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Introducing Fiddleford to his Muse had been a nerve-wracking experience for Ford. His oldest friend had at first been adverse to the idea that Ford would willingly share his body with Bill. Lashing out at Ford and vowing right then and there to quit the project.
It was a fit of anger and mania that had thankfully only lasted a few days before Fiddleford came back to the house to apologize for his previous behavior. A relief since Ford's nerves had been shot due to the outburst from his oldest friend. Having never seen him behave in such a way before.
Ford is sure that he can thank his Muse for talking Fiddleford around. As Bill had reassured him that he could not only get the man back on the project, but even excited for it in a way he hadn't been before.
The first time he had seen Bill possessing a body besides Ford's own had been... jarring. Hearing that lovely cackle coming out of Fiddleford's mouth as his Muse struggled to adjust to the lanky limbs; it was disorienting, but in the way getting off a tilt-a-whirl might be, exhilarating as much as dizzying.
The companionship of Fiddleford in the mornings and Bill in the evenings fit comfortably into Ford's life and schedule as they worked on the portal. So, he hadn't noticed anything amiss at first.
Fiddleford wasn't exactly the most straight laced and upstanding example of a citizen. He often wore colorful button ups and jeans while they worked; and though he was usually careful, the man was known to forget at least one piece of safety equipment on occasion.
Bill on the other hand was much more liberal with his dress. Often leaving those same button ups to dangle around his elbows while he worked, unbuttoned nearly to the last hole and barely tucked into his jeans. He is also fond of foregoing a belt entirely and thus his jeans always dip low on his hips, pale hip bones and navel nearly always on display.
Not that Ford was staring, of course.
No, he noticed something was different when the casual touches started. Bill was already rather touchy and free with his affection for his favorite disciple, but now the touches seemed to linger. A hand on his waist instead of his shoulder, one that lingered in his hair until became more of a caress, and finally Bill was draping himself (draping Fiddleford) over his back and wrapping arms around his shoulders.
And Ford had to keep reminding himself that he could not indulge in these warm touches. Shame eating away at his insides every time he thinks about kissing or worshipping his muse properly, to return the gentle affections being bestowed upon him. He shouldn't have those thoughts about such a divine being; especially not one inhabiting the vessel of his close friend.
So he stays strong and focused, carrying his longing like a dirty secret.
Right up until the moment Bill plants himself in Ford's lap. Facing the stunned man and looping borrowed arms loosely around his neck. That devious grin leaves heat pooling in Ford's abdomen and he's sure his face is beet red. He does think his restraint is admirable though as he keeps his hands to himself, instead of grabbing those slim hips like he wants to.
"Hey, Sixer. I'm bored." That's a change, usually when Bill needs a distraction from their work he will simply leave Fiddleford's body and go about his business in the mindscape. He's never sought Ford's attentions before this and Ford warms further at this thought.
"I apologize, my muse, do you want to look over my notes?" He offers and Bill pouts, the expression looking almost comical on Fiddleford's face. Then his god brightens and that devious grin returns.
"I know what'll work off this energy." His muse grabs his tie and pulls him forward, teeth and lips crashing violently into Ford's. His brain short circuiting and heart rate picking up as Bill kisses him, tongue demanding as Ford is helpless to do anything but comply.
Except, this isn't just any vessel. This is Fiddleford's body, his oldest friend that trusts him not to overstep his boundaries. Guilt curls around Ford's heart, even moreso as he knows he only pulls away with deep reluctance.
"Bill, I'm sorry, but I can't in good conscience continue. Fiddleford is married and-" Surprisingly strong fingers wrap around Ford's neck, squeezing just enough to cut off his words, but not his air.
"Am I not good enough for you, IQ?" Ford's stomach drops to his feet and when he swallows he can feel each digit against his throat.
"Of course you are, you're more than I could hope for...."
