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“So, how do you want it?”
The question comes unexpectedly. Ford jerks, though whether that’s because of Bill’s voice appearing out of nowhere or the roots digging under his thumb to better drink from the open wound is hard to tell. You’d think he’d be used to pain given how much of a constant it’s become at this point in his life, but, well… he could extend the same argument to Bill’s voice as well.
Ford casts an agitated glance over his shoulder. “What?”
“Up the butt?” Bill asks, floating around to be in front of Ford. “You want it up the butt?”
“Do I want what up the–? Ow!” Ford winces, smacking at the roots a little.
They pull back at the reprimand but not much. Kid’s getting a little eager this feeding, which is technically a good thing – happy demon-tree-portal, happy mortal – but it keeps trying to crawl its way under Ford’s skin to embed itself into his vascular system, which fucking hurts.
Ford’s at the tree today as part of his daily check-ins. The integration of the portal’s metal shell is going well – shockingly well. Ford credits this to the daily blood feedings that prevent the tree from rejecting the foreign body embedded in its flesh. Or the daily chats Ford has with the tree. Or the occasional songs. Regardless, it’s working, which is a distressing source of both pride and dread.
“Aw! Baby missed you!” Bill coos, stroking at the long roots. They pull away from Ford to curl around Bill’s arm. “Ol’ Juniors bloodlust sure is coming along! Brings a tear to poppa’s eye.”
“It gets that from you,” Ford huffs, patting his knees off before getting to his feet. “Now–” he sticks his finger in his mouth to suck off the lingering blood “–c’n I he’p you?”
Bill wraps a hand along Ford’s wrist, pulling the finger from his mouth. He furls out his tongue, eye holding on Ford’s as he mutters, “Depends on your definition of help.”
He licks the bleeding thumb. Drags it, slowly, to the rim of his eye, pressing it on the lip of it, then in. Ford swallows. He hooks his thumb under the hard ridge, feeling the fleshy inner lining of the socket. Bill hums, content, lids slipping closed as he starts to suck.
Ford then yanks, hard, pulling Bill into his personal space. Bill lets out a yelp, hands scrambling for purchase before Ford grabs one and shoves a finger in his teeth. He bites – hard – canine splitting the implication of flesh and feels the sharp tang of Bill spill onto and numb his tongue.
“WOAH-HO-HO!” Bill cries out, spitting out the hand still wedged into his eye. “Give a guy some WARNING, won’t you?”
Ford laughs, guiding Bill out of his mouth by the wrist. “Oh, please, it’s not like you feel it.” He clicks his tongue a few times, beckoning the tree towards Bill’s wound. “I’m not entirely certain why you go along with the charade that I can even injure you.”
“Puppy needs enrichment,” Bill says with a wide grin, ruffling Ford’s hair.
Ford snorts, and doesn’t pull away from the touch.
“BESIDES!” Bill floats lower, the roots twisting around his finger and feeding off the strange psuedo-liquid dripping out of him. “It’s foreplay. What’s sexier than a BLEEDING, FESTERING WOUND?”
“Oh, nothing, I’m certain.” Ford lets go of the hand, watching Bill let Sprout embed itself further up his arm.
There’s a strange spark of fondness at the sight. And jealousy, which he doesn’t know what to do with, so he does nothing. The hand scratching at his hair runs lower, curling along the shell of his ear, and the touch is…
–there’s the sound of laughter, and he’s vaguely aware it’s his own, but he can’t hardly hear anything over his own heart, and they’re so close, and they’re–
Ford steps away. “I’m not having sex with you here.”
“Oh?” Bill perks up, gently unwinding Sprout from his insides. “So, it’s the setting that’s the issue?”
He snaps his fingers, and Ford recognizes the smell before he recognizes the place. One of the many bullshit, technicolor halls of the Fearamid.
