foolishmortals

[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.

[Ford should treasure that 'I love you', because it's probably the only one he'll get for a while. Fiddleford used up all the monumental energy it took to force those words out of his mouth in a moment of duress and honestly now he just feels like sleeping for a week. There's a heat in his throat and behind his eyes and he doesn't have a headache yet but he feels like he might soon. He's just so wrung out. Today's been too much on top of everything else he's trying to pretend he's dealing with okay.]

I know it wasn't.

[This, too, is something he's still having to remind himself of to make sure it sticks. He's so used to resenting Ford -- it became a nice security blanket as his life fell apart around him. But he knows Ford is sorry, he knows because he read it and Ford had no reason to lie and it's fine, it's fine. He can trust Ford with this. He can trust that Ford, for all his shortcomings when it comes to interpersonal affairs, never once meant to cause him emotional distress.]

Half of this I'm doin' to myself anyway, I know I am and I feel like such a gosh-darn fool but I can't turn it off and I'm sorry.

[He's still breathing uneven and quick, like a terrified animal. Every now and again he'll manage a longer, deeper breath -- he's trying, he's trying, but this has been one hell of a conversation.]

[Oh, he'll treasure it. He's going to remember it for as long as he has left to live, be it a week or thirty years. But he can't focus on that right now, because Fiddleford is still upset and getting worked up again, so Ford needs to focus on this instead.]

It's okay. You're not a fool. You're only human. Here, just—

[Carefully, Ford readjusts his hands and pulls Fiddleford in so he can rest his face against Ford's shoulder, if he wants. He seems like maybe he could use a hug.]

You don't—there's no need to apologize. It's just me, Fiddleford.

[Oh, sure. It's just Ford. It's just Ford, the man who prompts more intense and complicated emotions in him than almost anyone else in his life. He presses his face into Ford's shoulder and concentrates on the texture of his sweater and the scent of him, warm and still faintly-alcoholic. Slowly, very slowly, his breathing evens out and his shoulders fall out of the rigid position he'd been holding them in.]

...Thank you. [His voice is very small, very tired.] You've been tryin' to do right by me since the first day we were stuck here and I've been such a jackass.

[He's pleased that it seems to be the right thing to do; he lets Fiddleford stay there as long as he needs to, rubbing his shoulder absently. He just stays quiet, letting him figure out his breathing, pleased when he seems to relax his skinny frame, even.

Tentatively, he ruffles the hair at the base of Fiddleford's neck. It's hard to restrain himself from being too affectionate.]

That's alright. I can hardly blame you, after all. [He hesitates, and then:] Would you...like me to walk you back to your room?

Bein' honest what I'd like is a drink but I figure that rum's probably long-gone, isn't it.

[It's only halfway a joke. That is, it's funny, but it's also entirely true. He wants a drink and then a month-long nap.]

[Ford chuckles, rumbling in his chest, and reaches one-handed for his coat on the bed. From the inside pocket, he pulls out the bottle of rum, which surprisingly still has a couple inches left at the bottom.]

You're in luck.

Oh, thank the good sweet lord.

[He reaches for the bottle. It's a little awkward because he doesn't want to take his face off Ford's shoulder if he can help it. He's going to have to if he wants to uncork it, isn't he. Dammit. Okay. Sitting back. He's a grown man and that was more than enough of a hug.]

There's not enough alcohol in this dang house.

[Ford sees what he's doing there, and he has to fight back the smile that wants to appear. But he lets Fiddleford straighten up, his hands dropping, and snorts.]

You've got that right. Although you'll be happy to know I haven't touched that champagne.

[Yet. He's waiting for the right moment.]

[Look, it's totally okay for a man to hug his best friend. He's from the south but he's not that socially-stunted. He uncorks the bottle and takes a very long drink, though of course he's polite enough to leave plenty for Ford as he passes it back. That's good manners. After having a freakout in Ford's doorway he owes him good manners.]

Good. I'm tellin' you, that stuff's not worth it.

[Slowly, slowly, he begins to uncurl. He stretches out one leg. He rests his arm on his bent knee instead of hugging it up to his chest. He starts the slow, arduous process of allowing himself to relax. It's fine. It's just Ford.

The fact that there is a string or two left loose after their prior conversation is something he's okay with ignoring until he manages to figure out how to tie them up safely.]

[It's undeniably wonderful to see Fiddleford slowly begin to get comfortable. He hasn't seen that since...well, the old days. Before. He takes the bottle back and takes a decent-sized glug, though not near as much as Fiddleford seems to have downed in one go.]

I'm weighing my options with regards to that. But I still think a moonshine still would be an excellent use of our time.

[Our time. As if he's already speaking in plurals. It's not conscious; he's just so eager to have Fiddleford back in his life. To work side by side with him again.

Ford, too, lets himself relax. Stretches out those long legs of his, lets his neck curve back against the edge of the bed with a soft crack. Despite all his energy and stamina, his body does give him the occasional reminder that he is, in fact, getting old. Something that he's all too aware of tonight.]

[Against all odds, and despite how hard he's having to work to unlearn the fears he taught himself as a defense mechanism, Fiddleford is glad to have Ford back in his life too. There was a time when things were easy. There was a time when things were good and he wants that back again, he does, because Ford is his best friend and he doesn't use that term and not mean it. It's just that maybe Ford is his best friend in the same way that his wife was his best friend. Don't they always say that? That your spouse should be your best friend?