"Really? 'Cause if I'm boring you, I'll leave you to your notes. I could even get you that space that you humans love so much! How about a few weeks? I have been putting off some work helping you, not that it's that urgent." Ford squirms a little at the thought of Bill leaving as he had done before. Of not having his muse close to him in the evenings for weeks at a time.
It's only kissing, surely Fiddleford would understand? A form of worship to their shared god, no different than offering a prayer or a cup.
"I shouldn't have questioned you, I offer my sincere apologies. Forgive me, my muse?" Ford leans into the hand around his throat and tries to look properly chastised. Bill's disapproving look slowly spreads back into that smile that Ford adores so much and he looks pleased with Ford.
"Good boy, Sixer." His muse purrs and Ford inhales the praise, eyes half lidded as Bill returns to devouring his mouth.
Ford always wants to be good for his muse and if Bill asks so little of him then why would Ford refuse him?
Fiddleford's mouth tastes of stale coffee and chewing tobacco, and an underlying taste of iron that must come from the man's bad habit of chewing at his cuticles. A heady combination that leaves Ford gripping at those thin hips with more force than is necessary. Ashamed that he is enjoying the embrace more than should be strictly allowed for a simple act of worship.
When Bill pulls away his lips are red and puffy, his face flushed as if he had just finished a marathon. The worry and shame worms its way back into Ford's mind that those lips may stay swollen the whole night. That they may be the same ones that Ford's friend wakes up to.
"Meh, needs work, but we'll practice more later. For now we have calculations to run, IQ!" Ford's heart leaps into his throat at the thought that Bill might want to do this again. His mood significantly improved now that his muse might seek out his worship once again.
He pushes down against the souring of guilt. What Fiddleford doesn't know surely won't hurt him, right?
And when they wake the next morning and Fiddleford's lips are free from any swelling or redness, then Ford will pretend it's relief and not disappointment that distracts him.
At the very least Ford doesn't have to wait long for Bill to come to him demanding worship. His muse sitting himself directly on Ford's papers and coaxing the scientist's mouth to his. Pulling Ford to stand so that he is hovering just above Bill, hands pressed into the table on either side of his hips as the god's tongue explores every crevice of his deciple's mouth.
Then Bill's arms wrap around Ford's shoulders and his hips raise to grind against Ford. The bulge in the front of his muse's pants unmistakable even if Ford could have missed the way he gasps into their kiss.
And it's a natural reaction to stimulation isn't it? To the hot and wet slide of their tongues against each other. How can Ford begrudge his muse this when it means that Ford is doing such a good job pleasing him?
"Ah- Ha! Feels pretty strange!" Bill's hips twitch up against Ford's again, yellow eyes lidded as he licks the excess saliva from his lips. Ford's own dick twitches just from the sight alone and he mentally chides himself for it. He should not be getting hard from worshipping his muse, especially not while Bill is inside Fiddleford's body.
One of Bill's hands leaves Ford's shoulders to cup the bulge in the front of his own pants. His muse grinding the heel of his hand down and moaning wantonly while maintaining eye contact with Ford.
Ford is spellbound, eyes wide and mouth dry as Bill gropes at Fiddleford's body; the open shirt previously draped over his shoulders sliding down to reveal more tantalizing skin.
"Hey Sixer~" Bill's voice snaps Ford's attention from his flushed chest and back to his muse's eyes. Amusement and lust shining in the yellow as he continues palming himself and huffing around little moans as he speaks.
"You care to help a guy out here?" Ford's sure that Bill must be able to hear his heartbeat quicken as the scientist's face flushes a dark red. Subtly shifting so that perhaps his erection won't be as much of a dead giveaway for how he desires to service his muse.
"H-how?" His voice hasn't broken up like this since puberty and Ford's face grows hotter at Bill's breathless laugh. The haunty smirk his muse gives him looks at home on Fiddleford's normally congenial and gentle face, an odd contrast to what Ford might have expected. He tries to swallow around the thoughts of biting at those lips to chase it away.
