Warnings: Alcohol use, some (imagined) descriptions of violence.

A/N: I just love them so much what can I say.

...

Nancy leaned over Jennifer, laying on the couch, her head turned to the right, fingers interlaced over her stomach, one foot laying over the other. Her overall sleeping position seemed too perfect for her to actually be asleep, Nancy thought, as she peered down at her friend.

Nancy poked Jennifer square in the ribs. "Hey, sleepyhead. We're supposed to have brunch today at 11, remember?"

Jennifer barely opened her eyes to glare at Nancy. "That doesn't sound like something I'd agree to do."

"You're a drunkard who likes to party on Saturday nights. Brunch was invented for people like you."

Jennifer groaned and covered her face with her hands.

"Oh no, you look great," Nancy complemented sarcastically. "Best I've ever seen you." She waved an index finger over Jennifer's face, smeared in a mess of make-up. "Is this intentional, by the way? It's hard for me to tell." Nancy was by no means a punk rocker. The women met at the laundromat. Jennifer wondered aloud why Nancy's clothes had blood on them; Nancy had the same query of Jennifer.

"I feel like shit."

"What else is new?"

Jennifer huffed, before throwing her legs over the side of the couch and rising quickly. She felt a rush of blood to her head and attendant dizziness, but she did her best to ignore it. She stumbled a bit on her way to her kitchen. Which did not go unnoticed.

"C'mon, I know you like to party, but this has been a bit much lately…."

Jennifer ignored her friend as she looked around her kitchen. She found what she was looking for in a half-drunk bottle of Jack Daniel's. She swiftly twisted off the cap and downed a few gulps.

Nancy sighed. She shoved her hands into her overcoat as she looked off to the side. "You miss him that much." It wasn't a question.

"Miss who?"

Nancy laughed dryly. "Your psychotic clown boyfriend, that's who."

Jennifer gave Nancy an askance glare. "If you don't mind, I'd like to be alone right now."

"Ohhhhh no, that's the last thing you need."

Jennifer slammed the bottle of Jack down on her kitchen counter, so hard some of the liquid jumped up and out of the top. "I don't…." she started, but didn't finish. Nancy came up to her.

Jennifer shook her head. "It's just…. After everything else that's happened in my life…. Then this…." Tears welled up in her eyes.

She shook her head, took a deep breath. A dry laugh. "Best part is, because of all this…bullshit, I get to see his goddamn face everywhere—" She took the bottle of Jack and threw it full-force against the far wall of the kitchen, sending shards of glass flying and whiskey spraying.

Nancy knew she was referring to the constant news coverage of the riots and their aftermath; of Joker's turning himself in and his awaiting trial in Arkham; of his public defender trying to pull a plausible insanity defense out of the mess of a situation; of the Gotham City DA, an old friend of the Waynes, who was out for blood.

Jennifer let out a trembling breath, pursed her lips. Nancy could see the cracks forming.

"Hey," Nancy reached for her friend, grasped her arms and turned Jennifer toward her. "I know, okay? I know."

Nancy drew her into a hug. A few muffled sobs escape from Jennifer. They stood in silence for a while.

Taking a deep breath, Jennifer drew back. Nancy cupped her face.

"C'mon, let's get you cleaned up, then go gorge like pigs on some rich food, hmm? I got just the place…."

….

Everything was stark white. Clean. Sanitized. He was expecting it to have gone downhill considerably since he was last there, upon his turning himself in.

He laughed to himself. No one had expected that. The clown that had inadvertently started a movement, sparked days-long rioting and looting, had just waltz into Arkham of his own accord and turned himself in. They thought he would just vanish into whatever void he had walked cackling out of, or would be found and killed in putting up a fight, maybe ratted out by one of followers–something dramatic. Not some frail man in street clothes, mumbling and even apologizing to the admission nurse because he hadn't entered his home address right on the forms.

He was surprised to find how…mixed the treatment was this time around. Despite the meek manor of his surrender. His last stint in Arkham, he was met with indifference, scorn, condescension. There was certainly some of that this time around from a few of them, but there was also wariness, fear. Some of them were even…nice. Respectful.

Such as Bob, the orderly who kept watch over him most days.

"Mr. Fleck," he had addressed him the first time. Arthur was so unused to being so addressed, he had done a double take.

"Um, I'm just Arthur," he had shook his head.

"Some of us would disagree," Bob pointed out in a low voice, so no one around them could hear. "But whatever you feel comfortable with."

