John Crichton (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
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come_sailaway2023-05-26 11:14 am
ss_buttcrack) wrote in come_sailaway2023-05-26 11:14 am
Late May-Early June Catch-All [OPEN]
Who: Crichton & You
What: Depresso times after his breakup with Arthur + showing off some regains. He's not doing great, y'all.
Where: All over, says in prompts
When: Late May to Early/Mid June [Crichton gets murked on May 31st, wakes up June 3rd]
Warnings: Depression, drinking/alcoholism, drug use, suicidal ideation, relationship woes, grief (of parental death), Harvey, violence, death, will warn as necessary
A [John's] Give my regards to soul and romance, they always did the best they could
The sound of someone plunking away at piano keys wafts out from John's onto the promenade. It's admittedly not very good playing, clearly someone who is a novice at best, but it's still recognizable as Bach's prelude in C major. Every once in a while the player slips up badly enough to apparently get frustrated, banging on the keys brutally as is to punish them for not sounding how they should. But the reality is, that poor sad player is the one who's messed up.
He's there for hours at a time, playing the same broody melody over and over. For days. Drink glasses accumulate, placed carelessly all over the top of the piano. All empty. They don't seem to be doing much for his playing or his mood. From time to time, he can be heard speaking to someone else, though there's no one there. No one that can be seen or heard by others.
"You must move on from this infatuation, John. How long do you intend to wallow like this?"
"Welp," he pops the P violently on the last syllable as he reaches for his fourth--or is that fifth?--margarita double. "Let's see... How long do you plan on being a pain in my ass?"
"John..." Harvey appears before him, leaning over the piano to look him in the eyes. "The sooner you unlock wormhole travel, the sooner you can leave this place and forget all about this. We have a common goal, so why do you insist on sitting here playing the same single melody over and over when you could be working toward a way home?"
"Why?" Crichton grins savagely back at Harvey. "Because I'm just as single there as I am here." He swallows the last of his drink and then tries to set it back down on the piano top, but his vision's getting blurry and he misses the mark. The glass shatters on the floor at his feet. He just stares at it, like he can't understand what's happened. The broken shards glitter in the spotlights like a tiny constellation of stars. And then they blur completely behind a fresh wave of tears.
Harvey tuts, sighs heavily, and then he vanishes from his sight.
B - And I'm on my knees looking for the answer
Crichton only ever goes back to his cabin to shower, change, and maybe sometimes sleep. If he hasn't either slept over in Wayne's room (something he's trying not to make too much of a habit of) or spent another night getting drunk at the pool bar and passing out on a lounge chair. He's discovered it's less conspicuous than falling asleep at one of the regular bars, and easier on his back than being slumped over a stool. He's gone back to heavy drinking in an effort to ration what little of his Lakah he has left. The booze is less kind to him but somehow that feels appropriate. One downside to sleeping up on the pool deck, however, is, if he doesn't wake up soon enough, he ends up with a nasty sunburn under his already puffy eyes. But who could tell the difference at this point? He's a haggard mess whether it's noon or midnight. Hard to say if he forgot how to shave properly or if he's just given up on using mirrors completely.
The fashion choices he's making these days aren't much better. Who needs to do laundry when you can just shuffle like a lifeless corpse into the Tommy Bahama to grab whatever looks like the right size from off the rack? He does that about once a day, not always in the morning. Sometimes, he doesn't even bother finding the changing room first. Siffleur, if you're watching, enjoy that show because he really doesn't care anymore. Maybe he's doing it on purpose as a dare. If he gets mauled, he gets three day vacation from giving a shit about anything, right? Sometimes, the thought is too tempting. Still, that pesky will to live prevents him from going any further than daydreaming about it.
And so it goes on, one day blurring into the next as he drifts like a stalled out ship marooned in the great vast black of space. But there's no dying Leviathan to rescue him this time. No Elack to ask after him in her kind, if frail and wobbly, voice. There's no 1812 to prod him curiously and sing for him. Well, okay, not a live version. He did happen to get this stuffed toy version in a package from Sundries a while ago. If he squeezes the left antenna, it will sing its synthesized version of the 1812 Overture. Sometimes he uses it as a pillow wherever he's passed out. Sometimes, he presses the button as he's drifting to sleep, like his version of a lullaby. Sometimes, the soft fabric gets a little wet with his tears when he does.
