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“Wait!” you yelled, watching with fear as a man sprinted away from your window with his mother’s file clutched to his chest.
Not fear of him. Fear for him.
Arthur Fleck had approached your information desk shortly earlier with exhaustion painting every deep line of his face, introducing himself and requesting to read Arkham’s file of his mother, Penny. A file from 30 years ago, stored deep in the halls of Arkham’s basement. You hadn’t had the heart to refuse. His long, curly hair was greasy and unwashed, his ill-fitting clothes rumpled, and the bags under his eyes were heavy and dark, like he hadn’t slept in days. He kept his head bowed, hands stuffed in his pockets, and the quiet rasp of his voice was halting and unsure. This man had just looked so... deeply sad.
As reluctant as you’d been to go hunting through decades-old records, you couldn’t send this poor man away empty-handed. If it was his mother’s file, he must’ve had an important reason for needing to see it.
Arkham Hospital’s basement’s organization system was a living nightmare. The room itself was dark with flickering and broken lights. Your footsteps and drips of something echoed through the cramped space. Nothing was ever in order, alphabetical or otherwise; it had taken you longer than you liked to finally find the box the file was stored in, with blooms of mold creeping up one of the lower corners. As you hunted, you were afraid this Arthur had gotten tired of waiting and must’ve left, but he was still patiently waiting at your window when you returned. Your footsteps announced your arrival. As you approached you caught a glimpse of him pushing his hair back and running his hands over his face as he faced your window.
Arthur hadn’t seemed bothered by the wait, almost as if he’d hardly noticed. He was clearly lost in thought while you apologized. As you rooted through the decaying box for his mother’s file, he’d asked a question: how someone could even end up in Arkham. You’d glanced at him; the shadows of his face looked heavier under Arkham’s harsh fluorescent lighting, his skin pallid. Well, some had hurt themselves, you’d responded. Some had hurt others. Or both. And some just had nowhere else to go. Arkham was the only safe place they had.
Arthur had accepted this answer with the smallest smile tugging at his thin lips, not quite looking you in the eye.
“Yeah... being in here is better than dying on the sidewalk,” he’d joked. His delivery was flat and cadence off but you’d smiled and quietly laughed anyway.
“That’s funny,” you’d mumbled down into the box, growing shy.
A drop of eagerness creeped into Arthur’s voice. “You know, I’ve been in here before, a few times.”
You paused and glanced at him. “...Oh, yeah?”
“The accommodations left something to be desired,” his smile turned wry, like he was letting you in on a secret. And you suppose, in a way, he was. Most wouldn’t share something so personal. “But you can’t beat the views.”
“Views? But there’s bars over the windows, aren’t there?”
“Exactly.”
Arthur’s eyebrows were raised, tired face almost expectant, as if trying to gauge your reaction. It was cute how hard he was trying to joke. You shook your head with a soft laugh. “Bars. Average Gothamite’s favorite place, I suppose. Oh, here it is―”
As you finally discovered Penny’s file, still intact and safe from the creeping mold, you hadn’t noticed the sparkle in Arthur’s green eyes, or his small wry smile growing more genuine. When you looked back up at him to show it to him, it was difficult to tell through the plastic grate but he’d almost looked... lighter in a way. Softer. Not by much―Arthur still looked pretty haggard, shoulders still heavy and still leaning his tired head against the grate―but the difference was plain. You preferred this lighter look to him.
Penny’s diagnosis hadn’t shocked you as you read it aloud to him: you’d been a file-keeping clerk at this crummy window for years and had read files that were tougher to stomach than this. But you’d faltered when you reached a mention of the endangerment of her own child. Arthur. Coldness washed over you. Your eyes skimmed the rest of the first page quickly and caught bits of descriptions of the abuse he’d suffered as a child, too young for him to possibly remember, but severe enough to leave marks that would never heal. On the inside at least. And there were so many more pages.
Your heart grew heavy and sunk in your chest as you met Arthur’s wide, unblinking eyes staring into yours. He was as frozen as you were.
