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Arthur insists he doesn't care.
There was a delicate balance he'd discovered upon having full function of his own body. John being removed had left him weak, far weaker than before this whole debacle began. At first, it could be explained away with side effects of an eldritch entity being ripped from him and given new form. Now he wasn't completely certain what he could blame it on. It had been weeks since they'd separated. He knows he should be getting better, but there's so little improvement at this point he's not even sure if there's any at all.
Many nights, Arthur went to bed sore enough to make sleep near impossible, even with John's comforting presence behind him. It took him hours to finally drift away, which made for rough mornings. It compounded on itself - cases lagged as he couldn't make himself trek across town on a lead, walk up flights for answers. He couldn't afford for John to notice the way he had to slow down to keep functioning, so he pivoted and avoided as much as he could, which he had become well versed in doing.
Charlie returning to their lives lightened the load a little. It was relief enough to know he was alive, but Arthur found many of his responsibilities of teaching John how to be human easily lifted by Charlie's presence.
Not feeling up to hiking across town? Charlie can take John since he's headed back to his own apartment. Their fridge went out, and now they need to replace all their groceries? Charlie can take John to the store so Arthur can continue working. Can't be bothered to cook? Charlie can show John how to make an easy recipe for when neither of them are feeling up to it in the future.
Any little problem that Arthur found he couldn't solve easily on his own, Charlie had a solution to. It was nice, not being the only one carrying the burden. Until…
"Arthur! Charlie took me to see a film!”
The door slams from John's excitement, dual winces between Arthur and Charlie as the man just misses catching it.
"Did you now?"
"It was amazing. I can't believe you wouldn't let us go for so long," John complains, landing beside Arthur on the couch and draping himself over his shoulders. Arthur has to bite his tongue not to yelp when it pulls against the joint that had been dislocated two too many times.
"Not to mention, he ate the entire bag of popcorn we were supposed to share," Charlie teases, grinning at John's offended gasp and unintentionally distracting him as Arthur rearranges his limbs in a way that is far more comfortable.
"You'll need to come with us next time Arthur, that way we can justify getting two bags."
"Just for you to eat both of them? I'd rather not," Arthur laughs. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a film. It'd been back in Arkham with Parker, no doubt. John had been asking him to go to one since their first time in New York. It had been easy enough to brush off then, just as it had when they'd returned and had a whole other host of priorities to focus on. He's not sure how he feels knowing Charlie had taken John to one without him.
Then, it starts happening more.
Arthur had told them to get lunch without him, heading back to the apartment to rest after a long day of walking through the city. John had returned bright eyed with Charlie in tow. "We went to a new diner! We brought you back a plate."
They'd been doing research on a case. Arthur had elected to do less walking and ask around a local station, while Charlie had taken John to one of many libraries in the area. "Did you know there's a library with four floors here? It's massive. We have to go together sometime, the view from the top floor is gorgeous."
And worst of all, "Arthur! Charlie took me out for drinks! I tried that one you told me about-"
Arthur stops listening, seeing that John was still talking but feeling an overwhelming sense of loss as he watches John and Charlie banter in the doorway.
It was selfish of him, wanting to be the one to take John to do all these things. They'd talked about it. At their worst, they had looked for the hopeful moments, and they'd sworn they'd go to dinner, the movies, the library. Explore the city, have dinner, go dancing. Now Charlie was easily stepping into the voice he had left, both intentionally and unintentionally. He could do so much more than Arthur ever could, and he isn't sure how to feel about it.
"That's wonderful, John," he manages to get out through a tight smile. "We'll have to go together sometime."
The two of them had to have noticed him backing out on these occasions more and more often. There was guilt there, in not being able to take John out on the many nights Arthur had promised him in their time bound together. There was also frustration in knowing that he should be able to, and yet he couldn't.
He had tried once, to join them on their exploration of a park near a clients house. He had to stop and rest on a bench for a few moments, willing the pain in his legs to fade as the two of them looked at him with poorly veiled concern. He'd forced himself into following them, ignoring the heat in his limbs and insisting he was fine despite their questions.