C - Will your system be alright, when you dream of home tonight?
More packages? He's not used to getting so many. Now, he has three unopened sitting in front of him on the counter at Sundries. Is it really worth taking them back to the cabin?
"Screw it, let's see what we got," he says to no one in particular.
The first package reveals two pool noodles, one red and one blue. Crichton is not amused. He picks the red one up and whaps it against the counter, saying, "Oh, haha, very funny. This one a special care package from Sparkles?"
And, as if that wasn't a bad enough reminder, the next package he opens reveals a dunce hat just like the one that apparently appeared on his lifeless head in the stone room. "Really? Really?!" He chucks the hat to the ground and stomps on it. "I didn't need any souvenirs, thanks."
He's so pissed now he almost doesn't even want to open the last box. But he does, tearing maliciously into the paper expecting, God, he doesn't know, maybe his head next. What it actually is ends up being much better but in some ways also much, much worse.
With trembling hands, he lifts out a familiar old photo album. "This is...o-oh." Tears well in his eyes and quickly spill over as he tenderly flips to the first page. It's the photo album his mother started putting together. They finished it later so they could display it at her funeral. The pictures go back to when he was just a kid. His lips quiver into a nostalgic smile as he looks through it. There are his sisters, his dad, his mom... even his old dogs and cats. He was starting to worry he might forget what they looked like. He was starting to fear maybe he'd forget everything after long enough. Now, at least, he has this.
Screw the pool noodles and the dunce cap. He's leaving those here for someone else to find. He presses that photo album to his chest and scurries away with it to the nearest bar, which happens to beHurikane Stan The Man. He'll spend the next few hours drinking beer while he flips through every page of this album backward and forwards, reminiscing to himself about these long-gone times, while the torturous knowledge that he's never seeing his home or his family again creates an ever-wider crack through the middle of his soul.
D (is for death) - Are we human, or are we dancer? (June 3rd) [cw: death, puke]
Three days after his fateful run-in with Arthur in the Tommy Bahama, Crichton awakens at six a.m. and simply... lies there. After all that, he's still here? He's still... he slaps a hand over his mouth and runs for the bathroom, just barely making it to the sink before he spills every last ounce of bile in his belly. It's over. It's all over and yet he's still waking up in this frelling room. He can't. He can't do this. He can't stay here. He can't see Athur. Not now. He can't face anyone.
As soon as he wipes and rinses the acid from his mouth he tears into the room, grabbing a tote bag and cramming anything he remotely cares about into it. Then, he steals a pillow and the comforter from the bed and stuffs it into the pillow case. With all the possessions he can carry under both arms, he turns and looks around the room one last time.
"Goodbye." He tells to no one. Then he wrenches open the door and marches into the hall. He's heading for the brig--the place he should have been staying all along. He can only hope no one will come looking for him down there. He needs to be alone. If anyone does come down, they will find him curled up under the blanket facing the wall pretending to sleep. He will try very hard not to react if he hears a voice calling him.
What: Depresso times after his breakup with Arthur + showing off some regains. He's not doing great, y'all.
Where: All over, says in prompts
When: Late May to Early/Mid June [Crichton gets murked on May 31st, wakes up June 3rd]
Warnings: Depression, drinking/alcoholism, drug use, suicidal ideation, relationship woes, grief (of parental death), Harvey, violence, death, will warn as necessary
A [John's] Give my regards to soul and romance, they always did the best they could
The sound of someone plunking away at piano keys wafts out from John's onto the promenade. It's admittedly not very good playing, clearly someone who is a novice at best, but it's still recognizable as Bach's prelude in C major. Every once in a while the player slips up badly enough to apparently get frustrated, banging on the keys brutally as is to punish them for not sounding how they should. But the reality is, that poor sad player is the one who's messed up.
He's there for hours at a time, playing the same broody melody over and over. For days. Drink glasses accumulate, placed carelessly all over the top of the piano. All empty. They don't seem to be doing much for his playing or his mood. From time to time, he can be heard speaking to someone else, though there's no one there. No one that can be seen or heard by others.