You couldn’t let him see this. This man had looked so sorrowful and close to breaking already; you didn’t want to think about how reading this file would affect him. He clearly had little idea of what was in it. When Arthur questioned you, with a small, broken ‘what,’ you had fumbled and tried to make up an excuse as to why he couldn’t read the full thing. Something about rules and regulations, but your excuse sounded flimsy even to you.
Arthur remained silent, still staring wide-eyed at you, then after a moment lowered his gaze towards the file in your hands on the counter. His jaw set. You’d barely registered his very quiet ‘sorry’ before he’d snatched the file out of your hands through the aperture of the window grate and bolted away.
You shouted after him, stunned and scared, but he was halfway down the hall already. Arthur spared one glance back at you over his shoulder. Even through the grate and the distance, you could see the fear shining in Arthur’s eyes.
He stumbled slightly as he turned back around, and sprinted around the corner out of sight. Your heart pounded in your chest. He was desperate. Despite barely knowing this man, you couldn’t stop yourself from following after him.
The distant heavy slam of a door almost didn’t register to you. Almost.
You’d been stuck behind this dead-end window for years, unable to get employed as an actual therapist at Arkham. This minimum wage clerk job had been your best foot in the door here, but before you’d known it, three years had passed. All you’d ever wanted is to help a struggling person in need. That was your dream, the whole reason you’d wanted a career in mental health. But who could you have helped through a window, reciting information to?
But Arthur could be helped. Something about him cried out for it, like he’d been reaching out for a little bit of kindness his whole life. In the way he carried himself, in the way he spoke, in his tense gait, in how he had seemed so eager to make you laugh―a complete stranger―in the fragile vulnerability wrapped around him like his tan jacket.
But you could reach back to him. Or you wanted to try, at least.
If you caught up to him first.
Uncaring of who would man your desk, you dashed out of the side door and down the hall after him. Stragglers in the hall watched you with dazed confusion. You felt just as confused as to why you felt so strongly for this near stranger. Crossing the corner, you froze. Arthur wasn’t in this hallway. There’s no way he could’ve crossed the next corner so quickly, and every door on this level was locked to unauthorized personnel.The memory of that one distant slam of a door flashed in your mind. The stairwell, you thought, before darting to the heavy door.
It slammed shut behind you. You were preparing to race down the stairs, but froze in your tracks.
The echoes of agonized laughter bounced through the empty stairwell.
The voice was unmistakably Arthur Fleck. Your heart caught in your throat and you swallowed. Energy faded, replaced by unsureness. You creeped down the stairs cautiously, peeking over the guardrail to try to see him on one of the lower levels, to no avail. Arthur’s laughter pulled at you, pulled you down step after step. It shook you. How could laughter sound so much like crying?
You crossed a corner and finally saw him on the level just below. Arthur, looking so small, hunched over and clutching his mother’s file to his chest. Pained laughter shook through him, mixed with sobs, chest heaving with tears streaming down his face. A deeply private, vulnerable moment. Tears pricked at your eyes. You shouldn’t be here, you knew. This wasn’t a sight meant for a stranger. But now that you were here, you couldn’t leave this man to suffer alone.
He seemed like he’d been alone for a long, long time.
But what could you even do...?
“Arthur?” you called out softly.
Arthur startled, making a surprised, scared noise and hunching over farther. He ran his sleeve against his nose. His voice was thick with emotion: shame, fragility, horror, and a dozen others you couldn’t place. “I― I’m sorry. I had to―”
―Was all he got out before laughter constricted his chest again and wrung itself out of him. It was a pained, wheezing sound; your heart squeezed. Before you knew it, the distance between you had disappeared, footsteps clinking on every step, until Arthur was right before you in arm’s reach.
“Are...” You trailed off, unsure of what to say. Or what to do.
You gently placed a hand on his shoulder, small and boney under your hold. Between guffaws beginning to sound more like sobs again, Arthur shook his head and choked out in ashamed defense, “I’m― sorry; it’s a― a condition.”
