foolishmortals

[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.]

[Look, if they all have to be stuck in a shitty horror movie then it stands to reason there has to be a highly-emotional kiss at some point. Jeez, Ford, don't you know your cinema tropes?

It's been a while since Fiddleford's been kissed and frankly he feels kind of rusty at it. Their glasses clack and he has to tilt his head a little more than anticipated to deal with the nose issue but it's fine, it's fine, it's still good. It's as good as he remembers it being.

This is okay. This is okay. It's scary to have to completely re-evaluate who he is but if this is who he is then it doesn't feel that much different than who he was ten minutes ago. It's probably got something to do with the fact that he's always felt this strongly about Ford Pines, he just repackaged it into a slightly different box in his head to make it acceptable.]

Were you always -- have you really felt this way about me since all the way back in college?

[Look, he's not exactly pop culture-savvy.

Ford doesn't notice the slight awkwardness of the situation; he'd sort of anticipated the nose issue, and even with their glasses bumping each other and all, it's still a very nice kiss. One that he's slightly reluctant to break, but considering there still isn't much space between them when they do part, he's okay with it.

He feels his face growing hot, and even though Fiddleford's very nice blue eyes are right in front of his, Ford has to let his gaze drop behind his glasses. His fingers toy with a lock of hair at the back of Fiddleford's head.]

Well...yes. I wasn't—I didn't pine, or anything, but there's always been a part of me that's wanted you.

[Even having an idea of the answer he'd get ahead of time, it still makes Fiddleford's stomach do an odd little wiggle to hear it. He's a man who likes attention, who likes to hear validation, and there is nothing more validating than knowing someone's been stoking a flame for you for forty years. No wonder this whole things been so emotional: between them they have fifty years of UST.]

O-oh. [He almost doesn't know what to say to that. His ears have gone very red.] Well I figure... s'like I said, I've got nothin' to go back to. Not my wife, not my boy, not... not the Society, now that I know what my ray was really doin' to folks.

[He doesn't even know if he'll last the week. And thank god for that perspective, or the total ruination of everything he used to care about might bother him far more than it already does. But he has to find a silver lining in things, doesn't he, and right now his silver lining is --]

Stanford, you're about all I've got left. And I'd be open to givin' this a shot, because... because if I don't, and I lose you, I'm goin' to regret not doin' it until the day I die.

[Ford doesn't meet Fiddleford's gaze again until he continues speaking, but even then, he has to squeeze his eyes shut for a moment because it's still hard to hear. Knowing it's his fault. But when he says that Ford is all he has left, Ford can't help but break into a little smile. It warms the cockles of his heart, hearing Fiddleford say that. And that little spark of hope in his chest? It's a goddamn fully-formed flame by now.]

Well. If we're both in agreement, then...I say we give it the old college try.

[Get it. Because college. Do you get it, Fidds.]

[Yes. Yes, you complete dipshit, he gets it. Of course he'd bare his soul and Ford would come back with a pun. He isn't even angry. That's just what Ford does. It's part of his horrible, wonderful charm. He takes these things that Fiddleford agonizes over and reduces them to something to laugh at, and that is honestly something Fiddleford needs sometimes.

Not when it's a legitimate worry, but now that he's had time to push aside some of the erroneous red flags he's realizing that this course of action is not as much of a potential disaster as his brain wanted to convince him it was. Still...]

Can we... can we keep quiet about it? Just for now? I'm not -- I'm not ashamed or anythin' like that, I'd just sort of -- I'd like time to get my feet under me. Get used to... I mean it's a big change.

[He can't help but feel a little bit of apprehension, when Fiddleford starts to ask if they can keep it quiet, and his chest swells as if he's about to protest—but the explanation makes sense, and he knows it's not so easy for everyone to just barrel out of the closet. And Fiddleford especially...of course he needs time. Of course.]

Take as long as you need. [He brushes his nose against Fiddleford's, a tiny little eskimo kiss.] I'll try not to shout off any rooftops in the meantime.

[Thank goodness Ford understands. Fiddleford will get there eventually, but he'd like it to be less a big to-do and more a sort of seamless transition. He's done plenty of things with a bang, sure, but they've always been a direct result of him being in a real bad place. When he's positive and rational he tends toward a little less... explosive.

He doesn't want anything that action-packed right now anyway. Their noses brush, their foreheads bump, and it's soft and warm and comfortable. It's nice. It's so nice, like it used to be.]

You can't get up to the roof anyway.

[.... He doesn't actually know that for a fact. He wouldn't put it past Ford to scale the building just to prove a point.]

...Don't try and get up on the roof, you hear me?

[He was honestly just wondering how hard it might be to get up there, but he pretends he wasn't for Fiddleford's sake, pulling back and raising his eyebrows.]

Who, me? I'd never.

[He leans back in and starts planting a row of soft kisses across Fiddleford's jaw, slow and steady.]

Besides, I'm—[smooch.] Far too old—[smooch.] For that sort of thing, anyway.

[That's bullshit and they both know it.]

[Fiddleford by contrast feels very young all of a sudden, like he actually is back in college and it's that night all over again. There's honestly something poetic about this time being so very like the first time: a little awkward. After a party. On someone's floor.]

Don't you play coy with me, you wouldn't let somethin' like a couple years stop you doin' anythin'.

[Yeah. Dunk on Ford Pines and his insatiable need to take on more than he can handle. Definitely don't focus on those kisses and how very distracting they are.]

[Ford chuckles, not moving away from Fiddleford's jaw as he does, slowly working his way toward his neck.]

A couple years.

[Fiddleford is absolutely right, though. Ford's never in his life let something like his age get in his way. His mouth finds Fiddleford's pulse, and he noses into it affectionately before resuming his kisses. He may or may not have a plan.]

WEEK 4

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