theotherright | come sail away IC inbox

"You have a daughter?" He blurts out, before really thinking that through.

No. Oh... no. The stillness now in Arthur tightens Crichton's chest with a primal fear. The way the man cries in the night when he calls her name, the way he berates himself too... Say it's not true. Please.

"Oh, Arthur. Is she...?"

"Yes, she's dead."

Arthur's voice is still even, and his face is still turned away. He's holding himself together, but only because he's not telling the whole story.

The whole story burns the inside of his throat.

"Please don't... I don't want to be fussed over." Because he knows it's coming. He's heard so much 'sorry for your loss' over the course of his life that it just sounds like syllables now. And the irony of Crichton comforting him over this, when it's Arthur's fault, would be too sickening to stand.

He has to bite back those very words just as Arthur says that. But, he can see it. He gets it. This isn't the same but, when his mother passed, Crichton got sick of hearing those same words really fast.

"Okay. Okay, I won't. But, thank you for telling me. I just... wish there was something I could help with. I am here for you, if you ever do need to talk about it."

Arthur nods, and in the same moment, realises that nobody in this world... knows Faroe. At all. Back in their world she still had a grandfather, and distant relatives who'd remember her, but here? If something happened to Arthur that he didn't come back from, any memory of her would be gone.

The realisation somehow terrifies him. His hands grip and tighten on the sofa seat, and a long moment drags itself by.

"She was four and a half."

His voice is low, but steadier than you might expect.

"She was so clever. Sweet and gentle, and as pretty as her mother. Could walk before she was one; ran me and my housekeeper ragged. She loved to be read to. She loved The Owl and the Pussy-Cat, a-and ah, and The Hunting of the Snark. She would bring her dolls to the dinner-table and tell me all about them and what they liked to eat. Sometimes if I, I was taking dinner in my office, she would come and hand me a doll with this- this very serious look on her face, and if I put it down she'd put it back into my hands again, as if- as if she'd decided I needed company." Now his voice is coming thicker, and he stops and takes a heavy breath, in and out, his face drawn.

He wishes he could see Crichton's expression. See whether his fumbling description is even scratching the surface of what it's like to have known her.

"This past eleventh of March would have been her ninth birthday."

His throat tightens, and he finds himself holding his breath while Arthur speaks. She was so young. Only four and a half. Tears prickle at his eyes while he tries to imagine her, tries to piece together all of those wonderful little moments Arthur shares into the picture of a happy, clever, kind little girl. If his own chest feels like it's being cleaved open, how must Arthur feel?

When Arthur's voice grows thick, Crichton reaches out to gently take his hand, so he doesn't have to relive this alone without comfort.

"She sounds like she was a joy in your life and a blessing to anyone who got to know her. She would have grown up to be a caring young woman, since she was already so willing to come and comfort you. I can almost see it... I can tell she meant the world to you."

The hand is almost too much, because it's comfort that Arthur doesn't deserve. It's a bit too late to avoid crying, but he remains stony-faced and silent, and scrubs away the tears that fall with his sleeve as if they've offended him.

"She did." His voice is bitter and disgusted, almost seeming to come from a different person than the one with wet eyes and rivuleted cheeks. "She would have."

If he'd been worth a god damn as a father. If he'd paid more attention, not gotten so involved in his fucking work, set an alarm, anything.

Now he withdraws his hand, and clasps both in front of him, as the door closes and what holes had formed in the wall are filled back in. And he says forcefully: "We're not talking about this any more."

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.

There's a moment, after Crichton gently promises not to ask, where Arthur puts a hand over his eyes and breathes with what feels like concave lungs, and trembles with the effort of not sobbing. Remembering that someone is watching helps him hold it in, even though hiding it is out of the question.

He drags it back inside himself. The question takes him by surprise, but even as numb and bitter as he feels just now, he's aware that what Crichton's offering is something he's thought about wanting.

Crichton's really gotten the short end of the stick in this friendship, hasn't he? He shows up with sunglasses and gets rewarded with Arthur crying on the sofa. Arthur drags it even further back in, and attempts to stop being so fucking self-centered.

"Perhaps. It's worth a try."

Crichton stays quiet, watching Arthur try to pull himself back together and pretending to the best of his ability that he isn't noticing. He's been there. Sometimes, if someone tries to say something to him during that moment of reconstruction, it topples the entire house of cards all over again for him.

"Okay," he offers once Arthur's composed enough to speak. "Then, let's try it. Worst that happens is we don't end up liking it and then the couch is still right there, right?"

Crichton is being patient, and kind, and Arthur is giving him nothing. The phrase 'blood from a stone' comes to mind, and he feels wretched for it.

"Let me," he says thickly, "try that again, without... being a prick. I... thank you. Very much. I-I, I'd like to try that."

He means it, and he wants Crichton to know it, and maybe if his instinct had been to say it first then he'd be a better person.

"Hey," he says, bumping his shoulder lightly against Arthur's, "It's all right. I was the one sticking my nose in where it didn't belong. But, I'm glad I did. If it means I can help you feel better."

There's forgiving warmth in Crichton's tone. He knows. And he's not upset anymore now that he knows what the problem was.

"We'll give it a shot tonight. See how it goes. Sound good?"

It's comforting. The tone, the shoulder bump, all of it. Honest to god comforting.

"That sounds good."

Arthur's need for that comfort overwhelms his feeling of guilt at accepting it, and now he leans the inches sideways onto Crichton's shoulder, and he searches for Crichton's hand again with his own.

"Good." There's a smile in his voice Arthur can't miss. Crichton leans into the touch, letting his head bump into place against Arthur's while their hands intertwine. This is nice. He wouldn't mind staying this way for a while.

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