#I accidentally posted them to another tumble Account I don’t even use so whoops

[wigglebox]

⭐️⭐️⭐️

[donttouchmeimwriting]

Argo ch. 1

Friday the 13th - Friendship/Romance - Jason Voorhees/OC M/M ship

2897 words, 3rd person POV

This is not following canon closely at all and I'm kinda blending bits of Jason's personality between original movies, the remake, and fan versions so this is pretty solidly AU. I hope you enjoy!

Cross-posting on FFN under PyroTheWereCat

There was no pleasure in killing. It was a task, like any other, but one that had to be done adequately. Even if it took several tries and the body was mangled by the end of it, the life had to be gone from their eyes.

"We can't have them coming back to hurt us, can we?"

Mother was right. Mother was always right. She was the only one who cared. She was the only one who knew kindness. It was her idea and her decision to take revenge against the wicked counselors of Camp Crystal Lake, and what she wanted, she would get.

She had nearly died herself trying to punish the ones responsible for her son's drowning, and so the pair needed to live in hiding, deep in the woods surrounding the camp. It took over ten years of teaching and training, but it was finally time. Mother knew best, and Jason Voorhees was willing to serve her every command.

Four years ago, Jason began his killing spree. He picked off the counselors one by one, catching each in a deadly infraction. He worked carefully at first, making the disappearances look like believable shirking of duties or horrible accidents. That year, authorities ruled the camp could reopen for the next season with some extra safety precautions. Jason was praised so lovingly that year.

The second year, Jason continued his streak, but allowed himself to get a little sloppy. The murders were attributed to one of the staff members, and no one was the wiser to his presence (or, more importantly, his mother's). The camp was forcibly closed for the following season, and Jason's mother prayed it would stay closed and they could be free of the evil of the counselors who knew no compassion.

But, as an investigation cleared the camp of outside interference, further cementing the falsely accused staff member as the murderer, Crystal Lake reopened for another season, forcing Jason out of hiding once more. He did not want to go back, having enjoyed the peaceful summer with his mother last year, but he knew he had a job to do. He dusted off his mask, sharpened his machete, and set out for Camp Crystal Lake once more.

This year already felt different for Jason. Perhaps it was the time off, or perhaps he was growing tired of killing, but this year he decided to approach things in a different way. He spent the first two weeks of camp watching from the shadows, identifying the counselors and their habits. There were eight of them: four men, four women. Their ages were uncertain, but it seemed the youngest was about seventeen and the oldest was about twenty-five, the majority being roughly twenty-one. College age, Mother had said, was the worst age for most folks. Leftover rebellion from their adolescence and newfound freedom created a sinful breeding ground for debauchery and cruelty that needed to be punished. Jason was of this age now as well, and he had promised to not let himself lose sight of his task.

During the weeks Jason watched the camp, he noticed a few important details. First, he noticed that ghost stories about the murders he and his mother had committed were being told at nightly bonfires, embellished to near supernatural lengths. This excited Jason to some degree, seeing that his hard work had noticeable impact years later. Second, he noticed there were no hikes on the outer trails and strict curfews were imposed on both the campers and the counselors, keeping the grounds barren between the hours of 9PM and 7AM. This rule would make Jason's work difficult if he planned on making any of these deaths appear accidental, but he could improvise if needed.

The third detail, and the most curious of all, Jason noticed that out of all eight counselors, one stood out as unique. The first distinctive feature was that he was shorter than the rest of his coworkers, somewhere close to five feet tall. Jason almost mistook him for a camper at first, but the back of his shirt clearly read 'COUNSELOR'. What truly set him apart from the rest, however, was how attentive he was to the campers. He made sure every voice was heard and no one felt left out. He kept a bright and supportive demeanor no matter the circumstances, and helped the campers with every activity. Furthermore, he did not seem interested in sneaking off to sacrifice his job duties in favor of more lecherous behavior. Jason found himself growing fascinated with this counselor, and opted to watch him a little more closely to see if he had any damning secrets that would confirm his impending death with the rest.

