come_sailaway | Good For You, You Look Happy And Healthy

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Good For You, You Look Happy And Healthy

Who: John Doe is back! You know, the guy with the mask who's 80% invisible? he's fine.
What: Looking for a friend, adjusting to life on the ship post canon update
Where: various places on the ship
When: late November.
Warnings: Potential mentions of injury and torture, canon was not kind to John and Arthur; likewise canon is not always kind when talking about mental health; will list anything specific in thread headers as they come up.

“You cannot defeat it. But you don’t have to let it win.”

The knife glistens.

“Goodbye, John-”

“Arthur! No-!”

Two lengths of memories fight to find their place in his mind: Months aboard a strange cruise ship in a pocket dimension, drifting further and further from Arthur and trying to find some sense of himself with his own body. Months in a prison pit in the Dreamlands, a harrowing journey in another world growing closer and closer to Arthur, despite the terrible things he said and did. Quietly moving on. Violently dying for each other.

And now: The ceiling of a clean cruise ship cabin.

The first thought, of course, is that this isn’t real.

Some trick of the King’s, meant to torment him, punishment for his defiance, something to force him back in line, but...

He couldn’t remember the cruise in the Dreamlands, he realizes, so how would the King think to weave this as an illusion? Unless his memories of his first stint aboard were also a product of the King, but even the labyrinth was tame by the King’s standards.

So... This was real. Lucky chance, or Kayne’s intervention? He didn’t know, but it also didn’t matter.

He was back, and Arthur -

Arthur!

1. You’re doing great out there without me, baby [closed to Arthur]

Did Arthur go back when he did? Did he come back when he did?

Given the state they both were last in (dying, separated, doomed), John is nothing short of frantic as he searches the ship for Arthur... So urgently that he doesn’t even try to find new clothes, running around in the bloody mess that Arthur had been wearing when they - they encountered the King.

It takes him ten minutes into the search to remember the communication devices, and he fumbles out a message to Arthur’s number:

Arthur its john where the fuck are you

2. Maybe I’m too emotional

John’s thoughts are so fixated on Arthur that he spares nothing for himself.

He really should have, because, uh, he isn’t in the cult robes anymore. And he’s not in the leggings and tights and beachwear, either.

No, passengers on the ship are instead witness to a pallid mask floating above bloody clothes, a pair of eyes visible through the eye-holes of the mask from the front and no other angle, the only bit of flesh visible being his left hand, and even then the smallest finger has been removed, seemingly replaced by a twig that’s grown into its place.

Gone is the caution he lurked around the ship with before; now his movements are frantic and his eyes are wild as he tries to remember Arthur’s haunts in the promenade, a memory simultaneously months ago and hardly a day old. His search takes him a few steps into each location, enough to see what’s there and who’s there and if any of that involves Arthur, sometimes even calling out-

“Arthur! Where are you?! Are you here?!”

3. You found a new girl, and it only took a couple weeks [closed to mother (: ]

Once he knows where and how Arthur is, he’s able to calm down. Which is good, because he also realizes he’s in dire need of a change of clothes, for comfort if not for not getting stared at by every fucking person on the ship.

At least he’s not in fucking cult robes again.

John searches through the racks of clothing for something to his tastes, avoiding everything yellow no matter how nicely the colour clicks in his mind. But he does so with caution, having not forgotten that the clothing store was home to a cougar. No matter how level-headed he remembered that cougar being, John can’t bring himself to be at ease in the domain of a predator at the moment.

4. You’re so unaffected, I really don’t get it.

After all that excitement, John finds himself back in the library. It was a place he went to regularly when he was previously on the ship. He read the poetry available, in part - he could admit now - to understand Arthur and his interests, but he also dipped his toes into the prose. Some attempt to understand more of himself as well, to find himself in stories and words.

Now that he had months of very visceral memories with Arthur, he could admit something else: His drifting through the library was just another form of apathy. Rather than simply being uninterested in the world and the people in it, he was maintaining distance, engaging with an imitation to avoid reality.

And yet, he’s there again, a book of poetry in hand, contemplating if and how it’ll hit different after just a little more time spent in someone else’s head.

(At least he’s dressed in normal Tommy Bahama clothes now. The mask is still there, though, and everything else is invisible but his left hand and his left leg from the calf-down, but hey, beats a cult robe.)

