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."
June fidgets when he mentions the transmission, remembering the disease - or whatever it had been - that had passed from Tess to her to William. It's not the same, she tells herself - and yet it feels like it is, at least in part.
It's not as immediately destructive as the cordyceps had been, but it's certainly as deadly, in his time. He grimaces at the sight of her fidgeting, but he's glad she isn't interrupting.
"I was an angry man all my life, but this time - I don't know, I didn't get angry. I felt it was my due. And somethin' about that situation made me realize I had so little damn time left, and what was I doin'? Shaking down widows? Robbing carriages? For what? The money wasn't goin' nowhere."
He shrugs and takes a drink. "Started small, doin' some things to help people. And then it's most of what I did, my whole day. It made me feel good. It made me happy, and I had not felt that way most of my life. And I talked to the people I cared about, for the first time in my life. You know - I let 'em know me. Before I was gonna die, I was at least gonna try an' be remembered, for the bad and the good stuff."
"The bad and the good stuff?" June echoes, with special emphasis on that and. All this sounds reasonable, and understandable enough; her own legacy has never been something that's much occurred to her, but she at least sees why it might to someone else, especially someone nearing the end of their life.
But in that case, she thinks, why not try to bury the bad? Why not try to forget it and move on, and do all you could to make sure that others did the same?
"Wouldn't be me if it wasn't also a load of bad stuff. I didn't want people
to think I'd been a good man, all my life. I wasn't. They wasn't gonna
think that, period. But maybe - I could at least try and make 'em remember
something good. Something real."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
momijizukamori
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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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This time, she doesn't interrupt.
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It's not as immediately destructive as the cordyceps had been, but it's certainly as deadly, in his time. He grimaces at the sight of her fidgeting, but he's glad she isn't interrupting.
"I was an angry man all my life, but this time - I don't know, I didn't get angry. I felt it was my due. And somethin' about that situation made me realize I had so little damn time left, and what was I doin'? Shaking down widows? Robbing carriages? For what? The money wasn't goin' nowhere."
He shrugs and takes a drink. "Started small, doin' some things to help people. And then it's most of what I did, my whole day. It made me feel good. It made me happy, and I had not felt that way most of my life. And I talked to the people I cared about, for the first time in my life. You know - I let 'em know me. Before I was gonna die, I was at least gonna try an' be remembered, for the bad and the good stuff."
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But in that case, she thinks, why not try to bury the bad? Why not try to forget it and move on, and do all you could to make sure that others did the same?
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"Wouldn't be me if it wasn't also a load of bad stuff. I didn't want people to think I'd been a good man, all my life. I wasn't. They wasn't gonna think that, period. But maybe - I could at least try and make 'em remember something good. Something real."
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