Ford grimaces. “I’m not having sex with you here, either. I’m not–”
Bill scoffs, “Oh, you say that, right before you start moaning–”
“–having sex with you at all, Bill. That’s–”
“–Bill, MORE, PLEASE, TOUCH MY DICK AND–”
“–not what I meant,” Ford grunts, “and I don’t do that.”
“Oh, you DON’T let me just jerk you off whenever I want against any hard surface?” Bill shoves up into Ford’s face. “You DON’T just let me take you up against the wall, begging and pleading for MORE, BILL, MORE?”
The proximity forces Ford to take several steps back until he’s pressed against the wall, yet no further from Bill than he was before. Bill grabs him, fingers digging into his shoulders to the point they ache, forcing him against the damp stone.
Ford flushes, leaning his head away as far as he can. “Fucking hell,” he spits, trying to ignore the heat burning on his neck, trying to ignore his own reflection in Bill’s pupil.
The embarrassment isn’t helped when he notices Kryptos and 8-Ball coming down the hall. Kryptos is lazily tapping at his stupid goddamn Blackberry.
“Hey, guys,” Ford sighs, defeated, struggling to give them a limp wave.
“Hey, man.” 8-Ball waves back.
“If you guys fuck, I’m not on splooge duty,” Kryptos says without looking up while walking past.
Ford groans. “We are not going to–”
“You gonna make game night?” 8-Ball asks.
“Yes, let me just–”
“HE’S GONNA HAVE TO RESCHEDULE,” Bill interjects.
“No, I won’t.” Ford shoves Bill off. “I am not having sex with–” he catches on the heavy gazes of the two henchmaniacs still sauntering down the hall and coughs, lowering his voice to whisper, “I am not having sex with you.”
He and Bill hold eye contact for a moment, Bill’s expression inscrutable.
Then, Bill relents. The release of Ford’s shoulder is both a relief and a dull, throbbing absence. It’s a surprise, but he doesn’t get the opportunity to process that before Bill’s raised his hand and–
–snap.
They’re in the penthouse. By the time Ford’s brain is able to digest that little fact, Bill’s already pouring a glass of whiskey to the rim, which he promptly tosses back. Bill pours another and shoves it into Ford’s hand, turning with the motion. He continues to shove it, forcing Ford to back up until his foot catches on the couch, and he has no choice but to sit.
“Bill,” Ford gasps, sloughing onto the couch. He only has a second before the glass is pressed up against his lips. “B’ll–” he sputters around the lip as it’s tilted up, burning liquid spilling onto his tongue and down his chin. He coughs, spitting up the small amount he nearly inhaled, nose burning.
His instinct is to shove Bill off, but that instinct is overridden by the feeling of Bill gripping his chin and wrenching his neck up, mouth open. Ford either drinks or chokes, so he drinks. Slow, steady, and controlled – taking every bit Bill invites down him and focusing very hard on taking shallow breaths through his nose.
It stings. It’s warm. Every sensation seems to be overwhelmed by Bill. Ford’s feeling a little dizzy from the sudden intensity of it.
Bill tips the glass down and replaces it with his tongue, licking along Ford’s bottom lip, swiping up the lingering drops of whiskey. He smacks obnoxiously. Ford has to focus on the steady rise and fall of his own chest in order to ignore the other pressing issue in his jeans.
Bill runs a finger along Ford’s ear. “You never answered my first question, you know.” He slides it down his neck. “So,” he says, grabbing gently at Ford’s throat. “How do you want it?”
Ford sits up. He grabs the partially drained drink from Bill’s hand, wobbling it back and forth to slosh the remaining liquid at the bottom. “You know most people would consider this coercion?”
“It’s only coercion if it works!” Bill chirps, leaning back in the air with a smile. “You tell me – are you being coerced?”
Ford chokes back a small laugh. He glances away, running a thumb along the rim of the crystal and only remembering that finger’s injured when he feels the burn of alcohol tingle down his arm and through his elbow. He hums, weighing his choices before he clicks his tongue, tosses back the rest of the drink, and slips off his jacket.
