Private Misery Makes Strange Bedfellows

[Arthur Barrett]

It was quiet in Liza's apartment. After the chaos that passed for an evening, the others had parted ways and gone to bed. Arthur was simply too drunk (and to heavy) to move, and so there he lay face down on the carpet, covered in a blanket.

Some time in the middle of the night, he awoke. Most beasts would be worried if they awoke in a dark room, and couldn't remember how they got there or why everything hurt. Arthur couldn't remember the specifics, but he knew the reason.

He'd been drinking again.

His spirits were so crushed he couldn't even bother to worry, much less shift into a more comfortable position. There he lay for hours, motionless, listening to the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. His normally chatty mind was absolutely silent -- a mercy he cherished.

After some time, Arthur realized there was a soft hissing noise. Dying coals lay in the fireplace, radiating a pleasant warmth, and the faintest dull red glow. Slowly, he pieced the puzzle together. The vixen that had stitched him together, leaving an angry stinging trail down his back. The Smudgie's apartment. Berchar, of all beasts. Gates, but he'd have excuses and apologies to make in the morning.

As he currently laid, the marten's chin was digging uncomfortably into the floor. But shifting didn't fix anything -- the old pain in his neck started to act up. There had to be a pillow somewhere. With one arm (on the less injured side) Arthur groped around in the dark until he found something soft. Wrapping his paw around it, he dragged it in close, and rolled over on it with a huff. It was surprisingly heavy for a pillow, and had all manner of tassles and... other strange design choices. Did anyone ever try sleeping on this thing before they made it? Arthur nestled his head down atop the pillow, and groaned as he finally relaxed upon it.

Tomorrow was going to be awful.

@Berchar Fleetfoot

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

It had been a peculiar day, all told: his evening had started with being thrown into a canal and ended with discovering not only an old friend but forging new connections. Add on top of that the complexities of medical necessity and alcohol and it has ranged from fraught to downright lovely. Berchar was, by all accounts, quite a lonely soul, and the kindness of Liza and Amnesty had proved a balm he hadn’t known he had needed.

In line with such kindness, Liza had permitted him to stay overnight both to avoid walking through the Slups at night and to keep an eye on Arthur. The marten seemed to have fallen into a deep enough sleep, but there was always the risk of him stirring and, potentially, deciding to wander. Best he had some company for the night, then, lest he reopen those wounds so soon again.

All things considered the jerboa was both exhausted from the day and wired: being so, he hadn’t dropped off until the early hours. Dozing, he had failed initially to notice Arthur stir. In fact he didn’t notice a thing, not until a paw descended as if from nowhere and dragged him.

Berchar startled, body stiffening in alarm as his now-waking mind struggled to process. There was weight, and warmth, and –

Arthur was…hugging him? Using him as a pillow? The air was momentarily squeezed out of him by the pressure, but Berchar’s breathing adjusted. Well, rather he held his breath.

What was he supposed to do now?! Eyes wide behind spectacles now askew (having fallen asleep with them on to leave oh-so flattering grooves either side of his muzzle) the jerboa stared at the ceiling, then craned his neck to the marten. Waking him fully seemed such a shame, but would there not come more shame in the morning if he said nothing?

Nerving himself, Berchar began first with a squeaky whisper. “A-Arthur? Uhm- Arthur...? Can you…?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

As the others had learned attempting to move him, Arthur was a particularly heavy beast. But the marten wasn't fat by any means, he just was a strong and big boned beast. Others had likened his (rare and vanishing) embraces to "being squeezed by a dense loaf of bread", or "hugging a furry brick". Berchar might have his own analogies as Arthur squeezed his arms around his torso, and nestled his head against his chest.

But then the marten's ears twitched. Not only did this pillow have a heartbeat, it talked.

Arthur lifted his head in confusion, and looked down at the jerboa he was currently smooshing into the carpet. "...Berchar? Hellgatesh!" But such an inebriated state allowed him some boyish liberties, and a playful grin spread over his muzzle. "Wash I that cheap a date?" he asked, before rolling off onto his back.

