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For the past few days, Ford had constantly felt like something was wrong. And the feeling persists even now as he pauses in his footsteps, glancing warily around him. He had been walking with Fig for approximately twenty minutes and nothing had happened. Nothing but the cool breeze of winter flowing around them.
It all feels… off.
“Something bothering you, Ford?” Fig had stopped a few feet ahead of him, having taken a bit longer to realise he was no longer walking with her. “You look as confused as a newborn baby sitting in a calculus class. Or confused as me in a calculus class. I don’t like math.”
Ford shakes his head, trying to shake off the odd feeling. It doesn’t work. “Did we forget something?”
Fig blinks. “Did we?” She pats her pockets, even the top of her head as if to make sure she didn’t forget her hat, even though it was practically glued to her hair by now. “Nope. Got everything I need. Why?”
“Something isn’t right.” Ford continues scanning his surroundings. Nothing appears to be out of place at first glance. Not the fire hydrant on the sidewalk, not the occasional car driving by, not the trash cans conveniently placed near him–
The trash cans. They were open. And nothing was popping up from within them.
“Those trash cans are empty,” he says.
Fig follows his gaze and raises an eyebrow. “Excellent observation, Ford. Clearly they don’t call you the greatest detective around here for nothing.”
Detective. The greatest detective. Ford wouldn’t necessarily disagree with that statement, but it’s not like there were any other detectives as well known as him in the city of angels. Well, of course, other than—
“Dash!” Ford blurts out. “Dash isn’t… where is he?”
There’s a beat of silence that’s broken by Fig’s snort.
“So you’ve finally noticed,” she says, walking over to close the lids over the trash cans. Somehow, it makes Ford feel even more unsettled. “He’s been gone since Christmas Eve. That’s what that weird feeling you were feeling was.” Ford must have made a face because she continues. “Your internal monologue these past few days have been particularly loud. I can barely hear myself think.”
Ford coughs and looks away from Fig’s amused face. She really needed to get out of his head.
“There’s no kicking me out, Ford, we’re partners-in-solving-crime now, remember? I’m livin’ there rent-free. Unlike our office. We really need to fix that by the way.”
Ford decides he’s going to ignore that. “What do you mean gone?” he asks instead. “Where did he go? And how do you know?”
“He went home to family for Christmas, obviously,” Fig answers. “He snuck onto set again and being Dash, spoke all his thoughts out loud. Willy and I heard it all.”
Yeah, that makes sense.
“Huh.” Ford crosses his arms in thought. “Gone home for Christmas, you say…”
“Yes that’s. That is in fact what I said.”
“Shut up, I’m thinking.” Ford raises a hand to shush her. Fig rolls her eyes and continues on past him, leaving him to his thoughts.
So the odd feeling he had been experiencing for the past few days had been… Dash missing? No, not missing–home for the holidays. But why would it have such an impact on him?
His eyes land on the still-empty trash cans. He still half-expects Dash to pop out of it, exclaiming once again how he “got the drop on you again, Ford!”. He snorts; he can hear him in his head so clearly. He wonders if he does something like that back home, too, wherever it is.
Ford pauses in his pacing (that he hadn’t even realised he had started)–does he not know where Dash is from? Somewhere in the Midwest, clearly, if his accent said anything. But where? Ohio? Illinois? Michigan? Why does he not know?
Dash Gunfire is an… interesting man. A bit slow-witted, and not a perfect detective by any means, but he’s still nice enough–maybe he should actually sit down and have a proper conversation with him. Get to know him better.
“If I ever get the chance to do so again, that is…” Ford finds himself muttering under his breath.
Fig’s voice makes him jump. “Golly biscuits, I can hear you from all the way over here! He’s gone home for Christmas, not been drafted for war!”
Ford feels his face warm at being caught. “I know that,” he mumbles through an embarrassed cough. He hurries after Fig and walks past her, hoping she drops the subject. No luck, of course.
“Don’t worry, Ford,” Fig says. “The days will pass quickly and he’ll be back before you can say ‘woah, is that Dash over there?!’”
Ford whips his head around. “Where?!” At Fig’s deep sigh, he realises his mistake and attempts to cover it up with a cough. “I mean. What?”
Fig just shakes her head, patting him on the back. Ford doesn’t even try brushing her off.
