#hi everyone my name's arthur and my special talent is making the exact same joke a million fucking times

[autistickaitovocaloid]

#hatoful boyfriend #anghel higure #hi everyone my name's arthur and my special talent is making the exact same joke a million fucking times #this post was brought to you by recalling my first proper foray into botw where i saw a blood moon happening #and on instinct when ''oh shit the demon spores'' before realising what just came out of my mouth #anyway whatever hope you guys like this one bye #id in alt text

[fleckcmscott]

Stepping Stones - Chapter 1

Summary: Y/N and Arthur share a delightful life, one that isn’t perfect but wholly theirs. When his struggles take a serious turn, she's surprised by the toll it exacts. Though the steps they'll have to take aren't easy, walking them together makes all the difference.

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Referenced self-harm, Severe struggles with mental illness

Words: 3,589

A/N: This novella has been bouncing around in my head since last September. At first, I was hesitant to write it, unsure of how the subject matter would be received. But inspiration sparked last month, so I decided to take the leap. 🙂 Special thanks to @sweet-nothings04​ for beta-ing and helping me get the summary right! Also thanks to my colleague Jane the Dame, who spent many years working at a state institution in the 1980s, for answering my questions. 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask! I'm still working on requests and Way Back Home!

The halcyon summer of 1988 was one of Y/N's favorites, filled with good news and great fun. Her oldest nephew, Jason, had been awarded a baseball scholarship to the University of Missouri, where he hoped to study business administration, following in his father's footsteps. In congratulations, she and Arthur had sent enough money to cover textbooks and one of those new graphing calculators. WXYZ ran a contest for The Main Ingredient tickets, and by being the ninth caller on a Wednesday afternoon, Arthur won two nosebleed seats. They'd taken a weekend trip to a bed & breakfast in the Catskills, and spent far more hours in bed than having breakfast.

There were professional achievements, too. Dube & Ellis merged with Flat & Flat Lawyers to become Dube, Ellis, & Flat. (It was fortunate they'd dropped the second "Flat;" her business cards wouldn't've fit in her billfold, otherwise.) The firm now specialized in labor and family cases, and luckily, she had extensive experience with each. After a quick interview process, her title was bumped to senior paralegal, an advancement that added the duties of interviewing witnesses and assisting less experienced staff.

Arthur's work seemed to be going well, too. The season was his favorite, what with the easy availability of gigs and breaks from rain and cold, and his mood since May had been boundless. Most mornings he'd head out to dance and do magic on a corner near Amusement Mile, even if he had an event to work later on. He'd filled notebook after notebook, periodically calling her up at the office to share a joke that couldn't wait. Walks overflowed with animated assertions that he'd get his name on Gotham's biggest marquees, that he'd fill the largest clubs, that it was only a matter of time before everyone recognized his talent.

While his self-confidence had increased, evidenced by knowing grins and occasional swagger, glimmers of arrogance were rare. It struck her as uncharacteristic, but she enjoyed the way it fit him, like the tailored seams of a brand-new suit. Though his ideas were a little grandiose, not quite realistic, the determination behind his assertions made her smile. Success in all aspects of his life, whether it be performing, happiness in his own skin, or managing his symptoms, were goals they shared. Vital elements she cherished, that made their partnership thrive.

As the last tendrils of August heat gave way to the cool breezes of late September, a shift pricked her perception. He'd had rough patches since they'd gotten together - a month when he hadn't felt up to intimacy, a week when he'd stayed in, a day when he'd lain morose in bed - and they'd always gotten through. The third night she went to bed alone, however, she began to sense this was different.

He still practiced his material, went through the motions of bathing his face in white, blue, and red to go spread joy to a kid. He functioned. But she'd find him on the sofa in the same position she'd left him the night before. The lights in the apartment blazed, whether it was 2:00 AM or 2:00 PM, like he was trying to chase back shadows visible only to him. Retreats to his writing nook increased, stretching on and on. She brought him coffee when she thought he was running low, gave his neck a quick massage, ensured he knew she was there for him. Moments of loneliness seeped into her soul, but she did her best to ignore them. Journaling had helped Arthur cope for as long as she'd known him. Though she ached for him to confide in her, she believed respecting his space was the right thing to do.

But she reported the changes to Dr. Ludlow, stated she suspected he was slipping.

"Continue to monitor him," Dr. Ludlow said, "and update me with any symptoms that are clearly excessive."

Frustration caused Y/N to stare at the receiver before hanging up. How was she supposed to judge what was "clearly excessive" versus what was "mildly excessive" when all of it troubled her? She tried to think back to the books she'd read after Arthur's appearance on Live! With Murray Franklin, and quickly concluded she was due for a re-read.