He barely gets to set the glass down before Bill’s lips are on his.
It’s not that kissing Bill is a foreign sensation at this point. It is, in fact, very familiar, in a way that never quite loses its novelty as much as Ford laments that fact. The way Ford melts into it isn’t odd either – the touch feels embarrassingly good. He’d be more inclined to fight it if he didn’t have the excuse of alcohol that hasn’t actually hit his system yet. He can still blame it for the heat and want pooling in him, though – so he does. It’s as much of a reason that he needs to wrap his hands around Bill and kiss him deeper.
What is odd, though, what does keep Ford somewhat disconnected from the moment is how desperate it feels. How tightly Bill’s fingers are digging into Ford’s curls. How close he’s trying to keep Ford, how needy his hands palm at Ford’s chest and hips and thighs.
And just as Ford adjusts to the pace, just as he allows himself to slip into the moment, Bill lets up – just a little – and the kiss becomes… tender. Soft. Ford instinctively tries to push in harder, but Bill doesn’t let him, his touches becoming exploratory and curious, lips pressing gentle and reverent against his flesh. That unwinds something in Ford’s chest, something bound up so tight in his ribs he hadn’t even realized it was there until it came undone, slipping apart with a small whine in his throat.
Ford freezes up, though Bill’s ministrations don’t stop. It’s adoring, and Ford wants for it in a way that makes every fiber in his body tense, his breathing growing stiff and rigid.
Bill nips at his earlobe. Ford nearly falls apart at the touch, another soft noise killed in the back of his throat. There’s a warring sensation of letting this just happen, because holy shit, holy shit, but that feeling can’t seem to bully its way past the building dread of this isn’t how this goes.
“Bill,” Ford starts, half-heartedly pushing Bill away. There are lips on his neck that suck and bite and force out a small, warbling, “Bill,” from Ford’s lips. He nearly collapses into the feeling, mind only vaguely aware that Bill is guiding his legs up to the couch, guiding Ford to lie on his back.
He shouldn’t, but it’s just the booze, so he lets him. Lets Bill do this, wants Bill to do this, wants Bill to do anything he–
Ford stiffens. Fucking hell, can’t let the booze get away with that.
He resists Bill’s attempts to press him down flat, propping himself up onto his elbows as he pushes back. “Bill,” Ford repeats, sternly.
“What?” Bill whines, gripping Ford possessively. “You’re COERCED! I’ve COERCED YOU! What, you want me to say I roofied your damn drink? FINE! Whatever EXCUSE YOU NEED to let me BEND YOU OVER and EAT YOU OUT.”
The couch shifts with the pressure used to slam Ford flat. Bill’s hands slip down Ford’s sides and hike his sweater up, and he licks his stomach, firm and slow.
“I–” Ford’s words die in his throat at the sudden visual of him bent over the couch, tongue running slow and warm along his ass. It pairs well with the hot, slick trail being dragged up his abdomen.
Ford, hastily, jerks his sweater back down before the daydream goes any further. Bill huffs, letting go entirely and pouting with crossed arms.
“What is this about, Bill?” Ford shuffles up to get some sort of level eye-contact.
“Why’s it gotta be ABOUT ANYTHING?” Bill shouts. He huffs, sits down next to Ford, and readjusts his tie as his demeanor settles. “Can’t a guy just want some sphinctoochie?”
Sphintoochie? Ford thinks, eyes narrowing in confusion.
SPHINCTER-COOCHIE! Bill responds in his head, words ping-ponging off Ford’s skull.
Ford barks out a laugh, slapping a hand over his mouth at the suddenness of the noise coming from his throat. He flops down flat on the couch with a barely concealed grin. “Well, not if you’re going to phrase it like that.”
