The door opened and Ford's stomach dropped. There was no one who might have been standing on the other side of the door that would be good, but just about anyone would have been better than Jemima. But of course it was her — who else was in prime position to notice a disturbance in his bedroom, to potentially have overheard everything? She had certainly overheard something, because the look on her face was enough to have him feeling sick, but Merlin only knew how much.

"J —" he started, intending to say Jemima, but not able to manage anything more of her name than a strangled half-syllable. His marriage was over. It was impossible to deny what she'd seen, what she had probably heard; she was going to know. There was only one other person in his life who had discovered this about him, rather than having been told (and having been told because they were the same way). Noble was his brother, his oldest and closest friend, and their relationship had never recovered after Noble had seen Ford's letters to Macnair. The best they'd managed was that they didn't talk about it, and sometimes Ford managed to pretend it wasn't the subtext of every conversation they had — this fundamental crack, something Noble never could and never would understand about him. But they were broken and they were never going to be fixed, and now his relationship with his wife was going to break just the same way. Worse, probably — she didn't have a lifetime of memories to combat whatever she would think about him after this.

Tycho stepped away, with more confidence than Ford would have expected. Ford felt as though perhaps he were swaying on his feet, or perhaps the world was; Tycho, still drunk, had apparently found his balance. He'd found his mental footing faster than Ford had, too, because here he was coming up with an almost-plausible excuse for what he'd just said. It wasn't going to work — Ford had seen the look on Jemima's face, he knew it wasn't going to work — but he loved Tycho for trying. He could have waltzed over and told Jemima everything; it was nothing to him if she fled back to her parent's house tonight. There was something tragically romantic about Tycho making an effort to save a marriage he had been diametrically opposed to from the start.

"... Right," Ford agreed, at least two beats too late. Not that it mattered. He wasn't going to sell Tycho's lie. He hadn't been able to keep the panic off his face when she opened the door and he couldn't wipe it clean now — there was no chance at all of her believing him.

---

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   Jemima Greengrass

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Set by Lady!

Perhaps the worst of it was that she had been on the other side of the door before. In the cloakroom, caught with Ford, entirely innocent of whatever Mrs. Dempsey had imagined. She remembered how terrible it felt, how world-ending; she knew Ford must too. So she might’ve felt bad for them, if only this wasn’t some kind of betrayal, and also much, much worse than anything she had ever done or been rumoured to have done. It was almost beyond her comprehension. The more she tried to grapple with it, the longer she stared at Ford’s drunk friend making excuses for them and her – her husband standing there white-faced and dumbstruck, the more her blood boiled.

And somewhere at the back of her mind she knew there had been things Ford had not confessed to her, because she still hadn’t asked him outright where he had been before coming through the Floo. Maybe they had not been going to – do anything depraved tonight, maybe they were not carrying on some sordid affair, maybe all the indecency had been strictly before. And Ford had not chosen to marry her, obviously; Ford hadn’t been obliged to love her.

But Jemima had at least supposed he liked her well enough, or respected her well enough to live a married life. (And she had liked him, that was the worst of it – just the other week, she had been foolish enough to tell her sister she was happy, foolish enough to think that maybe this had all worked out – and she was wrong, as usual. Stupid, stupid girl.)

And now Ford was going to lie to her face? Did they think she was that stupid too?

She was too furious even to look at her husband anymore, so she rounded on Tycho instead (she had heard the name Tycho tonight, and couldn’t remember his surname over all the buzzing static in her brain), visibly shaking, and hardly caring about the volume of her shriek. “And were you just teasing the last time YOU WERE INSIDE HIM?”

She didn’t know what exactly that meant, but she – she was quite sure mulling over the mechanics wouldn’t make it any better.

---

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---

Ford seemed to have been struck speechless though Tycho supposed he couldn't blame him. He was also having trouble finding words to say. Ford was doing nothing to help the situation though Ty had no idea what he could have done. Mrs Greengrass was turning on him instead and shrieking loud enough he would be surprised if she did not wake the rest of the household.

And just how long had she been standing there? She was mentioning things that he had spoken more than a few minutes ago and he knew he had not spoken so loudly that she'd have heard it unless she was right outside the door. Tycho knew she had every right to be upset considering she was married to Ford but honestly, he still saw her as the interloper. It was not like Ford had married her because he loved her. Otherwise Tycho would not be here right now.