5. But I guess, good for you [Wildcard]

It seems quite a lot has happened since John was here last. There’s a bowling lane now? Was that there before or did he just overlook it? There’s wooden signposts on the sportsdeck, a table beside it, an ongoing project?

There’s a lot of little changes on the ship, and John takes a moment to note each one as he passes.

(Except for the memorial. He avoids that one for now.)

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There's no cougar to be seen.

There is a woman wearing an eye patch sitting cross-legged on what was a table full of polo shirts, all now scattered on the ground. She's muttering to herself, good eye closed, rocking back and forth to soothe herself. After how... how badly things went with Valdis, she's been trying so hard to keep herself calm.

The sound of someone else in the general area makes her snap her eye open. But her whole head turns, the working eye and the empty socket both staring in the direction of-

"Siffleur?" She scrambles to her feet. How? This isn't possible. He's inside of her, isn't he? Though after weeks of no answer, she's started to worry that he was gone entirely but.

But there he is. Her boy. Her son. He's in bloody clothes, and he's so nervous, and she bursts into tears, reaching her arms out to him. "Siffleur! Oh g-god, Siffleur!"

He sees the movement out the corner of his mask and he turns in time to be face to face with her when she reaches for him. His first instinct is to shout a warning but - but this isn't where he was, and no matter how unwell the woman looked-

His second instinct kicked in as he froze in horror. Having to rely on a mouth and lungs to voice his 'What the fuck's means he only gets as far as "What-" before the woman hugs him.

There's a lot he needs to unpack right now. Somehow being mistaken for someone else was a big one, to be sure. The woman was obviously 'not all there'.

But that was hardly as jarring as the iridescent shard of something protruding from her skull.

It was hard to look at, even for him, but it looked - jagged, pointed edge after pointed edge after pointed edge, fractured in a way that had his eyes swinging up and down just to follow its shape. It was at once transparent and outlined in a sickly iridescence, like the puddles on the street of Arkham. Worst of all, it didn't quite hold still, and he hoped for the woman's sake it was a trick of the unseen light and not this thing working through her head like a barb.

John is, for once speechless. Should he ask about the shard? Should he tell her she's wrong? Should she - jesus, she's crying, he's bad enough at that with Arthur, but this complete stranger?

"Uh," John says, trying to buy himself some time, really wishing Arthur was there with him.

The tight squeeze isn't returned, and instead of Siffleur's voice, there's a gravely sound that comes out of her son's mouth. She recoils a second later, arms flailing, stomach churning because though her eyes say 'Siffleur', something is terribly wrong here.

The spike in her head swivels as her fear spikes, twisting in her skull. Her face twitches, the pain felt but not lingered on. There's so many more pressing things, like the fact that something is terribly wrong here.

But it's him. It's...

Her tears go down her face and her hands tremble. She reaches out to touch his arm again, feeling the familiar shape of him. "... h-how are- how are you in his body? What d-did you do to him?"

The urge to run away is still inside him. The memory of how quick someone could go from scared to sad to murderous would never go away. He knew what deep, inflicted madness was like, and that he was safer away from it. They'd both be safer away from each other, but-

He sees the way the shard turns, and the woman seems small as she trembles, and...

This isn't the Dreamlands. It isn't even Arthur's earth. They're all passengers on the same strange ship, and so... he should make an effort. It's what he told himself last time, dull as he felt, but-

John's grateful (for once) over his lack of face and reliance on a mask now hiding his grimace, as he raises his hands a little and tries to negotiate.

"I didn't do anything, I-" with the mask and lack of face fresh on his mind, John realizes how absurd this sounds, but he's in this deep: "I think you've just mistaken me for someone else."

Her first impulse is to demand he answer her, a raw and furious scream to know where her son is, and what this thing is doing in his body.

But this isn't home. There... there are other worlds. There could even be their world, again. Siffleur twice over but- but this isn't her Siffleur. It's his shape, so familiar to her, unmistakable even with only one eye.

She pulls her hands away again, wringing them, pacing a little to try burn off the energy in her body that's making her feel panicked and upset. "N-no, no, I haven't. I-I- I know what h-he looks like. He's the only person w-who looks the same. Everyone else- they c-change shape. When it gets bad, they look wrong but he never, ever looks wrong to me and you're- you're in his shape but you're not him-"

A hand goes to her mouth and she bites down hard on her knuckle, drawing blood as she fights to stay focused. The constant pain from her missing eye has helped some. But not enough. Never enough. Fuck. Who is this? How can he be Siffleur and not Siffleur?