Bill looks distinctly pleased as he floats into Ford's space, plopping down on his chest. He tucks a few hands under Ford’s sweater and drags his fingers through thick bunches of chest hair. “So, it’s the phrasing that’s the issue?” he whispers, voice burning against the tips of Ford’s ears.
“I have several issues with this entire scenario, actually,” Ford matches Bill’s tenor. He reclines further into the couch, maintaining eye contact. He absently adjusts Bill’s hat, rubbing the rim as he mutters, “You’re acting weird today.”
“Aw,” Bill chirrs, running a hand through Ford’s hair. “Thank you!”
Ford gives up on being able to bat away the gentle touches, flopping his head back onto the armrest. He drapes an arm over his face. “Do I even need to specify I meant more so than usual?”
“Only if you want this session to last all night,” Bill says as he scratches a spot that does, admittedly, feel really good to be scratched.
“Or–” Ford leans into the contact “–you could let me get back to work.”
There’s an imperceptible twitch. Or perceptible, given that Ford perceived it. He peeks from under his forearm to see that Bill’s expression is… unusual.
Ford realizes Bill’s presence in his mind is absent, which is also unusual. There’s nothing needling at Ford, poking for access, which isn’t uncommon per se, but…
But what?
Bill looks tense. Ford’s got no clue why. All things considered, Ford would expect him to be in a very good mood. Ford’s been too caught up in the love of the game lately to work on his own ‘personal project;’ too busy solving decades long issues that have lingered in the portal’s construction; too busy with restructuring the rules of known reality to really worry about killing the dictator currently petting his head.
If anything, Ford is the one who should be worried as – technically – every step toward solving the problem of getting to Earth gets reality that much closer to multiversal domination. Ford has contingencies for that, though. He’s not particularly worried. Though, maybe that’s why Bill is, and… that pings as a strange thought.
Is Bill worried?
What in the world about? Everything Ford’s doing is an exceedingly low risk factor for him. The worst that happens is Ford blows himself up in the process of building this grand machine and Bill’s out a tool, the best is that Ford succeeds, and there’s no world where Bill would be concerned about Ford succeeding–
“You think too much, kid.” Bill grips a clump of hair and tugs, sending sharp tingles of pain down Ford’s scalp.
He winces. “And you snoop too much,” Ford snaps back with a frown.
“Snoop?” Bill laughs, jerking Ford closer, fingers winding slowly along the tattoo etched into the skin. “Baby, it’s not snooping if it’s your own damn property.”
Ford sucks in his lips. He ignores whatever response his body has to that.
“Besides,” Bill croons, “since when have I ever had to explain why I do anything to you? Maybe I just wanna FUCK! Maybe I’m just trying to Pavlov your ass with SEX AND CUM!”
Ford’s grimace deepens. “I don’t have to have sex with you.”
“True!” Bill cackles. “AND YET!”
He tears the distance between them away. Ford yelps, and the noise is swallowed back as Bill’s tongue fills his mouth. Ford’s scalp burns, tingling down his shoulders. The heat is unbearable. The proximity is infuriating. The situation is goddamn embarrassing.
Ford’s already tearing his sweater and undershirt off.
Bill whines about having their kiss interrupted but relents long enough for Ford to strip. Some part of him feels stupid for falling into this, like always. Some other part of him feels even stupider for pushing back at all when Bill’s lips are slammed back against his.
He’s kissing with that same desperate tenor from before, hands clawing and grabbing at every inch of skin they can find. Some dig into Ford’s hips, gripping at the fat between the bone and his thighs, milking out a low, deep rumble from inside Ford’s chest. Ford’s hands can’t quite decide whether to grip the couch to keep from falling off or grip Bill to pull him closer – so they decide on neither option and reach for his pants.
Infuriatingly, Bill stops him, binding his wrists together and pinning them to his collarbone.
“Eager?” Bill chides, cheerfully.
