You woke to a distant thumping, an incessant knock, knock, knock at your front door. The noise wrenched you awake and shattered your dream; a fevered dream of a sly red grin, and your fingers tangling through emerald locks of hair.....

Hm. Perhaps it was a good thing you'd been disturbed.

You heaved yourself out of bed, reaching for your robe.
The digital clock on the nightstand showed that it was almost 5pm.
After your ordeal you hadn't slept well last night, so that afternoon you'd decided to take a nap.

Two hours you'd been asleep. You groaned. You were in no mood for visitors. All you wanted was to hibernate under your comforter until spring. Until the civil unrest that engulfed the city loosened it's hold, but something told you things would never be the same again in Gotham.

Pushing aside the thoughts that made you uneasy, you stumbled down the hall; your eyes still blurry from sleep. Who the hell could be knocking on your door? You weren't expecting anybody. Whoever it was must have access into the building, because they hadn't buzzed your apartment.

The blurred outline of a figure through the frosted glass in your front door made your brows pinch together in a puzzled frown. Without so much as another thought you unlocked the door but left it on the chain, opening it a fraction.

It was a man wearing a tan coloured jacket; the hood drawn up over his head. But there was no mistaking that slim face with it's hollowed-out cheeks and the sharp, jutting line of that jaw.

"Arthur!"

His jade green eyes met yours, and they were just as mesmerising as you remembered.
Admittedly, it had been a while since you had last seen them, and in the past they'd never held your gaze, instead they'd timidly avoided making contact.

But now, now they remained focused and still, never wavering, and it was you who found yourself having to look away first.

"Oh wow, this is so unexpected." You exclaimed. "But it's so nice to see you."

"Hey (y/n)." He smiled warily. "I um, I was just passing by and wanted to make sure you were safe. You know with everything that's been going on in the city lately."

You froze; a sudden jolt of recognition sending your thoughts scattering.

That voice. Arthur's inimitable, soft, slightly raspy voice....was eerily similar to...

No. Your imagination was playing tricks on you, you decided, banishing the thought from your mind. You had to be mistaken.

"That....that's so sweet of you Arthur." You slid the chain off and held the door open. "Come in."

As you led him into your living room, you caught your reflection in the hallway mirror and cringed inwardly. Your hair desperately needed a thorough brushing and your well-worn robe and pyjamas were mortifyingly unflattering. To top it all off, you were now sporting an angry purple bruise on your cheek from where you'd been hit.

Why were you bothered about your appearance? Especially when Arthur Fleck's sense of style was hardly fashionable. He dressed older than his 33 years. He looked older than his 33 years; the lines on his face told a story of sleepless nights, stress and financial hardship.

But there was just something about him.

Perhaps it was his careless way of dressing, and unruly waves of hair, coupled with his quirky personality and shy, gentle nature. But whatever it was, you found him inexplicably appealing.

The first time you met was at the thrift store you worked at. The manager had hired a party clown to come and sign-spin outside the shop in the hopes of  drumming up more business.

That clown had been Arthur Fleck.

His brightly coloured costume and jovial dancing had attracted attention and in-turn; more customers. So many more in fact, that the manager paid for Arthur to return several times each month.

The man behind the makeup was excruciatingly shy, and it had taken a lot of gentle coaxing just to get him to converse with you. Your coworkers didn't get your obsession with wanting to befriend him. They all labelled him as weird, but you found him oddly charming.

The weeks had gone by, one month rolled into another, and your persistence began to pay off. Arthur gradually emerged from his shell, and the two of you had struck-up a friendship.

And then one day....the clown that showed up wasn't Arthur.

You had questioned the other clown, who told you Arthur no longer worked for the agency. The news had upset you, and the thought of not seeing him again had saddened you even more. Perhaps more than it should, considering you hadn't known him that long.

You didn't know Arthur's address, but he knew yours. That is, he knew the small apartment complex you lived in, because it had once come up in conversation. But you hadn't expected him to remember. The fact that he was here now proved that he had, and then gone to the trouble of checking for your name on the mailboxes.

It was hard to imagine him going to such lengths just to check on you, but you were deeply touched by his thoughtfulness. Touched, and unarguably flattered.

You made coffee for your guest and joined him on the couch. All the while you couldn't help noticing how he kept the hood of his jacket pulled up; half-hiding his face.

It was odd and it bothered you. You knew Arthur was eccentric but surely he wasn't this shy.

"So....how are you keeping, Arthur?"

He shifts slightly, as though uncomfortable. ""Oh, uh, I'm okay."

"They said you'd left Ha Ha's. What happened?"

Fiddling anxiously with the sleeve of his jacket, he murmurs a reply. "They said I wasn't funny enough."

"Oh, really? That's a crappy thing for them to say. I'm sorry"

"It's okay. I can focus on my comedy career now."

"That's good. I...I really missed having you around the store though."

