartment, Y/N, you’re trying too hard.
Last night was perfect, and I think my mind is clearer now. I know what I have known in the back of my mind for days, that Arthur needs to be taken care of. Nothing gruesome or excruciatingly painful, he’s been good enough. I almost hate to do it, but if he sticks around things are bound to go wrong for us. Please realize that I’m doing this all for us, Y/N.
FRIDAY.
I have learned from my mistakes. I allow Arthur -- or what’s left of him now -- to wait for me overnight but come Friday I know the body needs to be taken care of.
Ethan is too gullible and I tell him I need to close early to do some inspections of Mooney’s. At first, he asks some questions, but I tell him only simple answers and he eventually leaves. The day as a whole is normal but seems to drag on as the same type of men and women come in to buy the same books, or walk around and leave. The only half-hour that breezes by is our lunch together, where we sit in the same area as always and laugh and each and hope that time will freeze.
I manage to slip into the conversation a small asking about ex-boyfriends, and you spill the beans on Marcus and Dwayne and Roosevelt, all of whom I know have long since moved on, before you bring up Arthur.
“We dated for a year, I guess. But then he told me that he had some other life offers to pursue in Nepal -- whatever that means -- and we broke up and he left.” It doesn’t seem to mean lots to you, as you shrug and eat forkfuls of salad. “Then I met this really nice guy at a little coffee shop in New York and his name was Joe, and he worked at a bookstore, and we ate lunch together and have a date on Sunday.”
“Wow, Joe sounds like a great guy. Looks like I’ve got competition.”
You laughed, the beautiful laugh that I know you try to keep in your mouth but it just bubbles out, and you lean over and bring your hand up to hide it. I have never understood why Y/N. Your laugh is beautiful, but it’s impossible to bring that up without sounding creepy.
But you leave eventually, sooner than you should have to, and I’m left alone again. It returns to the same boring routine, and the closing time comes after a hundred years. Ethan leaves with a wave and a farewell, but I’m already right behind him as I moved to flip the open sign.
The basement has begun to reek of death. It only gets stronger as I push open the doors to the cage, allowing the smell to come out as I enter in. Arthur has already texted a few of his friends -- douchebags, by the sounds of it -- to tell them that he’s returning to Nepal. He missed it, and he misses the feeling it brought him and his idiot friends seem to accept it. I plan to bag him up -- which is more than vile and I can’t count how many times I throw up or gag -- and bury him in the woods, where the trees are thick and the dead leaves from several years have built up and no one will look.
The gloves are the smartest choice I’ve ever made. There are things getting on them that I can’t identify and don’t want to be identified. He’s already in the bag -- deep and black, hopefully sturdy -- and I’m on the clean-up phase when I’m startled.
“Joe?” I hear your voice. Fuck, tell me I’m going crazy. How the fuck do I hear your voice through all of this, unless…
I spin around to face you. It hits me almost instantly-- I didn’t lock the door. How the fuck could I forget to lock the door? Shit, one mistake and now… now this, Y/N.
Unsurprisingly, you’re stunned. Eyes soaking in everything that they can, your hands already shaking. “Y/N,” I begin, but you don’t give me a chance to talk. A chance to explain myself to you.
“What the fuck, Joe?” You ask, and I know you’re hoping for some logical explanation to pour out of my mouth. And, Y/N, believe me when I say that I wish I had one, at the very least in the form of a crafted lie. “What the actual fuck is this?”
You want to run, but you also want this to all be a misunderstanding, so you stand there, frozen. I look at you, hoping that you’ll look into my eyes and remember how much we love each other, how perfect we are for each other. I hope you’ll forgive me and you’ll throw your arms around me instead, and you’ll know it was all a misunderstanding. You’ll love me no matter what, and we’ll get the happily ever after that you read in your books and crave so much.
I see you look once more from me to the bag containing Arthur. Your breathing quickens again, the only thing to split the silence at first. Then your footsteps follow, tennis shoes hitting the concrete.
Life is far from a book, Y/N. I’m sorry this is the point you have to realize this.
SATURDAY
You wake up in the cage, and I’m already sorry that it has to be this way. You look like a small child, lost in the supermarket with no parents in sight. Sleep is in your eyes, but you quickly blink it out and lookup. For a split second, I think you have forgotten about where you are, about what has happened.
You tried to run upstairs, to tell the world, Y/N, and I care about you too much to let that happen. You won’t understand this right away, no one ever does, but maybe you’ll have a change of heart someday. You refused to talk to me at first, so I talked to you and tried to act as if everything was normal.