“Was about to ask you the same.” Ford breathes slow and even through his nose. He runs his tongue along his lips, eyes flicking down to the erection straining against his jeans. He prods, gently, against the presence sitting in his mind. Inviting it to open the door a little, if it would like.
Bill denies. Ford’s brow furrows. He looks back up at Bill and tries to form a question, but the words are torn away as his arms are ripped above his head. His shoulders burn, and he writhes against the discomfort. He can’t move, hips pinned as Bill’s tongue is dragged tortuously along his chest. Everything is being choked out in a confusing mix of adrenaline and static, thoughts cut off by his autonomic bodily reactions. A pathetic, heady gasp ripped from his throat as Bill licks across a nipple.
Ford’s legs spread despite himself, rutting into nothing. He tries to catch his breath. He feels raw against the desperation mounting, heart chafing against the burning need wrapping around it. There’s an impulse in his mind telling him to ‘just relax, just give in, just enjoy yourself,’ and it would be tempting if not for the fact that every time Ford tries to reach out and drag that impulse closer, it pulls away.
It’s a fleeting, stupid thought, but it bubbles up anyway.
Don’t you want this?
Bill’s touch hesitates.
Their gazes catch as Ford’s breath rises and falls within his lungs. The saliva on his skin is cooling as the heat of the moment dies out. There’s a twinge of panic that he may have just killed this, whatever this has even been.
Bill lowers his hands. Rests them on Ford’s chest. His eye is knotted up, and Ford almost wants to think something.
Then Bill’s hands trace down Ford’s body. Slow. Directed. Mapping out every inch they glide over, drifting lower and lower. The pressure in Ford’s brain builds as Bill’s touches leave fizzy trails down his skin. He whines under the tenderness of it – it’s almost too much for how little there actually is. It’s almost too little with how much it is.
Bill’s there, thinking something. Ford can feel it foggy on the edges of his periphery, though he’s got no way of knowing what the hell it is unless his partner decides to share. Not that he ever really shares – there’s always some boundary, some wall that keeps them from ever completely melding. That’s fine, though; that’s fine. Ford doesn’t need all of it, has never needed all of him, but something would be more comforting than this maddening nothing.
Bill’s touch runs along the crease of his inner thighs. Ford’s stomach twitches, his hips jerk. A sharp hiss comes out from between his teeth in place of a plea, but Bill’s in Ford’s mind, and Ford isn’t holding much of his thoughts back at this point. Bill’s fingers curl along the hem of Ford’s jeans, and Ford’s thoughts curl along the edges of Bill.
Bill lets a jittery noise break through. Like a breath he’d been holding.
His want slips through, just a little, and it’s enough for Ford to grab onto and force any distance away. Bill releases a shaky, stuttering giggle at that, the separation of minds peeling apart as he begins to peel Ford’s pants off. Those absent little spaces in Ford’s mind are spilled into, a not-quite heat and a not-quite pressure slipping into every crevice of his consciousness, forcing out that ever-present loneliness that he can only ever acknowledge when it isn’t there.
He barely has to feel Bill’s desire for him to get on his stomach before he’s rolling over, kicking his legs lamely to try and help with the removal of his underwear. Dumb, heady giggles bubble from Ford’s chest, and there’s a dizzying warmth in his head from knowing it’s not only his joy bubbling out.
He’ll blame the booze in the morning. They both will, probably.
“Ally-OOP!” Bill hoists Ford’s hips up, pressing hands against Ford’s thighs to invite them to spread.
They do, and Ford can feel Bill’s grin in the back of his head.
There’s a good boy, Bill’s thoughts coo. He pats Ford’s butt approvingly.
Ford snorts, face buried into the crook of his arm. He struggles to look back through his askew glasses as he asks, “Admiring the view?”
“What, of your PINK, PUCKERED HOLE?” Bill squeezes each cheek, spreading them slightly. “Your FURLED ENTRANCE? YOUR BROWN STARFISH?”