She takes her hand from her mouth, blood in her teeth. "What's- what's your name? W-who are you?"

John, without realizing it, takes another step back as the woman bites her own hand.

A part of him is still screaming to run away. But he just-

"Uh, I'm - John. Doe." he says. The name is easy, the 'who' is complicated.

Although - although, what catches in his mind as he keeps watching the woman for sudden movement, as that shard twists further through her skull, is how she again says he looks like Siffleur, somehow.

The way she sees the world has been broken, fractured like that shard in her head, and somehow it skews his appearance as well. He can only wonder how, but...

If he thinks about it later, he might find it funny to be the one needing help to see.

For now, he asks - slowly, but not quite reluctantly - "How... What do I look like to you?"

John Doe, John Doe...

"Like h-him like... like my son." She starts to say, but. That's not useful is it? That's not useful. So. She starts again, taking a breath and trying so desperately to hold tight to everything she can.

"T-tall and gaunt and pale, with- with golden eyes, and a sharp face." Her hands twist again, blood dripping slowly on the ground. "L-like him. Just like him. Even his- his beard." And she reaches up to touch her face, smearing blood over her jawline by accident. "It's- it's red like his..."

But... there is a difference, and she wants to grab his hand badly, but she just grabs her own. "B-but your- oh your hand, what's- what happened to your hand? What did they do? Your finger..."

She sees flesh and blood where no one else does. She sees someone who - John can't say if that does or doesn't resemble him. Building a self-image is hard when your existence was madness and masks, and largely immaterial.

Curiously, it's the hand she balks at, and he looks at it now, slowly flexing his fingers, including the one rebuilt by the forest. It's his hand. It was Arthur's.

"... It's a long story, but we were somewhere... Far from here. A forest. We had to leave something behind and bring something with us to escape."

Though, to be honest, he still wasn't sure if that was how it was supposed to be, if cutting the finger had been necessary. But maybe, he was being a coward about it after the fact, trying to bargain against a loss he already took.

But at least it was his loss, and not...

...

"I did it to myself." he concludes.

Her fingers flex. Ah. Yes, she knows about paying prices. With a great deal of care, she pushes off the shoe and sock she's wearing, showing John Doe the missing toes on her foot.

"I t-told- I told my son it was f-frostbite. But it wasn't. Sometimes, y-you have to pay the price. Sometimes, you h-have to leave something behind, so you c-can bring what you need to escape with you..."

She put her bare foot back down on the ground and she pulls her arms against herself. "... d-do you know the name Yog-Sothoth?"

What little tension that left John comes back twofold at that question. His eyes narrow and his hands flex, but he doesn't run yet.

"I do." he says, his voice too tense to be neutral. "How do you know it?"

Was she a cultist? It seemed likely. But was she like the people in the amphitheatre, or was she like the widow in the cave?

She laughs, a fraught tense sound, and collapses on the ground like a puppet with her strings cut. Of course. There are other worlds, so many other worlds. So it only stands to reason that there would be other thems, other places touched by those terrible beings from beyond the stars, from beyond time and space.

"B-because I s-saw him. I s-saw him and he made me like t-this." She gestures to herself helplessly, barely able to sit upright. Her heart keeps beating in her chest like a bird trapped in chimney, battering itself against the bricks in a frenzy. "Me and Siffleur b-both. We were- we were changed, so completely a-and utterly. I went m-mad and he- he was born... less t-than human. Trapped between."

Jesus Fucking Christ.

The thought stays in his head, but it probably reads clearly in his eye and in the sharp intake of breath.

She saw him? No wonder she was like this - no, it was a wonder she wasn't worse.

And Siffleur, Jesus Christ, he was touched by this too. No fucking wonder-

"I'm - sorry - that happened to you." he says. It's stilted, insufficient to express pity for someone whose mind was torn to shreds by something so massive and uncaring. But it's all he has.

She sighs, laughs, sighs again. Her hands clench at her pants and she just hangs her head forward, feeling that laughter threatening to bubble up over and over.

