Chapter Text
30th September
Arthur sat on the couch next to Quincey, looking out the window at Carfax Abbey as his friend read aloud the thick stack of pages that Madam Mina had transcribed. Their first meeting with their new friend had been unorthodox to say the least— Arthur weeping on her bosom, Quincey being moved to tears by her kiss— and they were both still reeling a bit. But Mina also had a schoolmistress's sternness, and her solemn instructions to read the entire saga typed up in the pages had left them both scrambling as if they were schoolboys behind on homework.
Arthur was grateful for Quincey being willing to read aloud; he had always found reading nearly impossible, with the letters jumbling on the page and the spaces between words swarming like the currents of a stream. And it felt less lonely to relive the horrors with his friend by his side; going over the words by himself would have been unbearable. Quincey's voice was steady, his Texas accent familiar and comforting. Even Arthur, in his state of grief, was able to listen to the narration without breaking down.
They were reading about the events of a few weeks ago, when Jack had given Lucy his blood. Arthur felt a lump in his throat, thinking of that huge needle stabbing into Jack's thin, pale arm.
Quincey read Jack's words: "By-and-by Van Helsing bound up my wound, and sent me downstairs to get a glass of wine for myself. As I was leaving the room, he came after me, and half whispered, 'Mind, nothing must be said of this. If our young lover should turn up unexpected, as before, no word to him. It would at once frighten him and enjealous him'—"
Arthur laughed, so explosively that Quincey jumped in his seat.
"Sorry," Arthur said, clapping a hand over his mouth. Laughter continued to bubble up anyway, and he trembled as if sobbing.
Quincey's eyes flicked across the page again with a quizzical expression. "All right, what am I missing?"
Arthur desperately wrangled himself under control, his ribs aching. "I'm sorry, it's just—" He snorted in laughter again, caught himself. "Sorry! Van Helsing… he thought I would be jealous over a blood transfusion?"
Quincey shrugged. "Men have flown in rages over less."
Arthur cradled his head in his hands, still feeling chuckles rippling through his grief-torn body, almost painfully. "Oh, God bless the professor. Did he not notice that the first thing I did when Lucy fell ill was to ask Jack and you for help?"
"Maybe he didn't know we were her suitors." Quincey thumbed through the pages, smirking. "The professor never gave me such a warning about your 'jealous rages'— I guess I shouldn't have telegrammed you immediately after having the needle in my own arm."
He smiled; Quincey's telegram that day informing him of his transfusion had made Arthur weep grateful tears. If only Quincey's blood had been enough…
Quincey, as if seeing the thoughts tumbling through his head, laid his hand on his arm for a moment. The comfort of that simple touch helped him find his center again. "Sorry," Arthur said, "Please keep reading, or there's no way we'll finish before the meeting with the others."
Quincey raised the stack of papers again as if to continue, then paused. "Art, can I ask you a question?"
"Of course."
"I didn't know how to say this at the time, but… at Lucy's funeral, you said that you felt giving your blood to her made the two of you married."
Arthur felt a pang, but nodded.
"But you knew that it wasn't just your blood in her veins, but mine, too, and Jack's, and the professor's. So why did you say that?"
Arthur blushed, not quite sure how to answer. "I… I suppose on one hand I was thinking that it was special because we were engaged, because we loved each other in that way." He paused, feeling as if this explanation was incomplete. "But honestly… I did feel that, in a way, all of us were married to her. I know how much you loved her."
Quincey gulped, then nodded.
"And she may have accepted my proposal, but Jack loved her better than both of us. No, don't deny it! I was in love with Lucy, but who was there for her night and day through her darkest hours? Who cheered her heart and kept her brave and gave up night upon night of sleep in the weariness of grief, neglecting all else to be with her?" Arthur shook his head. "Jack was a better husband to her than I was. I will never forget his kindness. Or yours."
Quincey's eyes were misty for a moment, but he didn't disagree. On impulse, Arthur took his hand, feeling the comfort of that familiar touch.
Quincey blinked a few times, lifted the pages with his other hand, and continued reading aloud. The grief was still fresh on them, but it was easier to bear it together.