Another week dragged on, and Jason regrettably had lost track of time. He followed this seemingly kind counselor as he engaged the children in their activities and lent a listening ear to those who had problems or concerns. What could he be hiding? Mother was certain that anyone who took a job at this camp was a bad person, and Mother was always right...right?

"Alright, everyone!" the strange counselor called one morning, catching the attention of his group, "It's Friday tomorrow, and that means s'mores night!"

He allowed for a brief cheer from the kids before quieting them down again to continue,

"S'mores are really nice, aren't they?" Whoops and words of agreement rose from the group. "Do we agree that nice kids deserve to have nice treats?" More affirmations rang out. "That's right! But it's come to my attention, as well as the other counselors, that there's been some of you who haven't been as nice as they should be."

Jason leaned forward from his seated vantage point on a log, listening curiously to the counselor's teaching moment. Would he punish the whole group of kids for a minority's bad behavior? Would he revoke s'mores privileges? Would he try to drown some of the children in the lake? That last one was unlikely, but the thought still crossed Jason's mind. The counselor continued,

"Here at Camp Crystal Lake, we value honesty, teamwork, and what else?"

"Accountability," the children chorused.

"Exactly right," he praised, "And if one of us is being picked on, it's up to the rest of us to help them feel included, right?"

"Right!"

The counselor clapped his hands together, smiling kindly at the group.

"I don't want anyone to feel like they're in trouble, so we're gonna make this into a game, okay?" he proposed, "We're all detectives looking for clues on whodunnit. We have to solve the mystery of who's being a bully and have them apologize by tomorrow night, or all the s'mores will have to go away until next week. Does that sound fair?"

"Yes," the kids answered, somewhat anxious now that the promised snacks might be withheld.

"Awesome! Here are the rules of the game: you can't force someone to give you a clue if they don't want to. That would defeat the purpose of the game! You also can't point any fingers until the bonfire is lit tomorrow night. If the person who was mean wants to come forward on their own, they have to come to me or one of the other counselors so it doesn't spoil the end of the game. Once the person is revealed, they have to apologize to the person they hurt and will spend the weekend making it up to them because, here at Camp Crystal Lake, we want everyone to have a great time. If one of us isn't having a good time, we all have to work together to help them so we can leave here at the end of the summer with the best memories and the best friends. So let me hear it from you guys: are we ready to go out and have a great day?"

The kids burst into another round of cheers and the counselor shepherded them off to their first activity of the day. Jason propped his elbow on his thigh and rested his chin in his hand. He frowned in contemplation. This counselor was so dedicated to the kids...could he be an exception? Could Jason's mother have been wrong? He would have to catch this counselor alone to find out more. He still had plenty of time to dispatch the whole staff, he figured, so he had the time to learn what he could about this one counselor.

Jason stalked the counselor over the next few hours, watching him be the perfect role model for the kids as usual. Finally, sometime near midday, the counselor took a break after passing his group to another and announced he was going to check the nearest hiking trail for debris before he took the kids on it later. One of the female counselors offered to walk with him, and Jason detected signs of flirtation in her body language, but he refused, claiming it would be a short trip. Jason felt his heart beat faster with anticipation, following him just out of sight as he walked the trail, moving any large sticks or rocks from the path. Jason flexed his fingers on the hilt of his machete, wondering if he should kill him now despite having no evidence yet that he was a bad person. He resolved he would wait until they were far enough away from the camp where screams would not carry, then he would decide.

The counselor moved at a brisk and energetic pace, enjoying his time alone. He seemed so full of life and vigor...Jason almost felt bad that he was planning on murdering him. The counselor stopped at a fallen branch blocking the path and looked it over, his hands on his hips.

"That's a big one," he commented to himself, "I hope I can get it out of the way on my own."