It had led to their unnecessary worry for him, and the unfortunate situation he now found himself in.
"Are you heading out?"
Arthur hums, shrugging on his coat and patting the pockets to ensure his wallet was where he'd left it. "We're out of the tea I like. I'm just going to run to the store for a moment."
John's silence seems heavier than usual, and when Arthur looks, he can just make out the expression of disapproval by squinting. He can already guess what he's going to say as he looks at what Arthur was holding - which is to say nothing.
"You don't have your cane."
Arthur looks to the ceiling for patience, finding little amongst the messy off-white paint strokes. "I told you and Charlie yesterday. I don't need it."
"Just because you don't need it doesn't mean you shouldn't use it," John rebuffs immediately, the same tactic he had attempted when he had passed Arthur the smooth stick carved from a rich brown mahogany. Plenty of respectable gentlemen use a cane, Charlie had added helpfully. Brings an outfit together, right?
"Why use something I don't need?” Arthur shoots back. He sees John's gaze skirt from his face to where his hand was braced against the wall to maintain his balance. He drops his hand and forces his expression to remain neutral when the dull ache in his legs flares to a sharp pain at having his full weight on them once more.
"Then let me come with you," John reaches for his own coat, but Arthur redirects it, quite nearly shoving his hand away. A flush spreads down his cheeks and neck as John stares at him, bewildered.
"I don't need a chaperone. I'm just going a few blocks," Arthur says sternly.
John gives him a disbelieving look and drops all subtlety. "You can barely stand right now, Arthur."
That was besides the point. Arthur was quite aware how his legs seem to have gained razor blades or some other sharp tool of torture between the joints, his hands trembling as they were shoved into his pockets. Ever since he woke up, it was as if his body was rebelling against him, an unfortunately frequent occurrence as of late. Most of the time, he could hide it well enough, but today was not one of those days. He was only on his feet out of pure stubbornness and the belief that a mug of his favorite tea would be able to cure all ills since a bottle of whiskey was out of the question.
"I am more than capable of going to the store on my own," he insists, reaching for the door handle. John's hand appears before he can open it more than a few inches, easily shoving it closed with a dull thud.
"Not right now, you're not," John replies pointedly. "You'll collapse before you even make it down the stairs."
What little patience he had for the situation vanishes.
"Move your hand, John." He says it calmly first, then harsher when John doesn't budge. "Move your fucking hand before I make you."
"You can't," John says with confidence, but his expression is pained. Arthur doesn't care.
"I will not stand here and let you lecture me on what I can and cannot do. I know the own limitations of my own fucking body, just as I did when you were the one inhabiting it. I don't give a damn if you think I shouldn't leave, and despite what you may think, I will make you move."
John stares at him, stunned by the sudden vitriol in his voice before sliding his hand away from the door. Arthur doesn't give him any time to change his mind, tugging it open and slamming it behind him as he heads for the stairs.
It had been weeks of this constant babying. If it wasn't John, then it was Charlie. At its worst, it's the both of them. He twisted his ankle on one case and, all of a sudden, it's like he can't do anything without the threat of his bones breaking. They noticed with eagle eyes any time he was unsteady, or in pain, or even tired and began their campaign of attempting to make him feel better. It started with medicinal teas and low grade painkillers, then it was hot compresses and herb filled baths that he let sit until they were icy cold and there was no other choice than to drain it. Just yesterday, Charlie had shown up with a cane and a wide grin and Arthur had felt his patience beginning to fracture to an irreparable split.
Arthur knows that there were days he couldn't quite keep his balance, that getting out of bed drained as much energy as running a marathon, but he knew what he could handle. He had his routines, and he knew what helped, and, most of all, he did not need the two of them constantly hovering over his shoulder.
He's gone three blocks by the time his anger clears enough for him to recognize his surroundings. A woman has to dodge around him as he suddenly slows down, barely giving him a sideways glance as she continues on with her purse clutched close. Mid-afternoon commuters pass by without a second look as he continues to slow, the ache in his legs growing stronger and stronger, and his right ankle twinges and threatens to roll beneath each step.
