Chapter Text
It is quiet.
There are no sirens, no bumps in the night, no screaming.
It is a rare occurrence in the messy hell-hole that is Gotham City.
Arthur would call it a small blessing. Really, anything that isn’t bad nowadays is considered a blessing. They are far and few between.
The chilly air in the early fall gives rise to goosebumps on Arthur's skin, despite the two layers he has on. The radiator doesn’t work anymore.
Another thing out of his paycheck.
He rests his head on the cool countertop, letting the soft static of the television numb the dark emptiness that is his own mind. Hunched over the kitchen floor, he plays with the orange bottle in his pocket, feeling the pills rattle inside with a quiet intimidating presence. It’s taunting him. The clacks and clicks of pills bumping into each other.
He asked for an extra dosage today. He didn’t know why.
But the fuzziness in his head is louder, the ache in his left shoulder more bone-deep and the blandness on his tongue with each spoonful of frozen dinner he had an hour ago was unbearable.
Arthur has a feeling; it’s one of those days.
He swallows past his thick tongue. He can barely feel himself breathing.
Arthur mentally remembers the dosage on the prescription. Twice as the last.
It seems convenient. Pop the cap and do with it. He doubts anyone would miss him. He gives it a week before his colleagues would even notice. Maybe Gary would. He gave Arthur a card last Christmas. He’d notice.
His mom too. But he doubts she’d be much help to the police. Always such a happy boy.
He pulls the bottle out of his pocket, feeling his fingers already shaking. His bony hands slide out, but a crumpled piece of paper falls onto the tiled floor. It’s green and wrinkled; he doesn’t move to pick it up. Arthur just stares at its place on the floor. He knows what it is.
“What is this?”
“A suicide hotline. Another department was set up two weeks ago. I’m supposed to hand every one of these out to all my patients. You never know when it can be useful.”
Arthur almost wants to laugh. The one time he’s thinking of this is the one time the universe is telling him to not do it.
He takes a deep breath.
Calling them would be useless, he knows. He doubts he’d even go through with it today. He’s had this day many times before. It’s nothing new. But... this ‘hotline’ thing is something new, and it sets off a curiosity in him.
His psychiatrist never said much about it, just that the people over the line are there to help when someone calls. Arthur doesn't think that talking to someone over the phone would help a lot. If talking to someone face to face doesn’t help, who thinks that a faceless voice could do any better?
He looks at the orange pill bottle in his hand, a crease between his brow forming, and back at the piece of paper. He takes a minute, just staring at it.
The static is still running, the knob in between two channels. His mom doesn’t like it when she can hear people on the television, especially after she goes to bed.
The tap is leaking and Arthur doesn’t want to call a plumber. It’s been like that for years. Sometimes, he likes the consistent tapping that comes from the water droplets falling into the sink.
For some odd reason, he reaches down to pick it up. Unfurling the wrinkled edges, he takes a moment to stare at the black numbers written against the green paper.
He hobbles out of the kitchen and next to the house phone. Eyes still glued on the paper, he takes the phone off of the receiver. He stops. The bottle of pills still in his hand.
Slowly, he puts it down next to the answering machine, the bottles rattling. He doesn’t understand what he’s doing or why he's doing it.
Perhaps curiosity, possibly a silent cry for help. Whatever reason it is, Arthur doesn’t try to find it out, and within moments, his index finger is pushing down on each number. The ones written on the paper.
At first, there’s nothing over the line. A click, and then—
“You have reached Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Lifeline. If you are in emotional distress or are concerned about someone who might be, we’re here to help. Please wait on the line as we route your call to the nearest crisis center.”
Arthur closes his eyes and pitches forward, his forehead resting against the door frame. He breathes slowly out his nose as ‘elevator’ music starts playing. An automated message, what was he thinking, that someone would be there on the line at three a.m.? He’s about to pull away from the phone when—
“Hi, you’ve reached Gotham’s Suicide Prevention Lifeline, how may I help you?”
Arthur stops.
He doesn’t breathe, doesn’t move a muscle. Now that he’s here, he doesn’t know what to do or say.
“Hello? Is anyone there?”