With that he bent down to lift one end of the branch, stepping backwards to drag it off the trail. From Jason's position, he could see another, smaller branch on the ground behind the counselor, twisted and gnarled, but big enough to pose a hazard. Jason watched as the counselor caught his foot on the hidden branch and tumbled backwards, rolling through the leaves and sticks as he fell down the slope. He went over a slanted rock near the bottom and crumpled on the other side of a rotting log, his ankle caught in a hole in the log. Jason slowly approached, minding his steps down the slope so he would not fall as well.

The counselor grunted in pain as he pushed himself up on his elbows and attempted to free his leg from the log. He had dirt on his face and debris in his hair and, as Jason drew closer and could see more clearly, cuts and scrapes all over his arms and legs. Unsuccessful in his attempts, the counselor fell back on his elbows, breathing hard. He craned his neck to look over the log, having heard the approaching footsteps, and his eyes met Jason's, mere feet away.

"Oh my gosh, you startled me!" he greeted, "Thank goodness someone else was on the trail! I'm okay, by the way, I'm just a little stuck. Can you help me out?"

Jason froze as the counselor addressed him. Oddly enough, he didn't seem afraid, despite Jason's hulking stature, out of place hockey mask, and freshly sharpened blade in hand. He tilted his head to one side, puzzled. He hadn't been this close to another person (aside from his mother) in almost two years, but he distinctly remembered every person he had been this close to fearing him on sight. He looked down at his machete, wondering what was holding him back from stabbing this man and walking away. It was all so easy before...

"Ooh, yes, you came prepared!" the counselor said, noticing the machete as well, "If you're careful, you can probably hack around the opening so I can get my foot loose. If you want, I can get you some free food back at camp for helping me out. It's not much, but Miriam makes a mean chicken salad."

He smiled up at Jason, and Jason felt his heart stop for a moment. There was not a single flicker of fear in the counselor's eyes. All he could see was the same gentle expression shown to the kids back at camp. An unfamiliar feeling came over Jason and, for the first time in years, he felt compelled to help. He raised the machete, his eyes focused on the counselor's trapped leg. His breathing hitched, one part of his mind urging him to kill as Mother instructed, the other begging him to show mercy, just this once. He glanced back at the counselor's face, at that warm smile, and made his choice.

The machete swung down and struck the wood of the log, sending a spray of splinters into the air. The counselor winced, shielding his eyes from the shower, and tried to wiggle his leg loose.

"Still a little stuck," he announced, "I think one more whack on the other side oughta do it."

Jason wrenched the blade out of the wood and swung again on the other side of the counselor's leg. As predicted, the counselor was able to maneuver himself out of the weakened structure. He brushed the splinters and dirt off of his skin and shakily stood up, clearly in some pain from the fall.

"Thank you," he said to Jason, his smile returning, "Really, I would have been in some trouble if you weren't here, so thanks a lot. My name's Lijah."

He extended a hand to Jason to shake, but Jason was too caught off guard by his own response to the situation as well as Lijah's genuine friendliness to return the gesture. Lijah lowered his hand, unfazed by the lack of reaction.

"Not a talker, huh? That's okay," he noted, then became visibly nervous, "Oh, cripes, I'm sorry, are you deaf?"

He made some strange hand movements with that last sentence, gesturing to Jason and to his own ear. Jason shook his head, slowly coming out of his confusion.

"Ah, gotcha," Lijah said, relaxing, "That works for me. I'm not very good at signing."

He laughed at this, and Jason felt a pang of....something. Lijah's laugh was light and pleasant sounding...it reminded Jason of dappled sunlight through trees. He couldn't explain it, but he wanted to stay near Lijah for a while longer.

"In all seriousness, what is your name?" Lijah asked, "I'd like to know who my hero is."

