Crichton's here to back him up, and John just keeps asking him what's going on, and it finally dawns on Arthur that this situation should be giving him deja vu: John's new to this universe, popped in without ready explanation. But this time Arthur knows what's going on, Arthur's the one with leverage, John's the one clueless and full of questions and Arthur's the one with the answers.

It's not funny, necessarily, but a cackle bursts out of him all the same: an unpleasantly triumphant noise that's not a million miles off from that of the stupid fucking halloween clown.

The urge to literally pop out John's fucking eyeballs has passed, but that doesn't mean Arthur's not still carried away with fury at him. For murdering Parker, a better man than either of them. For tearing away that little bit of stability and comfort that Arthur had built back up after everything. For showing up here and trying to talk to Arthur as if he'd be welcome, as if he'd be wanted.

"He's my friend," Arthur says, and he grins with all his teeth, and drags at John's robes as if to pull him closer so that he can't miss a word. He hopes hearing this hurts John. He hopes it hurts like a knife to their gut. "I don't need you, John. No-one here needs you, and no-one here wants you. Go to hell."