=
Fig was wrong. The days in fact did not pass quickly.
The three days that have passed feel like three centuries since he first found out about Dash’s disappearance and there are still no signs of his return.
It is well past Christmas. Why isn’t he back?
“Maybe because he likes visiting his family?” Fig remarks, leaning back in the chair opposite Ford’s desk as she plays with a stray rubber band.
“Get out of my thoughts, Fig,” he snaps. “And also get your feet off my desk.” Fig mumbles some choice words that Ford tunes out as she kicks her feet off. She flicks the rubber band and it bounces off his head, though it does nothing to disturb his thinking position of his elbows on his desk and hands steepled together.
Indeed, he had been thinking intently over Dash’s whereabouts the past few days. With a lull in the Greater Gatsby case, there wasn’t much else to do. Well, that’s how he justifies it to himself, anyways. Every so often he catches himself thinking about Dash’s return during the most randomest of times (when he’s walking down the street, when he’s eating a cookie at Bixby’s lounge, when he’s brushing his teeth, when he’s breathing–) and wonders the big question: why is he so obsessed with him?
“Well, I have some ideas–ooh, rubber band ball!” She grabs the ball Ford had held out for her and immediately starts passing it between her hands, now happily occupied and hopefully out of his internal monologue.
Where was he? Oh, right. Dash Gunfire. His whereabouts and his subsequent return. Whenever that may be.
There had been days, of course, where Dash hadn’t popped up and surprised him, but Ford always somehow knew where he was, whether it was from Bixby himself or simply through the grapevine that he was off attempting to solve cases. But for some reason, now that he knows he isn’t here, Ford feels… agitated. Flustered. Unsure of how to proceed. And he has no idea why.
Was it the fact that he was so different to anyone else he had ever come across, especially when he met him for the first time? A bright fresh face that juxtaposed his jaded one. Ford still remembers his first impression of him, for whatever reason: if he doesn’t toughen up soon, he’s not going to last a day here.
But lo and behold, he had lasted. Whilst still maintaining that naivety and concerning susceptibility to being tricked. Ford would never admit it, but he always worried something bad would happen to him with how overly-trusting he was.
Oh god. What if he had been kidnapped?
Fig groans, rolling her eyes so strongly she takes her entire head for a roll. “Dash wasn’t kidnapped, Ford.” Before Ford can say anything else, she continues, “And I didn’t listen into your monologue. You just said that part out loud.”
Ford frowns. Had he? Whoops. He really has been off his game these days.
“Besides, if Dash was kidnapped, the kidnapper would have returned him within a day. Less than one, even.”
Ford gives it a second to think about it. “Good point,” he says with a shrug. “So, uh. You said you had some ideas?”
“Hm?” Fig hums, now attempting to spin the rubber band ball on her finger. “About what?”
Ford rolls his eyes. “About this whole… obsession.” His voice trails off in embarrassment at the end, unsure of what else to call it. “You seem to be in my head a lot. Funnily enough, I can’t seem to get him out of my head, too. What’s that all about?”
Fig stares at him. The rubber band ball drops into her lap. Then, after an uncomfortable beat of silence, she throws her head back and barks out a laugh. Ford shifts and glances around the room for something even remotely funny, as Fig continues her uproarious laughter, even kicking her feet like he had just told the world’s funniest joke.
“After all that thinking, you still haven’t figured it out?!” Fig eventually manages, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.
Ford feels his face burn. “Figure what out?”
Fig’s laughter finally calms down into a chuckle, shaking her head as she pours a drink. He’s about to repeat himself when she suddenly slides the drink over to him.
“I’m not going to spell it out for you, Ford. You’re the supposed greatest detective around here. I’m sure you can figure it out.”
=
Ford, in fact, did not figure it out. Not straight away, at least.
It takes him two more days and a few drinks at Bixby’s for the ball to finally drop. And while he may be as stubborn as a hardboiled egg–as Fig eloquently describes numerous times–he was still a detective. And when presented with all the facts and evidence, he was able to come to a reasonable, objective conclusion.
“Oh my god. I like Dash.”
Vivian, his current drinking partner, merely scoffs and swiftly grabs the drink he had abandoned. “Took you long enough.”