Ford cracks up at that, laughter spasming through his gut. The humor bounces between them, and he feels light at the sensation, struggling to use a hand to cover the heat blooming bright and red across his cheeks. He knows it's pointless; he can see through Bill’s eye the blush spreads down his shoulders, back flush with heat and sweat, and he can feel the hunger that sight inspires in Bill.
There’s nothing he can do to hide from Bill, and that makes Ford feel very, very vulnerable.
Ford jerks when something presses up against his perineum, then melts into it with a pathetic mewling sound as it drags up and between his asscheeks, saliva trailing along his skin and sliding down his thighs.
“No–” Ford’s throat hitches as the tongue flicks “–no stupid line for warning? No ‘pucker-up, buttercup?’”
Why? Bill asks in their thoughts. You miss the sound of my voice already?
Ford whines at those words digging at the edges of his consciousness. He does, is the pathetic thing. It’s not enough to just feel Bill’s presence – he wants all of it, and he isn’t quite sure how to bite that want back. He can’t, not with how purposefully Bill is easing into it, forcing it to the forefront of their mind, coiling possessively around the errant thought and squeezing it until it might burst.
Bill presses in closer, and the conflicting sensation of what Bill tastes on Ford’s tongue washes over him. His mind resists the contradiction. It’s overwhelming, but paradoxically, it strains to be closer. To eliminate the entire concept of there being a difference between them at all.
Ford's hips cant forward, and Bill forces them still, then up a bit higher, fingers digging in to the point of bruising. Ford tries to bury his face in the couch to muffle the sounds dripping out of him, but it can’t do much to cover up the pleading thoughts building in his skull. His cock is desperate for contact but unable to get it, forced in place as Bill continues to eat him out.
“Please,” Ford gasps before his mouth can think better of it. He bites his own forearm, trying to hold back the small pleas threatening to spill out. They still shake down his shoulders, vibrate against his ribs, roll into Bill’s touch as he tries to get closer.
Ford can feel Bill’s proximity, the air around him not quite warmer so much as denser, hiccuping in time with Ford’s own spasms. The hard pressure on his ass turns gentle, the licking slowing down to a torturously languid and even pace. Each pass spreads him wider, presses in deeper, leaving long, slick trails of heat that’s making Ford feel a little crazy.
He can tell Bill’s feeling a little crazy, too; there’s a musk that’s driving him wild, and the wet noises are really doing it for both of them. They both want more, but Bill’s showing restraint, something he never does, but here they are anyway – and Ford wants to beg but he can’t push past the wave of desire to live in this mounting pleasure, a desire to enjoy every little bit there is, because it’s his, and it’s his, and he wants it, and he has it, and he–
Please, Ford’s mind claws out, please, Bill, take it, take me, I need– I want–
Bill trails a finger to Ford’s balls, the gentle contact flooding their senses. They both let out a strange little noise, a hitch in the motion, minds stalling out. It takes a moment to reorient before Bill winds a finger around the base of his cock and drags it to the tip.
Ford ruts into it pathetically, cries muffled by his arm. Yes, he thinks, yes, please, thank you, thank you, my– you’re–
The possessive grip in Ford’s chest knots tighter. Ford’s hips tremble, the grip on them burning. Each stroke feels increasingly needy and the tenderness breaks something in him, frays something coiled up tight and forgotten in Ford’s soul. He feels undone, completely. He is letting himself be undone, letting Bill unmake him and fuck, the minute that thought twists in his chest, he melts.
–let himself be lost completely in this. Let this feeling build, and grow, and spread through every inch of them. Let it just be them, just them, losing more and more of that separation until it’s only this want and them and–
We could have that, someone thinks, and the thought feels so sharp and clear Ford knows it wasn’t his, but with the way their chest tightens and breath thickens, he wants it to be his thought, so it is, and it’s theirs, and if they ever stop, if this ever stops then that’ll be it, they’ll be alone and empty, and they can’t, he can’t, he–
Ford blinks. His cheeks are wet.