The days Bob was there, Arthur was always given hello's, please's, thank you's; he was promptly and politely reminded of and escorted to meals in the cafeteria, to recreation periods in Arkham's recreation hall, to meetings with his lawyer; the younger, bigger man did his best to ensure any mandated shackling wasn't too uncomfortable, that any amenities that could be extended to Arthur were—even if it was just ensuring that the harsh fluorescent lighting in Arthur's cell was extinguished at night, or the vents in the wall were properly piping heat into the room, or that the linens on his cot had been changed.

The guard who worked nights was one of the indifferent ones, which was fine, since Arthur was usually conked out on the cocktail of meds they fed him before that orderly would even start his shift.

The man who worked on the weekends and the occasional weekday was one of the bad ones. He gave no thought to Arthur's dignity or comfort. What did any of that matter, as long as the freak was kept in line?

That man was unfortunately working today.

Arthur's cell opened, and he opened his eyes to see the wiry man with a semi-permanent scowl enter at the far end of the room.

Arthur frowned at the sight of him, for a multitude of different reasons on this day. "What do you want?"

"Oooh, a little snippy today, aren't we Bozo?"

For a slight moment, like a flash of lightening in Arthur's brain, he considered jumping the man. Grasping his skull and ramming it, again and again, into the nearest hard surface, turning it into pulp, like he had someone else's head, a lifetime ago, but he pushed the thought away.

He had to be good. For her, least. If not for himself.

"Your new shrink is here to visit you."

He hadn't expected that.

Well, he knew his last one had quit. Bob had informed him of that. The Ivy League asshole with the spectacles through which he looked down at Arthur, his charge, the challenging Project he was sure all his education and intelligence could be used to fix, or at least considerably subdue. Of all people to have paired with the Joker.

"C'mon, I gotta get your jewelry on and escort you over to the visitor's room she's in."

She. Hmm. Another surprise. Not that it really mattered either way.

"Will this take long?"

"I donno. What does it matter? It's not like you're going anywhere."

Arthur opened his mouth slightly, then closed it. "I guess not."

As he was escorted through the bland, white halls of Arkham, he spotted his reflection in the windows that looked into certain rooms. He could see himself and see how much he had aged even just in these past few months. All the grey streaks and deeper lines that hadn't been there before.

The wiry guard–Dale–lead him into one of the visitation rooms, where inside, waiting patiently, was an African American woman, maybe somewhere in her 30s, dressed nicely. Officious. Professional.

His first reaction was to hate her, because she instantly reminded him of Deborah Kane, who had failed him so many times. Although…this one had a bit more life in her eyes, and dare he say, some sympathy in her face?

"Arthur Fleck, please sit down. My name is Leslie Thompkins, and I'm going to be your new therapist."

Arthur just stood, staring at Thompkins for a beat. Dale forced him down into his chair by his shoulders. He grimaced. "Gladly."

Thompkins turned to Dale. "You can leave now," she said simply, with a polite smile.

"Uh uh, regulations say–"

"The same regulations that were not followed two weekends ago when you were on duty and Mr. Fleck here reported being shoved into a wall, and having his restraints on so long that welts and bruises formed on his wrists and ankles?" She read off of a complaint form in the file bearing Fleck's name.

Dale rolled his jaw, as he looked hard at the woman in front of him. He eventually shrugged. "You deal with the freak as you see fit, I suppose." With that, Dale sauntered out of the room.

"There. Now it's just the two of us."

Arthur's eyes shifted down to the microphone pointed up at him, connected to a reel-to-reel recorder, before shifting back up to Thompkins.

"As you can see, it's not on. Tapes aren't moving. It's just the two of us," she reiterated.

Arthur just continued to stare at her.

She nodded; Leslie figured this particular patient would need a lot of cajoling before opening up. She reached down to the soft leather briefcase sitting aside her chair and opened it. She pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter. She set them on the table between them.

Arthur eyed them suspiciously. "The other guy thought of that, too."

Leslie smiled. "I'm not that other guy. He supplied you a carrot after so many weeks of using a stick. I'm simply making a peace offering, right off the bat."

Without hesitation, Leslie reached forward and opened the pack of–Stuttons. Was that in his file that he liked those? He couldn't figure how. Maybe it was simply that it was one of the cheaper brands, and she had surmised correctly that for someone as poor as he was, it was most likely his preferred brand.

