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The Encounter

Summary: A magazine sets Arthur's imagination aflame. Y/N's comes around.

Words: 3,689

Warnings: Adult situation

A/N: My husband came up with the premise of this piece (he swears he's not trying to tell me something 😆), and @sweet-nothings04 formally made it a request. After five drafts, it's time to put this out there. I hope you all enjoy! Thanks for your continued support! 💜

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask. Requests for Arthur and WWH are open!

Soy sauce, cooking sherry, bamboo shoots, Century 50+ vitamins...

Arthur double-checked the grocery list with each item he stacked on the conveyor belt. Nine in all, right on the cusp of the express lane's ten item limit. The lady behind him harumphed, her cart grazing his rear, a warning she was keeping count. He ignored her in favor of the list's last line. Thank you! XOXO. Unwinding into a grin, he tucked the paper in his pocket. Held his shopping basket with both hands.

The red and white checkout light flashed on and off. A scouring pad of noise scrubbed through the store's speakers. "Price check on five, please. Price check on five."

At three people deep, he couldn't quite decipher the disagreement. But the middle-aged man in a sweat stained straw hat shoving a flyer at the cashier made one thing clear: this would be a wait.

Arthur rocked on his heels, his gaze sweeping along the checkout display. Jolly Jack chocolate bars and Wrigley's gum, Pocketmist cinnamon breath spray and Calico lighters, goodies whose cheap prices itched the most budget conscious wallet. A row of tabloids topped off the racks, plying the pulpiest stories this side of McKean Island. "Murray Franklin's Divorce Disaster!" announced one, "Y2K a Sign of the End Times?" scared another.

A ruckus from the register. Straw Hat's fists now planted firmly on hips. The conveyor belt stopped and started in stuttering spurts. Cart Lady's wheels nipped at Arthur's heels.

He stayed stalwart, skimming and scrutinizing the cover line of Woman's Weekly's lead article. "Light Your Fire: Ways to Recharge Your Love Life." He flexed his thighs.

Though he and Y/N remained deeply in love, their bedroom flames had reduced to embers. Heated but slow to burn. Given he was sliding down the other side of The Hill at fifty-one and on medication, his libido needed a bundle of kindling, a prod to sizzle and sear.

When they'd last bought a bottle of personal lubricant was a distant memory. On more mornings than not, her stockings conceded to pantyhose. She'd fallen asleep during a back rub last week. Soft snores on the pillow, his hands covered in Voltaren, its hospital hallway smell stinging his nostrils. She'd apologized the next morning. Snaked into his underwear for a stroke. But they hadn't taken it any further.

The scouring pad scrubbed again. "Backup on five, please. Backup on five."

He grabbed the breath spray and magazine, ink already staining his fingers, and added them to his nine items. Cart Lady pushed her cart into his butt, but he barely noticed, possibilities already painting his mind.

