foolishmortals | all that glitters is gold [AFTERPARTY]

Entry tags:

round 1,
week 4

all that glitters is gold [AFTERPARTY]

[It's been a very long, and very upsetting morning, and honestly, Ford is feeling goddamn drained. All the events of the day have hit him like a ton of bricks. And as much as he wants nothing more than to sleep for about a week...well. There's work to do.

After talking it over with Fiddleford, his first mission is hitting the kitchen and scraping together all the eggs, potatoes, and onions he can find. It takes him a good few hours, but eventually he's got five big casserole dishes full of kugel, steaming hot, fresh out of the oven. He stacks up a big pile of plates, forks, and serving utensils and carries it all into the lounge in trips.

Next is the business of the still. Between the two of them, the two Fords manage to get it into the lounge and set it up on a table where it's easy to access. Ford also pilfers a big glass jug of apple juice for the kids and puts it nearby. All the adults are free to partake of a cup of Fiddleford's sugar shine. They'll be needing it, tonight.

Lastly, are the notes. Ford writes them all out in his neat, block lettering, and slips one under each door—pausing at the doors of the deceased with a sad frown each time.

The lounge is quiet while they wait for everyone to arrive, save for the sounds of banjo music....

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[He won't even let himself think about making a new ray, much as the sight of Lawrence's head toppling from his neck makes him wish he had access to it right now. He can't. He can't. The short term relief is not worth what it will do to him.]

That'd work fine. Not like you haven't slept in stranger places. Remember that week you just didn't leave the library and I had to keep stealin' food from the dinin' hall for you?

[The joke here is there were like three weeks like that at least.]

[If they weren't in public, Ford would absolutely say something whiny, but instead he just averts his gaze and laughs.]

I think that was more than once. But I'm sure my old bones can handle one more night on the floor.

[Is Fiddleford really going to make him sleep on the floor. Is that really going to happen.]

[Well he was planning to sleep on the floor, actually, since it's Ford's room and all. He waits until it's late and makes very, very sure that the hallway is empty (as far as he can tell) before stealing across it with a pillow and his comforter tucked under one arm. Obvious as they may be to some people, he still doesn't want to be seen going into Ford's room late at night carrying things that make it very clear he intends to stay there. He feels like he's sneaking out to meet a girl, except he never actually did that in Tennessee because the nearest girl was several miles away.

He also brings a jar of moonshine. You know. Just in case they want a nightcap.]

Thanks. For lettin' me come over.

[Ford, on the other hand, was planning on letting Fiddleford have the bed...if he wasn't willing to actually share it. It's not that he has expectations or anything, but he has to admit the prospect of sharing a bed with Fiddleford sounds...nice. Cozy. And if not? Ford can sleep on the floor. It's not that big a deal. He's slept in far more uncomfortable places.

Still, he can't help that tumultuous feeling in his stomach when Fiddleford finally slips through his door. Are these butterflies? It's been a long damn time since he's had butterflies. He steels himself, and shrugs one shoulder, perched on the edge of his bed in his sweater and slacks, his boots in the corner.]

No trouble at all. I—you need your sleep, after all.

Yeah. Don't think I've slept a full night since I showed up here.

[The nights he's managed to sleep at all he hasn't been able to stay asleep for more than a couple hours at a time.

He sets his blanket and pillow on the floor. The blanket he folds over on itself to make a sort of makeshift sleeping bag. See? It'll be fine. He plops himself down on top of it, legs crossed.]

I'm not used to sleepin' alone, y'know. Always slept with my brothers as a kid and then I had you for a roommate and then -- and then I had my -- well y'know. [Wife. Ex-wife.] Point is I think it might help to have company.

[Ford watches Fiddleford set up his little sleeping arrangement with a furrowed brow; while he talks, he gets up, bends down, and pulls the comforting right out from underneath Fiddleford, laying it across the bed instead.]

No, no. You take the bed. I'm sleeping on the floor, remember?

[And clearly he couldn't think of a better way to illustrate that point.]

You're not going to get a good night's rest without something soft underneath you.

[What the fuckle he just set that up nice]

But it's your room.

[Sorry, the Tactless Wonder over here didn't consider that.]

Right. So I'm deciding to give you my bed.

[HE'S BEING NICE....THIS IS HOW YOU BE NICE.]

Well then at least take the covers off your bed so you have somethin' to sleep on! I don't need two comforters, for god's sake.

[Ford, come on. It's nice to be comfortable but he doesn't need that much comfort.]

Well...[Okay, he has a point.] Fine. If you're sure.

[He pulls off his own comforter and, after a moment's hesitation, the pillow. These get dumped unceremoniously on the floor. He's not too worried about it, clearly.]

There. Now, you go on and get comfortable.

[Ughhhh why does Ford have to make this so much more of a production than it needed to be.

I mean, that's a hypothetical question. Ford is incapable of not making things into a production.

He doesn't actually make a move to stand up from where he's sitting on the floor, though he does pull his own pillow out from under Ford's comforter. He's going to need that.]

Just feels... unfair, is all. Kickin' you out of your bed.

[Ford frowns at Fiddleford from the other side of the bed, which is quickly becoming no-man's land.]

