Pointdexter: A Swooning Over Stan-fiction

Chapter Forty-Two: Literature and Tea

Her feet rocking on the planks of the Stan O' War, Alice pushed into the bunk she'd been sharing with Ford over the past few days. With two cups of tea held tight in her hands and the chill of the night air blowing at her back, there was nothing she wanted more than to snuggle up to Ford and read before they settled into bed.

Alice gently pressed the door closed behind her, barefoot cold against the wooden panels. Ford was already settled into the bunk, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and a book balanced on his lap as he looked up at her. A warm smile crossed his face as he set the book aside, beckoning her closer with a wave.

"Come here," He said, gesturing to the space beside him." You look cold."

Alice smiled, crossing the room and perching neatly on the edge of the bunk, passing one of the cups to him.

"It's freezing out here," She replied, holding her warm cup close to her chest. "I don't know how you stand it."

"You get used to it after a while," Ford chuckled, lifting the cup to his lips. He shifted closer to her, sliding an arm around her shoulders and pulling her closer to his side, Alice obliged him, lifting her legs onto the bunk and leaning against him, Ford pulled the covers over her. "Besides, the cold isn't so bad when I have you here to keep me warm."

"I retain heat like polyester," She chuckled, sipping her tea and glancing at the book he'd been holding. "What are we reading tonight?"

Ford leaned back against the bunk, his arm still around her shoulder as he sipped the tea. The soothing smell of Orange Chai filled the room as Ford lifted the book.

"I was thinking about something light tonight," He said, his thumb tracing patterns on her arm. "Maybe some Poe or Lovecraft?"

"Are you calling Lovecraft light reading?" Alice chuckled, taking the book from his hand and flipping through the pages. "The man was a paranoid racist with a pension for villainizing the poor or people of any color."

"Oh, I'm well aware of Lovecraft's colorful personality," Ford smirked at her, his tone light and teasing. "But I can't help but appreciate his imaginative and creative writing style. And it's perfect for a chilly night like tonight."

"I supposed you're right," Alice sighed playfully, flipping through the pages and settling about halfway through the collection of short stories. "I think 'The Shadow over Innsmouth' will suffice."

She took another sip of her tea and leaned over the bed, setting the cup on the small bedside table. Repeating the process, Ford set his cup aside and wrapped his arms around Alice, shifting her into the crook of his legs. Alice leaned into him, her back fitting securely into his chest as she leaned into him.

"Comfortable?" He asked, his fingers moving over hers on the pages.

"Perfect," Alice hummed as she toyed with the book's pages. "Let me know when you're ready for me to turn the page."

"I don't think I've ever been more ready," Ford replied, his voice teasing before he nodded toward the book. "Go ahead, turn the page."

Alice nodded, her eyes scanning the title page as she flipped to the first line. 'During the winter of 1927–28 officials of the Federal government made a strange and secret investigation of certain conditions in the ancient Massachusetts seaport of Innsmouth.' It was an insidious start to a story, the perfect hook despite the man who wrote it.

Soon into the story, Alice and Ford fell into a rhythm, every time Ford finished a page, he tapped a finger against the top of her hand. Alice would finish the page and tap back, just before turning to the next one.