Ford was laying on his bed rereading a letter he'd written when Tycho appeared above him. He'd been sitting at his desk to write it, but the letter was signed Grace and he didn't want to send anything in her name without having checked the vocabulary and tone a dozen times. He was hoping these letters would go somewhere, after all, which meant the person he was writing to would eventually meet Grace and maybe even have her living in their house and raising their children; the letters had to seem like she could have written them. He was on his stomach, dressed for bed, going line by line and mouthing the words as he went, trying to hear Grace's voice saying them to see if anything was off. When he heard another voice over his shoulder his insides went cold, but nothing to do with the "ghost" in the room.

"What the fuck," he said, in one motion crumpling the parchment in his hand and rolling over to his back so that he could see the spectral intruder. It wasn't a question, because he wasn't confused — not about why Ty was translucent, not about how he'd gotten here, not even about why he was here — because hadn't Ford imagined something similar dozens of times? Hadn't he already gone through every angle of this fantasy?

He scrambled to the top corner of his bed, putting as much space between him and Tycho as possible. "What the fuck."

---

It would have been easy to respond to that remark in kind (I never claimed to be the poet, did I?) but Ford had no interest in banter at the moment, not when Tycho was high on spiritus sancti and floating over his bed. It was one thing for Ford to do this to himself. There were three main sorts of grief that he had been drifting between, since they'd said their goodbyes prior to his wedding. There were the commonplace things that happened over the course of the day that surprised him and reminded him of Tycho; things that threw him back into his feelings while he did his best to keep his face straight. Those happened often enough that he'd started to get a sense of what to avoid, though it was impossible to avoid everything. Those were no one's fault, he recognized — only time would make them any easier. Then there were the self-inflicted wounds, when he allowed himself time to sulk over poems or to fall asleep tracing his way through memories they'd shared. These were things that he knew would hurt right from the beginning, but he often did them anyway — sometimes it seemed like there was nothing else to do. And finally there was the sort of grief that felt sweet at the start — the fantasies. Imagining what he would say to Tycho if he were to throw caution to the wind and walk back through his floo, the look on Ty's face, the taste of his lips, the curve of his hip as they came together — things that felt good as long as he could sustain the illusion, but the longer and sweeter they were the harder it was when they eventually clashed against the reality of an empty bedroom.

It was one thing for Ford to do that to himself; it was something else to have Tycho throw it over him like a blanket. It be forcefully reminded of what it sounded like when Ty laughed, because he was four feet away and laughing — it was cruel to both of them, and what the fuck might not have been eloquent but it really was the most appropriate phrase. Especially with Tycho showing up here like that, when Ford remembered exactly what it would feel like if he reached out to touch him.

"Get out of my room," he sputtered. "Before —" Before Jemima heard voices from across the hall and got suspicious, or before Tycho could touch him. Ford wasn't sure which he was more concerned about — either which was more likely or which was more potentially disastrous — and he didn't want to go giving Tycho ideas, regardless, assuming he hadn't already come with an agenda of his own.

---

If Ford had any inclination to view Tycho's intrusion in his room charitably, to think Ty had come because he missed him or because he'd just wanted to talk, this would have dispelled it. Ford had said go away and Ty had swooped in closer, and his expression made it clear he was doing this on purpose. He wanted to see Ford squirm — why Ford could not fathom, because it wouldn't prove anything Tycho didn't already know.

Ford pressed himself up tighter against the headboard. He wanted to stand up and move away but he wasn't sure he could maneuver off the bed without his knee grazing Ty's, and he wasn't willing to risk it. He still had the parchment in his hand, now crumbled to a ball, and he threw it straight through Tycho's forehead in spiteful protest (he wasn't sure if Ty would have felt it or not, but they both spent enough time around ghosts to understand this as the rude gesture Ford had intended it as).

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, to Tycho's last statement. Ty was probably at least a little drunk, Ford thought, so he couldn't necessarily be counted on to be coherent — but even so, this comment seemed entirely baseless. When was the last thing anything had ever gone the way Ford had wanted it?

---

Ford lost no time in scrambling off the bed when Tycho moved. He may not have been in imminent danger of anything when Ty was floating away, but he still would rather have freedom of movement if Ty turned back to him. He intended to get farther, but his feet had barely touched the ground when Tycho's words stopped him in his tracks.

"I decided? Decided?" he echoed, fully incredulous. Tycho had held him while he literally cried about it — he'd have to have been obliviated to now think Ford had wanted to marry. Even if he hadn't seen Ford's initial reaction to the situation, in what world could Ty have ever thought Ford wanted to trade their relationship for a loveless marriage to a stranger? Ty knew him better than that — or he should have.

