[ Arthur is just going to be making a lot of ugly snotty and tearful noises through all that, don't mind him. He gets the gist of it still.
It's a mixed bag. Some parts miss the mark, and they don't help: how can they, when Valdis only seems to have about a third of the picture of why Arthur is angry with Crichton? Saying he would do it again is... it's one thing to someone who's only aware of the part where he stopped a child from drowning. It's quite another to Arthur. It makes something cold and painful move through his chest, as though his heart has hardened.
Other parts are right on target, and that somehow feels worse than the rest. Yes, he's miserable at his core. He's miserable, and sometimes it feels like he's spent every day of the last four years feeling this way -- and if he has, then he goddamn well deserves it, he deserves to stay miserable for every single year that he stole from his only daughter.
It's not something he can keep holding in, even with Valdis standing there. A horrible thin sound pushes out of his throat and he cries into his hands, coughing up the noises like nails, for all the ways he's fucked up and still keeps fucking up, and for all the people he's hurt, and is still hurting, and will, inevitably, every time, despite his promises and his efforts, hurt again.
It takes some calming down before he can speak, his voice hoarse. But he does need to explain something. Not about Faroe. About someone much less sacred, someone who has also fucked up. ]
Months. He was there months. Nearly a year. And he knew what-- knew what was coming at the end. [ What Arthur would do. What he would have to change. ] And he knew I don't- I don't- I don't tell people. About her. [ Even saying that much is a struggle. And actually yeah, forget being guilty about it, maybe Arthur really could kill Crichton all over again for this. ]
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It's a mixed bag. Some parts miss the mark, and they don't help: how can they, when Valdis only seems to have about a third of the picture of why Arthur is angry with Crichton? Saying he would do it again is... it's one thing to someone who's only aware of the part where he stopped a child from drowning. It's quite another to Arthur. It makes something cold and painful move through his chest, as though his heart has hardened.
Other parts are right on target, and that somehow feels worse than the rest. Yes, he's miserable at his core. He's miserable, and sometimes it feels like he's spent every day of the last four years feeling this way -- and if he has, then he goddamn well deserves it, he deserves to stay miserable for every single year that he stole from his only daughter.
It's not something he can keep holding in, even with Valdis standing there. A horrible thin sound pushes out of his throat and he cries into his hands, coughing up the noises like nails, for all the ways he's fucked up and still keeps fucking up, and for all the people he's hurt, and is still hurting, and will, inevitably, every time, despite his promises and his efforts, hurt again.
It takes some calming down before he can speak, his voice hoarse. But he does need to explain something. Not about Faroe. About someone much less sacred, someone who has also fucked up. ]
Months. He was there months. Nearly a year. And he knew what-- knew what was coming at the end. [ What Arthur would do. What he would have to change. ] And he knew I don't- I don't- I don't tell people. About her. [ Even saying that much is a struggle. And actually yeah, forget being guilty about it, maybe Arthur really could kill Crichton all over again for this. ]