12 April, 1895 — Ty's House, Wellingtonshire

Mind the gnomes, he'd said, as if Ford needed to be reminded about the gnomes. As if he hadn't been coming to this house longer than the youngest of the gnomes in the small hoard had been alive. It was probably good that he'd said it, though, because otherwise Ford would have thought nothing of taking the floo over, as he often had before. Being forced to think about the gnomes made him consider that given what Jemima knew, perhaps that wasn't the best idea. Most of society still thought they were friends, even if there had been some speculation about their having argued or drifted apart recently, so it was less suspicious by far to come by the front door and to make an excuse to Jemima if she caught him on the way out. Having said that, he was far too flustered to come up with an excuse, so it was a relief that she had already gone up to bed by the time he came by the house.

Ty's claims strained belief. Although he had promised he'd come by the house to discuss it in more depth, the more time passed since the initial conversation the more incredulous he became. This must have been a trick of some kind, he determined. He just couldn't figure out Tycho's end game.

Was coming a bad idea? Should he turn around and head home again? Surely there would be no danger in coming, or at least none he hadn't already assumed in leaving the house again tonight... but it was hard to see how their meeting again worked out to either of their benefit, either.

And yet here he was, picking his way through the front garden while carefully avoiding the gnomes. He wasn't sure what to expect if he knocked and didn't want to talk to one of Ty's servants tonight, so took the risk of letting himself in the front door and was relieved to find Tycho alone in one of the downstairs rooms.

"Can I see the book?" he asked without preamble.

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Set by Lady!

Tycho did not know what to make of any of this. However, upon having had time to think he knew it was not out of the realm of possibility that he might have tried some new drug or drink that came with side effects. He was pacing, having dismissed his staff for the night already. Not that he had any live-in ones but some did tent to linger late into the night if they had overdue tasks they wished to finish before the new day.

The book? Tycho stared at him blankly for a moment before nodding. He walked over to one of the shelves in the room and took one of the copies he had there. For My Brown Eyes was a small, brown book filled with poetry and a handful of songs. Words filled with longing, heartbreak, love and desire. Everything the dreams and visions had made him feel spilled out into words. He was a little conscious of the fact it was basically a very long love letter to a man he had been assuming to have never met. He had omitted the more specific details that might have directly pinpointed Mister Greengrass as being his subject.

"I kept having these dreams and visions of you," he said as he handed it over. "And had all these feelings that could not be contained. I tried my best to make sure no one could know it is for you. But some part of me must have hoped you would find the words I had written for you." He felt uncharacteristically bashful and his cheeks reddened.

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Ford took the slender volume in his hands, but he didn't know what he intended to do with it. He could open the cover and turn the pages, but his eyes couldn't focus on the letters themselves when he was this distracted. Tycho had been having visions and dreams of him. Tycho had been writing him love poetry. Ford had seen the shingles on his rooftop gain color again and had fretted over what it meant, but he never would have imagined what it meant was that Tycho was in love with him again.

"I've been dreaming about you, too," he admitted, practically under his breath. It felt shameful to admit when he was supposed to be focusing on the baby, on Jemima, on rebuilding their relationship and earning her trust, but he couldn't help where his subconscious wandered at night. Though mostly those dreams hadn't been pleasant. Mostly they hinged on the expression on Tycho's face when he'd left Ford's room that night.

"You don't remember anything?" Ford asked. He had opened the book to a random page, but still hadn't made his eyes or his brain focus on the words yet. "You don't remember how you left?"

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Set by Lady!

Tycho couldn't help but grin as the other said he had dreamt of him too. This was all bizarre but he couldn't deny the thrilling joy the notion gave him that he had been on the others mind. He moved closer to the other, not liking the distance between them.

"Nothing. Anything I tried to focus on more fully, I suppose to properly remember, I would get this splitting headache and a sort of vague haziness. It is hard to describe in words and I'm generally pretty great at words." The last question snagged at him as well. "What did I leave?"

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Tycho edged closer to him and Ford was seized with a thought: he could kiss him. Tycho, this version of him, would let him and would probably kiss him back. That hadn't been true for some time — the look on Ty's face when he'd left the bedroom had left little doubt in Ford's mind about where the two of them stood. There were a million reasons why he shouldn't, as there always were, but the mere possibility of it had him nearly quivering with emotion. Even shy of that, even just standing closer to Tycho or leaning against his side or touching his hand would have been blissful. And wrong. Very wrong. Not just because it would be another betrayal to Jemima. It felt like taking advantage of Tycho's memory situation, and therefore taking advantage of him. If he recovered all of his memories tomorrow, how would he feel about it? One more reason to hate Ford forever, as if he didn't have enough of those already.

"I lied to you," he blurted out. "I got married and I lied to you about why."

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Set by Lady!