theotherright | come sail away IC inbox

How do you... [ ...know that Crichton didn't fight back. Okay, Arthur has been a detective, so he can guess what physical evidence she might have spotted. But that does bring another question to mind, one that he delivers suspiciously: ] How did you know what happened so quickly? Were you watching?

[ And no. No no no no, there is a sixty-foot privacy wall around that part of his life for a reason, and neither Valdis nor anyone has the right to try to peek over it. ]

No. [ Firmly and bitterly. ] I don't owe you an explanation. [ He made the mistake of explaining to someone once, and see where that's gotten them both. ]

[Valdis takes a deep and patient breath.]

I am an Angel of Death and Crichton is a good friend, I felt him die. I was able to trace where the death was and thanks to my empathy I could tell it was done in rage. Your scent was all over the place and no matter how cleaned up you are, I can still feel his death on your soul.

[It helps that she is close with Crichton, normally she ignores any deaths on the ship.]

And you are quite welcome to simmer in your rage and agony, but it won't make you feel better. You'll probably just explode again.

[ What in the ex-Catholic trauma is this.

No, you know what-- no. None of this. He's having none of this. Not his feelings being left at the crime scene, not Valdis appointing herself his therapist, not death-- not death being marked on his soul. No. No. He knows it's there, he knows it's there, but he didn't fucking say she could look. ]

What would you do? [ Sharp and ragged. He sits up -- no, he stands up. Why even try to be calm? He's killed someone and it's already not a secret, and one person will tell another, and they'll tell another; he's done that walk of shame before, and this time he can't run away from it. How long can he really keep his head above water now? What if he just dived? ]

What would you do if I explain? Huh? Would you make it better? Would you tell me it's 'not my fault'? [ Disgust is heavy on those words -- and on some deep level, so is desperation. He can't fathom putting down the guilt, but it's heavy, and his bones crack under it. ] If you can see- see death on my soul, then christ, you know talking won't fucking help me. None of this-- none of this is for you.

[His rage honestly feels pathetic and she is not his therapist and she certainly doesn't care as much about him as she does Crichton. Not by a long shot.]

Why does everyone think I want to feel what they feel. It's not fun you know and if I could stop it without turning into your worst nightmare, then I would.

And newsflash, Arthur. Killing Crichton was your fault. I don't believe in 'crimes of passion.' I understand emotions make people stupid, but now Crichton is going to be dead for three days simply because you are too immature to express your emotions in a healthy manner.

Crichton is an ass who screwed up, but he didn't deserve to die and then be eaten by a werecougar for it.

I really doubt that you could come anywhere close to my worst nightmare. [ There's a laugh in his voice, a manic note. ]

Oh, I'm very aware that it's my fault. I am the one who brought it to blows. But I have been [ he has to drag in a breath, the words heavy- ] trying. I told him I would be civil, and he walked out. I could have been telling everybody how badly he fucked up, but I haven't. And he has been, behind my back, telling people-- telling them-- telling you. Working his way round, telling- telling everyone. Telling everyone.

[ Three days-- did she just say three days? Part of him catches it, but he's distracted, upset, not focused on that just now. ]

Hopefully I will never challenge that assumption.

[With Siffleur and her boys on the same page it should go fairly smoothly, even if it does disgust her.]

Crichton is a bad liar. I can't defend him telling others, but I am extremely persuasive and he knows he can't lie to me about pretty much anything. And he most certainly hasn't told anyone the whole story. I understand being a private person, I do not have a trusting nature.

[Not anymore.]

He has kept the one secret I have that he does know, but he's not in love with me and he is in love with you. Is it so insane that he would be so broken he would need someone to talk to?

[ He scoffs at the threat. It's not actually a threat, and on some level he knows it, but on another higher level he's having what we'll delicately call a bad mental health day, so it halfway sounds like a threat anyway.

He makes a similar sound at 'he is in love with you', but this one's more upset, the corners of his mouth dragging down in a miserable sort of come off it. If Crichton loves him, then it seems to Arthur that his love isn't doing very much good for either of them. ]

Then talk to them about anything else. If he wants to confess to something, say he lied to me for months, or hell-- say I'm, I'm angry for no good fucking reason, or make something up, I don't care! I don't care what, but don't stand there and fucking pretend he had to talk about her!

[He can't see the look on her face, but she is highly amused and slightly annoyed. She's also starting to put things together.]

It's yourself you're angry at, isn't it?

[Because if it was just Crichton, then the anger should be shifting, not growing or staying the same. It shouldn't still be this type of agony.]

There's a lot of death on your hands. Purposeful. Accidental.

[Which would mean...He blames himself for his daughter's death. Perhaps not just a terrible accident then. Perhaps something more.]

Is it the accidental one that has you acting like this?

Leave.

[ He says the word with the clarity and sharpness of a rifle's crack. His tone is vicious. His hands, stained as they may be with the memory of blood, are fists.

He is at his fucking limit. ]

I did not ask you here. You are not welcome. Leave.

No

[ He stares at nothing for several thin fractions of a moment, during which his face trembles and his insides are butterflied.

Then with a snarled curse, he hoists up his cane like a spear, touches the footboard of the bed to orient himself, and starts towards the door, fully intending to shoulder Valdis out of the way if she turns out to be between him and it. ]

[Unfortunately for him, Valdis is an apex predator, Silence and stealth are second nature, and while he will not bump into her, her voice will whisper across his ear like a soft breeze. Her tone is soft and sad. ]

I'm sorry about your daughter, Arthur.

[Then in the other ear, her voice a little harder but still a whisper.]

But I don't have many friends, kill Crichton again and you will wake up next to him.

[ Arthur flinches away from her voice. At first he thought of Valdis as an innocent player, someone who didn't ask to know about Faroe, but by now his ire is firmly centered on her as well. And if she can fucking feel that, if she's looking inside his head without his consent and seeing how thought-paralysingly pissed off _{and unhappy and afraid} he is, then good, maybe she'll finally leave him alone. ]

Don't. You don't fucking know anything.

[ But the warning makes him laugh unpleasantly. There it is: the angel of death is one more murderer on a ship full of murderers and monsters. He's no longer even surprised.

His emotions and Valdis's moving voice have thrown off his direction. He hits the doorframe before the door, hands first; the door sits not open, but out of flush with its frame. He mutters come on, come on, and the busted lock puts up no resistance as he pulls the door open by its edge.

Valdis can probably get the last word in for free here, if she wants. ]

I know how it feels to have guilt over the death of innocents. I have simply carried it longer.

[She will slip out the door ahead of him, so close that he will feel the brush of air as she moves.

This definitely didn't go as planned.

He has too much anger for her to be of any use.]

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