Hero. That wasn't a word Jason thought would ever be associated with him, but it felt surprisingly good to hear Lijah call him that. He looked around himself for a moment, then up the slope at the trail. He motioned for Lijah to follow him and made his way up to the flatter part of the forest floor. Lijah had some slight difficulty following him, being so much smaller and having mild injuries, but he made it up the slope all the same. Jason waited until Lijah had caught his breath and stood next to him. He held his machete out to the ground and drew the letters of his name into the dirt. Lijah read the name aloud once he had finished and looked up at Jason brightly.

"Jason!" he chirped with delight, "Like the Argonaut in Greek mythology!"

Jason tilted his head, frowning. His mother had told him many stories as he grew up, but they were all from the Bible. He wasn't familiar with the character Lijah was referencing, and Lijah could see his bewilderment.

"He's a hero in his story," he explained, "well, for the most part. He goes on adventures with his crew and they see and do all kinds of amazing things together."

Jason nodded, liking the sound of this hero with the same name as himself. And the fact that he was not entirely virtuous...that struck a chord with him. He gestured to Lijah, who seemed to understand that he was asking about his name.

"I was originally supposed to be Elijah," he said, emphasizing the 'e' at the beginning, "but my little sister had trouble saying the whole name, so I changed it to just Lijah. By itself, I don't think it means anything special, but it's pretty special to me."

Jason stared at Lijah. How was he so good-natured? Even with an intimidating stranger like Jason, he managed to keep his upbeat attitude and unselfish way of speaking. Was he stupid or genuinely that benevolent?

"Hey, walk with me back to camp," Lijah encouraged, setting off in that direction, "I owe you lunch."

Jason felt a small stab of panic and shook his head. He looked over his shoulder and back at Lijah, who nodded.

"You've got somewhere to be - that's fine! Don't worry about it, big guy! But, if you find yourself back this way, come find me at counselor cabin 5 and I'll get you a meal to pay you back for helping me. Thanks again!"

He waved goodbye before turning and walking back towards the camp, the pep in his step dampened only slightly by the soreness in his legs. Jason watched him go and wondered wildly what had just happened. Had he somehow accidentally made a friend?

[anotherdayinchuckletown]

They’re Funny That Way, Chapter 1

Hey, guys! How’s it going? I’ve been writing for about ten years now, but this is only the second ever fic I’ve shared anywhere, so I’m super nervous!!!  

This is basically my take on a Harley Quinn origin story tailored to the universe of Joker (2019).  It’s going to be Harley like we’ve never seen her before, with lots of Arthur, lots of Sophie, lots of original characters, and lots of twists and turns.

I’m SO beyond excited to finally share this with you guys, and I hope you all enjoy! Please like, comment, reblog if you do so that I know if you guys love reading this as much as I am enjoying writing it!  This fic is also posted to my AO3 account (https://archiveofourown.org/users/marie_deneuve), so you can also read it there if you’d like!

Without further ado, heeeere we go!!

Chapter 1

 The apartment building at Eleven-Forty Anderson Avenue is an eyesore situated in the midst of a likewise ugly city called Gotham. A pimple on a face only a mother could love. A pariah among pariahs.

Management has long since stopped caring about its maintenance, leaving it a patchwork of leaking ceilings, cracking foundations, and broken windows haphazardly boarded shut. Even the most seasoned resident of Gotham City would quicken his pace when passing the telltale archways which separate the apartments from the rest of the city.

Sophie Dumond is currently doing her best to avoid saying any of that out loud.

“It’s really not that bad,” she lies. “Definitely a far cry from where you’re living now, but once you get used to it, it’s not the worst.” Although she is on the phone, she looks down at her shoes anyway, so as not to look her guilt in the face. A crack in the tile beneath her feet stares back accusingly.

“Really? My brother told me his appliances never work, and the maintenance crew is impossible to reach,” the voice on the other line replies skeptically. It belongs to another young woman by the name of Emma Boulanger – Emma Scott, actually, ever since her marriage – who has been Sophie’s best friend since the two of them met in elementary school. She is also the godmother of Sophie’s five-year-old daughter, which was an unpopular decision she had been made to justify more times than she would have liked (honestly, though, her sister could call her if she ever became less of a pretentious bitch).

