theotherright | come sail away IC inbox

[ 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!

[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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