Y/N and he were older and comfortable and oh so happy - and needed a Bang, Zoom in their routine. If he read the article and decided it wasn't for them, he'd say he'd bought the weekly for the French onion baked potatoes recipe on page thirty-eight.

~~~~~

Y/N reclined against the arm of the couch, shorts clad legs stretched out before her as she leafed through a deposition transcript. While she'd gotten seventy-two percent better about bringing work home, Wanda's Post-it note promising You'll love this had been impossible to resist. The testimony was a hoot in its dumb blatantness, a brick of stupidity thrown straight through the law. The easiest case her firm had had in a long, long time.

She took a gulp of iced tea, pushed wire frame reading glasses up the bridge of her nose. "You know," the manager in the transcript testified. "If I'd known there was a tape recorder, I wouldn't'ah asked her to take her top off." If only every asshole revealed himself so shamelessly.

Over the edge of oversized legal paper, Arthur padded in from the kitchen. His World's Best Husband mug was in hand (an anniversary gift that made a daily appearance), a rolled-up magazine tucked under his arm. He sat next to her, set the mug on the coffee table, lifted her calves and laid them in his lap.

"I saw this at the store the other day," he said, unfurling the periodical.

Though Woman's Weekly wasn't her usual reading material, she made a soft sound. "For me?"

"No. Well, yes." He riffled through the pages. "For us." He held out a two-page layout printed on a background of yellow roses. Lurid cursive scrolled along the top: "For Lovers Only, Ideas to Fan the Flames."

Giggling, she wiggled her toes in delight. Despite her steely grays and the eleven pounds menopause had put on her hips and abdomen, his desire was to want her. To say again and again, I choose you.

She chose him, too. And their sparks could use a good fanning, a two-foot bellows to stoke them into flames. Dr. Sally's Guide to Marital Intimacy, with its nicked dust cover and dog-eared pages, was a companion in the nightstand drawer. But following its advice to the letter couldn't reverse the natural yet aggravating parts and parcels that accompanied the honor of aging.

Last spring, she'd asked her doctor about hormone replacement therapy, for that and memory lapses and hot flashes that enveloped her from head to toe. Given her mother's medical history, the request had been dismissed with prejudice, without so much as a chance to appeal. Women's libidos tended to roar back around sixty, he'd said. Y/N had already marked the date of its return.

When she boosted herself on her elbows, his thumb tapped a column of bullet points. "Maybe we could try this?"

A squint later, she wrinkled her nose. "I don't know, Arthur."

Their every attempt at roleplaying had been stilted and silly, improv as bad as the transcript on her lap. She'd laughed her way through Z-movie dialogue, forgotten her stage name was Darla, to call him Dallas. He'd stumbled over his lines, shifted in his desk chair. It'd done an impressive job of keeping them out of bed. Knowing that, why was he suggesting it again?

Angling towards her, he folded her hand into his. "I know it didn't go how we thought - how I thought - when we tried it before. It's not that I want something else or someone else. I just- I fantasize a lot. I always have." A whispered caress along the crook of her thumb. "You're the only one I wanna share that with."

Nose ironed out, her mouth curved with tenderness. She'd gladly make every one of his fantasies come true. "Did you have a scenario in mind?"

He nodded at the article. "There's a list. I'm your boss and you're my secretary?"

All right, not that one. At least with her ongoing case. "What about you being a comedian and I'm your biggest fan."

"But that's already us!" he said on a hiccuped laugh.

She bent closer to the magazine. Felt an unexpected flicker flit between her thighs. She followed it. "This one."

Long lashes flew up. "A high-priced escort and her client?"

Perhaps the appeal was tied to the idea that he'd chosen her. That she was appealing enough to pick out of a catalog, even today. That no matter what roles they'd play, fate would bring them together. A notion silly enough to make her eyes roll but lovely all the same.

"Let's use our real names," she said. "It'll feel more natural."

Slender yet strong fingers curled around her ankle, a greedy glint in his gaze. "Wanna do it tonight?"

That glint flip-flopped her heart and her heat. "Give me a few days to plan." She snatched the magazine and laid it over the transcript. "I do have one request. Would you wear one of your vests? They make it easy to picture what's waiting underneath."

~~~~~

Finnigan's. 21st East 7th St. Red line.

Hand steadier than the vibrations buzzing his insides, Arthur put Y/N's pager on the vanity. Twisted off his wedding ring and set it beside hers. He swept back his hair, smoothed unruly waves behind his ears. A silver strand rebelled across his forehead. Excitement fringing into anxiety, he took a deep breath.

Don't be nervous. He counted to four to quiet his pulse. This'll be the easiest show of your life. The audience won't be an ocean, just her.

Which led his ponderings down another path. If they hadn't met all those years ago, if they'd been destined to meet tonight instead, how would he have wanted to appear? Dapper and dashing, doubtless and debonair. Who he was today, the man he'd become because of her.