This phone call marks the first time Sophie has heard from her in one month, two weeks, and six days. Not that she’s been counting or anything.

It’s just strange not to talk to her, as she’s always the first to know of any big changes in her friend’s life. Emma is certainly the first to know about changes in Sophie’s life as well. She’s there when they both open up their letters of acceptance into Gotham University, whooping and cheering and dreaming of finally, finally leaving this shithole, getting glamorous jobs in the big city. She’s there when Sophie is curled up on her bathroom floor, crying and clutching a positive pregnancy test, wanting the best for the child growing inside of her, yet fearing she would never be able to provide it.

That’s why it’s so odd when Emma’s twin brother is the one to mention in the hallway one day that his sister has filed for divorce. And furthermore, that she’s returning to Gotham to live with him until she gets back on her feet.

“Like I said, Emma, it’s not perfect,” she relents. “But hey, at least it’ll be nice to hang out again. It’s been way too long.”

“Yeah, it really has! I moved, what, almost two years ago?” Emma’s voice brightens marginally, and Sophie can nearly see the lopsided grin spreading across her face, so familiar is she with every tic, every tell, every minuscule inflection to her words. “Metropolis is boring as hell, by the way. I almost miss Gotham - call me crazy.”

Sophie huffs, knowing full well that Emma is playing it cool - trying not to let on how much she dreads moving back to a city she called a living, breathing prison for so many years. Best to keep things lighthearted then. Empathize with her, acknowledge her feelings, but never, never pity her. “You’re definitely crazy, Em,” she shoots back, raising an eyebrow. “What exactly does it for you, the enormous rats or the graffiti dicks?”

An almost imperceptible chuckle filters through the receiver. “Well, no one ever really escapes Gotham, do they? I figure I might as well develop a little Stockholm Syndrome.”

Sophie doesn’t immediately respond to the bleak sentiment. It’s simply a joke, of course, and as a matter of fact, very on-brand. But there’s enough truth to it to cause a momentary lapse in the lightness of their conversation.

Sophie has found gradually that Emma was right growing up. Gotham truly seems less like a place and more like an entity. It has a certain way of taking, taking, taking from a person, and when that person has nothing left to give, taking just a little bit more. The citizens meander like restless spirits, doomed to wander to and from their low-wage jobs for eternity. The air is heavier out there, tugging their faces down into sour expressions, aging them prematurely. A reflection of their surroundings.

Sophie often wonders if she looks the way they do.

If Emma notices the shift – which she certainly does, she always does – she politely ignores it. “I guess beggars can’t be choosers… It was nice of Eddie to let me stay with him on such short notice.” Fondly, she adds, “He may be a bit of a shithead, but he’s a good brother.”

Before Sophie can stop herself, she laughs aloud. “No comment. We do live on the same floor, you know.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Do you two ever hang out?”

“Not particularly.” Sophie doesn’t dislike Eddie – quite the opposite, in fact. She always chalks up her lack of chemistry with him to simply having nothing in common. He and Emma share nothing but a birthday, a head of golden hair, and a pair of striking ice-blue eyes.

Rapid footsteps make their way into the foyer, breaking Sophie out of her reverie. “Mommy, look what I drew!”

Muttering a quick “hang on a second” into the receiver, she turns toward the source of the sound, and a sheet of paper is practically shoved in her face from below. She is met with a mish-mosh of various shapes and colors, one large brown figure taking precedence in the middle of the page.

She smiles warmly. “Wow, that’s very good, Gigi! What’s that a picture of?”

The artist beams with pride. “It’s the roach you killed in the bathroom yesterday!”

Son of a bitch.

“Can we put it on the fridge, Mommy?”

Blinking owlishly, Sophie scrambles for a response. They really don’t teach her this shit in those parenting books she sometimes finds at Gotham Central Library.

