#she's been the wwh for like three(?) months now??????

[the-greatest-magic-of-all]

Imagine rocking up to a team meeting that only happens once a century at best apparently and having them ask you for an update on how attaining world peace going?

[fleckcmscott]

All Wrapped Up

Summary: Arthur reaches a milestone he'd never dreamed of. Y/N pulls out all the stops.

Words: 4,735

Warnings: Adult situations, Swearing

A/N: This story was a real challenge. Figuring out these characters, their hopes and experiences and dynamics fifteen years later, felt like trying to predict the weather. And I never have an umbrella when I need it! 😂 I hope you all enjoy this piece. Thanks 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!

Y/N gave her mouth another good swish-swash-swish and spat in the sink.

Lukewarm water rinsed her Oral-B toothbrush; she it shook off and returned to its charger. She drew a round brush through steely brown locks, a dollop of mousse in the bristles to lend the feathering a touch of fluff.

Three perfume bottles stood on the shelf to her left. She chose the pink tapered oval in the middle, a gift from Arthur called Here's The Heart, the fragrance of daffodils and sunlight and his latest favorite. She dabbed it on her wrists, her collarbone, the pulse point of her neck. Sandy shadow brightened her eyes and rosewine painted her lips, a sultry red saved for special occasions.

Crouched on one knee, she dug out the personal lubricant hidden behind her tampons, which had been on standby for two months. (Alarm had frozen her solid when her monthly had hit six weeks late. But then she'd remembered that at fifty-four, it was to be expected.) She smeared an ounce between her legs. A warmup for both their benefit - and a sure ego boost that'd rev his engine. Make him grin that cocky grin.

Glass of water in hand, she padded out of the bath.

She tiptoed to her side of the bed and set the water on the nightstand. Morning's first light seeped past the edges of the window shades. She gave one a quick but quiet pull, held the bottom bar until it rose halfway.

Soft and gauzy as a favorite dream, sunrays cast a hazy hue on Arthur's pallid skin. A light snore caught in the back of his throat. He lay supine, one hand curled against his breast, the toes of his left foot sticking out from the emerald, blue, and mauve kaleidoscoped comforter. The perfect position for what she had planned.

Biting down a wicked giggle, she shimmied out of her robe and dove under the covers headfirst.

Muted confusion from above. Grumbles and groans. A skinny thigh shifted beneath her palm. She swallowed around him and continued on.

Fingertips patted polyester, as though searching for a flashlight in the dark. At her back, her shoulder, her head.

A squeeze to his sculpted hip, nails a whisper along his v-line...

The comforter lifted, followed by the sheet. Arthur squinted through the crevice. "Christ, you're naked."

The giggle she'd bitten down spilled forth, nose nuzzling at his coarse curls. He grasped her upper arm and tugged.

"What did you expect?" She crawled up his body, lips following a familiar path along his stomach, his chest. "You only turn fifty once. Happy birthday."

"Mmm." In a flash, he grabbed her ass and rolled on top of her. Kissed her softly, then kissed her hardly, mouth swooping to collide with hers. He tasted of stale nicotine and the smell of rust after a rainstorm. She sought to freshen it with her Aquafreshed tongue.

But he broke off, coughed into his elbow. A smoker's cough that'd worsened with the chill of November and the radiator heat that accompanied it. She decided to give him his second present early, right after this gift for them both.

When he stole the water from her nightstand, she narrowed her eyes. "Hey, I was planning on using that."

"I know." Green irises met hers, a direct stare that set the pit of her stomach in a wild swirl. That stare stayed locked on hers as he emptied the glass. Slow, deliberate, his Adam's apple bobbing with each swallow.

She played with the spartan hairs on his chest. "I noticed a couple grey hairs while I was down there. You're officially an old man now."

"You mean I'm finally catching up to you?"

"Uh huh." Her toes ran along his calf. Its muscle twitched. "You're going to start getting flyers from Gotham's Senior League and the Elk's Club."

Amusement crinkled his face, half-lidded eyes enthralling in their relaxed contentment. While his black whiskers had gone white, his sideburns remained sterling, his loose curls cinnamon and sugar. Lines had become faint tattoos on his forehead, and the crevices on his cheeks had grown longer, deeper, framing his thin lips and doubling his dimples. Wrinkles crisscrossed the bottom of his chin, and the fold beneath it was twelve percent squishier.

But he was as alluring as ever. As handsome as the night she'd first lain in this very bed with him.

Desire swelled her heart, a thump-thump that was suddenly ten times louder.

She clutched his shoulders and purred. "Fuck me, old man."

Laughing, he took hold of the headboard.

And took charge.

~~~~~

"During our last session, you talked about how challenging turning fifty would be." Dr. Ludlow spoke around the ballpoint pen in her mouth. "How are you doing now that the day is here?"

Blurs from this morning seared Arthur's memory, the saltiness of sweat and skin. He felt the fierce heat of a blush and gulped the brazen images away. "I feel good."

"That's great." She lowered herself to her armchair and put her stoneware mug opposite the ashtray on the coffee table. Planted her pen firmly between forefinger and thumb. "How have you worked through last month's feelings?"

"Um, I dunno. I've written in my journal a lot."

"Take a minute to think it over. We've discussed how milestones can trigger mood swings. What's been your strategy to avoid that, and what does your birthday mean to you today?"

He shoved the tip of his tongue in the fleshy part of his cheek.

Fifty. He'd never imagined reaching fifty. Forty-five maybe, just old enough for his body to start falling apart to match his mind. Even when he'd crawled out of bouts of malaise and hadn't wanted to die, the age had remained as intangible as a good reputation and the clout that went with it.

Business was slow but stable. Kids were losing interest in clowns, preferring cartoon characters or Barney or Power Rangers, whatever the hell they were. Birthday parties were getting slimmer, special events and holidays were getting busier. He had a reliable list of regulars. It all evened out.

But his heart remained devoted to his first love - comedy. He'd been chasing that dream for fifteen years. With stardom continuing to elude him, the event horizon of his fifth decade felt like a sign the time to achieve it was running out.

He tapped his Stutton over the ashtray. "I want things I haven't gotten yet. Being a famous standup, you know? Everything comes so easily for some people, and I've been working and working and-" A flinch against the sinewy frustration rising in his breast. God, why did therapy sometimes make him feel worse? Couldn't he skip the soul-searching on his special day? Why hadn't he rescheduled when she'd offered? He breathed on a 3-4-5 count. "I'm trying to remember I can't see the future. Just what I want it to be."

Her pen jotted. "I wonder what your life would look like if you were famous. What you would get out of it."

"I've told you," he said, glancing at her in disbelief. How could he make it any clearer? "I'd make people smile. They'd know who I am, that I'm funny and good."

"Don't you have that now?"

"What do you mean?"

"The people in your life. Y/N, your friends, your family in Missouri. They know you, that you're funny and good. What difference would fame make?" Each syllable pricked, firm but kind points that dulled to prods.

He hesitated, measuring himself. Found he felt about six inches short and not a little pathetic for having the same longings as the lost, lonely man he'd thought he'd left behind. Ancient insecurities aroused, he tucked his hands under his thighs.

After a moment, Dr. Ludlow set her legal pad on the table and moved to sit on the sofa. She left a professional one cushion space between them. "Goals give us a sense of purpose, a way to navigate tough times. Having them is one of the reasons you've done so well. But what I'm hearing is that you want acceptance. You want to be loved." A beat. "You already have that, Arthur. Don't forget it."

His throat shrank to a straw. Her words carried a reality he no longer doubted; he'd lived enough for them to be more than theory. But spoken aloud by a witness to his life, they were engraved with the power of unvarnished truth A truth he could revel in, relax in, cherish and count on.

A truth that brought him joy the way nothing else could.

There was his ever-present wife. The million dollar baby he'd found in the freezer section of a grocery store. She'd made a mistake after their earlier lovemaking, but mistakes were part and parcel of years together, so it'd been all right. Her reasons had been sweet, and she'd promised not to repeat it.

And a card from his in-laws had arrived last week, happiness in a mint green envelope. A bluebird in a mulberry bush wished that on his birthday, he'd find everything he desired, no matter how small. Tangible proof that he mattered, that they were thinking of him even hundreds of miles away.

Wetness burned the outer corners of his eyes. He swiped at them with the sleeve of his cardigan. Hitched chuckles built in him, like the climbing roar of applause at the end of a successful set.

He was fifty and he was loved.

Dr. Ludlow offered a box of tissues. In a tone woven with kindness she asked, "Would you like to talk about your plans to celebrate, or keep them for your journal?"

~~~~~

Kneeling on the back of the red, round booth, Y/N reached to hang the Happy Birthday banner on the wall. "Is it even?"

Patricia spoke from two yards behind her. "If Arthur tilts his head."

A chuckle on her lips and a song in her heart, Y/N slid the Y three inches lower and stuck it with a pin. One of the perks of being a long-time regular at Kao-Wah's was the ability to commandeer the back corner, the one by the bar. (That it was an uncrowded Thursday didn't hurt.)

After this morning's misstep, she was determined to make this evening perfect.

She climbed down backwards, kitten heel brushing padded vinyl before finding the floor. She pushed a four-top against the booth's six-top table, just the right amount of space for guests, and the cake Patricia had helped her make. Mandarin with homemade frosting, made with unsalted butter, powdered sugar, milk, and canned oranges. Ingredients Y/N could handle with a best friend.

Patricia ripped open two crepe streamers, one teal and one yellow. "Has he seen you in that yet?" She indicated Y/N's outfit with a nod.

Her dress was a number she'd picked up at L. Ballinger's summer closeout. Tiered Chantilly lace, ivory, with a dropped bodice and long sleeves, it revealed enough to remind Arthur of what she was hiding. Pretty and feminine, swingy and fun. She took the end of the streamers, walked backwards to unroll and twist them together. "I saved it for tonight."

"You'll knock him dead," Patricia said with a wink.

Y/N taped the crepe paper along the chairs, akin to a velvet rope at a red carpet announcing a Very Important Person was on the way. A small bundle of balloons rose from each end of the table, completing the cheery decor. Hand on one hip, she surveyed their handiwork and smiled.

Patricia ordered two sparking wines and took a seat at the bar. "When Robert turned fifty, I planned a romantic evening to celebrate. Strawberries dipped in chocolate, massage oils, rose petals in the bathtub, the works. Well, I'm in the tub waiting for him to come home - he refused to take the day off - candles all around the room.

"The front door opens, and I straighten my legs and stick out my chest like a pinup. He stumbles in, drenched in oil and coolant, and he says, 'What the hell are you doing? I need a shower!'" Shoulders shaking with laughter, she wagged her head. "He hopped in there, rose petals and all, all the while I'm running around blowing out candles before the shower curtain goes up in flames. I'd never moved so fast. And I thought life at fifty would be boring."

"You're the most exciting old dame I've ever met." Y/N pecked her cheek and slid onto the stool beside her. There was a gold serving basket brimming with fortune cookies to her left. She snagged one from the middle, cracked it open, and popped the sugary wafer in her mouth. Ears filled with crunching, she read the bit of wisdom contained within: You cannot love life until you live the life you love.

An unexpected but welcome melancholy washed over her. The ripples of her life had ebbed and flowed, but living with Arthur was a steady joy. He was very much the man she'd fallen in love with. Gentle with a streak of shyness but determined to speak up and pursue what he desired. But he'd grown, too. Exited the purgatory between adulthood and adolescence neglect had locked him in. He'd learned to trust himself, to like himself on good days, now the vast majority.

She folded the fortune, to be placed in her purse with her compact and pager. "I can't imagine ever being bored with Arthur. I'm proud of him. He's done a lot of work to get here. I'm lucky I've been the one to see him do it."

"You haven't just seen it. You've helped."

Her insides twirled, a pleasant tickling at her navel. "We've helped each other." She sipped at the wine glass and continued. "There is one other thing I've been trying to help him with. Maybe you'll have an idea..."

Y/N went over the scene of the crime, albeit without the salacious (Patricia would have called them fun) details. She'd started in right as Arthur'd pulled his briefs past his knees. He must have recognized the shape and weight of a cassette booklet. Irises sparkling, he'd asked what music collection she'd gotten for his Walkman.

He'd ripped the balloon patterned wrapping paper from the squeaky plastic. Squinted down at tiny red letters on white tapes.

"'Stop smoking with the Gotham Lung Association?'"

He pushed them away and rolled his eyes. Stood and yanked his underwear over his hips. "I wish you'd stop using special occasions for that. Telling me to quit smoking. Especially on my birthday. I'm down to half a pack a day!" He grabbed his pajama bottoms from the vanity. "I know you don't like it. You haven't liked it for fifteen years."

"But I need five more decades of you," she'd said, clambering on hands and knees to his side of the bed. She'd caught his pantleg, drew him to her a with a gentle tug. Despite her tenderness, annoyance kept his brows furrowed.

She'd pecked his thumb, the back of his hand, the knobby part of his wrist. Then her gaze had lifted, her resolve softened by apology. "All right. I won't pester you about it on your birthday anymore." Her slight shrug and unsure smile had twisted his grimace into a grin. "May I keep Christmas?"

Patricia gaped at her, an Are You Serious look. "You thought today would be good to remind him of what annoys you?"

"That's not what I meant. I realize it was a dumb thing to do. I just..." Chin propped on her knuckles, Y/N huffed. "If I were to lose him because of that nasty habit, I'd be devastated."

The clink of glass on the walnut bar top. "You meant well. You always mean well." One cheek hanging off the stool, Patricia hugged Y/N at the waist. "Getting older isn't easy. Let the man enjoy it. And learn to take a day off."

A slight nod as Y/N's shoulders slackened, tension ebbing away. There was something about Patricia's blunt kindness that made her feel wonderful, like she was the little sister for a change.

Y/N swirled the rest of her wine, deciding that one fun detail couldn't hurt. "Besides that, we had a great morning. I made sure he didn't mind waking up early."

~~~~~

Arthur wished he wore a watch so he could check it.

He was supposed to met Y/N in front of Kao Wah's after she got out of work, around five-thirty. Though he'd left the apartment at five and ridden the train for nine stops, there was no sign of her. He patted his left breast, then reached under the winter coat's placket to check the inner pocket.

Folded into quarters, the late arrival remained in place. His mouth curved in relief.

His toes tapped the sidewalk, he puffed clouds into the autumn air. Another minute and he rummaged through his pocket for a quarter. There was a payphone on the corner. He'd call her office in case she'd been delayed.

Three steps later, Y/N's call met his back. "Arthur!"

Holding Kao Wah's door open with one foot, she waved at him and waved him towards her. "I'm sorry," she said when he was an arm's length away. "I wanted to grab our favorite booth while it was free."

But he'd only registered a couple of words, the syllables after her sorry a muffled drone. "Look what came in the mail today. It must've gotten lost." He retrieved the October-dated letter from his coat, not looking up or around, too busy buzzing to pay attention as she held his elbow and guided him inside. "Ruthie's coming next month. She- she wants to go to Gotham University." The mere possibility of having family nearby nearly scuttled the reason for tonight's engagement.

"Really?" Y/N smoothed his hair back, unbuttoned his formally-puffy-now-lumpy coat. "Mabel hasn't mentioned it. Either she's gotten better at keeping secrets or Ruthie hasn't told her. I hope it's the former." Y/N continued, pulling him along." It's too bad she couldn't make it this month. She could've helped us all celebrate."

A slight flinch of his head. "Who's all?"

"Happy birthday!" a chorus of cheery voices cried.

The heavy lashes that shaded his cheeks flew up, eyes as wide as a Mun Shou platter.

Patricia and Robert, Ryan and Sheila from Gotham Elementary. Gary - no, not that Gary, who was in England visiting family - but a fellow aspiring comic Arthur had gotten to know during open mic nights at the Smile Factory and Pogo's. A circle but a tight one, a clockface with each person a numeral, a sign of the progress of his life.

Slanting his gaze to Y/N, he tucked the letter in his pocket. "You didn't have to do all this."

"I wanted to," she said, warmth in her cocoa gaze. "We all did."

A slight sway, a tuck of the chin. He ran a hand down his vintage, black suit jacket and tightened his neck. Dressing up to the nines for her had been the plan, a playful way to make their date extraordinary. But at the crowd's casual attire, he felt a little left-footed. "I'm overdressed," he murmured,

Y/N adjusted his lapels. "You look wonderful."

He loosened his large bowtie, the size you'd see during a 1976 Oscar broadcast, so that it draped untied at the neck. Plucked the collar button of his dress shirt and made of show of pulling it down. Once adjusted, he gave her form a demure but thorough ogling. Nearly bare shoulders, a neckline he longed to kiss, the dip of her waist beneath the lining and lace. He'd glue his hand there later. He wet his lips. "Thanks. So do you."

"Come on, sit down." Patricia wore a wry grin. "Before you two set off the sprinklers and ruin the party."

A buffet of Arthur's favorites and a couple new dishes swamped the table. The five spice beef was the perfect winter warmer, the pan-fried noodles with vegetables expertly seared. Moo goo gai pan and chicken chow mien arrived on oversized platters. The egg rolls were extra crispy and the pork fried rice extra sticky. The first round of drinks were on him and Y/N; she ordered Mai Tais between pots of oolong tea.

He'd gotten better at chitchat, gained the confidence to take a chance, perfect the small stage. As the dinner wore on, he noted how natural it felt to break off into side conversations. Succeeded in listening and responding without have to wonder if his instincts had led him down the street of weird. He knew what to do with his hands.

Years of budget cuts had hit the school system like a mallet, and more and more fundraisers tried to make up the difference. Bake sales and book fairs, ticket raffles and auctions. Ryan and Sheila discussed the school's upcoming winter carnival, which Arthur had been a regular part of for a decade. And at events he wasn't hired for (at a reduced rate), he gladly volunteered. It was easier to give of himself now that he had a quadraphonic life instead of mono.

Patricia had convinced Robert to finally, finally sell Gorman Fire and Ice to their grandson for a song, so they could finally, finally take a vacation, a trip to the Bahamas since Cuba was no longer allowed.

Suit jacket slung across the back of his chair, Arthur jotted on a napkin while he and Gary went over the rotation of open mic nights across a sea of clubs, and a new guy in the biz who had a habit of stealing jokes.

An hour later, while he was still high on carbs and comfort in his own skin, Y/N presented him with a cake. Two tiers, rectangular, specks of orange dotting its pale yellow frosting. He leaned into her, mouth agape. "You made this?" He took a languid bite, licked the frosting from his lips and stole another. The mandarin sponge melted on his tongue. He hummed, wrapped an arm around her. "I have a sneaking suspicion I'll want you to make me a cake every birthday."

She snorted into her tea and called across the table. "Patricia, could you pencil me in for a cake lesson every November for the next thirty years?"

Patricia served herself a second slice. "I'll be busy in Acapulco."

Once the check was brought and the leftovers started to be scraped into oyster pails, Arthur stood, scooting his chair away with the backs of his calves. Rapped a fork against his Mai Tai coupe the way he'd seen on TV. Rolled the Tiki themed stem between thumb and forefinger. Studied the amber liquid and considered the right thing to say.

"Thank you for coming," he began, hewing close to the opening of a comedy set. He giggled at the association, an arc of inspiration sparking. "When I was a young man, I thought fifty would mean nights at home with no friends. But now I worry my bad knee'll go out more than I do."

Laughter danced across his friends' faces. He reveled in their smiles, their open admiration. Dr. Ludlow's earlier counsel echoed at the base of his skull. He exhaled a long, satisfied sigh. "I'm glad you all care about me and are here to celebrate."

"You're a jolly good fellow," Patricia said, and raised her teacup for a toast.

Y/N reached out, laced her fingers with his own. Brimming with tenderness, her gaze lifted to his. "Here's to many, many more."

~~~~~

It was just after nine o'clock in 4A. Y/N had traded her dress for stirrup leggings and an off-the-shoulder sweater. Arthur remained resplendent in his evening wear. They'd made a pot of decaf and planned to call Ruthie on the weekend, invite her to stay with them during her visit.

Ready to be returned on tomorrow's lunch break, the smoking cessation tapes sat dejected in Y/N's canvas tote bag. Way back in '81, she'd said she'd get him to quit if it was the last thing she did. It was hard for her to let go. But he'd given her permission to nag at Christmas, and if he wanted to take steps to quit, he knew how. It had to be up to him.

Cross-legged on the carpet, he sat by the coffee table and tore open another gift. He held up the VHS in triumph. "I've Always Loved You," he read, then flipped it over to scan the summary. "I don't think I've seen this."

"Me neither." She perched on the sofa, to his left. "But it's from 1946 and the title's true. There's one more present. Close your eyes."

Leaning back on his hands, he did. She bent over the side of the sofa, retrieved what she'd shoved underneath before his wake-up call. The light weight dropped on his lap with a soft rustling.

One eye cracked open, then the other, surprise engulfing his entire visage. A cautious palm skimmed the tweed carpet bag, a blue and red plaid to go with his clown costume. (His usual nylon prop bags had started to fray after six months. Their novice repairs lasted about two.) Parallel to the bag's top zipper was a bronze nameplate: Carnival.

Arthur fidgeted with the handle. "I'll need a gig at Wayne Hall to use this."

"Open it."

He dragged the zipper's tab an inch. Peeked inside the bag before dragging it further. "Oh..."

Gingerly, he took out the Kala ukulele, reddish brown like mahogany, its four tuners pearl and chrome. The certificate pasted in the soundhole had a manufacture date of 1972, but the instrument looked untouched, as though forgotten in the back of a closet.

"I know getting new clients has been harder the last couple of years. This might help. The library has VHS music lessons you can check out." She knelt behind him and cupped his shoulders. "The strings were put on last week."

His fingertips flitted over the neck, began to pluck the G and C strings at a beginner's tempo. Not quite a match for the notes he played, he crooned a version of "Row, Row, Row Your Boat." Gravelly and half hummed, the way you'd sing a lullaby to a sleepy child.

"Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a..." The music came to a gradual stop. "Do you ever wish for more?"

"More of you? Always."

"Today Dr. Ludlow asked what I'd get out of being famous. I thought about it when I got Ruthie's letter. And at the party." The corners of his mouth turned inward. "Do you think I ever will be?"

Y/N nibbled her bottom lip. Tried to find the balance between the truth as she saw it and greater possibilities. Magazines and television implored women to feel like they were defective for aging (and going by the ads for men's hair color, they were about to be dragged into the same predicament.) Popular culture focused on the young. The next Big Thing wasn't old enough to buy a bottle of wine. At Arthur's age, fame was unlikely. For that matter, it'd be unlikely for anyone at any age.

She'd never wanted to be anything special, just herself and to do some good while she was at it. Arthur's outsized need for attention was one of their biggest differences. But she understood where it came from, understood him. His wish for fame was a tough and twisty bit of scar-tissue on his soul.

"There's so much left to chance," she said. "Timing and connections, the right person in the right audience on the right night. That any of us get what we want is a miracle."

A light nod, as nearly imperceptible as his voice. "I still wanna try."

"Good." She wrapped her arms about him, lay her palm above his heart. "Miracles can't happen if we don't."

He grasped her hand. Kissed the back of it and kissed her wrist. "Not everyone makes it. To fifty, I mean. I might not have. I'm happy I did."