“What the fuck,” When you spoke, your voice was rough from dehydration. I made a mental note to get you a coffee that you might drink, unlike the water glass you had disregarded in the corner. “What, you’re just going to pretend like I’m not in an actual cage, Joe?”
“It’s just temporary,” I assure you hurridly, but I can tell that you don’t believe me. “I’ve never lied to you, Y/N. Please.” And this is mostly true.
Your voice is getting a little louder, a little more passionate. “How am I supposed to know that? Huh?”
“Trust me,” I say, and I see an echo of Beck in myself. The thought startles me enough that I shake a little, and you think that I’m shaking because you’ve made some mental breakthrough. You were smart and kept out of my past, you trusted what I told you and never questioned the things I left out.
“How?” You ask me, bitterly. “How can I trust you in here?”
I look at you for a moment, our eyes locked. You look sad, Y/N, and I need to remind myself that it isn’t my fault. You could look for the best in this, you could choose to be happy despite what you see to be a bad situation. “You have to,” I beg simply, and I need to go back to the bookstore. I will be back down here, Y/N, I promise.
SUNDAY.
The door opened with a soft noise, and your eyes follow me as I walked forward, watching you as well. I have nothing to say, but I can tell you’re waiting for me to speak. “It’s Sunday,” So I speak for you, glancing around to try and find the key. “We were supposed to have our date tonight,” I find the key and twist it around my fingers.
“We still can,” Your voice comes out cracked from crying. “Let me out, please, Joe. C’mon. Please.”
I pocket the key and give you a look. “You know I can’t do that.”
“Why, Joe? Because you think I’m going to tattle on you? I’m not fucking stupid.” You stand up and move a little closer to the edge of the cage. “You made a mistake. Everyone makes mistakes, it’s okay. I forgive you, Joe.”
You forgive me. My hands are trembling and I take a step forward. You forgive me, or so you say.
“How can I trust you?” My voice is a whisper, and suddenly I’m the scared boy in the supermarket again. “You already tried to run, Y/N. You need to trust me, this is what’s best for you.”
“What’s best for me?” Your eyes water. “What’s best for me? Do you think being locked in a cage is what’s best for me?
I don’t react.
“Jesus, Joe, what do you want? What do you want me to do?”
“I want you to be happy. I need you to be happy.” The words come out of my mouth before I even realize it. “But I need you to be happy in here, at least for a while. If you really still love me, you’ll wait.”
“I don’t want to wait, Joe. Please. If you love me, you’ll let me out.”
My hand reaches back for the key, and I’m fumbling with it as I say, “You know I can’t do that.” You seem to have given up with that, but you continue to stand against the edge of the cage and watch me. “Can you sit down? I have to empty out the bucket.” You glance back at the bucket you’ve been using as a bathroom and then back at me.
You sit down, defeated, and I walk in towards the bucket. This is the most humiliating part of this whole ordeal, Y/N, and I’ll be happy when it’s all over and we can joke about the things I’d do for you. You’re watching me with big eyes that I can hardly look at up close because they’re swollen with tears by now.
I’m near you, and you’ve gone silent. You watch as I reach down to grab the bucket’s handle, but you very swiftly stick your foot out, and I felt myself falling backward in slow motion. Fuck, Y/N, you weren’t supposed to do that. By the time I can turn myself over to look at you, you’re already up on your feet. Without pausing to look back, you’re making a run for the door
Now, this is just fucking unfair. I push myself to my feet and stumble after you, and I feel like a toddler who doesn’t know how to walk. I push myself out of the cage for physical support and grab a knife from the shelves. I hope I don’t need this, Y/N, but your persistence worries me.
It doesn’t take much to overpower you. I’m pumping my legs and feeling the adrenaline pumping through my body. I reach once and miss, almost stumbling but I doubt you notice. The second time I reach, my fingers grasp your arm and pull you back. I have to think fast here, and I push you against the wall to stop you.
You’re quiet, panting and terrified. If you could, I’m sure you would spit in my face here. I turn over possibilities in my mind, and I must say that I’m not particular to any of them within my control. Shit, Y/N, I didn’t want this to turn out like Candace or like Beck. I thought you were different, I thought that maybe you would understand.
I don’t want to kill you. Believe me, Y/N, it’s always the last thing I want to do. But I had to kill Beck before, and that turned out fine because I met you. I met you, and you made my life that much better.
Your eyes flick between mine, your breathing steadies. The knife suddenly feels so much heavier in my hand, but we both know what I need to do.