She had been the one to be stupid enough to be disrobing at a society event which had caused the upheaval of his life. "Make a habit of eavesdropping on people, do you?" He asked instead, not bothering to answer her. He had nothing else to say to her since she had said nothing he deemed worth responding to. At least, none of the things he wanted to say were things Ford would appreciate him saying. "Breathe, Ford," he murmured, worried about the state of him.

wc: 240

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---

Ford's face lost a shade at Jemima's next question. His hands hurt, a steady throb, and it took him half a second to realize that it was because he'd grabbed on to the edge of the nightstand behind him to steady himself and was now holding on far too hard. He registered Jemima's change in volume, but not as something connected to the real world — it did not occur to him to worry that anyone would hear her. Instead it seemed like a manifestation of her anger; the size of the gap to be bridged. He flinched, both at the words and the tone. The gap to be bridged was an inaccurate metaphor. There was no bridging this.

He didn't expect Tycho to respond until he did — somehow he had not noticed that Jemima's remark was directed at him and not Ford. That was misplaced. She was furious at Ford, felt betrayed by Ford; Tycho just happened to be here. The same went for Tycho's return comment about eavesdropping. Tycho didn't hate Jemima. He didn't know her. Tycho hated Ford, and didn't want to admit it because he loved him, too. But it was Ford that had made the decision to lie to Mrs. Dempsey in the coat room, Ford who had agreed to the wedding, Ford who had called things off between them — Tycho didn't hate Jemima. It was just easier for him to pretend he did.

"Ty, don't," he breathed. Even if Tycho had actually hated her, antagonizing Jemima clearly wasn't a good idea in the state that she was in, and not given what she knew about them both now. Ford slid his eyes over to his wife, with the same sort of wide-eyed anxiety with which one might regard a dragon. She looked ready to spit fire, that was certain. "Jemima, I — I —"

Tycho had told him to breathe, he realized belatedly. Ford didn't think he had listened, because although he was trying to say I'm sorry he was coming up with an utter inability to speak. He should — breathe, probably, because the world was feeling disconnected and he thought vaguely that he might be on the verge of a panic attack. He should probably breathe.

---

wc:370

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Set by Lady!

Ford might be sorry – Ford might be anything; he wasn’t saying much, and Jemima didn’t dare look at him – but his friend said it all in his reply. He had dismissed her like this was nothing, and she was the one in the wrong; he wasn’t sorry.

She was nothing to them. (They had thrown around the word married before, she had been willing to give them that much; but she saw now they didn’t mean anything by it. It had not been a real consideration, and never would have stopped them: instead it was like a sick little joke. After all – here Ty was, in the early hours of the morning, sneaking into Ford’s room.)

And they were even still murmuring to each other as if she couldn’t hear them, still together, united against her. “You can go!” Jemima cried, taking an unsteady step further into the room and feeling a delirious urge to physically lunge at him, push or shove or throw something in anger, an anger so strong hot tears were sparking in her eyes. She wasn’t sure if she had meant that as an order, or some illustration of the difference between them, Tycho and her, but –

“This is my home now, too!” she continued; her shouting had turned to sobbing. Jemima had nowhere else to go now, she didn’t have a choice – she could hardly go back to her parents’ house now, and have to tell them something like this. “This is my life as well!”

She didn’t know why she was bothering to say it, if all she was was an obstacle to them, an inconvenience, but she had to get it off her chest – because she was hyperventilating, she thought, her breaths coming in ragged and shallow and painful. Furiously, Jemima brushed water out of her eyes and finally looked at Ford. He looked so sad and distressed and pitiful she very nearly felt sorry for him. But that wasn’t fair – make it better, Jemima wanted to beseech him. Make him leave. Ford could even go with him, if he liked, he apparently had the freedom to do as he liked – but she was stuck here, making the best of whatever nothing she had left.

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She was right. He knew she was right. The fight went completely out of him as he gazed at her. "You're right, I'm sorry," he told her since there was not really much else he could say. He truly did think her an idiot and always would for what she had been doing at the ball because really, who did something like that? But Ford was the one who had decided to marry her, the one who had been found with her.

