Jðkêr//Är†hµr x RêåÐêr ïmågïñê§ & ðñê-§hð†§

• Inmates (pt.7)

(3rd person POV)

Arthur had been transferred back upstairs, to maximum security. The place he'd spent well over a year of his time since being incarcerated at Arkham.

As much as (y/n) wanted to rip the page from the book and crumple it into her trembling fists, she returned it exactly how she found it; partially buried beneath a stack of files and paperwork. It wasn't that the office was off-limits to her, but rather her presence could be deemed suspicious, seeing as how she was off duty, and never worked the graveyard shift.

The nauseas feeling settled once more in her gut. She took several breaths in through her nose and let them out her mouth, trying to calm her anxiety. The annoying urge to cry was almost overwhelming, and she buried her face in the bend of her elbow as she fled the room; hastily locking it behind her.

Why was Arthur back in maximum security? Had something happened? If it had then by rights it should've been recorded as an incident.
But she knew only too well that this was Arkham. Many things went on that weren't talked about or reported.

She needed to know. Wanted to know, but at the same time she was afraid of what she might find.

Well, her mind was made up. She would see Arthur regardless. She had to know that he was okay.

Determined, she marched passed the elevators and pushed open the door leading to the stairwell instead. The seven flights of stairs were gruelling, but she knew the chances of running into someone who'd question her being here so late was less likely. No one ever took the stairs if they could help it.

As she climbed, (f/n)'s past words of warning resounded in (y/n)'s head. The playful teasing that had eventually led to full-blown lectures now seemed completely justified and relevant. Now that she was having to face how her obsession with Arthur had changed her, she didn't want to think about it, but it was impossible to deny.

Panting, she reached the door and shoved her shoulder into it, throwing it open with an unintentional bang as it hit the wall behind it. The guard on duty jumped up from the stool he'd been perched on; a classic car magazine that had lay open on his lap, fell to the floor.

"Is there a problem, Doc?" The puzzled man asked, as he quickly retrieved his magazine.

  "No no, just...need to check on a patient of mine." She forced a wide, bright smile. "Arthur Fleck?"

The guard's expression perceptibly altered, as he wrinkled his nose in contempt. "Oh him. Cell nine, last door on the left."

"Thank you." She called behind her, already speed-walking down the length of the room.

He nodded and took a seat back on the stool, returning to his magazine; clearly disinterested in her unexpected arrival.

A low, incoherent murmuring sounded from the cell she walked by and she glanced in, seeing a middle aged man making signs in the air; his eyes fixed up on a corner of the ceiling.

In the next cell a young man lay flat on his back, eyes wide open but his body unmoving due to the straightjacket and ankle restraints that held him immobile on the bed.

(y/n)'s heart pinched painfully. The inmates here had been certified as clinically insane, and were that doped-up on meds they'd lost whatever frail grip on reality they'd once had.