[CLOSED] Move him into the sun -

[theotherright]

Who: Arthur and Crichton
When: The morning after the event
Where: Cabin 127
Summary: Mistakes, it turns out, were made.
Warnings: Death and trauma will be all over this one, including a flashback. Also there's always a possibility that Arthur's strong frustrations with being disabled will come up.

He died, and it hurt the whole time he was dying.

Maybe Crichton saw Friday bring in the corpse -- wide-eyed, contorted of jaw, comically sunburned -- and tuck it into the folded-out sofa-bed as if to sleep. Maybe he slept right through the whole thing alongside a dead body! We're honestly not sure which is existentially worse.

Either way, the moment the clock ticks over to 6am, Arthur screams and curls up and grabs at the sheets and he's not falling? "John!" He's not falling. "John!!" He's not falling??? Fuck fuck fuck fuckf uckfuckfcukfuck fuckfuckfuck he just grabs white-knuckled on to the sheets with a lot of strangled whimpering and shaking.

In a moment he'll be present enough to realise his abdomen hurts, no doubt a symptom of trying to sail off the edge of the world with stitches in. The fine pink lobster sunburn has vanished as if never there.

Comments

[starfleetcleaner]

Tendi looks rather nervous at this, "I...Don't know. I don't have my real tools, this stuff is useful, but this is some very deep level brain problems. Wish Dr. T'ana was here, she'd have a better sence, heck, she'd probaly have dealt with this before. I mean, she on more than one occasion had a crewmate turn into a puppet, and they were fine after."

Tendi gives a sigh. "Even if I knew exactly what was wrong, It's not like I can do anything about it, I don't have a biobed or anything." She moves over to Arthur's arm and begins to work on it, the skin healing as she moves the regnerator over the wounds.

"Do you see anything at all, or just blackness? Or is it white?"

[theotherright]

Four days. Right. That thing he said.

"Well, four days and I... I left out a span where I was in the hospital. I wasn't awake for it, so it didn't seem... relevant at the time."

The medical setting, and the importance of the question at hand, force him to offer a little more detail. Aaaaand now no further questions need be asked!

Arthur's face when Tendi mentions crewmates being turned into puppets is... expressive, but he moves past it. His hand flexes as the mess of burn and bore-hole on his forearm starts to repair, and the constant low ache and sting of it fades in turn.

"It's black," he says, muted by disappointment. "Just black."

[ss_buttcrack]

Arthur, if you could only see the look on Crichton's face. Yeah, that tiny little detail MIGHT have been useful.

"You were in the hospital... were you in a coma? You didn't think that might be relevant information to tell a guy doing home-brew surgery on you?!" He scrubs his hands down his face. "For the love of..."

God, his head... he can't shout, it hurts too bad. Arthur is patched up now, the worst should be over now, right? Except, no. Not at all. Because he saw the look on the man's face at the mention of "puppet" and boy does he have a growing list of concerns.

[starfleetcleaner]

"Oh, also I should mention, When I say 'puppet' I mean a hand puppet. Like...a stuffed toy puppet."

Tendi continues to work, as if what she just said was totaly normal. "Also, are you OK Commander? You look a bit sick as well."

[ss_buttcrack]

Crichton has reached his quota of weird crap that should not even be possible, so when she casually mentions that her crewmate was made into a literal stuffed puppet he just kind of... laughs an insane little laugh and puts his head in his hands.

"I'm fine. I'm just recovering from the worst hangover I've had in months, that's all."

[theotherright]

"Uhhhhm, errr," says Arthur to the puppet thing. Good lord. He's going to have to inform Ryan that there's another world weird enough to give his train a run for its money.

"Listen," he addresses Crichton, mostly to clear this up but also partly to avoid thinking about about people getting turned into hand puppets. "Crichton, I am sorry that I didn't mention it, but it wasn't really at the front of my mind at the time."

It's amazing how far a coma can fall down your priority list when measured alongside other memorable events like 'accidentally murdering a lighthouse keeper with darkness ghosts' and 'getting shot to death'.

[starfleetcleaner]

"Oh, if you're hungover, I could get you some Raktajino! It's what Klingons drink, and if you've ever had bloodwine, you know it's good stuff. Arthur, would you like a cup as well? I cna go grab some really quick!"

Tendi stands up, excited to help her new friends. "It'd be no trouble at all."

[ss_buttcrack]

"I've never had either, but if it's Klingon, then that's just what I need." He'll get to you in a minute, Arthur.