"It wasn't Ford. And we did try but it was always me, he stayed away. I couldn't," he said, rambling a bit, feeling like he was disassociating a little, much like when he took a hit of Spiritus Sancti. What a mess, three broken people hyperventilating in Fords bedroom. It felt like a sick, cosmic joke. One thing was vaguely clear to him though: this woman had likely never been in love.

  

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Jemima's first remark was another one of those things that he must have heard at the time but didn't really register until a beat later, when Tycho said you're right. Did that mean he was going to leave? Ford felt a surge of desperation. Logically of course he knew it was better if Ty left. Every moment that he stayed was another opportunity for something disastrous to happen, and anything that happened would only compound the scope of the problem, which had already spiraled well beyond the size where it could ever be controlled or contained. Of course Ty should leave — but Ford didn't want to see him go, because right now the world felt like it was only this moment. There would never be anything other than this, the storm of panic in his dark bedroom, and if Tycho left then Ford would feel his absence forever — he would cease to exist here, and Ford was never going to see the other side of it, and Ty would be gone forever.

He knew, distantly, that this wasn't true; he knew there would be a morning. But that didn't change the way he felt at the idea of Tycho leaving. Ford couldn't look at him. He knew Tycho should leave, had to leave, but he also knew that he wouldn't be able to keep the panic from seeping out onto his face if he so much as glanced Ty's direction; he knew if he looked at him that his expression would beg him to stay. Instead he kept watching Jemima, who looked at least as miserable as he felt. Still angry, surely, but she was crying now and the expression on her face wrung his heart out. This was her life, she said... and of course nothing had actually changed tonight; her life had been just as ruined the day she had married him, but she hadn't known that yet. Ford knew — he had always known that he was a terrible excuse for a husband, but before she had been able to pretend that he might not be. Now her faith in him was gone, and it was never coming back, because he'd never really earned it in the first place. She'd extended him the benefit of the doubt, when they'd agreed to make the most of it — now there was no doubt to benefit from.

Breathe, he reminded himself, but that wasn't enough — he owed Jemima something like an explanation, even if there was nothing he could say that would matter.

"I never wanted to ruin your life," he said, quietly — as though it made any difference, as though it mattered what he'd wanted, as though that had ever mattered even once in his life.

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Set by Lady!

He wasn’t leaving.  She didn’t know how to make them, when neither of them had moved. Jemima wished she could be as still – she hadn’t moved from her place, but with all their quiet sorrow, everything she felt in her own body seemed horribly magnified: the heaving of her chest, the tears that kept falling, the tides of anger, her shaking hands. For all the space between the three of them, there was no air in the room. Was the window still open? It was suffocating in here.

And they were both looking at her. Jemima didn’t know how to escape their gaze – it felt as though they were waiting in dread for her to issue their punishment, some final blow. As if she had any power here; as if any punishment she could administer would not just be more punishment for her too.

So there was nowhere to turn for comfort. Not from Tycho, even as he confessed that he was sorry. If only sorry could fix this – but how could it, when it was all too late? No matter that men were not supposed to fall in love with one other: they had been in love before any of this had happened. Ford had said there’d been no one he had wanted to marry before the incident with her, and Jemima supposed, rueful, that he hadn’t actually lied, however she might’ve swallowed it. So if she had taken that to mean there was a little hope here, that he might one day learn to love her – that was her own fault. There seemed like little enough hope of that now. Too late, again: if she had been less naive and less hopeful, she might not have let her guard down so fast, and found herself so fond of a husband who didn’t want her. All this playing house, playing pretend... she was going to be alone forever. She would have faced people’s condemnation anyway – she should have been selfish and eloped with Jack. And even if he suffered with her for it, as much as he might have come to resent her, at least there was a chance he might’ve loved her through it, too.

But Ford – Ford at least hadn’t wanted to ruin her life. There was a lump in her throat. Jemima looked at him reproachfully, desperately wanting to believe it – she had believed him through everything else. And she had never intended to ruin his life either, but... “But you – you lied to Mrs. Dempsey about us.” If it was an accusation, her tone had faltered in it; she wiped away some more stubborn tears, crumpling into herself. That was the one action that didn’t tally up with the rest of it – but maybe it made sense after all? He had come in through the Floo: maybe he had been protecting Tycho all along, using her and a lesser crime as his alibi. It was almost romantic, she thought miserably, curling her arms around her middle as if she could hold herself together. But where did they go from here? She couldn’t think about it now – she felt suddenly defeated – she thought she might be sick.