Smiling, Y/N grasped his jaw and tilted his head back. Bent over him to seal their mouths. "Me, too," she whispered. "Me, too."

~~~~~

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[lizacstuff]

7x02 Anons

I have a bunch of anon asks, many of which are a bit negative in tone, so I’m going to answer a smattering of them under the cut to protect those who don’t want to see it. 

Anonymous said:So wasn’t enough captain swan but i’ll take it!

There is never enough Captain Swan for me, but this is about what I was expecting. This episode wasn’t about Emma. This episode was about Henry and the new characters and stories. It was to give us closure and let us know how things happened while at the same time trying to entice us to the new stories. 

They are trying to move forward. I’m not really onboard, but I think it’s the right path if they want this to work. 

Anonymous said:I loved what we got. But??? Adam and Eddie were able to get Jennifer for just one more episode and they only gave her THREE SCENES? Why? We should and could have gotten much more. I can’t believe they didn’t give us a scene of CS in their house with their little one. Or at least setting up a nusery with Emma showing a tad more. Something!

See what I wrote above, this wasn’t about them it’s about Henry. Killian and Emma appeared in order to serve Henry’s story.  I get that you (and I) would have preferred if it was the Captain Swan hour, but except for the CS Movie we’ve never gotten that. We’ve always been given big (awesome) pieces and then had to fill in the details ourselves. This show is always plot, plot, plot. It’s never character, character, character. So this was no different than what has always happened.

And, hey, maybe they didn’t want to flash forward 7 months and show us Hook and Emma with the baby in case they want to use it in a series finale or something. You never know. in the meantime we have our imaginations and a very creative fandom.

Anonymous said:Yes, what we got was wonderful. But how stupid of Adam and Eddy not to use the full potential of having Jen back for an episode? It’s a waste! She got like 5 minutes total! And I will be forever gutted, and bitter, that we didn’t get to see CS find out they were pregnant. And I’m especially upset they didn’t show they in SB or at home with their baby. They could have given that to the audience if they’d bothered to utilise Jen fully for the one time they have her back.

You’re a real glass half empty kind of girl, aren’t you? 

Honestly, for something that you’ve invested this much time in, isn’t it easier and more fulfilling to be happy with the “wonderful” that we did get, instead of bitter about what we didn’t? It’s your choice, but to me it seems like an easy one. 

Anonymous said:Looks like A&E lied yet again ….. they said that Emma was in “ ALOT “ Of this episode …… I guess they count mentioning her name 50 times and giving her 2 scenes 🙄

While what we got was just about exactly what I expected, yes, Adam stretched the truth once again.  Oh Adam, you and Eddy and your semantics do make it easier to quit you.

Anonymous said:I’m glad that cs got their HE, but really? Wish hook? And with a daughter? I wanted to see Emma and Killian’s baby not a random girl

Then this reboot is probably not for you. That’s okay. Lots of TV shows are not for me.  I’m pretty sure many of us would have preferred to see a show about Emma and Kilian’s baby, but JMo isn’t on the show anymore.  Emma is no longer the protagonist and would you really want to see a CS baby without Emma? Would you really risk Captain Swan in order to have some random storyline on this mess of a S7?

I’m flabbergasted that anyone would care enough about S7 to want them to jeopardize Captain Swan.  

I’m good with them riding back into the Storybrooke sunset together and off of this show altogether. 

Anonymous said:It’s me or even the quality of the editing is getting worse? The script it was is it, but even now with how fast the scenes goes from one to another and how bad are some of the new actors it’s like everything get worse

Hmmm… I didn’t notice the editing. I think you may be reacting to the overall pacing, they are still all plot, plot, plot and try to cram too much into every episode. 

As far as the actors, I thought Gabrielle Anwar was the least of the issues in the first ep, but in this one… oh my.  As @counttotwenty said to me, she should be twirling a mustache with every word she utters and @doddplaza compared her to Snidely Whiplash.  It’s so broad and cartoonish that it’s bad. Both the writing for her and the acting. 

Anonymous said:I think the audience will be really grossed out at this other Hook having another love interest. Sure it’s not THE Hook, but it’s the same actor and he looks exactly like the other one, it’s going to be extremely hard to dissociate him from the real one. There’s no way I’ll be watching any of that. And Colin is going to be excited about it and yeah, I have no time for that. I hope it gets canceled before we reach that part or Colin has the chance to hyperventilate about it on twitter.

Whoa, whoa, whoa. First off when has Colin ever hyperventilated on twitter? Other than using a few too many exclamation points he’s incredibly low-key and usually just retweets stuff. He was on the promotion train for S7 during the cons this summer because its his job. It’s a requirement. Cut him some slack. 

As for the love interesting, I agree.  I think putting Colin on screen with any other woman this season would be a huge mistake. Even though he’s a totally different character (a fake person really) I don’t think the audience is ready. However… do A&E know that? I don’t know. 

What I do know is I won’t watch a second of it, so if it happens it doesn’t matter to me.  

Anonymous said:I am 100 percent thankful they didn’t muck up captain swan but I feel like the undercut Killian becoming a dad for the first time by making wish world Hook a dad already. Also I thought Adam and Eddy said wish world was not real? How does WWH know Tremaine etc ? This show is a hot mess

Hmmm… WishHook must have found a way to leave the WishRealm and ran into Tremaine? No idea. I’m certain they are going to be fifty-eleven-thousand plot holes in this thing.  

Here’s the thing.. do I think it’s stupid? Hell yes. But I don’t think they should have done any of this AT ALL. It was too soon for a reboot and they shouldn’t have drug characters from the original into it.  However, that train has left the station so I’m just left feeling gratified that they found a way to not ruin Captain Swan or Killian Jones. So… while I think the WishHook thing is stupid and does not remotely match up with what we were lead to believe that WishReal was (a twisted up EQ/Genie version that was all fake) I’m not gonna put up a fight like I care. Because when it comes to this show I only care about Captain Swan. 

Anonymous said:I’m so happy emma and hook are happy but it makes me sick that Rogers is going to go off with some other woman and we are probably going to see their kid. I won’t even be watching but… I thought I’d be over the moon about Emma and hook and I am, honestly I am, but I feel like my emotions are all over the place and I can’t seem to get past my feelings about seeing Rogers with another woman. I don’t know. Sorry to both you I just dot have anyone to talk to and I’m crying a lot so.

Honey, I don’t think there is any reason to be this upset.  WishHook and Killian are different people. They are not the same and no one is forcing you to watch WishHook do anything. Let the show go, don’t let it ruin Captain Swan for you. They’ve done this to preserve Captain Swan, so take it at face value. Nothing they do in S7 matters. Seriously. 

Anonymous said:I still think it’s ridiculous this show even had another season without so many main characters, but hats off to the writers for what they came up to keep CS intact. I feel like a very lucky CSer right now because this could have been a total disaster and they managed to keep CS, Emma and Killian untouched. I’m not here to see any version of Hook/Colin acting romantically with other women (yuck) so I’m out from now on, but I’m at peace with where they left CS. THANK GOD

Agreed on all of it. 

Anonymous said:this was an emotional curtain call? god they really become terrible writers

I have to say that might be one of the lesser Jane episodes.  I mean there were some things that were deftly done, like having Hook and Emma able to go home, but not have it appear they were abandoning Henry.  They threaded the needle on that pretty well, but some stuff was so heavy handed.

I can NOT believe for Shoe Believer that they had two people observe “Are you in love with her?” after observing Henry doing nothing for two seconds. 

Really?

That’s how unsubtle things are going to be from here on out? That line twice in the second episode before the audience has even gotten to know these characters? For really no reason? Wowza.  Talk about trying to force a ship. That was bad. 

Victoria Belfrey’s and Lady Tremaine’s writing was ridiculous. It is so broad and over the top, but as @counttotwenty said to me this morning, the show is taking itself so seriously.  

(And again, Colin, the best OUAT scripts you ever read? Oh honey. That observation is not holding up) 

Anonymous said:I’m seeing Hooked Queen gifs now. Really hoping A & E don’t go down that route! Or that the child is theirs. The horror!!!! Don’t think I could bare it. But in terms of CS I think that’s the best we’re going to get and I’m happy Emma gets a second chance (an addition not a replacement) like Snow did. Just imagine the cute adventures this little pirate will have with those two as parents :)

Okay the idea of Hooked Queen makes me want to vomit, so please don’t send me asks about it. I’ll ignore them or possibly block you. Seriously. It doesn’t mean I think it will happen, it just means I don’t even want to think about it.   However, I do want to address your speculation that the child could be theirs. Come on. You don’t think there would have been a flicker of recognition when they just teamed up this episode with WishHook talking about finding his daughter.  I can’t remember how the WishAU disposed of Regina, but I think we can rest easy on that she’s not the mother. Good grief. 

Anonymous said:that know it all anon of yours from earlier certainly has egg on their face now.

She never came back to apologize for telling people who believed that was not our Hook in the sneak peek to use logic!  

I never come after anyone just because their spec is wrong, but don’t come into my ibox and insult others who have different and (ultimately correct) speculation. It’s rude.  

Anonymous said:The way they’ve set this up though - they’re kinda asking Emma and Hook fans to leave, when they need to desperately keep as many viewers as they can. Because if Rogers was the real Hook and he’s obviously not with Emma and his real child, people would still be invested in him as the character they’ve always known. But now, all those fans can literally leave and not miss anything! Colin is great and all but they’re selling people a whole new character and now that’s another strike against S7.

Thank GOD they didn’t do this. I know it would have been better for investment of fans, but the idea of Killian and Emma separated  when we know JMo will never appear again to wrap it up?  That sound fucking awful. 

So, yes, they are risking fans  of CS leaving after getting the happily ever after confirmation, but if the show doesn’t stand on it’s own, it doesn’t stand. Every new show has to debut and find it’s audience, so does this one.  Honestly, I’m thrilled they’re not risking destroying CS just for a few more eyeballs.  They have a bit of integrity left. 

 Anonymous said:I wonder how pissed the shippers are that Emma and Queen Queen didn’t speak or touch? Or that Jen and Lana didn’t even film together?

I’m guessing they are not happy. But they are so upset about the CS child and *gasp* adult Henry trying to woo a lady without both his Mommies there to change his diapers I’m not sure how much they have focused on the lackluster goodbye.  

Like Lana and JMo, Emma and Regina aren’t really friends. They are frenemies who are related and know they have to get along for the sake of Henry and Snow and sometimes team up to prevent evil. Period. 

Anonymous said:Im with you Liza. I cared only that CS got their happy ending and ended in a safe place. Henry is part of that but I can assume he’ll make it back home someday just fine. Hes an adult who makes his own decisions. Im actually grateful to A&E. They gave me an exit strategy from OUAT. I get to take it knowing my beloved characters are in a beautiful safe place. I cant ask for more w/ JMo’s exit. I hope we might get a peek into their lives in a series finale but if this was it, Im ok. Im happy too.

Me too! I hope in the series finale we get a peak into their lives. Time will tell!  

Anonymous said:I couldn’t agree with you more. CS is happy and alive and together and pregnant. As far as I’m concerned nothing else happened on the show. I can walk away happy and live in fanfic and Colin/Jen cons.

Long live the fandom! 

There are all sorts of Storybrooke important questions to explore, for instance do Killian and David go out sailing? Have Snowing had more children? Who’s the big spoon… Killian or Emma? 

Anonymous said:A strange episode but a good one for me! I was looking for peace after JMo said she was leaving. The reason I cont w/ OUAT was b/c of CS alone. They got their happy ending. Shes w/ her parents, husband & kid, and her adult son is living his life away from the nest as all children do. I can watch the first six seasons in good faith, finish w/ 7.02 and let the rest go. It a blessing of a goodbye to OUAT for me as I was always done after tonight. The true Killian and Emma are happy and so I am too.

It was a strange episode, I don’t see me really ever rewatching it, but Killian and Emma going through that portal is all that matters. I’ll enjoy the gifs of their scenes for a long time to come.

[gosatsuvns]

SHINRAI Anniversary Update

Today marks the 4th anniversary of SHINRAI's release and, in celebration of that, we've just released a little update for it!

Although no new major content (such as additional scenes or diary entries) has been added, this update applies a number of tweaks and changes to the game, which will definitely provide a better experience. From simple bugfixes and typo eradication to the addition of new music tracks, as well as a much desired checkpoint system for the final chapter.

But let's have a closer look at the changelog, shall we?

General Fixes: As mentioned above, a number of minor issues such as typos, bugs and visual errors have been fixed (like Henjin's arm being cut off on his profile page or the characters' legs being hidden behind the black bar on their intro cards).

GUI Adjustments: The textbox design has been updated to better fit with the rest of the GUI.

Sound Adjustments: With the help of our new composer, Solo Acapello, we've tackled a number of sound-related issues. BGM/SFX loops are now seamless, the volume for various sounds has been adjusted, and some have even been redone.

Music Addition: Since some players found the occasional (rather long) stretches of silence to be awkward, new ambience and music tracks have been added to fill the auditory void. In total, there are four new BGMs, one of them being a variation of an already existing track, whereas the other three are completely original compositions*.

Notebook Update: The text size for the notebook content has been slightly increased (yes, it was even smaller before). As a result, all "Diary", "Trivia" and "Clues & Evidence" entries, as well as all character profiles have been revised. In some instances, new tidbits of information have been added, along with references to our new projects. Since some players have gotten confused by it, the "DD/MM/YYYY"-format for D.O.B. information has been changed, as well.

Script Changes: A bunch of dialogues and narration segments have been revised for better readability and structure, as well as to make them more concise and thus improve the pacing a little. Some parts have even been rewritten, while others were elaborated on. This mostly affects the first two chapters and the game's extra content.

Checkpoint System: If you pick the wrong culprit and end up getting a bad end, you will now get a choice between going to the title screen, or returning to an automatic checkpoint that will let you try again. Thus, players who don't save often or overwrite their save files a lot will not run the risk of locking themselves into a bad end anymore.

Code Cleanup: Natsu has taken the time to optimize the game's script, getting rid of thousands of unnecessary lines of code. Honestly, this is something that you, as a player, won't notice. Nevertheless, it makes us feel pretty good!

*(If you've bought the OST on Steam, they've been added to it through an update. Itch users will have to download the new zip.)

There are a number of reasons as to why we've decided to update SHINRAI now, four years after its release. Some of the changes are tied to something we can't quite divulge yet, but it will be unveiled within the next two months.

What I can already tell you, however, is that this was also done in preparation for our next two projects: GENBA no Kizuna and SHINRAI - Withering Without Hope.

As some of you may know, SHINRAI was originally written as a short novel in 2011, never intended to be a VN until 2013. So it's actually been nine years since its initial conception, and ideas for a sequel have been gathered ever since.

Naturally, these ideas have greatly evolved over time, especially during these past four years, while we've been busily working on GENBA and WWH. Thus, I wanted to take the opportunity to update SHINRAI with these developments in mind.

There is also the fact that, back in 2016, when I decided to add some extra content to the game, hinting towards the sequel, it was done pretty much last minute. As a result, it ended up being a little rushed, which is probably why we've found most of the typos in there. Some minor things also didn't quite make a lot of sense, so I wanted to fix that as well.

If you've already beaten the game, there may not be enough new stuff here for another full playthrough, but you might at least want to check some of the extra content again, particularly Kamen's secret diary entry. She now elaborates more on her feelings towards a certain someone, which will naturally play a big part in the sequel.

So, how is development going on our next project anyway, you may wonder...?

Well, we've made some major progress on GENBA this year, which is still scheduled to be released first. Although it chronologically takes place 'before' SHINRAI, it further sets up WWH by introducing characters, themes, relationships and important plot points.

As of right now, I don't want to make any promises. I can tell you for sure that it won't be out this year, but we have a release date for it in mind, which we'd really like to meet. So keep your eyes peeled for more information towards the end of the year, I guess!

I will talk more about this update, the BBD changes, GENBA's and WWH's development, as well as our plans for the upcoming months in our next weekly blog post. However, before this one gets any longer, I should better wrap it up.

We know that a lot of you guys are eagerly awaiting our next projects and we're really sorry for the long wait. Which is why we appreciate your patience and continued support all the more! Believe me, no one wants to finish these games more than we do!

It's been four years now, and we still receive messages of new and old players on a regular basis, telling us how much they enjoyed our little murder mystery and that they're looking forward to what's next. However, even though we'd love to release something ASAP, we also don't want to disappoint you. So, while it is taking quite some time, please rest assured that we keep working as hard as we can to deliver something that will live up to your expectations!

We're sincerely grateful for all the positive feedback and reviews, the kind comments and messages, and the exorbitant amounts of motivation your support has supplied us with over these past four years!

As developers, we couldn't ask for more!

[fleckcmscott]

Awake

Summary: It's one of those rare mornings in which Y/N stirs before Arthur. She reflects on sharing life (and a bed) with him.

Warnings: Smut, Swearing

Words: 3,524

A/N: This is a request from @jokerownsmysoul​, who is very dear and extremely generous. Thank you for sending this to me! It was interesting and I enjoyed writing it!

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!

The continuous battering of rain on the metal air conditioner resounded through the room. Arthur had put it in the window by the closet rather than the windows behind their bed, but it was loud enough to disrupt Y/N's sleep, anyway. She welcomed it, though. Summer in the city was often harder than it had been back home. The asphalt amplified the heat, and Gotham's mix of skyscrapers, office buildings, and apartment complexes prevented any cool breeze from blowing through at ground level.

Her clammy commutes had resulted in curled papers in her canvas bag, curled tips of her hair, and her polyester office wear making her sweat, sweat, sweat. She was sure that pattern would continue today - it was unlikely the ventilation on the H train had been repaired. Lying there, she wanted the sky to open. For a downpour to cut through the humidity. For a thunderstorm to sweep in, in the way that had scared and exhilarated her as a little girl.

Dim, silvery light spilled past the edges of the shades. It was early. She might be able to nab another hour of shuteye. She stretched and mewled. Rolled onto her right side. Tucked her folded hands beneath the blanket.

But the drawn-out, low rattle of Arthur's snoring prodded her whenever she was about to nod off.

Opening one eye, she peeked at him. Then she quietly reached and rolled up both shades to get a better look. Brown waves tumbled over his pillow, the same one he'd brought with him from 8J. His left arm lay on the mattress, his right resting across his stomach. While his torso was half-supine, his waist faced her. The cover had fallen to his thighs, and a foot stuck out from beneath the sheets, toes flexing along with his breathing. Nestling closer, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear.

It had been four months since they'd boarded the subway together, his few belongings in tow, to set out towards whatever may lie ahead. They'd only lived three stations apart, but her glee had climbed with each stop. Unable to contain herself, she'd pecked Arthur's apprehensive face whenever their eyes met. Until he'd snorted, pulled her tight against him, and murmured an unnecessary, "Thanks."

Sitting, she let her eyes roam the room. While they were still getting used to each other's habits and compromising when necessary, it struck her how easy it had been to allow him into her place. And now it was their place.

Unlike in his old apartment, there were hints of him everywhere. His blue house pants were draped on the chair in the corner. The watch she'd surprised him with - but he didn't wear - sat on the bureau, amongst her jewelry box, his wallet, and a prescription. With a muted chuckle, she recalled the bottle of lubricant she'd put in the drawer of her nightstand, used when her body wouldn't match the arousal of her brain or they were in a hurry.

She hadn't yet gotten over waking up to him every day, having him be a part of her routine. Coffee was always ready when she shuffled into the kitchen, their mugs side-by-side in front of the machine. Arthur would kiss her unhurriedly, and she usually didn't mind the smokiness of his breath.

When he was in good spirits (which, from what she could gather, was about seventy-three percent of the time), a shy smile would show off his chipped front tooth. He'd jut his hip against the counter while they discussed their day. Or current events. Or a favorite film or show. The little things. The big things. Everything in between. Now and then he'd whip out a joke and make her giggle or groan, in delight and in love.

Before Arthur and she had met, it had been ages since she'd last shared a bed with someone. And even longer since she'd enjoyed it. There had been her ex-husband, Jeff, for over nine years. It had been fun at the beginning. New. Exciting. Even with her lurking suspicion that marrying him had been a mistake, she'd thought she might have found a role that would make her happy. Allow her to fit into the small town she'd been raised in.

The dissolution of their marriage hadn't been all his fault. Sure, he'd been too serious, but he'd introduced her to the legal field and supported her decision to go to school. Had helped shape who she was. And he'd tried. But he wasn't a mind reader.

She'd been too young and insecure to tell him she didn't have the energy to make breakfast and dinner, not on top of a full class load and work. Yes, she did mind him talking to clients whenever they ate. No, she didn't just want to be Jeff Thompson's wife; she wanted to be Y/N Thompson. His but also herself. The last morning they'd spent together had been the first time they'd communicated in years.

Harry had been a nice guy, she'd believed. Nice enough to be involved with for twenty-two months. One day he'd told her he needed to find someone he could start a family with. Y/N had been hurt. And pissed. They hadn't discussed having children; she knew better than to out herself as a woman who had no interest in motherhood. It had made her wonder, though, what it was about her that was objectionable.

And then there was four years ago. Leonard had been a pipefitter who'd done some repairs at her office. She'd been working twenty hours a week, trying to stay sane when she wasn't housekeeping for, bathing, or attempting to ground her father. Leonard had been attractive. Polite. Had slipped her two copies of his business card, one for the boss and one for her. Desperation to have a conversation that wasn't comprised of confused sentences, episodic accusations, or mentions of bowels had compelled her to call him.

They'd been lying in bed when he'd said, "This isn't working."

Signs it wasn't going to last had emerged, but she'd tried to ignore them. After she'd disclosed her dreams of getting out of Boonville, after their first few dates, they'd rarely talked. Her drive to pursue her own hobbies had died as her responsibilities had increased, and she couldn't pretend to be interested in the sports he liked. Sex was the only thing they liked doing together. And it was just to feel something that wasn't awful, not to connect.

"I know," she'd replied. "I'm sorry. I'm not the best version of myself at the moment."

"Don't be too hard on yourself." He'd stood to pull on his jeans. "You're a nice woman, Y/N. I hope you make it to Metropolis or Gotham or wherever." She'd seen him to the front porch, where'd they'd shaken hands. When she'd finally left town, she'd given him some of her appliances for his shop's break room.

Arthur's mumbles broke her out of her reverie as he turned towards her. The tension he regularly carried was gone, his handsome features relaxed. She decided to believe he was at peace. Long eyelashes rested on his sculpted cheekbones. The temptation of his parted lips, mere inches away. The earthy hint of his perspiration wafted to her nostrils, and she smiled at the arousal blooming in her belly.

His lack of awareness of the power he had over her was amusing, though she expected him to figure it out eventually. They had sex a couple times a week, often more. He was an eager late bloomer, and she enjoyed being with him just as thoroughly. He valued the intimacy of the act as much as getting off.

Their lovemaking was simple, their explorations incremental - given his past, it was vital to respect his boundaries. But he was becoming more comfortable asking questions. Discovering what he preferred, as well as what he disliked. Telling her what he needed.

Or the things he longed to do to her.

A shaky exhale left her at the recollection, and she placed a kiss to the scar above his mouth. Her palm drifted down the column of his neck to his chest, and further still to his abdomen, her fingertips following the sparse strip of hair leading to his briefs. When she reached for his hip, her forearm bumped against his semi-hard "morning wood," a phrase that had always made her laugh.

Running her nails along his thigh, she admired the smattering of freckles and his firm muscles. For such a lanky man, his strength was impressive. It must have stemmed from running around Gotham all his life. And the dancing with which he so beautifully expressed himself, whether anxious, upset, or happy.

With a groan, he shifted onto his left side, dark brows pinched. Conscientiousness interrupted her desire and she halted. His insomnia had improved, he'd said. It was rare for him to go four or five days without sleep (though he intermittently did for one or two).

But he had had back-to-back jobs yesterday. He'd stayed in his writing nook until after she'd gone to bed, the mattress having dipped under his weight shortly past twelve. And he had an open-mic night coming up. Letting him rest would be the kind thing to do. It would also give her the chance to make breakfast and coffee for him for a change. Once she pressed a kiss to his cheek, she started to rise.

A loose grasp on her wrist. "Where are you going?" he asked, words husky with fatigue.

She twisted to meet his gaze but found his eyes were shut. "I was going to get you something to eat."

"That's sweet." Yawning, he stretched, then brought her closer until she was tucked into his side. "Stay." It was as much a request as a demand, Y/N knew, and she acquiesced with a grin. She buried her nose in his disheveled hair, breathed him in, relished the lazy drag of his fingers up her back.

The rain outside had reduced to a soothing patter, and she thought he would drift off. But his stroking continued. His grasp went to her leg, and she let him guide her to settle on top of him. "I dreamed something," he said. "It's hard to remember."

At the spark of their centers coming into contact she shivered. Not wanting him to think she wasn't listening, she forced herself to remain stationary. The feverishness of his smooth skin didn't make that easy. She caressed his sideburns. "Tell me what you can."

As he focused on the ceiling, eyelids heavy with sleep, he brought his hands to rest above his head on the pillow. "My ribs hurt - I must have been laughing. And it smelled like the bus." He glanced at her as he spoke. "But then I was here on our fire escape. Throwing my cards into the street. The ones that explain my condition. And then a woman was trying to get my jacket off." His lips curved, giving her a playful look. "I couldn't see or hear her, but she must have been you. She wouldn't stop touching me."

While he'd never disclosed the details, Y/N knew he suffered from nightmares. That hadn't been a shock. The child protective filings at her old job had described them as a common symptom of PTSD, which she assumed Arthur had. Every so often, he'd startle awake, hard enough to stir her. When that happened, he'd normally dismiss her attempts to draw him close, choosing to leave the room. Occasionally, he'd let her hold him until his breathing had steadied. Tell him she loved him. That he was safe.

A halfway enjoyable dream? That was a consolation. Propping her chin on the heel of her hand, she returned his pleased countenance. And the longer she gazed at him, the more acutely aware she became of the hard plains of his body pressed into her curves. "That sounds nice," she said. Amorousness buzzed in the air, despite her earlier effort to behave, and she played with the brown tuft under his arm, traced the hair circling the disc of his nipple.

The pad of his thumb swiped along her lips, and she opened her mouth around it for a kiss. "It was." The bob of his Adam's apple betrayed the fervor growing in him. As did the strain of his hard-on at her vulva. His eyes sparkled with mischief as she lightly rubbed herself against him. Slick pooled in her core at the friction, dampening her underwear. Pressure built quickly, with each groping kiss and graze of his fingers on her flank. The unrushed rolls of their hips continued until their breaths were ragged and she thought she would shatter.

She pushed herself to her knees, yanked at her panties while he reached to help. "You just woke up," he said in drowsy astonishment. "How are you this wet already?"

Continuing to straddle him, she sat and took hold of the hem of her short nightgown. "I'm in bed with you." The cotton going over her head muffled her words. "It's not a challenge." The offending piece of fabric was tossed to the floor. "Besides, doing that to me is an old habit of yours."

He cupped the dip of her waist. "Is it?" Even in the gray, morning light, his blush was prominent.

"Every time we talked on the phone. Your voice is such a turn-on." She folded down the elastic of his underwear, sighed at the slight bounce of his erection as he lifted his pelvis to permit the briefs' removal. "Everything about you is a turn on. It's a wonder I get anything done."

Arching into her labia, he groaned. "You're always so horny."

She appreciated his attempt at matching her forwardness and regarded him with a smirk. "You should fuck me, then," she teased, placing her hands on her hips to better display her breasts. Then she giggled at herself for trying to pretend she was seductive. When she'd done that in the past, success had never been more than middling. But with Arthur it was all right. No matter how ridiculous she felt, how silly the sentences spilling out of her were, he loved them. Especially when she made him laugh.

Like now. Though flustered, his hitched laughter was genuine and joyous. Different from the one he'd described in his dream, the one that still happened at inappropriate times (albeit less frequently). He appeared to like the role of object of desire. Of her significant other. Of her beloved. And though he'd told her he preferred being on top, claiming it was harder for him to "screw up," his hungry regard let her know he was fine with relinquishing some control today.

The repeated bumping of the ridge of his cock against her sensitive bud was bringing her nearer and nearer to her peak. Especially when his touch skimmed past her ribs to knead her swaying breasts, his thumbs swirling around her areolas. Her nipples puckered until they ached. Bending up, he took one into his mouth, and she writhed harder, whining and cradling his head while trying to support herself.

Her release was approaching, only a few seconds away. She scooted further back to kneel above him. Their hands collided when they both reached between their legs. Steadying herself on the mattress, she held herself open. The concentrated expression he wore revealed his impatience to enter her, but after two or three tries she had to take hold of him. Lowering herself, her pace careful, gentle, she let out a short moan at the delicious pressure of him breaching her.

"Ow, wait." His grip on her was sudden.

She braced herself on his chest. "Are you all right?"

Nodding sharply, he steered her a bit to the left. "That's better." He craned his neck, closing his eyes and smiling softly as he brought her down onto him, sheathing himself completely. "I love how you feel," he breathed.

She wriggled slightly, trying find the sweet spot that would result in rapture instead of discomfort. This was always trickier than she remembered. Grasping his shoulders, she propped herself on her forearms on either side of him and leaned forward. "I love how you fill me," she replied, clenching around his shaft.

Neither moved at first, choosing instead to bask in the sheer pleasure of the other. She ran her hands along his biceps, squeezed the toned sinews. Took in how the light played across his pale complexion and the hollows of his frame. "Arthur, you're beautiful."

He hiccuped on a chuckle, raising his hips, and she felt the blunt tip of him brush her cervix. "I think you're getting me mixed up with you."

His patch of coarse curls tickled her swollen nub, and she was consumed by the need to move. She wanted to find a good rhythm. One that wouldn't have him slip out of her. She gyrated her pelvis in a small circle, starting off leisurely, low grunts and groans escaping both of them.

Then her clit hit his pubic bone at just the right angle and she jolted.

Pulling her down to him, he melded their mouths as he rocked upwards. His supple lips were frantic, tongue twining with hers. One hand was gripping her shoulder, the fingers of the other digging her thigh as his movements quickened. Hooking his ankle around her calf, his other leg hit her ass as he bent it at the knee. "Fuck me," he rasped by her ear. "Fuck me. Please, Y/N, fuck..."

No man had ever begged her to fuck him before. It wasn't something they normally said, from her experience. But Arthur often took his cues from her. She had been his only partner, and she pleaded for him to fuck her - a lot. It wasn't the words that were surprising; it was the fire that shot through her in response.

She watched his brows draw together, the setting of his jaw as lust overcame his face. Lifting herself a few inches, she observed the rise and fall of Arthur's ribs with each shallow inhalation. How his lean abdominals bunched with every thrust.

Moaning, Y/N answered him by increasing her tempo. The smooth undulations of her hips fell away. Were replaced by a hurried up and down, up and down on the rigid heat of his cock. It was heady, as was the rising pitch of his whimpers.

With a harsh cry he surged into her, clutching her rear to keep her in place. She keened at the pulses of his erection within her walls. The splash of his release filling her. The racing of his heart, which she swore she could hear. His collarbones rose and fell with every gasp, his eyelids screwed shut.

Hurriedly, she slid her hand to her center and flicked her fingertip across her hood, feeling him soften inside her as she rutted against him and her own touch. His hand went to her back, encouraging her to continue. To take what she needed. To drive closer and closer to the precipice...

Her climax was swift. Not earth shattering but blissful all the same. It felt like relief instead of being winded. She smiled down at him, her eyes fluttering open to see the appealing flush on his neck and cheeks. Returning her amused look, he brought her down to him. Grinned against her mouth as she trembled, devouring her lips. Nuzzled at her and told her how happy she made him.

A tender warmth diffused from her center, flowing to her arms and legs. Feeling dreamy, she collapsed onto him, humming as she caught her breath. The muscles of her thighs were burning. And the ligaments in her knees were already sore. If this was going to become routine, she'd have to start doing squats or something. She pecked at his jaw. "You're the only man who's asked me to fuck him."

He gathered her hair, pushed it out of her face and kissed her forehead. "Was that weird?"

Giggling, she sighed contentedly and shrugged. "I liked it. And I'll do it anytime."

After a few moments, he smoothed his palm down her body and patted her bottom. She boosted herself on her elbow and kissed the bridge of his nose, then the wrinkles on his chin. "Are you still going to Amusement Mile? It wouldn't make sense with the rain. There likely won't be many people." She massaged his shoulder, caressed him with the back of her hand. "You should give yourself a break and relax."

After a thoughtful “hm,” he caught her fingers and kissed them. "I'll probably stay put. Can I call at lunch?"

How he managed to make her heart leap so easily, she'd never know. "I think I'd love that. Though you don’t have to ask." Cupping his cheeks, she bent to seal their lips, then began to extricate herself from his arms.

But he kept his hold on her. “One small thing,” he said, rubbing one eye. "I’d like raspberry toast with coffee."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @howdylilflower​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80​ @jokerownsmysoul​ @mrscarnival​

[fleckcmscott]

Pre-Show

Summary: It’s a big night for Arthur. Y/N helps him prepare.

Warnings: Swearing, Smut

Words: 3,387

A/N: Instead of this being a request, this was a scenario I came up with while writing The Find. My brain wouldn’t let go of it. (Though, funnily enough, @sweet-nothings04​ requested something similar a couple days ago!) I hope you guys enjoy!

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!

The mild, local fame Arthur had gotten after being on Live! with Murray Franklin had been a boost to his ego. And, if Y/N was being honest, confounding to her. She'd assumed he'd continue to be an object of ridicule, the way he had been since that terrible video of his first stand-up had become public. (The humiliation and anger that had radiated from him as they'd stood together in Penny's hospital room, and his withdrawal from her afterward, remained fresh in Y/N's mind.) But she had never been so happy to be wrong.

Only a couple of assholes had approached them on the street. Of the small number of people who said hello, most were neutral, simply amused at having run into a person they'd seen on television. A few were kind. As the months rolled on, the resulting increase in clubs letting him sign-up for sets offered opportunities to hone his craft. She was glad for him, delighted to see how those moments bolstered his self-confidence, helped him let out the instinctual elegance that was too often concealed by reservation.

Though she did have slight concerns. Many of his jokes were sweet, especially ones he directed towards her. But most were therapeutic, about matters closest to his heart. They helped him understand the world around him, in his own way. There was a tendency to treat Arthur like a novelty act, whereas he took his comedy seriously. Would that happen when he performed at amateur hour at the Smile Factory tomorrow night?

She didn't bring the possibility up to him. They'd been a pair long enough for him to know what she was pondering. And she never wanted him to think she didn't believe in him. She did, always. Wholeheartedly. Even if she didn’t always get his humor. And she would sit that audience, give him applause, and laugh at every punchline. Provide the attention he craved and support he coveted. Her love for him and his quirky shtick made that a pleasure to do.

Arthur's deep voice, occasionally halting, other times confident, drifted through the ajar bedroom door. She grinned, standing next to the couch while she ironed creases into his maroon trousers. It was routine for him to rehearse his timing in front of the vanity mirror. Try out his facial expressions to make sure he didn't look "too strange."

The first time she'd seen him do it, he'd blushed and turned away from her, lines tight on his face. But the awkwardness had dwindled as she'd explained she had to prepare for her job, too. That even with all her years of experience, she had to practice testifying if she was going to a big hearing. The effort he put into perfecting his routine meant he cared, and she admired his discipline.

When she heard him enter the living room some minutes later, she glanced over her shoulder. "All ready to break a leg tomorrow?"

"Or an ankle." She giggled at his retort and turned to give him his freshly pressed shirt. The green of his eyes glinted, meeting hers. "I can do this. I know how to handle an iron."

She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head. He'd gotten better at letting her take care of him, but she felt he did more than his fair share. "You know how to handle a lot of things." She wrapped her arms around his slender waist. "This is the first time you've headlined a show. Focus on your act. Besides." A peck to his chin. "We must be in the honeymoon phase, because I enjoy doing this for you. I loathed ironing my ex's ties."

His palm went to the small of her back, lips on the shell of her ear. "Don't honeymoons last a week?"

God, he smelled good. He hadn't smoked since getting out of the shower. She nuzzled the crook of his neck for more of his masculine, spicy scent. "It's been a year and a half..." Her fingers sneaked under the hem of his gray thermal shirt. The warmth of his skin went straight to her center. "And you still drive me crazy."

A muffled laugh as he stopped her caress of his belly. "Sorry, I can't cure you yet." Then he patted her bottom and headed towards his desk. "Something just came to me. If I figure it out, you'll hear it tomorrow."