No…no, he refuses to collapse. Damn John for thinking he can't do this. It's a trip to the goddamn store. He can make it. It's only two more blocks. He doesn't let himself think about the walk back; he just needs to get inside and hold onto a shelf for a moment to catch his breath.
It's in that moment that he realizes he can barely breathe, lips parted and sucking desperate wheezes through clenched teeth. On instinct, his hand casts out, searching for John, Charlie, a surface to brace himself against. It meets empty air, and he has to draw back quickly when someone walks past.
"Are you alright, sir?"
He startles at the voice, not quite able to see who had asked as he shakes his head. "Fine. I'm fine."
"Do you need-"
"I'm quite alright, thank you," Arthur says quickly, taking a few steps and realizing with slow, building dread that he is going to fall over if he doesn't find something to hold onto. He veers right, knowing, feeling eyes watching as his hand meets the wall, and he sags against it. Each breath feels as if it's ripping through him, but he forces the world to stop spinning and wills his aching joints forward step by step until he's on a nearly abandoned side street. The few people he can see don't seem to mind when he ducks down the alley beside a run-down diner. There are more than enough boxes for him to hide behind as his legs finally give out on him, sending him sprawling.
For a moment he just lays there, fresh waves of pain slicing up and down his shins, his calves, his knees, his ankles, the sensation only increasing with the lack of weight on the limbs. All he can do is breathe, and even that is difficult with his face pressed against the cold brick. It isn't the first time he's laid slumped in an alley, but he'd sincerely hoped it'd been his last after Parker had dragged him up time and time again. He always manages to end up right where he started, no matter how far he gets, no matter how much he improves. It was a cruel thought, one that twists sharper than the protest of his ankle as he braces his foot in an attempt to move.
Parker was always so strong, physically and mentally. Even a deadweight on his shoulder wouldn't slow him down as he brought Arthur back from the brink. What would his former partner think of him like this? Collapsed in an alley, not because of the influence of liquor but because his body simply couldn't support him anymore. Was that a better outcome? Or a worse one?
His vision is swimming, the position of his lungs making it near impossible to draw a full breath. With great effort, he manages to push himself upright, head tipped back against the unforgiving wall behind him. He had been so close. Goddamn it, he had been so close. He only needed two more blocks, then they wouldn't have anything to hold over him, no reason to tell him he couldn't do it or that needed a chaperone. He couldn't walk five blocks to the store without falling over.
The frustrated tears burning his eyes are blinked away quickly as he stares up at the sliver of sky he can see from this alley. The walls seem to grow higher around him, close enough that, if his legs were capable of moving, he could touch the other side with his heels. When he does attempt to straighten his legs, they protest with a fierce enough ache that the tears he's blinking away become those of pain. Being trapped was not an unfamiliar feeling, but the dread is unwelcome as he tries to slow his breathing and will his limbs to cooperate.
The sun shifts, casting the alley into deep shadows as he waits for his body to settle. Logically, he knows it's taking him too long. Any normal person would've been freed of the aches and cramps and would've been moving hours ago. The thought that he wasn't capable of moving on his own surges, sickening and twisting through his chest. He needs to be able to move. Charlie would've shaken this off with a small laugh and regained his balance before he'd hit the ground. John never had any problems navigating on two clumsy legs once he'd gotten the hang of having a body of his own.
Only he would be laid out by the simple miscalculation of how much energy walking five blocks would take. And his legs still fucking hurt. Everything hurt. The longer he laid on the cold brick, the more he could feel each raised scar and fragile joint begin to ache. When the sun fades completely from view, he can feel himself begin to shiver. It was warm enough outside, but being unable to move, follow the sun, get his still muscles warmed made him feel colder.