Ford’s head snaps over to her, eyes wide. “Wait, you knew?”
The actress slash lounge singer rolls her eyes as she takes a sip of the stolen drink. “I think the better question is who doesn’t know.” She purses her lips in thought. “Dash, probably.”
Ford drops his forehead onto the cool counter of Bixby’s bar, hoping it would knock some sense into him. Very uncharacteristic of him, but he has a few drinks in him and just had the most jaw dropping revelation of his life, so sue him.
“I don’t get it. How can everyone seemingly know about this but me? First Fig, now you…”
“...And Cliff, and Claudette, and Wilhemina…” she lists off casually, as if every new name wasn’t a direct shot at Ford’s ego.
“And me!” Bixby chimes in from the other end of the bar. “I’m Bixby.”
“Thanks, Bixby,” Ford groans, voice muffled. “Dear lord. How on god’s green earth did Willy figure it out before me?”
Vivian hides an amused smirk behind her glass. “If I recall, she actually thought you two were already dating until Fig corrected her.”
Ford hits his head against the counter. “I like Dash. Dash freakin’ Gunfire. What the hell is wrong with me?”
Vivian rolls her eyes, tipping the glass back and downing her drink before speaking. “I’ve been on this earth a long time, Ford Phillips–”
“We’re the same age–”
“–And if there’s one thing I’ve learned during my time here, it’s that people are quite stupid when they’re in love. All rational thinking goes out the window. Not that I know how that feels for myself yet, anyways…” Vivian mumbles the last part under her breath.
“Love?” Ford chokes out. He vehemently shakes his head. “That’s not what this is. Is it?” he whispers to himself. Ford Phillips being in love with his rival? No, scratch that. Dash surely can’t be a rival now after that revelation. Not to Ford, at the very least–who knows what Dash thinks.
A sigh. “Don’t you know that phrase ‘absence makes the heart grow fonder’? Dash has been gone for… well, however long it’s been–”
“Eight days and eight hours,” Ford answers instantly before biting the inside of his cheek. “But, I mean. Who’s counting?”
Vivian lets out a snort that’s far from elegant. Which tells Ford she’s both very far into her drinks and also finding the whole situation incredibly amusing. “Right. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in the… eight days you’ve been without Dash, the tiny affection you may have initially held for him has simply grown tenfold. Infatuation, adoration–or god forbid, love–however you want to refer to your feelings towards him; they’re there, stronger than ever. All because you’re getting a taste of what life is like without a silly man in a costume following you around like a lost loyal puppy, and you don’t like it. ”
Ford lets her words mull in his alcohol-driven mind. Dammit. She has a point.
“...He’s cute in his disguises, though.”
Vivian lets out a deep sigh that’s oddly reminiscent of Fig’s. “I rest my case.”
=
Four more days after that startling revelation (which may have been world-ending to him, but when he had reluctantly told Fig about it, she had merely patted his shoulder and poured him a glass of scotch), Ford is now more anxious than ever for Dash’s return.
It even led him to walking mindlessly down the streets of Hollywood without a real destination in mind. Bixby’s, most likely.
“Ooh, yes please,” Fig says, who seemed to be attached to Ford more than usual these days, always trailing not far behind him. Maybe she knew that with his newfound revelation all he needed was a friend to help get his mind off things. And while he appreciated the sentiment, it really didn’t help. “I really want a cookie. You can mope over your missing boyfriend there. Bixby might even get you a drink on the house for it!” She says the last part with a teasing lilt, nudging him.
Ford brushes her off with a reddening face. “He is not my–”
Clink!
He cuts himself off, head turning so fast his hat almost falls off.
He had definitely heard a faint sound. A disturbance in the otherwise quiet street. And with that, a familiar presence.
A presence he hasn’t felt in twelve days and four hours.
“Dash!” Ford can’t help but blurt out in surprise.
Sure enough, Dash Gunfire jumps out from within the trash can, lid still attached to his head, and immediately deflates.
“Aw, man! Dashed again, Dash.” He pouts, looking quite distraught for someone who has been caught in the same hiding spot countless of times. And Ford feels the sudden urge to rectify that.
“Uh, I mean—um…” Ford stumbles. Oh god. He had been thinking about Dash so much and yet forgot to consider what he would actually say to him once he saw him again. Does he say something about his feelings? No, absolutely not–wait. How long had he been in that trash can? “Did you–did you hear anything from in there?”