"You're a smart guy, Sixer! You know the best kind of worship happens on your knees." Bill cackles and swipes his thumb over Ford's bottom lip, the corners of his eyes crinkling when Ford obediently opens his mouth in response.
Ford should stop and think about this, perhaps even put a stop to this altogether. As Fiddleford has never given any kind of indication that he might have interests similar to Ford's own. His friend trusts him so completely to take care of his body while he is away and asleep.
The lab floor is cold against Ford's knees, but the hand in his hair does wonders to chase the chill away. Those yellow eyes glowing down at him with approval as Ford's hands hesitate a moment at the clasp of Bill's pants. His muse kicks at his side as one might a horse to hurry it along. It's a move that Ford had similarly seen Fiddleford use the one time he'd caught a runaway equine and ridden it back to its owner. His lab partner looking at ease and in control then much the same way Bill is looking down at him right now.
Fiddleford's dick is by no means monstrous, but it is certainly longer than Ford's own. When Ford wraps his hand around it, for the first time in his life, he's thankful for the extra finger and the width it lends to his palm. Eyes wide as he gently strokes his hand over the shaft and watches a bead of precum well up at the tip with rapt fascination.
He needs no encouragement to flatten his tongue over the head, lapping up the precum like a man possessed. It's not particularly pleasant or unpleasant as Fiddleford is thankfully a very hygienic man, but the noises Bill makes when he pays special attention to the tip encourages Ford to keep up with the ministrations. The fingers in his hair tangling and tugging at his strands the only incentive he needs to take the head into his mouth and suck.
Ford, until this moment, had never considered that giving a blowjob to someone might be relaxing. Simply following the demands, both verbal and physical, of Bill's body and testing how deep he could take the dick in his mouth before his gag reflex would remind him of its existence. At first it isn't much at all, but Ford has never been a patient man and no one could accuse him of being a slacker either.
And his determination is well worth it when Bill tugs Ford's head forward that last inch and buries his nose in Fiddleford's curly pubic hair. On reflex he swallows around the twinge of nausea and Bill wraps his thighs around Ford's head trapping Ford where he is. He can't breathe around the intrusion in his throat and his glasses dig uncomfortably into his face as Bill grinds up into Ford's mouth. But Ford's not sure he's ever felt more comfortable and happy in any other position before.
It's when spots start to dance across his vision that Ford wonders what his obituary might say if he dies like this. Died during an act of worship; Ford moans as brokenly as he can at the thought and Bill curses in a language he doesn't recognize. His muse stilling with a gasping whine and pulling back abruptly, spilling a trail of warm cum down Ford's throat and then across his tongue.
He chokes around it at first as his starved lungs try to drag in much needed air, but Bill doesn't let him spill a drop. Pushing Fiddleford's long fingers into his mouth and pressing the cum back into Ford's throat, forcing him to swallow the cum and saliva mixture around the digits until his muse is satisfied.
When Bill finally pulls his fingers out Ford lets himself cough and Bill pets through his hair, soothing him until he can speak again. His voice raspy as he glances up at his muse with scarlet cheeks knowing what he's about to ask.
"W-was that good, my muse?" A wide and unnatural grin splits across Fiddleford's face, every tooth showing as Bill bends down over Ford to whisper in his ear.
"You were perfect, Fordsy. No one else has ever served me so well." His chest warms under the praise and Ford didn't realize that's exactly what he needed to hear to finally tip over the edge. Body jerking as he groans and spills into his briefs while Bill continues petting his hair through his orgasm.
~OwO~
Ford likes to think he perfects his worship from then on, pleased every time his muse comes to him night after night. The divine being first fixing the collar of his shirt and then straightening his tie; pulling the knot until it's flush with Ford's throat and watching with that manic grin as Ford sinks obediently to his knees. Ford starts tying his own tie loosely, anticipating when Bill will fix it and allow Ford to worship him again.