"Thank you. T-thank you, I... I deserve some of it, b-but not... not nearly as much as I got." And she looks at him, and she knows him, and she gives him the saddest smile. "I'm sorry t-this happened to you too. I'm... I'm sorry there wasn't a version of me waiting for you, when you came through."

"..."

The woman's pity feels strange. Misplaced, and not just because he doesn't deserve it. It's a more direct and misplaced comparison to Siffleur, who was - as John is understanding it through her telling of it - born in that in-between. John, on the other hand, had never been human. Nothing happened to him; he happened to other people.

"... Thank you." He settles on. He has to keep his eyes on her face and not the shard in her skull.

She flutters her hand a few times. It is what it is. She doesn't know him, not the way she knows Siffleur. Not the way she knows herself.

But still... she knows he didn't want this. This isn't how they come into worlds. This isn't the way they want to be. He wouldn't look like her son if hadn't been changed the way Siffleur had.

She slowly picks herself up and pushes her hair over her shoulder, pulling her jacket close again. "Y-you're not my son b-but I... I know you anyway. I know you."

Her fingers pull at the buttons on her coat. "... I... I always wondered w-what part of him he g-got. I... I can't remember everything I felt when I... when I became more than h-human. It doesn't fit in a h-human mind neatly. I wondered but I... I was never sure." And she looks at him with her own yellow eyes. "I k-know now. Thank you."

It's impossible to fathom a world where someone is thankful to have seen him, or know of him. Arthur expressed gratitude for knowing him, yes, but those moments came between cruel words and hard reminders of how much worse Arthur's life had been with him in it.

But does he tell this woman that? She obviously found some comfort in his familiarity. Would she still see it in the truth?

His eyes fix on the shard in her head. Just for a second, but it lingers in his mind just the same.

"... I... I'm not sure I'm a good example." he says. "We seem to be approaching humanity from different sides."

That gets a soft chuckle from her, a little dark, a little wry. "O-oh believe me, I... I expected d-different from him. I expected more of m-me, of..." She gestures to herself - to that spike squirming in her skull, grinding through her brain. "Well. L-less humanity. No humanity. I... I t-think it was... he w-wasn't a person w-when he was changed. H-he was a zygote. H-had months w-without a brain. Months of silence. It... it's n-not like it's a repeatable experiment."

And then she giggles to herself because, well... turns out it was. Not all the factors. John here is very different. Even if he looks like Siffleur, there's a hesitancy to him, a sense of guilt maybe. It's hard to tell. Her hands come to her face and she covers it until the giggles stop, which they do thankfully before they spiral out of control. "O-oh... we all... we all are j-just who we are. Nothing m-more."

Pratt is in his cult gear (because it's comfortable and he's kinda homesick shut up) and is also missing a finger - and there the similarities end. Because he's fully visible, not covered in blood, and as far as he knows isn't part tree.

"Uh... John?" Finally remembers his name after he's been gone for months, Pratt is running on all cylinders today! "Dude are you okay? It's not your blood right?"

John freezes, staring at Pratt. Not for the finger, or what he's wearing, but because he remembers the sometimes contentious nature of their living situation.

It's a very brief memory, because there's much more important fucking things to worry about.

"No. It's Arthur's." John says. He almost sounds out of breath, strange after so long without even having organs. It's one of the reasons he's not thinking - if he were the one in the backseat, he'd be berating the driver for saying something that stupid to a cop.

But no, he's the one with enough of a body to feel adrenaline and say rock stupid things because of it.

"Is he on the ship?! Have you seen him anywhere?!"

Edited 2023-11-30 04:46 (UTC)

"Uhhhh..." Just filling the void with sound while he tries to parse the whole John and Arthur thing, wondering if he just straight up killed him at some point? Was he that jealous of Crichton? Didn't they break up? Pratt really needs a board on his wall with red string for non insane reasons of figuring out everyone's love life, instead of the actual board he still has for insane reasons of him and Caitlyn trying to figure out how the Captain worked.

"Yeah? I think he's still here. What do you mean it's Arthur's blood?"

John is too fresh from that horrible wrenching end to think of anything else. To him, what happened is obvious and Pratt is wasting his time with pointless questions when Arthur could be out there on this ship in god only knows what state. It doesn't matter that he woke up just fine, that he has his memories of the ship back, that he knows how death works here - all of that is overshadowed by the sound of Arthur's screams playing back through his head, the sounds of him choking on his own blood and his hands-

"I mean it's Arthur's fucking blood!" John snaps. "Where the fuck is he?!"