~~~~~

The dressing room was quite small, maybe eight by eight feet. But Arthur didn't mind. It had everything he needed. Incandescent light from the corner floor lamp made the wall's brown paneling cozy instead of cheap. The metal table was sturdy, the mirror on it sufficient to make sure his hair was in place. If the worn, wooden chair had had arms, it would have been more comfortable. But he wasn't there to lounge, anyway. He was there to work.

Pogo's was still his favorite club to perform at. The people there knew him, were aware of his condition. Not having to constantly explain it was a relief. They seemed to like him better, too, now that he ordered more than tap water. True, he hadn't been able to get paying gigs (though he had been allowed to split the covers on a Tuesday or Thursday night now and then). If he kept refining his material, however, he was certain he'd get there.

Skepticism had been his first response to the call from the Smile Factory. Having not slept well for nearly a week, he'd suspected it was either his imaginings or an elaborate prank at his expense. He'd waved Y/N over and they'd listened to the phone together. Yes, she confirmed. They really had gotten his contact information from Pogo's. A manager had gone to open-mic night and recognized him from Murray Franklin. An amateur block was a couple weeks away, and they wanted him to open it. They liked his oddball factor. They'd even stick his name on the chalkboard sign on the sidewalk.

Arthur had accepted the invitation quickly. It had taken a few seconds for him to put the phone in its cradle. Then he laughed in excitement and held Y/N so tightly he nearly spun her around the kitchen. She'd been happy. But her need to protect him was clear in her posture. He'd tried to put a stop to that quickly. "I want this. People are noticing me. I can't wait for my big break forever."

"You're right," she'd said, nodding. He'd run the back of his fingers over her cheek, her pretty gaze glittering at him. "I can't wait to hear whatever you come up with."

Her words echoed as he read his notebook. Opening a show was new for him. He'd picked out what he thought were his best jokes. A mix of ones which had gotten rare guffaws from audiences, and ones Y/N said she loved. There were new quips, too. He'd done everything he could think of to prepare. But stage fright roamed as deep as his bones.

Nervousness happened prior to every performance. Arthur had habits to deal with it. He'd scribble in his journal, draw winding circles over and over, sometimes until his pen gave out. He'd worry its pages while re-reading his material. (His memorization had gotten better, but he still needed the book for support.) The breathing exercises, in through the nose, holding, then out through the mouth, relieved some of his laughter and his anxiety. Visualizing success was supposed to help. So, as he sat waiting, smoking and sipping seltzer, he attempted to see himself with his arms out and the crowd cheering.

The knock at the door gave him a slight startle, broke him out of his fantasy. He checked the wall clock. He was scheduled to go on in twenty minutes. The emcee likely wanted to check-in and ensure Arthur would be ready on time, let him know how packed the place was. Better to prevent any hitches. "Come in."

Not even his anxiousness could stop his toothy smile upon seeing Y/N enter the room. She didn't usually visit him backstage, not wanting to interrupt him. But he was happy she'd chosen to tonight. "Hey," he said, turning in his chair. "I tried to pick a good table for you." He appreciated her feminine silhouette, the contours of her breasts accentuated by her collared, lilac sweater. Curves shapely in the A-line, pleated skirt she wore, ending just below her knees. Her black kitten heels. She must have come straight from work.

After a pause she stepped forward. "Patricia's guarding our drinks." He averted his eyes, made a soft sound, and studied the back of her hand as he grasped it. She'd brought her friend to his sets once or twice. The first time he’d spotted them, he'd frozen for a split second. Would her faith in him, enough to invite someone along, always be staggering? It was one of the many kindnesses that confirmed how important he was to her, that filled him with gladness.

She kissed the spot between his brows. "I had to tell the emcee I was Mrs. Fleck before he'd say where their big star was."

Outside of his flights of fancy, he'd never truly thought of himself as a “big star.” Or a “big deal.” Or a big “stand-up.” But he’d hoped for all three, aspired to fulfill his purpose in life. To make people laugh, even on days he himself couldn't. And if Y/N said it, it must be true. At least tonight.

Yet, just when the corner of his lips quirked, his back tightened against unexpected pressure forming in his torso. This was an important night. Whoever walked past the club's sign could see Arthur Fleck would be performing. Sure, he was getting more at ease in the spotlight, cackling only sporadically instead of every time he got started. But he knew there was a chance he'd screw up. Maybe he'd never get to do another set. Maybe he wouldn't even be permitted to come in and make notes. Maybe they'd decide he wasn't funny.

He winced at the negative stream of thought. That wouldn't do any good, especially not now - he was about to make a debut. Scoffing, he took a drag off his cigarette, stamped it out in the ashtray on the metal table, and rested his cheek on the heel of his palm.

Y/N's gentle touch drifted to his shoulders and his eyelids shut. He let her guide him to rest against the back of the chair. "Let me unwind you," she purred. The tips of her nimble fingers kneaded him. The circular motions in the notches above his collarbones ached at first, but started to tingle as he felt his muscles loosen. "Did you figure out that new joke last night?"

"Yeah," he breathed. "I changed my opening." The press of her thumbs to either side of his spine released a knot he hadn't been aware of and he groaned. "'Hello. It's good to be here. Thank you for the invitation.'" His gaze caught hers in the mirror. Combined with her massage, her prettiness made it hard to recall what he'd written. "'When I was younger, I never wanted to go running. I was afraid I'd run out of money.'"

Shivers went through him at the glide of her hands on the nape of his neck. "That's a good start." She moved to stand in front of him and his legs fell open. "You're going to be great. But-" she bent to fasten their mouths together. "You still seem to have some jitters." Her palms smoothed down his chest and he twitched, huffing as she knelt before him. "I think I can help."

It took a moment for him to process what she was doing. He gulped, watching her crumple the bottom of his vest and untuck his shirt. As her fingertips went to his fly, he grabbed her wrist, stiffening and snorting awkwardly. "Y/N." He tried to straighten but was halted by damp kisses to his stomach. "They're going to come get me any minute. I-"

"This won't take long." Mischief twinkled in her eyes. "And I locked the door."

This was entirely inappropriate. He should be telling her to get off the floor. To stop groping at him. To save it for their bed, their sofa, wherever. They were in public; this was something private. Her volume would definitely give them away. But the slight pressure of her unzipping his pants and his growing erection made him squint and roll his pelvis forward. In seconds he was lifting his hips to help her lower his trousers and briefs to his calves.

Her look was eager as she gripped his hard-on, her pink tongue peeking out as she smiled at him. The first lick along his length, the first sweep over the dark red tip of his shaft drove him to clutch his seat. The warm, wet contact caused his breath to shudder. Her lips enclosed him wickedly, and he had to stifle a moan at the sight of her working him. Of her taking him in almost entirely. At the determined expression she had while she sought to bring him off.

Mouth falling open, he tilted his head back, the pace of his thrusts increasing. She was alternating between enthusiastic laving and ardent sucks on the head. It was a struggle to control himself, and he bucked up, digging his fingers into her scalp. She whined around him, gripped his thigh, ran her nails through the hair on it the way she knew sent electricity through him. The tightening of his abdomen increased with her every stroke. He was so close...

Then a pounding at the door. "Ten minute warning!"

"Shit," Arthur gasped. He grasped her arm to pull her up. She started to fall into him but caught herself on his shoulders and straddled his lap. Absorbed with the urgency to be inside her, he hurriedly lifted her skirt to pull her panties away. What he discovered caused him to blink at her in surprise instead. "Where's your underwear?"

With a grin, she steadied herself and reached to press him to her slick folds. "In my bra," she breathed, sinking onto him. When her hips were flush with his, his groan matched her whimper. "I knew they'd just be a nuisance." She raked her hands through his locks and kissed him, hard. "I've been horny all day." She ground herself on his public bone and inhaled sharply.

The embrace he returned was fierce, fingers splayed on her back. She adjusted the angle of her body, allowed him to enter her more deeply, until he was completely embedded. The hot, tight slide of her walls went straight to his brain. His eyes darted from where they were joined to her face.

Her brows were drawn together, cheeks pink, lips parted as her undulations quickened. The beauty she held when she lost herself like this could rival that on the cover of any check-out magazine. Grunting, he braced his feet on the floor for leverage and bucked up into her. As he brushed his thumb against her swollen clit, she let out a short wail. He squeezed her thigh, chuckling. "Shh..."

"Sorry," she whispered. She smiled, the cadence of her ruts quickening. "You just-" Another short moan. "You feel amazing."

He nuzzled at her temple. "Y/N..." Her mouth opened against his and his tongue plunged into it. There was a hint of the cocktail she must have ordered before visiting, as well as his own musk. Normally, he didn't find the latter pleasant. But he found her so seductive, riding him like she was, he couldn't bring himself to care.

The rising pitch of her whimpers betrayed how close she was to going over the edge. Faster and faster, he skimmed her sensitive nub, her limbs rigged and trembling. As her pulses began to clutch his cock, he angled their kiss to swallow her strangled cry. She clung to him, holding herself upright, fisting his waistcoat and shuddering.

Somehow, she kept moving.

He was trying to catch his breath, to concentrate on keeping quiet, knowing there were people just outside the door. But the delicious friction was overwhelming, the clench of her threatening to undo him immediately. She was egging him on, her voice husky in his ear and pleading, "Come on, Arthur." He pressed his lips to her neck to conceal his cries, pleasure scorching through him as he surged into her one last time. Her thrusts ceased only when he cupped the swell of her ass, locking her in place as he poured himself inside her.

Their coupling had left him a little muddleheaded, but he knew he didn't a lot of time to recover. His gaze raised to find her glowing, and he felt himself fall in love with her again. Her kiss was swift as she disentangled herself and shakily stood. There were tissues on the table - she wiped herself off with one and handed him another. With a giggle, she took a third and dabbed at the sheen of sweat on his brow.

Her examination of her skirt prompted him to go over his trousers. He was relieved nothing had gotten on them. Once she'd straightened his collar, combed his loose curls back behind his ears, she got out her simple pair of cotton panties and slipped them on. "I'll see you after the show," she whispered, pecking him sweetly.

He watched her retreating form in the mirror until she shut the door firmly behind her. Standing to tuck his shirt in, he laughed softly. They'd really ruined her ironing job. But, he considered as he smoothed the bottom of his vest, it had been worth it. Being with her was always worth it. With a happy sigh, he grabbed his journal, steeled himself with a couple deep breaths, and repeated his opening to himself one last time before leaving the room.

~~~~~

Y/N patted her face with the damp paper towel in the restroom. Her cheeks were unbearably warm, her hair a mess. Carefully, she sniffed at her sweater. Good. It smelled like perfume, not sex. How did Arthur, who had been remarkably timid when they'd first met, become the one person who could inspire her to be so brazen? Whatever the answer, she loved it. Once she freshened up, was satisfied no one would be able to tell what had transpired, she headed back to her seat.

The club was nice, a bit more modern than Pogo's. While the lighting was low, the color scheme was a mix of black, grey, and silver. Arthur's maroon suit would be a pop of color against the painted brick wall at the back of the stage. The place was smaller overall, the space for the audience about two-thirds of what Arthur was used to. It was fairly crowded, though, and the groups that were there seemed to be having a nice time.

Patricia's eyes held suspicion when Y/N finally sat down at the black table for two at the back. "Where the hell have you been?"

"I was just wishing Arthur good luck." Y/N sipped at her Tequila Sunrise nonchalantly. It was the drink she always ordered at his shows. Her legs crossed under the table and she swung her foot back and forth.

"You were gone almost twenty minutes." Patricia nudged her arm. "How much luck did he need?"

"An abundance." Her friend's smirk was impossible to miss, even as Y/N focused on her cocktail glass. Patricia was onto her. Of course. "Sorry. I didn't mean to ditch you," she said. "I'll cover your tab." Patricia’s response was to grab the drink menu.

When the lights dimmed, Y/N straightened with anticipation. Arthur came out, notebook in hand, and gave a little wave. Standing in front of the mic, he surveyed the crowd, as always, and nodded at Y/N when he spotted her. She admired his wrinkled outfit, his mostly slicked back hair, the lingering blush on his sharp cheekbones. Everyone else in this room probably assumed his color was due to nerves. But she knew what it was a remnant of. Savoring the secret held between them, she pressed her legs together and smiled.

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @howdylilflower @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​ @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​ @hhandley80

[fleckcmscott]

The Find

Summary: Arthur and Y/N tidy up their wardrobe. What he comes across surprises him.

Warnings: Smut, Swearing

Words: 3,664

A/N: This request comes from Karen - it’s the first one I ever got! Thanks to @sweet-nothings04​ for beta-ing and helping me improve this piece by sharing her thoughts!

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!

If you’ve sent me a request and I haven’t responded, it’s because I am working on it and will answer once it’s posted!

Instead of allowing a lazy Sunday, Y/N decided they needed to do a project together. She had too many clothes, she claimed. And Arthur could use some new ones. Though he disagreed with her assertion, never having owned much, he went along with it. Such suggestions were part of having a girlfriend, he'd learned. Sorting through the bedroom closet would be a couply activity, anyway.

It turned out to be nice, better than when he'd kept house alone. Her smile was infectious as they rearranged everything, and it grew each time they inadvertently bumped into each other. He succeeded in talking her out of donating a sheer blouse, insisting it looked good on her. She replaced the dry cleaner bags on his Carnival costume with zippered nylon ones. Then she retrieved a wooden box from the top shelf, sat on the edge of the bed, and patted the spot next to her.

Floral patterns were carved in its top and sides, and the center held a purple and yellow pansy, pressed under smooth glass. It was quite old, the corners worn, the front closure tarnished. The hinges released a quiet squeak as she lifted the lid. "These are my most important keepsakes," she said. Her degree was in there, the Christmas ornament her sister had made, and her divorce papers. The rose he'd brought when he'd come for dinner was now dried and delicate. And she'd held onto the cork from their first bottle of wine. The letter he'd written her after Murray was sealed in a clasp envelope to protect it.

Arthur's chest swelled. The small container resting on her lap was something she'd had long before they'd met, perhaps since she was a kid. It was astonishing he took up so much space in it. Maybe she'd like to keep one of the payment slips for the ring he was planning to give her. (They were currently tucked safely in his journal.) He wrapped an arm around her back and squeezed her to his side.

The bleating of the phone interrupted them, right when he was planting a kiss to her shoulder. "Wait for me," Y/N said. "I'll tell them to call back later." He watched as she left the room, admiring the slight swivel of her hips. After a minute, "Mabel, what's going on?" drifted in from the kitchen. Ah, her sister. That would take a while. Sighing, he stood and continued alone, hopping on the step stool and humming as he went.

The shelf was dusty. The old law books were likely from when she went to college. He flipped through a photo album and set it aside to go through with her later. In the back corner, there was a red, paper gift bag, its top neatly folded closed. When he retrieved it, the weight surprised him, and he studied it with a curious expression. She probably wouldn't be perturbed if he opened it - she'd shown him her mementos, after all. Gingerly, he took a peek.

A carton was in there, a foot long. Pictures of women in athletic gear were on the side. They were holding a white object to their elbow, their calf, their lower back. He read the sentences on the packaging carefully. "Helps relax muscles." "Relieves tension." "Soothing vibrations."

Oh. Oh. Arthur crumpled the top of the bag quickly as he giggled, his cheeks on fire.

On her radio show, Dr. Sally had said the massaging wand was revolutionary. That it helped educate women about their own bodies, learn what they liked. Y/N hadn't mentioned owning one. It would have troubled him a few months ago. His insecurities would have told him it meant he wasn't very good. That he wasn't enough for her and never would be. But because of his ongoing treatment and comfort with her, those concerns were minor today. And he was intrigued.

The women he'd pasted into his journal were often touching themselves, ecstasy clear on their faces. Even though he still found those pictures arousing, he wasn't stupid and knew they were staged. Experience had stripped away the illusion. But the thought of Y/N pleasuring herself made him shiver and lean against the closet's door frame. His mind filled with images of her sprawled on the bed, on the sofa, on the floor. The scenarios he'd pictured since they'd met were numerous. His mouth at the apex of her thighs while she tried to type papers for work. Her going down on him in the dressing room at Pogo's. Or his favorite, the one he'd gone back to most, joining with her completely as she fell apart, because of him and only him. If he asked, would she be willing to-

Upon hearing Y/N hang up, Arthur haphazardly tossed the bag back in its spot. He busied himself with the sweaters and shirts in the "keep" pile, folding and hanging them as needed. She started telling him about the call as soon as she came in. Caught between his natural bashfulness and the urge to blurt out what he found, listening was difficult.

She must have sensed something was off, because she stepped next to him and said, "You look warm."

He ducked away as she tried to feel his forehead. "I'm okay." That was only half true. It was going to take awhile for him to figure out how to express what he wanted. But he shot her a grin. "It's just a little hot in here, that's all."

