The thing is that, despite Arthur's sense of safety circling the drain, Crichton's mouth does feel good, so it's a confused sort of mnh that comes out of him when that mouth pulls away. He hesitates in answering, unwilling to admit defeat, but sensing that now of all times is not the time to pretend to be fine.

"I-- well, I..."

Then there are footsteps and laughing voices in the corridor, moving past their room, normal for a Christmas morning and not particularly loud. Arthur is back up on his elbows like a jack-in-the-box. Rapidly: "Well actually--"

He slows it down, and brings it back down an octave while he's at it. Decides to answer with the truth. Pre-emptively attempts to defuse that truth with an unconvincing laugh.

"I-- no, no knock on your ability, but brilliantly enough I keep thinking how easily I could be stabbed. I - suppose you could say I'm incredibly bad at setting the mood."

He says it as if it's a joke. It would be a better joke if his various scars didn't stand out in quite such livid pink against his pale torso.