She settles on, “Honey, you already have so many nice ones up there, I just can’t decide which ones to keep! Let’s put this one away for now, and I’ll think about it, okay?” She offers her free hand to take the drawing so that she can accidentally misplace it later.

It does the trick. “Okay!” her daughter chirps, proudly handing over her portrait. Encourage, then swiftly change the subject – a motherly sort of manipulation that works in everyone’s favor.

“Holy shit, I haven’t even asked about Gigi yet!” Emma exclaims. “God, she must be getting so big! She starts Kindergarten this year, right?”

“Yeah, in the fall. And she comes all the way up to my waist now, isn’t that insane?” Unmistakable pride colors Sophie’s response.

“That’s so awesome! Did she miss me at all?” comes over the receiver as Gigi simultaneously begins an onslaught of “who’s that, Mommy, who’s that?”

“Miss you? Are you kidding? Listen to this.” Sophie crouches next to her daughter, holding the phone away from her ear, but nearby so that Emma can hear. “Gigi, your Aunt Emma’s on the phone. She’s coming to live here again soon, isn’t that great?”

The resounding shriek is a good indicator that she agrees. And that Sophie is going to have to bring the neighbors another gift basket so they don’t complain about her to the landlord.

“Can I talk to Aunt Emma, Mommy? Can I, can I, please, please, please?” Tiny, impatient hands grapple for the phone as laughter pours in from the other line.

“Come on, if I let you talk to her now, we’ll be stuck here forever.” A quick glance at the clock reveals that it’s nearing eight o'clock. “Besides, aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for bed soon?”

Gigi wrinkles her nose in distaste, and Sophie cuts her off before the complaints can begin. “No arguments, Gigi. Go start your bath – I’ll be there in just a minute.”

She receives a defiant huff; nevertheless, Gigi stomps her way to the bathroom, and Sophie waits for the sound of running water before she returns to the previous conversation.

“So anyway, Eddie tells me you’re holed up in a hotel room until the weekend. I’m guessing that Daniel didn’t take the…the breakup news very well?” she asks, somewhat cautiously. Talking about Emma’s husband – now ex-husband – is a mixed bag, even back when they were dating.

“You could say that,” Emma responds sheepishly. “It wasn’t pretty, let’s leave it at that. I thought it would be best for me to get out of the house right away, give him some time to himself.”

It makes Sophie nervous that she is skirting the question, but then again, Emma’s in a vulnerable position at the moment. And she’s rarely one to talk at length about her own emotions in the first place – she’s much more of a listener.

Sophie would like to ask what she means by “it wasn’t pretty”, but decides against prying. She would also like to ask why she ever married that jackass in the first place, since their relationship had been obviously strained from day one. It was always as if the two of them were tightrope walking over a volcano – bubbling quietly, boiling and threatening to swallow them both whole. The smallest change in the wind, the most harmless comment about Daniel not picking his towel up off the floor could send them tumbling into the inferno. She supposes one of them finally fell.

Something about that man has always creeped her out, but she gave up voicing her discontent with him after about the thirtieth time Emma brushed her off. She won’t say “I told you so”, since she wouldn’t want to belittle whatever pain Emma is going through. Still, she can’t help but feel a little relief – that doesn’t make her a terrible friend, right?

All of this can wait, though. It can wait until they’re seeing each other face-to-face again. Until Sophie isn’t on a strict time limit. She needs to wrap up the current conversation quickly because if she doesn’t, she could possibly be dealing with a flooded bathroom shortly. Five-year-olds do not generally care about the cost of repairing water damage if it seeps into the downstairs neighbor’s ceiling.

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay, with…you know…everything.”

“Of course!” Emma reassures her. “I’m perfectly fine. Like I said, I’m looking forward to being home. Honestly.”