~~~~~

Y/N's seamed stockings finally sent him over the edge three days later. He'd noticed them when she put on her heels at the door, and ogled her as she strode down the hallway after their longer-than-usual kiss goodbye. It was possible she simply wished to be pretty (which she always was, no matter what she had on), to be professional, to make herself feel good. Still. She knew those nylons turned him on, and he chose to believe she wore them for him.

He made a quick call to her at lunch and said he was looking forward to tonight. There was strain lurking beneath her kind tone when she asked, "Why? What's tonight?" Nothing, he clarified, rubbing the back of his neck. He just missed her. She sighed, told him her day had gone sideways, that she needed to go. But she couldn't wait to see him later and loved him.

Both to relieve his own nerves and to cheer her, he resolved to make everything perfect for her to come home to. That's why, rather than cooking together, he was stirring minestrone and adding pasta. Why he'd already set the table and put the bunch of pink carnations (her favorite) from the grocery store in the middle. Why the wine was open and ready to serve. The kitchen radio had been switched to the sixties and seventies music she preferred. He swayed along to it, even as he hoped one or two slower songs would play so they could dance.

He'd been trying to find the right way to broach the subject all afternoon. Stuttering through his request wasn't his preference. It'd be fun to be playful - if he could gather his courage. God, it would be absurd if he couldn't. Shouldn’t courage come naturally if he hoped to spend the rest of his life with this woman? "Y/N, I was wondering if you could-" Cocking his head, he tried anew. "I love you, Y/N, and I wanted to know if-" Rolling his eyes, he retrieved bowls from the cupboard. "It's your fault I can't think straight." He took a breath, stretched his arms, and tried to focus. Nothing felt right. He'd have to improvise.

The unlocking of the door and the thudding of her bag to the floor alerted him to her presence. He laughed lightly as he tested the soup, enjoying the thrill of anticipation. She approached in his peripheral vision. "Arthur, you didn't have to do all this," she murmured.

The gladness in her words made it worth the effort. He poured a glass of wine for them both. "You were having a busy day."

She took a sip and braced herself on the counter. "I had to run back and forth from the office to the courthouse. We were missing copies of motions for tomorrow's hearing. My typewriter's ribbon ran out and we didn't have any replacements." A puff escaped her before she turned to him. "But every thing’s lovely now. Come here.” She pulled him in for a kiss.

Arthur tried to pay attention while they ate; he disliked missing a moment of her. But she was already driving him to distraction. The way her lips pursed as she blew on the food before taking a bite. Her caresses to the petals of the flowers. How she kept touching his sleeve. When she untied the bow at the collar of her burgundy blouse, opened the neck to reveal the start of her clavicle, his stomach flipped. "I wanted to- to ask you a question," he said softly.

"I knew something was going on." She dabbed her mouth with her napkin. "You haven't said much besides 'yeah' and 'mhm.'"

Damn. He'd tried to be normal. "Sorry." A sheepish smile crossed his face and he smoothed back his hair. "I'm a little nervous."

"You don't have to be." There was excitement in her voice, barely contained, and she scooted her chair closer. "I'm sure I'll say yes."

He quirked a brow at her. "Um, okay." A sharp exhale as he sat straighter. "I've been thinking about this a lot." His gaze darted to hers, seeing it sparkling and filled with affection, before falling to his lap. He fiddled with his spoon as he forced himself to speak. "I found something. When we were cleaning."

A pause. "What did you find?"

The wine was sharp on his tongue when he sipped it. "The massaging wand?"

The blush on her cheeks traveled to the rest of her face and she hid behind her palm. "Oh my god," she laughed.

Having the advantage wasn't usual for him in these situations. It was refreshing. Luckily, she didn't seem upset, so he continued. "Dr. Sally recommended it on her show. You're beautiful. We both might like it. I mean, I know I would, but... Would you show me?" Her quiet nagged at him, so he changed his approach. "You turn on the light every time we make love," he teased. "Don't you remember when you came home and surprised me?"

She peeked at him, the corner of her lip lifted. "It's never even occurred to me. I can't believe it occurred to you." After a few moments, she cleared her throat. "I won't lie - it's...an arousing idea. And all this," she gestured at the table as she spoke, "has made me pretty hot and bothered." Her hand went to his inner thigh, fiddling with the seam. "Though I have to admit, I was expecting you to ask something else."

His eyelids fluttered at her caress. "What?"

Grasping the tie at the front of his pants, she finished her drink. "Never mind. I'm sure you'll ask me later."

~~~~

This was happening. It wasn't his imagination. Y/N was taking a fantasy of his, one that belonged in dirty magazines, and turning it into a demonstration of her love for him. Was it weird to be moved by something this lewd? He should be ashamed to have asked her. But he wasn't. And when he felt her smile as they lay in bed, his throat tightened. Their breaths were harsh as the pearlescent buttons of her blouse opened halfway under his ministrations. A soft moan left her when he cupped her breast, tweaked its taut tip through her bra, and she yanked at his shirt until he pulled it off.

She ground against his clothed hard-on and hastily unzipped her black skirt to slip it down. He swallowed thickly, following her movements, huffing at the sight of her dark red garter belt and matching panties. It wasn't often she donned those, preferring more practical undergarments. Had she, by some means, known what he was thinking when she'd gotten dressed that morning? The notion was silly but warmed him anyway. Relieved, he groaned and reclaimed her lips.

The dance of her fingers across the lean muscles of his chest caused him to suck in air, which he held while she skimmed past his ribs to his stomach. "I haven't done this in front of anyone before," she said, a little uncertain.

Arthur chuckled, letting her take his hand and guide it between her thighs. "I hadn't, either." He pushed the cotton to the side and fondled her slit, reveling in how she bucked into his touch. It was almost enough to get him to forget the show, to forget about his plan, to sheathe himself inside her without a moment's pause.

But she grabbed the vibrator off the stand and switched it on. Its buzzing was louder than he'd presumed, like a hornet's nest. Amusement must have shown on his face, because Y/N smirked and turned the wand to a lower setting. "Remind me to plug the clock back in when we're done," she said, shedding her underwear and kicking it off her foot. He settled next to her hips, boosting himself on his elbow to see her. Shyly at first, then growing bolder, she swiped and pulled at her outer lips. They drew back as they swelled and she giggled, running the pads of her fingers over herself. "You're the only one who could persuade me to do this."

He grazed her inner thigh, the straps holding her stockings in place, and pressed a kiss to her leg, observing as she lay the massager's rounded end to her core. Even as her pelvis arched slightly to meet it, she kept it in one spot - he'd thought she would have moved it around. The heat flaring in his groin was, thankfully, lowering his inhibitions, and he found he could ask, without anxiety, "Did you do it a lot?"

"I did this more after we met." He laughed happily, realizing he'd been the cause of her increased desire. A whimper fell from her as she moved towards the vibrator again, her frame trembling. Her brows pinched with every increasing undulation of her hips. "It's been awhile. I'd forgotten-," she gasped, "-how intense this feels."

When she began writhing, he watched the sway of her breasts, straining against her bra. Her stomach was quivering with every shallow breath, and he felt his own ardor heighten with hers. He leaned forward to get a better look at her folds. But, upon finding the toy covered her completely, he furrowed his brow. And it registered that he didn't need a prop involved; he just needed her.

Gently, he caught it, waiting until she met his gaze to turn it off and put it on the bed. "You're enough," he said quietly. "If that's okay." She nodded lightly. One of her legs spread to the side, the other bent at the knee. He shuddered as she held herself open, fingers drifting over her sensitive nub. "Are you - Are you thinking about me?" Say yes. Please.

Her explorations went lower, tracing the edges of her entrance, open and waiting for him, then dipping below to gather slick on her fingertips. "Yes," she hissed, tapping her bud repeatedly. She jerked towards her hand as she bit her lip. It was enchanting, watching her play herself like a well-tuned instrument. She seemed to know exactly how to touch her own body. What pressure to apply. How fast to go...

Her breast spilled out when she pulled down the cup of her bra, her head falling back into the pillow. Her thumb teased her areola and she keened. "You're all the way inside me." Another tug to her pebbled nipple, and the hand at her vulva hastened. "Your cock feels so good, Arthur. You fill me so well."

"Y/N, god." He hadn't expected pornography to spill from her mouth. Groaning, he pushed his briefs away and gripped his erection, running his thumb along the tip as he glanced from her face to her center.

The glistening of her arousal was spreading, a spot forming on the blanket beneath her. Her cries were becoming frequent, her body tensing. Her eyes opened and went to his length. "Get in me."

That took him aback. "What?"

"Get in me. Please." He scrambled out of his underwear and knelt between her legs, positioning himself so her thighs rested on his, and he held the soft skin of her upper leg. After a couple of quick pumps, he sank into her entirely, grunting at the sight of her reddened, desperate sex welcoming him. She stroked herself, first pulling at the clitoral hood, then circling it, more frenzied with every rut.

This was far superior to any photograph, any adult film he may have caught a glimpse of. Because it was personal. She was devoted to him, and he to her. And she was repeating his name, the syllables strung together and becoming unintelligible. Soon she wailed sharply and stiffened, her pulses gripping his cock. "Fuck me harder," she whined.

His movements stilled. While he wanted to give in, he feared harming her - he was stronger than his skinniness suggested. But she begged for him again, and he couldn't resist pressing her wrists into the bed on either side of the pillow. Their kisses turned hard while she brought her trembling legs about him and he plunged into her. A wanton cry escaped with each inch she moved up the mattress, with every pound of his hips. The sear of her surrounding him was intoxicating, and he took her nipple in his mouth, laving and sucking at it. Her body grew rigid and bent into him and she moaned, her muscles clamping around him a second time.

Their intimacy had traversed the scale from slow to fast, loving to urgent. But Arthur had only been unrelenting with her once. Her enjoyment hadn't been a consideration; she’d been a means to an end that night. And the guilt he'd felt afterward had prompted him to promise himself to not be rough without her explicit permission. Seeing her trust in him in action, feeling it in the embrace of her body, pushed him forward to give into what they both craved.

He threw his head back and fucked her, up on his knees, slipping his grasp from her wrist to entwine her fingers. He held her neck and the side of her face as he mashed their lips together, losing himself in her as he increased the punishing pace of his thrusts. His motions stammered, seeking his climax, going deeper and deeper still.

With one final shove he came, emptying into her with each throb as they clung to each other. His brain was foggy with pleasure, breath ragged and panting. Vaguely, he was aware of her tight hold on his ass, as if she coveted every drop of him. As he came down from his high, the last tendrils of pleasure fading, he squeezed her hand. The kiss he gave her was tender, soft. A stark contrast from how they'd joined moments ago.

Y/N was giving him that dazed grin, the one she usually had after lovemaking. But he felt the need to check. "Did I hurt you?" Averting his eyes, he brushed his knuckles over her collarbone.

She pecked his nose and raked her nails through his hair, her look full of adoration. "You could never hurt me." A giggle bubbled up. "I do need a minute to recover, though." He stayed inside her while he softened, nestling in the crook of her neck. "I'm proud of you," she said.

His eyelids shut and a toothy grin appeared as his heart clenched. "Why?"

"You weren't afraid to ask me. Well, even if you were, you did it, anyway." Her arms wrapped about his torso and she palmed his back. "And you trusted yourself to let go."

He dragged his thumb along the faint stretch marks at her areola. While what she said was accurate, he usually liked it softer. During the periods in which his anger or despondency nearly consumed him, when he thought he might erupt, he was afraid he would lose the ability to be gentle. So far, her love and support had helped bring that tenderness back, even if it took a couple of days. He ached for that to continue. "You know, when I- when I see things that aren't there... I always say the right thing. I'm funny. I know how to do good." He took her hand and placed a kiss to the back of it. "But with you it's real."

Guiding him out and off her, she turned on her side. "Because that's who you are, Mr. Fleck. Don’t forget that. I won’t." She nuzzled his nose. "How else could you have broken through my shield enough to have this ridiculous pillow talk?" He chuckled as she tugged on a curl. "I lost that part of myself for a long time," she sighed. "I'd hate to lose it again."

"I won't let that happen." He pulled her closer, caressing the edge of her garter belt. "Especially if you keep wearing these," he said lowly.

Leaning forward, she pressed her breasts flush to him. "Let's be ridiculous until we're old and gray."

"Mhm." Tears prickled but he blinked them away, managing a wide smile. It was one of her hints that she wanted to be with him forever. He prayed she would accept his proposal next week. "Only if you promise to laugh at my jokes."

Y/N traced his jawline and kissed his dark brows, her gaze shining as she gave her response. "Arthur, I'll laugh with you for the rest of my life."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @howdylilflower​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​, @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​

[fleckcmscott]

Adjusting

Summary: Arthur moved in with Y/N nearly two weeks ago. It takes more getting used to than he’d thought.

Warnings: Swearing, Angst, Smut

Words: 3,675

A/N: Another request by the wonderful @sweet-nothings04​. Thank you to the amazing @ithinkimawriter​ for beta-reading and her support!

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!

Arthur was pensive as he sat at her small, round dining table. (Their table. Theirs. When was he going to remember to use the right word?) Pen in hand, he sought relief. The multitude of changes since moving to 4A in Burnley, since moving in with Y/N about a week and a half ago, had kept his brain distracted enough to stop his negative thoughts, at least for a couple of days. But they were back in full force. It was discouraging - he'd believed the temporary break might have been permanent. It had been foolish to hope, though he couldn't have stopped himself from wishing it.

Y/N had taken Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday off to help him settle in. They'd been side-by-side for five days, the most time they'd spent together at once. It had felt close to what he'd imagined a honeymoon would be like, and every hour had strengthened that association. He'd cherished it deeply, but he kept it to himself. He shouldn't have been picturing himself the happy groom and her his blushing bride after only three and a half months of dating.

When she'd returned to work Monday, it had been unexpectedly difficult for him. And his unease had grown over the next days. It wasn't that he was alone - he was used to being on his own. But he found that without her there, he felt out of sorts. Almost like a guest in a fancy hotel, regardless of how often he'd been there before and her insistence that he wasn't.

His old place had been run down, and everything in it, from appliances to the mismatched curtains, was outdated. But it had been his home and he'd been comfortable there. With all the evenings Y/N had spent in 8J after Penny left to go to long-term care, his memories of it had started to be positive. When she'd had work to do, he'd rummaged around while she'd sat at his breakfast bar, reading court documents he'd snuck a peek at but hadn't understood. Their first Christmas together, the first holiday that had meant a damn to him, had been celebrated in his living room. They'd watched shows on the old color TV, with its dials and wooden casing. And he'd made love to her on the couch, that piece of furniture he'd spent lonely nights on most of his life.

Maintaining separate residences had meant that Arthur's space and what he could do in it were clear. He'd had his own household to run and had managed to keep busy between the occasional job. Now he felt lost. Y/N had told him to take his own actions, to not worry about upsetting her, that as long as he didn't do something drastic to the apartment, there'd be no issue. Yet, even with her reassurances, he felt as though he needed permission. He didn't want to ruin her nice office wear by laundering it with his own, faded clothing. And he was unsure if she'd like him rearranging the kitchen cabinets a bit (because coffee and sugar should be on the same shelf).

It wasn't her fault. She'd done and continued to do everything she could to help him feel at home. New towels had been hung up for him in the bathroom. They'd gone shopping together and picked up the dish soap he used, his favorite seltzer, and sheets to match his green blanket. He'd hooked up his VCR, too, and they'd watched one of his old movies, just like before.

But his mind was stopping him from enjoying himself, as usual. He'd tried picturing a big red stop sign, speaking the words aloud to sap away the intrusive thoughts' power, both techniques he'd recently learned from his doctor. They weren't working tonight, however. So he started writing. "I signed up for another open-mike night, but that's in to weeks - to whole weeks!" He pulled at a piece of chestnut hair as he continued. "I half Y/N all the time. Its good but she's going to get tired of me. I'm tired of myself. I want to feel fresh for her when she gets home. Which is in two hours, so I better hurry the hell up!"

~~~~~

The sun had already set and a deep chill was in the air. It wasn't a surprise; February was Gotham's coldest month. Arthur stood in the partially open doorway, watching the light snow fall onto the fire escape, the flakes illuminated by the streetlights and lamps of the living room. Journaling had helped, and nicotine tempered him mildly. Still, his brain was racing, so much so he nearly felt numb. Part of him wondered if moving in with Y/N had been a mistake. Yes, he was thirty-five and most men seemed to move out when they were eighteen. But he wasn't like most people. And though he knew he'd taken the right step, his doubts tightened his sinews and muscles.

He didn't hear the closing of the front door. Or the clink of her keys on the kitchen counter. His first indication that she'd come home was her loose grip on his sides. "How was your day?" she asked.

Hard. "Okay." Letting out a smoky breath, he took a step forward and stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray on the stairs. "Yours?"

"Long." She didn't move forward, allowing the space he'd created between them. "There are nine hearings on the trailing docket tomorrow. I'm going to be in court until five." Her bones popped as she stretched behind him. "What do you want for dinner?"

"I'm not hungry."

She pulled him inside and closed the door behind them. "Here," she said, then brushed her fingers through his hair. "You've got snow on you."

A small chuckle left him and he bent his head to help her. "Oh."

"Where did your pajamas and thermals go?" she asked as she patted his chest. "You're always so buttoned up." Before he could bring himself to stop her, she'd opened his brown cardigan. Her kneading of his bony shoulders, the care she was showing him, made him wince and look at the floor. How could he explain his troubles, his concern, without hurting her?

But then she relieved him of that burden by starting the conversation herself. "Change isn't easy," she said. "You miss your old place." When he grasped her hand, he folded their fingers together and swallowed. Her arm went around him. "It doesn't mean you love me any less."

Both annoyed at and thankful for her perception, he frowned. She'd gotten too good at reading him, better than he was at interpreting her. He was working on it, though. "It's silly." He waved, trying to dismiss his discomfort. Then he tucked his chin. "I don't want you to think I don't wanna be here."

She kissed the corner of his mouth. "I'll never think that, Arthur."

His forehead rested against her temple. "I'm trying."

"I know. Did you write any jokes today?"

His arms encircled her and pulled her to him as he nodded. "What's the difference between Arkham's patients and doctors?"

The hold she had on him tightened, even as her voice was light. This had become a pattern: sweet puns on good days, darker wisecracks on rough days. "Their types of files?"

The punchlines she gave were always too cerebral. Nestling in her hair, he closed his eyes. "The patients get better and leave."

Laughing, she pulled away from him. The grin he gave her was small, the stroking of her jaw short. But he hoped they were enough to tell her he was going to be all right. Especially with her by his side. Her cheeks turned pink in response. "I think I have a way to make you feel better," she said.

Eagerly, he let her lead him to the bathroom. It was with relief he watched her grab the soap from the sink, take out two new washcloths, and start the shower. They hadn't made love for eleven days; he missed it - it was a comfort to him. Her monthly had started right before the move, and, while he'd needed her, he'd been too tense to get in the mood since it had ended.

She helped him out of his sweater and hung it on one of the hooks he'd installed on the door. The white shirt he wore was undone hastily, both of them fumbling with the buttons. When she reached for the fly of his pants, he cupped her face and kissed her tenderly. He felt her smile as she nudged his nose with hers. Then she backed away and stripped out of her champagne blouse, revealing the plain, beige bra she wore underneath. She slipped out of her skirt, too, leaving it on the floor, and sat on the closed lid of the toilet to take off her pantyhose. "I've been wanting to do this for awhile."

Though his mind was still busy, the speed of his thoughts was decreasing. And she was cheering him up. He propped himself on the sink and took off his white socks.  "It's a little slippery in there," he said wryly.

"I'll have you know I'm a pretty good ice-skater. For a Southern girl, at least." That was an image he'd have to remember. Maybe they could try it out at Gotham Park before the end of winter. She removed her underthings and put on the radio, which was set to Arthur's favorite AM station, the one that played music from the thirties and forties. "Besides, I'll have you to break my fall." Then she stepped in the tub.

They hadn't showered together before. It reminded him of the night they'd lain in the bath, when he'd realized her love for him wasn't a trick. Would he feel the same closeness without laying in her arms? Sliding his pants and briefs down his legs, he got in beside her and shut the reeded glass door. The space was a couple inches narrower than his old one, but because there wasn't a curtain that would annoyingly cling to him, it felt bigger. It was a bit longer, too. And the shower head was at a good height, though he was still getting used to the higher water pressure.

The steam rising above them, the pelt of droplets against his back, the foot of space between them - he took it all in, peering at her, hands clasped in front of him. She was already rinsing suds out of her hair. Was he supposed to start washing in front of her? Pressing his lips together, he picked up his shampoo. But she stopped him and took the plastic bottle. "Let me."

"I can do it," he said, trying to grab it. Apparently ignoring him, she turned him around so his chest faced the wall, then got his hair all wet. It felt childish at first, but he realized that was silly. She'd never treated him that way, not once since they'd met. So he went along with what she was doing and tried to relax. The sensation of her massaging him made that easy.

She slowed as Lawrence Welk started playing, the song muffled by the humidity of the room. "This music is older than I am." There was a slight tugging on his scalp as she got caught in his loose curls. "You really like antiques."

"That's why I'm with you." He chuckled at himself when she swatted his bottom, proud of his quick comeback. But then his eye started to burn and he squinted. "Shit. Hold on," he said, lifting his face towards the shower head.

The rub of the washcloth across his shoulders, then lower and lower still, prompted him to look down. She'd stepped closer, one of her feet between his. "Are you feeling any better?" she asked, her fingertips ghosting over his heated skin. He found he could only nod. "Good." The cloth fell to the bottom of the tub, next to their feet, the impact splashing his ankle.

Her arms snaked around him, and he shut his eyes at the press of her breasts to his back . Her palm went to his chest, then glided down, teasing each rib until she reached his taut abdomen. He responded to her caresses, growing erect as she got closer to his dark curls. A huff left his parted lips as her fingers enclosed around his length, gently sliding up and down. The slick of the soap let her slip over him easily, and it felt incredible, even moreso because he'd yearned for it. It only took a few seconds for him to harden to the point where it was painful.

He bit his lip, her delicate grazes causing him to tremble. But then she started to withdraw, and he thought she'd mistaken his reaction. He grasped her hand and opened his eyes. "Don't. Please."

"Tell me what you want," she said against his shoulder.

What he wanted? He longed for Y/N to take his last name (even though it was far too soon to suggest that), to make it feel like it was his again after the lies he’d uncovered. He needed to accept that he belonged in her home, in their home, and stop doubting. And now, with their legs entwined under the flowing water, he wanted her to keep touching him.

Challenging himself, he watched as he slowly guided her over his cock. The eroticism of the sight halted his breathing. "Y/N..," he groaned, bracing his forearm on the dark blue tile wall. Her fingertips reached out and traced the edge of his swollen, red head, and he rutted forward. When her nails dug the skin of his thigh, he thrust into her touch again. Her breath was hot on his neck as her hips followed his. It was becoming too much too fast - he wanted to be inside her instead of spending all over their hands and the floor.

Spinning to face her, he clasped her sides and drew her flush to him, his eyes darting back and forth between hers. Her eyelids were heavy, her pupils dilated with desire. Drops ran down the plains of her face from her hair, over her brow and cheekbones. Unable to wait any longer, he tilted his head and pressed his mouth to her. The contact burned and he twisted them to press her against the wall, slipping his tongue between her lips. She took his erection, then, and brought it to her labia.

At first Arthur was surprised, believing her to be going too quickly for the intimacy he craved. But instead of taking him inside her, she slid his tip over her burning, wet folds, and he bucked towards her. Her giggle was wicked, but turned to a soft moan as she went faster and shivered. She was teasing them both, and every swipe of him along her core tickled the nerve endings up and down his shaft.

He hungered to taste her, and batted her hand away before kissing down the side of her neck, fondling her breast as he thumbed the peak of it. Her soft cry bounced off the glass door, and his fingers went between her legs, sinking into her  soft center. His open-mouth and tongue followed as he knelt before her. The musky scent of her filled his senses as he nuzzled the feminine curve of her abdomen. Just as he was getting into the right position, the spray of the shower hit the side of his face and ear unpleasantly and he flinched.

Y/N giggled and stroked his hair away from his forehead with sympathy, then inched down the wall towards the end of the tub, holding his arm as he followed on his knees. It felt slapstick - he had to laugh at his own awkwardness. But that faded as soon as he gazed up at her. One foot was situated on her side of the tub, opening her wide to him. Rivulets were trailing down her shoulders, the slopes of her chest, catching on her nipples. And she was smiling down at him, affection as clear as the water they were standing and kneeling in. "This was supposed to be about you."

