"Alright," Arthur agrees, "the story of how the baby made it home safe." He says it with his eyes closed, and something pulling at the corners of his mouth, like they can't decide whether to turn up or down.
Crichton, of course, picks up on what he decided not to say. Shit. Arthur nods like he's taking the advice in, but suddenly all he can wonder is what Crichton would think if he knew about the times when it was Arthur's fault. If he'd be so quick to reassure.
But he's had nearly five years to practice swallowing that fear. So he nods in agreement, thinly smiles, shrugs with his hands. Tries generally to look reassured. Thinking about her is a minefield that he's navigated before and will navigate again, and he can do it so long as no brand new fears are buried where he doesn't expect them -- thoughts like: if he's a copy, is he not the Arthur who lived his life up to the ship?
If he's a copy, did he never actually know her?
That's the thought that makes his breath sharpen, and his lungs crumple, and the corners of his mouth draw down, and his fingers tighten on themselves.
no subject
Crichton, of course, picks up on what he decided not to say. Shit. Arthur nods like he's taking the advice in, but suddenly all he can wonder is what Crichton would think if he knew about the times when it was Arthur's fault. If he'd be so quick to reassure.
But he's had nearly five years to practice swallowing that fear. So he nods in agreement, thinly smiles, shrugs with his hands. Tries generally to look reassured. Thinking about her is a minefield that he's navigated before and will navigate again, and he can do it so long as no brand new fears are buried where he doesn't expect them -- thoughts like: if he's a copy, is he not the Arthur who lived his life up to the ship?
If he's a copy, did he never actually know her?
That's the thought that makes his breath sharpen, and his lungs crumple, and the corners of his mouth draw down, and his fingers tighten on themselves.