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Laughter and shared smiles came so easily between them. From where Ford lay on his side on the bed, he had the perfect view: a giggling Fiddleford sprawled out lazily beside him, absentmindedly twirling a lock of beard with one pinky finger. It was downright adorable - almost like a snapshot from a bygone era - and Ford treasured the sight.
A kind of soberness suddenly washed over Fiddleford, and his eyes became wide. “I jus’ remembered,” He said, barely, looking down. Ford somewhat fixed his lax position on the bed in the hopes of expressing his undivided attention.
Fiddleford smiled sadly. “You’d pet my back when I laid facin’ you. I think it relaxed you.”
Ford felt his face get warm, as if he were the same awkward college kid and not 58 years too old for that. “…Yes. That it did.” He said dumbly.
“What did I do when I needed to relax?” Fiddleford asked, and his cadence was just too casual for a question like that. Like it wasn’t all that important. Ford felt something sour curl deep within him.
“You’d… well, I… I’m not sure. You were always anxious about something.” Ford wished more than anything that he had any skill at all in saying the right things at the right times. Regretfully, all he could be in this moment was honest. “You fidgeted with your hair often. And mine,” He tacked on, suddenly remembering that detail of their nightly rituals.
“I think it soothes you when you’re stressed. I see you stroke your beard a lot these days.” Ford couldn’t help but smile at the endearing little habit.
“Can’t deny it,” Fiddleford said, adjusting his head to get more comfortable in the pillows. Then he reached out a slender arm, scratching softly in one of Ford’s sideburns. The gesture brought that sour curling in Ford’s gut back, but it also brought an overwhelming endearment. He stared at the content expression on Fiddleford’s smiling face and greedily committed it to memory.
“Why’re you so down in th’ dumps today?” Fiddleford asked, his smile not fading but a genuine concern evident in his eyes.
“You mean more so than usual?” Ford joked, meaning it earnestly.
Fiddleford pulled himself up on his elbows, incidentally bringing their faces closer together. “I can… I can smell it all over y’ like the stench of death clingin’ to roadkill. Nothin’ escapes me.”
Ford frowned.
“Well, ‘cept fer most o’ my memories, o’ course!” Fiddleford giggled. Ford frowned harder.
After a beat of silence, Fiddleford realized that Ford really didn’t intend to respond. He sighed sadly, slowly leaning back against the headboard. “I know bein’ ‘round me is hard fer you, Stanferd. I may be ruined but I ain’t so clueless-”
“No. No, you misunderstand.” Ford corrected him immediately, looking quite fierce. “I feel empty without you,” He said clumsily, unable to properly parse his thoughts in time.
“But ya also feel empty with me, dontcha?” Fiddleford looked genuinely pleading for the first time in a while, and Ford’s insides curdled at the vivid pain on his face. “I’m not- things’ll never be the way they oughta, and the both of us is just two sorry suckers, right?”
“I’m sorry-“
“Don’t.” Fiddleford interrupted sternly, and Ford worried that he would start shaking from the effort of holding his outstretched finger still. “Don’t go apologizin’ again, or I’m gon’ta… I’ll jus’ tear my beard out.” All the conviction left him, and he stared defeatedly somewhere below Ford’s eyes.
“I’m-“ Ford swallowed. “I won’t.”
A long pause. Ford internally scrambled for the right thing to say, eager to put Fiddleford’s every worry to rest, but he just wasn’t equipped for that. He had no clue where to even start. What in the world was he supposed to be if not sorry?
“Do ya think we could be happy, th’ way things are?” Fiddleford asked it quietly, his normally shrill voice sounding more weary than anything.
Ford’s chest tightened. If there were one thing in this world he could be absolutely sure of, it’s that he could never leave Fiddleford’s side again. “Yes. I’ve never been more certain of anything.” He said, emphasizing each word in the hopes of conveying his complete and utter seriousness.
Fiddleford sighed, still searching Ford’s face. Then he offered the smallest smile, the uncertainty slowly trickling away from his heart. “Don’t run off.” He said, turning on his side to face Ford.
“I won’t,” Ford promised. He reached over and laid a hand on Fiddleford’s spiny back, stroking it soothingly. “I won’t.”