"I swear, Stanford, if yer gonna insist on dressin' like some kinda big city lawyer then ya outta do it right! Ya look like you're on yer way to a gentlemen's club for happy hour." Fiddleford complains like he isn't the one that has been harassing Ford all week to join him on errands. When Ford would much rather be finishing up his latest rounds of notes on slick-headed mushrooms instead of going out and having to confront people that have always been offput by him.
"Despite your protestations I enjoy looking professional even in my private life." Fiddleford rolls his eyes in that fond kind of way he does when he thinks Ford's said something ridiculous, and grabs the crooked edge of Ford's collar.
"Yes, very professional lookin' like ya've dressed in a hurry 'cause the preacher 's 'bout to catch ya with his daughter." Fiddleford pops his collar and smoothes it down in the next moment as he talks, teasing as he grabs at Ford's loose tie. "Or better yet like ya've come off a bender and are makin' yer way home from the bar." His fingers are warm and strong as he confidently tightens the tie, fingertips brushing Ford's throat as the knot rests against his neck.
"Uh, Stanford?" Ford blinks, head fuzzy as he tries to focus on Fiddleford's startled face above him. His lab partner still holding the end of his tie, dumbfounded, as he stares down at Ford on his knees. Ford swallows heavily around the pool of saliva in his mouth, having not even noticed that he'd kneeled at all. Embarrassment mingles with mortification and, Ford notes with shame, lust as the two men stare at each other with wide eyes.
And Ford's throat is dry, despite the excess amount of saliva that won't stop welling up, his body knowing that he's only a few scant inches away from having Fiddleford's dick down his throat again. His hands had also moved on their own when Ford had sat on his knees, pausing in their path to the fastening of Fiddleford's pants once the engineer had spoken, now they're gripping the man's thighs. Ford's fingers tighten momentarily and he licks his lips at the hitched breath that escapes from between Fiddleford's teeth. This isn't Bill; but his muse has taught him well enough how to satisfy with his worship, and Ford wonders if Fiddleford would taste the same on his tongue.
The telephone ringing cuts through the string of tension between them like a knife. Leaving Ford kneeling on the floor as Fiddleford releases his tie to quickly grab the phone off the hook, though those blue eyes don't leave Ford's face even as he greets his wife.
Ford excuses himself to the bathroom and bites his hand until it bleeds listening to Fiddleford talk in the other room; while Ford pumps himself to completion and desperately tries not to think of Fiddleford fucking his face. If he would be more gentle than Bill is or if he'd make Ford choke around his cum and swallow it.
Guilt is the only thing that chokes Ford as he furiously scrubs his hands after. Chastising himself not only for thinking of a married man in that way, but also his best friend who trusts him enough to embrace the strangeness around him.
Even if for a moment that want had not seemed as one-sided as it normally did.
~OwO~
Something is out of place.
Ford can feel the wrongness like a hair that's out of place from perfectly combed hair. Teasing his scalp with a slight twinge because although he can't see anything out of place he can still feel it.
He checks over his latest strings of calculations and notes three times; and then a fourth time with a fine tooth comb just in case. Perfect down to the last digit and still that feeling of wrongness won't dissipate. A glance around the lab produces the same, Bill welding two pieces of machinery together and whistling loud and shrill to himself. He's wearing a welding mask and gloves for once, but has left the welding apron thrown over the back of his and Fiddleford's shared workstation.
A shared workstation which has a bottle of olive oil sitting among the various tools and bolts. If Ford's not mistaken it's the same one that Fiddleford had used earlier that day to cook with in the kitchen. But Ford doesn't recall ever seeing the man bring it down here or what on earth he could be using it for.
Does that mean Bill had brought it down then? For what purpose would his muse have for olive oil on their current project? It seemed he and Fiddleford were currently working on one of the stabilizers. Olive oil would then be more of a flammable hazard than an asset.
Bill doesn't notice his staring, or simply isn't bothered by it, grabbing the drill off his side table and switching off his torch. The deity's knuckles brush against the olive oil bottle as he does so, but he doesn't comment or startle at its presence. Either he had simply noticed it before Ford, or his previous hunch had been correct.
