come_sailaway | (closed) i can't stay much longer

Entry tags:

(closed) i can't stay much longer

Who: Arthur, Crichton, Fever
What: Sometimes couples therapy is you, your ex, and the person you both befriended.
When: 1/20
Where: Cabin 127
Warnings: Probably going to have death, torture, Village brainwashing, and others.

It had been an offer she'd made to both Arthur and John separately after the meeting with Tayrey. There was enough at stake, enough in the air, and enough between them that a resolution wasn't going to organically grow - and with time against everyone, simply avoiding each other wasn't going to work. They're all on the same side and have to remain that way. All that, and they're both her friends, which is enough on its own for Fever to want to lend a hand.

So, she'd thrown on the headband that removes her brain fog, and set about coordinating it and talking to them. The idea of someone else there to offer a word should things start escalating past a productive point. It might be slightly audacious, but she can be exceptionally convincing, and they both know she can be discreet. Plus, the prospect of getting some closure, finally, is a strong lure on its own.

This is how they wind up in the cabin, sitting around, and Fever pretending she's not going to be listening. She's not directing this, nor is she here for any reason other than to be a deterrent. Whatever's said doesn't leave this room. Beyond that, anything goes.

Also, someone's going to have to start this, and they both don't want it to be her.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Arthur has faced down monsters and gods. He has stood in the AOE of an eldritch being and told it: you will not get what you want from me. And were it not for the walls around the Captain's pocket world, he would be three towns away by now, hiding from this conversation and waiting for it to go away.

But, you know. He can't. So instead, he's here.

He sits in his usual spot on the sofa, and attempts to break the ice.

"Well. You know, it's a surprise, but I-I don't think I've ever had a real intervention before. Do they typically stay this awkward?"

It is fucking tragic that there are so many good reasons that he can't be drunk for this.

God, he's just so glad to not be the first one to talk. Because he doesn't even know what to say or how to...

Well, when in doubt, continue the joke?

"Yeah. Typically. Just be glad no one's holding you down for it." Sad that this is somehow not his first intervention on this ship. Also, he should probably have put a "yet" at the end of that. Knowing these two.

Frell. They can't just keep... circling it forever. Fever said she wouldn't do anything to lead them through it, just keep them on task but even now he's glancing at the exit and wondering if he can outrun her.

Fine. Fine. He knows one thing that needs to be said.

"Arthur, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I invaded your memory, I lied, and I changed them and I know there's not a damn thing I can do to take it back. I'm not asking for forgiveness about this, or about telling people things that I had no business telling, or for goading you into hurting me, any of it. All I want is for you to know why. We never...I never got to tell you what was going on in my head. Give me a chance to explain and after this, you never have to talk to me again. I'll find a different room and we'll go our separate ways. Just give me a chance to tell you how I felt from my own mouth this time."

If there isn't a single slot of hold person cast before the end of this it'll be a post-Christmas miracle.

Now that they're getting to business, the awkwardness fades from Arthur's demeanour; he stops pretending this is a normal conversation, and instead he just looks... stoic. Giving nothing. Or preparing to hold things in.

He's outwardly impassive as he listens. By this point, he's numb to the word sorry. By this point, he's numb to Crichton saying they'll never have to talk again. But the straightforward way he lays out what he did feels good, in a way. Feels a little vindicating, after Cassandra managed to bolster that old idea that Arthur had made a huge fuss over nothing.

"Go ahead," he says, when Crichton pauses. His affect is as flat as his expression. It's not hostile, or at least he doesn't intend it that way, but he's measuring and restraining everything from the way he talks to the way he sits, pre-emptively ready to have to shut down some kind of emotional outburst.

"Before you begin: Fever is aware of Faroe, and of what..." oh yeah okay this is testing his composure already, but he maintains the flatness with only a ripple, "...you... wanted to prevent. I knew it would come up. Or, if it didn't, that it would be looming behind all else, trying to. You don't have to talk around it." And Arthur doesn't have to worry about what well-meaning way Crichton might try to talk around it this time. All at the low, low price of broaching the worst topic of his life to yet another person. But he chose to put another break in the bone; it wasn't done for him. That matters.

