Chapter Text
Arthur sighs, fishing within his pockets for the half-empty bottle of pills.
He swallows them dry, not even wincing at the way the two capsules seem to roughly slide down his throat.
The bus is late, much later than it usually takes for it to arrive at his workplace’s bus stop. He wants to grumble under his breath, because he knows the bus is late enough for it to get stuck during rush hour. He knows he won’t get a single seat and his apartment is a long way.
Sure enough, once the run-down bus pulls up in front of him, the bus is filled to the brim, like the people within are packed like sardines. He’s able to squeeze in when a few drop out, and he listens for the ding when he drops in the coins. The air is hot, stuffy, making his blouse stick to his skin. It’s so incredibly humid within the bus that Arthur wonders how it hasn’t driven anyone insane yet.
In between two men, Arthur stands stiffly, eyes focused out the windows as he tries to ignore the way people are staring at him. He knows he didn’t clean off the clown makeup completely, white paste still clinging to his sweaty skin, red paint still adorning his mouth. His wig is off, but he doubts it would've felt any hotter if he still had it on. He couldn’t be bothered today.
As the bus moves along, Arthur is left with his thoughts, a lot of them dark and unwelcome. But it’s the regular for him. At this point, he’d be surprised if he had anything else other than his negative thoughts. They creep in his mind without him really realising, like how a sunset would work—people don’t really realise that they’re standing in the shadows until they need the light.
The person sitting in front of him gets up and Arthur’s knees practically give a scream of gratitude. That is, until the man right next to him elbows Arthur’s ribs hard enough to bruise, a pained grunt escaping his lips.
“Get out of the way, you freaky-ass clown!” the man snarls, plopping down into the street with an almost possessive gaze. Arthur would’ve laughed at the insult but the throbbing ache in his ribs is able to prevent any mirth from showing. Arthur nods, biting his tongue hard to keep himself from screaming, muttering a soft, “Sorry.”
The whole bus ride back has more people staring at the man than at Arthur, which gives him a little relief. But it isn’t as though he cares, he mostly just ignores them, more keen on keeping his attention outside the windows.
Silver wisps float in the air, blown away by the gentle breeze that flows into the old room.
The wind is cooling against his skin. It’s ice cold compared to the lukewarm smoke travelling down into his lungs.
He takes another puff, seeing his third cigarette of the day brighten up with an almost golden glow at the end, ashes falling down onto his messily scrawled handwriting.
How do you get to a hospital quickly? Just stand in the road and wait.
He takes a sip of his water, letting it cool his mouth, the smoke having felt hot against the insides of his cheeks. His lungs feel like they’re wrapped in a warm blanket, his head seeming like its tilting sideways. The lightness he feels over his body is Arthur’s favourite part.
He’s about to take another puff when the phone rings.
He bolts up, almost toppling the chair over and it barely takes him another breath to reach the noisy phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, I’m calling from the car insurance agency called Bel—”
“Sorry, I’m not interested.” He brings the receiver back into its rightful place.
He places a hand onto his forehead, shutting his eyes as he feels the embarrassment creep into his psyche. Arthur has to admit that some part of him does miss his friendly caller, considering it’s been a few days since they last spoke. He wouldn’t call himself impatient, but some part of him wishes time would go a little faster just so they’d call a little earlier.
The phone rings again, shrill and abrupt. His hand comes down to pick it up.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, sir, I think you might accidentally cut the phone call. I’m calling from the car insurance—”
“I said I’m not interested,” he mutters, before putting it back down to cut the call.
Not even a few moments later, the phone rings again. This time, Arthur can feel the irritation bubbling in his chest. He picks it up fast, and with the firmest tone he can muster, he says, “I said, I’m not interested! How many times do you have to call this number to get the message? Please don’t call again.”
It’s silent over the line. Then a familiar chuckle rings out.
“Alright then, Arthur. I won’t bother you ever again.”
Redness creeps into Arthur’s neck and he stutters, “Hey-Hey, no I didn’t mean you.”
They laugh. “You sure? You seemed pretty angry when I first called. Did someone tie your shoes together?”
Arthur lets a small smile mar his lips. He’s unsure if he’s smiling at the sound of their voice or the joke. “No. Someone called from a car insurance agency.”
“Car insurance? In Gotham? C’mon, who can afford that in this city?”
“Tell me about it. I just take the bus and subway to get everywhere.”
“Same here, yeah. Sometimes I carpool with my other friends, but I mostly take public transport,” they say. “Also, am I the only one who gets really irritated when people just elbow you to get to seats? What happened to being gracious?”
“That’s happened to you too?” Arthur asks, still feeling the slight tingle from the bruise.