He brushes a finger along his skin. It comes away damp with tears. He blinks, rubbing the pads together, tacky and drying. His mind feels foggy and indistinct and there’s a sudden emptiness in his head. Bill is gone in a way that feels distinctly wrong.
Ford’s chest feels sick with the sudden absence. It’s all he can manage to roll back and look and make sure Bill is still there, make sure he isn’t alone, make sure he’s still there.
He is.
He looks…
“Boy, you are BAD at just enjoying a good thing, huh?” Bill snarks, picking at something in the corner of his eye. There’s a bitterness in voice that only compounds the deceit in his growing smile. “Always gotta be THINKING, always gotta be using that STUPID BRAIN OF YOURS. Can’t you ever just lay there and TAKE IT? Can’t you ever just stop being such a puckered BITCH?”
Ford sniffs, turning away as he sits up, wiping away the lingering evidence of whatever the hell that just was. His thoughts are churning, and he does his damnedest not to listen to them. It doesn’t matter, not really, and he shouldn’t give the moment any more weight by paying attention to it. He’s naked and hard, and he won’t make the scene any less intolerable by acknowledging the heavy ache weighing his throat.
“You know, I tried to just keep this FUN and FLIRTY, but you had to go and make it all–” Bill’s fists tighten. He manually uncurls them, forcing the tension out as he kicks back with a cruel smile. “Guess I can’t blame you for wanting me IN YOU, but BOY, I sure can blame you for being–” His voice stutters again, casting his grin to a wall. “You just–”
Ford picks up his discarded undershirt to dab at some of the various fluids collected on him.
“Maybe there’s a REASON I don’t wanna be stuck mucking around in that worthless BRAIN MATTER OF YOURS, HUH?” Bill shoots forward and jabs a finger in Ford’s face. “Maybe I got BETTER THINGS TO BE DOING! YOU EVER THINK OF THAT?”
Ford’s grip tightens. He breathes in for four. Slow and deliberate. Diaphragm straining.
He breathes out for six.
He is in control of his body.
“Oh, so NOW you’ve got nothing to say?” Bill laughs coldly. “CUTE, kid, but you don’t get to just IGNORE ME.”
Ford grabs his underwear, wincing as he manages it over his flagging erection. Puts his undershirt on as well before he gets up and pads over to the wet bar.
“Hey!” Bill shouts, rage dripping from him as he watches Ford just walk past him. “HEY!”
The fireplace flares with heat as Bill’s scream fills the room, the wisps of it licking the back of Ford’s neck. He ignores the threat, the demand for his attention. Instead, he grabs the decanter and two cups, glass chiming pleasantly as they clink together.
“So,” Ford says, “how do you want it?”
The room dims alongside Bill’s temper. “What?” he asks, dumbly.
Ford grabs some ice, pouring his own drink and setting it aside. “On the rocks? With maraschino cherries? Limes? Ox blood? Horse?” He looks over the counter, which is surprisingly empty. “I can try and make a mixed drink if you’d like, but it’ll be a bit shit, given the whole lotta bupkis you’ve got here.”
Bill’s eye narrows. His arm reaches out, snagging the glass Ford had poured for himself. “Don’t go wasting my top-shelf stuff, toots.”
The corners of Ford’s eyes crinkle. He pours himself another drink, gesturing vaguely to the record player in the room. “Pick something out?” he asks, sitting down at the chess board in the center of the room, in front of the fireplace.
He spares a glance to Bill, finally, whose eye is narrowed. There’s obvious trepidation, and for a second Ford worries about how he’s going to respond. He worries he might leave. But that’s fine, that’s…
Bill snaps. Big band music starts to gently fill the spaces left empty. Ford takes a sip. Bill sits across from him.
They chat and listen to music, and, eventually, it is tucked away.