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Ford's shoulders sank at the accusation. He couldn't deny it, and there wasn't any softening it: he had lied about her, slandered her, and ultimately doomed her to this — had briefly even been prepared to doom her to more. Ten months since the night in the coat room and Jemima had never mentioned it again. This must have been covered in that benefit of the doubt, the umbrella of making the best of it, and now that it was gone of course the accusation had shaken itself free.

"Yes," he admitted. "I did." Was there anything else to say? He still couldn't explain it to her. He didn't think I'm sorry counted for anything.

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Set by Lady!

Tycho wasn't sure he was understanding correctly right now. He had.. lied? To Mrs Dempsey about what she was seeing when she had come upon them? Was this part of the information Ford had kept keeping from him no matter how much he asked for a better explanation about why he was doing any of this.

I don't have a choice was what Fords refrain had been leading up to and even after the wedding but it sounded like he'd very much had one. He could have simply not lied. There could have been some other lie to say even that would actually help protect the girls reputation such as her corsets self-tightening laces laced too tight or something. Anything but what had occurred instead that had helped lead to this night. "You did?" Tycho asked quietly, staring at Ford, expression uncharacteristically unreadable as he went through several different emotions at once.

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   Jemima Greengrass

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He had nothing at all to say for himself. She knew deep down, objectively, that he couldn’t possibly have a perfectly good reason for all this – some miraculous excuse that made this alright – but the worst part was that Jemima still wanted him to have. She couldn’t explain it to herself: that somewhere, somehow, she still wanted to forgive him everything. Tears pricked at the corner of her eyes again, and she blinked them back, suddenly more angry at herself than anyone.

So she had retreated into her own head, and was only half-paying attention to either of them now, but she heard something new in Tycho’s tone and let her gaze drift a little that way. Her chin jutted out in a brief, uncertain nod. “I tried to tell her the truth but, it’s no use, you said,” she said, directing this at Ford (as if he had forgotten; she didn’t know about him, but she had turned over every piece of that encounter in the following weeks, spending countless nights awake with the words emblazoned in her brain). She gave a short, hollow huff of laughter, wishing all her fury at them had not blazed and burnt away so fast. It had felt better than this. “So when he came in through the Floo –” she added, turning back to Tycho – “hadn’t he been with you?”

If they were in love, surely he knew the full story, even if he hated how it had turned out and wanted to blame it all on her; surely Ford had done this all for him, intentionally exchanging one ruin for another? He sounded surprised, though, so maybe she had gotten it wrong again.

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   Fortitude Greengrass

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Ford hadn't realized what he'd been admitting to when he said it; he'd been focused on Jemima, on the storm cloud of her feelings and the chasm that had opened up in his marriage, and of course it wasn't an admission to her, because she already knew. He had forgotten that Tycho didn't know the particulars of the coat room until then, but now with a lurch of his stomach he remembered everything he'd told Tycho — and what he hadn't. Ty had asked where he'd been when he left the party, because it certainly hadn't been to run to Ty's arms, and Ford had dodged the question. Distracted him with a touch and a look and a plea: hold me. The question fell by the wayside, never answered. Ford still couldn't answer it, but with Jemima turning to Tycho it seemed inevitable that it would be asked again. Ford felt a rush of panic at that, at being cornered and having nothing for it but to lie to two people he cared about — but something in the back of his mind muttered that the panic was misplaced, because what harm could it do now? He'd lost them both anyway; he may as well lie to them.

"No," he cut in, sharp. "I hadn't been." There was still panic buzzing round his ears but there was something like resolve beneath it now; the memory of this particular secret seemed to have dislodged something in him and he was moving to survival mode now. Ready to say and do what was necessary to get the situation back under control, even if under control meant that everyone hated him forever. He pushed himself out from his position leaning on the nightstand and walked to Tycho, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Go home," he said firmly. "Before someone else sees you."

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Set by Lady!

She had tried informing Mrs Dempsey of the truth but Ford had not let her? Was he understanding this correctly? "I had you figured all wrong, Mrs Greengrass," he said hallowly, his gaze still on Ford. Whatever she had been doing in that room, she had at least tried copping to it.