He sighed. Either way, he was craving nicotine so badly…. He accepted a proffered cigarette, kept his hands still as the good doctor even lit it for him.

His eyes closed as he took his first drag in a long time.

"Thank you."

"Of course."

"What do you want."

"Just to try and help you."

Arthur huffed disbelievingly at that.

Leslie flipped through his file. "Dr. Ainsworth spent four months poking and prodding–figuratively speaking–to determine what made you tick. To determine how. I'm more interested in why…."

The good doctor's voice was starting to fade out, as Arthur relaxed. The effect of the nicotine and the slew of drugs coursing through his system having a dulling effect. His mind floated away…landing on whatever thought, image, came to him.

Something Bob told him came to mind, and he started to smile. Eventually laugh.

"What so funny?" Leslie inquired.

Arthur imagined it: Dear old…Dad. Stepmom? Baby brother, as Jennifer had called him. The first two lying dead in a dinghy alleyway, the third looking on helplessly…. He couldn't have helped that. It wasn't his doing–not directly. One of his followers had done the deed. Indirectly, however, one could make a case. He thought back to what happened, tracing the causal chain of events backwards, on and on, until finally landing on a rich young man making eyes at his maid with the beautiful smile….

He continued to cackle, until he was hiccuping and wheezing. He shook his head. "Just…thinking of some–something of a joke."

"You want to tell it to me?"

He thought about that, but decided against it. "You wouldn't get it."

Leslie cocked her head. Interesting. Particularly as he started mumble-singing the lyrics to a song–Frank Sinatra? If she had to guess. Of course, Mr. Fleck was a fascinating case from a clinical standpoint, but she was skilled at always keeping sight of a patient's humanity, of their experiences and their effect. Despite living in Gotham for most of her life, she had been able to maintain a healthy empathy and sympathy with others, which she applied with care in her job.

"I know how hard it is to believe, after everything you've been through, but I am here to help you." From the same soft leather briefcase, Leslie produced an ashtray.

Arthur's eyes moved up to her. Alright, he would entertain her. She had been nice enough. "And how do you believe you're going to do that, Doctor?"

Leslie took a deep breath, before leaning forward. "Life is composed of many moments, good and bad. Lovely and horrible. Uplifting and traumatic. The good makes the bad bearable, enables us to go on, day and after day, as we try to navigate our way to living…an acceptable life."

Arthur scoffed. "A little late for me, hmm?"

"It's never too late for anyone, Mr. Fleck."

Moving his head side to side, Arthur whispered, "Much, much too late…." The sadness in the man's eyes did rend Leslie's heart a little.

"Well, let's consider Arthur Fleck in particular," Leslie proposed. "You've been indicted with the homicide of six people. Your public defender, Duncan, appears to think your best bet is to argue the M'Naughten defense. If he prevails, you'll likely spend the rest of your life here, in Arkham, but you'll be relatively safe. Freer, to see any loved ones or friends. If he doesn't, at worst, you'll be sentenced to die."

"Sounds lovely." Arthur stubbed out his cigarette in the provided ash tray. He looked at the box. "Can I have another?"

"Sure." Leslie pulled out another cigarette and lit it for him. God, how he had missed them.

"Which of the two options I just gave you, would you prefer, do you think?"

A cloud of smoke blew out of Arthur's mouth upon an aggravated exhale. He wasn't quite sure what to make of this woman. She was challenging him, in a way he wasn't entirely sure he hated, which in itself annoyed him. In a flash, he had an image of banging her head against the table, repeatedly, until the stark white room filled with blood, to where he was walking out, leaving behind a bloody trail, as he would inevitably run into some Arkham goons, who would try to tackle and subdue him.

Instead…he mulled over her options. There was a time when he would have been fine with death. Would have simply accepted that possibility. But her mentioning seeing loved ones made him think, long for, miss. Despise the idea of being taken from this world too soon.

"I guess, the first of those options would be better."

Leslie smiled. "That option will require more work. More…consideration, reflection. Change, for the better."

That still seemed like a tall order at that point, and he said as much.

"I have faith you can do it. I don't propose becoming a model prisoner, or patient, but someone who can find peace within himself."

"I don't see how that's possible."

Leslie questioned, with her eyes, with a tilt of her head, but remained silent.

"Too much…garbage from the past. Stuff you don't just…get over." He'd heard that a lot in his life: "Just get over it." It was grating, uncaring, irrational.

