You glance up from your lunch break, half eaten sandwich hovering by your lips. Those were the first words Arthur Fleck ever spoke to you. You think about them very often, the way his eyes played in the light. The man had the softest smile you’d ever seen, for a person with such a rough exterior. His voice and demeanor didn’t match him at all. It was a pleasant surprise. You didn’t know it then, but it would become one of your favorite things about him.
“Would you like a flyer to my comedy show? I’m performing tonight at 7PM, sharp!”
“Um…” is all you can say, before he begins to retreat.
“Oh! You’re on your lunch break. Sorry, I’ll just…”
He looks like he could take flight; so finicky, just a big ball of nervous energy. You still haven’t said a word yet. He fumbles with the flyers.
“Nevermind…”
“Wait. I’ll take one.”
You don’t know why you did it. Something about the way his face fell at your silence had really gotten to you. It was clear, you thought, that this man was no stranger to disappointment. Sure, you didn’t know him, but you went with what you felt, and you were an avid believer of kindness. A damn flyer wouldn’t hurt. Without another word, you reach out and pluck the flyer from his nimble fingers.
When you look up again from the flyer, you realize he’s looking at you. Like really, really looking at you. It’s a bit intense, but you’re surprised you’re not more uncomfortable. You don’t typically make much eye contact with people in this city, not these days. His eyes are quite nice, actually. You realize he’s got that rare thing where the outer ring is darker, keeping the lighter blue from leaking out. There’s a hint of green there, too. Like aquamarine marbles. Beautiful.
“What? I could use a laugh, ” you shrug. You’re really just trying to shrug away your sadness before he sees it. It’s the truth, you can’t remember the last time you’ve laughed. But he sees it. And you hope he didn’t realize your staring. He sees it all.
“I know.”
“How do you know?” You bite back. Ah, sarcasm to deflect.
“You’ve got sad eyes.” He says unapologetically, after a beat. You laugh in surprise, but really you want to crawl underneath the bench. This encounter is surprising. Jarring. It’s been a long time, too long, since anyone has really seen you. You thought you’d been doing a better job at hiding it lately. Guess not.
“But…we can fix that. I’ve got great jokes.” He smiles down at you warmly, like he’s known you for years.
You smile back awkwardly. You didn’t understand the way he operated at all, or why you were even giving this man the time of day. Maybe it was because he was the first man in Gotham City to not harass you over how pretty you were, maybe it was his lack of false pretenses. He was actually trying to have a conversation, even though it was clearly a feat for him. You respected that. He had always had this awkward sense of boldness that you liked about him from the beginning. Like he was oblivious to the set social standards of the world, of how people thought they were supposed to act? And that was…refreshing.
“So, will you come?” The hope in his voice is evident.
You take a second look at the paper, a few raindrops have stained the ink. It’s freshly printed. You also see the stack in his hand, he hasn’t been too successful at pulling guests. You’re not sure why the invite is circus themed, but you also don’t understand how you’re still entertaining this situation, so…
In the end, you lead it all to divine intervention.
“Uh, okay? Sure. I’ll have to see.”
That is good enough for him. He smiles cheerfully, does a quirky little salute to you, and keeps walking.
“Hey! I didn’t get your name? Who do I tell them I’m there to see?”
“Tell them you’re Arthur Fleck’s special guest!”
You just stare after him as he crosses the street. He turns and waves. A cab nearly hits him.
Sometimes when you get pouty you can be a real brat, and when Arthur is in Joker mode, work and running the streets is all he can think about. He doesn’t mean to put you second , ever, but sometimes he gets ahead of himself. You’ll usually try to get his attention in his last moments before he rushes out the door.
“I want a kiss,” you’ll pout in a way you know he finds irresistibly cute. You know you’re just being a big baby but you’re not used to sharing your man with the whole world just yet.
“Sweetheart, I’ve just put my paint on!” He’ll laugh back incredulously, but after an eye roll and a quick tsk of his tongue, he gives in. Always gives in, he thinks, as he cups your cheeks with both hands, pinning you to the door with his kiss.
“You know you’re my number one, right?”
Then he’ll kiss your forehead a bunch of times while you play with his hair. Every second counts, so to make a lasting mark before he goes, he smears the red kiss mark on your forehead with his thumbs. He knows you hate that.
“See you tonight, gorgeous. And don’t you dare get any prettier while I’m gone.”
It was, he thought, the difference between being dragged into the arena to face a battle to the death and walking into the arena with your head held high. Some people, perhaps, would say that there was little to choose between the two ways, but Dumbledore knew – and so do I, thought Harry, with a rush of fierce pride, and so did my parents – that there was all the difference in the world.