"Bill? My muse, why is there a container of olive oil present?" Either Bill would make fun of him for having missed something obvious, or he would have someone to bounce his theories off of. Either way sitting and staring at the bottle isn't going to produce answers and Ford has always preferred to be more proactive.
The question catches his muse's attention and Bill tosses aside the drill and safety gear. Snatching up the bottle of olive oil and making his way to Ford's desk in lieu of giving an answer. He hops up onto the desk, scrunching several of Ford's notes and nearly knocking over his inkwell in the process, and holds out the bottle for Ford to grab.
"Took you long enough to catch on, didn't it, Sixer?" Bill teases as Ford examines the bottle of olive oil, not finding anything particularly remarkable about it as his muse watches him with boldfaced amusement. Finally Ford is forced to concede and ask the question he knows Bill is waiting for; or make another guess and risk embarrassing himself further.
"Bill, what is the purpose of the olive oil?" Unless they need it for a ritual or there is something that needs to be set on fire, Ford is quite frankly out of ideas of what they could be using it for.
"Weeeeeeeeell! You've been doing such a good job lately, Fordsy, that I think you deserve a treat!" Ford tries not to squirm under Bill's lidded gaze, biting the inside of his cheek to avoid staring at where Bill unbuttons the last of his shirt and lets it drop to his elbows.
"T-treat?" He nearly swallows his own tongue as one of Bill's shoes nudges between his legs, pressing down on his growing hard-on. His cheeks scarlet as he stares up at Bill mystified, his muse having never touched him in such a way even during all their previous 'worship'.
"Yeeeeeep~! Let's take a break tonight, Sixer, and you can have as muuuuuch fun as you want!" Bill thumbs at the button of his loose jeans, never breaking eye contact with Ford as he grinds his heel down against the bulge in his pants.
"Bill! I can't, we can't- This is F's body!" Ford grabs Bill's calf, but does little to resist the slow grind against his shaft that has blood flowing away from where he needs it most right now.
"Stanford, you know Specs is just as committed to this project as you are, hm?" This feels like conversational whiplash compared to how Bill slowly pops the button of his jeans.
"Yes, of course, his participation has been invaluable to our work and-!" He sucks in a sharp breath as Bill presses down harder, letting up in the next second so Ford can catch his breath.
"Exaaaaaactly! Good old Specs know that there are some risks that come with the job and he said he was willing to do ANYTHING needed to help you out!" Ford watches Bill lift his hips to slip out of his jeans, toeing off his shoes as he goes before he returns a socked foot to the front of Ford's trousers. "We both want to keep you productive and happy, Fordsy. Can't let these kind of things build up!" The precise pressure of toes pressing against him has Ford gripping onto Bill's thigh and grinding up into the feeling before he recovers his good sense.
"M-My Muse, please, he's married, I can't-" Fast as a cobra Bill has grabbed Ford's chin and pulled him closer to the deity's face. Those yellow eyes shining with mania instead of the fury that Ford had been expecting.
"Are we not good enough for you, Sixer? Does this form not please you because I can go and get another if you want-" Now it's Bill's turn to be surprised as Ford surges forward, standing so abruptly he knocks his chair to the ground as he boxes his Muse against the desk in front of him.
"No! No, please don't...."
"Then be good for your muse and fuck us, Fordsy." Bill coos at him and Ford tries not to shrink into his shoulders with embarrassment. A hand tentatively comes up to rest on Fiddleford's thin waist, marveling at how delicate he looks considering he's seen the man lift heavy machinery before without breaking a sweat.
"Are you sure this is okay...?" Now Bill's grin turns wolfish and he wraps arms around Ford's shoulders to drag him into an aggressive kiss.
