Arthur's face doesn't change; tears have started rolling down it, going more or less from 0 to 100 in a heartbeat.
He finally leaves the piano bench ("Please, hurry, please," because he knows what's at the end of it, even though he knows what's at the end of it). The floor under his feet is hardwood, the sound of his footsteps on it clear. But there's-- something else too?
Arthur's shaking on the bed, breathing fast and uneven; his hand struggles under Crichton's, because he can't stay here, he needs to move, it might be too late, it's already too late. Crichton's exact words don't come through, but he is aware of something, audible but distorted like a voice heard through deep water. Solid in a way the vision isn't. One or two words shine brighter than the others.
The memory continues ruthlessly, but it also wavers just a little, as if drawn over his other senses on tracing-paper.
He starts to shake his head no, confused. He doesn't want to be followed. He doesn't want anybody else to see.
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He finally leaves the piano bench ("Please, hurry, please," because he knows what's at the end of it, even though he knows what's at the end of it). The floor under his feet is hardwood, the sound of his footsteps on it clear. But there's-- something else too?
Arthur's shaking on the bed, breathing fast and uneven; his hand struggles under Crichton's, because he can't stay here, he needs to move, it might be too late, it's already too late. Crichton's exact words don't come through, but he is aware of something, audible but distorted like a voice heard through deep water. Solid in a way the vision isn't. One or two words shine brighter than the others.
The memory continues ruthlessly, but it also wavers just a little, as if drawn over his other senses on tracing-paper.
He starts to shake his head no, confused. He doesn't want to be followed. He doesn't want anybody else to see.