"Could you please go get us some? That would be... so good of you. I'll owe you."

[starfleetcleaner]

"Ok!" Tendi gets to her feet, packing up her medkit. "Be right back!" And with that, she heads off, to retrieve space coffee for the two of them.

[ss_buttcrack]

Crichton waits a moment, to make sure she doesn't come back for anything. Then, he gets up and locks the door behind her with a click that surely won't be ominous at all for Arthur.

Another very pregnant pause, with only the soft slow sound of footsteps as Crichton crosses back to stand in front of his roommate. Where does he even start with this?

"Okay. Spill it. What's really going on with you?"

[theotherright]

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.

[ss_buttcrack]

"You want me to get specific?"

He lets out a harsh sigh. This bad cop act isn't doing shit with Arthur just sitting there buttoning his shirt like there's not a thing else to discuss. So, okay. On the level then.

"Who messed with your mind and what did they do?"

[theotherright]

A couple of the fingers of his left hand start to tap unconsciously at his shirt. He was all ready to lie, but the quiet, breathy laugh that comes out of him instead takes him unawares.

"Yes, that scan caught me a bit by surprise as well," he says, thoughtfully, as if to himself.

Another button. He is trying so hard right now to think of a good explanation that won't lead to worse questions, and he's coming up with 1) jack and 2) shit.

[ss_buttcrack]

"Maybe it did but... listen, you've put your trust in me so far and I like to think I haven't let you down yet. But it goes both ways so..."

There's the sound of something dragging over the carpet. It's Crichton pulling the desk chair over turning it around and straddling it backwards so he can prop his chin on the backrest.

"You're not the only one. I've had people mess with me too. Practically everywhere I go, people want to crack me open to learn what I know. What I'm trying to say is that I get it. I understand what it's like. So tell me?"

[theotherright]

He hasn't let Arthur down, it's true. In fact he's done the opposite, going out of his way for Arthur again and again. That pulls at something in his chest that makes him want to share the truth, but... at the same time, the truth, the whole truth, is not only insane, it's not only painful, but it's damning as well.

He wants to respond to what Crichton's saying with compassion. With questions. Instead he thinks about the bastard thief who stole his eyes, and what he says is "Do you get it?", and his voice is a snapping animal that he has to drag back by its chain.

--And there's sort of no taking that back, is there.

[ss_buttcrack]

The sane thing to do when confronted by such a tone would be, probably, to get a little angry. Or defensive. That would be how sane people react.

Crichton laughs. It's a terrifying unhinged sound. It dies abruptly, like the quick snap of a neck. And in its place is just one long inhale through his nose.

And then, very softly, as he leans in closer, he says, "Try me."

[theotherright]

It's not the first less-than-hinged laugh he's heard from Crichton, but it is the worst. It does not hit Arthur well. It visibly does not hit him well, as his mouth splits into a grin that's all tooth and no humour.

"Oh, you'd make a pretty fucking puppet for the King in Yellow." He's once again kinda talking to himself but also absolutely talking out loud. "If I was in my world I'd think you already were one."

[ss_buttcrack]

That ugly grin sends a chill through Crichton. Is this really the same man who had previously let Crichton comfort him in his dark moment? Well, there was the gun incident before that.

"Yellow, like that robe you tried to hide under the sofa cushion?"

He's not backing down. In fact, he leans in even closer now, inches away from tilting the chair he's perched on.

"You're not in your world and I'm not in mine, but I know a little something about being used like a puppet. I've been living with a Nosferatu nightmare piggybacking in my brain for too damn long now. So..." he sucks in another harsh breath. "Tell me one thing? Am I going to regret sticking up for you, Arthur?"

[theotherright]

All that shuts Arthur the fuck up.

The parody of a grin slips partway from his face, and he freezes, because for a few seconds he is the most scared he has been since his first day on the ship. He thought he might one day hear that confession again out of another person's mouth, another rambling and clearly insane person like Kellin, but he was completely unprepared for it to come from Crichton.

His first thought is that the hordes of the King have followed him here at last, after all.

"Oh no no no," he says, his voice soft but with the unmistakable tightness of swallowed panic. "Oh no, oh shit, oh- oh fuck."

Well put, Arthur.

But-- he tries to talk himself down. "No. No, that wouldn't make sense. I-if you were his, you'd already have..."