(It matters that the person was Fever, too. Anyone else, and he doesn't think he would have been able to say it. Not after what's happened the other times.)

Arthur's lack of reaction settles a chill into Crichton's bones. They will never be okay. They can't even have this talk without Arthur visibly doing his best to control himself. Walking away is the right choice for both of them. Just this one last thing and they can be done.

"Thanks," he says almost as flatly. "That... helps." At least this time he will be able to speak it all without trying and failing to tiptoe around the elephant in the room.

"Now, I'm going to tell you how it was from my point of view and I'm begging you to just... let me finish."

Well. Since that's out in the open, here goes. "I know you feel like I went in and stamped myself all over your memories of her. I did. It's not what I meant to do... that doesn't matter. But... I had feelings about it, too, when we got back, and I had no one to talk to about them. No one. Arthur... I loved her. I really did. I know I don't have the right but tell me how I was supposed to meet her and not fall in love with that brilliant ray of sunshine? I could feel her in my arms, I could hear her and see her. As far as my heart could tell, it was all real. When we got back I couldn't just... stop feeling it.

"I tried. God, help me, I tried. Drinking, the Lakah, it wasn't enough. All I did was sink lower. I missed you, I missed her, I missed having a home where I felt safe for the first time in so many goddamn years. I didn't do what Siffleur did because it was... like having everything I've ever wished for. And then I woke back up and found it all was a nightmare. I didn't know how to deal with any of that." He still doesn't. Not really.

"I went to John first because I thought he knew. I thought maybe he'd have some advice. I thought if I did that it wouldn't be a betrayal of you. I left when I realized he didn't know. But that still left me with nowhere to go. So, I went back to the bar. That's where they found me, at the bottom of a bottle. I was desperate to talk to anyone. I tried to... keep it vague. I tried not to give too much away. But how was I supposed to... to..." he can feel his throat tightening around the words.

He clears his throat several times and tried again. "I screwed up. I said too much. I know. But it wasn't about you Arthur. It was me. I needed a friend to talk to and you weren't willing. So I broke, and I talked to people I trusted about how it was hurting me. And you still... treat me like I was doing it to hurt you personally. Even when I was trying so damn hard not to. So, somewhere along the way... I gave up. I'm not saying it was right, but that's why. That's why..."

Arthur holds it in until I loved her. Then he breathes out -- a small, choked breath -- and closes his teeth against any other reaction. Holds it until I could feel her in my arms. Then leans his elbows on his knees, face turned a little to the side, forehead resting on one hand so that his eyes are hidden. He breathes quietly, slowly, and deliberately.

If any of this makes Crichton pause in speaking, he nods behind his hand and makes a 'carry on' motion with his other. He is trying not to interrupt.

Responses, arguments, recollections crash into each other in his head as Crichton goes on, but Arthur resists getting pulled away into them, holds himself in the room and listens.

A few seconds after Crichton trails off, he moves to fill the silence. "I jumped into a bottle too," he says, in the strained voice of someone who's been holding in sobs. "After she died."

It's something he's alluded to before. It's meant as the lead-in to another statement, to and I didn't tell anybody even when I was blackout drunk, but what it does instead is throw an unintended spotlight on their complimentary reactions. The twin ideas that his false memories contain a false Faroe, and that Crichton is another living soul here who met and mourns Faroe, have been uneasy bedfellows in Arthur's head for a long time now, and the one has been trying to smother the other ever since Crichton died on the floor of the Tommy Bahamas.

He wants to shout that Crichton couldn't really be mourning her, not if he was ready to talk about her so quickly, even though he knows that's emotional and illogical bullshit.

"You were the only person I'd talked to about her." He finishes the thought at last: his voice is ironed out still, and heavy as the iron itself. "John only knew her name because I said it as I was dying. Parker... perhaps not even that much. In four years, I only told you. If you didn't want to give things away, you could have not said anything."

(Bottling it up is always possible and preferable, just look at how much good it's done for Arthur!)

He tries so hard not to flinch hearing Arthur's reactions. He presses on, despite them, because this is what he came here to do. This is what he needs to do. For himself.