When the date night she'd crafted went awry, she finally resolved to investigate. Candles burned and his favorite LP played, yet his beloved dish of beef stroganoff and egg noodles lay untouched. He'd barely spoken, tossing her a spare nod every so often. Failing to fill the void of conversation by herself unnerved her. His thumb traced the edge of the table. She rested her chin on her knuckles. "You haven't been eating much," she said. "Do you want to try something new?"

"No."

"All right. But we could look through some of your cookbooks. Maybe we'll find an old favorite." She paused to ponder her words, not wanting to let on that it was getting more difficult to leave him alone for eight hours a day. "You're not yourself. Not lately."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I see you and talk to you, but it's like you're not there half the time. You're not sleeping, you're tenser than when we met." She covered his hand with hers and forced a slight grin. "I don't know where that gorgeous head of yours is. I'd like to."

On a curt huff, he shook his head. "No, you wouldn't." He picked up his fork to poke at a puddle of sauce and proceeded to lie to her for the first time she could remember. "I don't want you worrying about me. I'm fine. I'll be fine."

The obvious untruth in his answer and his stubborn refusal to admit he was struggling evoked an earlier period of her life. The one in which her father had forgotten his patients' appointments and begun to lose vocabulary, resorting to describing diagnoses instead of naming them. Even with her mother, sister, and herself pushing him to get checked out, the normally open man brushed off their concerns like they were a brood of anxious hens. Y/N's worry morphed into anger, a burning coal in her chest. She flinched and tossed her napkin on the table, buttoned her lip before she confronted him further and said something she'd regret. Grabbing her glass of wine, she excused herself and went out onto the fire escape. Breathed deeply and leaned on the railing until he followed to ask what she wanted to watch.

But less than four days later, she arrived home from work and her fears were validated.

She hung her purse at the door and scurried through the living room, having had to use the restroom since boarding the subway, thanks to an ill-timed cup of coffee. The wet footprints on the cream color carpet went unnoticed, superseded by a dull thumping emanating from behind the bathroom door. Bafflement halted her momentarily; misgivings compelled her to fling it open.

Clad in his briefs, soaked from head to toe, brown locks dripping, Arthur stood at the side of the tub, ramming his forehead against the shower door. Splinters shot through the reeded glass, a cracking sound Y/N would never be able to erase from her ears. Herky-jerky motions possessed his arms, disconnected, agitated. He kept at it. Hard. Harder.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Fear sparked her nerves. Of him, which made her feel awful, and for him, which induced an urge to fight off whatever his conditions were putting him through. The later won out. "Arthur, what the fuck?" she said. Then louder, taking a step towards him. "Arthur!"

Disregarding the possibility of unhinging him further, she grabbed him. Repeated his name until the slamming diminished to a resting of his temple on the door. His shoulders sagged, he panted. Blood formed on his forehead, a drop that expanded to a thin rivulet down his cheek, dribbling off his chin.

She sat him on the toilet, yanked the hand towel from the hanger beside the sink. "Arthur, what's wrong?" Hot water flowed from the faucet after thirteen agonizing seconds. She knelt before him, seized his chin as she wiped coppery flecks away, pressed the terrycloth to the fine cut below his hairline. "I don't know what to do." Shrugged, mumbling incoherently, he dropped his gaze to the floor and gave a smothered laugh. Her voice rose, louder than she intended, and she shook him by the shoulder. "Tell me what to do!"

As if seeing her for the first time, he blinked. The pain of realization crossed his face, tightened the lines at the corner of his eyes, the fine wrinkles around his mouth. With a shiver, he folded in on himself, pushing Y/N back and dropping his head between his knees. "Nothing seems to make a difference," he said.

Freaking out was in order. An honest-to-god, old fashioned case of hysteria. Instead, she willed herself to ignore the growing flames of panic, but she was powerless to stop her eyes from watering. She stood to retrieve his bath towel. Got him to stand, pulled off his underwear, draped it over the radiator. She patted his back, covered with goosebumps and cold, and wrapped the cloth about his waist. A million phrases went through her mind. Sentences full of comfort and solutions, sentences that felt ghastly in their emptiness. She chose the truth. "I'm going to call Dr. Ludlow and see what we can do. I'm not asking permission."