"As I said earlier, life is filled with good and bad. Both are inevitable. The former makes the latter bearable, they are inexplicably linked, and together, they give life meaning, if we can step back and give them the correct perspective."

Arthur eyed her incredulously.

"Tell me something, Mr. Fleck. Let's say you were offered the chance to erase all the bad memories–everyone of them–but along with them you lost every good memory as well. A sort of voluntary amnesia. Would you take it?"

What an odd question. Thompkins had stared straight into his eyes when she posed it to him; it wasn't read robotically off a sheet of paper.

He considered it. Almost immediately, his mind went to Jennifer–to all his memories of her, even the one or two moments that weren't so pleasant at the time–and he dwelled in her presence, even if only inside his own head. His mind also flashed to the rare times of joy in his childhood, of the scant times Penny had been a loving mother to him. To later, of children he had brought a smile to at birthday parties and hospital wards. To the hundreds cheering him on as he stood atop a broken cop car.

"No."

Leslie nodded. She opened up a notebook and switched on the recorder. "Let's get started."

….

It wasn't much longer before their hour and a half was up. Arthur still wasn't entirely sure about Leslie Thompkins and what she was offering him. It was so…different. And different could be good or bad. She did seem to care, but….

His thoughts were interrupted by Dale shoving him into his cell. In short order, he was freed of his shackles, and left alone to his own devices.

Arthur remained sitting on the edge of his cot, waiting. Finally, the knock came. "Time for lunch."

He stood up quickly. The door opened to reveal Bob, rather than Dale. "You ready?"

…..

"You've got to be kidding me," Jennifer said to Nancy, after the cab dropped them off at their destination.

Le Petit Coeur. If she remembered her high school French correctly, that translated to "the small heart." It was a strange though fitting name for one of the favorite restaurants of Gotham's elite.

"Why here?" No wonder Nancy had insisted Jennifer dress up a little–vetoing her usual leather moto jacket and jeans, and picking out slacks, a turtleneck, and electric blue blazer not worn in forever for Jennifer instead. Why Nancy herself was dressed in a billowy white blouse, tailored skirt, and heels.

"We're treating ourselves," Nancy announced proudly. "We deserve it." She locked arms with Jennifer before leading her inside.

They had been to this restaurant before. Once. On the eve of Nancy's short-lived marriage to her ex-husband, Jennifer had decided to spoil her friend with the fanciest lunch, shopping, a theater performance–the full nine yards.

They had dressed up even more then, but they still received disapproving looks from the restaurant's usual customers, who didn't recognize Nancy and Jennifer as one of their own.

It was such a strange contrast to now. Jennifer could even recognize some of the same people, but nearly everyone avoided their gaze, kept a guarded stance, spoke quietly. There was a certain tension in the air that was unmistakable.

Although, Nancy didn't seem to notice, or care. She waltz right in to the main dining room, following the matre d'hotel to their table. Odd–Jennifer had had to call ahead six weeks to reserve a table; Nancy had just announced their party size, and within 20 minutes they were sitting down.

Nancy immediately picked up the menu placed before her, surveying the available options. Jennifer took a moment before picking up hers. She was shocked to see the prices had also dropped considerably since they had last been here, though they were still by no means cheap.

Still, the whole thing was so strange.

"What happened?" Jennifer asked aloud, as she glanced around the room.

"Hmmm?" Nancy hummed as she took a sip of her chilled ice water.

"Things are so…different, since we were here last."

"Better, right?" Nancy smiled.

"I…I'm not sure. I guess?"

"All thanks to a certain someone."

Nancy hadn't said his name, but she hadn't had to. "What do you mean?"

"Ever since…that night, and the riots and everything that followed, the rich in this town are scared shitless. Staying home more often, avoiding their usual haunts, or leaving Gotham altogether." Nancy raised her glass. "And people like us get to reap the benefits."

It was hard for Jennifer to wrap her head around Arthur's actions having such far reaching effects.

"I think I need a drink," Jennifer announced, as she set her menu down.

"I figured." Nancy called on the nearest waiter, who was quick to wait on them. Within moments, Jennifer had a scotch in hand, and they had ordered their food. Jennifer enjoyed a well-cooked piece of salmon, before devouring her own creme brulee–which dessert they had had to share last time, to save money. Along with a few more drinks, and chatting and laughing about whatever with a good friend, Jennifer did feel better after brunch. She was grateful to Nancy for ignoring her and dragging her out like she had.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself," Nancy asked later, as they stopped in front of Jennifer's building.

