it's a beautiful day to be a pervert

“Everything is bad. Forever”

“Dear,” Ford tells you, brushing a stray hair behind your ear, “it’s just a cold.”

“Don’t make fun of me, old man.” You have a mug of tea in your hands, still too hot to drink, so you let yourself breathe in the steam. “It’s gonna be you next. I give it three days.”

“Right,” he chuckles. “You’re very fussy when you’re sick.”

“Two if you keep that up.” He’s still running his fingers through your hair. When you steal a glance, he’s got that deep look on his face, like he’s lost in thought — transfixed on you. The attention he gives you still catches you off guard, sometimes — like a deer in the headlights — and sometimes, it makes you feel, and say, dumb things. “What’s wrong with you?”

You’re thankful he doesn’t take it the wrong way. “I can’t be concerned about my partner?” A chill comes onto you, and when you wrap the blanket around you tighter, he presses the back of his palm against your forehead. “I can’t take care of them when they’re sick?”

You don’t answer, and instead stare at the mug in your hands.

“I want to,” he says, earnestly. “Will you let me?”

You take a swig of your tea. It burns down your chest, but provides relief for your sore throat. It’s always felt wrong to accept help; it’s always felt wrong to admit to weakness: it’s a problem you’ve been battling with since beginning your relationship with Ford. It’s a problem he struggles with, too. Slowly, though, you’ve been breaking those walls down together.

Still, you hate that you got sick. You had an elaborate, romantic weekend planned with Ford — and you got sick. It’s not enough that your plans are cancelled, you have to be ill and vulnerable, too. You hate it.

Mostly the latter.

Despite shame creeping up your neck, you nod. “If you insist.”

“Thank you.” He carefully takes the mug out of your hands, sets it down on, and embraces you. Your head is nestled underneath his chin, and he squeezes you tightly. Again, it catches you off guard. “I’m very sorry you’re sick, my dear,” he whispers. “I know you hate feeling like this.”

You huff out a laugh. “You’re gonna ‘feel like this’ too if you keep touching me. By tomorrow.”

“I’ll take those chances.” He kisses your forehead, then lets you go.

“I’m sorry about our plans—"

“Don’t be. I’m still here with you, aren’t I? That’s all that matters to me.”

You can’t help but pout. “I was really looking forward to our trip, though…and that’s not fair to you to babysit me when—”

Ford grabs your hands. “I want to,” he emphasizes. “And if you’re so persistent on keeping today romantic, then we can still do something together.” You furrow your brow until he says, “wasn’t there a list of 80s horror movies you wanted me to watch? Because I, quote, ‘missed out on them?’”

“Oh!” you exclaim, then immediately cringe. Raising your voice did nothing to help your throat. “Yeah, I know what we can start with,” you say, quieter. “I think you’ll like it. It’s about this student who brings dead things to life again…”

You fall asleep halfway through the movie. But from what you can remember, Ford was pretty invested in it.

You wake in your bed — and for a brief moment you’re scared — until you see Ford at his desk nearby, writing in his journal. “Oh. You’re right there,” you mumble, mostly to yourself.

Ford heard you, though, and turns to look at you.

Your mind is teetering on a tightrope, swaying between sleep and wakefulness. If you were fully conscious, with your walls up, you wouldn’t say what you’re thinking — but you aren’t, and you do. “I thought you left me.”

You see him freeze, like the words startled him. But, you’re probably imagining things. You’re content now that you know he’s here with you, and you begin to drift back to sleep until you feel the bed dip.

Ford sits next to you and cups your cheek with his hand. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone when he whispers, “I would never do that, darling.”