Arthur still keeps his mouth shut. It’s a... nice voice, he notes.
“If you don’t want to talk, just let me know if you’re listening, okay? Can you press a number for me?”
Idly, Arthur can feel his hand moving on its own to press number ‘5’.
A soft sigh can be heard over the line. “Okay, are you in any emergency or in any pain? Press once for yes and twice for no.”
His finger presses down twice.
“So, you’re not a talker, huh? That’s alright. I’m here for as long as you need me to be.” A pause hangs in the air, and Arthur is already regretting this.
“How are you doing? Are you doing good?”
Arthur hovers his finger over the keypad.
He presses twice reluctantly, a small pause in between each beep.
“Aw, that’s too bad. I know those days. They really suck, don’t they?”
He presses down once.
A soft chuckle crackles over the line.
“Yeah. I hope the day isn’t too terrible for you, but that wouldn’t be the case if you were calling the line, would it?” Arthur just stays silent even more. “So, uh, did you see the new Murray Franklin episode tonight?”
Immediately, Arthur presses down on the number, almost too excitedly.
“Yeah, it was good, wasn’t it? I didn’t like that bit about Franklin talking to Dr. Sally about her kids, though. I thought that was kinda mean.”
Arthur makes a beep come through.
“You think so too? Huh.”
Arthur settles down, sliding to the floor as he tugs the phone cord. He stares at the bottle in his hand once more. He supposes the pills would be too hard to swallow anyway. And the person talking over the phone has a... nice voice. They sound like a nice person too, but Arthur resigns any hope for that fact as the person is just doing their job. He wouldn’t put it past them if they acted as grumpy as everyone else does out there. He of all people knows how to put on a mask.
But he wonders whether if there’s really any harm in talking. It’s not like the call can be traced back, and there should be guidelines on how to treat the callers in distress. The person on the phone with him right now wouldn’t say any bad things to his face even if they wanted to. So, what’s the harm, right?
“—like all the other Murray Franklin episodes are great but—”
“My name’s Arthur.” His voice sounds scratchy, from the lack of use and the five cigarettes he smoked today. It’s silent over the line.
For once in the entire day, Arthur can feel something other than the emptiness in his chest. Anxiety. Over what the person on the other end of the line is thinking. He supposes it’s better than the deep aches he gets.
“Arthur, huh?" They introduce themselves to him.
“I’m here to help you. Is there anything, in particular, you want to talk about?”
Arthur blinks, almost shaken out of his stupor. He looks up to stare at the orange bottle resting next to the receiver, another daunting presence in his life. “There’s a bottle of pills here.”
He knows they are taken aback when he let those words come out, without abandon, because they're left silent for a few moments. “Oh? What do you plan on doing with those pills, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“Just a few minutes ago, I was planning on swallowing them. I’m... not sure now.”
“Do you want to talk about why you were planning on taking those pills?”
Arthur doesn’t really want to. Besides, there are about a million reasons why he would take these pills and explaining all of them to this poor person doesn’t seem like such a good waste for both of their time.
Arthur is about to open his mouth to speak when he feels his throat close up and oh no.
Not again.
He can feel the dread pool in his stomach, the anxiety in his limbs jumping out of his skin and before he knows it, inappropriate peals of laughter start spilling out of his mouth, unbearable for Arthur to hold in. The emergence of his sudden laughter causing more stress for his already tired head.
“Are-Are you okay?”
“No, I—” Arthur doubles over, laughing again. His lips are downturned into a deep frown, but Arthur can’t stop the laughter, no matter how hard he tries to close his mouth. God, he hates this.
“I-I have a condition—” Arthur wants to curse at himself, his chest seizing up as he tries to keep it in. It’s almost painful, his face scrunching up into an expression he doesn’t want as his strained voice comes out in between fits of unwanted laughter.
A few moments pass and nothing is said over the line. His throat starts to hurt; it hurts more the more he tries to choke it back. Once Arthur has a moment of breathing, the person on the other line cuts in, “Pathological laughter, isn’t it? I read about it from a study a while ago. Uncontrollable fits of laughter.”
Arthur holds his breath, and once he feels that his chest isn’t going to seize up anymore, he lets it out. “Yeah,” he mutters, almost slightly relieved.