Dash blinks with his stupidly long eyelashes. Have they always been so long? “Hear anything? Oh, no. I’m as deaf as a bat in those trash cans!” Before Ford can say anything on how the saying is blind as a bat, and that bats actually have quite remarkable hearing, Dash gasps. “Why? Did you drop some juicy evidence? Ooh, tell me, tell me, please! I’m really trustworthy, I swear.” He stumbles out of the trash can and detaches the lid from his head, revealing a pair of dog ears.
Ford clears his throat and looks away as Dash comes nearer. “So, uh. A dog disguise, huh?” he asks, hoping to steer the conversation away from what he and Fig had been discussing. He counts his blessings that for the amount of times Dash has been in his head the past week or so, he has never actually been in it and heard his thoughts.
“Ooh, yes! You noticed!” How could anyone not, is what Ford wants to say, as Dash points to his face. “Did this makeup myself! Modelled it after my dog, you see.”
Ford doesn’t have the heart to tell him that the black dot on his nose and whiskers on his cheeks make him look more like a cat than a dog. And clearly, neither does Fig, because she remains silent with completely sealed lips–an impressive feat for the fast-talking former-reporter.
“You have a dog?” he asks instead, because he is of course genuinely curious in everything Dash now.
“Yes! The beloved family dog, Dog Gunfire.” A small sound of mirth escapes Fig’s mouth, and Ford steps on her foot. Dash barrels on, none the wiser. “He’s a sweet little mutt. Love that guy! It was nice hanging out with him and the whole family again. Because that’s where I was. Back home. With my family.” He sighs wistfully, looking off into the distance with a faraway look in his eyes.
Ford clears his throat. “Right. Um…” He looks to Fig for–well, anything. All she gives him is a tight-lipped smile and a small thumbs up. Thanks, Fig. “So, uh. How was your Christmas? With your family, and all.”
Just like that, Dash’s eyes light up, and the fake dog ears on his head appear to perk up too. Nailed it. “Oh, Christmas was great! Like I said, got to see the whole family again. Rekindled my relationship with my sister, who turns out, I have a lot more in common with than I initially thought. I even solved a whole mystery, of which my sister orchestrated and subsequently led to our reconciliation! Very eventful.” He nods with a smile on his face, clearly reminiscing on his time back home.
Ford attempts to process the onset of information being fired at him. “You have a sister?” That seemed like a very basic fact about Dash that Ford should have known. Had he really never taken the time to know him better earlier? Maybe if he had, he would have realised his feelings much sooner.
(He doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.)
“Mhm! My twin sister, Dashley Gunfire!”
Fig definitely can’t hold it in this time as she lets out an amused snort. She quickly covers it up with a cough under Ford’s murderous glare. “Your parents seem, uh… real creative, Dash!”
Dash beams. “Why, thank you, Fig! They sure are! But anyways, enough about me. How was your Christmas, Ford?”
Ford shrugs, looking away again, only because Dash’s smile is almost blinding. “Eh, well, I don’t do much for the holidays. I just joined Fig and Willy for their cast Christmas party.”
Dash gasps so hard you might have thought you killed his family dog. “Don’t do much for the holidays?! That’s just unacceptable! Why, back home in Christmas Falls, Christmas is practically celebrated all year around!”
Ford furrows his eyebrows. “It’s what?”
Fig nods wisely. “Sounds like fun,” she comments. She gives Ford a knowing insufferable smirk, and he narrows his eyes at whatever she seems to be planning. “You should take Ford with you next time. I bet he’d really like that.”
Ford wonders, not for the first time, what it would be like to rip that hat off Fig’s head and smother her to death with it.
A delighted smile spreads across Dash’s face yet again. “Well three button coats, that’s a great idea, Fig! I should! Only if Ford wants to, of course.”
“Oh, I’m sure he does.” Fig looks to Ford expectantly. “Right, Ford?”
With Dash now looking at him with a hopeful expression, Ford tenses up. God. Why are his eyes so bright? Why does he look so damn happy with just the mere idea of Ford coming home with him?
Does Dash also…?
