Chapter Text
It was chaos in the streets, but you had no other choice but to brave the madness and work your way back to your apartment. People were running around, some holding weapons while others simply used their voice. You had already heard what happened on live television and your heart raced. Was this really what Gotham had turned into?
The last thing you had expected on your walk home was for a tall, slender man to pull you into an ally way to beg you for help.
"I need to get out of here," the man panted, hands clutching the material of your shirt, "please, I'm injured."
You knew right away who this man was, and fear chilled every bone in your body. His clown painted face and blood-soaked clothes were enough to confirm this was indeed the Joker. He was very injured, and the med student in you kicked into action.
"Fine, follow me," your voice was stern and to the point as you rushed in the direction of your apartment building. "I need you to put this on and tuck your hair into it," you said, handing Joker your winter beanie.
Hastily and with shaking hands, the Joker shoved his long unnatural green hair into the hat and rushed after you. As long as the cops were overwhelmed with the riots, they shouldn't pay attention to one more weirdo in clown makeup. A small part of your brain scolded you for offering a killer help, but It wasn't like you disagreed with the guy.
You used to be a medical student. Top of your class, but then the scholarship lost funding, and it was either drop out or be millions of dollars in debt. You chose the first option. Your dream was to become a doctor, but you had to settle with being a barista for the local grubby coffee shop. It wasn't glorious or fulfilling, but it paid the bills and kept you fed. That's all you could ask from this piece of shit city.
You finally reached your apartment building, and for the first time since he grabbed you, you looked back to see if he was following. And sure enough, he was close behind, limping, but keeping up. You opened the door for him and pointed to the elevators.
"Don't rush, you'll look more suspicious," you warned when you saw his wide eyes and shaking hands. "it'll be okay, I'm right behind you," you said as he nodded and walked carefully to the elevator. You hopped in beside him and pressed the fifth-floor button. The doors shut, and you looked at your unwanted partner. This was the man who killed 3 people weeks ago and just shot a tv personality on live television. Yet he didn't look like he could harm a fly.
Pain clearly lined his face, and your heart squeezed. You never did well with seeing others in pain. Ironic for a med student, but that's what compelled you to fix the problems. You wanted to heal people. To stop the pain. You wanted to end this man's pain, and that scared the hell out of you.
The elevator dinged, and you jumped. When you focused on Joker, you noticed he was looking at you with a cocked head. A chill ran through you, and you weren't sure if it was from fear or something far more sinister. You didn't want to think of it, so instead, you rushed out of the elevator and headed straight to your door.
Apartment E24. It wasn't much, but it was home. You pushed the now unlocked door open and threw your backpack into the corner. You rushed to your medicine cabinet and pulled out your first aid kit, your suture kit, and a few stolen goods from the hospital. You hurried back into the main room to see the man awkwardly looking around.
"You can sit on the couch," you said, pointing your hand in the general direction of the couch, "oh, but maybe you should take your shirt off? I need to see if you have any major injuries to your torso." You were going into autopilot as the routine of checking wounds swept over you. You observed as the man carefully undid the buttons of his vest and his stained white shirt.
When the clothes fell onto the couch next to him, your breath caught. The man was incredibly underweight, ribs, and backbone clearly visible. Along with the thin frame, there were cuts and bruises all over his pale skin. You didn't want to use the suture kit, but a few cuts looked particularly ugly.
"I'm going to have to touch you, is that okay," you said as you pulled on rubber gloves. The Joker nodded, still silent since you agreed to help him. You kneeled in front of him and began your evaluation. A large gash marred his face, but some Butterfly tape should do the trick. You put some alcohol onto a cotton ball and dabbed it gently. The man visibly clenched and your heart once again squeezed.
"I know it stings, but it'll feel better once they are all cleaned," you looked into his eyes as you spoke and hoped he could feel your sincerity. While you cleaned the cuts and scrapes on his face, you also removed what was left of his makeup. The face underneath was lined and sunken in, but it was also heart clenching in its sadness. You continued to work your way through the injuries, and much to your relief, none demanded stitches. You'll have to look back on two deep gashes in a few days to make sure the butterfly tape was enough.
"The good news is you don't have a concussion and none of your injuries require any serious medical attention," he watched you intently as you spoke, almost following every movement of your lips, "the bad news is you have two cracked ribs and a few gashes I'm worried about. They'll be painful to heal, and I need to keep an eye on them."
"Do you know who I am," his voice was gravelly and horse.
"Yes," you held your breath as he began to laugh suddenly. You were taken aback as the man wheezed and clutched at his sides. "you're going to have to cut that out if you want your ribs to heal correctly," you warned, but he didn't stop. Instead, he fumbled around in the pile of clothes to his right and practically threw a business card at you.
Please excuse my laughter, I have a condition, and my laughing doesn't reflect how I'm feeling.
Oh. You've heard of this syndrome before. What was it called again? Pseudobulbar affect, or more commonly known as PBA. The man began to groan between bouts of laughter. Blood seeping out of his mouth.
"look at me," you placed both hands on either side of his face, forcing him to look at you, "breathe with me, okay? 1,2,3 in. Okay, now hold it. 1,2,3 out." You continued to do breathing exercises with him until the laughter slowed and eventually stopped.
You were about to remove your hands when panic ran through his face, and his slim hands clutched at your wrists. "just a moment more, please," his voice was desperate, and your soft heart let him have another few moments.
This time when your hands slipped from his face, he didn't stop you. Instead, he sighed and gave you a small smile. "so what do I call you," you asked as you cleaned up the mess around you.
"My name is Arthur," his voice was soft, almost childlike, "Arthur Fleck."
"Well, Arthur, it looks like you're stuck with me until those fully heal," you said, pulling the rubber gloves off your hands.
"What do I call you," he asked as you walked away.
"You can call me Jon, for now, you okay sleeping on the couch," he nodded, and you flicked your wrist as a goodbye before collapsing onto your bed.
What a night. You worked a double shift then brought a crazy serial killing clown home. A killer clown who is now curled up on your couch while you try to sleep soundly in the other room.