"I'm not you." There's nothing vindictive to the statement, but his frustration is unmasked. He can't bottle things up. Frankly, he doesn't see how that's done anything good for Arthur either.

"I can't do things the way you do. You already pointed it out; I'm not as strong as you are under pressure. I buckle. I break. And you..." will always hold me in contempt for that. Deep breath in. Don't say that. Don't.

"I didn't know you hadn't even told Parker. I'm sorry, but, I think you should have. He would have listened." Crichton tried to gently lead Arthur in the direction of healing more than once, but there's only so much he could ever do. It's not his to do anymore. Maybe Parker could have succeeded where he failed. They'll never know.

"I won't ever talk about her again. I'll try to bury her memory and forget. That's the best I can do now."

And you...

"You think--" Arthur begins, with a nasty incredulousness. Then Fever softly says his name, interrupting his interruption, and he stops himself. This is more important than an argument. They have to reach an understanding, a level where they can work together, if they don't want to fuck up this escape for everyone. He re-learned how to coordinate with John; he can do this too.

But he can't honestly believe that Crichton thinks he doesn't break.

He exhales in frustration at the mention of Parker, because, well, yes, probably he should have. The very few times he spoke to Crichton about Faroe -- small things that lived like giants in his memory: her fondness for mice, or that she liked to listen to The Hunting of the Snark at bedtime -- he seemed to be remembering her with a peace that he rarely felt and didn't deserve. Maybe if he'd started that five years ago, with Parker, he'd be in a very different place. Or maybe Parker would have left him. It's a possibility that would have been too terrifying for Arthur to face, if he'd even been able to form the words to talk about her back then.

Maybe if he'd been honest, and Parker had walked away, Parker would still be alive right now. But that's too many maybes, and he knows from experience he can drive himself insane with those.

"I didn't ask you to do that. For fuck's sake--" (his tone has risen to stressful frustration with Crichton's, but the swearing isn't angry, it's punctuation) "--if anything good can come out of situation, it's that someone other than me remembers her here." The disdain of 'me' is clear enough. He may as well have said 'someone other than her murderer'. "At least do her that favour, if you loved her."

A sound explodes from Crichton like a laugh that's been shot backwards out of a canon. Does he hear himself? Does he realize what he's saying?

"You have no idea what you're really asking of me right now, Arthur. I told you, I can't do this. I can't hold onto her memory when you forbid me from ever talking about it. I can't love her and never tell another soul about her. What good does that do? For her? For me? What good does me knowing how her face lights up when she smiles if I can't ever... " the words choke off involuntarily with a sob.

"Arthur, I can't let you go if I can't let her go too. She belongs to you. Only you."

Every time Crichton waxes poetic about her, it's like a targeted strike that makes Arthur want to cut his own throat again. This is the person who trusted him to protect her, and who he let down. This is the person he stole from everyone -- from himself, from Daniel, now from Crichton too. His hand is a fist twisted in his sleeve.

His voice rises, taut. "If you can choose to forget her then she meant fucking nothing to you." It's not an empty barb. It's something he believes like he believes that the sun rises, and it's filling him with bile.

He slams to his feet, voice loud in the small space. "If I could really just choose that do you frelling think I would have needed the booze and the drugs?!"

He paces a tight circle in front of the bed, fisting his fingers into his hair in frustration.

"Why the hell do you think I wanted to die?" His voice cracks, and he's forced to lower the volume to even get the rest of the words out between his clenched teeth.

"Living with you and her was... what I always hoped being a father might feel like. I missed that chance so many goddamn times. First that Sebacean colony, then Aeryn and the baby....I..." tears are flowing freely down his face and he doesn't bother to stop them.

"I really hoped when you put that gun through my skull it would all finally be over so I wouldn't have to live the rest of my miserable life knowing exactly what I'll never have: a family, a home, someone who loves me. Those aren't in the cards for people like us. So, yes, I want to forget. Because it hurts less than...than this."

A clap of her hands, to startle them both out of this vicious sniping. At least they lowered their voices before she had to stop that too.

"All right. My turn."