Ford discards the idea as soon as it enters his mind. In his years of being a detective, he knew jumping to conclusions never ended well. In his case, it would only bring false hope and inevitably more pain. And going home with him and subsequently meeting his family would almost certainly deepen his feelings. He can’t have that. As such, the only logical and rational solution would be to politely reject the offer.
“I would love to.”
What the fuck.
Dash squeals and claps his hands. “Hooray! The great Ford Phillips, coming home with me! Wow! Dashley’s gonna love this! She’s a bit of a detective like you and me, you see. She really admired that Hollywood case you and Fig worked on that I also helped in last year. Oh, boy, I can’t wait to tell her this!”
So now Ford can’t even think to correct himself because that would clearly break Dash’s heart (and apparently his sister’s too?) and he’d rather jump off the nearest bridge than have that happen.
…It appears that Vivian was right. Love makes people stupid.
“At any rate, I’m glad to hear you had fun back home,” Ford says earnestly.
Dash collects himself, only to stare at Ford with an unreadable expression. “That’s odd.”
“...What is it?”
Dash tilts his head. “You.”
Then he gets right in Ford’s face, narrowed eyes appearing to search his entire soul. Christ. What the hell is he doing now? Ford feels his heart rate shoot up exponentially. He’s never been more glad that Dash is bad at picking up social cues, because his sharp inhale and sudden blush that had surely erupted over his face would have been a dead giveaway if it were anyone else.
(But it isn’t. It’s Dash. And Ford would never want it any other way.)
Ford gulps. “Uh, what about–what about me?”
“You’re being… nice to me.” Dash is so close he can practically feel his breath on his. It takes every ounce of Ford’s being to not glance down at his lips. Why is he so goddamn close?
“Am I not usually nice to you?” he asks instead.
Dash shakes his head. “No.”
Ford frowns at this. He thinks back to every conversation and interaction he’s ever had with Dash, leading up to now. He had been a bit off putting to him, hadn’t he? Closed off. Stoic. Uncaring.
If only Ford could go back in time and slap his past-self silly.
“Let’s just say… this Scrooge had a change of heart over the holiday season.”
Dash continues to stare at him, even as he leans back with his hands on his hips. His eyes slowly scan over him and Ford truly hopes his face isn’t too red. He’s not exactly sure what Dash is looking for by staring at him so intently, but with his eyebrows furrowed and a small frown, this is a serious side to Dash that Ford has never seen before.
And, well. He thinks it’s a little hot.
“Are you talking about me in your head again?”
Ford startles. Shit. Because yes, he is, but he definitely can’t let him know what those thoughts are. “Um…”
In an instant, the Serious Side evaporates and a smile returns to Dash’s face. “Because guess what! I finally learned how to do that too! Watch.” Dash shuts his eyes tight and puts his fingers to his temple in deep concentration. Ford’s lips quirk up. Dammit, he’s adorable.
“I can't hear anything.”
Dash gasps and claps his hands together. “See, exactly! I figured out how to do it!” He laughs with pure glee and Ford feels his heart flip. Dear god.
“Seems like you learned a lot in your visit back home,” Fig says, and Ford jumps, because he had almost forgotten she was there. “It’s a good thing you’re back then. Ford really missed you.”
This time Ford truly wonders what flowers Fig would want for her funeral. Some lilies, perhaps. Willy might know, or even Vivian.
“Missed me?” Dash repeats. “You… noticed I was gone?” The genuine surprise in his voice almost makes Ford frown again.
“Of course I did. It was, uh… well it was, y’know, a bit too quiet. Without you here. So of course I noticed.”
Dash looks near close to tears. Oh no. He’s never dealt well with crying people, let alone a crying Dash. “Not that you’re loud! I mean, you are a little–but that’s not a bad thing! I’m just saying, you talk a lot when you’re here so then when you were gone I was like, ‘woah, it’s awfully quiet, it all feels off, what happened!’ and that’s when I realised that you were–”
Ford is cut off by Dash lunging forward into his arms. They’re practically the same height, but Dash is still ever so slightly shorter and manages to bury his face in Ford’s chest. Ford finally registers the arms around his back and finally processes that Dash is hugging him.
Oh god. He truly hopes Dash can’t feel his heart threatening to leap out of his chest.