"You must move on from this infatuation, John. How long do you intend to wallow like this?"
"Welp," he pops the P violently on the last syllable as he reaches for his fourth--or is that fifth?--margarita double. "Let's see... How long do you plan on being a pain in my ass?"
"John..." Harvey appears before him, leaning over the piano to look him in the eyes. "The sooner you unlock wormhole travel, the sooner you can leave this place and forget all about this. We have a common goal, so why do you insist on sitting here playing the same single melody over and over when you could be working toward a way home?"
"Why?" Crichton grins savagely back at Harvey. "Because I'm just as single there as I am here." He swallows the last of his drink and then tries to set it back down on the piano top, but his vision's getting blurry and he misses the mark. The glass shatters on the floor at his feet. He just stares at it, like he can't understand what's happened. The broken shards glitter in the spotlights like a tiny constellation of stars. And then they blur completely behind a fresh wave of tears.
Harvey tuts, sighs heavily, and then he vanishes from his sight.
B - And I'm on my knees looking for the answer
Crichton only ever goes back to his cabin to shower, change, and maybe sometimes sleep. If he hasn't either slept over in Wayne's room (something he's trying not to make too much of a habit of) or spent another night getting drunk at the pool bar and passing out on a lounge chair. He's discovered it's less conspicuous than falling asleep at one of the regular bars, and easier on his back than being slumped over a stool. He's gone back to heavy drinking in an effort to ration what little of his Lakah he has left. The booze is less kind to him but somehow that feels appropriate. One downside to sleeping up on the pool deck, however, is, if he doesn't wake up soon enough, he ends up with a nasty sunburn under his already puffy eyes. But who could tell the difference at this point? He's a haggard mess whether it's noon or midnight. Hard to say if he forgot how to shave properly or if he's just given up on using mirrors completely.
The fashion choices he's making these days aren't much better. Who needs to do laundry when you can just shuffle like a lifeless corpse into the Tommy Bahama to grab whatever looks like the right size from off the rack? He does that about once a day, not always in the morning. Sometimes, he doesn't even bother finding the changing room first. Siffleur, if you're watching, enjoy that show because he really doesn't care anymore. Maybe he's doing it on purpose as a dare. If he gets mauled, he gets three day vacation from giving a shit about anything, right? Sometimes, the thought is too tempting. Still, that pesky will to live prevents him from going any further than daydreaming about it.
And so it goes on, one day blurring into the next as he drifts like a stalled out ship marooned in the great vast black of space. But there's no dying Leviathan to rescue him this time. No Elack to ask after him in her kind, if frail and wobbly, voice. There's no 1812 to prod him curiously and sing for him. Well, okay, not a live version. He did happen to get this stuffed toy version in a package from Sundries a while ago. If he squeezes the left antenna, it will sing its synthesized version of the 1812 Overture. Sometimes he uses it as a pillow wherever he's passed out. Sometimes, he presses the button as he's drifting to sleep, like his version of a lullaby. Sometimes, the soft fabric gets a little wet with his tears when he does.
C - Will your system be alright, when you dream of home tonight?
More packages? He's not used to getting so many. Now, he has three unopened sitting in front of him on the counter at Sundries. Is it really worth taking them back to the cabin?
"Screw it, let's see what we got," he says to no one in particular.
The first package reveals two pool noodles, one red and one blue. Crichton is not amused. He picks the red one up and whaps it against the counter, saying, "Oh, haha, very funny. This one a special care package from Sparkles?"
And, as if that wasn't a bad enough reminder, the next package he opens reveals a dunce hat just like the one that apparently appeared on his lifeless head in the stone room. "Really? Really?!" He chucks the hat to the ground and stomps on it. "I didn't need any souvenirs, thanks."
He's so pissed now he almost doesn't even want to open the last box. But he does, tearing maliciously into the paper expecting, God, he doesn't know, maybe his head next. What it actually is ends up being much better but in some ways also much, much worse.