He took one small shuffle towards the next flight of stairs leading down, but didn’t retreat any farther. You vaguely remembered a condition that caused uncontrollable laughter from your studies, though the name escaped you. It had always looked painful. As painful as Arthur’s laughter seems to be now. His eyes were red and squeezed tight, face brightly flushed. Just as Arthur ducked his head and wrapped a hand over his mouth, you couldn’t help yourself. You wrapped your arms around him. In an embrace.
The embarrassment of hugging a near stranger was absent at that moment, though you shook with nerves and emotion regardless. So many times you had been in his position, distressed and suffering, and no one had ever been there to console you; you wouldn’t let this man struggle through the same.
Arms around his back, every rib and vertebrae prominent and shaking under you, Arthur against your chest. His laughter faltered for just a moment as he froze; he inhaled sharply trying to catch his breath, before a new, albeit quieter attack seized him. Though he didn’t embrace you in return (and you didn't expect him to), his head fell against your shoulder. Echoes of laughter through the stairwell became muffled into you. Tears and mucus were staining your work shirt but none of that mattered.
“You apologized,” you murmured. “Don’t. I’m the one who’s sorry. I wish I knew what to say.”
You weren’t sure how much time passed like that, holding Arthur protectively until the traces of his muffled laughter and tears petered out. Until all that was left was a haunting silence. But he didn’t pull away.
Neither of you said anything for a long time, as Arthur sniffled and tried to catch his breath.
When Arthur finally pulled away from you, his eyes were downcast. Brows remained knotted, redness still colored his face. He was still hunched over his file, like an attempt to keep himself small so he couldn’t be noticed. Or hurt. His gentle, raspy voice was now raw and numb when he finally spoke.
“I don’t... ...Are you real?”
Your eyes softened. “I think so, yes. As real as you are.”
Arthur didn’t react, didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Ah. You added on, “And you are. Real.”
The shake of Arthur’s head was almost imperceptible. He didn’t believe you. Your heart grew cold and heavy anew in your chest. Had he struggled to believe that? That he was real?
A moment passed. He gazed down at his file, the many pages containing pain you couldn’t have fathomed for him. You couldn’t read the look in his eyes. Steely anger and hollow vulnerability swirled around Arthur. Then he looked away and held the file out to you.
“...Here.”
Concern twitched on your face. Not quite taking it from him, you held one of the worn edges. After a brief pause, you said, “You can keep it... if you want to.”
“I don’t,” he whispered.
You didn’t need to ask if he was sure. After such a painful episode, it was no surprise to you if he never wanted to read a single word of this file again. As if it was made of glass, you took it gingerly.
Before you could say anything, Arthur spoke. “Why...?”
“Why what?”
For the first time since he pulled away from your embrace, Arthur looks at you. His pale green eyes were hollow. “Why are you nice to me?”
Caught off-guard, it took a moment to collect your response. But you didn’t shy away from his gaze. “Because there’s something good about you, Arthur. I can tell. ...Look, I’m just a clerk at a shitty information desk. Nobody asks me nicely for help. Nobody is respectful. Everybody just...” your tone grows more frustrated now, “makes demands. And treats me like dirt. Like they’re entitled to it, just because my job doesn’t mean shit. But you’re... one of the very few who... seem like you understand. You’re kind. That’s special, here in Gotham.”
Your face felt warm. Being this vulnerable wasn’t second nature to you; it was tough to get the words out. But all of it was true. Something about this man drew you to him, and you couldn’t make yourself pull away. Not in actions, not in words.
Arthur retreated into silence again; he stared at you as you spoke, expression impossible to read. Wet eyes searched your face, as if looking for lie or deception. When you finished, after a long moment, he hung his head. Brown curls flopped. He slid his hands into the pockets of his tan jacket and made a quiet lilting noise. Somewhere between amused and disbelieving, but still with an air that in his mind, Arthur was somewhere else entirely.