Footsteps pound past the entrance of the alley. Arthur shuts his eyes and tries to breathe slowly. He needs to move. He's been here for far too long. If John hadn't immediately followed him, he probably would've started looking for him after less than an hour knowing that five blocks to the store shouldn't have taken him that long. Bringing his legs up is a herculean effort, the muscles screaming in protest as he braces his palms and attempts to push himself up. His palm slips, and he falls back against the wall. He'd run from countless monsters. He'd climbed out of pits and through tunnels. He had survived time and time again, and now his body was giving out on him.
He can't breathe again.
"Arthur!"
Even the desperate call of his name isn't enough to make him open his eyes. He didn't want to see their concern, their pity. He jolts as he suddenly feels hands on his shoulders, the warmth as shocking as the weight of palms gently shaking him.
"John! Back here!"
Charlie found him first, then. Of course, John had called him. John clearly comes running, the footsteps as familiar as his own as they scuff to a stop right next to him.
"Can you open your eyes, doll? No?" Charlie's voice is soft as he runs a hand down Arthur's arm, gently holding his hand, then draping his arm over his shoulder to pull him upright. Resting his weight on his legs once more makes his breath hitch, a pained groan spilling from between bit lips as he claws for purchase on Charlie's shoulder. John’s concerned muttering meets his ears in an indecipherable drone and he can feel another set of hands on his other arm but the shoulder twists just wrong and he yelps as they draw back just as quickly. "You're ok. Just breathe. John, get a hold of a cab out there, would you?"
John doesn't say anything but Arthur can hear him run off again.
"We'll go nice and slow, alright? Just hold on the best you can; we'll be back to your apartment in no time."
A cab. For five blocks. If Arthur could focus past the concentration of putting one foot in front of another, he would protest, insisting they walk back. It didn't matter that he could barely walk. With Charlie and John here, they could manage. He would manage. Maybe even make the last of it back on his own. But he can’t focus and as he pries his eyes open, he can see John holding a cab door open for them both, a tight expression of worry on his face.
Charlie loads him into the cab with the ease of practice, sitting in the back with him as John takes the passenger seat up front. Arthur doesn't respond to the quiet question of if he was alright, doesn't listen to the cabbie as he tries to make idle conversation which only Charlie responds to, only concentrating on breathing as steady as he can.
John offers him a hand when they stop in front of the apartment, but Arthur only stares at it. Sensing he isn’t going to take it, John grabs his arm and hauls him out of the car - ignoring Charlie's protest. Arthur sways for a moment, determined to find his balance on his own but John stabilizes him before he can. There's no chance to brush him off as John leads him into the building, dipping down to pull him up over his shoulder when he sees the lobby is empty. The relief of not being on his feet is undercut by the offense of being carried.
"John, I'm sure he can walk on his own-"
"He's not walking up all these stairs," John protests, his voice a low growl of frustration.
Arthur would laugh if he could. This is familiar, the anger John is feeling, the back and forth prodding to get on each other's nerves. He can see Charlie's concern from where he's hanging over John's shoulder as he follows close behind the two of them, up the four flights it took to get to their apartment. He moves ahead of John to unlock the door, closing it behind them as John continues to carry him to their bedroom. John gently tosses him on the bed, setting to untying and tossing his shoes in the corner before Arthur can even attempt to do it for himself.
"John, go make us somethin' to drink," Charlie says from the doorway. Arthur doesn't look at him, but he can feel John's hands leave his aching ankles as he stands and leaves. There are quiet footsteps, the sound of shoes being toed off and set off to the side, then a weight beside him on the bed.
It's silent other than the sound of the kettle going on the stove and John moving around in the kitchen.
"You gonna say anything?" Charlie asks after an endless moment.
Arthur turns his head away, face pressed against the pillow. There's an opportunity here, to finally give up and give in and admit that it's all too much. Instead, he begins to cry, the tears he's been pressing back for so long spilling from squeezed-shut eyelids and running down his cheeks. He wants them both to leave, he wants them to stop looking at him with so much pity, he wants to scream at the top of his fucking lungs.
"Oh, doll," Charlie sighs, putting a hand on his shoulder, which Arthur shrugs off. Charlie doesn't try again to his credit, just sitting beside him while he cries.