With trembling hands, he lifts out a familiar old photo album. "This is...o-oh." Tears well in his eyes and quickly spill over as he tenderly flips to the first page. It's the photo album his mother started putting together. They finished it later so they could display it at her funeral. The pictures go back to when he was just a kid. His lips quiver into a nostalgic smile as he looks through it. There are his sisters, his dad, his mom... even his old dogs and cats. He was starting to worry he might forget what they looked like. He was starting to fear maybe he'd forget everything after long enough. Now, at least, he has this.
Screw the pool noodles and the dunce cap. He's leaving those here for someone else to find. He presses that photo album to his chest and scurries away with it to the nearest bar, which happens to be
D (is for death) - Are we human, or are we dancer? (June 3rd) [cw: death, puke]
Three days after his fateful run-in with Arthur in the Tommy Bahama, Crichton awakens at six a.m. and simply... lies there. After all that, he's still here? He's still... he slaps a hand over his mouth and runs for the bathroom, just barely making it to the sink before he spills every last ounce of bile in his belly. It's over. It's all over and yet he's still waking up in this frelling room. He can't. He can't do this. He can't stay here. He can't see Athur. Not now. He can't face anyone.
As soon as he wipes and rinses the acid from his mouth he tears into the room, grabbing a tote bag and cramming anything he remotely cares about into it. Then, he steals a pillow and the comforter from the bed and stuffs it into the pillow case. With all the possessions he can carry under both arms, he turns and looks around the room one last time.
"Goodbye." He tells to no one. Then he wrenches open the door and marches into the hall. He's heading for the brig--the place he should have been staying all along. He can only hope no one will come looking for him down there. He needs to be alone. If anyone does come down, they will find him curled up under the blanket facing the wall pretending to sleep. He will try very hard not to react if he hears a voice calling him.
B - On my knees
The smell of alcohol that follows Crichton everywhere is also an unfortunately familiar scent. It's not exactly making him want to hunt the man while he's struggling with all of this.
It's as Crichton finishes changing that Siffleur emerges from one of his many hiding places and hops down on the floor. "You shouldn't sleep outside. Follow me."
no subject
"Sure..." He zips his fly and trudges along after Siffleur. "Didn't think you'd be one to worry about what I should or shouldn't do."
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But for better or worse, Siffleur also knows the signs when someone is using alcohol to keep far worse demons at bay. If Crichton were destroying himself for the simple satisfaction of doing so, it would be easy to let him. But there is a monster in his mind, and he is dangerous if ignored.
"You need a safe place to sleep while you are like this. The others will not understand what you are doing, and they will try to help you, and will make it worse." He glances back at Crichton. "Do you see him often?"
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A couple of brain cells make brief contact with each other and a sudden thought occurs. "Wait. You think this is about him?"
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"I don't actually know if alcohol affects him. Maybe it does. But, what, a guy can't just drink himself stupid after a breakup?"
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He is not usually in the business of prying, but he needs to know if Crichton is deluding himself, or simply lying and doing poorly at it. "But when I was drinking like that, I did not try to get myself killed."
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"I don't know, man. I'm not in my right mind. Haven't been for a while. I don't know what you want me to say."
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He still nods for Crichton to keep following him. There, out of sight of the entrance, this is an odd block. Most of the repeating sections in Tommy Bahamas' are the same thing. This one is still distinctly Tommy Bahamas branded, but it clearly comes from some upscale store, or a flagship one in some very important area, because among the usual clothing displayed, there is also a couch to sit on.
"Arthur came to visit me after I killed myself in his memories. He mentioned that someone had stayed in his memory and changed things, and it made him very upset. I assume this is what the two of you were fighting about in the room." Again, his whiskers twitch. "You do not need to tell me details. I do not want to pry. I only need to know if this is how your break-ups always go, or if this one is different."
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"He told you about that?" It hurts. Arthur went to Siffleur to complain? Who else? Not that he has any right to dictate who Arthur talks to or about what but... frell him.
"Wish I'd been smart enough to do that. Should have thrown myself from the train the minute I saw them." Them being Arthur and his beautiful daughter.
"How the hell could any of my other breakups go like this? How many times do you think I'd have the chance to accidentally screw up someone's memories?"
