He doesn't know what to make of that bitter disgust he hears. It seems directed inward, which isn't such a surprise. He can only imagine what kind of agony it would be to carry the death of your own young child with you through life; deserved or not he thinks it would be easy to build up guilt from it. Asking for more will have to wait. Arthur very firmly puts up that barrier, and this time Crichton accepts it without argument.

"Okay. I won't ask about it anymore." His gentle tone implies that he'll always be ready to listen whenever Arthur is ready to share it again.

"But... call this a crazy suggestion: would it help if you weren't sleeping alone in bed?" Sometimes, when the nerves and the nightmares struck him, it helped to have someone nearby. A warm body to reassure him that he wasn't alone. They already sleep in the same room, and that pull-out couch isn't the most comfortable looking thing he's ever seen. It wouldn't be that big of a leap to just share the actual bed. It doesn't have to mean anything serious. If it works, however, maybe they'd both get better rest.