lestercraft | TLV: IC Inbox

There's the door.

"Arthur."

And then the mask at his fingertips.

He takes the mask automatically, resting it in his lap as he sits reclined on the couch. There's no hiding his exhaustion from John like this; but at the same time, he's too tired to care.

Or respond. He just grips the mask a little tighter.

John doesn't speak immediately. Instead, he starts soft and low.

[ And a youth said, Speak to us of Friendship.
And he answered, saying:
Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the “nay” in your own mind, nor do you withhold the “ay.”
And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.
When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.
And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery us not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.
If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
Seek him always with hours to live.
For it is his to fill your need but not your emptiness.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. ]

He wasn't expecting the poetry.

A part of him still expects the screaming, too ingrained from their first impression. More still expecting a soft voice, a quiet question full of intent but no demand, that he can deny as easily as breathing.

But the poem makes something catch in his chest: a suture hook, delicately unpicking stitches pulled raw and bloody on his heart, and he doesn't realise how fiercely his eyes sting through the shock until he feels hot trails burn down his cheeks, and he bows his head to brush them off with the heel of his palm but it doesn't stem the flow; instead when he tries to breathe a shuddering sob rattles his chest, and he has to double over, pulling himself in tight and small and hurt as he tries to keep his gasping, desperate tears quiet enough that he doesn't wake Mandrake.

It's easier sometimes to use other people's words to say the important things. Other people have been people for so much longer. They understand what he wants to say but may not have words for.

But after all that, he offers only his own words. His words and a hand to reach up and smooth the hair away from his eyes.

[ Oh Arthur...

Steady, my friend. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

For whatever it's worth, I'm here with you.]

It takes him a while, far longer than he's wholly comfortable with - fuck, he doesn't remember ever crying in front of Parker - but eventually tears have to run dry, and he's left shivering, aching and unpleasantly stuffy.

"I-I--" he sniffs thickly, swallows and tries again. "I'm sorry, J-John-- I-I-I thought I could- hold it together..."

[ You did. All through two trips here and waiting for them to wake up and getting him settled in.

There's nothing to apologize for, least of all to me. ]

"No," he mumbles softly. "No, I-- I-I should apologise to you, John, for... f-for not--"

He doesn't want to. But at this point, he owes John that much.

"This has- it's happened. Before. Not as-- not like this, but. A... a child."

[Shit.]

That is... so insufficient. He knows as soon as it's out of his mouth. Hearing Arthur like this, seeing him like this- Arthur has handled so much and to know something hurt him this deeply feels like a knife being twisted inside him.

[I'm so sorry, Arthur. For them and for you.]

"Don't. Not--" His voice is clipped, curt. "Not for me. I- I failed. Then, for my- for that child, and I-I failed again for Nathaniel, I-- it is."

He takes a breath, tries to breathe through a fresh wave of stinging around his eyes. "It is my job to protect him, as part of being his warden, and I couldn't even do that."

[ I'll tell you what I told Natalie: if you can't feel sympathy for yourself, I'll do it for both of us. Even if you failed.]

Quiet but firm. He won't be moved on that point. No matter how loud or how mean or how rough Arthur gets with him. He will love and care for Arthur, he will lament his sadness, lament his pain. Nothing can or will change that.

[ I don't know how much we can protect them. But I intend to be there for Natalie, as you intend to be there for Mr. Mandrake.]

He's not leaving it there. That will just be disagreement. Instead, he's moving onto practical solutions. Hopefully, it will give Arthur something to cling to. And something to keep him from lashing out and thinking he just intends to let Natalie be murdered every other week. He can guess how cold he sounds.

[I read back on the network and apparently, someone is giving out alarms, something to alert everyone immediately and make a loud noise if a button is pressed to call for help. I intend to get one for Natalie. Do you think Mandrake would like one as well? ]

Edited 2022-12-13 14:01 (UTC)

He'll take the excuse to stop talking. Even if he can't believe that, that John thinks he deserves sympathy, at least it means he doesn't have to press the issue, tear himself further open and convince John that he's just as much of a monster in some small, personal way.

He's wrong, but Arthur's not in a state to fight it. And he's resigning himself to be tired and loathing of John, when he says that about their charges so bluntly, when the actual, workable suggestion comes, and he pauses to actually think about it.

"That sounds... yeah. That seems practical," he agrees, softly. "I don't know if he'll accept it, but I doubt he'd say no if I told him to keep it on him."

[ John doesn't sigh in relief but that's because he doesn't breathe. He is relieved that didn't blow up in his face, though he's reasonably certain it only worked because Arthur is exhausted.

It wouldn't change how he feels, even if Arthur had exploded, but he's not sure he could properly handle an argument right now and he doubts that Arthur really could either, especially with Mandrake sleeping not far away.

Even if it comes up later, bites like an adder beneath his toes, it's a small price to pay. ]

[ I'll get on that in a few minutes. B seemed very adamant that the more people with alarms the better.

I can't disagree after this. ]

"Safety in numbers, and all that," he murmurs, finally sitting upright so he can rest his head on the back of the couch. "The principle's the same. The more people you give access to some measure of group safety, the more people can assist when someone's under threat."

[Yes. It was a problem when both of us couldn't reach our communicators.
I'm glad Misty was... reasonable.

Eventually.]

TLV: IC Inbox

Later after the murders

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