"Ffffhhhhh!!!" he hissed. His shoulder did not like that. But after a minute, he chuckled again. "M-mebbe that's why I had shuch tr'bles dating... too fat to have a good time wiffout blowing the rent budget on one night's booze..."

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

For a horrible moment Berchar rather feared he’d have to speak up – ricking not only waking the other sleepers in the apartment but what air was left in his lungs – when blessedly Arthur stirred.

Relief was of course short-lived. The jerboa felt his face and ears flush at the first comment, mouth opening and closing rapidly as his brain failed to supply any words to his tongue. Before he could think to muster a response the marten had rolled off of him. Berchar winced, sitting up to try and assist rolling the poor fellow back off of his injured shoulder.

The plaintive recollections drew a sympathetic hum. He’d heard of Arthur’s reputation, of course: not long after making acquaintance with the jack his rivals had seen fit to regale Berchar with a litany of opinions and tales regarding his proclivity for trouble. The jerboa had seen little evidence of such himself save a passionate personality and, having suffered a fall from grace of his own had been in no rush to judge. After all, he couldn’t even secure himself an official station: why should the foibles of those above him be something he should reproach? Anyway, he rather liked Arthur: the marten’s stubborn personality had engendered a feeling of safety in the anxious younger beast.

“Well, we all have our flaws,” Berchar replied a touch groggily. “Anyway, dating isn’t the be-all, is it? You’ve had quite the career by the sounds…” Oh dear, was that the right thing to say?

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur was somewhat less inebriated, and was able to help Berchar roll him up into a sitting position. With some effort, the marten righted like a bouy at sea -- wavering slightly as he caught his balance. His back was covered in dried and scabbed blood -- he looked a right mess. But Amnesty's stitches held.

Berchar had been a wonderful friend, really. Though Arthur hadn't run into him for some time -- Berchar seemed to be the kind of beast who ran his relationships outside the constraints of time. It didn't matter if you hadn't seen him for a month or a year. No matter the time, picking up conversation with him was as easy as if you'd seen him yesterday. Arthur appreciated that about him.

"...of it?" he offered, finishing the jerboa's sentence. "Gatesh, Berchar... they were hopin' I'd nevercome back fr'm Urk... Jus' hope'n I'd freeze to death or somethin'. Shome career," he said resignedly, as if looking at a shattered vase on the floor. The marten peered over at the carpet to see if he'd left blood on it -- but the light was too dim to see. With a small shiver, Arthur pulled the blanket up around his bare shoulders, and scooted over closer to the warmth of the hearth.

"Ah'm shorry I nevah got t'tell you I wash leavin' fer Urk. Ah'd meant to, but... thingsh... kinda moved quickly," he said apologetically.

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Automatically Berchar began looking for a poker by the hearth to stir the embers into some semblance of life. Pre-dawn was chilly these days, and if the pair were awake he was loathe to sit and shiver through it. He’d repay Liza for the wood and coal.

This poor marten: he had to wonder just what litany of misfortunes had dogged the surgeon in the seasons before he’d come to know the fellow. Usually he was intimidated by beasts not only of his stature but surety and stubbornness: something had made him feel safer to be around in the city. Perhaps this vulnerability beneath it was what he had sensed all along: two beasts out of place amongst their peers.

“It’s alright,” he replied. “I suppose the Navy does move rather quickly once things get underway, doesn’t it? Can’t hold that against you when duty calls.” It sat unspoken, the questions he wanted to ask about that fated voyage. Poor as he was it was nigh impossible to gain access to any true records on the incident, but beasts had been a-chatter since the Hide’s return. From what he had gathered it sounded horrific and he was loathe to bring it up without Arthur doing so himself.

“Still, you proved them wrong by making it back though, didn’t you? Whoever they are. Hardly representative of the profession to wish harm on another beast.” He worried at a thumbclaw as he prodded the embers in the hearth, hesitating for a moment as he weighed his words. “Why would they wish that much harm on you?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur never fully adapted to the colder conditions of Urk. Being in the infirmary came with several benefits -- namely, being situated near the boiler. However, that made him softer than the rest of the beasts who had to work out on deck day after day. The cold morning was starting to wear on him, and he was thankful when the jerboa started to stoke the coals.