At first, he didn't react. No gestures of compliance, no scowl of defiance. But gradually he dared to meet her gaze, as if begging her not to give up on him, and began to dry himself with the clumsy coordination of a child. She managed a comforting smile, even as her heart split, and gave his bicep a tender squeeze.

~~~~~

Y/N waited in a small, corner room of Arkham State Hospital, which sat smack in the middle of McKean Island, set off from the rest of Gotham like a scapegoat expelled to the wilderness to pay for the city's sins.

Despite the asylum's measly fifteen floors, it dominated its space. Four separate beige buildings, each connected with a skybridge, loomed over the surrounding streets and train tracks. A watchtower sprung from the top of one wing, the one she assumed was for the criminally insane. Bars stretched across every window, even the one she currently peered out, and she lamented that most of what she'd seen so far of this medical facility felt equal parts institution and prison.

More study than workspace, Dr. Kellerman's office was far warmer than the facility's stately façade inferred. Between narrow bookshelves, poplar framed two bachelor's degrees from Gotham University, one in biology, one in psychiatry, alongside an MD degree from Hale, arranged in a circle on almond wallpaper. His license was up to date, renewed four months prior. A certificate for the Elizabeth Arkham Spirit of Medicine award hung in the middle, awarded for "thirty years of outstanding service to the citizens of Gotham." His apparent expertise quelled an ounce of Y/N's anxiousness; ruminating on Arthur preserved the rest.

The desk was wooden, like an old teacher's desk with drawers that no longer rolled smoothly, and pictures of what she assumed were a wife, children, and grandchildren cluttered one end. An Orator intercom speaker took up the other. A calendar pad covered the center, full of scribbles and appointments. And on the right, beside Dr. Kellerman's forearm, sat a doorstop he claimed was Arthur Fleck's file.

"Mrs. Fleck," Dr. Kellerman began. "Dr. Ludlow and I spoke briefly. She sent your husband's records over about an hour ago. Now, they haven't arrived yet, so I'm hoping you can give me a run down. He's been in therapy with her for...six years?" He flipped the folder open, pen poised between the first knuckles of his fingers.

"Seven next January." Y/N leaned forward, craned her neck to look at the top page. Reading upside down, she couldn't make out much more than the Department of Hospitals' twin-snake seal. "Before that, he was in treatment with the Department of Health."

"What was the reason for the change?"

"Budget cuts. The round before last," she said. Dr. Kellerman let out the sigh of one who'd heard that story too often. He indicated she should continue with a quick, but not unkind, wave. "He keeps a journal and takes three medications. Temazepam, fluoxetine, and an anti-psychotic." Frowning, she tried to picture the bottle of white tablets on the bureau in their bedroom, the blue typewriter ink on the label. "I'm sorry, I can't recall which one. It's been a long night."

That was an understatement. As soon as she'd gotten off the phone with Dr. Ludlow, Y/N dialed 911. Arthur and she had spent five hours waiting in Gotham General's emergency department, with him getting more agitated by the minute, only for the attending physician to state they weren't equipped to handle his case. A shot of sedative stuck Arthur's arm as they'd wheeled him into an ambulance for transport. Y/N caressed his cheek before they parted, pecked his slackened lips with the promise to see him soon.

"I'm sure it's all right here," said Dr. Kellerman. He tapped the stack of paperwork before him. "Any changes over the last few weeks? New or odd behaviors that set off your radar?"

She went through what she'd already reported to Dr. Ludlow, the ER staff, and the intake nurse she'd bribed to ensure Arthur got a private room. "Nothing I thought would end in this."

"How about stressors?"

"He had a bad night at the Smile Factory awhile back, a drunk heckler. Occupational hazard - Arthur's a stand-up, mostly works open-mic nights." She counted on her fingers, tried to catalogue everything in her mind. "An old client of mine passed away recently, but they'd only met once or twice."

"Have you been fighting?"

"Only about how worried I've been." Heat flushed up her shoulders and her neck, the scene of shattered glass and blood replaying over and over in her mind, an unwelcome horror film she should have foreseen. If she'd been more attentive, could she have stopped this? The suggestion tore her insides. She crossed her arms over her chest, a fractured shield against her burgeoning guilt. "Dr. Kellerman, he's goes through periods of depression and mania. But he's been doing so well. We had a wonderful summer together. I don't understand what's different now."

"Where the mind and spirit intersect is still a mystery. Medication can stop working. Incidents that would be minor to you or me can build and build until a relapse occurs. Even the changing of seasons, as you just described. Sometimes we can't pinpoint a cause." Dr. Kellerman's eyes narrowed, salt and pepper brows pulling together in concentration. "I'll be calling Dr. Ludlow tomorrow morning to discuss Mr. Fleck's case. Once we've determined an appropriate treatment plan and he signs a release form, I'll contact you. Let me share how a typical stay here wor-"

"Dr. Kellerman?" The intercom crackled to life. "You're needed in ward C."

He reached for the volume knob. "I'm in a meeting, Janet."

"I'm sorry, doctor, but it's a code grey."

