11 January, 1895 — ??

The roof of Tycho's house was visible from Jemima's bedroom window — that was the primary reason that Ford had taken the opposite room after they'd been built, when both of them were still anonymous enough to go to either of them. It had been black for months. Now it wasn't. He'd caught sight of it when he'd ducked into Jemima's room to ask her a question about something, and then had tried to keep the nauseated look off his face while he finished out the rest of the interaction, so that she wouldn't ask him about it. He was supposed to be honest with her from here on, so that meant if he wanted to lie to her he had to keep her from asking in the first place.

It had stayed on his mind the next two days, and when the weekend rolled around he told his family he was getting lunch with Cash Lestrange, and then he nearly bolted out the door. Cash wasn't expecting him. He should have written first. Such a stupid oversight; he'd been thinking about it all yesterday and he easily could have written. Cash came down to the parlor anyway. He had shown up unannounced in Ford's fireplace after midnight once, so he didn't get to be picky about unannounced visits, Ford supposed. Ford suggested getting lunch; he pulled a name of a Muggle town out of thin air. Cash got what he was actually trying to say — somewhere we can talk, really talk. Ford didn't even pay much attention to where they were going.

"I need a favor," he announced once they were alone.

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Cassius Lestrange

  

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Set by Lady!

Given the circumstances under which Cash had surprise-appeared in the Greengrass fireplace, he supposed he didn't get to be picky about Ford showing up without warning during the day. He was also still busy trying to find hobbies that didn't involve hating himself, and going to lunch with Ford in muggle Oxford wasn't hating himself.

Cash leaned back in his chair at Ford's question. They hadn't ordered anything yet, not even drinks, which meant that Ford really had to be in a bit of a tizzy. "What sort?" he asked.

  

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MJ made this!

The phrasing of the question snagged him, as though there were categories of favors and Cash expected him to respond with a concise label. There were categories of favors, of course. There was if the boss comes by tell him I'll be right back and there was hold on to my suicide note and those were things that had nothing in common with each other except that they might have followed from I need a favor. Ford's favor was on the lower order of magnitude, but he didn't know how to convey that. There weren't labels for what sorts of favors.

He also didn't know how to convey the favor itself. It seemed like getting it to make sense would require so much context Ford had never given Cash, and had no desire to start giving him now. He chewed his lip. He should wait to say anything important, he knew. They hadn't even ordered drinks yet.

"It's not difficult, or weird," he hedged. "It's just — not something I can do. Do you, uh — do you know Tycho Dodonus? He's a few years younger than us. He lives in your neighborhood, the house with the garden gnomes." Formerly of the rainbow roof, then the black roof, then the colorful one again. Ford didn't include that. "He's, uh — I don't know how else you'd know him," Ford admitted. "He doesn't work. He writes poetry."

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Set by Lady!