Well, this is it, Ford supposes. This is what the future is going to look like: Bill, teasing him to get a reaction, and Ford, reacting. Bill flirtng, and Ford saying no. Bill pushing, and Ford waiting for this to be the death of him. Friends, sort of; enemies bizarrely attached, always searching for the middle ground.

It already feels exhausting. Unsatisfying. It's going to be work from Ford and play from Bill. But he'll handle the stress like he always does, and not by flirting back out of a perverse need to not be the one always being passive while he's endlessly messed with.

"Hmph. I can do better than that," he says.

Not by flirting back, Ford.