He considers just ignoring it. If she wants to avoid him, why shouldn't she? But after he's taken a few more steps, he reconsiders the thought. Maybe because he wants to talk to her, and maybe because she always feels a little like she's running and ducking, and he doesn't think that's a good thing.
"June," he says, firmly, loud enough that she can't pretend not to hear it. "Miss Harris -"
"We don't have to talk about it," she says - trying to cut him off at the pass, trying to play it off as her doing him a favor. "I know that must have been hard for you. If you want to just forget it and move on--"
Here, her voice trembles a little, and she pauses briefly to make sure it's under control.
His shoulders fall a little. He's not going to force her to talk about something she doesn't want to talk about, even if it's clear to him that it's necessary.
"You don't look set. But I ain't gonna beat you up about it."
"I did something awful to someone who didn't deserve it, while I was in control of my actions. I feel awful about it. I did what I had to do and I'm sure I'd do it again, but that doesn't actually stop guilt."
"Why not? You had somethin' awful happen to you, too. You deserve a chance at feelin' better about it. And I know it sounds like a damn cop-out, but I know talking about my mistakes helped me. In the past."
"'In the past', she repeats. "Try me, then. I'll trade you this story for one of yours."
It'll be leverage, she thinks distantly, automatically, in case she ever needs anything to hold over him - but god, even she knows how ridiculous that sounds. Who would she even tell? The Admiral? His friends? Tess? Anything he'd still her is something they all surely already know.
"Where are we going?" she asks, though she doesn't hesitate to follow. June isn't exactly a trusting person, but she's not paranoid, either - and as far as she's concerned, Arthur is eminently trustworthy.
"You sayin' that because I'm old?" He gives her a slight grin back. "It's slow, and cramped. And I got attacked by one of them statues last time I took it."
Ugh, that flood. The things from her history that Arthur had seen during that flood. She winces, and this time, her smile looks forced.
"Fine, we'll give our calves a workout today. But you'll have to try to write over those bad memories sometime. You'll keep dwelling on them if you don't."
Take it from her, the expert at trying to overwrite bad memories.
"I think he sometimes don't like what we do about 'em, mostly," he points out. But with one more flight of stairs, they're down on his floor, and he opens the door to his cabin. It's small, smaller than most inmate cabins - a desk, a small bookcase, a bed that's a little out of place since it's too big for the space it's in. A few personal pictures, a map on the desk, and two chairs.
He sits down on one, gestures at her to take the other.
It's small, and yet it fits him perfectly. The interior of Arthur's cabin isn't something that June has spent any time at all wondering about - but if she had, she would have imagined that it looked very much like it does.
"So?" she prompts, perching herself on the edge of the second chair.
"So," he says, stretching his legs out, folding his hands on top of his stomach. "I can't remember what all I told you about what I did. Who I was, back home."
"Where you people get the idea that cowboys and outlaws are in any way
close to each other?" He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
"Outlaw. Not cowboy. I ran with a gang - core group, every now and then
people came and went. We robbed people. Blew up trains. Held up banks." He
runs a hand over his beard and scratches his jaw with his blunt
fingernails.
"When I got here, I was on death's doorstep. Tuberculosis. Is that even a
disease you know anymore in your day?"
"Will you let me tell the story my way, woman?" He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.
"I got the disease beating a guy half to death. He'd borrowed money from the gang. You know the kinda deal - you gotta pay a lotta interest, and if you don't pay up in time, the muscle comes and intimidates you." He gestures at himself: the muscle.
"Coughed on me. Weren't until months later that I found out. You know, the doctor told me, and I thought serves me right. I put his wife and son out of a house, on account of him havin' given me all his money. He died because of me. So now he was gettin' back at me, after death."
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momijizukamori
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He considers just ignoring it. If she wants to avoid him, why shouldn't she? But after he's taken a few more steps, he reconsiders the thought. Maybe because he wants to talk to her, and maybe because she always feels a little like she's running and ducking, and he doesn't think that's a good thing.