"It still is," he rasped as he spread her lips with his thumbs, then licked a line from her entrance to her clit. Her response was immediate, rolling into his mouth and calling his name. He kept his eyes on her, watching the rise and fall of her breasts with each exhalation, and the way her head tipped to touch the tiles. One of her hands went to the ceramic soap dish on the wall, holding it in a white-knuckle grip, while the other went to his shoulder.

It was funny, he reflected, even as he laved at her. He'd fantasized about this act within the first week of meeting her. From what he'd seen and heard, women were supposed to like it. He hadn't expected to enjoy it as much as he did, though. The strength of her responses always made him feel good about himself - and turned him on beyond belief. And knowing no one else was allowed to do this to her, that she was his alone, satisfied him.

There was more of her slick with every sweep of the tip of his tongue, and he savored its taste as he closed his lips around her clitoral hood. Her grip tightened as she put more of her weight on him. She must have been having a hard time continuing to stand. His palms went to her quivering thighs and he pushed, anchoring her as her slight movements stuttered. With a series of soft cries and pants, she started throbbing against him, and he brought her tighter to his mouth, his licks tenderly persistent as he groaned into her.

Once her spasms halted, he stood and pressed his forehead to hers. With a smile on her face, she wrapped an arm around him. Then she reached between them and helped him ease up inside her. It went more smoothly than he had assumed. And he hadn't guessed it would be quite so comfortable, standing instead of laying down (which they'd always done so far). But the scorching stretch of her surrounding him felt wonderful, even at this angle.

"I missed this." Her breath brushed his jawline as the muscles around his cock tightened. “I wish you could stay inside me forever.”

A short, muffled laugh escaped him, then became an amused hum. "That's a long time." His frame shuddered as he grasped her rear, holding her as he withdrew a few centimeters. "I don't wanna go fast," he said, ending on a grunt, nuzzling her cheek.

She held the nape of his neck, her fingers tangled in his hair. "Fuck me like you kiss me," she whispered. A small, pleased hiccup caught in his throat before he locked his lips with hers. Where had she learned to speak so shamelessly? It drove him crazy. He bent his head, opening his mouth to deepen their connection. But the unhurried, shallow plunging of his hips, her walls repeatedly accepting him, enveloping him, soon prevented him from concentrating on anything other than the need to finish.

She was moving, just enough to meet him, still letting him control the rhythm. Blindly, he grasped at the wall, pushing his face to her neck as he screwed his eyes shut. The newness of this, the nearly two weeks without her, and the eager clutch of her body were fighting him deliciously. It was ending too fast, and the ability to slow down was slipping away.

Somehow he was still holding himself up. He thrust harder, deeper, striving for the few seconds of serenity he only experienced after losing himself in her. One final push and the pressure in him broke, and he gasped and spilled inside her. The music in the background faded, drowned out by the hushed moans and whimpers passing between their lips as he pressed her into the tiles. Stilling, he kept himself buried in her until the gentle waves of his climax ended and his muscles went slack.

Y/N was rubbing his back, kissing his shoulder, neck, then face. His pulse skipped at those tender touches, and he lifted his head to meet her eyes. “Feeling better?” she asked.

“Yes." He carefully left the grip of her entrance.

Cupping his face, she leaned her nose to his cheek. “Good.” Then she grabbed the washcloth from the tub, wiped herself off, and hopped out of the shower. Arthur shook his head, smirking as he cleaned himself. When he slid the door open, she was there in her sweatshirt and pants, and she gave him his towel. “I know you prefer these,” she said, putting his thermal shirt and pajamas on the sink. “I don't want to tell you what to wear. But you can lounge in our home. Plus,” she continued, grinning, “your arms look great in that shirt.”

He deduced she must have grabbed them while he was finishing up. A bashful smile broke across his cheeks and he ducked his head. "Thanks. You always know what to say." Shrugging, he shook his head. "You always do that. Make things better." Then he took her hand and pulled her closer, leaning into her. "I really am glad I'm here." Gazing at their entwined fingers, he gave a small squeeze. "I don't ever want to leave," he said quietly.

"Don't worry," she said, tone upbeat. "You're stuck with me for good." Y/N planted a kiss on him and walked out of the bathroom. "I'll start dinner. Join me when you're ready."

Even if it was something simple, Arthur enjoyed cooking with her. Hurriedly, he wrung out and dried his hair, then ran the plush cloth over his arms, torso, and legs. Not caring his clothes were getting wet, he pulled them on and ran out after her.

~~~~~

Lawrence Welk - The Moon is a Silver Dollar

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @ithinkimaperson​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​

[fleckcmscott]

The Falls

Summary: Arthur and Y/N reach Gotham City Hall. Two weeks later, they share a taste of newly-wedded bliss.

Warnings: Swearing, Adult situations

Words: 5,953

A/N: This request came from @jokerownsmysoul​. I'm grateful for it - it was a real challenge. I can't wait for more! I also need to extend a hearty thanks to @sweet-nothings04​ for her support. I've been going through a rough period, which is why my output has slowed. She encouraged me, listened to and helped me work through my doubts, and gave me great feedback. Also, send love to @howdylilflower​ for reading through this, sharing her thoughts, and pointing out my obvious errors!

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!

Gotham City Hall was, to put it briefly, imposing. Statues of former mayors and city founders stood on either side of its massive staircase. The Corinthian capitals of the portico's columns rose three stories above the entrance. The glass and copper doors, made heavy by their vertical, iron security bars, provided a sense of elite exclusion, regardless of it being a municipal building.

As Y/N and Arthur dashed up the marble steps, their buoyant laughter filling the air, none of that mattered. All that pomp and circumstance was immaterial compared to the leap they were about to make. The leap she hadn't expected that morning but had craved for months. The leap into wedlock and all the dedication, trust, and responsibility that went with it.

The Office of Licensure and Registration was far busier than she'd assumed - it was set to close in half an hour. Two clerks worked the winding line of people dealing with the unremarkableness of bureaucracy. A woman complained about the cost to renew a dog license. ("But he's only a mutt!") At the window, a man was being told he needed to head down the hall and to the left. One guy was muttering to himself about what he was going to have for dinner once he was "out of this hellhole." The atmosphere, admittedly, was not ideal.

However, the love of her life standing beside her, clutching her hand a tad too hard, made it perfect. She examined Arthur's profile as he stared ahead. The joy and relief hadn't left his visage after she'd accepted his proposal. Pensiveness hid in the flare of his nostrils, though. In the repeated clench of his jaw. In the quiet bounce of one knee.

She pursed her lips. Taking off up the street and demanding to be married straight away had been pushy. Under no circumstance did she want him to feel pressured, especially not when it came to this. But, she considered, it was natural to be anxious. And he'd appeared ecstatic, too, nearly yanking her onto his lap on the bench at Lemmars Park.

Tucking back the stray, chestnut strand by his temple, she murmured, "I'm the happiest woman on earth right now." She gently loosened her fingers from his grip and hugged his slim waist. With a bashful duck of his chin and quick puff, his arm went across her shoulders. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes told her his tight-lipped smile was sincere. That he needed this as much as she did. That he'd be all right.

The clerk, whose nametag read "Kyle," was polite and indifferent. Leaning on the counter, they hastily retrieved their IDs from her purse and Arthur's wallet. She rattled off her social security number from memory, while he had to find his card. After paying a fifteen-dollar fee, a slew of typing, and Y/N promising to provide a copy of her divorce papers, Kyle handed them a fountain pen and beige piece of parchment.

Floral borders decorated the edges, an art deco design out of the twenties. The title "Marriage License" leapt out, printed in a font belonging to a carnival barker's wagon. Their names, cities of birth, and birthdays were listed. A final paragraph stated the following: "The undersigned are both of sound mind, are consenting adults, and willingly commit to the bonds of matrimony." They merely had to sign on the respective "bride" and "groom" lines to make it official.

Y/N bent to sign the paper without delay. Not wanting to smudge the ink, she forced her hand to go slower than usual. Arthur grazed her knuckles as she passed him the pen. Only a couple seconds went by, then he jotted his name, a scraggly "A. Fleck." She heard his breath catch as the clerk notarized the document.

The paper needed to be mailed to central office for processing, Kyle explained (which Y/N already knew). A photocopy was made so she could change her name. The official marriage certificate could be picked up in approximately three weeks. To her surprise, he said, "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Fleck" before closing the window's shade.

And that was it. They were husband and wife in less time than it took to register a new car.

Exhilaration fluttered in her abdomen. Pumped its way from her heart to the tips of her toes as they strolled arm-in-arm towards the closest subway station. Y/N suggested they grab a bite to eat to celebrate, maybe go to Kao Wah. But Arthur stated he wasn't hungry. "I'd like to be home. With my- with my wife." He averted his gaze as he said the last words, the tip of his tongue darting to his top lip as if to the savor their flavor.

Given how much he'd learned about traditions from old movies, she'd suspected he'd try to carry her over the threshold. She was grateful he didn't. Instead, he pressed her into the coats and jackets hanging on the wall. Kissed her with his entire body. "I need to make love to you," he uttered into her neck. The softness of the euphemism was strikingly different from his urgency as he unbuttoned her blouse. He'd have likely taken her in the entranceway if she hadn't led him to the bedroom.

The intensity with which he fucked her into the mattress hadn't been experienced since he'd shown up at her apartment drenched, lost, and unable to fully accept she loved him. But this moment was distinct. Although the lines of his face were taut, his eyes were filled with ardor. He entwined their fingers, crushed her to him, drove her hand into the pillow. "Say you're mine," he implored, the jerks of his pelvis deep and uneven. "Please. Say you're all mine."

It wasn't like her to give herself to someone. To allow that person to own her. She'd tried that before; it hadn't been good for either of them. Yet, she'd pledged her fidelity to Arthur barely two hours ago. She knew what his request meant. He didn't want to change or dominate her. He simply needed to hear her answer. To know he was no longer alone in the world and wouldn't be for the rest of his life, even if he doubted.

Caressing the expanse of his back and his distended shoulder, she responded. "Of course, I'm yours, Arthur." The tip of his nose met hers, and she savored the smile he pressed against her cheek. "Of course, I'm yours."

She absentmindedly played with his hair. Holding him to her breasts, she went over everything she had to do the following day. Having a plan calmed her, aided her in thinking straight. And the list she was making was a pleasure because everything on it involved him. "I have to call the landlord to add you to the lease. Go to the DMV to get my name changed. Add you to my insurance at work. Oh, we need to combine our bank accounts, too." She peeked at the top of his head. "I have a feeling I'll remember to write 'Mrs. Fleck' easier than '1983' when the new year arrives."

The emerging rigidness of Arthur's frame and the burps that suddenly left him alerted her to his tumult. He pushed himself off her, swung his legs over the side of the bed as guffaws ripped their way from his throat. She scurried behind him to see his palm hover above his ribs as he covered his mouth with the other.

It had been weeks since his condition had flared up around her. Even longer since he'd tried and failed to hide it. Acceptance of his affliction was a concept that was sometimes hard for him to accept; her kindness and love couldn't erase thirty-five years of distress. But he had gotten better at believing it and she was proud of him. Not wanting any of his progress to be lost (especially not on their wedding night), she helped him through it, as usual. Kissed his bicep. Reminded him to take deep, even breaths. Blessedly, the attack didn't last long.

He was wringing his hands, the shaking of his head almost imperceptible. "What if I-" He spoke lowly, fear emitted with every syllable. "What if I wake up in Arkham? Or taking care of Penny again?" Y/N continued to listen as she searched for the best reply. "I never thought I'd have what I wanted." A humorless chuckle as he swiped his nose. "I don't want it to go away."

She wondered if what he was saying was due to trepidation or illnesses. Then she realized the differentiation was irrelevant. What mattered was soothing him. Letting him know it was all right. And real. Slowly, she knelt on the floor in front of him. "I'm not going anywhere," she confirmed, cupping his weathered cheeks. "I adore you." Smiling, she claimed his lips. "I'm your wife."

His toothy grin caused her pulse to skip, and he drew her to his chest. "I'm your husband."

"There's no one else I'd rather be married to."

Laying on the mattress, he closed his eyes. She stroked his lean pectorals, delighting in his resulting sighs. Once the tension in his sinews seemed to ebb, once he looked relaxed, he made a thoughtful sound. "Are we gonna have a honeymoon?"

~~~~~

For as long as he could remember, Arthur had ridden buses. They were usually crowded, stuffed full of humanity. A cushioned, plastic seat was free about a third of the time. Apart from the engine, the rides were fairly quiet. Everyone wanted to get to their destinations instead of conversing. He'd gathered that from observing them. From trying to figure out how to make a connection.

The tour bus he was currently on felt like the pinnacle of luxury, with its padded, fabric chairs and tinted windows. A newer adventure movie played on the tiny television built into the ceiling, its volume so low he could make out only half the dialogue. There was a bathroom (a bathroom!) in the rear, cleaner than any public one around the city. Passengers were few. A young couple sat across the aisle, playfully teasing each other. Sights like that had sparked melancholy in the past. Now the corner of his mouth quirked.

He'd yearned to get out of the city. To go somewhere warm, beautiful, and calm. To have space but not loneliness, which was readily available at home. The postcards he'd kept in his locker at work and on his refrigerator had been a feeble attempt to keep the hope of leaving alive. A co-worker had asked about them once. Arthur, seeking to cover-up his vulnerability in a room full of tough guys, had mumbled a quick, "They're just pictures."

California's distance from Gotham had made it a promised land. He would have liked to walk its shores. They had to be cleaner than those of the city. Meet the people there. They were likely kinder due to the sunniness of the state's weather.

He'd lain on his worn sofa or written in his journal, particularly on chilly nights, fantasizing about playing ukulele on the beach with a pretty Hawaiian girl. The light shining off her tan skin, a contrast to his own pallor. The sway of her hips while she danced the hula would match the rhythm of his novice strumming. After a shallow dip in the ocean, they'd make love in the sand. The sun would be setting to their left. A campfire would burn bright on the right. It would have been great.

But the woman currently dozing on his shoulder made the reality he was experiencing finer.

It had been difficult for him to admit his disappointment upon learning Y/N hadn't thought of a honeymoon. The notion had been unimportant to her, as unimportant as having a wedding. When they'd married two weeks ago, she'd said, in her usual, casual manner, "You're my husband and I'm your wife and that's fine." He'd believed he'd gotten her meaning - that frills and fusses were unnecessary, so long as they were partners. But his chest had ached all the same. He'd awaited the opportunity to let out the old romantic in him for years. Those frills and fusses were crucial to him.

The brochure for Niagara Falls had been one of many in the travel agency's window. Its bright blues and greens had caught his eye when he'd passed by on the way home from therapy. He'd heard of the tourist spot on television. Weekend trips were awarded as prizes on game shows. A magician may have gone over them in a barrel. It was supposed to be the honeymoon capital of the world. And it was only four hours from home. He'd figured it would be easy to sell her on the idea.

He'd shown her the pamphlet as soon as she walked through the door, prattling with anticipation as she slipped off her heels. "There's a Skywheel. We've been on the Ferris wheel as Amusement Mile but this one's taller." He'd pointed at a picture while taking her coat. "There are a lot of restaurants. And a town we can walk in..."

Trailing off, he'd lifted one shoulder. "I know you've done all this before. A honeymoon, I mean." His brows pinched. "But not with me. I just want-" The interruption of Y/N's lips had stilled him, the twine of her fingers in his hair switching the racing of his brain to the pounding of his heart. Once they'd parted, the affection in her eyes reassured him.

"That's wonderful suggestion," she'd said. "We'll call a hotline for motel recommendations after dinner. I'm sure I can wrangle a free Friday from Phil." Her eyelashes had fluttered against his neck and she'd snorted. "You should have seen his face when I changed my name. And told him you'd be joining me on every business trip."

The memory made him feel fuzzy in spots he hadn't known existed until she'd seeped into them.

It was early evening, cold, and raining when they arrived. Y/N held her pop-up umbrella over them as he retrieved their shared suitcase. Thank goodness the stroll from the bus depot and to their lodgings was short. Only shallow splashes got on their pants during their scurry up the sidewalk.

Arthur had chosen the Honeymoon City Hotel for a few reasons. The ad had promised a view of the falls from every room, which he'd thought charming. A special newlywed's suite had been offered, Jacuzzi, cable television, and free breakfast included. And the place's corny name. Its silliness had touched the part of him that had bought a rose when he'd had no clue what he was doing, having dinner at a woman's apartment like a regular man. The part that compelled him to impulsively grab her hand while they stirred pots on the stove. The part that could, every so often, envision a brighter future for himself because he had her.

The motel, however, stated there was a problem. The room had been double-booked, a mistake blamed on a new employee having forgotten to note their reservation. The other guests had checked in earlier and couldn't be moved.

Having had a plethora of first days, Arthur understood what it was like to be new on the job. But he was still irritated. He asked where they were supposed to stay, then muttered to himself. He didn't want to be upset on their special weekend. Graciously, Y/N patted his arm and stepped in. He self-soothed with nicotine and noted how, in her kind but direct style, she negotiated a stay in one of the business suites and a ten percent refund. The front desk person told them their bag would be in their room.

They were also given a coupon for the nearby revolving restaurant. He'd been intrigued by the mention of it in his brochure, but he'd assumed it was too expensive. It was just beyond the Canadian border in Skyfall Tower. Because of the discount and no passports being needed, they decided to catch a cab and go.

Though Arthur usually didn't eat a lot, they opted for the buffet. He'd thought it a better value, and it would allow him to try new dishes without worrying he'd be stuck with something he didn't like. The novelty of the made-to-order stir-fry felt opulent. And it was fun adding broccoli, carrots, and mushrooms, but no water chestnuts because their texture was bizarre. Y/N appeared to enjoy the chicken Kiev and quiche, going back for a second helping of the latter.

Gazing out at the panorama provided by the windows surrounding them, Arthur titled his head. Droplets ran down the pane of glass, obscuring the view. The multi-color illumination of the falls were hazy from the rain. The plaque at the entrance had stated they were fifty-five stories up. In Gotham, he'd never been worth enough to go above the tenth floor. He wondered how fast they were spinning. He couldn't feel the momentum, but their position had changed slightly during dinner.

In his peripheral vision, Y/N was licking the rest of her chocolate mousse off a spoon. Nonchalantly, as if she didn't know the effect it would have on him. "This was almost worth the mistake the motel made," she said. But she winced as she straightened, put her palm on her stomach. "I'm not going to be able to move for the rest of the night."

Rolling his eyes and giving a half-smirk, he stood and guided her out of her seat. "You just need to walk a little." He slipped her jacket around her back. "Come on."

~~~~~

Y/N tried to stifle her laughter at Arthur's bewilderment. The room was...not what either of them had anticipated. (And a reminder why she was dubious about motels that had silly names.) Saying it left something to be desired was being generous.

Brown wood grain paneling, too dark to be considered cozy, was on the walls. Two twin beds, about three feet apart, were on the right. She chose the one closest to the windows, and it creaked and groaned as she sat on it. ("I hope the walls are thicker than they look.") Dim lamps with avocado green shades were on the nightstands in the middle. A thirty-two-inch television sat on the bureau across from the footboards. The room's saving grace was a fireplace in the back corner.

He popped his head into the bathroom, stated the shower was smaller than theirs, and grumbled that there was no whirlpool bath. She did not mourn that loss. The couple of times she'd used one, the pumps and jets had been loud and distracting. Besides. They were bound to test one out eventually.

Arthur made his way to the acrylic curtains and opened them. "I see...a parking lot." He shoved his hands in the pockets of his tan jacket and sighed. "This wasn't what I pictured."

She knew he'd blame himself because he'd picked the place, which was ridiculous. They'd both agreed to it. Disappointment and guilt on their honeymoon? That wouldn't do. "Vacations never go as planned. That's why you return home more drained than when you left." Reaching behind her, she flipped on the radio. Searched for and found a station playing upbeat music. Kept the volume at a level where the notes of "The Hustle" were barely audible but could still cheer. She stood and flipped back the covers. "Well, the sheets are clean. Help me push these together."

Chuckling, he brought the lamps she'd unplugged to the nearby desk, then moved the nightstands out of the way. There were four or so inches between the mattresses when the bed frames met, but they'd make the most if it. The ease with which he'd moved his bed against hers impressed her, prompted her to squeeze her thighs together.

While Arthur stuck his head out the window for a smoke, Y/N got to work. She dug out the sparkling wine she'd packed (not champagne, which he found too sour) and unwrapped the plastic cups by the ice bucket. After screwing off the top and pouring them both a serving, she stripped to her bra and panties, a lacy dark green set she'd bought for the trip. Then she tip-toed to him. "Mr. Fleck, would you do me the honor of starting the hearth?"

He flicked his cigarette, stood, and turned to her. The desire and love in his intent stare as it roamed up her body, and the softening of his features made her blush. She looked at the brown carpet demurely. "I only packed lace."

The raging flames were half a yard away, a yellow and orange glow illuminating them both. She traced his spine to the beads of sweat gathering in the small of his back. They'd begun mere minutes ago, but she was already light-headed. Not only from the satisfaction of him repeatedly filling her, the joy of joining with him entirely. But also from the blazing heat.

She focused on the drop perspiration rolling down his forehead to his nose, then felt it fall onto her neck. "Arthu-" The last letter was stolen by his lips, the tip of his tongue teasing hers. She broke off, gasping. "Can we take a break?"

Blinking at her, he stopped, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. "A break?"

Gently, she pushed at his hips and nodded. "I feel like I'm going to melt. And not in the good way."

He left the grip of her body carefully and went to the knob next to the fireplace. "I think it's on a timer." She watched his grimace as he attempted to turn it counterclockwise. "It won't budge."

Y/N scooted away from the fire, rolled onto her side, and grabbed her mostly full cup. "We'll have to wait it out." He pouted at her and she laughed. "Hey, waiting will make the quenching sweeter." Taking a sip, she beamed up at him. "I don't think I told you how I got to Gotham."

There was a pause before he swiped back his damp locks. "What do you mean? It was your old job." He stretched to lie beside her, propped on his forearm.

"That's true but there's more to it." Entwining their calves, she draped an arm over his hip so she could caress the modest curve of his rear. "I used to get groceries every Tuesday in Missouri - the shop was further out, so I couldn't go and get a couple of ingredients, like you and I do." She turned onto her back, surveyed the off-white popcorn ceiling. "It would be empty. Lines were short. New stock would have come in.

"I always bought three newspapers for the help wanted section: the Daily Planet, the Toronto Star, and the Gotham Journal. One week I had to work late and go on a Thursday, and the store was out of the Journal." She giggled and shook her head. "I was so annoyed. I'd avoided the Gotham Globe because it looked like a trashy tabloid. But I settled."

The skim of his fingertips across her belly was a series of tender, repeated lines. Her gaze flicked to his, her smile breaking her face wide open. "That's where I found the ad for Shaw and Associates." She brought his knuckles to her mouth. "That annoyance is what got me my job. Allowed me to move to Gotham." She grasped his chin, ran her thumb along his deepening dimple. "What led me to you." Arching a brow, she gave a little shrug. "It's almost enough to make me believe there's a reason for everything. Not quite. But almost."

The concentration in the lines of his forehead told Y/N he was trying to find the right way to express himself. He gave it a go. "You're my reason."

She winced. It was a conversation they'd often had. While she appreciated what he said, held every word in her heart, he tended to aggrandize her and not give himself proper credit for how well he was doing. For going to treatment, for trying different medications. For being honest. She was still finding the kindest, most effective ways to correct those notions. To emphasize they were equals, through and through. "Arthur, I can't be your only reason."

"That's not what I meant." He rubbed the side of his face. Sitting up, he hugged his legs to his chest and his eyelids fluttered shut. "I don't hate myself as much as I used to. Not every day."

He fidgeted with the carpet. Y/N put her palm on his foot, traced the tendons of his ankle. Tried to help bolster him to confide whatever he wanted. "My mother would say she was the one who knew my purpose. That she didn't mind my laugh, because I was happy all the time." Scoffing, he took Y/N's proffered cup. "If she told me I wasn't funny or I did something wrong-" He swallowed hard and finished her wine.

She got it. Penny, along with his experiences in and perceptions of Gotham, had hammered into him that he was hard to love. An egregious, groundless lie. The pain underlying what he'd disclosed settled in her stomach, a dull ache for what he'd lived through. She was about to speak when he wiggled his toe to stroke her wrist. "I'm sorry if that makes you uncomfortable."

"Psh." She sat to hug him across his back at the waist. "I've never been uncomfortable around you. Not once." He leaned into her as she kissed his temple. The reflection of the hearth in his light green eyes was beautiful, flecks of brown and hazel shining. Gladness lurked in them, undeterred by their earnest exchange. She tousled his curls, ran her nails over his scalp until a pleasured moan escaped him. "Don't ever apologize for telling me how you feel."

A prolonged but companionable silence, then. As the fire died down, she lay on the floor. Pulled him to follow her until his wiry frame covered her. "I hate to break it to you, but you're not that weird."

Enfolding their fingers, he squinted at her. "I'm not?"

"Sorry to let you down." She wrapped her legs about his middle, squeezed him tight as he opened her lips with his. "Loving you is one of the easiest things I've ever done," she purred. She kissed his face in a line, then whispered in his ear. "Planning to proposition a man on the third date was never a habit of mine."

"Hm." At the weight of him hardening against her thigh, she gripped his shoulders and arched towards him. "Did you always flirt with men in the grocery store?"

The mild pinch to his bottom was instantaneous.