“Oh, you don’t know what that means to me, Ford! I really thought that none of you would even notice I had gone away!”
Ford spots Fig over Dash’s shoulder. She’s frantically making weird arm gestures that has Ford wondering what zoo she escaped from–oh. She’s telling him to return the hug. Right.
Ford does that, slowly moving his hands to his back. When was the last time he had been hugged by someone? A long time ago, surely. It felt… nice. Or maybe it’s just because it’s Dash. Either way, he thinks he certainly wouldn’t mind doing it more, as he tightens his arms around him,
“Of course I would notice, Dash. We all did. How could I not?” he says in the most gentle voice he can muster. He never thought his words could take on such a tone, especially to someone he once regarded as his rival. Anything for Dash, he supposes.
Dash laughs into his chest, and Ford feels it vibrate throughout his entire being. “Oh, Ford. You really are my best friend!”
Record scratch.
Best friend.
Ford’s heart skids to a stuttering stop. Fig winces like she was personally affected. Dash continues hugging him, blissfully unaware of the turmoil that just erupted in his mind.
“Best… friend…” Ford finds himself echoing like a broken record, his own voice sounding far away to him.
Dash clearly feels Ford tense up, because he leans back, searching Ford’s eyes. His eyes are such a nice shade of brown. How had he never noticed before? “We are friends. Right?”
He tries to look to Fig for any sort of help–except she’s nowhere in sight. She must have finally gotten sick of hearing Ford fall over himself talking to his unrequited love (love?). He can’t say he blames her.
Of course they were friends. What more could they possibly be? It wasn’t until recently that Ford mentally renounced their titles as rivals, with little to no clue of how Dash even feels in return. How foolish of him to think they would jump from that to anything more.
(But if being a fool is what it means to want Dash Gunfire, then Ford is the biggest fool of them all, he thinks.)
“...Yes. I suppose we are.” He tries not to let the disappointment seep into his voice. Clearly, it doesn’t work, because even Dash looks sceptical.
“Is everything alright, Ford?” he asks, eyes shining with concern.
Ford feels his lips drop for half a second before forcing it to relax into a neutral expression. “Yeah, of course,” he lies.
And then that Serious Side to Dash is back, and it’s such a contrast to the teary-eyed self he was just a few moments ago that Ford almost jumps. If he wasn’t still in Dash’s arms.
Oh god, they still haven’t separated from that hug. He scrambles to do so, trying not to immediately miss the warmth and contact. It doesn’t seem to perturb Dash, who still looks to be studying Ford intensely.
Finally, Dash speaks. “Usually I’d use my magnifying glass for this, but with how close I am, I can see all your microexpressions! Which means I could tell from the slight twitch of your eyes looking away and lips frowning for half a second that you were lying!”
There’s a beat of silence as Ford just stares at Dash. Then he laughs. It’s a laugh that even he’s surprised at, trying to catch himself with a hand to his mouth, but he keeps laughing and Dash keeps staring in awe.
“Wow! Did I just make the Great Ford Phillips laugh?” Dash grins, looking entirely proud of himself.
Ford tries and fails to hide his continuing snickering. “Sorry, Dash. I just… wasn’t expecting you to pull that on me out of nowhere. Since when did you learn how to read microexpressions and recognise lies?”
Dash merely shrugs. “Seems there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
Ford searches his eyes. He doesn’t appear upset about it, or even sound accusatory–he’s just stating a simple fact that Ford doesn’t know Dash that well. Ford doesn’t like that. “...Yeah. It seems there is.”
I can’t wait to find out more.
Dash blinks. “...You do?”
Ford freezes. Shit. Did he say that out loud? Well, he supposes he should be glad it was at least that thought and none of the others. Maybe he can save this.
“Uh, of course! Despite being… um, rivals, we don’t know all too much about each other, right? We should do that. Get to know more about each other, I mean. When I, uh, come back home with you.” He mentally kicks himself. Really smooth, Ford. He clears his throat. “That is to say… I think we should become better friends.”
The words may have pained him to say, but slowly, a grin returns to Dash’s face. “I like the sound of that, Ford Phillips!”
And Dash’s smile makes Ford feel as though every choice he made up to this moment had been worth it.
(All he knows, though, is that he is not going to survive that visit to Dash’s home.)