theotherright | come sail away IC inbox

[ At first, Arthur is too tunnel-visioned to notice his phone buzzing. Then he isn't checking it because he's, well, cleaning up.

After that, he isn't answering because what the fuck, how does she know.

He's just going to stay in his cabin, which is a bad hiding place but at least has a lock on the door, and... figure out what the hell he's going to do next. He has until 6am tomorrow at the latest. But probably, judging by Valdis's text, much less time than that. ]

[no answer. Luckily he is not hard to find and she is soon outside his door, Knocking softly]

Arthur. I know you are there.

[no matter how clean he thinks he is, she can smell the blood and she did stop by the body before heading here. Arthur’s scent was all over it. Crichton’s face was unrecognizable, even before Siffleur. Even the rage still lingered in the entry. To say it was a bloodbath would have been putting it mildly.]

You can open the door, or I can. But if I do, you won’t have one for at least 24 hours.

Shit, [ says Arthur inside the cabin, ] shit, shit, shit.

[ It's been a little while since he killed someone, though not nearly so long as he would like. Usually he copes by staying busy with something important, like running from the police, or stumbling blindly into the police, or getting a piano dropped on him. This time he's run into a dead end, with nowhere to dodge as the enormity of what he's just done hits him like a storm surge, sickening and terrifying, pouring in to mix with all the guilt over Faroe that's not been allowed to rest in peace.

The most useful thing he's done with the last few minutes is try to cry into his sleeve so that maybe the neighbours won't hear. But no, yeah, sure, he can absolutely host company in the middle of a mental breakdown, no problem.

Would she actually break the door down? How does she know? He gets up off the bed and inches towards the night-stand, not sure what he's looking for, fingers finally closing round the stem of the heavy bedside lamp. And he calls out: ]

I haven't seen him.

[ This doesn't sound convincing even to himself, and something about the blatant lie combined with the unintentional joke makes him ugly laugh, an impulse that comes out more as a series of hiccups.

He doesn't even know why he's bluffing. Everyone will know. Everyone will know. Secrets don't stay secret around here. ]

Liar.

[Valdis takes a patient breath. Even if she couldn't feel his anxiety, she can hear it. It's in the loud breaths, the quickly beating heart, in the scrape of something heavy across wood. Fear too, and perhaps even a touch of insanity.

She examines the door, placing a flattened hand against it, testing. She'd broken Nobunaga's before, this one would be no different. A groaning noise from the door as she applies pressure and then the lock breaks and the door opens.

There's Arthur, looking like a complete mess. Her eyes shift to the lamp.]

A lamp? Really?

[ He's braced for her to bash the door down; the groan of wood and sudden cracking as the lock gives way to her strength is somehow much more frightening. He might. He might have fucked up.

Under his breath, he's chanting "Oh jesus. Shit. Oh jesus christ," in an unsteady voice. The bed catches the backs of his knees as he tries to retreat, and he nearly loses his balance.

Half scared, half a snapped challenge: ]

He's not here. What the hell are you here to say?

[ Yes, a lamp. It's shaking in his hand, but his grip is firm. ]

I know he isn't here. Siffleur is currently feasting on what you left behind.

[She steps into the room, not even bothered by his posturing.]

I came to check on you. [Most people don't murder their exes for being fools, but from the state of Crichton's face, well, it was most certainly a crime of passion.] but you should probably put the lamp down.

[ The posturing lasts for about 0.2 seconds after she tells him that Siffleur is eating Crichton's remains. That shouldn't... that's... fuck, it's all gone to shit so quickly, and Arthur has done his part to help it get even worse. In March they were happy. March feels like years ago.

The hand with the lamp slowly goes down, and Arthur sways where he stands. ]

God, I was afraid of that, that he'd... smell it, I, I should have moved the... moved him. [ Moved him where? He doesn't know. How? Through the whole very populated ship, in front of everyone? No.

The words 'I came to check on you' finally sink in, but he doesn't know what to do with them. He's not sure he believes them. Why would she want to? For all she knows, Crichton heroically rescued his daughter and Arthur snapped and killed him for it. And he doesn't want to correct it, doesn't want to clarify, doesn't want to know that she knows.

His voice sinks again, though, in one last vain bid at privacy that he knows he doesn't have. ]

Can you... please close the door. Put something against it if it won't stay.

I mean, it's only one of his worst fears, getting eaten. If you wanted revenge for him messing with your memories, you certainly won the lottery on hurting him.

[She takes a breath and moves into the room, resting the door closed.]

I understand your anger. He gave you memories of a life you never had. One that was happy, and the lie of it, the fact that your daughter wasn't saved...that conflict must be so painful for you.

[Valdis moves closer the entire time she is speaking.]

Oh. [ Hollowly. He didn't know that. Didn't know Crichton nearly as well as he thought, as he keeps finding out over and over again. But he's still angry enough to half feel guilty, and half think: good. Good -- he doesn't mean it with any sincerity, but there's a sick, bloody sense of tit-for-tat to it all the same.