It’s a stupid thing to cry about, really; there is no reason for him to be so worked up over the fact that he can’t walk as far as he used to. He should be grateful he’s even alive. It just hurt so much to see John and Charlie unaffected by the things that have crippled him. John got off so easy in comparison. It isn’t fair.
"It's not fair," Charlie agrees, and Arthur realizes he must've said at least a portion of that out loud. "But I wouldn't say we got off scot free."
"I'm so tired, Charlie," Arthur manages to get out through hitched breaths. "I'm tired of my body unable to keep up with the bare minimum of standing and walking. I'm so tired of the two of you waiting for me to break and being right that I will."
"Neither of us are hoping you'll break Arthur," Charlie admonishes gently. "We only want to help."
"And I don't fucking want it!" Arthur sobs. "I should be able to handle this on my own. I'm sick of the two of you pressing on me that I can't do this-"
"Because you can't Arthur," Charlie sounds pained as he says it, but he places his hand on Arthur's shoulder once more. He can't bring himself to shove it away. "You've worn yourself out. You've pushed yourself for so long you don't know how to stop. I would know. I went through it too."
"You-"
"I went through ten years in the Dreamlands," Charlie cuts him off again, "and I went through a war before that. I couldn't make it further than a block for the first two weeks I was in New York, Arthur. I sat on a corner most days and charmed a waitress into letting me sit in the diner when the weather got bad. You've been pushing yourself for all the time you've been back. You haven't given yourself a moment to rest since you and John separated. How else are you going to heal?"
Arthur can't find words to respond, that he shouldn't have to slow down and heal. He should be able to keep going because that's all he's known for years.
"Ah. Thanks, John."
There’s the clink of a mug on the nightstand beside his head, but even the gentle aroma of his favorite tea doesn't pick him up like it should. Of course John had gone to the store to get it for him; it'd probably been the first place he'd checked. He probably knew Arthur couldn't make it on his own.
"You should drink it, Arthur. The warmth will help."
Arthur doesn't move, feeling the mattress shift as John sits on his other side. Charlie at his back, John brushing the hair from his forehead.
"You're a fucking idiot, Arthur," John says in contradiction to the gentle motion.
Charlie hums nervously, "John-"
"No, he needs to hear it," John says harshly. "You ran off. We were looking for you for hours. A trip to the store shouldn't have been more than an hour and yet it took us three for Charlie to finally see you in that alley. What if we didn't find you? What if you'd been hurt or carted off to the police station or the hospital? How could we have known?"
"Would it have mattered?" Arthur mutters, clearing his throat with a wince.
"Despite your misconstrued belief that we don't care about you, yes it does," John's hand pauses on his cheek, brushing at a dried tear track. "You're a mess. You need the help."
Arthur shuts his eyes tight against the surge of disgust at the statement. "Fuck off."
"I won't."
"Neither of us will," Charlie jumps in. "Seriously, Arthur. Push us away all you want, but we're not budging."
Arthur laughs humorlessly. "Because I couldn't move you if I tried. I've grown so weak I can't even walk on my own, much less past either of you."
Charlie sighs heavily. "That's not the point, doll. We aren't trying to take anything from you; we just want to help you do what you want to do. Want to go to the store? Great. One of us will offer an arm. Want to join us on a case? Fantastic. You'll just have to lean on your cane when we're not there to hold you up."
"And you are both not understanding that I don't want to be held up ," Arthur manages to push himself upright at this, glaring at the both of them. "I want to be able to stand on my own, walk on my own, and not have the two of you mother-henning me every step of the way."
"Tough," Charlie says shortly, and Arthur feels like he's been punched. "You're not going to recover instantly, Arthur. You can't do all the things you want to do, and that sucks, but we're not just going to let you fall over and over without picking you back up."
"I've done it before."
Charlie sighs in defeat, looking at John before shrugging and pushing himself to stand. "Just…think on it for a bit, alright? I've got a few things I need to finish up at the office, but I'll be back once I'm done."