Sophie is not convinced, and frankly, it sounds like Emma is not either. She wonders if her friend has been checking in on the worsening condition of their hometown from Metropolis. The homeless population is growing by the day, and the working class is becoming more and more restless due to low wages and poor working conditions in the inner city. Rumor has it that sanitation workers are chief among the dissatisfied, and a garbage strike is all but guaranteed by winter.

So much she wants to say. So much she can’t say. “That’s good. I’m happy for you.”

 _______________________________________________________________

Emma remembers around this time last year taking a trip to Paris, France. She saw the premiere of a musical there called Les Misérables – it was based off of her favorite book by Victor Hugo, so naturally, she begged and begged to go.

And what a payoff! The show was spectacular, from the costumes to the stage design to the music. Oh, the music! Despite being there with her then-husband, she had the most fun she’d had in years, letting the melancholy chords turn her as light as the air and the lyrics carry her far, far away in the wind.

Even more than the music, she was captivated by the plot. She could practically feel the plight of the poverty-stricken citizens. One of the opening scenes depicted the starving masses singing of their grief over the way they were snubbed by the wealthy, left to rot in the streets.

That is the scene Emma finds herself stepping into today. Only this time, she is not a passive observer, watching the events unfold without being affected. From today on, she is one of the characters.

From the moment she arrives in downtown Gotham City by taxi, the tension claws at her with icy hands. It digs into her ribcage with each glare aimed her way, even in the mild September breeze. She knows she sticks out like a preacher at a Pride parade in her obviously expensive skirt and heels. It’s not like she had time to go digging around her closet for something more appropriate that night she left her house.

Handsomely tipping her driver, she climbs out of the car and rushes underneath a set of archways and inside the apartment building where she’ll be living for the foreseeable future. She doesn’t look very closely at it from the outside, so desperate is she to get off the street and away from whatever the hell that smell is.

Emma uses the opportunity to finally look around a bit, taking her surroundings in with narrowed eyes. The lobby is dimly-lit, with no color to it whatsoever. The walls are painted a chipped-up brownish yellow, which could have been white many years ago. It reeks of mold, to the point where the smell outside might be the lesser of the two evils.  

Leaning carefully against the nearest wall, she mutters, “Not that bad, my ass.” From her purse, she retrieves her recently-purchased copy of a new novel titled Jumanji, and she waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

…

…

…

Emma’s eyes snap open - she hadn’t consciously closed them to begin with. She realizes with embarrassment that she almost fell asleep standing up. God, she’s more exhausted than she thought. How long has she been standing down here anyway?

“I’ll be home from work around four; I just need a little time to tidy up before you head over,” Eddie had said on the phone the night before. “I’ll meet you in the lobby and walk you up at six, okay?”

“That works,” Emma had replied. “As long as you’re actually there at six.”

“Hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ve never exactly had a reputation for being punctual.”

“Jesus, Em. You think I’m gonna leave you hanging out down there alone?”

“We’ll see.”

Shutting her book, Emma checks her watch.

Six forty-five. That fucking flake forgot.

She groans, pushing herself languidly off the wall and scanning the room for assistance. No one at the front desk - in fact, there hasn’t been anyone there since she arrived, making her wonder briefly if she’s even in the right building.

Her eyes next land on the myriad of mailboxes against the opposite wall, closed off from the rest of the lobby by rusted wrought-iron bars, most likely to protect the postman. She walks through the open gate tentatively, and upon closer inspection, each mailbox has a sticker labeling the residents by apartment number. Bingo!

It doesn’t take long to find what she’s looking for. On the eighth floor, perfectly spelled out for her, she sees both S. Dumond in 8B and E. Boulanger in 8H. Why not visit the one who didn’t leave her stranded for an hour first? She could always call Eddie on Sophie’s phone anyway - the asshole probably smoked a joint as soon as he got home and passed out on the couch watching Magnum, P.I.

She heads for the elevator and presses the call button. As it whines slowly and almost menacingly down the shaft, she hears someone softly trudging along behind her, the very first sign of another life in here. As she enters the elevator, she politely holds the door open, and makes room for the clown getting on after her.

