This is fine. It's fine. We're fine.

[sharpasanarrow]

[Well that was.

Something.

Underneath everyone’s door they’ll find a slip of paper, in shaky calligraphy, that reads:

INVITATION

Meet in the Dining Room.

Do not bring alcohol of any sort.

Upon arrival into the Dining Room it’s clear that this is very much...not a party.

The center of the room is cleared of all tables, and instead has all the chairs arranged in a circle, facing inwards. On the tables pushed to the side are jugs of water, cups, plates of saltines, and several hastily-made pamplets that read on the front ”How to cope with Child homicide” that contains an advisory list:

1. Try not to think about it.
2. Do not get hysterical.
3. Crying is permitted, but keep it within a reasonable volume. (For the consideration of fellow mourners)
4. Maintain civility
5. Do not plunder the belongings of the deceased.
6. No drinking or gambling your sorrows away. Set an example.

Standing in front of one of the chairs already is Mr.Arrow. He clears his throat as people start to slowly come in.]

I gathered you all here because I believed it would be conductive to group morale if we all worked through our feelings regarding recent events. Talk about your feelings with one another, but not with me.

[He steps back a little, out of the circle of chairs, in what seems to be an invitation for people to sit down and discuss with one another.]

Comments

[terribibble]

[Oh, god. What does he say? What does he say that he's comfortable with Ford's brother hearing? At the time he died he was only just getting used to the idea of other people knowing about them at all -- he's always been a private man about romantic matters -- but clearly Stanley already does, and he certainly can't be mad at Ford for telling his own brother if he was going to tell anyone.

And, you know, half the Mansion figured them out even when they were actively keeping things under wraps, so there's probably no point in caring much about keeping private. Okay. Okay. Get yourself together, Fiddleford, this might be your only chance for a good long time.]

Stanford -- if you can hear me, if you're listenin' -- [As if he wouldn't be.] I never knew if you got out or not, y'know, I mean I could guess but it's so good to know. You keep yourself safe, if I see you down here I'm goin' to lose my damn mind and all over again.

[Chilling in hell for a while hasn't put his swear filter back in place. If anything, his feelings on the matter are that he's dead and in literal hell and he's allowed to say damn as much as he likes. He's already in hell, nothing he can do can get him sent here more]

I -- I love you, hon.

And I swear to god you better've saved my banjo.

[A pause.]

I think -- I think that oughta cover everythin'.

[It doesn't, not remotely, but he can't take up too much time. So many people need this. If he says everything that wants to come tumbling out of his mouth it'll take hours.]

[sixfingeredstan]

[From his place glued to the television screen, Ford sinks to the floor with a muffled sound of relief. Eyes pressed closed, he lets the soft, distorted sound of his husband's voice wash over him, sink into his brain, and he swears he's going to remember every word because that's the one thing that can keep him going right now. The one thing that can fuel his drive to solve this big, stupid, bloated puzzle.

His fingers clench, and unclench, hearing those three words he's spent months wishing he could hear, just once. And he knows that even if he did possess telepathic powers, the metal plate in his head would put a stop to it, but he still can't help but think a response as hard as he can. If he just thinks I love you, too hard enough, it might reach Fiddleford. Not as a game of mirror-and-TV telephone, but straight from his heart. His brain. Straight from him.

He's going to figure out a way to rescue his husband, his whole family, because Ford Pines will be damned if this is the last words he ever hears the love of his life say.]