"Cleaning," Ford snapped, though this was probably obvious. Probably when Tycho asked what he was doing what he meant to ask was why. Because I care about you too much to see you like this, he could have said. Because I don't want this to be my fault. Because you're hurt and I want to take care of you. That was really the crux of it; even when he'd been imagining this conversation before he arrived, before he'd seen the state of the room. He'd been planning to come over here and tell Tycho he couldn't stand within earshot of Ford at parties anymore, not for Ford's sake but for Ty's; it wasn't going to help anything or make him feel any better and it wouldn't lead him to heal.

Ford tossed the clothing into the corner and turned his attention towards the litter of balled up papers that had swirled around his feet (Tycho's half hearted attempt at helping?). He assumed these were probably meant to be discarded (the wastebasket is only five feet away, Ty, honestly) but he recognized the scribble of Ty's handwriting on one as he picked it up. "You're writing again?"

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