~~~~~

After procuring two apples, bananas, and donuts from the breakfast buffet and bringing them to their suite, Arthur decided to journal. He'd been awake since four. There was only so much smoking, staring at the walls, and trying to go back to sleep he could do. So as not to disturb Y/N, he went to the bathroom and sat on the closed toilet, notebook on his lap.

The pen flowed freely and he snickered. It always felt good when jokes came easily. "My mother wud say (change voice here) 'mariage isn't for everyone.' But I found the one person who wanted to marry me. Sorry, mom. It's funny." "I have a wife. It's great to have one special person to steel the blankets from."

Tears pricked a couple punchlines later. He wiped at them with a square of tissue paper. "Today I feel good," he jotted. "I think it's because I like being maried. I'm so proud of myself for sticking with Y/N. The worst days are better. I used to wunder how long I could live with noone caring about me. But I don't half to anymore. I hope I never do again."

A yawn beckoned him and he padded through the doorway to peak towards the beds. Y/N was opening the drapes, just enough to let a strip of sunlight illuminate the room. She was pretty, barefoot, her nightdress ending mid-thigh as the rays framed her silhouette. He sidled up behind her. "What do you call two spiders that just got married?"

Turning, she tapped her chin, apparently giving it a good, long think. "Mr. and Mrs. Arachnid?"

Even if she was wrong, he appreciated her effort. "Newly-webs." Giggling, she hugged him around the neck, stretched slightly to kiss him. "I was on a roll this morning. Maybe I can make them part of my act."

She clambered into the bed beneath the covers and patted the narrow space next to her. It was a tight fit, but he climbed in eagerly, anyway. As he brought her half on top of him, she said she'd looked at the TV schedule and found a movie to start the day. One starring Humphrey Bogart and Katherine Hepburn. The film was new to him, though he'd heard of it. He enjoyed the unexpected love story between two people from completely different backgrounds. Nibbling on a chocolate donut, he wondered if Y/N saw the parallels. If that was why she'd chosen it.

When they finally got dressed and headed out, they discovered the Skywheel Arthur had been looking forward to was closed for the season. It appeared they'd gotten married too late in the year for a lot to be open. There was a wax museum and an arcade in the nearby town. Neither appealed to him. But as they wandered the streets, they found the Houdini Magic Shop.

The manner in which she was browsing the props and instruction cards made it was obvious Y/N was out of her element. The only clown performance she'd seen in years had been his. But she was sweet and enthusiastic, and pointed out items she thought might be of interest. He was polite when he declined them. In the end, Arthur picked out a color changing blossom and a never-ending scarf. Although it was a store for performers, he found pens Y/N could use for work. He presented them to her with a flourish, and she promised she'd use them daily.

They stopped by a nearby souvenir shop. It was small, about half the size of their living room. He bought a few postcards to go with the ones on his vanity. She chose three, scrawled "We're hitched!" on them, and mailed them to Patricia, Mabel, and Penny. There was a photographer's booth, too, and he convinced her to have their photo taken. The cardboard frame he chose had "We're honeymooning at Niagara!" emblazoned at the top in bright blue letters. It wasn't her taste. Not at all. But she claimed to like it, stating simply, "At least you're gorgeous."

And now, after a quick lunch of sandwiches and soup at a nearby cafe, they stood on the observation deck overlooking the falls.

Beyond city parks, Arthur hadn't seen a lot of nature. Though he appreciated the majesty of the place, he wasn't mesmerized by it. Not really. The height intimidated him. There had been periods in his life during which he would have gladly flung himself into the depths. Not to die. Just to make everything stop. Smiling slowly, squeezing the hand of the woman next to him, he was grateful not to feel that now.

He swiveled to study her. She was peering through coin-operated binoculars, a contented look on her face. She offered him a turn but he declined, already having the best view. He ran his thumb over the gold band on her left hand and shut his eyes.

He'd heard a song once. The lyrics had said he would be nobody until somebody loved him, and until he found somebody to love. It was plain the love the person sang about wasn't the one he'd felt for Penny. He'd thought half the equation might have been enough. But he hadn't felt much improvement when he'd fallen for his neighbor. He'd grown to hate it, going so far as to hawk the LP, despite liking the other tracks on it. He'd known he'd always be a nobody - he didn't need a tune to rub it in.

Nothing in this world, not even its natural wonders, would ever compare to the beauty of Y/N understanding him for who he was. Of her choosing to care for him even after seeing him. Of him finally having the ability to demonstrate the love he'd always wished was buried somewhere inside him.

Of her confirming his existence.

Her hand going to her forehead caught his attention. He tightened his grip on her, blinked away his musings. "Are you okay?" he asked.

"Just a little vertigo. I'll be fine." Resting on the metal railing, she let out a long exhale. "It's too bad we have to head home tomorrow. This is miles better than my first honeymoon."

A burn came across his cheeks. "Oh?"

"My monthly started the second day. My ex's entrance exam for law school was reschedule, so we cut it short." Their gazes met, her irises glittering. "And you weren't there." Her eyelids fluttered and she cleared her throat. "It helps that I'm with a man who won't tire of my tenacity."

That wasn't a word he knew, but he figured it out from the context. It was strange that anyone would be put off by Y/N's strength of character. Her courage had been what had saved him on the subway. He'd found it odd, at first. He'd met so few people with any hint of it. Hoyt had shown his fortitude by yelling. Randall had talked him into shitty jobs and lied.

Didn't she know her strength supported his own? That her confidence, both in him and herself, made it easier for him to function? Lent him an inkling of what it was like to matter?

He palmed her side, took her hand in his, and leaned forward to whisper, "If you close your eyes, you can pretend we're alone." Flights of fancy were harder for her, he knew. He was pleased when she acquiesced. Kissed her browbone and pushed the bridge of his nose to it. Humming softly, he did his best to imitate one of their favorite songs. He didn't lead her in a dance, but a gentle sway from side to side.

Chest on the verge of bursting, he longed to accurately convey the emotions rushing through his core. Such positive experiences still felt new. He chose to use the phrases he would want bestowed upon himself. "I love you because of your...tenacity." Shrugging, he pressed his lips together. "You were always so nice to me. I think you're the best thing I've ever seen. I don't want you to change, Y/N."

The delicate caress of her fingertips on his neck made him shiver. "Should I nag you to quit smoking when I'm ninety? And you're pushing me around Gotham in my wheelchair?"

"Yes," he laughed, nodding swiftly at the idea of them being together for fifty years. That would be heaven. "And that I need new socks." He smoothed his hand down her back until she was flush against him. "And to take my medication." Palming her hip, he grinned down at her. "And to make love, if you still want me then."

She giggled, fisting the front of his jacket. "Definitely." On her tiptoes, her lips seized his. "I'll never stop wanting you." Groaning, he grabbed her face and kissed her fiercely, knowing he'd lose himself in her as soon as they returned to their room.

~~~~~

Van McCoy - The Hustle

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[fleckcmscott]

Things Past

Summary: Arthur shares a childhood memory with Y/N. She sees it differently than he does.

Warnings: Mild angst

Words: 2,645

A/N: This was an anonymous request! Thank you for sending it to me - it was a real challenge. A big thanks to Karen, too. Not just for beta-ing, but for helping with the basis of the memory in question. (I had an idea but hers was much better.) 

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!

Y/N was clad in her robe and brushing her teeth when Arthur entered the bathroom, flashed her a half-smile, and sat on the side of the tub. A mix of nicotine and cologne hung in the air. He must have smoked half a pack if he was trying to cover up the scent. The flexing of his bare toes on the dark tile floor, and the nibbling of his thumbnail caught her eye in the mirror. Once she rinsed, she grabbed a piece of floss and sat next to him, situating herself so they were hip to hip.

They were fast approaching five years together. Arthur and she still found respite in each other's presence. In shared warmth, not only in the familiarity of their affection, but also in the meeting of lips and bodies during lovemaking and otherwise. And in their companionable silences, which continued to hold a tacit acknowledgment that he could tell her whatever he needed, whether he uttered a simple word or two, or the rare paragraph.

Arthur appeared to be somewhere in the middle of that range of need now. It was evident in the tightness of his back as she put her palm on it. Rubbing gently, fingertips tracing his spine, she sought to bring him out. Like she had back when he'd sat on her sofa with his journal, a stand-up fresh off his first performance. The morning she'd realized she'd fallen in love with him.

His sigh let her know her attention was working. "Dr. Ludlow wants to talk about when I was a kid," he murmured. "I won't know what to say. I barely remember anything."

The subject of his childhood was seldom discussed. Even after his mother had passed away last spring; he'd been silent when they'd picked-up her belongings at the home. (He'd thrown out everything besides the periodic letters and photos Y/N had sent, stating "I like reading I make you happy.") They had never gone over the details in the Arkham file. He'd told her he hadn't and wouldn't look at all of it. He'd seen the headlines, scanned the psychiatric interview, touched the adoption certificate. That had been enough.

While he'd guessed she'd looked at Penny's records, she hadn't disclosed that she'd eventually read all it contained. Had learned the details of his neglect and abuse. Had seen the photos of his emaciated, bruised body. Her throat constricted as they flashed in her mind's eye. It was a mercy he wasn't aware of everything that had occurred. Even if his unconscious knew.

Of course, if he asked her, she'd answer any questions he had. Tell him all of it. But she didn't want to burden him. Or for him to feel shame, an unwarranted reaction her experience reading family cases had taught her was common. The two of them would keep doing what they always had: deal with the residual effects of his past, the symptoms of his illnesses together, as best they could. And for what she couldn't help with, he had his doctor and his journal.

"You can say whatever you want." Y/N bunched up the floss and tossed it towards the trash can under the sink, groaning as it bounced off the rim and back at them. "You could bring back some classic parts of your act. The one about how you hated school," she said, nudging his side. "And how the other kids were too unsophisticated to see what a sweet, funny boy you were."

He retrieved the plastic thread and stood up, threw it away. At his scoff, she realized her attempt to lighten his load hadn't worked. "That was, what? Over thirty years ago?" Then he turned to her, his thumb stuck in the waistband of his pajamas. "We have our life now. Why should it matter?"

Reluctance to admit one's past affected the present was understandable. She'd denied it to herself when she'd first moved to Gotham. Burying herself in her work had been enjoyable. And it had had the convenient side effect of allowing her to avoid processing the ways caretaking had changed her. Starting a relationship with Arthur had forced her to stop and take a breath, to examine its impact. It had done her good. She was certain it would him, too.

"Arthur." He took her proffered hand without pause and stepped to her automatically. She pressed her mouth above his navel, laid her cheek against the warm skin of his belly. "I'll be right here for you." The caress to her hair was featherlight and her hold on him tightened. "You've put so much work into yourself. This is difficult but you can do it."

Bending to her, he kissed the top of her head. "Go to bed. I don't wanna keep you up."

"It's all right if you do. I happen to like your company." At last, she succeeded in getting a chuckle out of him and a playful swat to her thigh. But he withdrew and wished her good night. Heading into their bedroom, she heard the click of the lamp in the living room, the opening of the door to the fire escape. He'd be outside for some time, she assumed. Quickly, she got one of his sweaters and brought it out to him. Though he raised a brow at her, his eyes were full of fondness. She slung the wool shirt over his shoulder and pecked his jaw before taking her leave.

~~~~~

Occasionally, Arthur would call her office before leaving for an appointment. He'd never say he was thinking of skipping a session. That he was having doubts they were working at all. That tough days were infrequent yet harsh. His flat tone and pauses clued her in, though. He'd been calm when he called today, and she'd kidded with him until his mood had buoyed and he'd said he was going. Promising a date night, if he felt up to it, had helped.

Currently, Y/N was in line at Marchetti's waiting for take-out. Wanting to catch-up on the evening news, she grabbed a Gotham Journal from the newsstand. Since the murders of Thomas and Martha Wayne in a robbery six months ago, Gotham's malfeasance appeared to have gotten worse. Reports of small businesses being cited for minor code violations, while establishments run by people with the right name and enough money were left to their own devices, flourished. Construction strikes had become more frequent, which she would normally support. But they had a way of ending as soon as the city placed a higher bid. The chief of police had been photographed hobnobbing with a crime boss, but the mayor had taken no action.

On top of it all, the Wayne Foundation, that thorn in her side, was drawing back many of the initiatives it had begun after increasingly austere program cuts. Including services at that damned medical center in Otisburg. They couldn't run out of funds, the board claimed. With the continuously sluggish economy, returns on their investments weren't what they used to be. The organization needed to ensure the Wayne's son would be taken care of.

Y/N didn't buy those excuses. She had nothing against the boy - she couldn't imagine losing her parents at such a young age. But how many mansions, gazebos, and toys did a child need? The skeptical part of her, the one that always suspected an angle, wondered if the increase in the city's corruption and the Wayne Foundations machinations were related...

Stop it, Y/N. Quickly, she shoved the paper back in its spinning rack. If she thought about it too much, she'd find a way to stumble into an investigation she couldn't ignore. While she'd be ready for one and relish it, she didn't want to focus on that tonight.

Their order was ready in about twenty minutes. Arthur and she had gotten into the habit of getting two individual pizzas, borne of his limited willingness to experiment with toppings. Normally, he was happy to take her recommendations, but he insisted cheese was just as good as any other kind and liked to have it to fall back on. She'd gotten Hawaiian for herself. If he was in the mood to eat, she was sure they'd split them.

Happy notes from the Sinatra live album she'd gifted him for his most recent birthday hit her as she opened the apartment door.  It was a pleasant surprise. Arthur only listened to the LP when he was doing all right. (It had prompted him to tell her of his wish to go see him in concert together, and he didn't want to taint that with negative thoughts.)

Upon peeking around the corner from the kitchen, she spotted Arthur in his writing nook, scribbling hurriedly and tapping his feet to the beat. He was obviously engrossed, but she didn't think he'd mind if she interrupted. Soon she approached his desk, plates in hand. "Knock, knock."

A gentle snort as he put down his pen, "Who's there?"

"Delivery service." She propped her hip against the edge of his desk, and placed the food next to his journal, along with a paper towel. "You owe me a tip."

"I do, don't I?" He angled his head up and pulled her in for a quick kiss. "Thanks. I've only had coffee since this morning. Just been working on my material." Swallowing, he flipped back a page in his notebook. "How did the little boy learn to get home?" His green eyes met hers, a hiccup of laughter in his throat. He allowed about three seconds before giving her the punchline. "Step by step by step by step."

Her features softened and her grin drifted away as she absorbed what he'd jotted. In the past, his act had contained references to his childhood. References which could have been based on recollections, figments, or both. This was an observation in joke form, as his jests tended to be. "That's clever." She reached to brush a chestnut wave from his forehead, deciding to ask what she'd been curious about since she got in. "I'm glad you're doing so well. I take it therapy went better than expected?"

Nodding, he gave her a tight-lipped smiled, dimples on display. "Mhm." She moved to sit more fully on his desk, straightening as she secured her paper towel to the neckline of her blouse. They munched quietly, glancing between their slices and each other. It was clear he wanted to tell her more. After he finished his first bites, he shifted in his chair. "I remembered something nice."

A weight rolled off her shoulders, and the corners of her mouth turned up. "That's wonderful."

"Yeah." His teeth worried his thin bottom lip, his gaze going to his plate. "I was at school late - maybe I got in trouble for laughing. Penny was supposed to get me. But I think she forgot, so I had to walk home... It was dark. I hadn't gone that far by myself."

With every word he spoke, Y/N's elation ebbed, replaced by sympathy. But she didn't stop him. "The next day was the same. My mother wasn't there." He still switched back and forth between her name and that title, though he used the latter less and less. "I buttoned my coat and tied my shoes on my own." The satisfaction reflected in his expression contrasted with the pain welling in her. "The steps were icy, but I didn't fall once."

A hitched chuckle left him. "Penny stared at me when she finally answered the door. She couldn't believe I remembered the way home. Then she picked me up." His eyelids fluttered. And the beam on his face was blinding. "She said I was a good boy and told me I was big enough to walk home from then on. She gave me a quarter for a movie." His voice became small, as small as the boy in the story. "I think she was proud of me."

Y/N kept her stare fixed to the floor. Her chewing had slowed, then halted completely. A question nagged at her, even as she assumed the answer would hurt. "How old were you?"

A slight shrug in the corner of her eye. "Six? Seven?"

It shouldn't have stunned her that what he'd introduced as "nice" was to the contrary. But she was gutted. The implications behind it tightened her chest. Was it the last time his mother had held him? Had he gone to the damned movie theater alone, too? Why the hell had the city given him back to Penny?

She'd spent a lot of effort helping him learn that it was okay to be angry and upset sometimes. That he didn't have to lie to her about how he felt. That he didn't have to hide if things were too much for him or he had a bad day. And here she was, doing her best to paste on a smile for him. The difference, she supposed, was that it was to protect him. Not to lie to herself.

She didn't want him to have an inkling regarding the tumult she'd experienced in the last five minutes. That this memory wasn't ideal. Telling him how to feel about it would be crossing the line from honesty into cruelty. There had to be a truth in this she could be happy about. And following some pondering, she found one. He had so few memories from his youth. She supposed he'd been fortunate to retrieve one he considered positive, even though it broke her heart.

She permitted herself to sniff once, blinked a few times at the carpet, and looked to him. "I'm glad you have that to hold onto." Thank god she'd managed to keep her voice from wavering. She distracted herself by squeezing his hand, then brought his knuckles to her lips. "You deserve it."

After a sharp exhale, Arthur moved his palm to hold her shoulder and drew her to him. "You know how you needed me to get into NCB studios? To do your job?"

Twisting to put her plate on the desk, she couldn't stop her giggle. It hadn't been her job - it had been the opposite, frankly. "Of course."

"You're like that for me when it's hard." It was a simple comparison, but she thought it was one of the most beautiful she'd ever heard. She pushed her lips to his, titling her head to deepen the connection and cup his cheeks.

He loosened himself from her grip and grabbed the paper towel she'd tucked into her shirt. Laughing, he tried to wipe away the grease she'd gotten on his face. Y/N plucked the napkin from him and weaved her fingers into his silky hair, imploring him not to care. She looked down at him, unable to stop a smile from forming.

Damn, she was a lucky woman. How did he manage to cheer her, even with the ache lingering in her breast? She'd have to be extra sweet to him in the upcoming days. Hug him tighter, longer, until he pushed her off and shook his head with a smirk before pulling her back in again. It would soothe her, allow her to deal with the mixed emotions she felt at his recollection. Ensure his joyful mood stuck around and make him happy.

She'd start tonight. "We can skip Gotham News and watch whatever you want." She tapped his chest. "You pick."  

"I like watching the news with you." He grinned, then. "But I rented a movie. A comedy from the thirties. There's dancing."

Comedies were much more his cup of tea than hers. But she'd watch anything to sit next to him, to see joy in his eyes, to hold and be held by him. She nuzzled at him and kissed his cheek. "I'm sure we'll love it."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @howdylilflower​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​@fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​ @arthur-flecks-lovely-smile​ @another-day-in-chuckletown​

[fleckcmscott]

Another Year

Summary: Arthur’s birthday is coming up. Y/N wants nothing more than to make it great.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 3,892

A/N: This request came from the one-of-a-kind, fabulous @sweet-nothings04​! Thank you for asking for this. I enjoyed writing it a lot! 

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! Keep them coming!

Y/N hadn't realized how much she'd missed putting together birthday celebrations. Not until the unexpected serendipity of falling in love again. Her ex-husband had preferred not to make a big deal of them, had stated he hated getting older. (Considering he'd been in his twenties, she'd found that assertion silly.) As her father had slipped away, special events and gifts had gone by the wayside to focus on routines that wouldn't throw him off kilter. She'd been invited to her sister's and brother-in-law's parties but had only stayed for the hour or two she'd hired a sitter. And while she wasn't the most attentive aunt, she always ensured her nephews and nieces at least got a card and money for a treat.

From what she'd gathered, birthdays had never been an important facet of Arthur's life. That had become obvious upon learning his was 11/21/1946 by reading documents instead of from him. When she'd discovered he'd turned thirty-five and hadn't even told her. But unlike her ex, it wasn't because he didn't want them to be. It was due to neglect, isolation, and the inability to connect. As much sympathy as she had for Penny, for her own illnesses and suffering, for what had been done to her, the wounds she'd inflicted on her son hurt Y/N’s heart. There were so many lost years. She was determined to make-up for them by spoiling him.

The diner where Patricia and she often met for lunch was halfway between their two offices. A five- or six-minute walk for them both. Y/N arrived first. She sat at the white and gold Formica counter and perused the menu. (Though she'd already decided to get her usual pastrami on wheat, garlic pickle, and coleslaw.) Patricia strolled in as the waitress jotted down Y/N's order, and told the young lady she'd have whatever Y/N was having.

They caught up quickly. The Wayne Foundation case was going to have a preliminary hearing in three weeks. Y/N couldn't have rolled her eyes harder. ("Thank god I won't be there. They'd have to drag me off the stand.") Patricia listened with interest while Y/N went on about a dispute involving break violations at Ace Chemicals. And Patricia invited her to stop by the office soon, claiming Matt had realized he'd been stupid to let her quit. ("I'm sure he misses me being a pain in his ass.")

Y/N was picking at the crust of her sandwich when she changed the subject. “I need a favor.”

Patricia arched a brow at her. “Is this going to involve me lugging boxes of files to your apartment?”

“Only if you want the workout.” Chuckling, Y/N shook her head. “Arthur’s birthday is next Saturday. You bake the best cakes. If I’m left to my own devices, he’s going to get something out of a Universal Foods’ box.”

“Mine are out of a box. I just modify the directions and make my own frosting.” Patricia used the rest of her bread to sop up her coleslaw’s dressing. “How old did you say he’s going to be? Thirty-five?”

“Thirty-six.”

Swallowing her last bite, Patricia quirked up the corner of her lips. “I still owe you for running those supplies to the office when my foot was broken. What kind does he like?”

Y/N hugged her tight across the shoulders. After a short discussion, they decided on chocolate with vanilla cream frosting - a safe choice. It would be small, since it was only for the two of them. Arthur had a job the day before. That would allow her to take it home without him seeing. She’d just have to keep him away from the fridge the rest of the evening.

They talked about the other things Y/N had in-store for him, the reservation, the gifts. She giggled, pleased at having successfully hidden it all from him so far. “You’re putting a lot of work into this,” Patricia said. “What did you do last year?”

“I didn’t know about it last year. He didn’t mention it.” Though Patricia was already aware of some of Arthur’s past, Y/N had kept the details to a minimum. She tried to think of an elaboration, one that respected his privacy but was honest. She started in on her pickle. “With Penny being sick - with everything he was going through...”

Sipping her coffee, Patricia spun her stool to face Y/N fully. “You don’t need to say anymore. I remember. It was hard for you both.”

The empathy in Patricia’s gaze prompted a smile. And reminded Y/N how grateful she was for a friend who was frank but unjudgmental. “Back then, he thought needing or wanting anything from me was a bother. But he’s getting better at letting me love him.” Y/N put a hand on her chest. “And now he’ll never need to mention it. It’s locked in here for good.”

~~~~~

Yesterday had left Arthur in a funk. One that showed signs of adhering to his brain the way flies had stuck to the tape he’d had to hang from the ceiling of his old apartment every spring. He’d spent close to twelve hours dancing and waving a “Store Closing! Everything 50-70% off!” placard in front of Dave’s Pleasure Emporium in Gotham Square. (The city must really be fucked if its denizens’ finances were shitty enough that adult shops were shutting down.) It had been his least favorite gig in months. But the slow season was coming on, and the pay had been decent.

The dull ache in his lower spine, radiating to his hip, had made it harder than usual to sleep. And soreness was seeping from familiar spots to sinews he’d forgotten were there. Even the tips of his toes hurt. Two more ibuprofen tablets and acetaminophen went down easily. Carefully, not wanting to rouse her, he removed Y/N’s hand from his stomach, wincing as he shifted onto his left side to alleviate the pressure on his right.

Thirty-five was too old for this. While he loved performing for children, he should have made it as a comic by now. And he should have finished school. He’d be able to do more than be on his feet all day, then. Have more options. Opportunities...

Or maybe he simply shouldn’t have taken that particular job.

The ability to stop catastrophizing, adjust his way of thinking, was new. And rare. He made a mental note to write today’s accomplishment in his journal and share it at his next appointment. The therapist would be impressed with him. Dozing, he thought his funk might abate after all.

It could have been five or fifty minutes later when he felt the comforter being dragged down. Heard the zip of the shades being rolled up. But he was in that snug state between wakefulness and slumber and refused to react. Then there was a pinch on his chin, a light weight on his scalp. “What are you doing?” he mumbled gravelly.

“It’s someone’s special day today,” Y/N said.

Oh. That’s right. He was thirty-six now.

Squinting in the bright sunlight filtering through their sheer curtains, he propped himself on his forearm. She was half-reclined next to him, draped in a short, black nightdress. The one she found a tad tawdry but he liked. He rubbed his eyes, his forehead. Thin cardboard stopped him when he reached his hair. His fingers followed it, found it tapered into a point.

A party hat. She’d gotten him a party hat. He couldn’t hold back his snort.

In his line of work, birthdays were for kids. He’d stopped caring about his own as a teenager. Penny had seemingly been glad he was around. But she never remembered. Hell, he’d had to remind her of her own. But the last acknowledgment of it, the last one before meeting Y/N, had been by a teacher. He’d gotten an extra five minutes of recess and escaped punishment for inappropriate laughter for the day.

This was his first birthday with a person who saw and loved him. Understood who he was. Knew he was more than some image projected onto him. A person who appeared thrilled he existed and to be in his life. As a husband. Every sit-com and film he’d watched had clued him in: wives deemed them important. They hid gifts, cooked special meals, sneaked around arranging parties. There hadn’t been any sneaking on Y/N’s part, none that he could detect. He wondered what she could have planned.

The kneading of her thumb in the hollow of his hip, briefs slung too low as usual, gave him a good idea of her plan for this morning. The entangling of their legs confirmed it. “I got donuts. Coffee’s ready.”

“You, um-“ He cleared his throat, closed his eyes at the brush of her thigh against his length. Which was getting harder with each touch of her lips to the crook of his neck. “You didn’t make breakfast?”

“No.” Her chuckle was throaty, full of desire. “I wasn’t going to torture you with burnt eggs.” She was pulling at his biceps, trying to get him to settle over her. “Let’s work up your appetite, Mr. Fleck.”

But he flinched and halted her movements. The painkillers hadn't kicked in yet. His muscles burned. "We'll get to it later," he promised between languid, lingering kisses. The kind that made him feel safe. Loved. Famished for her. She guided him onto his stomach, stroked him affectionately. Breaths mingling, they chatted lazily until they both cooled off.

Once his stomach started rumbling, Y/N insisted they get up, despite his protestations that he wasn't hungry. That staying under the covers with her for hours would be fun. That they could eat in bed, crumbs be damned. His back would get worse if he continued laying like that, she told him. He needed to stretch and move. Although he grumbled, his experiences with injuries, whether from overwork, assholes, or sleeping on a couch most of his life, had taught him she was right.

Following a cigarette on the fire escape, he went to the kitchen, grabbed a mug, and did a double-take at the round table in the dining nook. He approached it in disbelief. He tensed as he ran his hand along the rectangular gifts and their shiny red paper. Squeezed the puffy, tan winter coat. Fingered the silver ribbon tied to the chair, dangling from an aluminum helium balloon. The lump in his throat forced a short laugh. But he didn't cover his mouth, not having to hide from her. He shook his head, wiping at the sudden wetness in his eyes. "All this is for me?" He did his best to sound normal.

"No. They're for my other husband, Carnival." She came behind him, hugged him around his torso and splayed her fingers on his chest. "You may have met him. Has a penchant for making balloon animals? Wears pants with the cutest patch on his bottom?" He grasped her forearm, held her tight to him as his shoulders shook with mirth.

It wasn't yet eight o'clock. And the day was already shaping up to be one of his favorites.