"P-plausible deniability, I shuppose..." he said, tugging the blanket around him tighter. "Ye challenge shomeone to a duel, thatsh one thing. Comes with it's own rishks. B-but y'find a thorn in yer side, and send him off on an ill fated crusade? Y'can't shay y'wanted anything bad t'happen when it does."

"Berchar... I... I burned all my bridgesh," he admitted quietly. "Can't shay I blame 'm..." he said, resting his head on one paw.

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Snuggling in a little closer to the hearth himself, the jerboa eyed Arthur with concern and bemusement. There was something far deeper at play here beyond mere rivalry or uncertainty; it had gnawed at the marten’s soul like the ceaseless battering of waves upon a shrinking shoreline. He’d clearly been worn down by Urk, but whatever had pushed that to happen seemed much bigger than the voyage itself.

“Arthur,” he murmured, “what happened?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur's ears folded behind his head, and he gazed listlessly into the flames that had flickered back to life. Berchar had earned the right to know... But he needed to collect his thoughts. With a sigh, he began to speak.

"During the Winter War, I shpent most of my time in the field hoshpitals, tending to the wounded. Shurgery wash... Well. It's not challenging work, it's jush taxing. You shee one amputashun, you've seen them all. But fer ev'ry beast we lost in the conflict, we lost three in the campsh."

"Cold, malnoot... Malnutrish'n... But shicknesh. The feverish took sho many. They'd be shiverin'... Stripped to their fur, and still burning up. Ain't it din' sheem to care, old, young. Healthy, frail... Jusht..."

"Well. I... There wash one tent. They weren't getting ill. It was upper clash beasts, and of course they shay it's... pedigree. And the offishers inshishted that --" Arthur, who had started to started to sound contemptuous and frustrated, paused for a moment. Clenching his jaw, he sighed.

"It wash their bedding. They changed it more frequently. I know it was the bedding. I just don't know why. They breathed the same miasma, ate the same food, sho the only diffeensh wash... It... Shomthin' washin the... It sounds ludicroush, I know. Well. Reshources were tight. Shoap was hard to come acrosh. The board didn't want to hear it. But I kicked and bit until they reluctantly gave me a few of the shickest tentsh to run a trial on -- they were already losht, what harm could it... I washed and changed the bedding myself. They wouldn't even give me an aide."

"Shomhow. They still died. We lost an entire tent in a shingle weekend. The only one who didn't get shick... wash the one handling all the bedding."

"I told them it wash because the technique wouldn't work if the beasts were already shick, but... That wash it. They shaid the changing of the sheetsh was what killed 'em. Fever shpiked when the cold hit them, made them breath more vigoroushly. Their bodies couldn't handle the shock."

Arthur spoke rather matter of factly about the losses. Not numbly -- he wasn't an uncaring beast. But it seemed there were no more tears to spill over it.

"I was jusht a young whelp in their eyes. Got all eckshited about... Making a name for myshelf, and wiped out three refugee tents instead. Thatsh how they shaw me, 'n I've... never been able to shake it."

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Throughout the telling Berchar listened with the intent focus of one genuinely interested in not merely the tale but the context surrounding it. He was not all that long arrived on Imperium shores by all accounts, roughly five seasons or so, but the Winter War was a well-known calamity even to him. Its impact continued to ripple throughout the city, it seemed, and into the very lives of those he knew. Even for one who had seen warfare one could only imagine the horrors of those years.

A flicker of bemusement crossed the jerboa’s face as Arthur explained his theory, but the continuing explanation seemed sound. Ludicrous on first hearing, perhaps, but what was science and medicine if not a process of elimination and indulging new ideas? Arthur did not seem a sort given to flights of fancy or ridiculous theorising merely for accolades; that he had been treated with such disdain was disappointing to say the least. An ache of empathy echoed in his chest to think of the losses; the blame they would have piled on the marten already having to cope with so many dead under his care. It was unfair.