"Suuuuuure~! And I know you'll be careful with the goods, Sixer, Specs won't even have to know anything is amiss!" That's right.... How would Fiddleford know if neither of them told him? It could be just one time, just one indulgence to get it out of Ford's system. To keep him from thinking about it in the middle of the night; then everything could go back to normal.
"Of course, I wouldn't dream of hurting you." Hesitantly he reaches down and palms Fiddleford's dick, watching with fascination as Bill arches into the touch and moans wantonly. He'll never know if the decision of not wearing undergarments is one of Bill's or Fiddleford's own, but either option has him biting his lip.
"Oh Fordsy~ I'd let you do so MUCH worse to me if you asked." Bill says breathily before nipping along Ford's jawline, the man shuddering as his vivid imagination takes over with all the things he would love to do to his muse if given the chance.
But for now he has to focus on the present, gently maneuvering one of Fiddleford's legs to test its flexibility. Pleasantly surprised when it stretches without resistance and Ford can settle it over his shoulder, giving him more room to work.
Bill watches him intently as he screws off the top of the olive oil bottle and contemplates it before upending some of its contents onto his fingers. He'll have to replace it soon before Fiddleford cooks again or else come up with a believable lie as to where it might have gone.
He only hesitates a moment before pushing the tip of his finger past the rim of Fiddleford's ass, having only ever done this on himself, he wants to make sure that he goes slow. So as to not cause his friend any discomfort in the morning or Bill in the moment. Not that Bill seems to agree with him, reaching a hand down and grabbing Ford's wrist to clumsily shove the rest of his digit inside.
"O-ohohoho! So that's what I've been missing out on? Man, you humans are so creative! Come on, Fordsy, we're not made of glass, give us another one!" His Muse throws his head back with a breathless cackle and clenches down around Ford's finger. Helpless to disobey his muse when he looks so flushed, Ford teases a second finger past his rim and slides it in slowly, ignoring Bill's attempts to hurry him by tugging on his wrist again.
Hoping to cut off any more impatience Ford stretches his fingers out, marveling at just how tight Bill is and worrying if it'll impede them in any way. Ford really doesn't want Fiddleford to be sore in the morning, so he tries to take it as gently as he can.
"Come oooooooon, you're boring me here, Fordsy! Either make this more interesting, or I'll find my own kind of entertainment." Bill bites at the part of his neck not covered by his shirt and groans with delight when Ford starts stretching out his fingers and slowly pumping them inside him. The olive oil makes obscene sounds that mix with Bill's moans against Ford's skin and leaves the scientist chasing different combinations of movement for more reactions.
When Ford finally presses up against Fiddleford's prostate Bill shouts and thumps his heels against Ford's back, body seizing up in an arch as his muse's eyes widen. Leaving Ford to watch enthralled as Bill cums against his stomach and repeatedly clenches around the stilled fingers inside him.
It's when Ford tries to remove his hand that he gets another vicious bite to the neck, this one actually drawing blood and making him hiss with pain. If he weren't so surprised by it he might even question why on earth it made him throb with want, but at the moment he uses his energy to look down at his Muse with upset.
"D-did I say we were done, Sixer?" He licks away the blood staining his lips and Ford doesn't resist the urge to kiss him this time; moaning into Bill's mouth as he cleans the iron taste from the teeth of his muse. When he pulls back both of their chests are heaving and Bill is grinning like a cat having caught a particularly pesky mouse.
The message is received loud and clear, and despite his few diminishing reservations Ford pushes a third finger inside of Bill. Moaning along with his muse as Bill rocks back against his shallow thrusts, his free hand having to grip the other man's hip tightly to stop him from moving while he applies more olive oil.
"Fuck, your hands are perfect, Sixer!" Bill laps at the sluggishly bleeding bitemark on Ford's neck, sucking at the blood and forcing Ford to grind against the edge of the desk to get any kind of relief. "Come on, give me another one, reeeeeeeally stretch us out!"