~~~~~

At the vanity on Arthur's side of the bed, Y/N was attempting to create the perfect oval eye with brown liner. The wide smile creeping onto her face wasn't making it easy. But it couldn't be helped. Everything had gone wonderfully so far. Had more than met her expectations. She hoped his had been met, too.

She'd been badgering him to get a winter coat since last Christmas. (His teeth had chattered almost the entire time they'd stood outside to watch Gotham's Christmas parade. The hot chocolate from a vendor hadn't done much good. A long bath had been necessary to finally warm him up.) The one she'd picked out fit him well, and he'd seemed to like it, hanging it by the door next to his tan jacket. And she'd known he was attached to his trusty, foil razor. But it was over fifteen years old, taped together, and on its way out. The new one had a rechargeable battery. He wouldn't be tethered to the outlet over the sink if he wanted to move around a bit.

The twitch of his nostrils, his hitched breath as he'd whispered, "Thank you," had compelled her to kneel next to his chair. The poignancy of his reaction had affected her keenly. Hollowed out her core and filled it with compassion and love. He'd frowned and wiped his nose with the back of his knuckles. "Sorry," he'd scoffed, glistening eyes darting to hers. "I don't mean to be weird."

"You're not, Arthur." She'd gently removed his black and red polka-dotted party hat, set it on the table. "You're being you."

After a quick lunch, they'd leisurely strolled arm-in-arm through the neighborhood, including a visit to the nearby park. Arthur had wanted to stop into the used record shop three or four blocks away. She'd caressed up and down his back, observing his content visage as he flipped through the LPs. It was lovely to see him treat himself to a couple without hesitating to worry about the cost for too long. At home, he'd settled on the floor by the record player and put them on. He must have been feeling better, because he'd kept his earlier promise: they'd made love on the carpet. Unhurried, sweet, and giggling like idiots.

The opening of the bathroom door broke her out of her reverie. She started blotting her darker-than-usual red lipstick with a tissue. "It was nice of Patricia to get me aftershave," he said.

She smoothed the lines of her champagne color, mid-length dress, adjusted its petal sleeves, then twisted around just as he entered the bedroom. Her movements halted. Would his handsomeness, his beauty, ever fail to stun her? Gaze roaming his slender form, she stared at him. He'd only worn his black and brown oxfords seldomly, saving them for special occasions. The wrinkled white socks didn't match his black pants, but they paired well with him.

It was the teal button-up, patterned with white circles of various opacities and sizes, that caused her to need a few seconds to process his remark. It'd hung in the corner of his old living room; she'd eyed it in their closet since he'd moved in. It was such a contrast to his usual conservative clothing. Quite unlike him, she'd assumed. But seeing him standing there in it, the way it complimented his lithe figure and brought out the light green of his irises, made him look a little less withdrawn, she realized she'd been mistaken.

"She thought it'd suit your new shaver." He gave a gentle hum in response, bashful smile appearing. Such gestures were unfamiliar to him. Eventually, they'd become such an integral part of his life he'd grow tired of them. Y/N would make sure of that. The idea prompted a grin and she stepped around the bed to approach him. "You look great. Are you ready?"

“Yeah.” The crook of his mouth, the furrow of his forehead alerted her to his nervousness. He rubbed the back of his neck, flitted his look to hers. “It sounds fancy.”

She kissed him soundly and he eased into her embrace. “You don’t have to impress me,” she said. “You already did that. Use whichever fork you want.”

The restaurant was in Gotham’s Little Italy district, only a block or two from Chinatown. Y/N had never been to Bamonte’s but her colleagues had given it good reviews. (One had said he and his wife went there every anniversary.) Arthur gaped when they went inside. She watched him survey the lavish, red curtains decorating the walls; the dim lanterns suspended from the ceiling; the faux-marble floor. Huffing, he turned to her, concern clear on his face. She grasped his elbow. “It’s all right. You belong here as much as anyone else.”

The maitre’d led them to a secluded table, behind its own drawn back drapes in the rear corner of the smoking section. Arthur traced the edges of the three lit, tulip-shaped votive holders. Caressed the cream color tablecloth as he sat in the fabric covered chair. An anxious chuckle left him and he smoothed his palm over his thigh. “I hope I don’t spill anything.”

Y/N assisted Arthur with the menu, explaining some of the more exotic-to-him dishes. He was interested in the antipasto, which wasn’t unexpected, since he always kept a jar of olives in the fridge. The gnocchi with tomatoes, spinach, fresh basil, and mozzarella was what he thought sounded best. She chose an old favorite, chicken in a mushroom and white wine sauce and a Caesar salad on the side. Arthur picked the least expensive Moscato on the wine list. When the bottle was opened and left on the table, he blinked at it, then shrugged and filled their glasses.

After a couple of sips, he crossed his legs and puffed on his cigarette. “I wrote a new joke. Well, I really just changed an old one.” He reached across the table to graze across the back of her hand. “Why didn’t the old man like having insomnia?”

Her eyelids fluttered, his gossamer touch setting her aflame. She ran her toes along his calf, his resulting twitch causing her to giggle in delight. “He wanted to sleep with his wife?”

Dark brows shot up in surprise, his eyes lighting up. Their fingers laced together. “How did you know?”

Leaning forward, she traced his crow's feet, prominent due to his beaming smile. Then her touch drifted to his jawline. “It was the first joke you ever told me," she murmured. "How could I forget?” Clutching her hand, he pressed a kiss to her wrist. He held her to his lips, hard enough to feel his teeth. And he grew quiet. “What is it?” she asked after a minute.

His eyelids shut. She could feel his pulse quicken together with hers. “I- I wanna sleep with you forever,” he breathed.

Out of anyone else’s mouth, she would have taken that to mean sex. From him, however, she knew it meant mountains more. Adoration welling in her chest, her fingertips weaved into his loose, chestnut curls. “You will.”

~~~~~

Once, in high school, Arthur had gotten a hold of some grass. It was supposed to induce giddiness and euphoria, make a person relax. God knows he could have used it back then; Penny had started declining and he’d had to learn to run a household. Plus, he’d thought at the time, it’d make him one of the guys. All the cool kids were doing it. Maybe he’d be able to connect with one and learn how to be popular. But all it had done was make him nauseous and paranoid. There hadn’t been one iota of the “high” he’d imagined. He’d thrown it out and never tried it again.

Now he wondered: was it possible to be high on a person? To be drunk on their presence? To feel their essence down to the cell? Necking on the sofa with Y/N, their coffee forgotten on the coffee table, he figured it must be. Enraptured, he wanted to capture her ragged breaths, take her into his lungs, make her a perpetual part of his being. Perhaps he’d stay happy naturally, then, like everyone else. Even if that didn’t work, she’d always be close.

Giggling, she pushed him off her and headed towards the kitchen. “Wait here. No peeking.”

Laughing softly, Arthur pushed his hair out of his face. She’d already gotten him gifts. Let him make love to her. Taken him to an eatery where he was totally out of place and managed to make it comfortable. What else could she possibly do? Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. He eagerly followed at the call of his name.

The loveliest cake he’d ever seen was on the counter. Dark chocolate shavings embellished its round border. And it was the perfect size for the two of them. Y/N was rushing to light a mass of candles on it. “Quick, make a wish before wax drips onto the frosting.”

He mused for a moment. He no longer needed to pine for daydreams and delusions of companionship - he had Y/N. In spite of the icons his mother had had in every room of their apartment, he’d long ago stopped praying to what he suspected was nothing for his conditions and illnesses to go away. Then it occurred to him. Bending to blow out the candles, he wished for his innate comedic gifts to be recognized. To be validated as the stand-up he knew he was. And to provide for Y/N. To be what she needed. To make her happy.

Although he was grateful for Patricia’s thoughtfulness, and he knew Y/N’s baking wasn’t better than his own, part of him had wanted her to be the one who made the cake. But he tried to push that aside and appreciate it regardless. The slice she gave him was far too generous. He ate it all, anyway, because it was delicious. The sponge was fluffy. And the chocolate could actually be detected, instead of a vague, sugary flavor. The frosting tasted finer than that on the grocery store bakery cupcakes he’d sampled in the past.

As he was rinsing off the cutlery, Y/N saddled up beside him and held out a bright purple envelope, inscribed with “Happy Birthday!” in her pretty longhand. He leaned his hip against the counter as he grasped it, intentionally brushing his hand against hers. Gingerly, he lifted the flap and pulled out the card.

The cardstock was a vibrant gold and white. Two mugs, one green and labeled, “Yours,” one pink and labeled, “Mine” sat on sketched coasters. The shiny purple letters underneath proclaimed, “You get me. I get you.” Pressing his thin lips together, he opened it. And sighed when he read the rest: “Hope you know how happy that makes me.”

One of his wishes had already come true.

The elation coursing through his veins made him shudder. He nearly missed the stiff papers that fell from the envelope. Y/N retrieved them and gently placed them in his palm. A wide smile spread across his cheeks as he read aloud. “‘Gotham Pops presents A Night with Gershwin?’” He double-checked the date. “These are for New Year’s Eve.”

She nodded. “I snagged them as soon as they went on sale. They’re orchestra seats.” Then she squeezed him flush to her side, bumped her nose to his. “Don’t think I haven’t heard you sing to yourself in the tub.”

“Oh,” he chuckled, eyes tracing the diamond pattern of the grey, linoleum floor. “I thought I was quieter.”

“I’m glad you weren’t.” Enthusiastically, her lips pulled at his before she grinned up at him. “Did you have a happy birthday? Was it worth getting older?”

Arthur’s answer came without delay. “Yes.” There wasn’t a way to explain what it meant to him, to explain that she helped him feel good to be alive. How full his heart was. That she patched cracks in his soul he hadn’t known existed. He longed to do the same for her. He cupped her jaw on either side, guiding her to his mouth and rasping, “I don’t mind getting older with you.”

~~~~~

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[fleckcmscott]

The Knot

Summary: Arthur and Y/N finally have the wedding they discussed on their sprint to City Hall.

Warnings: Swearing

Words: 4,238

A/N: This was requested by @sweet-nothings04​. It is the fluffiest thing I have ever written. Special thanks to @ithinkimawriter​ for the support and beta-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!

The nightly routine Y/N had developed over the years was a simple one. Her barely-there foundation, neutral eye shadow, eyeliner, and light mascara would be washed away with soap and water. After changing into a nightgown, she'd brush her teeth and hair. Moisturizing cream would be dabbed on her forehead, cheeks, and chin. (A couple of thin lines had formed at the corners of her mouth, and she hoped to prevent more.) She'd crawl into bed beside Arthur, they'd talk and cuddle, then she'd kiss him good night and wait for sleep to take her. It was a relaxing end to the day that didn't require a lot of effort.

But this evening was not routine. What Patricia seemed to have planned for it put Y/N's habits to shame. Peeking into the mint green satchel she'd brought caused a grimace. It was possible the clay and honey cosmetic masks wouldn't be too bad. The toe separators and nail polish and pumice stones didn't interest her. And the floral, spray-in hair perfume was pungent. God. All this fuss prompted Y/N to pour the both of them the rest of the wine.

"This is too much for me." Y/N frowned in the bathroom mirror and examined the mud on her face. "How long do I need to keep this on?" she asked, the alcohol making her grumble.

"Ten minutes." Patricia set a timer and placed it on the sink. "And don't whine. This stuff is why no one knows I'm over fifty."

"And here I assumed it was your vibrant personality." After taking a sip from her glass, Y/N turned to the tub. There were about five inches of hot water in it, topped with pink foam that smelled like artificial roses. It reminded her of the dusty, scented candles her grandmother had kept in the bathroom, but never lit. Patricia sat on the edge, dipped her feet in and waved for Y/N to join her.

Patricia started scrubbing the ball of her foot. "Are you excited?"

Y/N made a thoughtful noise. When she and Arthur had gotten married at city hall a year ago, she hadn't needed a wedding - she'd needed to be married to him. He'd wished for one, though, and she'd promised him that. "The wedding I had before was stressful. I could go without it." A gentle smile came across her cheeks. "But I am for him." She sighed contently as she submerged her feet. "When we were filling out the invitations a month ago, he was so happy. He pasted one in his journal - he showed me the page - and put exclamation points all around it."

That wasn't all he'd done. Arthur had convinced her to practice a slow dance to one of his mood music records. It hadn't taken much effort for him to talk her into it. ("I've imagined this a lot," he'd told her.) She figured she'd gotten pretty good, having learned to let him lead her instead of trying to anticipate his steps. His generous encouragements and the pleasure in his eyes had helped.

Snorting, Patricia grabbed a nearby smoother and began working on her heel. "How did a hard-ass like you end up with a sweet man like him?"

"He thinks I'm sweet." Y/N shook her head, splashing around with her toes. "Don't tell him he's been had."

At the buzzing of the timer, Y/N sprung up and went to the sink. Getting the mask off was as annoying as she'd suspected. The packaging said to use a cloth, lukewarm water, and circular motions. But the clay was stubborn and didn't want to leave her face. Patricia apparently found it hilarious, laughing all the harder when Y/N looked at her with indignation. Three washrags and an empty glass of wine later, her skin was clear. Irritated, but clear.

Patricia gestured over her shoulder as she dried off. "There's a present for you in my bag. You said no gifts, but it's nothing. And I didn't want to give it to you in front of Robert and Matt tomorrow."

Intrigued, Y/N retrieved the bag from the floor and sat next to her on the tub's edge. Matt, Y/N's former boss, she could understand. But what would Patricia give her that she didn't want her own husband to see? It only took a little digging to find the box, slightly bigger than her hand, with a red ribbon around it. "You shouldn't have." She opened it and pulled out what was inside. Her best friend had given her a black, satin thong with side ties. She stared at it a moment, then burst out laughing. "It's so tiny," she exclaimed, the triangle front barely large enough to cover her palm. "I don't have the ass for this!"

Winking, Patricia nudged her upper arm. "It won't stay on long enough for Arthur to notice."

~~~~~

Meanwhile, Arthur was at a pub with a friend for the first time in his life. He'd been to comedy clubs plenty of times, and Y/N had introduced him to numerous restaurants. But his general lack of interest in drinking and absence of companionship had never made bars a desirable destination. It had been Gary's idea, though. And with his company, Arthur was part of the crowd instead of apart from it.

They were seated at a small booth near the kitchen, away from everyone. Their conversation was sparse. Despite his overall increase in comfort, Arthur still had a hard time with social situations. Granted, Y/N had told him he was steadily getting better at them. And now, with the effect of the Fuzzy Navel in his hand, he was doing all right. There had been no forced laughter (which only happened a few times a month), no bouncing of his legs, and no nail biting. He was proud of himself for that, especially given the hint of nervousness he felt.

Tomorrow was their big day. The wedding was going to be at their apartment. There would only be four guests: he'd made it clear Penny wasn't welcome, and the elderly woman Y/N had invited, Ms. McPhee, had declined with an apology and cookies, saying she was too ill to go anywhere. Dinner would be potluck style. Finally, he'd fucking have what he'd dreamed about for years. Although it was implied every time he touched Y/N, he'd get to vow, publicly, to stay with her forever. To take care of her, no matter their circumstances. To love her ceaselessly. And, he reflected, she'd promise to belong to him, too. He grinned around his cigarette as he smoked, looking into his drink, joy rushing through him at the thought.

Gary took a swig of his porter. "Are you looking forward to tomorrow?"

"Yes." Arthur answered without hesitation. "But I don't know why Y/N wanted me to spend the night out. We're already married."

"You can't sleep with the bride before the wedding. It's tradition."

Tradition. His chest tightened at that. Tradition hadn't meant anything most of this life, anything besides futile yearning. He couldn't remember if he'd been read to as a kid. Lost teeth probably ended up in the garbage. Holidays had always been too expensive to take part in, and with Penny's apathy and all the hours he'd worked, he hadn't had the energy to try. He was glad to be making up the deficit with Y/N. Still. This was an odd custom, and not really applicable to them. "But I've been sleeping with her for two years." Almost as soon as he spoke, he realized his double entendre. He brought a hand to his forehead. "Shit. Sorry, Gary."

A sly smile crossed Gary's face, but he didn't seem upset. Which made sense - filthy jokes and dirty tales often flew around the locker room at HaHa's. The shorter man reached into the breast pocket of his striped shirt, then held out a small package. "Here. I got this for you."

Curious, Arthur examined the cellophane enclosed carton. The teal box of NoDoz said it would keep him awake, was fast acting, and safe as coffee. And there was a sentence, written in a cursive font on the bottom edge: "Number 1 with Newlyweds!" Oh. Oh. He knew what they were for. Once in a while he'd come across The Honeymoon Game when flipping through channels. The tablets were often mentioned, along with comments about "being busy all night long." The burning in his cheeks only amplified his giggles as he tucked them in his pocket. "Thanks. For letting me stay over, too."

"You're welcome. It's just the sofa." Gary gave a shrug. "What time did you want to get back home?"

Arthur recalled the list of errands Y/N had helped him make. He had to stop at the flower stand near their place and get a white carnation for himself and a bunch for her. Garlic bread needed to be ordered at Marchetti's, to go with the lasagna Y/N was attempting. He wanted to give himself a good half hour to change, fix his hair, and practice saying what he'd written.

Gary agreed getting back to the apartment in the early afternoon would be fine. Arthur wasn't expecting his follow-up question. "How'd you know she was the one for you?"

Trying to hide the embarrassment behind his answer, he sipped his cocktail. "Gary, no other woman ever wanted to be with me."

"I'm sure that's not true," Gary replied. Arthur didn't move to correct him. Maybe he'd successfully hidden his prior failures from his former co-workers by simply not joining in when they all talked about women.

It took time to come up with a response. When he gave it, the words were quiet, his tone almost reverent. "She never acted like there was something wrong with me." The corner of his mouth quirked up as he tapped the ash off his cigarette. "No one else ever did that. Not even my mother." Realizing he may have insulted Gary, he backtracked quickly. "You- You were always nice."

Gary visibly brightened and waved at a waiter to order them both another round. Arthur sat back against the torn cushion of the booth, already slightly dizzy from the first one. It was going to a long, hopefully good, night.

~~~~~

The preparation for the 4:00 PM ceremony did not go as smoothly as planned. The dish Patricia brought, which she had wanted to keep a surprise, was macaroni and cheese. Y/N ran out and bought three salads from the deli so there'd be an option besides pasta. She'd made a small tear in the hem of her light blue wedding dress, one she'd picked up at a consignment shop, when she'd gotten caught on a doorway. And Arthur insisted on not seeing her in her dress beforehand, so she spent most of the time cooped up in the bathroom. She could hear Arthur's hushed tones as he paced the living room and spoke to Gary ("I'm gonna fuck up. What if I start laughing?"), and Gary trying to reassure him ("Arthur, just read it.").

But those snags were nothing compared to the issues at her first wedding. The flowers had never arrived. The cake topper had fallen, splitting the groom's head in half and breaking off the bride's arm. And, about halfway through it, she'd realized she was making a mistake. Presently, standing in front of the mirror while she fiddled with her high, split neckline and waited for Patricia to get her, she knew she hadn't erred. Doubt never entered her mind when it came to Arthur - only love, happiness, and gratitude.

When the door opened, Y/N ran her palm along the embroidered lace of the dress's bodice, smoothed the chiffon of the full-length, A-Line skirt, pulled at the wrists of the long, translucent sleeves, and took a deep breath. Her heart quickened when the faint notes of Arthur's favorite, sentimental Jackie Gleason Orchestra LP reached her ears. She stepped out. All the furniture had been pushed up against the walls, leaving space in the middle of the room. Their four friends stood there expectantly. Then she looked at Arthur, and the excitement she'd told Patricia she felt for him suddenly became her own.

He'd slicked back his hair, the way he always did when he was trying to be formal, curls loose around his ears. The white button-up he was wearing was a tad large around the shoulders. But the likely second-hand black vest and trousers he wore fit perfectly. The carnation in the waistcoat's breast pocket was a nice addition. He was wearing his red and yellow tie, still the only one he owned, in spite of it being part of his Carnival outfit.  As she approached him steadily, she studied his face. The affection in his soft expression caused her breath to hitch, as did the drawing together of his dark brow as he admired her. She giggled, hoping he liked the nontraditional dress.

There was no need for the question, however. As soon as their hands met, he clutched hers and smiled. The autumn sun, which was already halfway down the sky, brought out the deep chestnut undertones of his brown waves. And the clear green of his irises glistened beautifully in the bright light. If it would have been acceptable, she would have kissed him on the spot. Instead, she settled for mouthing, "You're gorgeous." The blush that resulted, the way he lowered his head as he grinned happily, and his silent, "You, too," made her stomach flutter.

Listening to what the yellow-pages officiant said was nigh impossible. And from the expression on Arthur's face, he couldn't concentrate, either. But they managed to get through the basic vows, those same, time-honored words spoken at nearly every wedding she'd attended. (Except for "worshiping" and "obeying" - she'd insisted those parts be removed, explaining they were equals.) They'd each come up with their own short pieces, too, and at his insistence, she went first. "I didn't come to Gotham to find love. I just wanted to leave everything behind. Then I met you. You made getting remarried the easier decision I've ever made."