Valdis's voice is getting nearer. So are her soft footsteps. Arthur knows the layout of the room well, and with a hand out to catch the post at the foot of the bed, he moves sideways and around it, giving himself room to back up. Keeping distance.

Until she starts talking about Faroe. Then his demeanour is once again aggressive, the aggression of something injured and cornered and clawed: his hand tightens around the lamp again, illogically, and he doesn't even let her finish before the answer rips out of him. ]

Don't. Don't talk about her. Don't try to fucking understand. He shouldn't have told you. He shouldn't have told anyone. Don't fucking talk about her. She's not... [ Yeah, Valdis has hit the nail on the head here: ] She's not saved.

[ Crichton didn't save her. And nor did Arthur, when it actually would have counted.

His eyes were already red; now there are tears in them again, and he hates it, because crying brings sympathy that he has no fucking right to receive. ]

[He's getting tense again, she can hear it in his voice and feel it in her blood and of course see it in how his grip tightens around the lamp.]

Arthur. I took out that door like it was nothing. Do you really think that lamp is going to have any use to you.

[Flat. Because even in his current state of mind, he knows the answer.]

Put it down, then we can talk.

[ He knows the answer, and yet he's still holding onto it, because what's life without lying to yourself and pretending you have even an ounce of protection or control?

(He has neither protection nor control. Not for himself, and not from himself. Crichton wasn't trying to kill him. He wasn't even fighting back. All he did was say the wrong thing: that was all it took, and Arthur attacked him. It's already an unclear memory, but the evidence speaks for itself. That was all it took, and Arthur attacked him, and killed him.)

He's also fighting for his life to not start bawling in front of her, and boy is that audible in the choked-off shortness of his voice. ]

Just--

Talk.

[ Get this over with. ]

I'm not here to take revenge for Crichton. I'm here because I should have come a long time ago.

[There's a gentleness in her voice despite the firm response.]

So put it down, or I will make you put it down.

[ Arthur...

...is out of fight.

His shoulders sink, then his hand, and then he drops the lamp to the floor with a heavy thud, gulping air as if he's half-drowned.

He doesn't speak. He finds the bed somewhat painfully with his shin, and sits down slowly on it, both hands hiding his face. His whole body is shaking. ]

[He drops it. Thank goodness because she really didn't want to have to take it from him. He's far too fragile right now.

Valdis doesn't quite go all the way over to him, giving him some of the space he needs.]

What Crichton did was selfish and self-serving. He even admitted to me that he would do it again, even knowing how much it would hurt you. He is not one to stand by and watch a child, or anyone die, even if it doesn't help in the end.

I, like you, was furious with someone for interfering in a memory of mine. I was in danger and they defended me, which had repercussions for my present being.

Here's the thing, Arthur. Most people cannot just let terrible things happen when they can change it. I'm immortal, I have the life experience necessary to just sit by and let the bad things come to pass.

[She creeps a little closer]

If it hadn't been a memory, if it had been the actual event, you would have been furious if he had stood by and done nothing. The only reason you are so angry now is because he gave you happiness that reality then took away.

[Which is not Crichton's fault.]

And...honestly, at the base essence of how you feel. It is not anger, it is sorrow.

[ 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. ]

[She listens to him cry, silently hating the fact that she has become a freaking therapist again. What she wouldn't give to have someone else be the empath.]

Yeah, he's an ass. He screwed up. He betrayed your trust. Told your secrets. He's a fool and he's selfish. He abused a situation seeking his own happiness, not yours.

He's a human. He is flawed.

[Valdis crosses her arms.]

Did killing him make you feel better?

I know he's human -- I still get to be fucking angry about it. Being human isn't an excuse for fucking up, it's--

[ She said she was immortal; he doesn't know what she is, or whether she understands this, and he's still fighting to talk without crying-- but he's going to get this out: this is kind of important to him, okay-- ]

It means that when you fuck up, you-- you accept the consequences. You own it-- you don't, don't expect the person you hurt to somehow be okay, you don't expect to be forgiven overnight, you don't-- y-you don't tell people you saved her.

[ His voice is breaking on every syllable at the end there, and it's only by a herculean effort that he doesn't make Valdis stand there watching him cry again. There's a miserable pressure inside him that won't let up, so while her question hits him just as hard as her statement, he can only manage a quiet response to it, brief by comparison. ]

No. Jesus, what do you think I... no.

[ He'd like to say that he wouldn't have done it if he didn't know Crichton would come back. But... is that true? He wasn't approaching the action with any kind of logical plan. And even if it's true, is that really better? Or does it just mean that dying, and reviving, and dying and reviving again, and watching others do the same, has fucked him up in some subtle but incredibly important way?

And whether or not it's true, it isn't an excuse. ]

He knows he screwed up. He knows he hurt you. He's been so miserable over what he did to you that he laid there and let you kill him. Because he felt he deserved it.

[How does she know? No defensive wounds on either of them. Arthur is unscathed and Crichton is dead.]

I don't have the same morals a human does, but I do agree that being a human is not an excuse for his behavior. But he does have a hero complex, something you well know.

I do not agree with what he did.

[Now that that is covered]

Now. Explain to me your anger. I will not judge you for your feelings.

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!

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