"I'll try," Jennifer said, somewhat weakly.

….

He was taking a huge risk, possibly being seen–having left Arkham at all, really. But he couldn't take it anymore. he had to try and see her, at least.

He was scared he was starting to forget what she looked like, even though it had only been months since he last saw her, not years. Not yet. He didn't have a photograph of her. At one point, he had asked for colored pencils and paper, and Bob ensured he got them. The ends weren't sharpened, and he didn't really have much artistic ability as it was, so he shortly found himself giving up on trying to recreate whatever was left in his memory.

Arthur looked up at his old building with a mix of hope and fear. If Jennifer was anywhere, it would be here. But it was also the one place where he'd be sure to be spotted. Bob had supplied him with sunglasses, a cap to tuck his hair into, shearling-lined jacket, and jeans–nothing he usually wore, but still. His face was already plastered over every newspaper and television screen; any former neighbor would surely spot him right away.

Bob had found a place across the street that seemed relatively safe, where they could smoke and drink, meld into the background, and hopefully go unnoticed. Arthur's nerves were still on edge, especially after almost an hour had passed and he still had seen no sign of Jennifer.

"So, this is where you used to live?"

Arthur nodded, but didn't take his eyes away from the building. "Yeah."

"I don't live too far from here, actually. Maybe we passed by each other sometimes…."

"Maybe," he mumbled. Arthur's eyes were still trained on the building, shifting between the entrance and the windows of Jennifer's apartment.

"Seen 'em yet?" Bob asked. He hadn't really explained to the younger man who he was so desperate to see. Jennifer was still his secret, one which he guarded jealously. He largely trusted Bob at this point, but one could never be too careful….

"No. Not yet."

"Ah…" Bob took a sip of the beer he was holding. He waited patiently at Arthur's side.

Arthur sighed, looked down briefly. "It's a woman…. I'm watching for a woman."

A little, knowing smile crept onto Bob's face. "I understand."

About ten more minutes passed in silence. His breath caught, when he finally spotted her. She was strolling up to the entrance of their building with someone else, reaching into her pocket for her keys. He hadn't immediately recognized her when she walked up; she was dressed in a bright blue blazer and turtleneck he'd never seen her wear before. But God, did she look beautiful.

He found himself moving forward. In spite of the great risk. In spite of the fact that she was with someone–that nurse, he determined, the more he studied the other woman.

A large hand came down on his shoulder, squeezed it gently. "Don't, Mr. Fleck."

Arthur took in a pained breath. "You're right…." He shook his head. "No, you're right, it's just–"

God, did he want to touch her. Run up and envelop her in his arms, crash his lips down on hers, and never let go. Express every inappropriate thought he'd had about her late at night alone in his cell, and then proceed to act them out with her, over and over and over again…. At the very least, he just wanted her to look at him, like he was looking at her now.

The nurse departed. Jennifer was walking through their courtyard, up to the entrance of the building.

Arthur was glued to the spot. He was transfixed by her, even so far away.

Jennifer felt strangely. Like she was being watched, which actually, as of late, hadn't been that unusual a feeling, but this was different. There was something vaguely…exciting? about it. Thrilling, yet not threatening. It felt good. Familiar.

She stopped, looked around. There were children playing in the courtyard, people hanging out the windows of her building and the others around, talking on the phone, smoking. People passing by on the street–

She spotted someone.

It couldn't be. He wasn't dressed like Arthur….

That wouldn't make sense. He was in Arkham, a highly secured facility where he was under constant watch–

"I always see you." His words echoed in her head.

Jennifer just couldn't be sure. But, if, on the small, miraculous chance it was him….

She raised her left hand, just slightly, and did a little wave.

The man made a similar gesture, waving back.

It could just be some random creep, or a neighbor, trying to be friendly. But the more she stared at the man, the more she was just sure.

Jennifer looked down, examined her keys, fiddled with her purse. Tried to look inconspicuous to whomever else may be watching.

She looked up, and touched her fingers to her lips for a moment, and let her hand fall toward him.

He did the same.

Jennifer pursed her lips. It took all her willpower to move, to force herself to enter her building and disappear from his gaze.

"Take me back," Arthur said on a shaky breath. "Please."

"Sure, Boss," Bob patted Arthur on the shoulder.