“Is there anything I can do to help you feel better? Should I continue talking when you start laughing or should I wait for you?”
Arthur keeps quiet about this for a moment. He’s never had someone ask him this before. Sure, his colleagues are nice enough to keep quiet about it, but none of them have really asked if there’s anything they can do to make him feel more comfortable when one of his fits occur. It’s... refreshing.
“No, no, no. I’d rather you... just wait it out.”
“You sure? Because I don’t want to make you feel like you have to keep quiet when you start laughing. I read that it hurts when people try to keep it in.”
“It’s—It’s okay. I don’t get those fits often. They just... last long.”
“Oh, I see. Well, if it happens again, I’ll be sure to just keep my mouth shut.” Arthur can feel his lips twitch into a smile.
“So, about those pills.” Arthur holds his breath.
“Why were you going to swallow them?”
He breathes through his nose, his chest weighed down by the heavy question. Arthur gets up from his slouched position on the floor, and he carries the whole phone to the coffee table, settling into the couch.
“It’s just... one of those days. I don’t even know if I was going to.”
Arthur coils the cord around his finger as he hears the caller breathe into the mic. “I’ve had many days like this before, you know?”
The caller has a lilt to their voice, possibly strained. “Yeah, of course. Do you know what’s the relation of all these days?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like, what do all these days have in common.” The caller sounds a little more curious. Not judgmental like his colleagues, not pressing like his psychiatrist; just curiosity. Arthur decides he likes that.
“You know, the mean people on the street, the kids who make fun of me, the people who say something when I start... laughing.” Arthur can feel his body tense when he says ‘laughing’. He doesn’t like his condition, but he’s learned to live with it. He hates how it affects the way people see him, just because he has a condition. He loathes it. It limits him in how he wants to live his life. He fears of bursting out in laughter on stage, worries over whether he’d scare the kids he’s supposed to be entertaining and hates how it stops him from interacting with anyone he’s remotely interested in. He’s never had a real relationship in his life.
“Kids make fun of you?” The person almost sounds affronted, like the kids personally insulted them, not some stranger they are calling. Arthur is unsure of what to feel about that.
“Yeah, I’m a clown. Sometimes I work for other shops to spin signs. Kids on the street passing by usually laugh at me. Normally, I’d enjoy it, like the kids down at the hospital, but these kids mean it differently.”
“They laugh at you, not because of you?” Arthur blinks.
“Yeah, exactly.”
There seems to be a contemplative pause from the other person.
“I think it’s best to just ignore it. They’re just kids and you know how Gotham is like these days.” Arthur breathes out a dry laugh.
“Yeah, I get what you mean. Kids do it ‘cause they have nothing else to do.”
“Don’t take it too personally.” Arthur rarely ever talks about the things he goes through daily, mostly because it’s what he goes through every day. It’s his normal and he shouldn’t be complaining about it. But some days, all Arthur wants in the world is for someone to listen, to just relate to him, to empathize with him.
“So, about those people who talk about you.” Arthur hums.
“Do they... say anything bad?”
“I don’t think they have anything good to say when they see a man laughing hysterically on the bus.” The person laughs. A good-natured laugh, a sound that almost rattles Arthur’s brain, an unknown feeling rolling down his spine.
“Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”
“I don’t like it. The way they... look at me like I’m some sort of freak show.”
“Yeah, I get it. It must be that terrible, huh?”
“People don’t say much. It’s when they keep quiet and make faces that really get to me. Because I know what they’re thinking, what they want me to do, and that’s to keep quiet and act like there’s nothing wrong with me but I can’t. I have to act like them—like I’m normal—and it’s horrible. That’s the worst part.”
The person sighs over the phone, a solemn sound. “I’m really sorry about that, Arthur.”
He shakes his head, “It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you have to be sorry about.”
“It’s not your fault either. You never chose to have this condition, but people don’t see that.” Arthur feels his lips twitch into a smile again.
“Tell me about your day,” they say. It catches Arthur off-guard.
“About-About me?”