No, not a silly person. An actual clown. Painted face, red nose, neon green hair and all.

Of all the weird people she might expect to see in a place like this… Not even two hours in Gotham, and the evening is already shaping up to be quite the roller coaster.

Emma can’t help but stare as the doors shut and the clown punches the button for, coincidentally, the eighth floor. She settles into the far corner as she discreetly analyzes him. His posture, his defeated gait, the pitiful expression underneath his painted-on smile… His aura permeates the entire space, seemingly enough to weigh them both down, causing the elevator to drag slowly up the shaft like molasses, screeching all the way.

This is without a doubt the saddest clown Emma has ever seen. And she’s seen Pagliacci.

Around the third floor, there’s one long, particularly loud screech. Emma’s heart leaps to her throat as their ascent suddenly comes to a complete halt, and the lights in the tiny elevator space flicker on and off once. Is a three-story drop enough to kill a person her size? She prays that this isn’t how it ends - in this dingy elevator, terrified, with no one but a fucking clown. A clown who hasn’t moved an inch this entire time.

Thankfully, after a few seconds that seem to drag on for a lifetime, they start to slowly crawl up the shaft once more. Emma breathes an audible sigh of relief, and the clown seems to finally notice her, tossing a quick look of sympathy in her general direction.

Once she’s certain she can speak without her voice quivering, she does so. “Does…that happen often?”

Her voice really gets his attention. He whips his head around so fast she almost worries his little hat will come flying off like a frisbee. He blinks at her once, then twice, as if processing the fact that she is addressing him. For a split second, it looks like he’s going to say something.

Then, remembering himself, he simply shrugs bashfully. Emma lets out a breath she doesn’t realize she’s been holding.

She notices the decorative red flower adorning his lapel, one of those prop flowers that’s actually a tiny water gun. Smiling in a way that she hopes is charming instead of ill-at-ease, she points to it. “I, uh…I like your flower. It’s very pretty.”

The clown tilts his head curiously. After a beat, he wordlessly reaches up and into his bright plaid coat, holding said flower slightly out toward her. Offering for her to come closer, to lean in and smell it.

Emboldened, she grins, shaking her head at him. “No way, mister. I know how that trick ends.” She’s kidding around with him, but she really can’t afford to get her clothes wet right now; she only has the ones on her back, after all.

Still, his lips at last curl upward, a real smile that reaches the lights of his eyes. And it’s then that Emma can see the color in them, an enchanting seafoam green that inexplicably draws her in, pulling her away from the corner and toward his side. He watches her carefully and intensely with an expression she can’t quite read. When he turns to face the doors once more, it’s not without keeping her settled in his periphery.

Most people would probably be a bit nervous being…examined so thoroughly. However, Emma finds his mannerisms endearing in an odd way. She’s never cared much for clowns before, but this one doesn’t seem so bad.

They ride in comfortable silence for another few moments. When they reach their destination, Emma is the first to exit.

“Well, I don’t know about you, but I’m definitely taking the stairs from now on,” she says.

The clown nods in response as he exits behind her, giant red and blue shoes flopping comically over the threshold.

The hallway is a bit noisy, voices of the residents drifting through the paper-thin walls like a mist, creating a fine haze over everything. The walls are just a touch too close together, making Emma claustrophobic and urging her to get to 8B as quickly as possible.

Not wanting to come off as rude, she introduces herself. “I’m new to the building, by the way - my name’s Emma. It’s a pleasure.” She extends a hand to shake.

The clown does return the gesture, but not before staring her hand down for an abnormally long period of time. And his grip through the rough material of his gloves is so soft and careful, it’s as if it’s barely there.

She’d honestly like to chat with this fascinating new neighbor of hers a bit longer, but instead, she pulls her hand away, settling for a polite nod and a cheerful “good night”.

She does not look back to see that the clown’s unwavering gaze follows her all the way down the hall.