Ford answered for him but he didn't know if he would have been able to form a reply anyway. He shook Fords hand off. "We wouldn't want that," after all, he might run out of lies to keep track of, lies to tell. The expression on his face settled into one of someone who felt deeply betrayed and hurt. And there was also a quiet rage in his eyes that would probably be unfamiliar to Ford.

He turned his attention to Fords wife. "I'm sorry again," for this night, for bursting her bubble, for having thought wrong of her this whole time, for everything that had been his fault, for still being so terribly and irrevocably in love with her husband. "And good luck." He shifted into his raven form, not caring that she would now know what his animagus form was. It wasn't like ravens were uncommon and he was legally registered so it was hardly a big secret.

He was still inebriated on top of emotionally exhausted so he initially hit one of his wings against the side of window hard enough that there was a small but audible crack and some feathers fell onto Fords desk. He shook himself to reorient himself before flying out of the window albeit a little lop-sidedly. He was hardly going to go home though. That and here were the last places he wanted to be right now.

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   Cassius Lestrange, Elias Grimstone, Fortitude Greengrass

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Ford had lurched back to life at that. So now he was making Tycho leave – now that Tycho had changed tack entirely. A man she had been ready to despise for the rest of her life, who was now telling her sorry and good luck and who had not taken his eyes off of Ford for the last few moments, as if seeing him anew. And suddenly she felt sorry for him too.

(Jemima was not sure any amount of good luck would save this situation, but.)

And she blinked at the raven and the feathers it – he – left behind, but didn’t startle at the smack against the window, because adding such bizarreness into the mix only made this feel more surreal; a dream, a nightmare. She wished it were one. It was too far-fetched even for a nightmare, but if only she happened to wake up and pull herself out of bed now, she would laugh and laugh and laugh in relief.

But her eyes were already open and the tears seemed to have dried up, now that Tycho was gone and Ford’s voice had taken on that unnatural sharp tone. She stared at him, incredulous. So he had lied to her, and he had been evidently lying to him too – and was he going to tell her why now? Swaying a little on the spot, whether in exhaustion or from a new, caustic surge of hostility, Jemima waited pointedly, just to see.

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   Adrienne Lestrange

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The way Tycho looked at him after he wrenched his shoulder back could have broken his heart, if Ford hadn't buried under his feelings under a layer of frantic industriousness. It probably had, and he'd feel it later; when he was done handling things, when he was alone again with nothing but the broken pieces, he would remember the way Tycho was looking at him right now and he would languish beneath the look. But for the moment there was nothing to meet it but steely determination. Ford stood still while Ty turned into a raven; didn't turn to look when he fluttered towards the window, even when he heard the crack of something hitting the frame. He flinched and cast his eyes down at the ground, but didn't turn to look to Tycho. He waited. He waited until Ty was certainly gone, when the noise of wings had faded. He waited under the heat of Jemima's glare, still looking resolutely at the floor.

Eventually he turned sharply on his heel and went to slam the window shut. He closed the curtains too, taking some of the light out of the room with it. He turned back towards her and finally met her eyes. His expression was hard and his voice was level, if quiet. "And now?" he asked. "Would you like to hit me? Call me a degenerate? Scream, rail? You can go ahead," he said, raising his chin slightly. "I won't stop you."

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Set by Lady!

No, of course not. He wasn’t going to tell her anything else. He was looking at her, but everything about him was closed off – in that moment, Jemima could hardly recognise him.

Or she had just never known him at all. A few minutes ago, she had been ready to do all of those things, and she was still sure they were justified; only now his words struck her like a slap in the face. Her chest rose and fell, heaving out a shuddering breath, some last lingering edge of hysteria – but she had had enough of this now. There was nothing else he would give her; there was no worse this could get.

So Jemima just shook her head, feeling as small as she felt anguished. “I wanted – so badly – to like you, Ford,” she spat out, wishing it sounded fiercer, less desperate than it did. But he had made that impossible: she didn’t want to spend a second longer alone with him, she couldn’t bear to be in here – face crumpling, she turned for the door. The hallway between them didn’t feel like enough.

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   Adrienne Lestrange

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