Arthur enjoyed everything Melissa had to give him, whether it was the certainty of her touch or her mere presence in the same room. This-- the weight of her on his lap, the feel of her arms around him, and her head so firm on his shoulder it felt like destiny-- made him so happy he almost wanted to cry.
Men didn't cry, though, and so he steeled himself, opting instead to wrap a possessive arm around her back. His other hand rested on Melissa's thigh, holding her to him in deliberate, wanting proximity (and imagining, even if for a moment, what it would be like to feel the skin beneath her skirts).
"Is that really what you want to do?" he asked, resting his cheek against the top of Melissa's head. The tips of his fingers stroked inconsequential shapes into her leg, round and curving and wisping like a dream. "Help me? When there're so many other things you can do?"
Then again, there were so many other things Melissa could do now, and here she was sitting on his lap in the stairwell to the prison that was his building. Every breath Arthur took carried Melissa's scent with it, and nothing could make him feel more at home.
With her by his side, he could do anything. He could heal from these stupid wounds, he could become a better version of himself, and--
"Hah." The laugh, however disjointed, left him suddenly.
--fuck, he could give his mom and her boyfriend exactly what they deserved.
And so Arthur kept laughing, shoulders shaking all the while. His grip on Melissa didn't relent; the most important thing in the world to him right now was making sure Melissa stayed with him, safe and sound on the throne his lap provided. She never minded his condition, accepting his uncontrollable laughter as much as she did him, and he was sure now would be no exception. In Melissa's presence, there was no reason to stifle anything that made him him.
Including the cheery, and yet entirely sincere suggestion of: "Would you h-help me kill them, Mel?"
God, everything ached, and yet Arthur couldn't stop laughing.