As Crichton talks, Arthur turns his face away, trying to hide his expression. Even though he asked, and even though he knows he sleep-talks, it makes him tense up inside like a threatened animal to hear what an open book he's been. And to hear that he and his problems have been making somebody else suffer, again. Reliable as clockwork.

He feared hearing her name. And at the same time, on some level, he expects to hear it everywhere he goes. When Crichton says Faroe to him, it feels almost inevitable. He gave himself away to Crichton, he gave himself away to John, and Parker... god. Christ. Maybe Parker was waiting for him to talk about her himself. Parker didn't push.

Arthur has gone quite still, his hands no longer moving on the ripped banknote, his breathing quiet. He's almost calm, in a weird way; now that it's been asked, it's so easy to know how to answer the question. There's only one answer he can possibly give. He may do a lot of things, he may be a dozen kinds of monster, but he won't lie about Faroe and he won't pretend not to know her name.

In a level voice, he says: "My daughter."