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Alright.
[She's not going to push to talk.]
Five minutes later, there's a knock on her door.
She wordlessly holds them out for him, not quite meeting his eyes, lips pursed.]
[Before he takes his things, he pulls hers out of his inside pocket: wrapped, clean, with a bow on it. Not his doing, clearly.]
I don't condone him breaking your arm. I been in enough fights I know that can happen, but I don't condone it.
It didn’t just happen. He held me down and told me he’d do it. [A beat.] Thanks, though.
[He holds his hand out for Yunlan's things and lets out a deep sigh.]
I'll talk to him about it when I bring him this.
[He's not making her return them herself.]
Alright.
Right.
[He swallows thickly, and then nods again. What the hell can he say? He should be the bigger person and reach out, but he's been burnt before. What if she keeps doing this, and he keeps being a fool?]
Okay, well, you should get that back to him before he snaps and comes for my other arm.
[Joking, but just barely.]
He does that, I'm gonna personally demote him myself. [Firm. He's still protective of her, even if a bit of trust has been lost.]
My hero.
Fuck you. [There's no heat in it. He's just tired, and he misses her.]
I'll bring you dinner, tonight. In case you don't wanna see people.
You don’t have to do that.
No, but you only got the one hand. I'll bring it tonight.
Thanks, Arthur.
Yeah, sure. [He feels downtrodden, he hates this, but he knows all he can do is give it time. Not pull away completely. He was loyal for years - he can be loyal longer, still.
He tucks the items away, then tips his hat to turn around and return the items to Yunlan. But, as he'd promised, he's back that evening with a tray of food.]
He doesn't - not directly. He just gets Yunlan's things back, then puts them in front of his door and knocks before sending out:
Things are on your doorstep. Do me a favor, just stay away from her for a while.
Home offered that up in spades. Hell, the Barge usually does, too. The space game has been ongoing with Butcher for weeks. Arthur's been days and the need for an excuse feels ten times as excruciating.
But the barge doesn't offer up any convenient excuse. No floods, no breaches, no port that would have her knocking on his door. She could bring up Yunlan having an attack dog, but to what end? Bucky threatened her, but there isn't a scratch on her. It all just feels like paranoia. There's no excuse.
No excuse beyond not wanting space, anyway, but it's not really her call to decide when he's had enough.
The one she comes up with herself feels far more tedious than just saying hey, this matters. Arthur will likely never understand the effort it takes to figure out how to get a photo off her communicator with only an old iPhone, the clunky Barge network, the clunkier Inmate network and whatever hardware the common rooms have, but she hopes the sentiment comes through anyway. She can’t put how much he matters to her in words, she can’t admit that just thinking about fucking up their bond leaves a tightness in her throat, but she can bust out that old selfie of them after the treasure hunt, bathed in summer light and smiling like idiots. Taken after their first actual spat –– one that feels small in hindsight.
She gets it printed out. Writes in pen on the back: Treasure Hunt, July 15 ????. It’s fit for a scrapbook.
She just slips it under his door and heads back down the hall.
She answers the door, moves like she might take the tray from him, but thinks better and just steps back to let him in so he can put it down himself.]
He has a few pictures. Some of them are so important to him that he keeps them in his journal - after William broke into his cabin and stole them, he's never going to run the same risk again. Even if he could ask the Admiral for new ones, he'd know. So there's the old picture with Dutch and Hosea; there's Mary; there's his mother and father, damn the latter to hell. That's it. These things are important to him, but there's not much he tries to hold on to.
The moment he drags himself out of bed and looks at what's been pushed underneath his door, he knows it's going into his journal. Jesus, when does he ever look so happy? When does Tess ever look that happy? Not the way they're both currently miserable, anger, guilt and resentment fighting for the upper hand at any given moment. That stupid treasure hunt had gotten the both of them talking. It'd gotten them on the same level. And damn it, it was fun.
He can see it for what it is. He takes out his journal and puts the picture between the pages of his last journal entry, where he'd written about his doubts about trust, about his own ability to help Tess. Where to draw lines, when your own life has consisted of crossing any lines you've come across?
He opens the door, and takes the few steps towards hers. He knocks.
She studies him through the peep hole for a long moment and rests her forehead against the door to compose herself. She puts on her best neutral look to open the door. Pretend to be surprised, but just a touch. Absolutely do not look relieved, or fearful, or even the slightest bit desperate.
Be calm.
"Hey."
"Hey," he says, in turn - and then heaves a big sigh and comes to put an arm around her. It's not a hug, but it's an invitation to one. How many times hadn't he wanted that from anyone in the gang? How many times had he apologized? Said I been a bad man, and my life is gonna have a bad end, and I deserve it - and wanted someone to say I forgive you, Arthur. You made mistakes, and God won't forgive you, but I do.
He can't just get back the trust she'd squandered by doing something so stupid, so soon after their agreement. But he can show her forgiveness. And he can show her love.
"How'd you get that picture onto the paper, huh?"
He asked a question. She has to string together an answer that isn’t “being a millennial” or doesn’t require her to explain computers.
“Uh, there’s printers for that, the same way books are printed just with colour... the real bullshit was getting it from the phone to the printer.”
"You gotta show me sometime," he says, resting his chin on top of her head. As if they're having a normal conversation, and not hugging it out after a big fight.
"I took a picture of the craziest damn bird last month. Maybe someone would like to see it."
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