God, it even feels almost like the mirror has flipped. Like he's the Kellin now, explosively losing his marbles in front of some guy. Looking back at him down a mad, insane, horrifying road from only a couple of feet in front. Or, maybe, looking across, as they walk in step.

Another snap decision. A strong impulse. The vote isn't even close.

Arthur forces himself to take a deep breath. He says, if possible, even quieter than before: "You hear a voice too."

[ss_buttcrack]

You hear a voice too.

Just once, just frelling once, Crichton would love not to have been right. Getting that admission doesn't feel like a victory when it's wrapped in panicked whispering--when Arthur's babbling at the edge of madness makes the bile rise in the back of Crichton's throat. He's seen people look at him with that same raw terror in their eyes before... but only once. Only when Harvey was the one driving. When Harvey was the one attacking his friends and... killing Aeryn. He can't stand to see that look coming from Arthur now; he swallows hard and looks away.

"Whatever you think it is, it's not." The harsh edge is gone from his voice, replaced with cracking vocal cords just barely able to push out sound. "I'm not under anyone's control right now. But...yes. I had a voice in my head too. His name was Harvey."

[theotherright]

Arthur closes his mouth, and makes fists with his hands, working to pull himself the fuck together. If his fingernails weren't so short they would be biting into his palms.

It's the change in Crichton's voice that really hammers home how he's acting, not towards a puppet of the King, but towards a person and a friend. He doesn't miss the depth of the implication of that right now, but... it only gets a pin in it, one of many pins.

"I'm sorry," he says, because that seems so much more important to start off with. His voice is tight, but under control; his face has ceased to be outright terrified and instead settled on what one might consider a baseline level of sorrow and anxiety.

Does he mean sorry for being a prick? Or sorry for Crichton having to deal with a guy in his head? Why not both.

Jesus christ. Crichton has one too. Jesus christ.

"In my world... several people have, have tried very suddenly to kill me because they were influenced by him." He says it because he owes Crichton some kind of explanation, some fraction of the trust he's more than earned. "But I... I know he's not here. I know that's not you. I'm sorry. I- I was startled."

[ss_buttcrack]

"I'm sorry, too. I knew exactly what kind of crap you were dealing with and I still pushed you." In retrospect, laughing like a lunatic at a man who's just come down off a traumatic flashback wasn't a great move. Not one of his better mornings.

"It scares me how much we have in common," he admits. "I'm being hunted right now in my world, by several different groups. Not to mention the bounty on my head." His literal head. The constant paranoia, oh yes, he's intimately familiar.

"Can we start over? I've got no hard feelings, man. I don't blame you. I still just want to help. I want to understand."

[theotherright]

Just about everything Crichton says is sparking off new questions, new concerns. And Arthur looks downright worried by the idea that Crichton's being hunted too, never mind that whoever hunts him would probably lack the motive or indeed the means to look for him on a cruise ship in a pocket universe.

"Yes," he says. "Yes, please, let's start over."

Honestly-- he would have said the same thing even if Crichton wasn't sorry.

"What does it mean?" He can't help but jump into questions. There are too many pins, and they're starting to fall off the board. "Does the captain know about this? Did he assign us to the same cabin on purpose? Are there more people on board like us?"

Of course he doesn't expect Crichton to have the answers to these questions, but he has to give them voice anyway.

[ss_buttcrack]

Whew. Okay, good. Starting over is good. They can put a couple ugly moments behind them and hopefully sleep easier tonight for it. Assuming either of them are going to sleep much now. ...The coffee will help, right?

"I'd bet my left asscheek the Captain knew exactly what he was doing putting us together. He was probably taking bets himself on how long it would take for one of us to let it slip" Wonder how they did on that.

"I'm tempted to say there can't be that many guys like us around but I'm not putting anything past this place."

But, okay, besides those questions, Crichton has a much bigger one that hits closer to home. "Since you got here, have you heard from yours?"

[theotherright]

Ooooo Arthur's eyes narrow as they talk about the Captain. Ooo he would like very much to punch the Captain in the face sometime.

"My first night here, somebody told me that the Captain aims to... harvest his passengers' suffering, in some nebulous way. I guess our fighting out the issue plays directly into his hands." His voice is sour. He's still... so tense.

But also, yes, big question. "Not a peep," Arthur mutters, and still he doesn't draw the line for Crichton between the John of last night and the voice of this morning. He's trying to remember if he's said anything else since he arrived. Anything else that'll give away more about John than he wants to, if and when he draws that line. "And yours -- Harvey -- you said he was in your head."