A light laugh danced on his lips, more curls tumbled forward. He gathered them at the nape of his neck, then caught a glimpse of himself in one of the vanity's folding mirrors. Held that position, stretched to study his profile, first left, then right. With his hair up, his jawline looked like it'd been sharpened on stone, and chiseled cheekbones were cutting, almost harsh.

He hurried to the bathroom for one of Y/N's hair ties.

Cologne dabbed on the hollows of his neck, he left a scandalous three buttons of his smoky dress shirt popped. He tugged the hem of his vest, palmed away any stray wrinkles. He swallowed a Blue Wonder with a full glass of water; on an empty stomach, he'd be ready in just under an hour. After two sprays of breath freshener (he'd resisted cigarettes after lunch, but it couldn't hurt), he grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and headed out the door.

According to the swinging shop sign, Finnigan's had been a Hinkley staple since 1957. Narrow stained-glass windows of chartreuse and orange triangles punctuated its walnut facade. Embedded in the entranceway was a steel welcome mat, the letters' edges rounded by a million footsteps.

The door opened into a long, cramped space, maybe twelve feet across. The refrain of Foreigner's "Hot Blooded" rocked out on the Rowe jukebox to the right. A miasma of smoke clouded the room. Groups of men dotted the bar, all chatting at a respectable volume save for a cluster of three and the bartender at the other end, who all watched a ball game between bouts of hooting laughter.

Four booths flanked the left wall, each separated by a divider, like the lattice of a confessional, their benches old church pews, brass numbers inlaid in the arms. Edging forward, Arthur peeked in each one, anticipation a vine winding its way from his ankles to his thighs.

Upon finding her, the TV crowds roared.

In the last booth, she examined herself in a compact mirror, smacked her lips and batted her lashes. She tucked the mirror in her purse. Checked her watch and sipped at a martini glass, which was filled with a darker liquor than her usual Tequila Sunrise.

Dusky light from the Kohl-Brau hanging lamp bestowed a glow akin to soft focus shots of leading ladies, the ones with Vaseline smeared on the lens. Her hair was an inch fluffier, as if styled in front of a fan on low. Rich mahogany crisscrossed with uneven lines of grey in a not unattractive patchwork. Gold-tone pearl earrings dangled from her ears. Violet decorated her eyelids, the line along her lashes a jet black. Though the night was dry, she wore a navy raincoat.

He slid another foot forward, hovered next to the table. Should he just say hello? Slide into the booth like a bar fly? A her fly?

Her regard flicked to him, lingered on his waist, raked unhurriedly upward to his face. At her pleased gape, his heart jumped in his chest. An unabashed smile curved her lips, painted a sumptuous carmine. "You must be Arthur," she said, voice a velvet caress.

Chuckle on his tongue, he rubbed the nape of his neck and attempted to pull himself together. Glanced at her business-bordering-on-bordello stilettos and knew that would be impossible. He'd make a go of it, anyway. Straightening, he lifted his chin, adopted a posture that might pass for calm. "Yeah. That's me."

"I'm Y/N." She made a tour guide's gesture towards the opposite seat. "I took the liberty of ordering you the house cocktail. I hope you don't mind."

Settled into the doughy seat, he studied the drink, identical to hers. An Andes mint floated on top, and it smelled of strong coffee and Doublemint gum. When he tested it, the corners of his mouth pinched, its smoothness stopped dead in its tracks by creme de menthe. He took a second polite swallow as she peeled off her coat.

Eyes wide, he coughed into his glass. He suddenly had a very good idea why she'd donned it.

She'd have been at home in a seventies country themed pictorial. A sleeveless denim blouse, its ruffled V-neck offering a glimpse of her cleavage, the parchment wrinkles at the apex of her breasts. Just enough for any man to dream of what lay beneath. Normally, she disliked flaunting her chest, but tonight the silhouette of her curves was voluptuous. Faded stitching belied the shirt's thrift store origin, a tatter on the left shoulder, a stretched seam at her side.

It was the first time he'd seen her and thought Southern Girl.

A tingle started in his belly. "I'm not sure how this works. I've never called- I've never done this before."

