"Right," mutters Arthur, though he's still seething. He turns and grabs Crichton's arm and starts to walk, fast, leaving it to the other man to steer. Yes, this ship's society is different, but some part of him that's been there since he could understand words is still braced for the sting of thrown stones.

It's impossible to tell how soon they're out of earshot of the camp, but Arthur can't stay silent for long. "Who the fuck does he think he is?" he demands under his breath. "Have I -- 'tried you', jesus fucking christ."

It was partly defensiveness on Crichton's behalf, and it was partly insecurity, because Nobunaga scored his own unintended bullseye; it was also the deeply unsafe feeling of being addressed as a couple, in mixed company, by people he hadn't even told; and it was the plain discomfort at being dragged into that conversation, and smarting joints, and stress about whether he'll sleep badly in front of other people, and wanting a fucking drink to deal with that, and no, he's not over it yet. Fuck off.