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He does tip his head at Crichton. Arthur had said that someone entered his memory to change things - to prove that he was better than Arthur was at his own life. He had thought it was perhaps the kind of unkind assumption made after a break-up happens. But here is Crichton attempting to passively die. What did he do? "Every breakup involves ruining someone's memories. You just ruin the memory the currently have, not one made before they met you. But, I mean was what you did that much worse than anything you've done before to an ex?"
no subject
He lets himself slump over on the arm of the couch, kicking his boots off and curling his knees up under him.
"Yeah. I'd say this is worse. What the hell do you think I've doin' to my exes? I don't set out to hurt people. I don't..." heavy sigh. "I don't know if what happened with Aeryn was my fault or... frell it, you tell me." He always meant to tell Arthur about this, eventually. But the time never felt right. Now, here he is about to spill it to Siffleur instead. Ironic, since it involves the reason why he's so disgusted by cannibalism.
"At home, on Moya, I got attacked by a guy who liked eating people. He'd use a cloning gun to split the person in half, then he'd eat one and save the other." So help him if Siffleur compliments that method, he's going to hurl. So he presses on. "I got twinned. We both escaped together. But then we got separated. The other me went with Aeryn. They got...close. Closer than I ever got. Then he died. And she didn't know what to do about it. Here I was, the spare tire in their relationship and now I'm the only thing left. I begged her to stay. I know she needed time but I just... I didn't want her to go and never come back. She left anyway. And I didn't find out until after she did that she was pregnant with John Crichton's kid. It destroyed me. That's the first time I... started drinking. Started using other things to numb me too." That was around the time he started using the Lakah to dull the ache.
"That wasn't the end of it. She came back, but she was sick. Dying. And the only one who could keep her alive was that bastard Scorpius himself. He used her as a bargaining chip to talk his way into staying on Moya. He can...sense my emotions. So I had to keep dulling them. I had to keep pretending I was mad at her, that I didn't love her anymore because that was the only way to keep Scorpius from using her and the baby against me." His voice starts to waver as fresh angry tears come into his eyes.
"All I ever wanted was to be a good father to that baby. All I ever wanted was to hold Aeryn again and just... be a family. But I got pulled here instead. I never even got to see--" he cuts that last part off with a choked sob.
"Then I saw Arthur there with his little girl and I... I couldn't tear myself away. It was everything I'd ever wished for. I knew it was wrong but I was too damn selfish to let it go. I kept telling myself just one more day couldn't hurt. See where that got me...?"
no subject
Crichton is not drinking to medicate himself. Crichton is drinking because he is wallowing, and he has clearly decided that a part of wallowing is being drunk. And though if asked previously, Siffleur would have decided that Crichton was a Father, he has now had it confirmed that he is the worst kind of Father - the kind who is so selfish that he hurts the Mother and the child, who stupidly thinks that this Scorpius person wasn't already using this Aeryn and her child to harm Crichton.
Siffleur's tail swishes back and forth. And yes, now he sees exactly how badly Crichton has fucked up. He sees why Arthur was so angry.
"I see." He says, voice as flat as his ears. "You used him and his child as a replacement for the woman and the child you could not care for. I understand why he thought my actions were malicious after what you did."
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He hops off the couch, his fur bristled as he puts distance between him and Crichton. "You are an idiot. At every turn, you have chosen the worst path. Even now, you make your death slow, to punish everyone around you with it, and to force them to make a choice for you. I see why the memory of your mother could be used against you. You believe that she would find you unlovable. You believe that everyone finds you unlovable, and when they do not, you give them reasons to."
Siffleur's tail swishes aggressively, and he quickly hops up on one of the top shelves, shoving into the overstock and knocking boxes on the ground, keeping distance lest he feel the urge to give Crichton what he wants.
cw: suicide
The moment he got his pistol back from that Sundries package... he already tried. This curse won't let him go.
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"Thanks for nothing." He'd like to stomp away, but that takes more coordination than he currently has. So it's an awkward barefoot shuffle, but it's still movement away, out of the store, heading back to whichever bar is closest. Time to see if he can black himself out again.
no subject
What a natural born father. And his tail swishes a few more times as he thinks about what Crichton said - not just about his past, but Arthur's as well. Hmm. Does Arthur know that Crichton is sharing this information?
He lingers on that thought for a long time before he emerges from his hiding spot and heads off to his main den, where his phone is.