Reassurances, Berchar suspected, would prove bitter comfort. Instead he inclined his head to the older jack and studied him for a moment with soft, curious eyes. “And what of your thoughts on it?” he asked at last. “Were you a young whelp excited about making a name for yourself, or were you young and set up for failure by beasts who didn’t want to listen?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Internally, the marten's heart sheared in two. How could one stand against such questions of motives?

"I... I don't know anymor' Ber..." he said in a small, hoarse whisper. "Washit fer --" he cleared his throat. "Washit fer me? Shore, it'da been great. Arshur Barrett. Shavior of the Shlüps! Guardian of th' Dark Forresht! Frow me a... ...ruttin' parade!" he said, anger boiling over. His voice had gotten louder suddenly, and his ears folded in shame that he might have woken his injured host. The marten was silent for a spell, and let out a resigned sigh.

"Coursh I wanted t'be right. They were all jush... ...workin' without thinkin'." Adopting a theatrical voice, the marten raised one paw dramatically. "Thus sayeth the book... and sho worketh the medishin man! Bah! They're beasts, Ber'! Not an arithmatic problem! Y'gotta shee what they need, not... ...run'm thru the same... routine over'n over. Dash it, I'd have shoved that right in their faishes if... if they didn' all die." There was the bare truth. Arthur turned slightly to let the fire warm his aching shoulders, and listened to the coals hiss and pop.

"Ishit wrong to have wanted to be righ'?" he asked, resting his chin on a paw. "Then put a noosharoun' my neck and jus'... send me to Vulpuz. Maybe he'll tell me if I was right." Bitterly, the marten scoffed. "Hellgates, he'd probably not tell me. Keep it a sheekrit. Jush to torment me. No peash'in life or death..."

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Berchar let the silence sit for a short while, staring at the flames flickering in the hearth to offer Arthur the space to vent his feelings. There was complexity there; a world away from his own experience, but a shame and frustration he knew all too well. It sat heavy on the soul, and he could see the weight in his companion as clear as if he had a millstone in his paws.

“I think,” he replied slowly, “wanting to be right is what any good doctor hopes for. Not many other occupations hold lives in their paws like that, and the responsibility’s something they never really talk about. We want things better, to make things easier or cost fewer lives. Sounds like they were too jaded to much care. Complacent.”

His long tail flicked, the brushy end curling about his own footpaws. “However…I think if you only cared about reputation or making a name for yourself above others, you would not have staked your own life. You stayed amongst the sick, and you worked without any assistance. There’s being stubborn because you want to prove something, but there’s putting yourself in danger because you know you can save lives.”

He looked once more to the jack, uncertain of how his next question would land but finding it out of his mouth before he could reflect. “Have you….ever thought of testing the theory again?”

 

[FinnianBrightfur]

With head in his paw, the marten glanced mournfully over at the jerboa. His eyes were a picture of sorrow -- but at least Berchar believed him. A wry smile flickered on his face. "Teshting the theory? Yesh, but ish terribly difficult to shtage large scale soshyetal calamities. Unlesh... you're about to tell me you've got connections with some sedishious underground groupsh..."

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Guilty alarm flashed in the jerboa’s eyes as he laughed. “Me?! Don’t be ridiculous.” He stared into the fire once again. “I…have a flatmate who does some shady dealings but nothing too severe, I don’t think. Not Misanthropy-scale, anyway. Anyway you’re right, but still…I can’t help but wonder if…if you are onto something would it not have wider implications for more illnesses?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur was still feeling rather sore from discussing these things again, but Berchar's company was perhaps more healing than he realized. The marten abandoned the topic for a moment, and reached out with a paw to poke and assault the jerboa's side. "Ooohhh you've got a guilty conshenseh! ...are you the cutman for the Tazzis? It's that... Lowlife shnot nose roomie, innit? Draggin' you into all thish?" he asked with a small gleeful (yet intrusive) intrusiveness. Having touched a bit of a dirty patch on the jerboa's shirt, Arthur frowned, and playfully lunged forward to poke at the spot again. "It ish, innit?"

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Without thinking the jerboa’s tail flicked back up at once when poked, the tufted end buffeting Arthur’s face. The gesture was not particularly forceful, but defensive. “C-cutman?!” he spluttered, “if I was do you think I’d be living in the Slups? I imagine they’d actually pay.”

It wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the entire truth. Beasts who could read were fewer and further between in the lower-income parts of the city: between his willingness to be paid to read documents and his artistic capabilities it had not taken long for others to notice. It had happened, on more than one occasion, that he had been…persuaded to forge a signature or two. What those had led to, exactly, he had elected not to think on lest his guilty conscience gnaw any further holes in his frayed nerves. As for his flatmate..

“Coddy…he’s an idiot,” Berchar blurted at last, claws picking at the crusted stains. He’d need to wash these after that dip in the canal. “He’s not smart enough for the organised crimes, but he…he’s got some links. We both need to pay the rent, so…” An evasive grunt escaped him, then, eyes darting behind old glasses. “Anyway, I’d rather not talk about him, if you don’t mind. It’s quite nice having the peace here.”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

As the tail fwapped him between the eyes, Arthur flinched backwards with a startled laugh. He wobbled drunkenly on the fireplace hearth, before catching himself with a paw.

Playful as he was, the jerboa's sharper tone ebbed the smile from his face. Clearly, his nosiness had crossed a line. There was silence from his side of the fireplace for a moment, before he slowly shifted to lie down on his side. The warmth of the bricks soaked into his aching back, and drew a soft sigh from him.

"'m shorry Ber. Was only havin' a bit of fun. I jesh... Wish y'din' hav'ta put up wiffim," he said a touch more somberly. "The Hide'll be... Dishembarkin' in a monfor sho... ...mebbe y'could... Watch my plashe fer me?" Folding his arm beneath his head as a pillow, he let out a yawn, and fell silent again.

 

[Berchar Fleetfoot]

Guilt painted itself on the jerboa’s round features to think he had upset his friend in his already vulnerable state. The poor beast was only trying to lighten the mood from his sombre revelations, and much as Berchar would have liked to focus in on those again he did not think this was the time or place. Perhaps, once the good doctor was well and rested again, he could press for more details on what had happened…and that theory of his. It was going to itch in the back of his mind, now.

He relaxed once again, remaining close to the marten as he let his ears droop in vague discomfort. He didn’t know whether to feel heartened or embarrassed by the beast’s care: his misfortune had always seemed a personal matter to bear. It was kind of Arthur to care, but so few in the city seemed to extend the same empathy and the jerboa found that he did not know what to do with it.

Fortunately the topic shifted somewhat; enough that both pieces of news, delivered so swiftly together, rattled alarm, intrigue and excitement through his mind. They were leaving again so soon after Urk?! Arthur’s wounds hadn’t even had time to fully heal! Then the matter of watching his friend’s home – at first a duty he would gladly accept, then re-contextualised and nervously viewed as a pity-offer – felt both a perfect escape and, again, uncomfortable.

He always had struggled to say no, though. Perhaps that wasn’t a terrible thing here and now.

“Oh- well – I could keep an eye on your home of course,” the jerboa nodded, glad that Arthur was less easily able to see the variety of facial expressions he was so poor at masking. “That would be my pleasure. But...you’re out again so soon already? Have they told you where you’re bound for yet?”

 

[Arthur Barrett]

Arthur's eyes drifted shut for a moment. Simply laying down made it harder for him to stay awake -- especially with the warm embers at his back, and the warm hearth on his side. He suddenly went limp, dozing off for a split second.

"Huzza...? Ish not t'morrah! I got... 'nother monf. I fink. Ordersh are... ...Crawp--err... We. Ish probably not f'r me t'shay... Jusht. Yew know how th'Cap'n ish... 's not righ'..." he said drowsily, his speech devolving into fragments of spurious sentences. The marten nodded again, and sucked in a sharp breath of air as he woke.

"Gatesh... I... ...am I makin' sensh?" he mumbled, struggling to stay awake. "...Ber... ish... Ish naw righ'... He shouldn'..."

Arthur panted softly on the hearth, and reached out drunkenly to clutch at the jerboa's knee. "Don' lettim... Push yew," he huffed weakly.

Returning the paw to his face, Arthur covered his eyes. "Gatesh, 'm... ...shorry fer' everyfin'...”