Part Two: The Detective

[lestercraft]

Who: Arthur Lester and others
What: Recovering from the Forest Talkers (emotionally) and existing (generally)
When: October!
Where: Milton mostly

Content Warnings: General Malevolent warning (Lovecraftian horror etc) to S5

Comments

[afterdrop]

"Um-" His eyes dart around, as though he might find the answer somewhere in this room. When the task quickly proves futile, he looks back at Arthur, brow furrowed. "I don't know? I haven't-"

What would that even look like? He's not sure he's seen a crawlspace before. Just dank cellars, and the basement he spent his teenage years in. Nervous energy thrums through him, and he bounces on his heels.

"Probably under the porch. That way." He shoves a finger out towards the way they came in, and steps back up onto the flimsy boards.

[lestercraft]

"See if you can't find the hatch, it- probably it'll only be about two feet across," he points out. "It- it might be buried under the snow, otherwise I can probably come out through the porch steps."

This feels ridiculous, having to scoot himself back into the dark, moldy underside of the haunted cabin. But at least it's true to form, and if he focuses on that then it's easier to not focus on the knot of claustrophobia trying to tighten like a noose.

[afterdrop]

Charles nods, then disappears from the splintered opening. There are no footsteps to trace his path back through the house, but after a moment the front door swings back open with a rusty creak. His voice filters through shortly after, coming from the direction of the porch.

"Found it!"

Another scuffle of noise, and dim light filters in, patterned by the trellis that lines the porch's underside. Charles, crouched on hands and knees, scoots back to give Arthur the needed room. A cobweb is caught in his hair, and even in the shadows beneath the porch, it's clear that his face has regained its color. The distraction of Arthur's fall seems to have broken whatever had dragged him into an echo of his death.

[lestercraft]

Honestly he's just glad that a plan of action was enough to snap Charles out of it, at least a little. Something to get his head back in the game.

It turns out army crawling is difficult with a fucked ankle and a breastplate, but he manages to half-crawl his way out through the frozen mud and crystallised spider webs (and possibly the body of a small animal he steadfastly refuses to identify) to the exit with a grateful smile at Charles.

"There we are, then! Right as-" and he cuts himself off with a hiss as he tries to stand up. "Fuck- w-well, alright, at least."

[afterdrop]

"Need a hand there, old man?"

He sticks a cold hand out to help Arthur. There's a forced lightheartedness in his demeanor, but no longer a layer of hurt simmering through the cracks; it's been buried down too deep, leaving only a discomfort that's been shoved to the side. Arthur may be able to see through him now, but there's no denying that Charles is practiced at this game. After all, this a boy who managed to hide his worst pain from his closest friend for more than thirty years.

[lestercraft]

He gives Charles a raised eyebrow, but it only lasts a moment before he chuckles and claps his dusty glove into Charles's hand.

"Ah, you break your legs enough times, they never forgive you," he comments dryly, accepting the help enough to get himself up on his good ankle, and gingerly test the other. "Hurt my ankle during the fall, that's all. I'll be fine."

[afterdrop]

The injury doesn't go unnoticed, and Arthur's words confirm it, sending a jolt of panic through Charles' chest. You fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up. It's that same insidious voice, the one that sounds like himself blended with his father, and for a moment he flinches away from it, head lowering. Arthur's tone doesn't contain a shred of anger, or even disappointment, but old habits.

"Sorry, it's- I'm-" You fucked up, you fucked up. "I'm sorry. I should've noticed it."

Or kept Arthur from coming here in the first place. Kept from meeting him in the first place, maybe.

"How- how can I help?"

I'll fix it, he hears. I'll make it better. And then, in another voice, sharp and cruel: You never made it better, and then you died.