This is a dangerous and confusing line of thought. He pushes it aside.]

I could do it, too. It'd have to be sugar shine but that's fine, the point is it'll be strong. I've got a still design I've made before that'd speed things up so it isn't two dang weeks before we can actually drink it. Might have to cannibalize some of the other machinery around here but it'd be worth it.

[The words 'we might not even live that long' are on the tip of his tongue before Ford has to fight them down, and they're like ice water in his stomach, but he's not, he refuses to think of that, tonight of all nights.

Instead, he ponders that.] It's not like the bulk of it is doing any of us any good. I'd say go for it; at the very least it'll be a good distraction. And if anyone can whip up a batch of express moonshine in record time, it's you.

[Gross, look at that fond smile on his face. He's getting sentimental in his old age.]

Maybe I'll take some time tomorrow and actually design my champagne experiment.

[There we go. Back to your regularly scheduled Ford.]

[Sentimental over moonshine. Only Ford Pines.

Fiddleford takes the rum back, shakes the bottle, makes a conscious decision and drains the rest of it. He deserves this right now. His chest and cheeks feel pleasantly warm and it's definitely only because of the alcohol -- or at least that's a convenient excuse.]

You better design a spotter into that experiment. And if it's me you better be plannin' on some kinda compensation. Havin' to babysit you high isn't goin' to be a cakewalk, I have a feelin'.

[He lifts the bottle again and remembers a little too late he already drank the last of it. Dammit. Why is the rum gone?]

Shot myself in the foot there, huh.

[Ford's somehow not surprised that Fiddleford deems that an acceptable amount of rum to chug in one go. But he's not protesting; his buzz is back and he feels relaxed and he definitely had more than enough of it tonight. Somehow they've come full circle.]

Of course it's you. Who else would I pick? Wander?

[Now that would be a wild ride. Ford leans in a little and gives Fiddleford a devilish little grin.]

Don't worry. I'll repay you somehow.

[He considers the bottle, and shrugs his shoulders.] All the more reason to start building that still.

[Fiddleford McGucket had a jug of moonshine in his garage the size of a damn water cooler. This is a man who can hold his alcohol, and that means if he wants to be pleasantly tipsy he has to take in a lot.]

Uh-huh. Sure you will. By ropin' me into somethin' else, I'll bet. A follow-up.

[It's meant to be teasing, honest, even though it's not inaccurate. He just knows that once Ford gets started he doesn't stop, especially not where science is concerned. Each experiment raises more questions to explore, like a hydra of inquiry.]

[Ford, conversely, doesn't drink much, so when he does, it doesn't take much at all. The irony.

His eyebrows raise, and the tips of his ears grow a little hot. He knows what Fiddleford means, honestly, and he knows why he's saying it, but he can't help but place that into the present context, and...

Well.]

I don't think you'd be complaining too much about my follow-up.

[Twenty-four hours ago Fiddleford would have pointedly ignored any innuendo in that statement and taken it at face value. It would be the safer option. But he's tired and he's a little tipsy and he's already on emotional overload and his brain's in that place where it goes for the extreme option first instead of the logical one.]

Well I won't know until I see it, will I?

[In this case the extreme option is relatively-benign flirting. It's all relative, okay.]

[Holy hell. The starts must have aligned just right, because unless he's very much mistaken, that was flirting. Ford feels his neck growing warm and is suddenly very thankful for his turtleneck.]

Suppose not.

[Ford finds himself reflecting once more on the other man's face. It's so good. Nice. Familiar. Being here with him almost makes it feel like...home.

Without really thinking about it, Ford leans forward and presses a soft, chaste kiss to Fiddleford's forehead, just above his eyebrow.]

[The feeling of standing at the edge of a cliff, which had died off as Fiddleford's panic ebbed and was replaced by calm and the warmth of the rum, is now back in full force. Ford is right. If he does die -- and he won't, he won't, he won't, but if he does -- does he want to die without ever giving this a chance? So much of the things he's done in his life have been in the pursuit of living without regrets. He can pursue that goal here too, and he doesn't even have to destroy his mind to do it.

And... and if he's the Fiddleford that Ford met in the portal, from the universe where they reunited but he and his wife never did... then maybe it's because he found someone else.

He said it himself, he has nothing left to lose but Ford. Maybe he can take this risk.

He straightens his spine and tilts his head up and presses a light, closed-mouth kiss to Ford's lips.]

[He's not expecting anything at all; Ford knows better than that by now, and really he'd just done it to show Fiddleford he cared for him, that maybe they can show each other affection and have it not be a big deal. So the fact that Fiddleford actually takes the initiative to reciprocate, and even escalate, is very surprising, but not unwelcome.

No, definitely not unwelcome.

Ford's chest tightens, and without thinking about it he lets one hand come up to rest against the side of Fiddleford's neck. How many times has he thought about this? How many nights has he wondered if it'd ever happen? And now it is, his lips are on Ford's of his own volition, even, and Ford doesn't even hesitate but to kiss him back, with just a little more heat this time.

Maybe dreams do come true.]

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

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