“Yeah. I want to get to know you a little better.” Arthur doesn’t know what to say to that or even feel about it. But there’s a longing in his chest, a soft ache that doesn’t hurt. It’s gentle, almost caressing him from within. It’s an ache that hits all the good spots. He’s never felt like this before.
“Really?”
Arthur hears the smile in their voice.
“Really.”
And so, Arthur does. He tells them about the kids he saw today at the hospital, about the one person he saw smile when he was sign spinning, and the Murray Franklin episode he saw with his mom. He tells them about the things he felt today, the emptiness, the loneliness, the deep bone ache he gets when people send him looks. It’s like a small weight off of his shoulders. Something that is relieving, more than any pills can do for him. The way they reply too, it eases something in him.
“Are you okay?” Their soft is soft, gentle and genuinely concerned. It’s more sincerity he’s ever heard from anyone in the longest time, from anyone other than his mother.
Arthur looks at the pills from across the room. Still orange, still intimidating, and still twice the dosage as last time. But the emptiness in his chest has lessened, the ache in his shoulder has become dull and he can finally taste the menthol on his tongue from his last cigarette.
“Yeah, I think so.” Arthur feels a tingle in his chest when they chuckle. It’s a sweet sound, he admits. Their voice too. It’s relaxing. A soothing balm to the unbearable static and aches in his head.
“Better than before?”
“Definitely. Thank you, really.” Arthur is grinning now.
“It was really great to talk to you, Arthur.”
“Really?” He likes his person.
“Yeah, really. You seem to be good company.”
Arthur has an idea, but with that idea comes anxiety. Again, he feels unsure of where the boundaries are. He knows if he steps out of line there’s a possibility to never hear from this person again; and if he hangs up, he doubts he can be routed to the same caller. Gotham has a population of over a million, there’s no way he’ll get to hear from them again if he lets them go. It’s a long shot, but he doesn’t want to lose a chance to talk with this person more. He rarely meets anyone like them, someone who can empathize with him, understands and wants to listen to his struggles.
Arthur wants to get to know them better, wants to know why they do this, wants to know what drives them to do good even in this godforsaken city; he wants to see them, wants to hear that relaxing voice in real life, wants to see them laugh the way they do over the phone.
“Uh-Uh, can I ask you something?”
“Sure. Anything.”
Arthur sucks in a breath.
“Can I have your phone number?”
There’s a long pause.
“Why?” Arthur feels his heart leap to his throat. This could be his chance.
“Because you seem like a really nice person and I-I think I want to talk to you more. Get to know you better if that’s alright with you.”
There’s silence.
“No.”
Arthur’s heart sinks, and he feels shame burn the tips of his ears.
“I-I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“I want your phone number.”
What?
“What?”
“I don’t... I don’t trust people with my phone number. I’d prefer it if you gave yours to me. And I can call you sometime.”
Arthur almost swears his face splits when he smiles.
“O-Oh. You’re serious?” They hum. Arthur spills out the house number, the words tumbling out of his mouth at an embarrassing speed.
Arthur almost feels shy now. “Are you really going to call me back?”
He can hear the movement of their mouth; they’re smiling.
“Of course. As I said, you seem like good company. You said you like comedy, right? I don’t mind having conversations about Murray Franklin or stand-up. I like comedy, too.”
“So, yes, I am serious about calling you some other time.”
Arthur truly can’t believe his luck. Maybe this hotline does help him.
“So, I’ll be hearing from you soon, then?” He feels shyness tugging at the back of his head again.
“Maybe not too soon, I’m busy for the next couple of days. Maybe during the weekend? I’ll call you then.”
“Of course, of course. Until then.” Arthur is about to put the phone down when he remembers.
“Hey. I just... wanted to say thank you. For answering my call and listening.”
“It’s no problem at all, Arthur. You have a good night, okay?”
“Okay.” Arthur grins, putting his phone down onto the receiver to end the call.
He stands up and gets to his bottle of pills. He picks it up and places it on the kitchen counter, next to the other pill bottles, a feeling of relief echoing throughout his body.
He likes them. That’s easy for him to say.
The thought that they might like him too is enough to send him into a fit of laughter, only this time, he’s not choking it back.
He smiles bigger than he has in days.