He turns sharply to look directly at you."Really?"

He sounds so surprised, and his reaction makes you flustered for some reason.

"Yeah. The other clown they sent as your replacement, I don't remember his name, he was a big guy, he wasn't as good a clown as you. I didn't like him much. Neither did the customers, it just wasn't the same."

"Randall."Arthur wrinkles his nose, like he's just caught the smell of something rancid.

"That's it! Randall. I always got sort of creepy vibes when he was around. He seemed like a bit of a sleaze."

One corner of his mouth kicks-up in a secretive smile. "He was." Unable to suppress his amusement, he suddenly bursts into unrestrained laughter.

You stare at him, slightly shocked, and he duly notes your confusion.

"S-sorry. I was just....just thinking of a joke." His mouth flexes with lingering amusement that he's struggling to control.

You're not too perturbed by the suddenness of his laughter, you're accustomed to his quirks, and know about his condition. But the laugh itself caused a cluster of tingles to wriggle down the length of your spine, making you physically shiver.

That was Joker's laugh.

Was Arthur mimicking him? Joker is a clown....of sorts. Perhaps Arthur had found him inspiring.

Somehow you manage to form words; not wanting to lapse into an awkward silence.

"Is the joke about Randall?"

"He kinda is the joke." He grins, shrugging his angular shoulders. Then suddenly he perceptibly winces as if the simple movement has pained him.

You lean forwards, concerned. "Are you alright?"

"What? Oh, y-yeah. It's nothing." He waves a hand dismissively, but this time he moderates his movements, limiting the motion so as not to cause another flare of pain.

You eye him steadily and he refuses to lift his head. The situation is all kinds of bizarre, and now you are genuinely worried. Something feels off, and it doesn't exactly take a genius to work out that he's experiencing some form of physical discomfort.

"Arthur..."

"Hm?"

"You're in pain aren't you? I can tell. Please, there's no need to try and hide it from me."

"It's nothing though, really. I got....I got knocked down by some of the rioters." He finally admits.

"Rioters? Arthur I've seen what it's like out there, those mobs are ruthless. Are you sure you're okay? Let me take a look--"

He cuts you off, shaking his hood-covered head. "No honestly, I'm fine."

But you're not going to be dissuaded. Arthur's stature is so frail, you're concerned that his assailants might have done him some serious damage. The very thought of his bones hitting the sidewalk makes you flinch; he's so painfully thin there's a strong possibility he might've broken or fractured something.

Ignoring his protests you turn to face him on the couch and cajole him into showing you his injuries. He's reluctant, and only gives in eventually once he realises that you're not going to let it drop.

As you reach for his jacket, literally taking things into your own hands, he begrudgingly scoots to the edge of the couch and turns his back towards you.

"You need to take this off." You tug gently at the jacket that he's clinging to like a comfort blanket.

After a lengthy pause Arthur slips the garment off; flinching again as he manoeuvres his arms out of the sleeves, and you let out a surprised exclamation...

"Ooh! Arthur....you've....you've dyed your hair!"

He doesn't say anything, just nods his head in response to you having stated the blindingly obvious.

But his hair isn't just any old colour. It's green. A beautiful emerald green that shines as the sunlight streams in through the tilted blinds and catches it, in spite of it's stringy lengths being in desperate need of a wash.

You blink, staring at it in comically stunned silence.

"I-I did it when I was still a clown." He hurriedly offers in explanation, no doubt having picked-up on your ominous silence. "It was easier. The wig was....annoying."

But...when your agency let you go...you still wore the wig then, you want to say.
But you choose instead to hold your tongue.

You needed to see his face. His face, and his eyes.

When Joker had saved you you'd been in shock; too stunned and bedazzled by his peculiar beauty to stop and contemplate if his eyes seemed familiar to you. But now you recalled them, your brain automatically began to draw comparisons between those of the painted criminal and your shy companion.

Arthur was nothing like Joker when it came to his demeanour, his confidence and posture, but aside from that....the two of them were startlingly similar.

"Okay so, let's take a look at your back." You manage, trying to remain focused on the task at hand.

"It's actually my shoulder."

"Oh. Well in that case you.....you'll...need to take your shirt off." You clear your throat nervously.

Just having to say those words makes your face heat up. Ugh, you needed to get a grip. This was just Arthur.

But that was the problem. You couldn't deny it any longer, you had a crush on Arthur. There was no point trying to lie to yourself anymore.

And more to the point...a seed of suspicion had been planted in your mind. A seed which was rapidly taking root.

It seems so unlikely, so unimaginable, but you can't shake the gut instinct that's telling you....this wasn't just Arthur.

"Right." He says bashfully, as he awkwardly works the buttons loose on his white shirt.

The silence is all-encompassing. Stifling even. The atmosphere suddenly becoming heavily charged. As he slips the material down off his narrow shoulders; exposing his bare back to you, the air is so thick you can scarcely draw breath.