In John's mind, it's just as obvious that his need to find Arthur is out of concern. He does not connect how his extremely aggressive body language and actual language could run counter to that to anyone else watching, even including Arthur himself.

It should be noted at this point, that John's clothes seem the bloodiest right below the neck.

"Yeah I got that bro." He straightens up because he has no idea why John is so freaked out right now, as if Pratt doesn't sometimes lose it for no reason whatsoever. Unfortunately for John, he's activated cop mode.

"Alright alright. Let's just calm down and start from the beginning. What happened to Arthur and why do you need to find him so badly?" Anything you say can and will be used against you.

This is a waste of fucking time, of course. Arthur's not in this particular place and so John has to keep going, not talk to a fucking cop.

"Because Arthur slit his fucking throat!" John says, looking so goddamn crazy in the face of Pratt's professional calm, and then tries to storm for the exit in a huff.

Well that's absolutely not what Pratt was expecting.

"Then he'd be in the morgue." Just cold rationality, because very few people survive slitting their own throats and as a Deputy he'd encountered the aftermath more than he'd like to think about.

"Or back in his room tomorrow morning."

Arthur almost doesn't check his phone, when he hears it sound. It's really a toss-up versus ignoring it and continuing to drink.

...But when he puts it like that.

Several amazed seconds later, he's sending a frantically quick reply, and rushing out of the door without finishing his glass.

Promenade come to the promenade

Is it really John? Is it a trick of the ship? He doesn't know, but he also doesn't hesitate. And christ, christ, he so fervantly hopes.

The Promenade?

Where in the fucking promenade, he nearly asks - but since he's already there, all he does is look up - and he'd recognize that frantic figure anywhere, even if it'd been forever and no time at all since he's seen it from this angle.

"ARTHUR!" he shouts, and runs. He stops, and thankfully is too used to not having arms again that he doesn't grab him and shake him right away.

He still greets Arthur about as well as anyone could expect:

"Arthur, you fucking IDIOT!" he shouts, scratching his throat with the volume.

Edited 2024-01-01 22:56 (UTC)

"JOHN! Jesus christ, John--"

That's really John's voice. This feels, at one and the same time, both real and unreal. Arthur has been holding and holding on to the idea that he might not have heard it for the last time, sometimes with conviction, sometimes like a kid who's too old telling himself to still believe in Santa Claus.

That's really John's voice, blowing out his eardrums, and Arthur has never been more transcendently happy to hear someone giving him shit.

John stops, but Arthur steps forward, first judging the distance with his hands and then closing it with his whole body as he impulsively grabs John and embraces him, tightly. There's a baseline noir-PI sort of liquor smell about him, though he isn't drunk. He's making a low noise that could be relieved laughter, could be sobbing.

"What did I do this time?" he asks, in a tone of fondness and delight, as if he's not standing here with a massive scar on his throat. Steve came back without new memories, and for all Arthur knows, John has done the same.

John's ready to keep shouting at Arthur. He certainly doesn't expect the hug.

It's jarring, unexpected, something he's never considered yet only now realizes he direly wished he could feel, and-

And Arthur has the audacity to ask what he did. Yes, he was laughing and sobbing in a way so painfully familiar knowing how close he was to never hearing that again-

He got a hold of himself figuratively and of Arthur literally, grabbing what he could reach while hugged and holding Arthur firmly.

"What the fuck do you mean, this time? Arthur, you slit your fucking throat!" John barks, with the shake in his voice that came when he was furious with fear and grief. "Why?!"

Man they really are coming at this physical interaction from opposite angles huh--

Arthur pulls back a bit from the hug, since John is bellowing directly into his eardrum. He feels not entirely unlike a cat being scruffed, as John, instead of holding onto him, gets, um, a hold of him.

"You know about that?" Now he's confused, though. Hasn't John been in the Nothing?

"Know about it?! Arthur I was fucking there!!"

John is, in his usual way, too hopped up on being shocked and scared and angry to shut the fuck up and think for a second, either about letting Arthur know how and why he's back or remembering that his voice is now real, eardrum-rattling sound.