Of course he'd been at work when John called him. Charlie always worked on Thursdays; how could he forget? John walks Charlie to the door, allowing Arthur a peaceful moment to wallow. He knows what's coming. He knows where the conversation is about to go, and he mentally braces for it as John returns.
"You should drink your tea," John states, crossing his arms as he sends a pointed glance to the mug on the table beside him. The steam has faded, likely the perfect temperature for consumption, but Arthur can't bring himself to take it. It feels like an admission. He wasn't able to go and purchase it on his own. He doesn't deserve to drink it now.
Arthur meets John's gaze, taking in the anger creasing the space between his brows and making the corner of his mouth curve unhappily. "Say what you want to say, John."
"What do you mean by that."
"All the things you were holding back on while Charlie was here, let me have it." Arthur tosses his hand vaguely in the air in front of him. "'I told you so, you never listen, et cetera, et cetera,’ just get it over with already."
John's mouth tilts to a deeper frown, clearly debating with himself for a moment before landing on a response. "You scared the hell out of me, Arthur."
Arthur blinks. That wasn't the statement he was expecting. "What?"
"You ran off. You were gone for hours.” John's voice is tight. "You could barely fucking stand when you left. I expected to find you at the bottom of the stairs, and I didn't. I called Charlie and went looking for you, but I couldn't even find you. He did. He told me not to push you, that you need to get used to this, but you're being fucking stupid I need you to see the sense in that. You scared the hell out of me, Arthur."
"Well," Arthur scoffs, trying to shove down the guilt blocking his throat, "you're not my keeper, John."
"I'm not," John throws his arms wide in frustration, "and I doubt you would ever accept anyone to look over you if it wasn't forced. Jesus Christ, Arthur, I don't understand you. Why do you insist on making yourself worse to prove a point?"
"I am not-" Arthur's weak protest is cut off when John grabs the cane from where Arthur had stashed it in their closet. He was hoping it was behind enough coats that it wouldn't be easily found. But John doesn't stop there; he brings in the teas, the compresses, the fucking bath salts. All from the clever spots Arthur had tucked them away to hopefully never be seen again.
John waves a hand over them, a physical pile of Arthur's failures to function. "You're refusing even the simplest things that could help you. Why ?"
"Because-"
"You don't need it," John finishes in a poor falsetto imitation of his voice before it drops to an irritated growl. "You're not the man you used to be, Arthur. Your human form has gone through enough torture to last lifetimes. It has sustained a being not meant to inhabit human flesh. You cannot force your way through it. You will die trying."
Arthur considers for a moment, holding his tongue. He decides against it. "You did this to me."
John's expression locks down hard. "No."
"Right, not all of it," Arthur amends. "Just piloting my body as a Great Old One trapped in human flesh, dragging me through hell and back over and over again. And what was your end of it again? Ah, that's right. A fresh human form, free of the aches and pains that most seem to gather at this age - let alone someone whose had their bones snapped and body battered as I have. How is it treating you, your majesty?"
John takes a shuddering breath, the cane creaking in his grip. "I never wanted this to happen."
"Oh, really? Didn't want me to be a weak shriveled human. Didn't want to take away what little vitality I had left when you were given a body of your own?"
"I never asked for this," John snarls. "If I could take your pain away, I would do it in a heartbeat, Arthur-"
"But you can't!" Arthur throws his hand in the air, slumping back against the mattress. "You took everything from me! You still take and take and take . I can't even go out on my own without either of you insisting yourselves upon me."
"If there were a ritual or a ceremony-"
Arthur barks a laugh. "There's no ritual, John. There is no way to fix this. I'm human. You're human, and yet my ills don't match yours. I am living with a body that can't even stand for longer than a few minutes without collapsing in on itself. I can't eat hardly anything without feeling my throat close around it, and, worst of all, you think this can just be fixed . Fuck me for believing we'd both come out of this alright."
John glares. "At least I'm not ignoring my problems, believing it will get better if I push myself till I collapse on the street."
Embarrassment crawls hot down the back of Arthur's neck. "I was not in the middle of the street."
"You think it's bad enough in front of me and Charlie? Anything could've happened out there, Arthur. All because you wouldn't fucking listen to us."