What Arthur said in return, reading softly but clearly from a worn piece of paper, had her beat. "People think I'm weird. But you don't." His Adam's apple bobbed and a slight tremor entered his voice. "You're my one and only person that can understand me." His rasp turned into a hiccup at the end, and he sniffled and scoffed while he tucked his notes away. The clench of her throat was immediate, and she threw her arms around him, not waiting for the words "you may kiss the bride" before joining their lips.

~~~~~~

​​​A wedding day was supposed to be special. Out of the ordinary. Exceptional. Anything but regular. But Arthur couldn't remember the last time he had felt normal for as many hours in a row as he did today. The flash of a pocket-camera when he'd cupped Y/N's face and kissed her after she'd lunged at him. Their short dance, with the shallow dip they'd practiced and her stepping on his foot only once or twice. The gentle "I love you" he'd murmured against her lips. The acceptance of her friends when they congratulated them both. All of these extraordinary moments coalesced into a warm, tender, soothing ache that, in spite of his doubts, confirmed he was a real person, worthy and capable of love.

The glass door opened behind him, and, expecting Y/N to drag him back inside, he flicked his cigarette away. But upon turning he saw Patricia, drink in her hand. They'd spoken briefly a few times since initially meeting a couple years ago. Arthur didn't yet have a clear impression of her. Y/N and she were close, he knew, and they often met for lunch. And Patricia had helped her try to stop the Wayne Foundation case from going forward. Observing the older woman, he noted the gray scattered throughout her hair, the lines on her face that were less prominent than his own, the minimal rouge on her cheeks. She reminded him of Penny before her health had declined. Before everything had changed.

"Could I have a cigarette?" she asked, indicating the pack he was holding.

He blinked at her. "Sure."

She stepped to him as he retrieved one for her. After she plucked it from him and placed it between her lips, she took his lighter. "Y/N doesn't know. Keep it that way. You may not have picked up on it yet, but she can be bossy."

Chuckling, he cocked his head. Y/N had warned him about her bossiness early on, but it wasn't as bad as she'd claimed. Sure, she was assertive about certain things. But smoking was the only thing she was overly pushy about. The reason for her nagging prevented it from being more than a minor annoyance, though: she wanted them to spend a hundred years together, she'd said, instead of him dying prematurely of lung cancer. Blunt to a fault, as usual, with an inkling of sweetness underneath.

"Y/N was crazy about you from the start," Patricia said, pulling him out of his musings.

A glow blossomed in his chest and he dropped his gaze bashfully. "She talked about me?"

She smirked up at him, as if she was about to reveal a secret. "She gave me a note with hearts and exclamation points on it after you slept together."

Eyes widening, he turned back towards the street and focused on a manhole cover. It shouldn't have surprised him - he'd spoken with Gary about Y/N - but it did. And meant the world to him. But he was beginning to wonder what else she'd disclosed. Christ, was Patricia aware he'd been inexperienced? Had Y/N said he'd done a good job? Had she...Could she have talked about his body, the way the men at HaHa's described the women they were seeing? Those notions were laughable, he tried to tell himself, and attempted to push through them amid his growing discomfort.

Patricia gave his forearm a maternal pat, allaying his unease. "It was because you were gentle with her." He watched her angle her body towards the window and peer inside, and he followed her gaze. Y/N was pointing at a spot in the living room for the folding table they'd rented, along with six chairs. "She's gritty - she's been through a lot. I'm glad she has you to let go with."

Nodding slowly, Arthur understood. He was a good partner, a good husband to Y/N. And it wasn't only the woman he loved more than his own life saying it - it was her closest friend, her confidante. Intermittently, his conditions made it difficult, particularly on those days when he needed repeated validation, or the fury he carried deep within him threatened to bubble up. (Though it had gotten better with treatment, the stability his life now had, and Y/N's support.) Patricia recognized that he was trying and believed he was doing well. Accomplishment wasn't a sensation he often experienced, but the foreign sensation creeping into him must have been it. "Thanks," he said, clearing his throat. "I love her a lot, too."

They went inside and put up the chairs and set the table. There wasn't a table cloth, but Y/N had taken out their "good plates," with gold filigree on the rims. One of their cotton napkins went missing, so Y/N put a paper towel under her cutlery. After he lit the two cream taper candles he'd found in a drawer, everything looked perfect.

The food and drink were something else. The only macaroni and cheese Arthur had ever had come out of a box. Patricia's tasted savory rather than salty, but he wasn't sure if he liked the tomatoes it had in it. Although the pasta was too soft, Y/N's lasagna was good, if a bit heavy on the sauce. The garlic bread helped with that. The salad was mostly ignored; he only ate the small serving she stuck on his plate. The scotch Gary brought was passed between himself, Matt, and Robert. Arthur did try a sip, but it was exceedingly strong and stole his breath. He decided to stick with wine.

As the evening went on, Arthur grew pleasantly warm and drowsy. Y/N and Patricia had taken over most of the banter, guffawing and being mildly foolish. Matt had brought a chocolate sheet cake for twenty-four instead of six, and Y/N had to hold her stomach to quiet her tipsy laughter when it was sliced. Arthur's hand crept to her thigh and squeezed lovingly, his eyes locked on her with adoration. The depth of his feelings, his keen awareness of her, her presence at his side, was drowning out the rest of the room. It didn't take long for her to turn to him and mouth, "Let's say good night."

Y/N sent everyone home with leftovers and a hug, and forced Matt to take most of the cake with him. Gary gave Arthur a wink and a nod as he left, and Arthur snorted as he shook his head and shut the door. Propping himself against it, he sighed, trying to clear the fuzziness from his head. She came up behind him and kissed his shoulder. "Patricia's going to have the photos developed in triplicate and give us the negatives."

He twisted to face her and put his arm around her shoulders, slightly dizzy. "Does that mean we'll get copies?"

Giggling, she pressed into him and nuzzled his cheek. "Yes. We'll get three copies." She looked up at him as she leaned back. The ardor in her gaze made his pulse skip a beat. Then she lead him to the bedroom without preamble, blowing out the candles on the way.

He'd read and seen enough to recognize what was expected of him. This was their wedding night. It was when the music would swell and the screen dissolved to black in the old movies he would watch. He was supposed to take charge and make love to her. And he wanted to. Truly. But he'd eaten more than he usually did in two days. That combined with only having slept a couple of hours the previous night, anticipation having kept him awake on Gary's couch, lead to the tiredness he now felt.

Her hands were everywhere, though, roaming his back as their mouths melded together. Arthur slid his tongue between her lips, and he could taste the wine they'd toasted with and spent the rest of the night drinking. Breathing raggedly, he swallowed her moan and held the nape of her neck. When she presented her back to him, he paused before caressing the lace on the back panels of her dress. He took the dainty zipper between his thumb and forefinger and slowly pulled it down. The intimacy of what was happening, of Arthur Fleck unfastening the dress of his bride, made him shudder. Once the bodice was completely undone, he pushed his forehead to her and kissed the soft skin at the top of her back.

The dress fell slowly, catching on her breasts and hips as she brought it down. When she turned to him, his brows lifted. She was wearing the smallest pair of black panties he had ever seen. They barely covered her sex. He huffed. "Where did these come from?"

A grin broke out across her cheeks. "Patricia was convinced you'd love them."

Smirking, he gave a little nod. "I do." They were tied at her waist. If he just pulled the string, she'd be revealed to him. "You're so pretty." His fingers teased a bow, trying to will himself to perform. But he wasn't feeling it. "Um." He chuckled sadly, knowing he was about to disappoint her. "I ate too much. And I think I'm drunk. I'm sorry." He winced and looked away from her.

Y/N stared at him, then laughed throatily and squeezed him close. "Oh, thank god. Me, too. It's been a busy day."

His grasp on her tightened. "But a good one?"

"A wonderful one." She pecked his mouth and moved towards the bed, not bothering to take off her bra before slipping beneath the blankets. "You can untie me in the morning."

As Arthur undressed, he folded each piece of clothing and placed it on top of the vanity. He'd take care of it whenever they got up. By the time he sat on the bed in his briefs to take off his socks, Y/N's breathing had slowed to a steady rhythm. Sleep always seemed to come easily to her. Carefully, he got in beside her and stroked her hair back. Not wanting to wake her but needing to touch her, he kissed her brow bone faintly, gliding his fingers along her cheek. Then he ran his hand down her side and teased the string on her hip, loosening the knot until he could whisper his fingertips over her without obstruction. She mumbled quietly but didn't stir.

Smiling, he breathed against her temple. "I hadn't been happy one minute of my entire fucking life before you." He sniffled and swiped at his nose, sighing contentedly. "Sometimes I am now. Like today." He rested his head next to hers on the pillow, his arm going around her waist to tuck her back against him. "Thanks, Y/N Fleck."

~~~~~

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve​ @ithinkimaperson​ @sweet-nothings04​ @stephieraptorr​ @rommies​ @fallenstarsabyss​ @gruffle1​ @octopus-plasma​ @tsukiakarinobara​

[fleckcmscott]

Watch What Happens - Chapter 24

Chapter links: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23

Summary: Arthur, an aspiring comedian, has struggled to find normalcy and compassion his entire life. Y/N, a hard-working paralegal and transplant to Gotham, has just been put on a case for the Wayne Foundation. When they meet, unexpected sparks fly.

Chapter warning: Angst, Swearing

Words: 4,020

A/N: Special thanks, as always, to Karen, @ithinkimawriter,​ for beta-reading this chapter and helping me work through some of my uncertainties! 

Send me your WWH requests!

About two months after Penny moved to Endsbury Place, a nursing home in mid-town Gotham, Arthur's bank account was nearly in the negative. With Penny's disability paying for her long-term care, and his only income coming from the occasional shift at Amusement Mile or random gig Gary forwarded his way, it became clear to him that he wasn't going to be able to afford his rent. The situation wasn't a surprise, but it frustrated him all the same. He'd done the best he could to stretch his dollar. Dates were at home unless Y/N insisted on treating, which he disliked. He was skipping meals, even though he denied it when she'd asked.

And he'd only filled one of the three new prescriptions Dr. Ludlow, the psychiatrist Y/N had hooked him up with, had given him. They were prohibitively expensive - he'd been shocked when he was told the price for all of them. It was cheaper to keep up with his journal, work on his material, and try to use the new cognitive behavioral techniques he'd been learning at their sessions. He'd ended up picking the medication for insomnia, hoping his mind would be more coherent if he could at least get some rest.

Y/N thought the solution to all this was obvious. She'd been hinting that she wanted him to move in with her, but he had reservations. They saw each other nearly everyday and often spent the night together. Even so, it was hard for him to believe someone would want to be around him constantly. One night over takeout, sitting together on his living room floor, she tried her best to convince him. "You already have a toothbrush and deodorant at my place. I have tampons here. We might as well save on rent. And you'll stop getting those stupid letters from Renew Corp."

She was being kind, he thought, not bringing up how poor he was. But he wanted to live with her because he loved her, not because he was broke. It was with reluctance that he accepted a copy of her key. He frowned down at it for a little while before saying, half-to himself, "You already pay for too much. I don't want to be a burden."

He quirked a dark eyebrow at Y/N when a greasy napkin hit his face, already knowing what was coming. "Stop it," she said, then leaned closer to him. "You're my partner, not a burden. Besides, you're in my bed half the time anyways." He blushed at that, but she didn't stop there. "Be glad love bit you when it did. And you didn't get hives." When she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, he shook his head. She always went for a sarcastic remark when she thought he was being too morose. Sometimes it annoyed him because it wasn't what he needed. More often than not, it brightened him enough to walk another step with her.

On moving day, while boxing up his belongings, he came to the realization that nearly everything in the apartment belonged to his mother. There wasn't a lot he could do with her stuff; there was limited space in her room, and he'd already sent over what he thought she needed. He decided to leave what he didn't want - the landlord, Renew Corp., the Waynes or whoever could deal with it.

The unexpected pang in his chest while packing made him nervous. The change that was coming was a rare positive; it had to be. But he was still leaving home. When his anxiety started clouding his thinking, around noon, he tried to call Y/N at work but didn't reach her. He phoned her apartment, then. What he heard when the machine picked up caught his breath. "Hi, you've reached Arthur and Y/N. We're not able to come to the phone, but if you leave your name and number and a brief message, we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Thanks!"

He hung up and called back to listen to the greeting again. Even after doing that, it took him a few seconds to speak, trying to keep his voice from trembling. "Uh... Hi. It's Arthur. You updated your message." He sniffled, then laughed lightly. "I'm almost done here. Come over whenever." He paused and braced himself against the kitchen entrance, resting his forehead on it as he sighed. "I love you. A lot"

Y/N came by with a dolly that evening, stating she'd borrowed it from the supply closet at her office. The four medium boxes, VCR, cookbooks, and LPs stacked on it easily, and it wouldn't take up much room on the train. He left a couple of paper bags and his prop bag for her to carry. After giving the apartment a quick once-over to ensure he hadn't forgotten anything, he placed his key on the counter. Then he opened the door and stepped out, rolling his belongings behind him. He stared at the doorknob and worried his bottom lip. Save for his stints in Arkham over the past ten years, he'd lived in 8J all his life. It would be strange to leave it forever.

Her light touch on his arm brought him out of his reverie. "You all right?" she asked, giving a comforting squeeze. "Are you ready?"

His reply came slowly. "Yeah?" Seeking reassurance, he looked at her. There was no doubt in her eyes, only affection and kindness. The same as when she'd saved his ass on the subway and his life had changed forever. Smoothing his palm over his hair, he nodded and shut the door. "Yes. I am."

~~~~~

Those early days after moving in felt as if Arthur was on his first vacation. He'd spent a lot of time in Y/N’s apartment, but he'd never stayed over more than one night in a row. The sensation faded quickly, though. Y/N kept correcting him whenever he referred to her building, her bedroom, or her refrigerator, insisting everything was theirs now. When they were in the kitchen together, she'd ask him to get needed items from the cabinets, in an attempt to get him used to treating the place as his own. And she made sure their possessions were intermingled, telling him she wanted him to feel at home.

"I know," he said softly as they sat on the couch, having put away the last of his records. "It's just... I think it'll take awhile."

She pulled him to lay with his head on her lap. The gentle glide of her touch over his jaw, then the side of his neck relaxed him. "That's normal," she said, massaging his shoulder. At the use of that word, he closed his eyes and nuzzled at her thigh. "If you need anything, tell me."

He allowed himself to enjoy her for awhile before asking, "What do you get when you cross a mentally ill loner with a paralegal from Missouri?"

"Uh, limited culpability?"

He chuckled and squeezed her knee. "A really abnormal couple."

She laughed, sliding her palm to his sternum. "I prefer to call us novel.” Whatever they were, he cherished it. He took her hand as she leaned to press her lips to his cheek, more at ease than he had in weeks.

But living with Y/N wasn't the panacea he had naively imagined. He hated to admit it - he loved being with her - but Arthur found it difficult to build a life with someone who wasn't oblivious to him. When he had lived with Penny, he had developed his own rhythms, routines, and, he knew, odd habits. He often talked to and danced with himself.  And he could smoke the entire time, wherever he wanted. With Y/N, some of that went out the window. Smoking on the fire escape had been expected, but it was forcing him to cut down, since he didn't want to stand outside the whole day. And the talking and the dancing didn't seem to bother her. In fact, she claimed to like it.  

Though, he thought, maybe she liked it a little too much. Some days after the move, when he was shaving after a shower, he put the radio on. He swiveled his hips with the music, holding his electric razor, singing along quietly. He didn't detect her sneaking in. When the towel disappeared from his waist, he grabbed the edge of the sink and froze. He opened his eyes to find her behind him in the mirror. “If you're going to dance like that," she said. "You better get in the habit of locking the door."

But then she appeared to notice his discomfort. Holding the blue terrycloth back around him, she apologized for startling him. And berated herself for not knowing he wouldn’t react well. Once his nerves were quieted, he patted her hand. “I’m okay,” he rasped. But he could see the regret in her eyes when he turned to her. Putting his arm around her back, he willed his voice to be soft. “Knock next time you want to jump me.” The peck he planted on her cheek made her giggle and lean into him.

Another change was having to decide on meals together. Back on Anderson Avenue, he could eat when he preferred, if he preferred to. Y/N insisted on grocery lists, whereas he'd always bought whatever was on sale or in the clearance bin that week. And she often asked for them to cook together; he loved that and it made his heart swell each time. But she wanted them to try preparing dishes with ingredients such as bay leaves or cooking sherry, items he hadn’t heard of or stayed away from because he hadn't had the money to experiment or buy more than the basics. The prices made him cringe and wonder how few dollars he would have left after shopping.

And it wasn't only food that prompted that reaction. He didn't know if he could ever get over worrying about money, even though she'd shown him her account and said they had enough. If he'd ever wanted to do anything special before, he'd had to plan days or weeks in advance in order to afford it. Habits borne of poverty died hard. And Y/N was getting mildly frustrated with him for second-guessing their finances whenever she suggested they do something special.

One weekend early on, she told him they should go to the disco. She wasn't a big fan of them, she said, but she'd wanted to go with him after he'd bragged about his dancing skills on their first date. And, she reminded him, he'd admitted he used to fantasize about going to one. Before he could finish his question about the cost, she stopped him and told him it didn't matter. He tried to believe her. But when he heard the price of the cover charges, he gently asked if they could go.

It was apparent from the redness of her cheeks and serious face that she was irritated. Grasping his wrist, she led him under the velvet rope, to a secluded area about twenty feet from the entrance. "Arthur." She took a deep breath. "I need you to believe I can calculate the price of covers, drinks, and food." He looked at the ground, unmoving. When her hand cupped his cheek, his eyes fluttered shut. "I know you're used to constant struggle," she continued in a softer tone. "But you don't have to be now."

"I'm- I'm sorry," he said meekly, shaking his head.

"Don't be sorry." She smiled and kissed him, bumping her nose to his. "Just have a good time."

The evening had been interesting. The style of dancing hadn't been what he was used to, given that it was modern music and not the older tunes he favored. It was loud, too - he didn't want to have to raise his voice for her to hear him. They spent most of the time at their table, sipping on cocktails. When slower songs played, however, he was always able to entice her into a slow dance, even though she stepped on his feet. While they walked to the nearest subway station, she asked him how he'd liked it. "I wouldn't go back," he answered, then turned and gazed down at her. "But you made it nice."

Most of their concerns were easily resolved with a little time, a conversation or two, and compromise from both sides. Unexpectedly, that pattern continued when Y/N asked, a couple months later, if he would mind her dropping the occasional letter to Penny. She made it clear she wasn't expecting him to keep in contact. But she wanted Penny to know how well he was doing, that they were living together now, and how overjoyed she was to be with him.

He didn't respond at first. But some minutes later he said, "I gave the nursing home the new address." After finishing washing dishes and drying off, he spoke lowly. "She didn't give a damn before. She's not going to care now." Then he locked himself in their bedroom with his journal, brooding over what to do. And he continued to mull it over that night, listening to Y/N's slow breathing while sleep eluded him.

As they drank coffee in silence the next morning, her question still hung between them. She was watching his every move, and he knew she'd soon prod him for an answer. "Fine. Let her know I'm fucking up less," he said, exhaling sharply as he picked up his cigarettes and headed outside. "And found someone who thinks I’m funny."

Even with her reassurances, what was harder on him was his inability to find steady work. He'd been the breadwinner in his household since he was a teenager. It had been difficult, but he'd been proud of the job he'd done. It pained him not to be able to provide for Y/N in the way he believed he should. She always told him that doing whatever he could, pursuing his stand-up, and helping her take care of the apartment was enough. That him being there was what she needed, and she was happy to have such a wonderful partner. Still, whenever he had an income, he'd give her something towards rent, the electric, or whatever. But she'd always try to give it back. Occasionally, he secretly paid a bill out of his checking account.

Gradually, as their lives blended together, he gave her more details about what he’d referred to on Murray. That he’d been in Arkham a number of times, because he’d been deemed a danger to himself. And he'd only been out about eight months when they'd started dating. That the treatment he’d been getting through the Department of Health had been court mandated. That he sometimes still struggled with hallucinations and disassociating. And that his main motivation for going to his current appointments and trying different medication was wanting a decent future with her, not necessarily being healthy.

He was smoking on the fire escape, sitting on a metal step, when he told her. "You think I should be reason enough." He scoffed, then flicked ash off his cigarette. "I've hated myself all my life, Y/N." Pressing his lips together, he looked out at the lights of the Gotham skyline and shook his head. "When I’m with you, it’s not so bad."

It took her awhile to react. But she eventually sat next to him. "There's so much love in you. I hope someday you can spare some of it for yourself." Then she hugged him, so tightly he could barely breathe. “You’re never getting rid of me, Mr. Fleck." At that, he leaned his head against the top of hers and closed his eyes, hoping to gain her confidence and belief in him by osmosis.

~~~~~

When Arthur did get gigs for stand-up, they were mostly non-paying, open-mic nights he'd signed up for. Once in awhile he'd get a spot in which he could get a small percentage of the night's cover charges. Y/N hated those, stating he was being treated as a novelty act. He was aware but he didn't care. He merely wanted to be seen and tell his jokes. If luck struck and he got a break, that'd be great. He worked on his comedy diligently, with the goal to write at least one new joke every day. His delivery slowly became easier. And though his laugh attacks never went away completely, they became less frequent with the more stage experience he got.

And Y/N was always there in the audience, supporting him even though comedy wasn't her thing. Afterward, she'd go over the show and give him pointers on what she thought might improve his material. He almost never took her advice. But he always listened; her speaking thoughtfully about it made him feel valued, like he mattered. Sometimes it pleased him so much, he’d interrupt to give her a quick kiss and hug her. She’d pat his back when that happened and say, “I’m going to have to be more critical if this is the reward I get.”

To Arthur's chagrin, one night Y/N told him she wouldn't be able to see him perform. Her excuse had been flimsy, but he’d accepted it. He'd gotten through everything all right, but he'd missed knowing her eyes were on him while he was in the spotlight.

When he got home, around ten, Y/N was sitting at the kitchen table, wearing only a robe and engrossed in a newspaper. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched her, wondering what had actually prevented her from coming to the show, until she turned around.  

To his confusion, she sprung from her chair, saying, "Close your eyes. I have a surprise for you."

Smirking slightly, he did as she asked. She grabbed his hand and guided him along. He did his best to follow her, but bumped into the coffee table with his shin. Laughing, she slowed their pace, and they stopped a couple steps later. "Okay, you can open them."

Doing so, he saw they'd moved to the back corner of the living room. A well-worn writing desk was in front of him, against the wall, a small lamp on the corner. To the right of the desk, a folding room divider was extended, creating a private space. It took him aback. "What's this for?"

She nudged him in the side with her elbow. "It's for you, silly."

Bewildered, he looked down at her. She was already too generous with him, always giving him a new notebook, sweater she thought he’d like, or other small item when he could barely buy her a bouquet. "Why?"

Sitting on the desk and drawing him to her with her foot, she smiled. "Do you know what today is?"

The correct answer eluded him, despite the effort he put into finding it. Lifting his eyebrows, his tone apologetic, he said, "Thursday?"

Y/N gave him a soft kiss and squeezed his sides. "Six months ago we went out for pie." Her fingers started working the buttons of his vest. "This is why I couldn't come to your show."

Arthur winced. "I'm sorry. I didn't know. I wouldn’t have signed-up for tonight if-" Then he cocked his head, his voice low. "I thought anniversaries were yearly."

"They are. But I needed an excuse," she said. "I've seen you close your journal when I've walked in the room. It's been hard for you, not having any privacy." As she spoke, she untucked his shirt. "Now you have your own writing nook. And the desk drawers lock." Her fingers traveling along the v-line of his abdomen made concentrating on her words difficult. "You can hide your journals, or a ring-" his eyes momentarily widened at that, cheeks burning, "- or anything else."

Leaning into her, a lump formed in his throat. He ran a palm along the edge of the desk before taking a deep breath. "Thank you," he whispered, pulling her robe open, then settling his hands on her bare hips.

“But there’s one thing you need to do first,” she said as she slipped his pants and briefs down his thighs.

His gaze dropped to watch as she pressed him to her entrance. Groaning, he pushed against her. “I don’t think that’ll be a problem,” he chuckled before devouring her mouth.

After she left for work the next day, he went to a pawn shop he’d dealt with before in Otisburg and put a small, simple ring on layaway, making three payments upfront. The receipts were hidden in his journal, between two pages he’d obsessively filled with the words “Y/N Fleck” before he’d moved in with her.

The private area she’d put together was the space he hadn’t realized he needed. He’d gotten in the habit of locking himself in the bathroom or bedroom to have privacy to write. But now, without the underlying fear that she’d see some of the darker notions he put down, he journaled more. Sometimes for a couple hours. Y/N left him alone when he did that, apart from the occasional peppering of kisses along his shoulders or ruffling of his hair when she’d bring him something to drink. (Which, he figured out, was her way of checking on him.)

When the negative thoughts became too heavy, or if he was disassociating and wasn’t sure if what he was seeing was real, he’d go there and sit. The feel of the wood beneath his hands, the heat of the lampshade, the framed photograph of the two of them together he kept on the right corner, grounded him and let him know he really was in a safe place. And that he was loved.

Most days, he knew where he was and who he was. And, for the first time he could remember, there were periods in which he felt content. Over the years, he’d dreamed of many things he’d assumed would fill the hole inside him. Meeting his father, being a famous stand-up, having a friend. While he still had those desires, he never would have thought settling down with a woman he didn’t have a lot in common with would be so fulfilling.

Tonight, while they were watching the news on the couch, he couldn’t stop looking at her. It had been five months since she’d dropped off her envelope at NCB studios. And he knew she pined for a report on it everyday, even after all this time. She always looked disappointed when nothing was mentioned. Instead, there was a story about the mayoral election. Thomas Wayne was leading in the polls.

Y/N groaned. “If that asshole wins...”

Arthur grabbed the remote and flicked off the television, then went to the record player and put on an LP. It was one of the “mood music” records he loved but she found corny. He knew it would cheer her up, though. He’d learned how to do that; she was a much easier case than he was. He held out a hand to her.

Gazing up at him, a sly smile came across her face as she took it. “What?”

“Come on,” he said, pulling at her gently. “Dance with me.”

She stood and winced. “I’ll never be good at this. You’re lucky you still have your toes.”

The arm that went around her waist held her tightly. “You’ve taught me a lot,” he said softly, a grin on his face as he dared to pat her bottom, prompting a chuckle from her. “It’s my turn to teach you.”

After a few moments, she put her head on his shoulder. Arthur stroked Y/N’s hair as he closed his eyes. Breathing in her scent, feeling the warmth of her body against him as they gently swayed, he became acutely aware that a positive vision he’d had for himself had actually happened. A soft hiccup escaped him.

“Are you all right?” she asked against his neck.

Nodding quickly, he swallowed, continuing to lead. “Yeah,” he said, squeezing her hand. “I feel good.”

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