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.
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.
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