Maybe this remark was made in the same spirit that Ty had leaned in close to him; maybe this was deliberate provocation. Did Ty want a fight? (There might be something to that, he realized; it hurt less to be angry with someone than to love them).

"I can't do this here," he said, crossing his arms. Despite his words he had also done very little to moderate his tone or volume, instead matching Tycho's. "What were you thinking, showing up like that? You didn't even know if I was alone."

---

We're not doing this here, Ford thought as Ty asked about explanations. Was he owed more of one than he got? Maybe — Ford didn't think he'd been intentionally obfuscating anything, but neither of them had been keen to spend a good deal of time during their last weeks together talking about his soon-to-be wife. But he wasn't going to launch into an explanation here, whether Ty was owed one or not, while Jemima was in the next room and Ty was translucent.

He would have said as much, but then he was unexpected stricken by the offhand way Tycho had said I was partaking. So casual, as if this was no different than having a drink before bed — but it had been their thing, something they'd only done together and something they'd had quite a bit of fun with. Obviously he'd known from the moment Tycho arrived that he'd taken spiritus sancti but this was the first time he'd actually considered the act of Tycho taking it.

"Do you have someone back home watching your body?" he asked, tone fully hostile to cover how deeply the idea hurt.

---

Ford didn't miss what Tycho was doing. He did miss Ty's answer to his question, because he was so distracted by his own feelings that welled up in response to watching Ty adjusting his pants.

"Oh my god, get out," he said, flustered and mortified and exasperated and irritated and a dozen other things all at once. He wouldn't have been able to say how he was feeling if someone had asked, but he was quite sure that if Tycho stayed in his room he was going to go crazy.

---

If he wasn't already flushed his cheeks would have colored at Tycho sticking his tongue out at him. "You think I can't?" Ford snapped, pulling his eyes away from Tycho so that he could scan the room and try to remember where he'd put his wand. He was probably uniquely qualified here, given that his day job involved working with ghosts. He knew spells to expel spirits, or to detain them. He didn't know whether they would work on someone who wasn't actually a spirit, but at the moment he was irritable enough that he didn't mind finding out.

"You think I won't?" he continued, as he stormed across the room towards where he'd left his wand on his desk. This brought him much closer to Tycho, but Ford had decided by this point that Ty didn't actually want to touch him — he just wanted to provoke him.

---

Ford hadn't been expecting that; he hadn't even been looking at Tycho while he crossed the room towards his wand, except peripherally. Then suddenly Ty was right in front of him, and despite his best effort he couldn't stop before they'd made contact. It was barely even contact at all — just a brush — but oh. Ford inhaled sharply and froze where he was, except for a shiver that ran through him. He shut his eyes and kept them shut, half from anger and half from longing. It wasn't fair of Tycho to do this. It wasn't fair to show up without warning, to be having an experience alone they'd shared so often together, and especially wasn't fair for Ty to kiss him.

(He remembered this, the shape of Ty's lips, the feeling of them against his, even if they weren't really there this time).

Touch me, he nearly pleaded. His imagination had sprung to life at the brush of Tycho's lips, just as his body had. He could practically feel Ty's hands on him already. It would have been so easy to give in to this, to lean forward and let it happen. How much time had he spent since they'd parted ways craving this? But there was a reason he'd never acted on it, multiple reasons, and none of them had changed just because Tycho was here and it would be easy to give in. And he was doing his best to be a good husband, not just a husband. Inauspicious circumstances be damned, he was trying his best — he'd been attentive and tender on their honeymoon, and he was practically burning his family to the ground for the sake of his wife's future happiness, and he had not been intending to run off having affairs behind her back — but he hadn't anticipated Tycho showing up in his room on spiritus sancti and kissing him.

"Fuck this," he said, opening his eyes and taking half a step back. Tycho was still right there, and now Ford's whole body was thrumming with need. "Fuck you for this," he added, because nothing he felt in his chest or his gut or anywhere else could cancel out the sense of betrayal, that Tycho had showed up here and inflicted this on them both. But in spite of that, he still found himself reaching for Ty's lapel. Ford couldn't actually grab onto him when he was in this state but he pressed his hand up flat against Ty's chest, felt the familiar thrum of contact. It always felt so raw, like you were touching something below the skin. He couldn't have forgotten this sensation even he'd never seen spiritus sancti again for the rest of his life.

He sighed involuntarily — maybe it was more like panting — and threw his lips back against Tycho's.

---