He complies and if possible Bill gets noisier, the deity grabbing at Ford's shirt and ripping the buttons in an effort to get at more skin he can bite. Pushing Ford to thrust his fingers harder and faster, twitching every time fingers graze against his prostate. Leaving Ford drunk on his muse's reactions and the tightness of the body around him.
"Pants! O-off, Sixer! Time for you to get your t-treat!" Ford hurries to comply with his muse's demand, and only hesitates once he's fully stripped down. Staring at Fiddleford's flushed body and red cock as his hole clenches down around nothing.
"Come on, Fordsy! Don't keep us waiting!" And Ford finds that he doesn't want to stop as Bill eagerly pushes back onto his dick. Mystified as it disappears inch by inch with the help of olive oil, until Bill is groaning and rocking back on him the moment he's fully inside.
He reminds himself that he has to be gentle and careful, that he can't be too rough or Fiddleford will know what they've been up to. Will know how deep Ford's been inside him and that Bill's contorted his face into the most beautiful fucked expression that Ford has ever seen in his life.
Ford is neither slow nor gentle as he pounds into Bill, knocking shouts and moans out of his muse as he uses his hips for leverage to pull the deity back against his harsh thrusts. He crowds Bill against the table and bites a dark mark into his shoulder just to hear his muse whine. Relishing in each sound and cry of his name as Bill encourages him to go harder and tears his nails down Ford's back.
The pain pushes him to bite harder into the pale flesh under his mouth, deliriously wanting it to bruise so that Fiddleford has to see it in the morning. Has to walk around with the evidence that Ford has touched him like this, might have been the only person to touch him like this. That he won't be able to move his shoulder without feeling the small twinge of pain from the bruise there.
He's sure that Bill must be drawing blood from the stinging in his back, but all Ford can think about is the blood that might be left behind under Fiddleford's nails. If when he kisses Bill that Fiddleford will still be able to taste the menthol cigarettes that Ford indulges in once in a while.
When Bill cums Ford doesn't hesitate to keep going this time around, gripping his thighs until they're sure to bruise and biting at his muse's lips. He wants this to be something that Bill can't shake the memory of, something that is going to haunt his Muse the same way it'll haunt Fiddleford's body. It's that thought that finally tips him over, groaning into the open mouthed kiss and making sure to push as deep as he can so when he does finally pull out nothing will escape.
~OwO~
The next morning Fiddleford is so late to breakfast that Ford's worried he's either going to have to drag the man out of bed or start work without him. But while on his second cup of coffee and deliberation, his lab partner finally appears. Clutching at the wall and limping a little bit, Ford tries to hide his guilty grimace as Fiddleford sits down in a kitchen chair with a pained groan.
"What in Sam's Hill did ya two do last night?!" Fiddleford groans again and thunks his head down against the table, still wearing the pajamas Bill had changed him into last night and looking less than put-together. He at least looks grateful for the cup of coffee that Ford slides his way, clutching at the mug like his one true lifeline and grimacing through sips. "Feels like I've run a marathon from here back to California, my muscles are killin' me."
"I apologize, are you going to be alright? I'm sure we could put off work on the portal for a day if you wanted to rest?" Ford avoids Fiddleford's suspicious eye and busies himself making toast for his poor friend.
"That's mighty kinda ya, so will the real Stanford Pines come out and shoot this no good varmint pretendin' to wear his skin?" Ford rolls his eyes and grabs the jam from the fridge, quickly checking the expiration date and figuring three days over is probably fine.
"Hilarious, F, but I'm simply feeling more charitable on account of you ending up in this state due to my own actions." He fiddles with the butter knife he pulls out of the drawer, adjusting his collar when he catches the edge of a bitemark in its reflection.
"Alrighty, I'm not in much a position to argue with ya today, but ya tell Cipher that if he's gonna be pullin' stunts like that in my body that he could at least warn a fella next time!"
Next time. Ford shivers at the thought and quickly grabs the mediocre breakfast for his friend, sliding it down in front of the exhausted man.
"O-of course.... I'll make sure Bill takes it easier. Next time."