With the medical part of this over, Arthur has started buttoning his shirt back up, methodically, starting at the bottom to make sure the buttons line up. He was about to ask what Klingons are -- but instead, there's the heavy metallic click of the lock.
His fingers go quite still on his shirt, and he goes quite still on the bed.
As Crichton walks back towards him, Arthur turns his head just as slowly, tracking him by ear rather than eye. After a moment he starts doing his buttons again, casually, in an attempt to -- well, to look less like someone with something to hide. Although that ship seems to have sailed.
Admit to nothing. Force him to narrow down what he's gleaned.
"Well, what do you mean?" he asks, as if the whole previous everything didn't just happen. He unhurriedly fastens another button, covering the raised welt on his chest that is one of the gunshot scars.
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His fingers go quite still on his shirt, and he goes quite still on the bed.
As Crichton walks back towards him, Arthur turns his head just as slowly, tracking him by ear rather than eye. After a moment he starts doing his buttons again, casually, in an attempt to -- well, to look less like someone with something to hide. Although that ship seems to have sailed.
Admit to nothing. Force him to narrow down what he's gleaned.
"Well, what do you mean?" he asks, as if the whole previous everything didn't just happen. He unhurriedly fastens another button, covering the raised welt on his chest that is one of the gunshot scars.