It was difficult to read him, difficult to figure out what was going through his head . Something about him felt fragile, as if made of glass. Yet he wasn’t transparent, like glass was. The vulnerable walls of Arthur’s heart seemed opaque, concealing―protecting―its contents.
Finally, Arthur sniffed and turned away from you, just slightly. The lower level of the stairs beckoned him. “I should go.”
“Oh... will you be alright? Do you have... someone you can talk to?”
For a moment, it looked like he was considering; something in his expression twitched. But then he shook his head again. You didn’t know which question his shake was reply was to, but you had a feeling it was both.
Thunder rumbled distantly outside. It was muffled through the thick concrete slabs of Arkham’s wall, but the sound remained foreboding. And it was going to rain, you suddenly remembered. The news had been predicting a furious rainstorm today all week long. The thought of letting Arthur go home, however far home may be, all alone, in that rain... You would feel horrible if you did nothing. You felt horrible already.
An idea sparked in your head, probably an unwise one, all common sense considering. After a moment of fidgeting, you made up your mind. “Arthur, I, um. I wouldn’t normally do this―”
Stuffing the file under your arm, you dug through your pockets to find a scrap piece of paper. Nothing. Your pockets were as bare as your heart right now. You made a noise of frustration and swore under your breath.
At least you had a pen though, tucked into the pocket of your work shirt. Arthur’s paper-thin lips were parted when he turned back, a hundred questions running through his tired eyes.
You grabbed the pen, before gesturing to his hand. “May I?”
Confused and almost dazed, Arthur gave you his hand; you held it tenderly in your own, palm-up. Not surprisingly, his hand was freezing, almost shocking you with the frigidity. Surely the cold seeping into this stone stairwell wasn’t helping any. The weight of his hand though was solid and real against you, sturdy fingers thin and stained with nicotine―a smoker, then.
You held the tip of the pen to his palm, not quite touching yet, before trying and failing not to sound too self-conscious as you ask, “May I write my number on you? I don’t... ah, have any paper on me.”
“...Okay,” Arthur said after a moment, watching with wide, wet eyes the careful strokes your pen made against his palm, as you gave him such a personal part of you. The pungent smell of the wet ink curled around the two of you, the only sound in the empty stairwell the soft scratching of the felt tip against dry skin.
“Um, I still have work for another few hours, but you can call me later, when I get home? Around seven.” Anxiety setting in, you continued in a ramble, “If you want to, I mean. If you need someone to talk to. Or someone to listen...? I dunno. Whatever you’d like. Forgive me, if this is too forward.”
As the final number dried, before you let go of his hand, Arthur mumbled something you couldn’t make out.
“Pardon?”
“I don’t even know your name...”
“Oh. Sorry,” you flushed, then gave your name to him. Arthur’s hand finally dropped from yours. It didn’t slide into his pocket again just yet, hanging at his side. Not ready to pull away from you completely.
Arthur repeated it softly, just under his breath. It sounded special, in his gentle voice, and your heart thrummed.
“Thank you,” Arthur said. “...You’re one of the only people who’s ever been nice to me.”
He shuffled to the stairs, murmuring a quiet, bye.
You watched him go dolefully, and a part of you went with him. “Get home safe, Arthur.”
When he didn’t respond, with a soft sigh you turned away and pushed yourself back up the stairs, back towards your window, back towards your dead end. You never saw Arthur pause on the bottom step of the next flight for just a moment and bring the hand you penned your number on up to his chest. As if grounding himself. Or making sure he was real. Arthur still doubted that you were real, either. He didn’t know anything anymore, not after reading that file. The whole world felt muffled and dull around him.
Arthur delicately traced a finger over each number. Though mostly dry, the ink left the faintest stain on the pad of his index finger. But this was real, Arthur realized. This was real. And against his better instincts, Arthur allowed himself a small, quiet moment of hope. Maybe this kind stranger was the first good thing to happen to him. For maybe the first time in forever.