“I once saw someone yell at some guy for being in his way. Just today actually.” Arthur’s brows raise. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I didn’t see what happened but he called him something like ‘freaky-ass clown’. I mean no offence to the guy who got harassed but that insult actually made me kind of laugh,” they chuckle to themselves.
Arthur blinks. That sounds almost exactly like... “I was the guy.”
“Who?” they ask.
“There was a man on a bus ride who called me a ‘freaky-ass clown’ ‘cause of the clown makeup.”
“You… That was you?” they ask, a tone of disbelief in their voice. Arthur takes a puff of his cigarette as he hums.
They chuckle. “I’m sorry about that asshole.”
“Yeah,” Arthur murmurs, feeling himself relax further as a result of the tobacco and the sound of their voice.
“We could’ve actually crossed paths, huh?” they wonder. Arthur stares at the stain on the wall, the wallpaper starting to peel back due to the years this shitty building has weathered. The longer he stares, the more his mind creates shapes and contours within the lines of the stain.
How would they look like? Would they be attractive? Possibly average? Arthur does not have any particular preference when it comes to looks, mostly because he doesn’t spend much—or any, for that matter—time on thinking about that. When he’s alone with his thoughts, he only focuses on women’s bodies, especially the ones pasted in his notebook. Curves and plump flesh; do they only flash across his mind. He never focuses on their faces. Why would he? He doesn’t know these women. He’d rather take what he needs and get rid of the rest.
“I guess so. I mean, it would have been difficult to miss me anyway. Not many people can say they work as a clown.”
“That’s a fair point.”
Arthur carries the phone over to the coffee table, taking a seat in his ratty couch. With the receiver still flushed against his ear, he can hear them breathe over the line, the sounds having an odd sense of calm washing over him.
He stares at the blank television screen, seeing a warped reflection of himself, shirtless and lightly bruised. The light purple of clotted blood started coming in when he came home. When Arthur first pressed a finger into his flesh, he decided it’s more superficial. He doesn’t even put ice on himself. He knows he’s had worse.
“How’s your day been?” he asks softly, tapping his cigarette into the ashtray. He frowns, realising how short the cigarette is and just smushing it into the small pile of old ashes.
“It’s been... interesting. A little bit.”
“Oh?” Arthur wonders, sitting a little straighter in his seat. “What did you do?”
“I babysat for a friend’s baby. Oh boy, it was certainly a mess.”
They hum. “But I have to do it again tomorrow.”
“And?” Arthur asks.
“I don’t even know how to hold one!” they exclaim, their voice slightly raising in panic.
“I don’t even know why I agreed to this arrangement. It’s only for two days and all Alice was doing today was just crying! I tried basically everything.”
Arthur shrugs. “I mean a pillow always works to keep them quiet.”
There’s silence over the line and Arthur kind of wishes he can take back words. He hopes he didn’t cross a line—other than the ones he probably already did.
To his surprise, their laughter rings, which is muffled not even a moment later.
“That’s so mean,” they say, without an ounce of sincerity in their tone. He can even hear the smile in their voice. Arthur would usually apologize for a joke that dark, but Arthur has had enough conversations with them to know it’s another part of him that they—crazily enough—accept. He likes that about them.
Arthur hums, “Feeding?”
“Tried that.”
“Changing?”
“Did that too.”
“Singing to them?”
“Yeah, I did. I think she hated that the most.”
Arthur thinks back to all the times he’s interacted with the kids—whether it’d be at Gotham General or parties.
If Arthur had to choose one thing he’d keep doing in his job, it would be making the kids laugh and smile. It’s a wonderful feeling. The kids are possibly the best part of being a ‘for rent’ clown.
“Have you tried just... talking to her?”
“What?”
“Having a normal conversation with Alice. Like she’s a friend or a co-worker.”
“Co-worker? How would that help?” they ask curiously.
Multiple times during parties or visits to the hospital—whenever a kid would come up to him—he’d just start talking to them in his clown get-up, going off about how he grew up in the ‘circus’ or rattling off random jokes. He noticed how the kids seem to like him more when he makes the kids feel more grown-up, or feel like they’re a close friend.
Especially the lonelier children—the ones who get left behind at the party, or the ones who are ostracised by the others—they seem to cling onto Arthur whenever he starts talking to them. Whenever those particular kids come up to him, he always likes to praise them in front of the others, showering them with a little more attention, even bringing them up to the stage to participate.
Even babies who want to be held by Arthur, he pretends like they’re the funniest people on earth, always responding to their babbles and coos.
“The baby will start to listen to you, in a way. They would focus more on what you’re saying. They like the attention.”
“That actually... might work. Alice only ever cries really hard when I leave her alone,” they say.