The exhaustion that seems to permanently plague him rears its head, making his vision spin and forcing his eyes to slip shut. "I don't have to listen to you."
"No, but you should."
Arthur falls back to the bed and attempts to pull a blanket over himself. His fingers can't quite keep a grip, so he gives up and accepts laying on top of the bed without one. "Fuck off."
"You can't run from it forever, Arthur," John says, and Arthur is reminded so bitterly of Parker in that moment that he has to bury his face in the pillow to prevent more tears from leaking out.
It's not the most explosive end to one of their arguments, but it manages to make him feel unsettled and empty as John retreats, shutting off the light and closing the door behind him.
Arthur can't actually manage to fall asleep, but he dozes in a horrible state between awareness and nothingness. It means he hears when Charlie comes back. He can trace the path he takes from the front door, stopping in the kitchen presumably to talk to John, but he can't quite make out the conversation between the two of them. It's made easier, however, when Charlie begins talking over his shoulder as he walks down the hall to the bedroom, John speaking up to still be heard.
"He's sleeping."
"Hm. Did he eat?"
"No."
"Then we should wake him up, if he's actually asleep. You found the aspirin, right?"
"At the back of the medicine cabinet, yeah."
"Sneaky bastard. You want me to shake him awake?"
"You can try. I doubt he'll listen."
"No harm in tryin'."
Arthur exhales slowly, forcing himself to relax. Maybe he could make Charlie believe he was actually asleep. He wasn't in the mood for another argument, let alone the arduous task of eating and taking medication.
The door creaks open, the light flicking on and Charlie walking over. After a moment, there's a weight beside him on the bed. There's a wave of deja vu from the earlier conversation, although, this time, Charlie sits in front of him and slides a gentle hand up and down his arm.
"You feelin' up to moving Arthur? And don't try to pretend you're asleep. I can hear your thoughts going a mile a minute."
Arthur could choose not to answer, but he knows that Charlie's patience is near endless when it needs to be. The polar opposite of himself and John, he really did know exactly what to do and say when he needed to. "I'd rather not."
Charlie hums. "Food'll help, you know. We might be able to make John look a little less like a kicked puppy if you ate something."
"I don't give a damn-"
"Now I know you don't mean that, Arthur," Charlie cuts him off. "So let's stop with the 'saying things just to hurt each other' phase. It's not helpin' anybody, and it won't make you hurt any less."
Arthur resists the urge to scoff, having a feeling it wouldn't go over well. Truthfully, moving felt like a horrible idea. After laying in one position for so long, his right leg has started to go numb. He wasn't sure if the numbness was better than the pain. He knows if he moves, it'll break the seal, and everything will go back to a throbbing mess.
Charlie taps his knuckles on the bedside table. "I'll give you an option. Either you get something to eat, or you take a warm bath. If you eat something, you'll be able to take medication. If you take a bath, you can drink your tea. Both options will help you."
"Maybe I-"
"Even if you don't want the help, we're offering regardless," Charlie cuts him off again, knowing exactly what he was going to say. "So either you can take the help, or I choose for you, and I'm sure you're not going to like that."
Of course he wouldn't. It only makes him feel worse. Unable to even make a fucking decision; it’s even more pathetic than being unable to move.
Arthur swallows hard, his next words coming out a whisper. "I don't think I can stand."
"Then I'll help," Charlie offers easily. "John's almost finished with dinner, if that's where we're heading."
If there was an option to melt into the mattress and never emerge again, Arthur would've chosen that. Instead, he offers his hand to Charlie and lets himself be pulled upright. Pins and needles course down his legs, a circuit from knee to ankle that has him gripping Charlie's hand hard enough to feel bones shift beneath his own and trying to keep breathing past the ache.
"No rush," Charlie says softly. "We'll move when it passes."
Arthur could laugh; he doesn't feel like it'll ever pass, but eventually it slows to a manageable pulse. Charlie leverages him to his feet and waits until Arthur attempts to take a step forward, easily pacing him down their short hallway.