This is what they asked her for, after all.

"No one is forgetting her. That's not possible unless either of you winds up with amnesia, and from personal experience, I don't recommend it. But that's just an offshoot of the real problem. Let me see if I have this right. Arthur, you don't want to talk to others about her, because talking about her to you is excruciating. And Crichton, you want to talk to others about her, because not talking is as painful as talking is to Arthur."

An inhale of breath, and she folds her hands on her lap. Fever knows she has it correct. She wants to ensure they're listening.

"She changed you with her life and her death. Both of you. Years to love her. And you both broke. Just along different faultlines. What you had and lost, and what you wished you could always have but have been denied." That would never mend, only be scars that ached in the rain. "Neither of the paths of handling it is weakness. Neither of them is strength, though."

And gods, imagine the ripple effects if Crichton's death had stuck. A finger rises from her folded hands - do not respond to that.

"So far, the obvious solution is thread the needle and talk to each other about her. You don't have to be lovers. You don't even have to be friends. You just have to be willing to keep her memories alive to do that."

But if every conversation goes like this, they can't get to that point. She'll throw out one last shot before letting them speak again.

"Of course, it doesn't really help that you both hate yourself."

Edited 2024-02-02 01:21 (UTC)

When Crichton shouts, Arthur starts sniping over him: "Please, you were drinking and sniffing that stuff long before you ever set foot in our house--"

He falls quiet at what Crichton says next, scowling, his leg moving restlessly, not interrupting but evidently moments away from it. Hanging on to the point of this exercise by his fingernails. Until Fever claps her hands.

It's tough, very tough, to listen to what she has to say. Tougher still to keep quiet throughout.

"Well. That's not going to change," he mutters, when she's done. Arthur can only speak for himself, of course, but he suspects he's speaking for Crichton as well anyway.

"But this is what talking to him is like!" He appeals to Fever, resentment and frustration all over his face, then snaps back to Crichton: "You think I liked being your fucking weapon? You think I slept quietly after that? Do you think I had fun, afterwards, trying on murderer or manipulated to see if either descriptor felt less- less disgusting? Did you know that Valdis would break down our door as soon as she sensed you were dead, and start going through every possible motivation she could pluck out of my head? Did you realise that this is the second time, now, that I've had to walk around and wonder who knows and who's told who and who's whispering about it the moment I leave the room? Did you think?"

He jolts a the clap, but it successfully silences him.

As she starts to lay out the root issue, he finds himself nodding. Yes. Not talking about such a deep wound was painful. Being forced to stay quiet about it drove him further into despair. But the nodding stops the moment she suggests they should be talking to each other about it. Because, look how that's working out?

She's right, though. They do hate themselves. Both of them. He doesn't know how to make that stop. He doesn't think either of them can. On that, he and Arthur agree.

"Of course I didn't!" His voices rises but a quick look at Fever in the room reminds him to tone it down. "I wasn't thinking about any of that. I don't know if I should be flattered or hurt that you think I had any kind of nefarious plan or idea behind it at all. You texted me. You asked to meet me, remember? And how come you're allowed to have a complete breakdown in your sanity and I'm supposed to understand that but you don't give me the same courtesy? You know why I'm sober now? So that crap doesn't keep happening. That's why. I was clean for months all the way up until The Village. I'm trying to do better. I know it's too little too late, but dammit, I am trying. All you do is drag me back down into the muck."

As if cycling rapidly through hot and cold, Arthur could snap back something about Crichton not recognising a rhetorical question; instead his teeth click together, shut up by the bluntness of a complete breakdown in your sanity; then his colour rises at the suggestion that Arthur is the one dragging Crichton down.

This isn't just about them any more, he reminds himself. Their feelings aren't the only thing at risk if they remain at odds. Just think of it like the pit. Grit your teeth and get through it.

"Well," he says icily, swallowing down something nastier, "once we're free of the ship, you won't have to put up with that any more. But we have to fucking get there first. So-- fuck all this, it's getting us nowhere-- we need ground rules for not sticking in each other's teeth, and we need to hold to them until we can get to dry land and walk in opposite directions. Agreed?"

