He wanted to touch her but still was not sure he’d be allowed to, because Arthur was a tactile person, he was bad at words and he was bad at this sort of confrontation, where things were so clearly his fault.
”It’s not —” Arthur cut himself off because he didn’t think she would take this the way he did. The gambling was not about her; it was not a reflection on her. It was about him, and the way he could not process the well of feeling inside him, the way he could not handle having failed her by leaving her alone to miscarry. He looked externally for a way to handle his own feelings and found it primarily in alcohol, Watchword had written, and she was right, wasn’t she?
Last time he had left, cut and run in the hopes of maintaining a household he’d gambled, gone to stay with friends-of-friends in practically every city in Britain. He had alternated between gambling what little remained of the Pettigrew fortune and engaging in strung-out, desperate attempts to stop. He’d settled into it eventually, the comforting weight of being a known fuck-up, with no one expecting any better from him.
Dez met him in the after, when age or lack of resources had settled him a bit, at the beginning of his painstaking process of stopping. He had never wanted to have her meet him like this, Arthur Pettigrew in the middle of a series of fuck-ups, Arthur Pettigrew with no self control, Arthur Pettigrew who was piloted to the casino, to betting, because he could not stop himself and because it was the only way he could stop feeling everything.
He couldn’t even promise her it was done, was the thing, and he knew it.
”I’m so sorry, Desdemona,” he said instead, and took a step forward to try to hug her.
”It’s not —” Arthur cut himself off because he didn’t think she would take this the way he did. The gambling was not about her; it was not a reflection on her. It was about him, and the way he could not process the well of feeling inside him, the way he could not handle having failed her by leaving her alone to miscarry. He looked externally for a way to handle his own feelings and found it primarily in alcohol, Watchword had written, and she was right, wasn’t she?
Last time he had left, cut and run in the hopes of maintaining a household he’d gambled, gone to stay with friends-of-friends in practically every city in Britain. He had alternated between gambling what little remained of the Pettigrew fortune and engaging in strung-out, desperate attempts to stop. He’d settled into it eventually, the comforting weight of being a known fuck-up, with no one expecting any better from him.
Dez met him in the after, when age or lack of resources had settled him a bit, at the beginning of his painstaking process of stopping. He had never wanted to have her meet him like this, Arthur Pettigrew in the middle of a series of fuck-ups, Arthur Pettigrew with no self control, Arthur Pettigrew who was piloted to the casino, to betting, because he could not stop himself and because it was the only way he could stop feeling everything.
He couldn’t even promise her it was done, was the thing, and he knew it.
”I’m so sorry, Desdemona,” he said instead, and took a step forward to try to hug her.
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Aldous Crouch, Minty Scrimgeour [Sofia], Reuben Crouch
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