John looks at the both of them as they enter, surprised at seeing Arthur upright. Although, Arthur sits down as quickly as he can when Charlie pulls out one of the chairs. He buries his face in his hands and blinks back tears as he hears something thunk on the table in front of him, seeing a glass full of water waiting when he feels up to moving again.
A plate and two aspirin are placed beside the water, and Arthur can't bring himself to look at John or Charlie just yet. It looks wonderful, it smells wonderful, it's all easy foods he can handle. John is still too good to him despite the ass he's been making of himself.
"Eat a little, then we can talk." Charlie gestures to the plate in front of him as he's beginning to tear small pieces of a roll.
For a moment, Arthur considers turning it down, but he also doesn't want to waste the food. He begins picking at it, and tries to ignore the small smile on Charlie's face. Only when he's made his way through about a third of the plate does he force himself to take the aspirin.
"So, what do you want us to do, Arthur?"
Arthur looks up with confusion, seeing Charlie's serious expression and John's carefully neutral one.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, clearly the two of us have been goin' about this the wrong way." Charlie gestures between himself and John. "So, what do you need from us?"
From them? Nothing. Arthur doesn't want them to do anything for him, but he has a feeling that answer won't go over well. All he wants is for his body to listen and cooperate. So…
"I want you both to stop with the coddling," Arthur decides. "I don't need the both of you hovering over me like you have been."
"Even when you're wrong about what you can handle?" John presses, ignoring the nudge Charlie gives him.
"I admit I…" Arthur searches for an appropriate word, "miscalculated today. It won't happen again."
"We believe you," Charlie says before John can clearly state his own thoughts. "We'll trust you on it, as long as you'll trust us. Tell us when you're feeling bad so we can do something about it."
"There's nothing to do ," Arthur says tiredly. "It hurts, it passes or it doesn't. I've yet to find a solution to make a notable difference."
"Maybe if you tried something for longer than a few days, it would do some good," John grumbles. A glare is shot in Charlie's direction when he nudges him more pointedly.
Arthur's mouth twists unhappily, staring at his half empty plate. "You're right John. I just…" he has to pause, clear his throat. "I didn't want to admit it was that bad. To the point I couldn't manage it on my own."
"But you've taken a step in the right direction!" Charlie says positively. "We can work with this, it's easier when we're on the same side, right?"
John mutters something that Arthur can't make out, and Charlie laughs.
"Either way, how about we stick to one thing for a little while to see if it helps, if it doesn't we can move on to something else. You can choose. I don't doubt that a combination of things will help, so that may be what we end up with."
Arthur taps his fingertips on the table in a steady pattern. "What helped you, Charlie?"
He seems surprised at the question before smiling softly. "A constant stream of coffee and aspirin to start, it helped keep me moving. When I got an apartment again you couldn't pry me away from a warm bath. Although, my hurts are definitely different from yours."
Arthur tries to hide his grimace at the statement, but he knows he doesn't succeed at the way John raises his brow at him.
Charlie continues, "I know you don't like the idea of a cane, but taking as much weight as possible off of one side would probably help you the most. Hell, a physical therapist would probably be best but-"
"No doctors," Arthur says. It's something he and John had agreed on. There was no telling how their connection had altered his physiology and the last thing either of them needed was questions about it while they're in New York.
"No doctors," Charlie nods sagely, "and it's not like we'd be able to afford one for long anyway. So we gotta make due with what we know. Which may not be much, but we can figure it out. As long as you're fine with trying things."
"Actually trying things," John presses, "Not just shoving it away because you don't like the sound of it."
"I know John," Arthur says tiredly, "I won't- I'll try not to do that anymore. I'm sorry for pushing the two of you away so hard when all you were trying to do was help."
It was exhausting in its own right, constantly trying to pretend everything was fine. It was clear he wasn't fooling anyone, including himself.
"And that's all we can ask," Charlie smiles. "Small steps, right?"
Arthur was tired of small steps. He doesn't want to slow down, to start over. He knows at this point he has no other choice.
"Small steps."