"That's all right. Most men haven't." She put her elbows on the table in the manner of a seasoned negotiator. "I have a few ground rules. Cash only. Last names stay private. And I don't usually kiss clients. But, after we get to know each other, that may be added for an extra charge."

"I'm pretty sure I'd want to."

"What else are you looking for?"

"A good time."

The warmth of her laugh sent shivers down his spine. "I thought we were already having that," she said, bumping her toes to his.

Another sip of the bad martini to slow himself down. "What are you looking for?"

"This is business," she said, waving the question off.

Disapproval knit his black brows. How far had she planned to take this? "But it'd be nicer if you enjoyed it."

Her fingertips traced the rim of the glass, a slow, sensuous circle. "I'd like you to be tender." A coy bite to her bottom lip. "Until I beg you not to be."

The tingle quadrupled. He lowered his voice to the volume of the illicit. "Do you charge by what we do or the hour?"

"The hour."

"Well, I was planning on the whole night."

"That would be five hundred dollars."

For an instant, his pulse stuttered, forgot that this was all make believe. Clearing his throat, he pulled his wallet from his back pocket, made a show of riffling through fives and tens. "Seems awfully steep. What if I make you breakfast in the morning?"

"As good as your cooking may be," she started, then shook her head. "I'm college educated and a professional. If you need an escort for a business function, I can carry on a conversation. If there's a party you want a date for, I'll tell everyone how wonderful you are. If you'd rather skip all that and slip back to your place for some hanky panky -" she wet her lips "- I'm good at that, too."

His mouth went dry. Her smarts, her sophistication never ceased to captivate him. A few years ago, her boss had fallen ill and she'd had to address the court, a rare occurrence outside the witness stand. Arthur had sneaked into the gallery, watched her ask for a continuance. During those twenty seconds, she'd held her own, spoken with a poise that'd commanded the room's attention. Smitten, he'd sidled out. Waited in the lobby of her office building. Kissed her until she'd dropped her canvas bag.

He sighed a pleasured sigh. He didn't notice how the laughter at the bar diminished. The slight swivel of the meaty blonde on his stool across the way. All had fallen aside but himself and her.

She ran her toes along his calf. His whole leg jumped. "Are we on the same page," she asked, "or do you need to think about it over another drink?"

He did not need to think about it. He burned to strip away those tawdry clothes. To watch her cry out beneath him. To sink into her warm darkness.

A firm rasp as he leaned over the table. "I want you now."

Fever rushed across her cheeks. She matched him move for move. "Then we better hurry."

Blood racing south, he slid down the bench and sprang from his seat. Tapped, tapped, tapped his foot while she grabbed a ten-dollar bill from her purse and dropped it on the table.

Meaty Blonde let out an I Just Wanted to Watch the Game huff. "All right, buddy," he directed at Arthur. He slid off his stool, the vinyl squeaking under his generous proportions. "Hands behind ya back."

Alarm seized Arthur's ankles, wheeled him around in a full about face. The Blue Wonder's wonder faded. "What?" he cried, arms flung out in disbelief.

"You heard me." The guy pulled himself up to his full six feet, two inches. Flashed a badge and wriggled a pair of handcuffs from his too-tight jeans pocket. "Soliciting a prostitute is a violation a-"

"Officer, wait!" A bang from beneath the table as Y/N leapt up. Holding her knee, she shuffled out of the booth, wincing and dragging her purse and coat behind her. "That's my husband."

"Your husband?"

"Yeah." Arthur skidded to her side. "Her husband."

He gave them a once over. "I don't see any wedding rings."

She stuffed her hand in Arthur's rear pocket. Stiffening, he shot her a sidelong What are You Doing glare. She whipped out his wallet, flipped it open to a bygone black and white photo of her from an Amusement Mile automat. "Yes. My husband. We were just-" For a long moment, she stared at Meaty Blonde. "Officer Hadley?"