You're not kicking me out. I'm kicking myself out. That's different.

Well -- well, right, but --

[His need to not be a bother is desperately warring with his need to accept hospitality when it's offered and it's doing his pour Southern heart a real big concern.]

But nothing. Take the bed. Please.

[He gestures with one hand. Go on. It's comfortable.]

[hhhhhhHHHHHGHHHH FINE

Fiddleford stands up, tosses his pillow onto the bed, and plops himself down after it. There. There.]

Alright, alright. If you really insist.

[Ford gives Fiddleford a grimly satisfied smile, and nods.]

I really do.

[He plops himself down on his little pile of bedding and just sort of sits there staring at Fiddleford for a moment.]

Is it...will you be warm enough?

[Fiddleford pauses in the middle of unbuttoning his white dress shirt. He's not sleeping in his clothes. He could (and has before now) but he can admit that if he wants to actually try and get rest it will pay to be comfortable, and being comfortable hinges very much on not wearing his trousers to sleep.]

Well, sure, I've got my own blanket and all.

[In retrospect it was kind of stupid to just swap comforters and pillows on this bed, which is effectively what they've done.]

—Good, good.

[He answers a little too quickly, because he's trying very hard not to be mesmerized by the sight of Fiddleford taking his shirt off. He's seen this before, of course, they were roommates, but never quite in this context. Not really.

Well. While they're getting ready for bed...Ford yanks his turtleneck over his head, and then realizes far too late that his neck is now vulnerable, as are all the scars visible around the white undershirt he's got on.

This is fine. Casual. Fiddleford probably won't even notice.]

[Oh sure. He doesn't notice at all, which is why he's sitting there halfway through shrugging his shirt off his shoulders, completely still, blue eyes wide as dinnerplates.]

Jesus, Stanford.

[His voice is oddly hushed. He's seen Ford with his shirt off before -- roommates -- but he doesn't remember any of those scars. He is pretty damn sure he would, considering how gnarly they are.]

[....Damn it.

He'd been so entranced by Fiddleford, he'd completely forgotten that he's not exactly pleasant to look at under his sweater. There's a reason he's always wearing such heavy clothing, and most of it is so that nobody's forced to look at him. There's a bite mark that loops from his shoulder, underneath the strap of his tank top, and around to the side of his pectoral. There are criss-crossing white and pink lines all over his arms and back. There are even more underneath his under shirt.

Ford averts his gaze, feeling incredibly stupid.]

I'm sorry.

Wh -- oh, no! No, that isn't what I -- I just wasn't expectin'...

[Shit. He can tell instinctively that he's fucked up here somehow. Without really thinking about it he starts to stand, like standing up will somehow give him insight into how to fix whatever he did. Does Ford think he isn't comfortable with him having his shirt off? Worse, does Ford maybe think that he finds his scars repulsive? Ugh. Ugh, ugh, ugh.]

[Ford's fingers clench into fists around the fabric of his sweater, faded and stretched out after a month of near-continuous wear, and then relax.]

I know. I wasn't thinking, I—should've warned you. I know it's not...easy to look at.

[He wants so badly to pull his sweater back on right now, but he stays frozen where he is, still averting his gaze. Afraid to look into Fiddleford's eyes and see disgust, or even worse—pity.]

[Fiddleford finishes standing. He leaves his shirt behind on the bed.]

Stanford, with... with all due respect, I saw a man's head get chopped clean off his shoulders today. [His voice wavers a little as he says it, but he has to make this point.] If you think this is goin' to bother me...

[He reaches out and puts a hand very lightly, very cautiously, on Ford's bare shoulder.]

I just didn't realize those thirty years'd been that hard on you, that's all.

[He knew, in an abstract sort of way. Ford's journal barely covered it. The few scant pages dedicated to those thirty years mentioned bullshit things like the M dimension but nothing about whatever left those scars.]

[Ford squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to remember that Fiddleford is a better man than that. And he is, that's right, but Ford still isn't expecting him to actually touch him. His shoulder twitches, muscle rippling involuntarily under his marred skin.]

It...they. Yes. In many ways. After ten years or so, I almost stopped noticing. It became normal. And then when I came back...I remembered that the average person isn't used to seeing a man this beat up.

[Finally, he forces himself to look up at Fiddleford's face.] I'm certainly not what I used to be. I just hate the thought of disappointing you.

Edited 2017-07-11 06:57 (UTC)

[Well if this isn't just a nice heaping helping of heartbreak on top of everything else that's happened today already. It occurs to him that they would have to have this conversation eventually if they're going to be together, if they're going to be intimate, but he pushes that thought aside. He still sort of wishes they could put it off. Not tonight.

But. Well. They've already started. It has to be tonight, doesn't it?]

You haven't.

[There are a lot of ways he can imagine Ford Pines disappointing him, but they're all fake improbable shadows of fears he's doing his very best to stomp down. The way he looks doesn't even register. His thumb rubs very softly over a line of scarring.]

I'm not goin' to tell you that it's not... I mean, it's goin' to take a little gettin' used to, sure. But that's all. It just caught me off guard. Don't you worry none about it.

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t - t - t - TIMESKIP

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