theotherright | come sail away IC inbox

"Maybe start with the baby made it home safe part first next time you tell it, huh?" There's humor in that too. Water flowing under the bridge.

"Arthur..." Crichton's tone turns serious, reading between the lines of what hasn't been said. He'd be lying if he said he hasn't had similar notions cross his own mind. So many people have been hurt because of him, it feels like. An endless parade of good intentions paving the way to hell. "Sometimes bad things happen to good people, sometimes a lot of bad things. Doesn't always mean it's your fault. The universe doesn't play fair."

"Alright," Arthur agrees, "the story of how the baby made it home safe." He says it with his eyes closed, and something pulling at the corners of his mouth, like they can't decide whether to turn up or down.

Crichton, of course, picks up on what he decided not to say. Shit. Arthur nods like he's taking the advice in, but suddenly all he can wonder is what Crichton would think if he knew about the times when it was Arthur's fault. If he'd be so quick to reassure.

But he's had nearly five years to practice swallowing that fear. So he nods in agreement, thinly smiles, shrugs with his hands. Tries generally to look reassured. Thinking about her is a minefield that he's navigated before and will navigate again, and he can do it so long as no brand new fears are buried where he doesn't expect them -- thoughts like: if he's a copy, is he not the Arthur who lived his life up to the ship?

If he's a copy, did he never actually know her?

That's the thought that makes his breath sharpen, and his lungs crumple, and the corners of his mouth draw down, and his fingers tighten on themselves.

Arthur might be surprised. Will Crichton like hearing it? No. But he's got a few of his own stories to tell. They really are a matched set.

"Hey..." Crichton's voice softens. The creak of the chair he's on announces that he's getting up, and a moment later, the sofa depresses as Crichton joins Arthur on it.

"You look like you have something you need to talk about. Tell me what's up?"

Two somethings, and yet Arthur can't bring himself to voice either of them.

One has never in nearly five years stopped being an open wound, and on top of that it would invite judgement, something he richly deserves but is too cowardly to face from Crichton of all people. They're a team, but maybe that judgement ends with them not such a team any more.

The other is-- it has to be wrong. It has to be. And he can't worry Crichton with something like that if he's not sure that it's true. (But if he's so sure that it's false, why is he losing so much sleep over it?)

It's become habit by now, if Crichton sits next to him, to pat his arm or shoulder, both in greeting and to judge distance and position. (Arthur strongly prefers to have a spacial map of what's around him.) On this occasion, though, he stays rigidly in place.

In a measured tone: "I'd rather not."

Crichton's come to crave those small pats on the arm, the physical connections that are both practical and comforting. It raises further alarms when Arthur doesn't do it.

"I know, but that's not what I was asking. I think you need to. Come on, Arthur. You know you can trust me?"

No, says the faintest whisper in his ear, though that doesn't change his answer.

"I'm saying, nicely, that I'd rather not talk about it."

If it suddenly sounds like he's talking to a stranger, that's... not unreasonable, but also not really true. He could snap quickly and cruelly, and has in the past with people he liked less, but Crichton deserves better than that.

Despite his best effort, there is some hurt in Crichton's voice when he responds. "Okay. Sorry."

He gets back up and goes to the desk to lay his set of glasses down there for later. After that, he's not so sure what to do. Feels like the temperature in the room just dropped. He finds himself just standing there in awkward silence at a loss for anything else to say.

Now that Crichton has backed off, Arthur escapes that strange tense zone of too-close-for-comfort to find himself feeling like a real piece of shit.

"I trust you," he says, though his voice is still somewhat dead. "I-I don't want you to think it's about not trusting you."

It's about... shame. Cowardice. The almost physical pain of remembering what he did. God, never start a nice conversation with Arthur, because he's damn skilled at ruining it.

Edited (spelling) 2022-11-05 17:30 (UTC)

"I know. And I trust you too. I shouldn't push."

He paces the room once, sighs, then comes back and sits beside Arthur again.

"Do you know that you talk in your sleep?"

No, you shouldn't, Arthur thinks viciously but doesn't say.

The question puts him on alert again. How can it not, coming as it does on the heels of the topic that he still has constant nightmares about?

"I know," he says, guarded, and he pulls another corner off of the half-shredded banknote, which has found its way back into his hands. "Why do you bring it up?"

"Because they don't sound like happy dreams, Arthur." Obvious, yes, but worth stating anyway.

"It sounds like you re-living hell every damn night, man. How can I listen to that and not be concerned for you?"

Arthur is silent for a moment. Honestly, that answer could have been worse: Arthur was half-afraid Crichton would reveal that he'd been sharing specific names and details in his sleep. (But if he did that, then Parker would have said something... right?)

"You don't have to be concerned," he says, not harshly, but flatly. He almost says I brought it on myself, only he's sure Crichton wouldn't take his word for it.

"What have I said, anyway?"

"How could I not be? You telling me you wouldn't be in my shoes?" Because he thinks you would be, Arthur.

"Most nights you sound like you're fighting with someone. Or, you're crying, saying 'no' over and over. It breaks my heart to hear you like that."

He hesitates, then very quietly asks, "Who's Faroe?"

As Crichton talks, Arthur turns his face away, trying to hide his expression. Even though he asked, and even though he knows he sleep-talks, it makes him tense up inside like a threatened animal to hear what an open book he's been. And to hear that he and his problems have been making somebody else suffer, again. Reliable as clockwork.

He feared hearing her name. And at the same time, on some level, he expects to hear it everywhere he goes. When Crichton says Faroe to him, it feels almost inevitable. He gave himself away to Crichton, he gave himself away to John, and Parker... god. Christ. Maybe Parker was waiting for him to talk about her himself. Parker didn't push.

Arthur has gone quite still, his hands no longer moving on the ripped banknote, his breathing quiet. He's almost calm, in a weird way; now that it's been asked, it's so easy to know how to answer the question. There's only one answer he can possibly give. He may do a lot of things, he may be a dozen kinds of monster, but he won't lie about Faroe and he won't pretend not to know her name.

In a level voice, he says: "My daughter."

"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?"

(no subject)

theotherright - 2022-11-22 21:28 (UTC) - Expand

(no subject)

ss_buttcrack - 2022-11-23 17:05 (UTC) - Expand