all that glitters is gold [AFTERPARTY]

[sixfingeredstan]

[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....

Comments

[terribibble]

[What the fuckle he just set that up nice]

But it's your room.

[sixfingeredstan]

[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.]

[terribibble]

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.]

[sixfingeredstan]

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.

[terribibble]

[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.

[sixfingeredstan]

[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.

[terribibble]

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.]

[sixfingeredstan]

But nothing. Take the bed. Please.

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

[terribibble]

[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.

[sixfingeredstan]

[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?

[terribibble]

[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.]

[sixfingeredstan]

—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.]

[terribibble]

[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.]

[sixfingeredstan]

[....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.

[terribibble]

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.]

[sixfingeredstan]

[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.]

[terribibble]

[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.]

[sixfingeredstan]

[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.

[terribibble]

[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.

[sixfingeredstan]

[Ford lets out a breath through his nose, trying to steady his nerves, trying not to show how much that soft stroking of Fiddleford's thumb is getting to him. He's not used to being touched, really, not anymore. Not like that. Not by someone who really cares about him.

After a long moment, a little of the tension bleeds out of his shoulders, and he nods.]

...Okay. Okay.

[There's a lump forming in his throat, damn it. But the knowledge that this isn't going to...to ruin their relationship before it even gets off the ground is helping.]

[terribibble]

Just remember. You're my best friend. I already care about you that much, this isn't goin' to change it.

[Sure, trusting Ford is still difficult when his brain starts acting up, but loving Ford is easy (saying he loves Ford is still hard). No amount of scar tissue would change that.

... Something else catches his eye, though.]

Is that... oh my lord. Is that the tattoo?

[sixfingeredstan]

[Ford manages a twitch of his mouth that wants to be a smile, and turns his head to plant a kiss on the back of Fiddleford's hand.]

Thank you. I'll try and rem—

[He freezes, and this time instead of being worried or sad, he's just straight-up embarrassed.]

...Should've known you'd notice that sooner or later. Yes, that is unfortunately the tattoo.

[terribibble]

That is the best dang thing I've seen all day, and I spent a good half an hour talkin' to drunk Jiminy Cricket.

[This is incredible. It's beautiful. It's majestic. It's doing an awful lot to lighten the mood, too, which is the important part. He wants that easy rapport back.]

[sixfingeredstan]

[Ford's eyebrows lift a little incredulously, but he's actually smiling now. Just a little one.]

Well, if I've topped the drunk cricket, then I'm glad you saw it.

[terribibble]

Y'know -- and don't take this the wrong way or nothin' -- but it suits you.

[It suits the part of Ford not a lot of people get to see but with which he became intimately familiar during their time as friends. The side of Ford that wore a cape to play a two-person round of DDnMD. The side of Ford that would talk about wanting to date Mothman in a way that made you question whether he was joking or serious. The side of Ford that collects misshapen jellybeans.

He leans in to press a soft kiss to that stupid, pastel star.]