Then he angles his right shoulder back towards you and you stifle a gasp. Angry purple bruises decorate his pale skin, from the back of his shoulder right down to his bicep.

"Oh, Arthur."

Your heart pinches at the sight, and instinctively you find yourself reaching out to gently graze his arm with your fingertips.

He jerks skittishly at the contact; either not expecting it or....something else.

"I- I'm sorry Arthur, did I hurt you?"

"No, no. Your hands are cold, that's all."

You know that can't be true, because your hands are the opposite of cold right now. They're actually growing clammy with each passing second due to your jangling nerves. And besides....you barely touched him.

He turns to look at you then, over his right shoulder, and without the hood you can see distinctive bruising at his right temple, and various cuts that are just beginning to heal.

These injuries are all recent.

"Arthur..." Your eyes lock with his, and his anxious apprehension is clearly visible for you to see. "....what have you gotten yourself into?"

"I....I told you, the rioters--"

He falls silent as your eyes rake over his face; accessing his injuries, before meeting his gaze again.

"Arthur....you--"

"Looks like you've been hurt too." He interjects, raising his hand slowly.

Cautiously he gently touches your face; skimming the bruise with the rough pads of his fingers. You sit statuesque, frozen in place by his touch. Your mouth goes dry and you struggle to speak; your tongue practically sticking to your teeth.

"I...I'm fine. I had a run-in with a couple of drunks." You meet his eyes deliberately and give him a deliberate, knowing look. "But I was saved....by the Joker."

As you'd intended, your words evoke a subtle response. His eyes flicker with something that could easily be described as mischief, and a faint blush rises in his cheeks.

"Weren't you frightened?" He asks, simply.

You would shake your head but you're afraid that if you do he'll withdraw his hand from your cheek.

"No he was....unexpectedly kind. Really kind, actually." You hesitate a moment, pausing for effect. "And a surprisingly good kisser too."

His blush deepens but he fights to keep himself from smiling. "O-oh really?"

You sit and wait patiently. You're not entirely sure what you're waiting for. Maybe for him to come clean and admit that he is Joker. Or better still, for him to kiss you again.

But he doesn't do either of those things. Even with his large hand lightly cupping your face, he remains infuriatingly still, and you almost want to cry with frustration.
It's almost impossible for you to keep looking at him. A surge of heat ripples through your body and heat floods your face, but you endure it.

You wonder if he feels it too, as you both sit in silence looking at one another; close enough to share the same breath. His thumb slowly traces down the curve of your cheek, then brushes along your lower lip. The contact makes you gasp like you've been holding your breath under water, and your eyes slide shut.

He clears his throat and removes his hand. When you open your eyes he has his back to you, hastily refastening his shirt.

"So you....do you like him?" He ventures, an edge of caution creeping into his honeyed voice. "Joker."

He's searching for some sort of confirmation. Hadn't you made it clear enough that you knew that he was the man in the red suit? The infamous Joker. The man who had saved you.

Maybe not.

"I don't dislike him." You smile wryly and turn back to sit properly on the couch, your face now blazing.

He turns around almost reluctantly, suddenly all shy again.
As he reaches up to drag a hand through his hair, you notice the same grazed, bruised knuckles that you'd noticed the previous night when he'd fastened up your coat.

If there had been any doubt left in your mind, there certainly wasn't now.

Arthur Fleck is Joker.

The revelation was sobering for a number of reasons. His actions, most would say, were deplorable. He'd brought Gotham to it's knees. He was a murderer. An anarchist.

But Arthur was a kind, gentle man. He wasn't a monster. Whatever he had done there had to be valid reasons for it. An explanation for why he had strayed down such a destructive path.

You wouldn't give up on him, you decided. Perhaps, your feelings for him run much deeper than what you'd first realised. That had to be the case, because suddenly you're filled with fear. It makes your blood run cold, the thought of him being captured or injured.

You have to keep him safe.

"Arthur, do you need a place to stay?" You blurt out suddenly, your random question catching him off-guard.

His brows lift in surprise. "A place to stay?"

"Yes. Because..." You don't finish.

You want to say the police will be looking for him, but he must already know that. The problem is he hasn't yet admitted to being Joker.
Maybe he was waiting for you to say it first. To ask him outright or level the accusation at him. Unless of course he hasn't yet realised that you've figured it out.

"You can stay here." You continue, somewhat desperately. "Please. I want you to stay with me, Arthur. I...I don't want to be alone. I'd feel safer having you around."

You're safe. I'm here.

Those were the very words he'd said to you last night.

In truth, you didn't feel unsafe in your own home. You just want Arthur here to keep him safe, and the irony isn't lost on you. You were practically begging a killer clown to stay with you.

"Okay." He replies finally, the word spoken so softly it's barely audible.

And that was how Gotham's most wanted man became your roommate.....