“It only works if you have a patient tone too. The babies I saw during my gigs absolutely love it when I give them more attention. It’s cute,” he says.
“Didn’t know you’d be such a baby savvy,” they teased. Arthur feels his lips twitch. “You’d be surprised at how many kids don’t run away from me.”
“I wouldn’t be.”
Arthur tilts his head. “Why’s that?”
“I don’t think really anyone would want to run away from a guy as genuine as you are. Kids can catch those vibes,” they say matter-of-factly. Arthur shuts his eyes, feeling a small ball of warmth curl in his stomach.
“That’s sweet, really,” Arthur mumbles, pressing his lips closer to the transmitter.
“It’s true!” The sincerity in their voice is bubbly, and Arthur wants to smile wider. But he can’t.
“I have to act happy for the kids,” he admits, soft regret in his tone.
“That’s okay, everyone has to put on a fake smile every once in a while.” Arthur has to suppress the itch in his throat to laugh. Luckily, it doesn’t spill out obnoxiously. His body has given him this one grace.
“It happens more than I’d like,” he practically growls out the words, not defensively, just a sad raspy string of words that orchestrate how deep Arthur is lost in his negativity—drowning in it—sometimes.
That gives them pause. Arthur just waits, and wonders how many times can they take of his moping before they get sick of it.
“Well, like the song goes ‘That’s life’. It’s unfair and shitty, but we have to make the best of it. And if making kids smile is that one good thing for you, keep doing it. Cause at least you’re doing Gotham a solid by making ‘em laugh.” Arthur suddenly places the phone on his chest, feeling his breaths coming in soft, fast pants. He doesn’t know why but he really needed to hear that. A pit in his chest, it feels comforted, it feels soothed and calmed. He places the receiver back to his ear.
“Thanks,” Arthur says, as if what he heard didn’t just send his brain nearly spiralling.
“It’s honestly no problem. We need more people like you, Arthur.”
“If we have more of me, ninety percent of the population should be people like you,” he replies back. Arthur isn’t used to paying compliments (or even receiving them) but he feels like it needs to be said.
They laugh, a sound that still doesn’t fail to make Arthur smile.
“Have you seen any movies in the cinema lately?” they ask.
“Not really. I haven’t seen anything new in a long time.”
“Do you like movies?” they ask, their voice muffled in a way that suggests they’re chewing on something.
“Are you eating?” he asks, a tone of incredulity within his voice.
“Yup, haven’t eaten since this morning.”
“This morning? It’s seven in the evening,” he states, a crease forming between his brows. “That’s not good for you,” he says dumbly, a vague thought that he’s about as thin and gangly as a skeleton hovering over his head.
“I know, I’ll try not to do it again,” they assure him. “So, movies?”
“Uh, yeah. I like Charlie Chaplin,” he answers. “Ooh, so you’re a classics fan?”
“I thought that was pretty clear from how often I talk about Frank Sinatra,” he deadpans. They hum, “Fair point.”
They start going off on a tangent on this movie they love, some classic called Vertigo. Arthur listens in as he kicks his feet up on the coffee table, gingerly laying on the cushions. He can feel the soft tinge of pain from his newly formed bruise, and he suppresses a soft groan.
“—and there’s this one scene—hey, are you okay? I heard something.”
Arthur bites his tongue hard.
“It’s nothing, don’t worry about it.”
“You sound like you’re in pain. Are you okay?” they ask, worry tinting their voice. Arthur prefers them bubbly with excitement as they talk about their movie, he’d rather not have their attention on him, especially because he’s injured.
“It’s really nothing.”
“ Arthur,” they warn. Arthur sighs.
“You know the guy who insulted me on the bus today?”
“Yeah?” they ask apprehensively.
“Well, he might have elbowed me in the ribs. And I may have a small bruise.”
“ How small?” They prod, and Arthur can already imagine that their brow is raised, awaiting his answer. Usually he’d hate how nosy they are, but Arthur knows they’re not like the other people in his life. They care, and wouldn’t be asking him if they didn’t have a reason to.
“About... the size of my palm?” he wonders, turning his torso to see the purple dots over his pale skin.
“That’s... not small, Arthur,” they mumble. “Did you at least put ice on it?”
Arthur bites his lip. He should lie.
“No.”
Goddamnit.
“At least put ice on it. Then it wouldn’t stay too long, yeah?” they suggest. Arthur blinks.
“Okay, I will.”
“Okay. Tell me if it gets any better the next time I call. For now, I want to talk about favourite actors.” Their tone is serious, as if they’re discussing a solemn topic. It makes Arthur grin to himself.
Not for the first time, he truly wonders how lucky he is in finding them.