A slow-moving dawn came over his expression. A great booming guffaw burst forth. "Mrs. Fleck? I'll be damned. You moonlightin'?" He nudged her with his elbow. "What are they paying you over there?"

Shoulders shrinking, her hand flew to her face. "Oh my god."

Arthur put a protective hand on the small of her back. "You know this guy?"

"He does traffic violations at court. We've run into each other between proceedings."

He thrust a hand towards Arthur, sweaty as a steak. "Steve Hadley. How are ya?" Arthur did not shake.

She looked down at herself. Swore between her teeth and gathered her neckline in one hand. "Officer, please don't mention this to-"

"You think you're the only old marrieds trying to get the juices flowin' again?" Hadley asked. Y/N's face rumpled like she'd just stepped into a subway station bathroom. He leaned in, eyes darting back and forth between them. "A lot of off duty guys hang out here." He nodded towards his group at the bar, who remained locked on the seventh inning. "Jesus, I didn't mean to wreck your date. Lemme buy you a drink."

Arthur shook his head. "That's okay."

"Hey, McCall!" Hadley bellowed good naturedly to the bartender. "Two brewskies for these guys!"

Arthur made a vow to never be the kind of man who said brewskies. "Thanks, but-"

"I'll help you with it," she murmured, and pulled him along. Leaving an empty spot between herself and Hadley, who'd already gone back to his friends, she perched on a stool and patted the one to her right.

Well, if he was stuck drinking a dirty sock, at least it was with her.

Surrounded by easy conversation and good times, they nursed their beers. Picked over a bowl of pub mix, crunched roasted nuts and cheddar twists. She ordered a side of mustard for the pretzel sticks. With her legs pulled together, her posture an uneasy forward slouch, and raincoat a ball in her lap, she looked like a crooked fence post. Arthur stroked a subtle line along her thigh, soothed her knee, which he'd look over at home.

Hadley and his pals left at the top of the eighth inning, the former offering a friendly, sorry wave on the way out. When the door thudded shut, a long breath flapped Y/N's lips.

Then she snorted a laugh. "I did all this planning and picked a cop bar out of the yellow pages. Of all places." She downed the last third of her beer.

"It's okay. You came to my rescue." He stretched, put an arm around her in the mock casual way a teenager on a date to the movies might do. A consciously corny move that always brightened her smile. "Look at you," he purred, winding a lock of her hair around his finger. "You changed your hair."

"It's a rinse. You've got about a week to enjoy it." She munched on a corn chip and pulled back to study him. "So did you."

He turned his head to allow a better view. "Do you like it?"

"It's a handsome look. But..." Gently, she worked the hair-tie down his ponytail. Combed through his curls until that stubborn strand landed on his forehead. "The Fleck Original is my favorite."

Dimples deepening, he kissed her wrist. Laid his cheek in the curve of her palm.

Although the evening had tipped sideways, it'd merely tottered, not fallen. She was alluring in that cheap outfit and makeup. The teasing woven into their banter had wound him up like a top, and she'd seemed ready to grab his hand and run to the nearest pharmacy for a new bottle of Slippery Stuff.

But after their run in with Hadley, would it be worth it to her to do this all over again?

As if reading his mind, she said, "This did get me hot and bothered." She took his beer, gulped the rest, offered a determined nod. "Let's try again in two weeks. Hotel Empire. In a suite, not at the bar." She hopped off the stool and pecked his nose, her eagerly immodest grin spinning him loose.

"I'll even kiss you for free."

Tag list (Let me know if you want to be added!): @harmonioussolve @ithinkimaperson @sweet-nothings04 @stephieraptorr @rommies @fallenstarsabyss @gruffle1 @another-day-in-chuckletown @hhandley80 @jokerownsmysoul @rafaelbottom @ralugraphics @iartsometimes @fleckficgirl @chaimshelii

#arthur fleck #arthur fleck fanfic #joker 2019 #arthur fleck x ofc #arthur fleck x reader #arthur fleck x female reader #watchwhathappens

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