"Speak for yourself, I'm feeling better already." Petty? Yes. Also actually true. This is the furthest they've ever gotten in this conversation yet.

"But, yeah, agreed. If I can live and work on the same ship as Scorpius I sure as hell can do the same with you."

Well, so long as he's still not worse than Scorpius.

"Good." Heavily. "Rule one: do not talk about Faroe. Not to anyone else, and not to me. You lost that right. Understand this: the Faroe you think you knew was a -- a reflection in a pool that you waded into and distorted with your presence. And you will keep her name out of your fucking mouth."

That's really the big one, so go ahead and chime in with your suggestions.

"Arthur."

The name is gentle, but demands attention.

"Much as I understand that desire coming from you as her father...you're setting both of you up for failure with that rule. We'd just go backwards into Crichton talking about needing to forget her because he can't talk about her, and you saying don't do that, and him saying he has to, and you're going to end up at each other's throats. And if violence would really solve any of this, I would simply hunt you both down at the same time and tie you to chairs to make you unite in the face of a common enemy. But it won't do a thing."

Not that she didn't heavily consider it.

"You need her memory to stay alive, for her sake. Crichton needs to be able to talk about her, to be able to do that for her. I'm not saying you need to have heart to hearts every night, or that half the ship needs to know, but would there be any way you could at some point talk together? In privacy, only to each other, as the men who knew her, and not bringing anything in those moments outside to anyone else?"

Not to John, not to strangers, not even to her. Fever glances to Crichton, gauging how he's taking it.

"Would that be sufficient for you, if there was one space where you could talk about it?"

Edited 2024-02-18 00:17 (UTC)

Crichton's teeth grind together so hard they squeak. Arthur really is still going to demand that, even now? Crichton is already, predictably, halfway down the thought road of "Well, fine, but if I'm not even allowed to think of the Faroe I knew in that memory as real, then it would be for the better of all of them if I forgot her completely..." when Fever steps back in. But he has a hard time agreeing with her suggestion, either.

"I don't see what difference it makes. He's the last person I want to talk to about any of this, now."

Arthur's going to regret this, when he's no longer angry.

Crichton keeps pulling him forward into thoughtless rage, but Fever keeps pulling him back, and he can't -- he can't ignore the fact that he's going to regret this. That he doesn't want to be the kind of man who speaks this venomously to someone he cared - cares - about. That (the thought breaches his anger suddenly) he sure as hell wouldn't want Faroe to have to witness an outburst like this from her father. (Not that it matters. She's gone.) (It still matters.)

"Jesus. I don't know. I don't know." He's pulled back again, holding in the more nuclear responses he can think of -- as if that helps when he already attacked, as if he can even maintain a ceasefire. "This is all so far off the, the fucking rails."

Her eyes meet Crichton's, and don't flinch.

"Because he's the only person who understands the life you lived with her."

She's not going to argue real versus fake, whether things were false or true. They happened. And the irony of a woman with no memories listening to them struggle through a problem that essentially stems from too many memories is not lost on her. ~~If a spark of something that falls shy of jealousy curls up in her breast, she won't look at it.~~

"Unless you can come up with a more solid idea than using me specifically as a go-between for the rest of the time you have to live on this ship together, which is the only other solution I can see that would allow you to still remember her how you need to without bringing others into the equation. Complicated, sure, but ponder that for a second."

Her shifting her position is mainly so she can look at them both at the same time.

"The other thing, however, is that you need to be in separate rooms to sleep, and the sooner the better. I don't know how quickly Friday can manage the change, but on the off chance it takes her a bit, I have a couch."

"But he doesn't," Crichton says in defeat. "He doesn't understand. He can't."

And he can't ask Fever to keep stepping between them like fighting cats. She's putting herself out here enough as it is.

"You're asking me to bury her, Arthur. So, that's what I'm going to do. I won't ever talk about her again. According to you, the version of her I knew never mattered to begin with."

He stands and turns to make for the door. "I'll go back to sleeping in the brig if I have to. I'm done here."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

(closed) i can't stay much longer

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw: suicidal ideation

cw: suicide/murder

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject