foolishmortals

I don't blame you. Did I say I blamed you?

[He looks back down at his notebook, as if he's got something very very important he's working on that isn't a highly detailed drawing of the Loch Ness Monster that's so heavily inked it's threatening to split the paper open.]

I clearly embarrassed you, and myself. It won't happen again.

[He can see that movement out of the corner of his eye. It's killing him to act like this, but he doesn't know how else he should act that won't tear his pride to shreds.]

[His leg keeps bouncing until it bounces hard enough that he has to slap his knee to stop it. No. Come on. You are an adult man, Fiddleford McGucket, and if you want to keep being friends with this man you have got to have this conversation no matter how it winds up going.

Maybe it's still not too late to spontaneously combust.]

Were you serious about it? I mean, would you have, if you weren't -- if you'd've been sober?

[That actually gets his attention; if he's that nervous, it must not mean he's here to give Ford a dressing down. And then he actually asks if Ford was serious, and Ford has to fight down a laugh, because laughing isn't going to go over well right now. So instead, he sets his notebook aside, his legs crossed, and leans forward, fixing Fiddleford with a curious stare.]

Of course I was. Does that strike you as something I'd joke about? I...

[He looks down at his hands, which are grasping at the hems of his trousers above his bare feet.]

My feelings aren't a laughing matter, Fiddleford.

[Well.

Okay.

He bites the inside of his cheek, mulling over his next words very carefully. He could potentially be making a very big mistake bringing this up at all, but the phrase 'you could be dead next week' keeps repeating behind his eyes. They're going to live, they'll get out, but... but if they don't... what does he really have to lose?

A lot. He has a lot to lose. This relationship he only just got back, that he still can't quite believe is real, that he still expects to go up in flames any moment.]

You know what I got in that envelope the second week we were here?

[Ford raises his eyebrows at Fiddleford's hesitance, wondering exactly what he's about to say, and why it's taking so much thought. He's trying very hard to fight down that little spark of hope that says maybe he feels the same way, maybe the tide is finally turning in your favor. In Ford's experience, it rarely does that.]

I'll bite. What was it?

[He'd assumed it had something to do with the ray. With the Blind Eye.]

[That's what he thought he'd see too. He could have dealt with that. Could have defended it, even. It would have been comparatively so much easier.]

Us. A picture of us, in college.

[Which is both true and not exactly all the relevant information. He's working his way up to it. Once he comes right out with it there's going to be no taking it back. He doesn't have a portable undo button anymore. He has to live with everything he does, until he dies, however soon that's going to be.

Which it's not. Going to be soon. It's not going to be soon, it's fine, they'll be fine.

Okay. Back on track. He opens his mouth.]

That, uh. That night after Todd Bergman's finals week party.

Oh.

[Okay, well, that's strange, but—

oh.

His eyebrows raise to the point of disappearing into the fluff of his hair, before lowering back down to the rims of his glasses.]

Well. I'm glad you weren't ashamed enough to kill over it, at least.

[A low blow, maybe, but he's trying very hard not to read too much into this right now, and if he keeps himself from doing that then maybe he can get through this conversation with minimal embarrassment.]

Edited 2017-07-05 06:09 (UTC)

Of course I wouldn't've killed over that! For god's sake, Stanford, that's not funny.

[Too soon, Ford. Far too soon. His leg starts bouncing again.]

It's just. I've spent the last ten or so years tellin' myself that time didn't mean anythin' because it was easier if it didn't. You understand?

Was I laughing?

[Look at him, look at this face. He's very serious right now, even if that remark was perhaps a bit off the cuff. He's hurting right now, he's still stinging from this earlier rejection, and even that mounting feeling that something is coming to a head isn't enough to soothe it.

There's a long moment of silence, and Ford nods, letting his head hang a little.]

I think I do. It was easier for you to just...be straight. Get married. Have a son. Rather than admit that perhaps that's not all there was to the story. Am I correct?

... I just wanted to be normal.

[He leans heavily back against Ford's door, running a hand back through his hair. His fingers catch and tangle but he doesn't yank out any chunks, not yet.]

All my life that's what I wanted. A normal family and a normal job and a normal house and a normal life.

[Which maybe is not how someone would describe aspirations to change the world of computer technology, but that was still a respectable profession. By normal he doesn't mean cookie-cutter so much as he means acceptable. The sort of life you can talk about in public and not raise any eyebrows.]

And it's not that I'm not -- I mean. I do like women. I loved my wife. I'm not a good enough liar to keep one goin' for that long.

[He is very, very concerned with impressing upon Ford that he didn't just sucker some poor girl into his being his beard for nearly a decade.]

[Ford's chilly demeanor is beginning to melt a little, because, well...he knows. What it's like to want to be normal. That was his whole damn childhood, growing up with a twin and two more fingers than everyone else. Growing up in a pawn shop with a fraud psychic mother. Nothing about Ford Pines has ever been normal, so maybe...maybe it was just easier for him to accept one more thing.]

I understand. I do. And—I know you loved her. I know that wasn't a lie. I used to see you looking at their picture. It wasn't for show.

[And God, did he ever feel jealous, and feel horrible for that fact. Just like he feels horrible right now.]

But I don't see what that has to do with me. With this.

Because whenever I'm around you -- you're like some sort of anti-normality black hole.

[He doesn't mean it in a hurtful way, honest, but after everything he experienced being friends with Ford the first time around (and he remembers more and more of that every day, thanks to the kickstart from the Journal) he feels it's a fair assessment.]

So I've been told.

[It's a lot harder to hurt his feelings than that.]

But—what are you trying to say, Fiddleford? That after all these years, you're finally going to...to stop pretending you don't know how I feel about you?

[He doesn't want to believe it, because he's spent forty years telling himself nothing could ever come of it. Even after everything...well, who knew what old man McGucket would think of it?

[See, Ford, that kind of makes it sound like you have a genuine thing for him that goes beyond just fooling around in college. Which... can't be right, right? He kind of wants to ask and he also really, really doesn't because if this turns out to be more serious than Ford Pines being a little drunk that's going to be opening a much bigger and gnarlier can of worms. So he sidesteps it for now.]

I... I mean I've always known you were... that's not the issue. I'm not that closed-minded.

[That's not what Ford is talking about and he knows it and he doesn't know how to address it so he has to just come at it sideways, keep it in the corner of his eye. That's safest.]

It's okay. [There's a fond sort of smile playing about Ford's lips.] You can say it. 'A flaming queer.' Or, 'confirmed bachelor,' as Lefou put it. Either way, I'm not hiding anything.

[He wishes Fiddleford could feel the same way. But if he's going to play dumb, then Ford's going to do the same. He doesn't know how else to have this conversation without making Fiddleford hyperventilate.]

So what it comes down to, then, is me not putting it on display around you. Is that it?

[Of course it isn't. He's shrewd enough to know that.]

[hhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHH

He feels like he's two steps away from hyperventilating either way.]

No! No, that's not what I'm sayin'.

[It is, a little. It's not when it's around him that's the problem, it's when it's at him, and it's not even a problem for the reason Ford thinks it is, and god dammit he owes it to Ford to be honest because it was keeping secrets that destroyed their friendship in the first place, wasn't it, and if he has to know about his mistakes then the least he can do is try not to make them again.]

It's just that if you keep doin' it I'm goin' to be awful tempted to give in, because I've got nothin' to go back to anyway. I've got nothin' to lose anymore except you, you understand? And if -- if you die -- which I know isn't goin' to happen, I know we'll be fine [lie to yourself until you believe it] but hypothetically --

[He's goddamn terrified, alright? He's still struggling with the after-effects of convincing himself he can't even trust Ford at all. He's not confident and he's not eloquent and he doesn't know how Ford can't see how hard this is.]

[Ford's eyebrows rise steadily higher and higher the more Fiddleford goes on, because he certainly wasn't expecting that to slip out, at least not so soon, and damn if his traitorous stomach doesn't do a flip-flop he didn't give it permission to do.

Before Fiddleford is finished talking, Ford scoots to the edge of his bed, leaving his pen and his Nessie drawing to the wayside. He still smells faintly of alcohol, but it's more of a warm smell than an overwhelmingly boozy one by this point.

He reaches for his friend's hand.]

So let me get this straight. [Haha. Get it.] If I make advances toward you, you're afraid that you'll...act in kind. And then lose me.

[Again.

God, his stomach is a mess and his brain is yelling at him to do something, but he just doesn't know the right thing to do.]

But look at it this way. In the highly unlikely event that something does happen to me—which it won't—would you want to miss your chance to know for sure?

[Fiddleford doesn't actively take Ford's hand but he doesn't resist at all when Ford reaches out to him. He feels like he's standing on the edge of a cliff. His chest is very visibly rising and falling. For a very long several moments he just looks at Ford, his mouth slightly open, like there's words in his throat but he can't wrangle them past his lips.]

It's -- [His voice goes high and screechy the way it always doe when he's barely keeping a grip on himself. He swallows. One word at a time. Come on.]

It's not ... I could've erased that memory any time I wanted. I could've erased you. [He can't look at Ford as he talks or he'll lose his nerve.] Y'know how much easier my life would've been if I'd just... just got rid of you? And I never did.

I'm not scared because I'm not sure.

[The urge to haul Fiddleford into a bear hug right now is very strong, because he's doing that thing with his voice and he's turning into a wreck before Ford's very eyes, and that comes with a healthy dose of guilt because that's his fault. Again. But he resists, and gives that hand a squeeze.

When he finds the right words, his voice is low and soft and gentle. He's skimming over that healthy dose of hurt, because he doesn't like to think about it, so he won't.]

Then why? Why are you afraid? You can tell me.

Jesus, Stanford, why do you think?

[He wishes he was handling this better. In a perfect world he'd be making some kind of sweeping proclamation. In a perfect world it would be easy to just detonate his entire self-image and rebuild it to seamlessly include something he's staunchly denied for ten years. It's not and he just feels panicked and he can't even articulate why he does because he's not good at articulating this kind of thing.]

It's not -- it's not as easy as just -- It's not.

[How could it possibly be?]

[Ford makes a helpless little gesture with his free hand. What the hell is he supposed to do, here? He's seen gay panic before, but this...this is on a whole different level.]

That's not—you can't make me guess.

[Ford sighs, his head and hand both dropping, letting Fiddleford's free.]

I wish I knew...how to make this easier for you. I wish I knew the right thing to say to make you feel better. But you know me, Fiddleford. That's never been my strong point. So let me just—

[Alright, fuckin' yolo.]

I have feelings for you, Fiddleford. Even after forty goddamn years, even after three weeks in this haunted mansion. Plain and simple. I—

[He'd been about to blurt out the whole shebang but he stops himself.]

So there you have it. Whatever you say can't possibly be any more scary than that.

[HhhhhhhHHHHHHHGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHH

He thought he was making himself pretty clear. For him the past few minutes have been an exercise in trying to say it in every way except actually saying it because actually saying it is making himself far too vulnerable, making it far too real.]

What do you think I've been --

[Now that his hands are free they both rise to his hair and grip very, very tight. He feels like he is going to vibrate right into the next dimension. His back slides down Ford's door until he's just curled into a ball on the floor, like he's trying to fold in on himself and into nothing.]

You goddamn oblivious idiot.

[This is far too many social skills required at once for Ford Pines and he suddenly has that feeling like everything is on fire and it's his fault again. And what the hell is he supposed to do? He clearly missed a cue somewhere along the line, but he's tried what he knows —being direct and upfront and trying his damnedest to be understanding and gentle, things he is not at all good at but God damn it, he's trying.

He watches Fiddleford sink down onto the floor, and once more he finds himself joining him down on the floor in what is becoming an alarmingly common configuration, bracing himself on one knee.]

I...don't understand. I thought I was being helpful. I'm not—I need you to be direct with me. Please.

[He lets out a shaky breath.]

I... I know. I know. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm not better at this. It's just -- god dammit, of course I love you, you're my best friend!

[He reaches out with one hand and brings his fist down on Ford's shoulder. It's barely a hit, more like a half-hearted bap. His hand shakes for a moment and then goes flat-palmed and just rests there.]

Of course I do. But I fell in love with a woman and I figured... I f-figured that meant it was a fluke, it had to be, just somethin' that happened once and didn't mean nothin'. Because likin' both was... is... I figured I had to pick one and I did, didn't I?

But it turns out it doesn't make likin' one go away when you pick the other. That's what my secret was. 'Fiddleford McGucket is a bisexual'.

[He says it in an exceptionally weary voice, like it's something he's resigned to. He has no problems with it in theory, honest, but it's different when it's someone else. It's different when it's hypothetical. When it's you and you've wanted all your life to just be normal and happy... well. Maybe it's just him, but he did what he always does when he's confronted with problems he can't solve: he buried it real real deep and tried to forget.

Thinking of it that way kind of puts it in perspective, doesn't it?]

Shoulda learned from the damn ray. I can't just -- I can't just get rid of bits of myself.

[He'll take that bap. He deserves it at the very least, probably. He barely feels it, anyway, because he's too busy gaping at Fiddleford with his mouth open and a look of pure shock on his face. Because he might have had an inkling of where this was going, but he definitely wasn't expecting Fiddleford McGucket to say 'I love you' to his face. Even if—it's maybe meant in a friend context, even if that's the case, it's still not something he thought he'd ever hear, after forty years of wanting to hear it.

Slowly, he brings his hand up to cover the one on his shoulder, big and warm and solid.]

I'm very glad you can't. Because I happen to be incredibly fond of all the bits that make you, well, you. But—I'm sorry. If I caused you more pain than I thought. That was never my intention, Fiddleford.

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i almost had him say more but honestly this sums it up

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