"June," he says, firmly, loud enough that she can't pretend not to hear it. "Miss Harris -"
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Here, her voice trembles a little, and she pauses briefly to make sure it's under control.
"I wouldn't blame you."
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"It weren't as hard for me as it was for you," he says, firmly, stepping in, making sure he can take control of the situation.
"You talk to anyone about it yet? Your warden?"
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"So I'm set."
Her pale face and wan expression belie this a bit, but what can you do.
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His shoulders fall a little. He's not going to force her to talk about something she doesn't want to talk about, even if it's clear to him that it's necessary.
"You don't look set. But I ain't gonna beat you up about it."
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She runs a restless hand through her hair.
"Talking about it won't help with that."
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"Why not? You had somethin' awful happen to you, too. You deserve a chance at feelin' better about it. And I know it sounds like a damn cop-out, but I know talking about my mistakes helped me. In the past."
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It'll be leverage, she thinks distantly, automatically, in case she ever needs anything to hold over him - but god, even she knows how ridiculous that sounds. Who would she even tell? The Admiral? His friends? Tess? Anything he'd still her is something they all surely already know.
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He lets out a breath - and then gestures, follow me.
"I'll tell you, but I ain't tellin' you in a stairwell."
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"My cabin's too far off - maintenance office. I got a key, and there's booze if you want some later on."
He rounds a corner, then fishes a set of keys out of the pouches on his belt.
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"Arthur, I can't think of anything that's more sad than getting drunk in the maintenance office."
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"Didn't realize you was so damn picky," he says, rolling his eyes - but he jerks his chin, in that case. A few more flights to take, to his cabin.
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"You don't take the elevator? It doesn't freak you out, does it?"
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"You sayin' that because I'm old?" He gives her a slight grin back. "It's slow, and cramped. And I got attacked by one of them statues last time I took it."
Bad juju, June.
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"Fine, we'll give our calves a workout today. But you'll have to try to write over those bad memories sometime. You'll keep dwelling on them if you don't."
Take it from her, the expert at trying to overwrite bad memories.
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He raises an eyebrow at her as they go. "Ain't some of it preservation instincts?"
He's used to the wild. Instincts do a man good, out there.
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He certainly doesn't seem to like hers.
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"I think he sometimes don't like what we do about 'em, mostly," he points out. But with one more flight of stairs, they're down on his floor, and he opens the door to his cabin. It's small, smaller than most inmate cabins - a desk, a small bookcase, a bed that's a little out of place since it's too big for the space it's in. A few personal pictures, a map on the desk, and two chairs.
He sits down on one, gestures at her to take the other.
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"So?" she prompts, perching herself on the edge of the second chair.
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"So," he says, stretching his legs out, folding his hands on top of his stomach. "I can't remember what all I told you about what I did. Who I was, back home."
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She'd never asked. She likes Arthur just fine, but it had never seemed like useful or important information for her to have.
"You're some kind of cowboy outlaw, right?"
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"Where you people get the idea that cowboys and outlaws are in any way close to each other?" He rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
"Outlaw. Not cowboy. I ran with a gang - core group, every now and then people came and went. We robbed people. Blew up trains. Held up banks." He runs a hand over his beard and scratches his jaw with his blunt fingernails.
"When I got here, I was on death's doorstep. Tuberculosis. Is that even a disease you know anymore in your day?"
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But on to the bits that are - at least in her mind - more important.
"Why do you think you're a warden? Did the Admiral even tell you?"
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He nudges her shin with the toe of his boot.
"Will you let me tell the story my way, woman?" He rolls his eyes, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.
"I got the disease beating a guy half to death. He'd borrowed money from the gang. You know the kinda deal - you gotta pay a lotta interest, and if you don't pay up in time, the muscle comes and intimidates you." He gestures at himself: the muscle.
"Coughed on me. Weren't until months later that I found out. You know, the doctor told me, and I thought serves me right. I put his wife and son out of a house, on account of him havin' given me all his money. He died because of me. So now he was gettin' back at me, after death."
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