"But you -- Hang on, you haven't been in the Nothing?"

Incredible detective work, Arthur. Top marks.

"No - What? The Nothing? What are you talking about?" John says, showing his own incredible skill to listen and consider new information.

"We went back, Arthur! We forgot the ship but we went back, and you-"

Of course he knows he's on the ship again, having just been scouring it for Arthur, but the thought snags enough this time to make him pause and finally think for a fucking second.

"-and we're here again - did Kayne do this?"

Look he has no idea how a wound from a knife with the worst vibes leads to manifesting on a ship they needed no help arriving on the first time, but give him some time he'll figure it out.

Edited (fact checked the lore) 2024-01-12 22:13 (UTC)

"Maybe? I don't know. I only know he's stopped bloody answering." Yes Arthur has flipped about 800 coins since experiencing his timeline whoopsie-daisy, don't worry about it.

"You're-- you're fashionably late again, friend. It's been two- nearly two full months since then, for me." And the two months of stress wind themselves through his words, throwing harsh light on his relief. The dozens of times he nearly put something for John on the memorial, then cursed himself for giving up. His attempt to get a lead from the Captain on bringing people back, the end of which is just a despairing blur.

At least-- at least he wasn't suffering in the Nothing. Whether he might have been suffering all the same -- god, how far did John go beyond Arthur's last moments with him-- did his deal with Kayne bring John here, albeit belatedly?

The snag turns into an anchor, dragging John's aggressive worry to a full stop.

"Two months?"

John's grip loosens so much that his hands are staying more from gravity than effort as he processes the time difference. Not the first time, no, but so much worse now since - since it sounds like they split at the same time again - he'll have to check that in a moment.

For now, he's imagining what he felt in these minutes searching for Arthur and stretching it through hours, days, weeks. The uncertainty, the guilt, the pain, all of it...

"Arthur... I'm sorry." John says, much quieter now. At an indoor voice, really, but that serves the same for him.

As John's grip loosens, Arthur reaches with a hand and takes one of John's in it, and realises with a jolt that -- between the Dreamlands and the months since them -- it's been nearly half a year since he was last physically in a room with John. Since John had a hand that wasn't attached to Arthur's body.

"John, it's not your fault. I-- I'm just glad you aren't in this god damn ship's engine."

He can't describe how glad. But at the same time, there's a leaden weight calling for his attention, wondering if John has been somewhere that must be just as intolerable as the Nothing.

"Has it... been long for you? Since I--" (he has the decency to be grimacing as he says it) "--cut my throat? Is that the, the last thing you remember, or..."

Well, put like that, he's glad he's not in the engine, too.

Their hands... John watches them. It's strange, to be able to hold Arthur's hand like this. It's been months since the ship in the strange simultaneous way his mind's trying to order his memories... But even before 'leaving', he and Arthur hadn't entirely been in each other's company, to put it one way.

Hardly a surprise. How they were before the ship and how they were before their return was like night and day.

Still... even with the three months off the ship, the two months apart might have changed things again. In other words, should he even be holding Arthur's hand? Or simply take it for the temporary contact it was, before they'd inevitably distance each other again?

"Has it been long..." John repeats, to get himself back into the conversation. And he smiles invisibly under his mask and shakes his head. Of course, Arthur wouldn't be able to see it for himself - then again, it's not like there would have been anything to see in the Dreamlands anyway.

"As near as I can tell, not very long at all." John answers with a steadier voice. "In fact, I think your blood on my shirt is still damp."

You know, just to paint the picture for him. ~~At least he isn't using his corpse voice.~~

"Christ," says Arthur, "that must have turned some heads." But he's still so relieved to have John here, now, in front of him, that the words come out as strangely fond.

Internally, his worry strengthens into... he doesn't know. This could be evidence that his deal with Kayne worked, and John was pulled out. But Kayne also said John would forget him, so it could mean precisely the opposite: that John is here, but still has the King's torment to look forward to, should the timeline oopsie-daisy itself again.

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Good For You, You Look Happy And Healthy

3. You found a new girl, and it only took a couple weeks

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2. Hey Ex-Roomie

Hey man hows it been, still scared of music boxes?

You know it!

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1. You’re doing great out there without me, baby

God I wish that I could do that

I've lost my mind, I've spent the night crying on the floor of my bathroom

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