"Be right down." He stood and straightened his corduroy suitcoat, then turned his attention back to Y/N. "The ward's charge nurse just had a baby and we were already short staffed." He stopped in the doorway and pointed to his right. "There's a coffee dispenser and vending machine down the hall. Avoid the tuna salad. I'll be back as soon as I can." Y/N listened to his footsteps hastening, fading, the squeak of far-off hinges echoing through the corridor, the slam of a metal door. Hunger and thirst eluded her. Swirling questions - how Arthur was doing, what clothing to bring him, how long he would have to stay - crowded out her needs.

Except for one: to know.

She'd sought to respect his privacy, be satisfied with what he was comfortable confiding. And he'd confided a lot: his history of being deemed a danger to himself, disassociation and hallucinations, his laminated card. But the file on Dr. Kellerman's desk taunted her, a temptation in coffee-stained manila. Maybe a glance would be all right. Just enough to get an idea of what had remedied him in the past so she could replicate it in the future. Just enough to understand him a little better. Just enough to soothe the all-too-familiar ache of helplessness. Scraping her chair forward, she reached to grab the expandable folder with both hands and situated it on her lap.

Its documents were sorted in order from newest to oldest, opposite from how she sorted files in her office. The Department of Hospitals form she'd spied earlier was a psychiatric report, blank besides Arthur's name and today's admission date: 9/27/1988. Experience with court ordered evaluations told her it would take at least two days for it to be completed. She'd have to keep digging.

After a quick peek over her shoulder, she flipped through a bundle of pages, bound by a large, black clamp. They appeared to be weekly reports from a Dr. Kane, notes stating Arthur had trouble spelling, maintaining eye contact, and didn't elaborate on his feelings other than to say he didn't want to feel bad. But he never missed his appointments, even if he didn't do much participating. "Major depressive disorder, suicidal ideation, uncontrollable laughing fits. Inconsistent with bringing journal." Those descriptions pained Y/N, but the rest constricted her throat with pride. "Consistently well-dressed, neat. Polite. Heavy smoker. Prefers butterscotch candies." She snorted lightly. Whoever this Dr. Kane was, she already liked her.

Beneath those notes, about a third of the way through the file, she came across Form-39274, which looked to be an application. The version name in the corner, "Rev. 01/1981," caught her attention; it must have been from his last hospitalization, a scant nine months before they'd become involved. Judging from the two empty hole punches at the top and lack of signature, pages were missing. She read on regardless, desperate to glean as much as she could. There were the usual demographic questions. Whether or not Arthur had ever been married (he hadn't), how many bedrooms were in the apartment (one), if he had a criminal record or unresolved federal or state tax liens - as if that would preclude his need for medical care. (He had neither.) He'd apparently worked up to sixty hours a week, a number of hours that rivalled hers, even when she'd worked for Shaw & Associates.

When she got to the section about his education, a weight dropped into her stomach, as heavy as the concrete bricks of this building. According to this, Arthur had quit school in the tenth grade. The same year his mother had been lobotomized. Y/N held her breath. This was why he'd never gotten invitations to class reunions, why he'd claimed to have forgotten his diploma at 8J and hadn't asked about a replacement, why he thought her "very smart" when, really, she considered herself happily average. The unfairness of the situation he'd been thrown into, the adult choices he'd had to make as an adolescent, tugged the thread tangling her ribs.

The man who'd completed the form had terrible handwriting, some of the worst she'd ever seen. All her practice deciphering affidavits and orders should've come in handy, but she could scarcely make out a sentence: "Laughing all the time." "I don't know - happy or what?" "I really don't understand it." Given this record, a record that denoted a mystery instead of a person, Arthur was lucky he'd escaped Penny's fate. She turned to the folder's final section, where pages yellowed and specks of mold bloomed.

An admissions photo stared back at her, perhaps twenty-years-old, black and white, the size of a recipe card. Happy to finally glimpse Arthur's earlier self, she brought it closer. His gaze was blank, averted from the camera, his full lips agape. Wisps of dark hair stuck out from behind his ears, his curls as unruly as when he'd try to slick them into submission for a special occasion. Her fingernail traced the round apple of his cheek, not yet sharpened by the chisel of age and hammer of life. He'd held such beauty in his youth, a beauty that had matured into the handsome man who held the power to steal her breath whenever he walked into the room.

Suddenly, a sob shuddered through her, down to her bones. This photograph wasn't a joyful memory. It existed because he'd struggled, isolated and weary, for nearly three decades. Longer than he, longer than anyone deserved. If her circumstances back in Boonville hadn't turned into a leaky hull, if she'd gotten to Gotham sooner, she would have made a difference. Sure, she might not have had much money, a newly divorced transplant finding her feet. But she could have done something.

She rolled her eyes at herself and put the photo back in its place. Closed the folder and dropped it on the desk. Shoulda, woulda, couldas wouldn't do either of them any good. She wasn't a savior and he didn't need saving. What he needed was for her to be here with her feet planted firmly in the present. In reality. She grabbed a tissue from her purse, determined to pull herself together before Dr. Kellerman returned.

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